This is dedicated to Laurelin with much love.
I choose to be a writer not because it is easy.
No, it is darned hard. It create pain. It show endlessly how words cannot and do fit experiences.
I chose to write somehow say the unsay-able.
How do truly express what being made into living porn is. Yes, there are words of detachment, words of the voyeur, words that touch a tiny portion of the grief and pain.
But where are the words that express the endless screaming going into deadness.
How do I say that I know porn inside each cell of my body. That I have know since I was that little girl staring into hell to that woman who when fucked by men laid dead.
I could say to the end of time that porn create damage where ever it goes.
I could say porn is pure poison.
Only when I say that I scream stop speaking in cliches. It not enough, it is never enough.
No for me porn is a neutron bomb.
I remember as a teenager hearing of this bomb that killed all life but leaves building standing.
Hell, that is porn. Causing damage, hate and fear left, right and centre. But after, it looks like nothing has happened.
So, seen from the outside it can said “where’s the harm.”
But, place yourself as I was, imagine what it to be made into porn. Imagine being in a life where porn surrounds you.
Imagine that, then speak of hope, speak of fun, speak of it being acting.
I have said I was young when I first saw porn.
I was not just young, I was hopeful, I had a sense of play I was naughty – hell I was a kid.
Kids have no place in porn – only to place as the fuck-machine for men to fantasy about. Kids are closed off from being kids.
Imagine being six or seven and staring into hard-core porn. Don’t place your hindsight on top, don’t switch on your safe academic mind, don’t imagine it just soft-core.
See as a child, who knows nothing but thinks they know everything.
See a horror that will imprint into you, burn into you – making you make the choice to switch your visual memory.
You don’t want to sleep in case the images follow you. You stop reading coz even words make you sick.
Be that child, enter inside her quiet terror. Learn what it is to lose language.
Learn what she learnt. Learn that to say porn is harmless is an evil lie.
Andrea Dworkin said that incest was the boot camp for prostitution. That is partly true, but like everything round the sex trade, it is not for me the whole story.
For me, pornography was my intense training for becoming prostituted.
I cannot separate porn from prostitution or vice versa.
I saw in hard-core porn how to be dead and to act alive. I saw I had to look happy, look like being fucked was just some game.
I saw but whatever my age, however many I was fucked, however much I got drunk, whatever pain went through me – I saw all but I could never understand why.
But then I was made into a dumb whore, so what was there for me to understand.
To understand prostitution, we must know that johns, pimps and all those who profit from the sex trade need to make prostituted women and girls into living porn.
It is that simple, it is that complicated.
It is the simple act of having endless supply of women and girls that can be any place, in any part of their body, who will not say no with any meaning, who can be dispose of.
It is the simple act of making a whole class of women and girls that fuck-machines. They lose humanity by the simple label of being prostituted.
It is made complicated by the double-speak of the sex trade.
To be good porn, you should having fun. Pain is a sign that sex is good. Degradation is only acting.
Porn plants smiles on sex slaves – and then make speak the language of freedom.
All this is so detached, so safe and so lacking in rage, grief and the pure pain.
That language was stolen by the endless fucking, the endless raping, the endless giving up any idea of hope.
I can speak the language of the outsider looking in, but where is the language of the woman I was as I had no idea that there was more than going into being dead.
It is not just rape, it is not just sexual torture, it is not just degradation, it is not able to fit into simple language.
Words just land on the page and never reach into my prostituted self.
She is still screaming, she is still dreaming of death, she still cannot know who she is..
Look, see her laying naked on the bed.
See before anything has happened, she is in a porn pose.
See she is dead.
With hindsight I scream – fucking run away. Leave now.
But hindsight is just lace reality into a neat and comfortable story.
I could write towards a happy ending, say yes I survived. Say I was that damaged. Say it give me inner strength, let in empathy. Yah, there are happy endings.
But that is too easy – that is a massive disservice to my prostituted self.
No, I must write from the middle.
Write from the mind-set that know how to perform whatever men wanted. I may of done in silence, without much enthusism but I know to do all they wanted.
Write from the place of deadness where johns do damage to me, and I feel almost nothing.
Later seeing blood, cuts or bruises I had forgotten how I got them. Decided I was just accident-prone.
How I had to believed I wanted to fucked into pain, how I had I must provoked the beating up. How I lost consciousness coz was drinking too much, not eating or sleeping.
How I had an abortion with saying much. Then I just took morning-after pills ignoring my sickness.
How I thought I could be a prostitute, just endless one-night stands with men I never know.
That is a small part of the middle.
But the screaming of my prostituted is always there.
As she clashes with now, she has a fury which refuses to be controlled.
She see it as rape, sexual torture, sex without any ability to know no. She sees she was property. Owned, controlled and then lie to that she was free.
She sees she hates anal sex. Doesn’t think much of penetration. Does not think being beaten up is foreplay.
That she quite like the concept of knowing someone name, that they look into her eyes.
That she is not just there to get fucked over and over and over and over.
This clash is too much.
It created me as a writer.
The more I write, the less I am looking for answers, the more I need say every time there is a “solution”, I know I getting further away from my own reality.
I write to say it is complicated.
I write to show I was confused and that must be known