Torture is something I don’t want to know.
Torture was my norm for too many years, but I close it down, send it away.
I think if I shut my eyes tight enough, then I was mentally, sexually and physically made into trash.
I squeeze my eyes so hard – there is a pain and all I see is red turning into black.
With eyes closed, my veins remember all that was to be tortured.
I want to run away, I want to stay silent, I want not to know my own reality.
Only I cannot as the blood in my veins is on fire.
I know to keep a handle of my mental and physical welfare, I must enter my tortured soul.
I will pause first to say why I do this in public.
I do this because I am just a tiny example of how all the prostituted live inside torture – I am not just some sad story, my tortures are in all aspects of prostitution in every country, my tortures are done to prostitutes from all backgrounds and all cultures.
I would I was torture somewhere in the middle of how the prostituted are treated – there are some prostituted who have little but never knew sadism as their norm, and there many far too many prostituted who are tortured several times worse than I was, many who lived inside torture for close to a lifetime.
I was “lucky” – I did not die from the violence that is prostitution.
I was not murdered by punters pushing my body beyond all limits, I was not murdered because whores are viewed as throwaways, I was not murdered by profiteers to place fear into other prostitutes.
I was not made to disappeared with no-one looking or caring I was gone.
I never succeeded in my many suicide attempts, as I swallowed pills, cut inside my cunt and arms, as I dreamt of many ways to kill myself.
I could not cry as women I wanted to love killed themselves – I just wonder how they manage to escape.
I was lucky that my body did not just give up and die.
Yes, it was wrecked so much that pain was so ordinary I walked through it.
Pain was everywhere that I never notice a burst appendix till I was being poisoned, and had to be in hospital for a week.
Pain was so normal that did not know how to look after myself, just repeat more pain on top in order to stop thinking.
I was walking into hell – but all I could do was not know I was human, than nothing would matter, I made sure nothing mattered – then somehow I was alive.
How could I know my reality. Tell me – would you want to know what I lived.
Tell me you not blocked out all reality, tell me you would not convince yourself that it was alright coz you choose pain.
Tell me you would not decide you deserve pain, that you were nothing an object to be fucked and never allowed to be human.
Would you not want to say it was empowerment, not want to believe it must off been freely chosen.
Would you not refuse to call it prostitution, or say it may prostitution but the nice kind.
Damned it, would not refuse reality out sheer will to survive by any means.
I like nearly all indoors prostitutes, survive partly by re-framing the violence, by taking all the blame onto myself, by imaging the punters did not mean it or I wanted to be made into trash.
The shock and deep grief o being an exited woman, is knowing how I had to lied to myself to somehow keep breathing.
It is devastating to know that as a prostituted woman, I had no power, no rights to any safety, no access to dignity – to know I was viewed as a slave, as a sub-human.
How do you live with the knowledge that every torture put into my mind and body was pre-planned, and no words or actions I did would stop their plans.
Each punter that torture me, know what he do before he had enter the room or put down the money.
He had a porn script in his head as he thought I will buy sex now.
My words and actions were invisible to the punter, for I was just his cartoon whore – he could do as much violence as he wants, knowing I was never real.
Nothing was being done to nothing.
Most of the sadism done to my prostituted body, was done because it made into fantasy and entertainment.
Most violent punters would never dream of being sadist to the non-prostituted , to women they view as real, women who may have real pain or may even fight back.
Violent punters often want to be the good guys in the public gaze, many are gentlemen to women they view as real.
The terrible truth is many sadist punters keep their hate and violence only for the prostituted class – in the full knowledge that the prostituted will be thrown away and no-one cares that they exist.
My tortured prostituted self knows each and every torture done to me was viewed as a non-crime, that prostitutes deserved it coz they are just evil women.
I could scream, I could weep, I could bang my head into a wall at how men can buy and sell the prostituted, can endlessly torture us – because most people make the choice to say it cannot be real torture, maybe call it the hazard of the work.
Well, enter my body, enter my veins – and see if you dismiss that it is torture.
Enter my throat, enter a world that cannot breathe deep with choking. Enter how I live with feeling I am drowning.
Know my throat was tortured countless times, know it was more than one penis forced down so deep, I would faint and wake up into drowning.
Know fists were forced down my throat, know as face was shoved into water choking was my norm.
Know I was strangled on a regular basis – the game of life and death was my norm.
Enter my head and stomach, as fists fly into them, as I was thrown against walls, as I thrown into the ground, even thrown out of cars.
Be my body in those places of humiliation, and tell I was not right to act hard, and survive by not having space to care.
Enter my anus, my anus that is so terrified to feel or know it is real.
My anus was raped beyond times that my brain wants to count.
My anus screams that it was tortured beyond hope, my anus would weep if it did not hurt so much to be that alive.
My anus has know what evil is.
Enter my cunt, enter the prostituted cunt – don’t turn away, don’t compare to the raped cunt, don’t make it safe by framing it academic speech or statistics.
Face with an open mind and heart, my prostituted cunt, and be a witness to the tortures that is every vein of that cunt.
Know that cunt has been penetrated by countless penises – often in one night, so many the cunt losing all feeling, all memory – all that is left is a hole that should be part of me.
Know that cunt is ripped apart by teeth, pulled beyond its limits by hands or fists, know it will know what objects are forced in it.
To be prostituted is to know your cunt is made into a playground for all male hatred and rage.
I was lucky, my body only has body memories, I got no long-term physical damage or sexual diseases.
I have some rips, I got pregnant a few times, had short-term sexual diseases.
I was very lucky.
I just have extreme trauma and survivor’s guilt.