Wish I Did Not Know

Surviving prostitution is horrible.

I know we are strong, we have empathy, we can be the bravest people I know – but to all my fellow exited friends and colleagues, we live with knowing what we would rather not know.

We know and understand male sexual violence.

We know and understand what it is to be made sub-human.

We know and understand what torture is and how the human being somehow survives torture beyond knowledge.

We are carriers of deep knowledge – heck, we are a resource.

But I and most of my survivors friends would love to turn back time, and to be ignorant.

You live five minutes with even a small part of our knowledge, and tell me you would not turn back time.

I would imagine I never went down the path I did – I imagine the normal upper-middle class background I was born into.

I imagine a world where I had a mother who loved me, or at least put my safety and welfare as a major purpose.

Not the world of knowing I was nothing to my mum – knowing she saw me as an inconvenient, as born evil, as a blockade to her progress.

I imagine a world where my stepdad never meet my mother, a world where he was not even a thought in our family.

Not the world where his wants and needs were more important than my safety.

Not the world where he could randomly abuse me when his whim took him – and always my mother told me how I provoke him.

I had pushed him too far.

I would eat down my hate, my sense of no justice, my fury that wanted burn down my home.

I would imagine a world where I had no knowledge of prostitution, no idea that sex could be nothing, no connection of pain with that sex.

Not the world that I knew from too young.

The world of my six-year-old who run away from school into King’s Cross and Soho, surrounded by noises of women and girl’s desperation, by noises of men wanting to buy me – the child is cheap and ignorant.

The child can be molded into being a sub-human, and it will be no big deal.

The world of my seven-year-old – where she is stood still in Soho, acting tough, acting beyond her age.

She is street-wise, but knows nothing.

She is walking prey.

The world of my nine-year-old – who begun to make death her best friend, and knew suicide was some answer.

I don’t want to know how much my childhood was stolen even before I was 14 and enter the sex trade.

Now, I see the age 14, and see how bloody young that is – but then I thought I was all grown, that I could be hurt or know pain more than I did then.

I like so many survivors of prostitution, was used to abuse but still a child who naive of what torture was and how bad it could get.

Thank god, we were naive for how would still be alive if we had known what we were entering.

For we were entering hell, but like all hells on earth, it was hidden in plain sight.

I cannot write to prostitution without stating that all that I speak to is just common practice in all aspects of prostitution.

I must state that the vast majority of violence done to the prostituted is done in legal, semi-legal setting.

There is no such thing as underground prostitution, for all prostitution is easy for punters to find and consume.

Prostitution is never about sex and relationship – it always about money, power and male entitlement.

So it never hidden to men – those who do not see the violence and hate that is prostitution, have made a conscious decision to turn away

I will see my prostitution, knowing I connect to all the prostituted class. Now I can rise up and find I was never alone, only completely isolated.

So I speak to my prostituted self – speak words of comfort, words of revolution, words letting her know at last she is someone who can be respected.

Speaking to my prostituted self – I hope is part of building a world where all prostitution has vanished.

A world where all the prostituted class can stand tall.

But to build a future, we must grieve and know our pasts.

I will speak to the heart of my prostituted self – to my silent screaming, to that place where body memories come from,

I try by writing over and over and over, to ease my prostituted self – but without full justice, and a sense that the prostituted are respected – her pain seems endless.

I write to my reality of indoors prostitution, a world with no Julia Roberts, no Richard Geres – just desperation, pain and wanting to forget.

I write to each room with a bed where I was raped, tortured and put myself on the ceiling.

I write to not knowing pain – but seeing blood, seeing bruises, and being unable to walk or eat.

I write to not knowing the men – not looking at their faces, not hearing when they spoke, not breathing in their clothes or alcohol breathe.

I write to being in the of being gang-raped – with that sense of having skin, of my guts being pulled out, of hounds of men panting all over me – but finding not only was I still alive, but being gang-raped was quite common.

No wonder I don’t want to know my own truths.

But to understand and to end prostitution, we must know what is done to the prostituted, and name it as torture, as a human rights emergency.

