I think I was born with the idea that I could be human. This post is a record of the erosion of that idea, and a hope I will find the route to being human again.
I do not write out pity for myself, I do not write for a quick easy fix – no I write for the millions of prostituted women and girls who have lost how to be fully human.
I write in the brave hope that all that can will reach full humanity, will not be made invisible, not just be an object to be trashed.
I want a world where the prostituted are more than respected and given full justice – I want a world that give them time and space to learn how to at ease inside their own skins.
We are a long way from that dream.
I will write of myself – but always read me as an example, I was and am not unique, just one of millions.
I live inside my flesh and blood, but for many years I alienated from it.
Often I bled, bled on bed, bled when walking, bled going to the toilet, bled when thinking I was relaxed.
I choose to not know the blood, thinking if I ignore it and pretending I was normal, then I had no injuries.
Not able to feel pain – raped and tortured so often, so much my norm – pain was just background noise, I had no idea why I bled so much.
Bleeding was like the grief I could not express.
Bleeding was a plea for me to stop and get some help.
Bleeding was life, when I so desired death.
Sometimes I cut into my arms, my vagina, my legs – just to watch blood and to find if I could still feel pain.
Mostly I felt nothing – but it cover up any memories of what punters and profiteers put in me.
In a fog, I remembered how my bleeding got there. Remembering without wanting to know, it was never me, it was always injuries and a war on my body.
I bleed from my head as too often it was smashed into wall and hit with fists.
My mouth bleed coz it was force-feed penises and objects to it thought it was drowning.
My cunt bleed out the punters it never wanted. It bleed out their silent war to rip it out, to smashed it down, to pull at it with their teeth and to poke it into oblivion.
My anus bleed as if it was the only thing left to remind it was still alive. It screaming with pain, demanding I stopped long enough to give it some peace.
I bleed elsewhere – but it was those places where the destruction laid.
Blood is life – but I had to refuse to know that.
I like too many of the prostituted could not touch life too closely – I would live only if I made myself not care if I would be killed.
That is the harm of prostitution – the utter destruction of being fully alive, and losing any route to being human.
Flesh is nothing when you are prostituted – it just something that is brought and sold, it cannot be worn by the prostitute.
A prostitute is viewed as nothing but holes surrounded by flesh – she is not allowed a mind, she cannot have an inner spirit, she cannot be human – it would spoil the porn-dreams of the punters.
As flesh, she has no life or existent outside the eyesight of punters and profiteers.
Her flesh is calculated for how fuckable she is.
Her flesh is used to promote and recruit others girls and women into the sex trade.
Her flesh is sold and brought as it fits into any porn stereotypes – white rich flesh to ground into dirt, Asian flesh to obey and take any pain, Black flesh to appear strong till violently dominated, drug-fuelled flesh to fuck into hell and pretend you doing her a favour, and on and on – porn constantly make more stereotypes to be destroyed.
Her flesh can feel no pain, can never be raped, has no past and deserve no future – her flesh is always just for the moment of power and hate to go in it. It no of matter, her flesh is used by many others to pour in their anger, hate, rage, disgust and desire to control – so one more punter will make no difference.
It is decided her flesh forgot all pain, all disgust and all fear – it does not, it remembers everything, but has no time or safe space to know that.
Her flesh is a living forensic record of every terror place into her – whilst her mind must close it down.
The flesh of the prostitute is the power-force that resist even as all hope has vanished.
The flesh of the prostitute is a steel heart of a warrior – and if she is lucky enough to exit, her flesh wants to scream to anyone with ears to listen – this is what I know.
I know it was never a choice for that flesh to be nothing but a place to experiment on to see how pain a prostitute can without dying.
I know no flesh should ever be sold and brought for selfish male porn wants.
I know my flesh and the flesh of so many prostituted women and girls have and could have die for that selfish wants – but punters and profiteers have no impact on their flesh, no living with death round every corner.
I know that all the prostituted must and will own their flesh – even if finding it belongs to them means deep grief, fury and knowing they may never reach real justice for the stealing of their flesh.
I want flesh back to be fully human.