I now love Christmas – but for much of my life I was terrified of this time of year. It was like seeing hell stretching before me.
I started to re-invent Christmas since I knew I was safe enough, since my thirties.
But in this post, I will explore the ghosts that prostitution put into me.
I only write because it should be knowed that Christmas is made hell for the prostituted, especially inside the so-called high-class end.
I cannot be clear, I am writing through the fog of grief, fog of seeing terror I wish I did not know, fog of the confusion of time and place when everything was so repetitive – the thick fog of extreme trauma.
I will write as it comes, I may write in a poem – I will write to enter my truths, even as they rip my stomach in half.
I remember from that fog, I did girlfriend experiences during the holiday season.
I hate that expression “girlfriend experience” – it sounds so tame, so civilised, so kind and even sound sophisticated. It is none of that – it is imprisonment, it is sordid, it is fake, and it is usually posh slavery.
Punters who want the girlfriend experience want at Christmas/New Year does, to give the illusion they possess a real girlfriend – only out sight to make her into dirt, and always reminds her that she is just a whore.
He wants to dress her up, wants her to be polite to his family and friends, want to act and look intelligent for that small amount of time.
But, never too intelligent, never do anything to show him up.
She must be pampered and beautiful – his possession to say look I get the girl that everyone else fancies, see I am not nothing.
She is there for his promotion, there coz he is really gay, there to show he is no loner, there to say I am the nice guy.
She is nothing expect what he makes her.
I would dance, I would talk, I would be careful not to drink too much – but I was empty.
Only memory makes clear that emptiness was never empty, only I had no words that I could speak, and no way I would be seen.
Inside, I was on constant alert. Alert to spend as little time alone with the punter, alert to never get drunk in case I say too much or be too vulnerable, alert that no-one in the room knew from other parts of my life.
Inside, I was full of fury. Fury that I was invisible as I was being brought and sold, fury that he was assumed to be a decent bloke, and the fury that I was not screaming and exposing the hypocrisy of it all.
But mostly I was silent, coz I knew I would always have to be alone with the punter.
Then I knew more than likely, than I would know real hell.
The men that make the choice to buy girlfriend experience, want to own her not just for sex, they want her mind, they want to break her time to find all she has to keep private to stay sane.
I was kept by some of these punters for many hours, for days and in the worse cases for months.
I was broken down, and made to be every porn-dream they had that their woman should be.
I was used to sadistic sex – my mind and body had been trained to accept the unacceptable from a very young age. But nothing prepared me for the girlfriend experience.
I was used to being sexually tortured, but usually it was just sexual violence – no words, no communication, no recognition that I was human. All I was a living thing for punters to fuck.
But girlfriend experience was a level of hell I could never imagine.
It was that I made to imagine there was some normality, as we eat meals, chatted like friends, and even watch TV.
I would slip into stupidity – and imagine I was seen, imagine I could be liked, imagined I was more than a fuck-object.
I fall into remembering that I was human – I became vulnerable, forgot to be tough and hard.
It was then I was always pushed back into who I had been made – a dirty little whore who deserve to be hurt.
And so when I sexually tortured for hours on end, as I was not allowed to sleep, as doors were locked on me, as my body was bashed round the room – I could never forgive myself for imaging that they could have been decent blokes, never forgive myself for imaging I was ever more that a whore.
Now, I see that time, and grief clamps down on my heart.
I love the spirit in me then, that so wanted to believe in hope, see the good in others, and wanted simple pleasures – it was always even as so many were smashing it out of me.
I see me then, and know I remain a good person, even as I thought I was worth nothing – I was always able to keep going forward, when I thought I was dying.
I was in hell – and I am very proud that when I somehow left that world – I became someone who knows joy, a person who still good in others, a person who believe in seeing the present to build a future, a person not afraid to confront my past.
I am proud of who I am – for I always know where I come from.