We must allow all those exited folks strong enough to speak to that reality to be published, to be leaders at all speaking events about abolition, and to listen to your exited friends without asking them to censor their truths.

Abolition is a revolution – so don’t dilute it by censoring the truths of survivors of the sex trade.

 

Fractured Memory

I have many gaps in my memory.

This hurts and wounds me in many ways – I feel I am missing too much of my life. I have lost the years between 6 to 27.

It is not fully lost, just in so many fragments I cannot find how to fit them together.

I am a neglected jigsaw with pieces gone.

I want to cry, but I have forgotten how.

I want to scream – but that voice is lost in a past that is shattered.

I want to know my truths – but only touch small edges.

I understand with logic, why my memory is so damaged.

I understand the mind can only take in so much reality of torture, then it cannot hold any more.

I understand that most of prostitution is repeated violence – repeated ways of raping, repeated ways of mentally/physically/sexually torturing, repeated ways of breaking down the prostitute.

I understand that repetition cannot be remembered fully – only remembered until it is discovered that all the prostituted are not to blame, and the violence done to them was pre-planned.

I understand that to survive the hell that is prostitution, it is vital to close it down or to replace the violence with inventions of empowerment and having a good time.

All this and more, I understand with a clear logical mind – but it does nothing to end the grief of lost memory.

In this post, I will try an explore memory – maybe speaking to moments/hours/weeks/years.

May I say that I was prostituted between 14 to 27, and previously sexually and mentally abused at home from aged 6.

Those years are just moments to me – for my fractured memory has made the good times disappear as well as the abuse and violence.

I remember standout moments – but with the years of prostitution I cannot see my age, cannot see the exact location, and usually cannot fully the men abusing me.

I remember through pain throughout my body, I remember through sudden terror, I remember and try not to doubt myself.

I remember as I choking without cause, I remember as I try to sleep but feel bodies raping me again, I remember when I try to love my partner and my mind wants violence.

I know memory is trapped inside my body, it trying with desperation to connect to the mind.

My instinct is to disconnect from my body as much as possible – I fall into music, reading, eating, TV and so forth to be away from my body.

Heck, now I have Twitter and Facebook, I can run away even more.

But my body pushing memory into me, even as I choose to run away.

The more I run, the worse the pain and grief gets – so I know I must turn round and confront a past that refuses to be silent.

It is a past made up of rooms.

Rooms in hotels, rooms in flats, rooms above clubs, rooms behind pubs.

Rooms where all I remember seemed the same, though it was different times and many locations.

Rooms where all I saw was the bed, maybe a place for money, maybe see a way to a bathroom.

I cannot remember how many rooms, only know I was a robot just seeing any bed – I knew what I was, and could not imagine a world where I was not a whore.

It was a past made up of punters.

A past where I did not know sex could be done with care, done with love, done without pain.

A past where men enter every part of my body – wearing down all memory that I had ever been human.

A past where consent meant nothing – as I was brought and sold, where could my no have any meaning.

A past where one could keep me as his sexual slave for weeks, a past where gang-rape was normal, a past where torture was rehearsed on my body.

For torture is always rehearsed on the prostituted – we are just living porn to punters.

So it is impossible to fully remember the past.

But I remember enough to know I did nothing to be in the line of such hate and violence.

I remember enough to know all punters will torture the prostituted – even if just mentally or by refusing to see the prostituted as fully human.

I remember enough to know violence is the norm of all aspects of the sex trade.

I remember to know I am only alive by luck.

I remember to be an abolitionist.

Another Christmas, Another Year Gone

I have taught myself to love Christmas – it has been a long journey but the older I get the more I understand Christmas.

Christmas means nothing to my prostituted soul.

Christmas was stolen from my abused childhood.

Now, I hold Christmas to my heart, holding not any religion, holding no desire for commercial goods – but holding out for deeper meaning of what love can be.

Love was a concept I was taught to mistrust.

Love was always a silk glove with a dagger in it.

