Naming the Torture

I was tortured.

That is the hardest thing to say to myself – hardest thing to let into my mind.

Almost impossible for my body to go with that I was tortured.

I can write to the torture with detachment, with my heart firmly locked away from what it was for me. I write as an archetype, never allowing in me.

I cannot see the degradation without glass in-between, I will let in the pain in case I self-harm, I cannot grieve in case I shattered.

But in this post, I will attempt to go to the middle of what it means to me that I tortured.

I enter a place, where truth lays weeping, showing me pain but finding language forming in her mouth.

Words are being born for the prostituted to say what it is and was to be in a world where torture was our norm.

This is a highly personal post, and that means is deeply political.

I will start with the knowledge and anger that the prostituted are not allowed the language of torture by far too many.

If you make the choice to call it sex work, make the choice to speak in the language of labour – then torture vanishes into bad choices at work.

If you make the choice to say prostitution is somehow sacred – then there be no human torturing, just some kind of spiritual gift.

If you say prostitution is separate from trafficking – that if there is torture it only in “bad” prostitution – then you make invisible that the whole structure of prostitution is built on torture.

I am sick of so many refuses that torture is and was the norm for the vast majority of the prostituted class.

As you make excuses and turn – the prostituted are being made sub-humans and there is genocide going on as you say nothing bad is happening.

So I try to write to my experiences, speak through my fragmented memory, speak into what my mind put up firm walls to stop me knowing.

I was tortured.

I hear women say rape is torture – that is just a fact.

So be me as I was a prostitute.

Know I was raped in every way possible, know I have no idea how many punters or pimps raped me – know that I had no language to call that rape.

Know I was told it was my role, told it was weak to even think it was wrong, told that women like me don’t feel pain like real women – told it is impossible to rape me, coz you can’t rape a whore.

I, like so many prostitutes, adapted to the endless flow of rapes, and decided it was my nature and I was so bad that I was to blame.

I thought it was weak to show I was pain, weak to know it was degradation, weak to feel fear.

I became tough – but never got rid of the crying and screaming deep in my stomach.

Torture went it appear to have no end, it the most effective to silence anyone.

I fall into silence, for I lost any language outside of what punters and pimps told me to think or say.

That is torture at it most extreme. The utter destruction of the self, till it is sub-human.

Look clearly into the eyes of the majority of the prostituted, and see how dead they are – see she is made into a shell and almost lost what it is to be human.

Remember her eyes, and justify to me why that is not named as torture.

I could write for ages how ways physical ways it was normal to torture the prostituted.

Think of every form of torture you know happening in wars, happening in police cells, happening to political prisoners, happening in domestic violence – think of all that and know that is happening to the prostituted all the time everywhere.

Only it is rare, it is just one torture at one time, but rape plus torture, pretend murder plus torture, verbal violence plus torture etc.

In many ways nearly all human forms of tortures, and rehearse into the minds and bodies of the prostituted class, then spread out to the non-prostituted.

But much of the sexual torturing of the prostituted is kept inside the sex trade – and kept closed away from the public gaze.

Much of my torturing was hidden in plain view – for there is a refusal to believe the scale of hate that is the sex trade.

I was used to gang-rapes, gang-rapes that went for whole nights, for not just one group of punters were destroying me – but there was a queue to be a gang-rapist.

I was used to anal torture, but it was done to kill or give heart attack, as my legs were held together, as objects were forced in, as I drowning in bath-water, as no warning was given.

I was used to being strangled, used to have penises, objects and fists rammed down my throat.

I was used to be smashed into wall, kicked in the head and stomach.

Heck, to be a prostitute is to get used to hell – and learn to show no emotions, learn to paint on a smile and just go to the next punter.

That is torture – how dare anyone even think to call it anything else.

If you refuse to name it as torture – then the prostituted can never be truly free.

4 responses to “Naming the Torture

  1. Thank you for writing this. When I was 19 I had to make a decision. Be homeless or go into the “sex trade.” At first I was all la de da about the encounters and the fact that I could get paid a high amount of money for something I loved-sex. Then came the drugs. Looking back-if this was so much fun than why did I have to be high to go to the next scumfuck ‘john?’ Why was I so angry all of a sudden? Why did I get raped in that whorehouse after being a loyal worker? Why did I start hating men? Why did I make frequent trips to the psychiatric ward? Why did I almost overdose on drugs? Why did men constantly beg me to go condomless and to get a fucking ‘discount?’ Why did one of my scumfuck johns bite my clit? (He didn’t draw blood or bite it off..) But still…Why did johns beg me for anal sex when I said no? Questions..I am not a sex slave for pay anymore. I am free. I am a radical feminist man-hating lesbian. I am priceless, and cannot be bought anymore. I love myself today. I wish all the johnswouldbecastrated


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