Surviving prostitution is the greatest acting role I have ever done.
I brought up in a family where theatre was always in the background, where putting on a face was all that really mattered.
It was a great preparation for being a whore.
I could paint a smile on my face, I could fake orgasms on demand, I could speak to men’s egos, I could hide fear – I acted to save my life.
But the acting became who I was, I could not remember who or what I was outside of the whore-role.
I was dead to memories of a real life.
But, acting kept me alive – alive when all my environment was murdering me.
I remember my night of prostitution, in that night I made myself not care by acting.
As I stood in the queue, knowing I was entering a place where I would be fucked, I thought of Jodie Foster in “Taxi Driver”. I would be tough, I would swear like she did, I would not care coz she did not care.
That night, I spent hours at the bar drinking and smoking. I would forget, imagine I was Lauren Bacall waiting on Humphrey Bogart.
I would not see how sleazy it was, not see that the men were ten to thirty years older than me, not see the silent dead eyes of all the girls drinking and smoking at the bar.
That did not fit the role I made for myself. Even on that first night, I knew reality would kill me.
I knew I would have sex, I knew they would not see or speak to me, I knew it would be paid. All this I knew – but still I was completely naive.
I thought sex was just simple rape, simple penis in the vagina with some rough stuff.
I thought I may have to eat their cocks, but I never thought what men really want to do to whores.
No film or play had shown me that.
Only the photos my stepdad shown when I was five or six, only in his hard-core porn did I get review of what being a whore is.
So, I forced myself to be that role, and continue that role for round 14 years.
Each time, a john wanted sex or whatever from me, I knew how to be his porn-doll.
I knew to be a pose, whatever the pain, even when in gang-raping I had little or no control, even as grief was cramped up in my stomach.
I posed with easy access to any and every hole in my body.
I knew to not care as they made me endlessly suck their dicks. I was made sick as they force it too far down, I was drowning.
But acting took over – blocking out the sickness, finding myself licking and eating their germ-filled dicks. I was a porn-star, no Lauren Bacall now.
Like in those god-damned photos my stepdad had shown me, I survived by smiling.
As over the years, I had to endured more and more extreme sexual torturing, I desperately look for roles to fit my life.
I saw horror movies, where women died after torture – I was not scared, I just felt jealous.
They had an escape – I thought I had no end.
I enjoy horror movies, where the male evil was destroyed at the end of film.
When johns sexually torture in multiple ways, I put myself out of the room by being the avenging angel cutting them in half.
I watched violent cop films for the same reason, I was holding a magnum 45 at a john’s or manager’s head – make my day punk.
But these roles never lasted long – I could not even imagine revenge, when the violence and degradation crashed into me.
I could not dream when anally raped, I could not be a role as two or three penises were rammed into me, I lost imagination as gang-rape became regular.
But, I was desperate to still alive, so I try to find some film somewhere to fit my life.
It was then I saw “Klute”. There I saw Jane Fonda as an high-class escort – it was the deadness of her eyes, her flat voice, her I-don’t-give-a-damned attitude whilst she was broken.
That was a mirror to me, and it broke me.
Seeing “Klute”, was the very beginning of the end of prostitution for me.
It planted the seed, that I was slowly being murdered by the constant role of being a porn-doll.
It took many years before I fully exited – but now when I see “Klute”, I remember the courage it took to survive that world.