I wanted and needed love as much as any other human being – so I learnt to block out that longing by freezing out all signs and symbols of human love.

Christmas was love, so I taught myself to hate everything that touch my heart associated with that season.

I hardened my heart, I acted the cynic, I pretended it was just another rotten day – whilst all time an inner crying was reaching for joy and peace.

But how can Christmas matter to an abused child? How can the prostituted know that season?

Tell me would care enough to reach into their hearts – in doing so then maybe truly understand the meaning of Christmas.

For Christmas is not about competing for the most showy present, or who can eat the most.

No, Christmas is a reminder that humans can reach out and care for others.

A reminder that we can know joy in small and big events, and knew joy helps build us up in feeling empathy and knowing we do not need to hardened our hearts just to survive.

A reminder that peace is the long-term achievement that all humans should strive.

Not just the ending of political and international wars – but the deeper peace of reaching out to those we think we do not understand or want as our neighbours with love and empathy.

Christmas is never one day or even 12 – the spirit of Christmas is striving of all that is good in humans for all time, it is nothing to do with religion, it about each human soul finding it is connected to all other humans.

I have no belief in god, religion or any supernatural ways of thinking.

I do not have belief in organised religions, in goddesses, in paganism, in witches, in fundamentalism, etc etc – no I believe in the inner strength and a kind of spirituality in all humans.

I believe we are more capable of love than we know, I believe the human heart is built to connect with all other human hearts.

We closed down our own ability to be good and built a better future, for we are afraid.

Instead, humans find it easier to be cut off from love and built a world that is cold and full of pain.

Each and every moment – humans are destroying hope, destroying our link to understanding others, destroying all that give meaning to being alive.

It is human that destroy the spirit of Christmas – and always we blame everything but our own actions.

So I believe it an act of revolution to stand up for the meaning of Christmas.

A spirit that will rise up all those abused children and all the prostituted living inside terror.

Let me look back to my abused self, and see my desire for that Christmas spirit never truly disappear. I will give a few small examples of my resistance to my abusers murdering the spirit of Christmas.

I was taught there was no Father Christmas in the harsher way possible.

I learnt as I thought Father Christmas was reaching into my cunt and feeling me up.

I open my eyes seeing it was my stepdad – and his French kissing suffocated me as he left the stocking at the end of the bed.

I wanted to believe in Father Christmas so much, I wanted there to be magic, I wanted one night without being a sex object.

As an adult, I hold on to laying out stockings for all – adult or child – that moment of joy is a gift I refuse to rob from me.

At aged 17, I reached the end of hope, of wanting Christmas to be part of me.

That Christmas, I dreamt and attempted suicide – but somehow life refuse to let me go.

I remember that hell as I cut myself, took pills, and attempted to walk into the sea.

I remember my mother laughing at for being too stupid to even able to kill myself.

I remember all the time my stepdad eyeing me up and down.

I remember his hands in me as I try to eat Christmas meal.

I remember running from that home into punter’s flats or into sex clubs.

I remember being gang-raped over some winter period.

I remember a New Year of rape and abortion.

Happy Christmas and New Year was meaningless for my 17 years self.

But even – there was an inner voice saying you deserve so much more than this shit – something, some spirit forcing me to stay alive.

I wanted to live coz there must be more to live than pain, fear and hate – something that may called love.

My memories of prostitution at Christmas are confused, and full of grief and trying escape the pain.

All I know, that when I was escorting, being girlfriend material – the Christmas period was busy and often well paid.

This was because the punters were greedy and wanting do more sadist sex – they would pay more for that entitlement.

To be brought round the Christmas period, is to be enslaved – it is expected that many punters will own the prostitute for long periods and make her his living porn-doll.

I hated Christmas as a prostitute – even though I got many gifts or trips, and could spend money like water.

I associated Christmas with pain in every cell of my body, it was a time where I touch death too often.

Christmas was a time of torture, a time to forget about hope – a time that would not end.

Only even my prostituted soul held on to Christmas – a reminder of having innocence, a reminder that not all human want or cause pain and hate.

