Why I Can’t Write

I have been very ill for over a week now, I thought it was flu, thought I was mentally exhausted – but more than likely it is PTSD.

I cannot stand living in a world that is so dismissive of the reality for women who have survived the sex trade. I will fight for our voices to be heard, but it is making me sick.

I have great pride in my writing, in my use of words – but now to be honest I feel close to breaking point.

I feel I am drowning in a sea of disillusions about what it is and was to be prostituted.

In this sea – the waves of words are “empowerment”, “sex work”, “the woman’s free choice” and so forth.

These words are everywhere. Every documentary or news item that touches on prostitution, must show they are sex workers, must prove even when highly abusive it was a matter of choice.

Every drama has two types of prostitute, the victim who there to show how badly men can behave, and the empowered prostitute who usually is manipulating the male characters. Prostitutes are only in dramas to big up the male characters – and often a handy dead body.

I open papers and magazines and see, well try to ignore, personal ads scattered with escorts, ads with men demanding blow jobs, cunts that clean-shaven, someone to “play” their Daddy fantasy, someone who take anal and more obvious requests for prostitutes. This is not hard to find, it bloody hard to avoid.

I am sick of living in a world where women and girls are brought and sold so casually.

It is as easy as buying a kebab after getting drunk in the pub – for most johns it done with that much thought.

A prostitute for most johns must always be available, always open for his porn fantasy.

She cannot be tired, cannot have thoughts or needs outside being a fuck-machine, she must be everything he wants and then he will forget she ever existed.

Many johns want to act as if they are the only man who was inside her. He wants to conquer her not just a fuck-object, but pour his poison into her mind.

He will be outraged that other men have fuck her, he will punish her for being a whore – when it is he and all the other men that make and need her to always be the whore, be their sex slave.

I had many johns who had a rage that I was a prostitute.

How was I meant to cope with that or even survive, when it was clear it was nothing but business, nothing but me getting fucked in order for material gain.

That was clear – but those bastard johns made it something else.

In their rage – that I the prostitute had had many men in me, and would have many more – they would do sadism, until all I had know was that I was breathing.

It was not domestic violence, it was not rape – it was the slow and calculated sexual torture of the prostitute who was not allowed any humanity.

In those tortures, I know what it was to be goods, what it was to be an object.

In those tortures, I had no safe place on my body, no escape valve in my mind.

All I had was something that refused to died, that would never be fully conquered.

I had a rage that would not never let me be destroyed – that rage is in every word of this blog.

Now, others are calling prostitution empowering, saying what I did was sex work, saying I just was unlucky – but it was the risk of the job, right.

Well, my rage is slowly knocking down those illusions about the sex trade – and showing it as a multi-billions dollars industry founded on the torture of women and girls.

I find it hard to write surrounded by such ignorance.

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2 responses to “Why I Can’t Write

  1. Hi, I just found your blog this weekend. Thank you for sharing this; I can’t imagine what it’s like. I understand rage, though. I understand the scream that rises when someone tells you to smile while they strip pieces of your humanity from you.

    I hope you keep writing and raging.

    Like

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