Monthly Archives: July 2008

After Last Post

Posted on by rmott62

Writing my post yesterday about how I view the men that used me was extremely draining.

Today I feel very, very sick.

This should not surprise me. After all, I have raped more times than I can remember. 

Why should I not be sickened when men thought they could own me.

Everyone should be sickened that men think it is ok to own women and girl. And then dare to say that is some kind of liberation.

I made sick as I know my body went through so much torture.

And when I say torture, I want to close down. Whilst at the same I need to howl.

Men made my body into their playpen.

I know through my body the meaning of sex object.

An object does not feel.  An object has no thoughts. An object cannot receive pain.

An object will be thrown away.

That is how men view prostituted women and girls. An object for their use.

Be sick as prostituted women and girls are being raped now.

Raped and told it is they choose to be there.

Raped and not allow to feel grief.

Be sick as prostituted women and girls are tortured as you read this.

Tortured so often that they can no longer feel the pain.

Tortured so their mind refuses to know what is happening, so go into blank mode.

I feel that being sickened at the conditions that the majority of prostituted women and girls are living in is one way to grieve.

But use the sickness to build up an anger.

Anger that it has become acceptable to torture prostituted women and girls.

Acceptable as it portrayed that they just love rough and kinky sex. For that is why they became a prostitute in the first place.

Anger that this makes most of male violence invisible.

Anger that often it takes a serial killer to make the common and casual violence to prostituted women and girls even become an issue.

Anger that the ignoring of the impact of the male violence will and does make most prostituted women and girls think no-one will believe about the rapings and tortures.

I want the anger and sickness build towards a change.

I feel a weakness that all I can do is write.

I write in the hope that my strength will build to more practical action.

But others read my words, and are spurred to act – then I feel the huge effort I put here is worth while.

The Men That Used Me

Posted on by rmott62

Often when reading or talking about the punters become invisible.

They are not seen as individuals who choose to exploit, but a general mass who cannot be controlled.

I think it is natural for a prostituted woman or girl not to see the individual. When men from all backgrounds degrade her and use violence on her.

But I feel a need to show some of the men that used me. I cannot see them all, because most have become a mass.

I hate that. I hate that men can rape, and I don’t see their faces. I hate that men could torture me, and I do not even know how many men were in the room.

I hate that I was raped for so long by so many men that each man I show is just the tip of the iceberg.

For me, that is the worse effect of prostitution is that my memory has been wrecked.

And all men who used me look the same.

One way I remember is through the staring of men before, during and after they used me.

It was a look where I could not believe in hope. In that stare, I lose that I was human.

I became a sex object.

I feel that look send fear into me. I feel it turning me into an obedient sex toy.

That stare has enter my nightmares.

I want to to see beyond that stare.

I know I was raped by rich African students. Men who were expecting to be rulers.

Sometimes when I view governments from all countries and cultures, I think of the tortures those men put me through.

Men like that made me an anarchist.

Rich men, whether white or black, who choose to be used prostituted women and girls will assume no-one will care or dare to intervene.

They know prostituted women and girls are easy to exploit, for they will say nothing of the rapes and tortures.

But all men that buy women and girls to get an orgasm know they have permission to rape and torture.

They just choose if they want to be gentle, pretend it is a “girlfriend” exchange or act decent.

I was used as an under-aged prostitute by men 20, 30, 40 years older than me.

By using a prostituted girl, they could lie to themselves it was not child rape.

Did I not take the money, drinks or bed that was the exchange.

Most of those men were using under-aged prostitutes because they were easy to manipulate.

I was normally underpaid than, for me I thought £5 was ok. Often I was paid nothing, just given drinks or even sweets.

I had no idea that I could complain about the violence, so men could torture me and know I would be silent.

As I became an “adult” prostitute, there were so many men and I had become so dead inside, that only a few types stand out.

I was raped by old men. Men who appeared weak, and I thought could do me no real harm. Then when raping me, were so strong and torture me for many hours.

I was raped by “friends” who discover I was prostituted, and wanted it for free. Especially, when they found out I did not “mind” sadistic sex.

I was raped by men who thought they were being gentle. Men who imagine I was their girlfriend, that I would marry them.

I was raped in my flat. I was raped behind pubs. I was raped in clubs. I was raped on the street.

Only, it cannot be rape. It was just an exchange of goods.

It hard to write this.

I want that all men who think it is ok to buy women and girls to be judged.

I don’t care about their background. I don’t care if they are rich or poor. I don’t care if are locals or tourists.

Each man that pays money is paying into the sex trade that makes it ok to rape, tortures and even murder their product.

So I do hate all men that pay for sex.

