To all my Exited Sisters and Brothers.


To be a survivor of prostitution is to hold tight a warrior spirit.

We have known war, known despair, known hope draining from us – known what it is to forget how to be human.

But beyond reason, we fought to to live, fought to have a better future, fought to say our truths to erase prostitution from all societies.

We were and are warriors.

Warriors do not seek danger, but as it crawls into every corner of their existence, they stand firm and reach into the depths of their souls for courage and determination.

Warriors have Hell forced into every cell of their bodies and minds – and they remember how and why it is happening, to tell to the world and bring about real change and justice.

See what it is to have the warrior spirit.

It is not carrying guns, it is not burning cities to the ground.

It is not blaming or killing bystanders or the ignorant – it is targeting those guilty of being violent, profiteering or justifying the stripping of all human rights of the prostituted.

To be a warrior is to still enough to let the past in to build a better future, while enjoying being alive in the present.

Warriors are deeply wounded in their bodies, minds and souls.

Our wounds are invisible, our wounds are inside our sexual organs, our wounds hide in deadness.

We are scarred, we have known how men can torture till you lose the will to live, we have wounds that may never mend only become shadows as we strive to go forward.

To be a warrior, is to know and carry these wounds with pride and as a form of being a witness to the evil than men can do.

Warriors known and are not afraid of deep grief.

The grief of losing the person you were before prostitution, the grief of knowing the scale of the violence to the prostituted, the grief of understanding how organised and pre-planned that violence is.

Warriors come alive by grieving and expressing what words cannot say.

Warriors scream, draw, put to music, hit out and rage all that stolen from them, all the injustices they known, all the lost prostituted brothers and sisters we have known.

To be exited from prostitution, is to have seen and known too many missing or dead prostituted friends.

Every time our warriors speak out for justice and radical change – we hold our lost friends in our hearts.




Otis Musings

All my life, Otis Redding has let me feel what I try not to know.

In many way, his voice allows me to live, to hope and to dream.

I would say Otis is a guardian angel for my prostituted soul.

I played Memphis soul to soothe my soul, Stax was by my side as I try to know I was still human.

I could not bear reggae, Barry White and other soul made to drown the constant rapes and torturing that was my norm.

No, to get life back into the rawness of Otis, and the deep emotions that brought me back to reality.

Otis give me a voice, give me tears, give a will to stay alive.

Music was everywhere in my prostituted existence.

I closed out music as much as I could.

Reggae was in the room above the pub, where I dance as punters fingered, pawed and took me to private rooms to be fucked into being nothing.

Barry White was played by punters who called themselves gentlemen, as they kill all my will to live.

Irish music drowned out my pain and terror as in an Irish pub, I was fucked in the toilet or by the bins.

I grow to hate music – but never Stax, gospel, Northern Soul or jazz.

I stopped listening to the top hits or watching Tops of the Pops, I could let in Motown or pop from 60’s to my time.

I throw away my love of musicals, ballet music and Mozart.

I could bear “cheerful” music, it was too painful.

I grow to know the Blues, understand the depths of raw soul music, and to let be-bop ease my fear and agony.

Charlie Parker give a will to find some way out, John Lee Hooker allow pain and grief space to breathe, and Otis soothe me back to the time when I was never prostituted.

Now, I love most music. Now I not afraid to feel or be alive.

I still find reggae and Barry White unbearable – but then there so much other music for me to listen to that is of no matter.

I am fully alive, and that is wonderful.


The Shootist

I have been feeling blocked and silenced recently.

This is partly coz a sex work lobbyist insisting that the source of “evils” done to the prostituted is the fault of the individual choices of the prostituted, not the violence and entitlement of the sex trade profiteers and punters.

She used a metaphor to explain why I was wrong or misguided.

Imagine you have been shot.

You (the prostituted) are not to blame for that pain of being shot. From the viewpoint of the sex work lobby, the shootist is the limited choices that have placed the prostituted into the sex trade. That is it the circumstances that are to blame, never the male entitlement and violence.

In this scenario, the sex trade profiteer and punter are the bullet, so are blameless.

I pointed out that in my opinion, that the sex trade profiteers and punters were both the bullet and the shootist.

These men are fully aware as they target and leave the prostituted with a lifetime of wounds and trauma.

