Last night was a very bad night.
I nearly went back to the deadness of looking for sex by being picked up by some bastard.
I wanted that deadness.
I didn’t want the grief that so strong for my Dad and stepmum.
I did not want the constant body memories in my anus, my stomach, my throat and my head.
I did not want the exhaustion and heat of menopause.
I was terrified of my own writing.
I wanted to not feel, not to think and not to be.
So I got dressed and wander the streets.
But not the streets of the crowded city, but the abandoned streets.
I choose industrial sites, walking by parks not even visited much in the day.
I knew these streets were dangerous. I knew these streets were where street prostitutes were forced into.
I was purposely putting myself into danger.
But there was another part of me that was protecting myself.
I was wearing trousers and a t-shirt, not the “sexy” clothes that would give men the stereotype view of a prostitute.
I did not stop still, but keep walking, maybe aiming for street without traffic or street lighting or pedestrians – but I just walked.
Only later, I found myself back in the crowds and in lights.
I found that I outside a hotel, where I had been prostituted in the past. By men who “pretended” I was their guest, only to shove me out round 3 in the morning – into the snide remarks of the night staff.
I stood outside that hotel for an hour last night.
I don’t what I thought was going to happen. Maybe I thought a man would pick me up.
Nothing happened. It would not of, it was too crowded and public for most johns.
Johns love the concept of privacy for themselves. They are such bloody hypocrites – they can do what they like, as long as no-one knows.
They don’t give a shit about the woman’s privacy.
Sorry, I get angry sometimes, and derail.
Well, I was safe last night – nothing really happened.
Only again I saw how close prostitution is to self-harming.