Hell, they think all prostitutes are the same, and they judge all prostituted women and girls.

So I will condemn them.

New Laptop and Acupuncture

Posted on by rmott62

This post is written from a place of grief and choosing to live.

Recently I have been very scared. Scared because I am getting feelings.

Now, this is ridiculous, for it is the reason I chose to be a writer. It is the reason I made this blog.

I wanted to feel.

I wanted to be who I was meant to – not what I made by male violence.

But now I am terrified.

I am doing acupuncture, and it works.

Today I sob in in acupuncture. As I was told to keep breathing, I was shaking all over. I was in pain, but I let myself cry.

I let myself be vulnerable.

That is what was stolen from, the space to be vulnerable.

As a child, I learnt not to cry if I had an injury.

I showed no weakness when first raped, I just tidied the mess away.

I could not have fear, when my stepdad was going nowhere.

I was not vulnerable. I was tough.

I was tough seeing porn.

I refuse in the pain eating my stomach away.

I was tough enough to look without moving.

I would say it stop sleep, it stop me from wanting to have thoughts.

That was being too vulnerable.

And how the hell can I be vulnerable when prostituted.

I would not show fear, it give the men too much pleasure. And did nothing to end the violence.

I had long forgotten how to cry, I was dead.

Being vulnerable then would of kill me.

Now I can cry. I cry and regain my stolen life.

This is a new laptop, coz my computer was dying.

I have lost my email addresses, so if you haven’t had an email off me, do email me on my other address, it is the same.

The Sun is Here

Posted on by rmott62

Today I did as little as I could, for I feel I am in a place of grief – and I am learning to be happy.

I usually watch sports at weekend, but only cricket, football and rugby, and that wasn’t on.

So I went to town, and people watched from 11.30 to 4. I wander round a bit, but I sat, eat and drunk. I was chilling.

I thought I was losing myself, so doing nothing was my way to give myself a break.

On Friday, when I wrote my last post, I thought I almost got to the point where I really wanted to hurt myself. I was very ill from menopause. I felt grief was suffocating me. I was boiling hot, and could not sleep.

I felt a massive frustration that however hard I work, I could not to go forward, I felt I struck inside PTSD.

On Friday, I went to my bathroom, and started to cut my arms.

Once I was cutting, everything begun to change.

I thought I wanted to cause damage, but instead I wanted to get back in control.

Instead of cutting to get injuries, I choose an old pen-knife that was blunt, when I have many sharp knives in the kitchen. I cut many times, but only had superficial scratches.

Instead I enjoy making criss-crosses on my arms, I did not need to give myself more pain. 

Then I wrote my last post.

I found that I don’t want to harm myself.

No, I want to grieve my past. I want to give myself some joy and comfort, to get the space to grieve.

Old Habits Die Very Hard

Posted on by rmott62

I building a life where I am breaking my habits of self-harming. It is damned hard, for I have lived a lifetime of damaging myself.

Now I need live and feel. I need to not run away from myself.

When I nine, I wanted to throw myself out of my bedroom.

What saddened me remembering that time, I remember the calmness of knowing there was no hope. I was so young, and I was nihilist.

For much of my life I thought my only friend was death.

I did not want to die. I wanted everything to stop.

Stop knowing my mother refuses to see me.

Stop the groping my stepdad whilst I was near him.

Stop images of porn entering my nightmares.

Stop the headaches and stomach aches that follow me everywhere.

I wanted to end my pain I could not understand.

I wanted peace.

I wanted to be left alone.

Self- harm was the only thing that was private to me.

I would cut myself in silence in my bedroom. I cut to see blood, seeing blood reminded me that I was still alive.

I was alive, but I felt nothing. 

As the male violence increased, my self-destruction increased.

Coming from an upper-middle it was easy to be an alcoholic. We had wine and spirits in easy supply.

I found drink made me not care. I found spirits would deadened pain.

I like to be drunk, for my stepdad drink very little. I thought my drunkenness would disgust him. It would make him stop.

He fuck me anyway.

I started drinking when was about 12. It soon became a habit.

When I was prostituted, I would drink most of the time.

I would drink to stop the pain. I would drink trying to make it appear to a date. I would drink to stop me sleeping.

In the reality, I would drink because I hated the world I was trapped in.

Men did not care I was a drunk, they would rape and torture me anyhow.

I turn to overdosing. I wanted to destroy myself.

All I did was to wreck my liver.

My self-harming was a screaming that there must be more to life than being living porn to men.

My self-harming was an anger. My self-harming was the tears I could not cry.

My self-harming was my fighting for life.

Now, I don’t live with male violence, now I want and need to break my habits of self-harming.