I held on to Christmas as I listen each year to carols, often it was surreal, but it give me some sense of peace.

I held on to Christmas by playing Phil Spector, jazz Christmas classics and Wham – songs reaching to hidden space that wanted joy.

And I held on to Christmas, as I saw children with looks of wonder at Christmas lights – holding to that part of me that just wanted a simple routine life.

So I have written this post, to say however cruel human choose to be – they will never truly destroy the spirit of Christmas.

They may make it hide for a while – but in the long run the courage and determination of those who are oppressed will force joy, peace and innocence back into the world.

Merry Xmas everyone.

 

So If It Was Bad – How Come You’re Alive Then?

This is an unanswerable question which is always asked of those of us somehow survived the sex trade.

It is unanswerable for we do not know.

Do not know when so many strong and vibrant friends, and folks we did not know were destroyed by the sex trade.

Do not know how we survived many near-death experiences.

Do not know how we woke each morning after many hours of mental, sexual and physical torture.

Do not know how we survived our many suicide attempts.

All we know it against all that was thrown at us we lived.

That should be seen as heroic – there should parades, fireworks, a day of memorial and celebration for all the prostituted.

But our survival is greeted with silence, with embarrassment, with a conscious turning away from any message we bring with us.

For we should have never survived – never of lived, never of remember what it was to be prostituted, never been alive with a voice and the will to make others listen to learn.

The harsh fact of the silencing, ignorance and closing of those of us who have exited the sex trade is we cannot be allowed to be alive enough have a voice.

This is shown on so many levels – whether by the usual suspects of those who benefit in the continence of sex trade, but also by folks who say they are allies of us.

It is shown every time there are records of murders of females – where there is no mentions of the many murdered prostituted women and girls, no mention of those murdered in the porn industry.

These deaths are made invisible, made unimportant – if mentioned mostly as an afterthought to “normal” domestic violence murders.

But – the murders of the prostituted class is happening everywhere, every day, maybe every half hour of every day.

It is considered that women inside the sex trade are at the minimum 12 times more likely to die a violent death that women of similar age and background – it may as much as 20 times more likely.

If it considered that women may dies at least 2 a week from domestic violence – then try to imagine 12-20 times that number.

But this genocide goes on, for the prostituted are never alone to be human enough for their lives to matter.

That means to murder a prostitute is made into a non-event – it becomes just the throwing away of the trash.

The deaths of the prostituted are mostly unreported. If reported, all too often she is made nameless.

If the murdered prostitute is allowed to have a name, her life is narrow down to “just another dead whore”.

The message is clear – we should not mourn the murdered prostituted, that grief should be for “real” women.

Death was the norm when we were inside prostitution.

We learnt that our lives meant nothing – so most of the prostituted grow hardened to the idea of death.

Sometimes the only reminder that we were alive, was finding we could still feel pain or get moments of grief – or even some connection to what it was to be happy.

To have emotions was terrifying – but they were vital to send signals that there more to life than being buried in the sex trade.

Emotions needed to be controlled – for all too often, sex trade profiteers and punters used any sign that we were still human against us.

To show fear encourage more violence.

To cry was to be laughed at, was to made to cry by yet more violence.

To laugh at the ridiculousness of it all was to be punished.

To be quiet was not to put the punter at the centre of everything.

To show anger was placed yourself in grave danger.

To want to protect yourself would make a danger to the sex trade, so you will be thrown away.

I always laugh with bitter tears remembering that deadening all emotions became the way I survived how bad it was.

Often the real meaning of “if it was so bad, how come you’re alive then?” is – why did you do nothing to run away, or report the violence.

Again this very hard to answer, yes there is a surface of easy answers of not knowing how to report, being taught to trust no-one outside the sex trade, not knowing anywhere was safe to run to – but the real answers are deeper and far more tragic.

Most of us who were trapped inside the sex trade have no clear answers is why we did not run – for to be honest, many of us did run away only to find we landed straight back into the hell of the sex trade.

