I write this as a challenge.
How much do you really want to know what it was to be inside the body of who I had to be to be a prostitute. I challenge you to read what it was to have my cunt, know it and not turn away.
I write, for I think I like many exited women, I always censor what being inside my cunt is really like.
We try to speak of violation, rape, abuse, some good sex – but always we make our language fit the language of it one event after another event after another.
I can’t do that no more, it just makes my brain spin – each one event seemed so tiny when my cunt was invaded in the thousands.
I try the language of sexual torture, of industrial rape, of destruction of basis human rights – that is a fantastic beginning to being inside my cunt then.
But, there is more, there is so much more.
There the language beyond logic, language not fitting in academia speech or simple statistics, the language not about keeping everything safe.
It is the scream from the depths of a cunt that thought it had been murdered, and is now forcing itself back to life.
It is not pretty, it will not play fair, it has the confusion of a wounded warrior – and my cunt is bloody sick of being so polite.
My cunt screams every time, it hears being said – where’s the harm.
God, sometimes when I want to force them back into the rooms where my cunt was killed over and over and over and over.
These can be people who see harm in rape – but I forget it was work not rape, that my cunt was rented out, so no rape then.
Well, if you were on the ceiling watching – and it looks like rape, if it was your body it would feel like rape, and all factors except the exchange of money makes it rape – then grow up and call it rape.
I hear as my cunt screams – women defining why it is not rape for the prostituted.
We choose to be there – therefore we can walk any-time. We don’t mind rough and or dangerous sexual practices. Being a prostitute, means we must let the clients do as they want – to complain means you no good at your job or weak.
My cunt screams the loudest as it always has to hear.
It stops those men being violence to other real women – prostitute do a great social service of preventing sexual violence.
Fuck – fuck – fuck to that.
My cunt wonders why it stay alive.
Let me say it may prevent sexual violence going into non-prostituted women – but that is not proven. But my cunt does not care, for if you can so casually dumped the prostituted-class to extreme sexual torture – why should we care about non-prostituted women.
Now, I do care but hell it is made hard.
I lived where extreme sexual torturing of the prostituted is viewed as a game, a laugh, something she just loves.
My cunt remember what is desperately wants to believe must not be true.
My cunt was so damaged that being penetrated by only one penis or less than four fingers was a relief – but it was never my cunt’s norm.
My cunt was a war-zone.
My cunt was bombed by a neutron bomb – that is there was rarely outward signs of the hell it went through – if there was, I learnt to cover it up.
My cunt got used to several pricks fucking any hole they could find, being penetrated doubly, being fisted and double-fisted.
My cunt was ripped at by teeth.
My cunt got used to not knowing what objects was shoved up it.
My cunt played death – but always remember to give out orgasms to survive.
I have been told that not to say how that made me feel unless it fits the language of rape.
The language of shock, the language of knowing it was wrong, the language of asking for help, the language of feeling physical pain after.
Well, I like most women who multiply abused have none of that – all my cunt had then was a deadness and a sense that everything is surreal.
There are things my cunt needs to say – things that it sick almost to death of censoring all the time.
Speak of the endless filth and pollution that all the bastards left inside me.
My cunt was stuffed fill of their semen, spit – with memories of their disgusting pricks, hands, so-called toys they forced into my cunt.
My cunt is sickened that it ever give away orgasms to those bastards.
My cunt is gross out at having safe sex with men that it hated – still hate lubricants, so often never for safe sex just another way to torture.
My cunt still hold the fear of men eating it out.
My cunt know what it was to be prostituted.
Can you really know it.