Small Pieces of Hell

I have not been able to write for some time – well in many ways breathing has been hard, so writing became rather unimportant.

Instead, I have retreated into my TV and radio, and try to block out my deep grief, try to not know my flashes of knowing when I was prostituted I was in hell.

I know I write endlessly about it – I know many may sick of me going on and on about then – but I usually write of that time without feeling it inside my guts.

I know I write my truths, or as near as I can get to them – but I write behind a mirror, I do a forensic study of then – but I cannot be that person.

These last few weeks, I have been thrown back into hell, into that object being fucked close to death.

I have such grief for me then – for all the women and girls living and dead who know that hell – such grief I could scream and rip down Everest.

But when I write I go numb again – I cannot connect my writing with knowing the middle.

I can write the beginning, the entering of the sex trade – with the neatness of the victim-status. I was a child, I had been abused from aged six, it was extreme violence, I can see the brainwashing – writing the victim is tidy, fits inside a nice linear line of victim to survivor.

But it after I was 17, that my life became a mess, my life became hell.

Once I was an adult, I had no safety nets only I ones I invented for myself. After 17, I was on my own, after 17, I was made to know that it all my fault.

I lived the hell that is society will not see. Sometimes there is help for child prostitutes, but for the majority of the prostituted who started as girls, then grows up still inside the sex trade are ignored.

Worse than ignored, once round 14 or 15 onwards they are blamed, made out to manipulated the men, see as non-victims.

I started when I was 14, the age where the profiteers will give you alcohol, put you in low lights, say you are 16, give you drugs – and hey presto, where’s the crime, it just an adult whore.

I was 14, I fall into the trap head-long. I wanted the flattery of being treated as an adult, I wanted to be seen as bad, as hard, as devil-may-care.

I had been abused since I was six – so knowing there would be sex meant nothing to me, wasn’t I already damaged goods.

I was 14, but I was already dead.

I was 14 – and I knew without wanting to know, that every man who had me was at least 15 years older than me. I knew without caring, they knew they fucking a child.

I knew it could not matter – for without words or being told, I knew money or just exchange of sweets made everything vanish.

It was nothing – just bleeding, lingering pains in my throat, anus and cunt.

It was nothing – shut my eyes firmly tight and then not know that five, ten or more men had been inside me.

It was nothing – as sometimes I can’t move, sometimes I had bruises I can’t know, sometimes red marks of strangulation, sometimes I think no cell in my body had not been raped.

That was the start of hell – that is what too much of society turns away from. Some may view that child – those girls in every country – see them not as children, but just as whores.

That decision to dismiss at the stage when they could be taken away from the sex trade, is not just a turning away but a betrayal of the prostituted.

It gives punter’s permission to believe it is not child abuse to buy a child prostitute – they are not perverts, just consumers.

All punters will say she looked old enough – most child prostitutes are so dead inside they aged quickly, especially with the war-paint of make-up.

Anyhow who see the face when fucking her holes and torturing her for fun. To punters all whores are the same – a porn-toy for them to masturbate into.

It gives the sex trade permission to constantly push the edges of how young the goods they sell are. You can make out 12 is 14, and 14 can look 16. It allows that huge profit is made by whores being kept young, and thrown them away before they are used out at 24.

That is the cold hell of under-aged prostitution.

But for millions of the prostituted, the real hell is find so hard to express is when we were made into the adult whore. Then most of safety nets are removed, and most of society decides it not their problem.

It is decided that punters must have an endless supply of prostitutes – so the rights of the adult whore are thrown out of the window.

For me, the recognition that I was an adult whore I had no hope and no future hit me when I was 17.

At 17, the violence became all punters wanted from me.

At 17, I was punished regularly by gang-rapes, by being filmed, by brainwashing saying no-one cared if I lived or died.

At 17, my body was damned good at closing down.

At 17, I got pregnant as a pimp raped and battered me into knowing I was less than shit.

That was my world at 17, that was when I knew I was an adult whore.

I knew as the clubs were raided by police, and all the prostitutes were laugh at or fined. No arrests for rape, no arrests for battery, no arrest for prostitution – no punters arrested, no manager arrested, just business as usual.

I knew as I made into girlfriend material, what was unofficially escorting – now I was viewed as an adult.

God, I thought being in one-to-one prostituting with richer punters would be safer than being inside those flats/brothels.

I was pleased to have the change – I still believe in naivety.

I was just entering another layer of hell.

Being an escort is to have all safety stripped away, and to be alone with punters who are paying to own you body and soul.

I had to be alone with men who had the right to see me as their sexual slave.

They could batter me, they could sexually torture me, they could get me to the edge of death – and it meant nothing coz an escort chooses to be there, she is an empowered woman.

Escorting was invented by the sex trade as the perfect way to hide the violence and degradation that is the foundation of all of prostitution.

Escorting has had many names – girlfriend material, courtesan, temple whore – but it has always been is the torturing of the prostituted class behind closed doors, but with the added bonus that she is happy and must be using the men.

I was that – that escort that society refuses to see and know.

My tortures were nothing, my rapes were nothing, my near-deaths were nothing – coz I was nothing.

If it is decided that the escort has freely chosen to be there, why should anyone care what happens to her.

Well, you should care every time an escort is raped. every time an escort is filmed for porn, every time an escort is strangle close to death, every time an escort is locked in with a rich punter to be his fuck-toy.

Do you not care coz many of the punters are rich, may be men you admire, may be famous, are the sort of men you decide are the good ones.

Do you not care coz you choose to see an escort as liberated, manipulative, empowered, much easier than seeing her pain and her dead eyes.

Do you not care coz you want to imagine that escorting is just slightly adventurous sex with respectful punter who pay over the odds.

Well, damn you if you don’t care – for too many escorts are being tortured and ar too many are dying, for you to turn away.

When I escorting, I knew hell.

I knew being locked inside flats with punters who would not let me sleep as they raped me in every porn had instructed them.

I knew doing over-nighter when I was beaten if I look as if my eyes would shut.

I knew the constant having to be roles so all punters thought they were the only one, that they were gods – anything to somehow survive their hate.

I knew hell as I lost my essence.

That is all I want to say in this post – that is just small pieces of hell.

 

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