Running away is very hard if you don’t where or who you are running – sometimes going back to what you think you might understand seems the only solution.

It must be been seen that the vast majority of those inside the sex trade comes from backgrounds or experiences that have taught them that they are less than human – and the skill of the sex trade and its profiteers to keep them as sub-human.

Look at the prostituted class and what do you see.

You will see the majority have experienced childhood abuse.

You will see that indigenous and ethnic minorities women overwhelm who is made into the prostituted.

You will see all man-made disasters – wars, famine, poverty etc – are used to recruit the prostituted.

You will see that the sex trade market is about young flesh – under-aged prostitution is the norm not some perversion.

And you will see that the sex trade will prey on all women and girls – for there a market for everything from posh white schoolgirl to Asians in saunas, from high-class escort to street-based prostitute.

The sex trade never will get tired of exploiting and oppressing the prostituted – and by ignoring their violence, you become part of the problem.

 

Sickness Eats My Soul

I have very ill for many reasons, and have unable to write.

Now with great force, I will try to get to the centre of what is blocking me, what is sending sickness into my soul.

My soul is being slowly eaten alive.

It is mainly coming at me from two place.

The careless and callous use of language when so-called supporters speak about the sex trade.

And the lack of understanding of the depth and commonness of internal trafficking.

Both these are hurting me beyond pain, making me speechless, making me wanting to scream, making me apathetic as too much triggers me, making me thinking of ripping heads off of the so-called supporters.

My soul is a howling wolf, my soul is a silent stone statue of an unknown warrior, my soul is the wind in the moors, my soul is that pain which has forgotten where is came from and that it can be named.

How can we speak to the reality of prostitution, speak to the centre of being prostituted – if we turn away from language that is clear and stares deep into the darkness that is the sex trade.

Instead we have the language of detachment, the language of not connecting prostitution with human rights – the language without pain, horror or the visceral reality of what is to be prostituted.

A clean safe language that pushes away the multiple voices of those who have survived the sex trade.

A language given to the Left and even some feminists to hide blood, dead bodies and tears away.

If I hear sex worker again, I may buy an AKA, and kill some so-called supporters.

Your safe clean language is the language that colluded with the sex trade profiteers in the endless genocide of the prostituted.

Called our tortures, multiple rapes and deaths sex work – and you are an onlooker who will refuse any sense of guilt or responsibility for genocide of the prostituted class.

Prostitution cannot be made clean and safe – no matter how much you use the language of the Left, the language of labour, the language of freedom of choice.

Your words do nothing to stop the buying and selling of the prostituted, does nothing to stop all punters feeling entitle to own and torture the prostituted, does nothing for the safety of any prostitute alone with any punter or profiteer.

All your words do is make detached, make you turn away, make speak over the prostituted or those who have exited.

Your words make you imagine you understand the world of prostitution – when all you truly understand is the language of sex trade profiteers.

I have very triggered by the news in England about Rotherham, where at least 14,000 mainly girls have been internally trafficked into prostitution.

Internal trafficking is rarely reported – even though it is one of the most common ways that girls and women are drawn into prostitution.

It is only noticed if we can make the traffickers into the Other, only noticed if we can detached ourselves away from those who are being trafficked.

No-one can be detached from internal trafficking.

Traffickers, who are mostly men – come from all ethnic backgrounds, all cultural backgrounds, all ages, all classes.

Those who are trafficked are mostly females – come from all ethnic backgrounds, all cultural backgrounds, all ages, all classes.

Once you think there only a certain type of trafficker, or a certain type of female who is trafficked – then the sex trade profiteers are laughing at you.

The true terror that is internal trafficking is that it very ordinary men trafficking very ordinary girls in your home area.

I was internally trafficked – and it was made invisible.

That is normal – the sex trade is full of girls and women who were internally and no-one cared or even noticed.

The reason it is kept invisible – is because you do not want to lose your access to a wide range in prostitution.

You by ignoring internal trafficking are colluding with the sex trade profiteers.