I drink rarely now, and I will drink slowly. I do not want to be teetotal, instead I want to drink to enjoy it, not to run away.

I stopped overdosing many years ago.

But there are other habits that harder to stop.

I still want to cut myself. I feel it when I feel my emotions going numb. I want to cut when I see too much of the sexual violence I was forced to live.

I never want to cause too much damage or to die.

I just want let go of my frustrations. I want to learn how to cry. I want to feel that I am alive.

Cutting myself is letting out a silent scream.

I cannot stop my old habits of wanting paid sex as my way to self-harm.

When my PTSD is very bad, this habit festers in my mind. It is a huge battle to not go back towards using sex to kill myself.

I feel I am winning the fight to not do paid sex, but it is very hard.

I am proud that I am winning that battle.

All I need to say is very scary.

On Writing

Posted on by rmott62

When my computer broke, I started to re-read Andrea Dworkin’s “Letters From a War Zone”. I don’t read non-fiction a lot, often only quite light stuff.

But I remember that Andrea Dworkin write about the process of writing, which I can connect to. I wish to quote from the Introduction and  “A Woman Writer and Pornography”.

INTRODUCTION

“She had tried to make understand that, for a writer, endurance mattered more than anything – not talent, not luck; endurance….

It is this indifference to pain – which is real – that enables one to keep going. One develops a warrior’s discipline or one stops. Pain becomes irrelevant. Being a writer isn’t easy or civilised…. It is primtive and it is passionate…. No society likes it and no society says thank you…. The society will mobilise to destroy the writer who opposes or threatens its favourite cruelties: in this case, the dominance of men over women…. Often, I think that courage is a kind of stupidity, an incapacity, a terrifying insensitivity to pain and fear. Writers need this kind of courage…. I think it is a partial death of the soul….

I wrote them because I care about fairness and justice for women. I wrote them because I believe in bearing witness and I have seen a lot. I wrote them because people are being hurt and the injury has to stop. I wrote them because I believe in writing, in its power to right wrongs, to change how people see and think, to change how and what people know, to change how and why people act. I wrote them out of conviction, Quaker in its origin, that one must speak truth to power…. I don’t why I believe these things; only that I do believe them and act on them.”

A WOMAN WRITER AND PORNOGRAPHY

“Writing is not a happy business.The writer lives and works in solitude, no matter how many people surround her. Her most intensely lived hours are spent with herself. The pleasures and pains of writing are talked around or about but not shared. Her friends do not know what she does or how she does it. Like everyone else, they see only the results. The problems of her work are unique…. No one knows where she is going until she herself has gotten there…. The work itself involves using the mind in an intense and punishing way. The solitude demanded by the work is extreme in and of itself.” 

MY THOUGHTS

I write about the pain of having survived. I write through my personal pain.

I numb my private pain in order to craft a language that can and will show and express some of my reality.

I numb what I know, say bits and pieces. Try to put in words, what will always be suffocated in silence.

Words for a child struck dumb. Words to say porn, when I want never to know that it exists. Words to speak of sexual tortures, when each word seems nowhere near who I was then.

But I choose to be a writer. I choose it as my form of activism.

I have been a Quaker, and deep in my heart I remain a Quaker. I will speak truth to power.

I speak of child abuse. I speak of the confusion of just wanting to be loved. I speak of the anger of having no control. I speak of fear of not knowing if it would ever end.

I speak to male power that says that no harm was done to that child. I speak to say it was rape of the body, it was rape of the mind. I speak to say we must to survive end all child sexual abuse – we must end all the excuses made to allow its existence.

I speak my truth on pornography. I say it stops women and girls believing in dreams, it stops their creative playful minds. I say that women and girls in pornography are getting real injuries, they are feeling real pain – it is not acting. I say porn is built on pushing women and girls towards death.

I speak to the powers behind porn. I say porn is a multi-billions dollars industry, and it does infect all aspects of women’s and girl’s lives. But there is weakness shown by this complete control that the sex trade needs to have over women’s and girl’s lives.

The weakness of the bully. Porn expects women to be destroyed and to not fight back. Women must fight porn, in small and large ways. I fight by writing. I show the gut horror of porn.

I know I say truth to power about porn, for I am ridiculed, I am told I am a liar. I know I going the right direction, when porn apologists use scare tactics about my words.

I do not let all the pain and guilt that is in me to prevent me writing. Rather in a foolish courageous way it makes me write more. 

I will speak through my silence my truth of being prostituted. This is a writing from a place of pain that numb to write. A place where fear lays in my stomach whether I write or not. So I write through it.