These men are a poisoned bullet that cannot be erase without justice and liberty for the prostituted.

The wound is made of nightmares, body memories, lack of access to real justice, and the constant terror of being made subhuman again.

All sex trade profiteers and punters are the shootist.

All fully loaded and aimed at the prostituted, conscious of deep damage that they are causing.

There is no thing as an innocent sex trade profiteer or punter – only that majority hide behind the mask of being a legitimate businessman or the cloak of being the good guy.

But if we stick to this metaphor, these men are cold hearted assassins.

They know their greed for money, their placing of the male orgasm above humans rights, their sense of entitlement, their desire to as sadist as possible is destroying the prostituted every moment of every day.

They see the prostituted with a clear eye of the assassin – they see the underaged, they see the trafficked, they see the bruises and cuts on our bodies, they see the money being held back from the prostituted.

They see sex tourists as it is them, they see stags does as the destruction that it they are, they see they exchange of the prostituted to oil a business or political deal, they see the prostituted move from man to man, street to street, city to city, country to country.

They see the whole structure of the sex trade is designed to make all the prostituted subhuman, and made into throwaway sexual goods.

The shootist is the sex trade profiteer or punter has not barrier to torture, mental violence, using rape as a means of control, and murder – in order to keep all the prostituted down.

I write this coz I cannot understand why anyone has to pity or can justify sex trade profiteers and punters.

All that wasted sympathy for the shootist is an excuse to do nothing for the prostituted.

Instead of seeing the shootist for the entitled bastard that he is, was and always will be – the sex work lobby shifts the debate to saying – look at the individual choices of the prostituted.

Well, no sex trade profiteer or punter give a damn how or why his prostitute came to be his sexual goods – all he sees or cares about is his profit, his orgasm, his use of control and power, and his access to sadism without consequences.

Yes, we must heal the wounds of all the prostituted – but for fundamental justice we must stop that bullet reaching the prostituted by targeting the shootist instead.

A Letter to All my Readers

Dear Everyone

Thanks for your support and solid belief in me.

I have writing this blog since 2008, been writing and campaigning for that long.

Now, I want to reach deeper and go to the guts and blood of being prostituted.

I struggle with this, and this letter is small cry for support and some spiritual strength from my loyal readers.

I am struggling on many levels.

I am struggling with isolation, feeling all my work is screaming into the wind.

I need the connection of other exited women, I need the connection of my fellow Abolitionists.

Please write to me or speak with me.

I know this blog is powerful and bring about change, it would lovely if you can to write or message me how and why this blog may of impacted on your life.

I have heard often that this blog is used as a teaching prop, it would wonderful if I could make a record of when and why it has been used.

One thing that I always stunned by is where my readers come from, every continent and so many countries, some I had to look up. Please if you want say where from, especially if it a long way from England and Devon.

This is for my ego, and coz this work need to be seen as the power force it has become.

I am struggling financially which is stopping my ability to write.

This blog is unpaid, but you can make donations, especially if you used my words to further your work.

I find it hard that exited women who do all the ground work that fuels the Abolitionist movement are mainly living in poverty.

This needs to change, exited women should pay for their blogs, their speeches, their education of others, their constant building up of real exiting programmes, their networking that feeds your work.

If you used my work or think my work has made become an Abolitionist – think hard about making a donation, especially if you not living on the breadline.

In this struggle, I am still going to write – all I want is the knowledge that it matters.

In Memoria (to Kate RIP)

Every Exited prostituted person I have known or been in contact have known to be still alive is just pure luck.

We have the ghosts of lost, disappeared, murdered, made to kill themselves, unable to go on living of the prostituted we may of known.

Most we push as far back to depths of our subconscious as we can – but always these spirits feed our desire for full abolition.

But we known close friends, relatives or lovers that the sex trade destroyed.

We all have ache of deep grief for them behind our courage, our stubborn will to bring justice for all the prostituted and our no going back to hell attitude.

I write to one woman, who I will call Kate – my true love, my sister in hell, my kick-ass best mate.

She killed herself when in the midst of indoors prostitution, in the midst of drug addiction, in the midst of trying to escape her abusive father.

She killed herself – but it was murder by stealth by the violence of men, the sex trade and living in a culture that ignores that amount of pain.

