All I write and speak to is just the tip of an enormous ice-berg of trauma, memory, pain and grief.
I want this blog to explore and express as much as words can about my time and views of being prostituted – but words can only say the surface, or what my reader/audience choose to understand.
So I have put my fave Aretha Franklin’s album – “I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You” – and will try to go into my deep spaces.
To speak top being prostituted is to enter the heart of hell, but constantly being told it not as bad as you say.
But I know and remember the cold dead eyes of punters and sex trade profiteers – I know with every cell of my body that all violence done to the prostituted is pre-planned and done with a sense of entitlement.
There is and has never been accidental violence done to the prostituted – and the vast majority of this violence is done by men who are very ordinary, often non-violent outside of prostitution, and will be outwardly classed as good men.
But put a punter in a room, give a punter the entitlement to pick the street prostituted, let rich punters own escorts/girlfriend experience, say saunas are for sex, open up strip clubs on the high street – and you are saying violence to the prostituted is our norm as long we cannot see it’s reality.
Punters are raping, torturing, killing and mentally abusing the prostituted every day in almost every country – and most societies make the choice to ignore this genocide.
For centuries, this hell has been made invisible or an non-event – now, slowly and with huge courage the multiple voices of the prostituted are getting heard.
I proud to be in a new book – “Prostitution Narrative: Stories of Survival in the Sex Trade” edited by Caroline Norma & Melinda Tankard Reist, published by Spinifex.
This is a collection of writings of exited women mainly from Australia, Canada, Denmark, Ireland, New Zealand, UK and USA – all speaking to the realities of what it is and was to be prostituted.
Our voices cut through the lies and myths of the sex work lobby – our voices are just a small part of centuries of the prostituted screaming for justice, wanting to explain our hellish conditions and fighting for justice.
I believe I am lucky to live in the beginning of the prostituted being allow to speak our realities in our own language – not the constant translation of those who support the status quo of the sex trade.
Our language is your language – just more raw, more able to face grief, more able to contain agony.
Our language is your language – only we allow emotion space to breathe, only we speak always with ghosts of those who never exit the sex trade.
Our language is your language – but too often you act as if we speak gibberish, or translate our words to hide pain, grief and desire for justice.
I want to live in world where the prostituted can speak out without being watered down.
To that day – I will speak out with the memory of hell, and wait for the non-prostituted to hear clearly the screaming of the prostituted world-wide.