I say I thought I was naive to think I could have control in prostitution. Naive enough to believe i could leave whenever I like. I will say that naivety keep me safe from the reality from my life.

I refuse to acknowledge the constant mental, physical and sexual tortures. I refuse to say I was trapped.

My refusal to be real, meant I felt no pain, I could not grieve, I could not allow in fear.

I was a machine that men fucked. I had no thoughts. My dreams died whenever men used me and then throw me away.

Now, I speak to the power of prostitution. I say to men who feel it is their right to buy and own women and girls, you are buying into sexual slavery. You are paying for rape. Your money is eating away each woman or girl that you choose to fuck. It is slow suicide for many prostituted women and girls.

Is any orgasm worth that.

I say to see the sex trade for what it is. It is built on the tortured bodies of women and girls. The sex trade only cares about making a huge profit. It will used and discard the goods, women and girls. It will have more and more ways to entertain its customers. Usually by increasing the violence done to the women and girls and calling that “work”.

The sex trade is careless of its employees, careless if they are tortured, careless if they are murdered and could not care less about their mental welfare.

That is why I write. It is not happy. It is not easy.

It drained my completely.

But I hope the process does show too much.

I hope the results help encourage women to built a change.

Grief is Freeing Me

Posted on by rmott62

I have not been able to write for a few days. This partly because my computer broke, but mainly because I have hit the deepest grief of my life.

I am grieving and feeling all the memories I thought were destroyed.

I am feeling and grieving emotions I thought had been destroyed by the male violence I had to live with. 

I think and feel I coming into the life that I deserved. It is a beginning, but I think and feel something huge is happening to me.

But then again it may be my hormones, as I am getting menopause.

Grief is in every cell of my body. It is coming out as heat. It come through sweating.

I still have no tears.

Seeing me as a child, I grieve.

Grieve she forgot how to play.

Grieve that know fear so well that she moved on automatic.

Fear that she lost her virginity before she understood what that meant.

I let in that grief, I will not run away from it.

With grief, I can love who I was as a child.

She was trapped, and thought she was free.

I feel a raw and furious grief at being shown hard-core porn.

Grief that images and words taught that life was pain and often death.

Grief that those images burnt out my visual imagination.

Grief that I was so young, but could connect with dead eyes of the models.

I had no words for porn than. Now I fight it at the root with words. I say over and over what harm porn does.

I say that until porn is dead.

Grief give me the power to see how porn made lose hope of power.

Grief shows me by remembering the impact, I will fight porn. I will allow the pain in. I will allow the fury in.

And in calm written words I will not be afraid to say porn was made to destroy women’s dreams and hopes.  

Grief has shown what being prostituted felt to me.

Grief shows I was harmed. Grief said this is very personal. Whilst my personal is happening all the time to women and girls in most countries.

The violence I thought I was alone with, and could never say, for it would not be believe. That violence to common behaviour by too many male punters on far too many prostituted women and girls.

I was an sex object to be used and thrown away. That is normal for prostitution.

I was experimented on by how much sexual violence my body and mind could take. That is common in prostitution.

This must be grieve, There is anger. There is pain. There is confusion.

But grief is so important,

Grieve for each moment a man decide it is his right to pour pain and hate into a prostituted woman or girl.

Grieve that she cannot or has forgotten to react. Grieve that male violence has murdered her emotions.

Grieve that all this violence is happening as you read this post, and it is ignored.

Sadness is hitting my heart making writing very hard.

I recommend highly Littoral Mermaid’s latest post “This Needs to End Now”. It shows powerfully the harms of prostitution.

I will end this post with this.

Grief is scary.  It is about letting go of control.

But grief allows the soul to live. And it brings back the life that was close to destruction.

I Can’t Breathe Deep

Posted on by rmott62

I have lived with pain and grief for so long that it made that I cannot breathe deeply.

When I try to breathe deep it come back with pain.

When I try to breathe deep, fear attacks my heart.

When I try to breathe deep, my stomach is a well of grief.

I think I breathe shallow coz I don’t want to know my body is alive. I don’t mind my mind being alive.

But my body, that is where all the memories are stored.

These days, I feel grief is reaching to hear. It want to be seen.

My grief wants to scream. It want to shout. It want to whisper.

It does not want to be ignored any more.

I have felt grief all my life.

When I was a child, until I left home at 19, I would get the most horrific headaches.

Headaches of frustration that was nothing I could do or say to stop my stepdad abusing me.

Headaches as I know my mother was not going to rescue me, or even take that much notice of my pain.

Headaches as I wanted to scream and scream – Stop it now. Stop everything. I hate it.

I see my headaches, and feel grief grab me by my throat.

I want to heal my childhood. I want that none of the abuse, the pain, the confusion and the rejection to have happened.