She and I were 17 when she died – it was about 40 years ago, but she is always in my heart – and will not forgive those who push her to death till there is justice and full abolition.

Her death give me both good and bad ways of being.

Let me speak to her life, to the good she give me.

I meet her as we waited for punters in some pub.

I survived by drinking spirits, imaging that stop pain and memory.

Kate was drinking and high. But there was an immediate attraction, of feeling I though I had lost – a sense of two rebellious spirits meeting.

Kate give me back that desperate wildness of those who do not know if tomorrow will ever come, and if there is to be a tomorrow will just yet another time to block away.

We would laugh darkly at the realities our bodies and minds had to absolved

We spoke about punters alone with contempt and finding our way into fury.

We smashed up a sex shop in a drunken spree, only to chase by its owner with a baseball bat – we laughed like hyenas.

We lived on the edge – it most alive I have ever been.

But our laughter, our force of life, our rebelling did nothing to stop punters raping, torturing and playing with our minds.

We had huge inner strength – but we still had the bruises, the cuts, the terror, and the     emptiness of those abused into a living death.

All we could do was love each other, hold each other as our world folded in on us.

We lost words, we lost any path to life – but we could love and laugh.

Only it was a love in a world determined to kill us.

How can there be a will to live when rape is repeated daily.

How can you want to live when everyone is stating you are not fully human and so can abuse by any means at any time or place.

In that environment, would you not use drugs or be an alcoholic.

We fall into drugs and drink – as our bodies were sold to more and more sadist punters.

Inside drunken or drugged states nothing could matter, we could pretend our pain was not important, we could imagine we were in control and somehow happy.

We were dying, but pretending to happy whores, we defended our choices by saying it was freedom and empowering.

Only look deep into our eyes – see our deadness, see our flashes of deep terror, see our child-like pleas for help and some kind of an escape.

Yes, child-like for Kate and I both entered prostitution via abuse by a father or a stepfather – we always carried that scared and broken child with every time we were brought and sold.

Every a punter made the choice to buy he brought back to that child who could know there was such a thing as NO.

To that place of pain, that place of being frozen, that place of losing hope.

We were outwardly young adults, but every punter made us a terrified child again.

That is rape, that is torture – on an industrial scale.

Going into drink and drugs is one way to keep on going when living in that hell.

It is not a life – not even an existence, only at best survival.

But Kate and I had love, which somehow made us remember our humanity.

Kate took an OD when her father found her, and rape her for the last time.

Her universal had no meaning.

I was away as she died – away with some rich bastard of a punter for a weekend of rape of torture.

I came back, and found Kate dead.

My love, my sense of freedom, my way into laughter, my criminal ally was dead.

I thought our love would save us – but how when our enemies was the sex trade, was drugs dealers, was living in a society that refuse to see we were human, and the endless lines of punters paying to murder our souls.

I could not believe she was dead – so for a few hours of denial I just held and spoke to her.

But then coldness landed in my heart, a coldness that still holds me.

I could never allow myself to love so fully ever again, I could love and have it ripped away by hate and violence.

Kate was my only true love – so I will honour her life.

She was the human person I have ever meet – even as the world claimed her life was nothing.

She is a tiny example of the millions of prostituted women and girls who lost to us.

They were the braver humans that ever lived.

The Rooms

I only did indoors prostitution.

The prostitution that is framed as safe, as a way to fortune, as a place of dignity for us whores.

My skin, my brain and my soul has to survive that life, with all its lies and manipulation.

I was never safe, I never was allowed space to known my own humanity.

It was hell – and indoors prostitution is still hell for millions of prostituted women and girls throughout the world.

My past is gone, but I campaign for all those inside that hell.

I want to focus on my personal memories as they are related to the normal violence of all indoors prostitution.

I write because I want to smash the illusion that any form of prostitution can be made nice.


To do indoors prostitution is to enter a room with a strange man allowed to as sadistic as he can imagined.

It is to be isolated, it is to be unprotected.

To be prostituted is not be viewed as fully human.

It is to have no legitimate voice, or have your voice stolen or silenced.

It is to have no access to safety as your mind, sexual being and body are owned and controlled by sex trade profiteers and punters.

To have no right to express NO as punters demand the right to pour pain and degradation into your every.