Internal and external trafficking go hand-in-hand in providing the variety that punters demand in prostitution – providing prostitutes of many ethnicity, prostitutes who are very young, prostitutes who have no access to safety or being able to know consent.

Rotherham is just one example of the norm of the sex trade.

I think I can breathe a bit now – and hopefully sleep more than five hours.

What is Your Excuse

I am going to the London Stop Porn Culture conference this weekend, and I will try to focus through the heart of my trauma.

In this post, I want to look at the many excuses made for the continuing of the sex trade. All excuses start from not allowing that the prostituted class can be fully human.

That barring from humanity is how all the sex trade works, so as you make endless excuses know you are making conditions for slavery, conditions for the disappearances or deaths of too many of the prostituted.

If you an excuse to make the sex trade normal, you have blood on your hands.

I write this for I am sick and tired of hearing apparently good people saying prostitution or porn is not that bad – only problem is people like me ruining the fun of others.

So you begin your excuses by lying about who people like me are.

We are moralistic, we hate sex, we are too sheltered, we are mentally damaged, we have no sense of humour, we want the police in the bedroom.

Lordy, we are everything that can be ridicule or made small – anything not to listen and hear our words.

The excuses are made so you or your friends have full access to the sex trade preferably as private as possible.

It is this mentality that against all logic and the reality of male violence works, that pushes for indoors prostitution in the false claim that it safer that street-based prostitution.

No aspect of prostitution is safe, or can be safe enough to be allowed to continue.

Behind closed inside brothels, in flats and hotel rooms, in sex clubs, in the homes of the prostituted – violence continue without interference, without access to help, without the knowledge that any cares.

No, prostitution behind closed doors is open to torture, to gang-rapes, to murder – it is too common that the prostituted just disappear from indoors prostitution.

So dream on if you think escorting, brothel work, being in a sauna, being girlfriend material is safe, or surrounded by managers who care about your welfare as a prostitute.

And to any punter who may be reading this, saying I’m the good guy for using indoors prostitution – I would never ever exploit any prostitute I went with.

You are exploiting by buying her as your masturbatory goods, you are exploiting by even imaging you have the right to buy another human just so you can have an orgasm.

I know of no punter who is bother that a prostitute is injured, bother if she may be trafficked or not, bother if she is under-aged, bother if she out of it on drugs, bother if it clear she being intimidated by a pimp.

Most punters love the thrill that the prostituted is being exploited, love the power of being yet more poison to rip out her humanity.

Punters see no human, they see a living sex doll that has no rights to consent or freedom to be fully alive.

The only time I can imagine a punter caring about the prostitute as a human is if he about to be arrested.

Most punters see no crime in raping, torturing and murdering the prostituted – it just a small event that they can move away from and forget.

That is what you are allowing when you make the sex trade normal.

The excuses come from a place of refusal to have even the smallest piece of empathy for the prostituted.

This happens all the time everywhere – those outside the prostituted class that see we are fully human are rare and need to be hold onto for they are part of the road to freedom.

I am sick and tired of being in an environment of so-called allies who can speak openly about all forms of male violence against women and children – but speak tongue-tied when talking to the conditions of prostitution and porn.

Your constant excuse is it too terrible to be spoken of – but you speak to the reality of child rape, of mass rapes in war-zones, of domestic violence, and many other ways men torture women and children.

But when speaking on the sex trade – it is spoken with great detachment and wanting “proven” facts, it is spoken by saying there must two sides, it is wrapped in the language of sex work.

You language become more and more distant – anything not to see that the prostitute is a human being.

Is it that you truly believe that there are two sides to prostitution and porn – but not two sides to child rape, not two sides to domestic violence?

Why do cling on to the fantasy that some of the prostituted had free choice and so must be happy.

Do you not see most women inside domestic violence would say they chose to live with the person who abuses them?

That the majority of rapes are done by men who built a relationship with their victim.

Do you think it is normal for women and girls outside the sex trade to self-blame for the male violence done to them?

Yet you make the choice not to judge those women and girls, or think it is true that are to blame.

