I on occasions map how my past affects my body.
I use my body as a forensic example of how deep prostitution is the cause of trauma inside exited women.
I write to my body for there is nothing unique – all my trauma, all my body memories and all the embedded is part of the norm for all exited women.
The horror of the sex trade is that so many women, girls and some men carry these body memories without their pain being seen.
We have learnt to make our trauma invisible, for we have been hurt, destroyed and push down for centuries – we have learnt to pretend we are fine when every cell in our body is searching for help and to be believed.
I write to show a brief picture of the edges of that trauma – I write as much as I take, I write as much as I think you can contain, I get from a place of chaos in order to make some kind of order.
I write whilst knowing all the time I am just giving you a surface view of what it is to in indoors prostitution.
All I know hell is unreachable – my words will always be inadequate for what my body had to endure, no human language will ever fully describe what my mind wants to close down.
All I and other exited women can do is give some insights into the physical, mental, spiritual impact of being embedded in hell – all we can do is hope our words give enough anger and grief to fight for the human of all the prostituted still in that hell.
That is why I write and re-write to my past, write and re-write against stereotyping, write and re-write to oppose the sex trade lobby – all coz my body memories know the war cannot end until abolition is not just a dream.
I have no choice for my prostituted soul, no choice for the prostituted class in all time and all cultures – but to fight for simple human dignity, human rights and deep sense of pride for all the prostituted.
I have no choice as always I hold that so many of the prostituted could never speak out as they never were alive to stay alive.
Abolition is built on those memories, abolition knows each and every murdered prostituted woman, girl, boy or man – they are the backbone of why we fight so hard.
Now I will speak to my body – speak to say some of the unsayable.
I start at the top.
I even have fear when I remember my hair – even that was made not mine.
I know the common pulling and ripping at my hair as punters put me into my place.
The place of the whore who must do blow-jobs, the place of control if I was not quick enough or in the right position.
My hair got used to sperm being rubbed in it – I learnt not to care, learnt it was easier if I acted like it was fun just a game.
I thought of the money, thought of it will be over some time christ knows when – but nothing lasts forever except death.
I cut my hair so short – but it did not. give me back dignity, did not stopped punters forced my head down on them.
I could control anything except that I could think beyond what was happening to my body.
Yes, I somehow stay hold of my mind – keep hold of some tiny sense that if I held back thoughts or keep some small pieces of imagination I may keep some part of being a human.
I keep reading novels, I keep going to the cinema, I keep looking for birds and trees, I keep looking for football results, I keep dreaming of getting to America.
All this give some idea that I was not nothing – that I was more than a fuck-machine.
I had kept all my thoughts hidden – any indication that I was an individual with hopes and dreams was smashed into the ground.
My love of the films was used by punters to fuck me or feel me up in a public arena – knowing I would say nothing.
My love of books lead to many being ripped up, or punters getting me “novels” that were porn as payment.
My love of football made punters violent for I knew the offside rule.
My love of nature meant nothing as more and more I stopped seeing the outside.
As for going to America – punters laugh that I could work in Nevada.
My mind learnt to be closed – and I survived by choosing to pretend that did not matter.
My eyes have seen the unseeable – my eyes go blind when remembering beyond being in endless rooms with countless punters.
My eyes have seen and known the dead eyes of hate that most punters have – that hate where all hope is pointless.
It is a hate that is cold, a hate of calm control, a hate of utter entitlement – the hate of the punter is a hate that drowns out all life from the prostitute.
It is those eyes that enter my nightmares, those eyes that are in every moment of sickness due to trauma.
It is those eyes that taught me to know there was no escape, those eyes that made know I must do whatever a punter said or to do whatever he wants before he has spoken.
And in the eyes of all punters I saw that I was nothing to them – I was never a human – I was just goods that they would fucked over.
My eyes saw the deep centre of prostitution – and had to go blind to survive.
My mouth was stuffed full of penises – I was told that was whore-sex.
I was told I was good at blow-jobs – like it was like winning an Oscar or something.
I was not – it meant nothing to me.
I was good at not being sick, I was good at learning how to breathe without choking, I was good at not thinking I was drowning.
I was good at smiling through the pain, good at swallowing when I wanted to bite off their penis, good at letting my mind go blank at that penis went too deep for me not to faint.
So I suppose I was a good whore for I could do whore-sex on demand.
I would say my throat will never forget or forgive that deep-throating.
It still has the pain and terror of those penises going so deep my body got heart-attacks or just fainted, I can be sick enough to get rid of those memories.
It affects my eating, my swallowing, my deep breathing and my sleep – so how can I ever not want all those punters punish.
I had to use my throat but it carries all that hate and degradation – it wants to cry, but always just gets blocked.
My arms and hands were made attached from who I wanted to be.
My hands were used to pleasure men who had nothing but contempt for me, my hands would perform acts that my mind would refuse to know – whilst my arms seemed to comfort who could kill me at any time.
My chest is exploding with carrying the grief of who I had to be to survive being inside the sex trade.
If I had a heart I had to force it into deep freeze, there was no place in the sex trade for emotions or sentiment.
I held inside my chest all that could be shown – all the sense that I was worth than this living death, all those dreams of a real life or freedom, and feelings that it was painful or just so sad.
I held all this hidden, and pretended nothing mattered.
My stomach now allows to sick up all the pain, the grief, the confusion, and the lack of hope that was my existence then.
My stomach is dragging me back into life by allowing the truths to be known and felt.
My vagina and anus know the unknowable – they know that the human will to live is so darned strong that unnameable tortures can repeated in the prostitute’s body and somehow she lives – but it also know and grieves so many die, or the damage remains till death arrives.
My anus may never fully forget the tortures it had to live – I still get afraid on the toilet, though I do not faint any more.
Anal rapes remain in you however good life treat after – especially when it was done on a regular basis and done to maximum pain.
My legs and feet ache to run away, but are learning life is safe now so have calmed a little.
But I always need to know I can run if needed, I cannot let myself too attach to places or most people – I still need to be alert, and not show my vulnerability too much.
That is my body map for now.