You have no right to stop the constant mental abuse and brainwashing that is the norm of all prostitution.

No – once it is behind closed doors – doors in hotels, doors above clubs, doors in flats, even your own door – no prostitute can stop a punters who decide to be violent.

There is no safe form of prostitution, no safe place where prostitution can be made – only the faded hope that this particular punter will choose to be less violent.


See the punter.

Stop being distracted by the sex work lobby saying the problem is stigma, or the individual choices and life stories of the prostituted.

All that is a slight of hand from seeing the root cause of all the problems for the prostituted.

That is the constant demand of punters to degrade and be sadistic to the prostituted.

To struck in the room with a punters is always to know he may kill you, he more than likely will do sexual that destroy you, and he thinks he has nothing to nobody.

That is living death of being prostituted.

If there is going be stigma, place it where belong on all those who choose to buy and sell the prostituted in the full knowledge of this destruction.


I survive indoors – I am of the lucky ones.

Like most exited, I knew too prostituted women and girls who disappeared or were killed.

I knew prostituted and exited women who committed suicide as a result of indoors prostitution.

I heard in other rooms the beatings, the rapes, the mental violence done to my prostituted Sisters.

I had very close friends who enter as adults thinking it was their free choice – only to be raped, beaten and thrown so often they lost their way back to their true selves.

My best friend and love of my life died from an OD coz punters pushed to that edge.

So, if dare say indoors prostitution is safe and dignified – then face those prostituted women.

Say that to all the prostituted women and girls in hotel rooms, rooms in flats, in their own room who are now being rape, bashed up or close to death.

There is no such as safe prostitution.




What a Fool Believes

There are so many myths and lies that the sex work lobby spreads.

These daily are draining all hope of real freedom for the prostituted.

I, as with many exited women, find it hard to comprehend why these poisonous lies are believed.

I will write to a few of these lies and myths, hopefully with compassion and reasoning you may see through them.

To see clearly, it is necessary to know that the prostituted are full humans – that is the start to becoming an Abolitionist.


This is a very dangerous lie, this lie is killing the prostituted every moment of every day.

To decrimalised or make legal prostitution is give free reign to violent punters, and to allow sex trade profiteers gain from providing more sadistic sexual practices.

Remember the sex trade is all about the money – and has no interest in the sexual, mental and physical welfare of the prostituted.

The prostituted are sexual goods in this environment, with no access to basis human rights such as safety, right to life, privacy, right to full consent and the the right to control their own body.

When we forms societies that legalised the sex trade, we are backing up the punters and sex trade profiteers – and betraying the prostituted to continue their hellish existence.


There can can be no safe place or form of prostitution as long men have the entitlement to buy and sell other humans for sexual greed.

If you want to know the cause and source of all the violence done to the prostituted – then look at the mainly men who demand and supply prostitution.

All the hate, violence and genocide exists because men invented the prostituted class to rape, torture, throw away, say are never fully human and murder with no consequences or sense of guilt.

There is nothing new about this hate and violence.

The minds and bodies of the prostituted has been tortured, manipulated and destroyed since the first man discover he could rape without consequences just by exchanging goods.

I do not know when prostitution was invented, but I know with every cell in my body there is nothing natural about it existing.

I became an Abolitionist because I know as old as prostitution has been – the prostituted has always resisted this hate, degradation and destruction.

Abolition is just the voicing of this resistance that will no longer be buried under the noise of the lies and myths of the sex trade supporters.


It is exhausting being an exited woman.

Anger is a fuel, but also there deep grief and a sense of alienation.

To support exited women, learn to listen and allow us to teach on trauma, on grooming, on how anger should be targeted, on knowing what justice may look like, on seeing with a clear eye men and their violence.

To support exited women is to learn to be humble in the flame of our fury, humble as we speak to truths you have named as unspeakable, humble as we reach back and forward to the centuries of our suffering.

To support exited women is to understand that trauma can lessened but will still be a shadow in our lives, to understand the depth of our grief is not just as an individual but for each and every – past, present and in the future – prostituted who in hell.

To do Abolition as a reality we must place the Exited as leaders – we must dig for their wisdom, hear their anger, fight for their ideas of justice, and be clear that no human can never have the right to buy and sell the prostituted for sexual greed.