But every day in most environments, the prostituted class are taken at their word if they say what you want to hear – that is they are empowered and happy – and ignore if they say it is hell.

That choice to not listen is part of the genocide of the prostituted class.

I will end here for it too hard for my grieving soul to write anymore.

Trauma is Made

The greatest crime of the sex trade is how it drives trauma into each and every one of the prostituted.

The sex trade and its allies know this mental damage is inevitable, that if the trauma is push down deep enough it will form the ideal prostitute or “actor” in porn.

Trauma destroys memory, trauma destroys the will to believe in the future, trauma deaden the brain’s access to knowing pain – trauma makes all the prostituted class into living dolls.

The prostituted class become nothing but a mass with holes and hands, for all men with money and the will to consume the prostituted to masturbate into.

Trauma makes sure that there is human left inside the prostituted class.

That is why the only solution is to completely abolish the sex trade – for we cannot live a whole class being into sex dolls and call ourselves a decent society.

The trauma that is embedded inside me, and inside all the exited women I know or work with, is extreme and highly complex.

It is a trauma that cannot be just wished away or just got over – it is inside our skin, our memory, our breathing.

I never understand why our is so belittle or made invisible.

I see it said it is a trauma to be raped.

We were raped in the hundreds, we were raped for months or years – but we are not allowed trauma or if allowed only the amount of trauma other can deal with.

It would appear we were raped too often, it was too normal to matter – so we must have got used to it, it must have been our choice to be a fuck-object, it must be that the prostituted class cannot be raped.

It cannot be real rape – for we were paid or took gifts, for we advertise our bodies were open to any man.

How can it be classed as rape – when too prostitutes do react with shock, they are not crying, they do not speak of being in pain, they act as if nothing important has happen – how can that be called rape?

Again our trauma is complex and to the extreme – our trauma is made up of hundreds of strange men raping us, our trauma often started too young for our minds to want to remember, our trauma is assisted by any society that refuses to know the prostituted are fully human.

How can you know that the average prostitute or woman inside porn has raped by more men than the human brain can hold and say it is not real rape.

Do we not count, does money mean more than our mental welfare and right to life?

But most of the prostituted were not just raped, they live inside sexual torture.

We were tortured in a scale that is off the charts – the sex trade and its consumers see the prostituted class as goods that any form of sadism or porn fantasy is pour into.

I know what is rape outside the sex trade, is seen as foreplay by many punters, or as sex they can get for free – they pay to do extreme torture with the full knowledge it will be condoned or hidden from the public gaze.

There is no part of the prostitute’s mind, body and soul that a punter will not torture – and the more he torture the more profit the sex trade makes.

I know that much that would be framed as rape to women and girls outside the sex trade – was a relief to me, for it was less painful, lasted for shorter periods and I could numbed my mind and body from knowing what was happening.

Torture is inside me every day, though I built a wonderful life – the knowledge of sadism at its purest is inside me, and it is the backbone of my trauma.

How do you live with knowing no part of your body has not been in a war-zone, a war that is made unseen, unheard and unknowable.

I will not go through the multiple memories, only say sadism shadow me, only say when I have any pain in any part of my body it connects to a past I don’t want to.

Only say I get pain in my ear for a punter/punters thought it was funny to see if their cocks went down that hole.

Only say I choke loads often till I am sick – it could coz I was forced into water as I was anally raped, it may too many objects/fists/penises force down my throat, it may just be being unable to scream out or even have a voice as a prostitute.

Only say my legs often are in great pain – maybe coz I was often tied up, or just coz running away was no option when I prostituted.

I will not speak to my normal anal pain, or speak to how often I was strangled, or speak of how often I stopped breathing.

All that is the ordinary trauma of an exited woman.

That was our norm, our reality – that is what society tries so hard is not happening and never has happened.

What makes me deeply proud is that so many exited prostituted women are speaking to the truths of their trauma – and transforming it to be a power-force demanding abolition of the sex trade.

We are becoming a force that is unstoppable.

Copyright Rebecca Mott 2013