But it did – and I cannot re-write history.

I don’t breathe deeply, for the pain of my lost childhood to bear.

It is too much to bear that I know porn.

I know it because I have drowned in seeing porn. Seeing porn is a suffocation and a poisoning.

I can’t breathe that in.

When I remember viewing porn, I remember wanting to die. I remember trying to stop breathing.

I thought just seeing those images would kill me.

For they killed my sense of hope. They killed my will to fight.

Breathing in porn was breathing in hate. Breathing in porn was transforming me into a sex-doll.

I could be nothing else.

Seeing porn and knowing my stepdad’s abuse made prostitution a logical “choice”.

I almost can’t breathe as that sentence shows I must grieve.

I must grieve that a young teenager, a child, can hate herself that much that prostitution appears a logical choice.

That is so wrong. That hurts so damned much.

I had been filled with so much abuse and hate, that I accepted the unacceptable.

I was accepting by ignoring my body.

As I was fucked over and over. As men made various ways to put terror in my body.

I would not allow myself to feel.

I would be the tough “whore” who won’t not care.

What the point of caring, when I no idea how to stop what was happening.

I must of been breathing when I raped. I must of breathed when I was beaten. 

I was breathing when I throwaway after they had done with me. 

But I don’t remember feeling alive, I imagined I survived by being dead.

Grief hits me so hard when I see that time.

A time I blanked out for over ten years, coz I could believe I still be alive after all the tortures my body had lived through.

I could not see how lost I was then. How I was so alone.

I could not let in that the men did raped me. I could not let in that they planned how to torture me. I could not let in they saw me as non-human – only a porn-doll they could damage. 

I could not see that I did prostitution as a form of suicide.

I could not say I deserved so much more.

Now grief comes into the top of my lungs, it grabs my throat. I terrified to breathe deep.

I am scared of crying, because I cannot get past stopping tears.

My grief is not tears. My grief does not sob.

My grief is in this writing of this blog. Each post carries my grief with pride.

My words say the past. Say it and allow grief to no longer hide.

Grief will make me whole, for I will not ignore who I was and how it made who I am now.

Grief is scary, but it gives me my life back.

Only Connect

Posted on by rmott62

I receive a moving and powerful comment from Terkbilebirkadin on my post “Embedded on My Body”. I quote:

“convinced are videos of women being raped, without even a thin pretense of ‘acting’…. worked as a webcam girl. I believe that is one of the new faces of child prostitution. The ex insisted that he can magically tell when the woman is or isn’t being raped…

he’d already turned our relationship into essentially sexual slavery for me, where I had no right to say no to him, even if I was rudely trying to sleep…. And the internet told him whenever that happens he’s entitled to some pretty young thing to tie up… and masturbate into whichever orifice he wants, regardless of the pain or psychological trauma it causes (oh right, there’s no consequences for women in porn, because you don’t see them, so therefore no consequences ever!…)”

It was such an honour to receive such a powerful comment.

It shows in plain words that you cannot disconnect sexual violence from porn which cannot be disconnected from prostitution.

There are strong connections and they known by survivors of the sex trade. More than known they are felt inside the bodies of survivors.

Than it becomes named PTSD or personality disorder.

Women have always known the damage that porn and or prostitution as it put in their bodies.

Women have spoke of pain, inability to forget, self-hate and wanting to hide the truth – in all times, in all places where porn and prostitution are accepted as the “normal” rights of men.

But the words of women who speak the truth of porn and prostitution has always been silence or ridiculed.

For porn and prostitution to survive, it must worship. It must be seen as a “free choice” for the women and girls working in it. It must seen as the ultimate sex liberation.

There is nothing new in those beliefs.

When the first man drew a cave drawing of rape. When the first man had sex in exchange of goods or coins.

That was porn and prostitution.

As long as men can keep women down through the use of porn and prostitution, it will continue.

Porn and prostitution are open about using violent sex to control women.

It will pretend it only a class of the “prostitute” that will be abused.

But it is an open threat to all women – stay in line, or you too will be raped.

After all, for too many men know that all women are just prostitutes really.

So when I hear or read that rape, porn and prostitution are separate issues, I want to scream.

Scream how do they think they get “actresses” to perform violent porn. Porn where the woman is raped until she is sick. Porn where none of her body is safe. Porn where she is beaten up.

Porn where the violent is beyond even my imagination.

Where do you think those women come from. Could it not be prostituted women, for it is acceptable to rape and rape a prostituted woman.

Most porn that is pushing the edges of violence and using girls will use prostitutes.

They are easier disposable. It is assumed that they have no family or friends, so who will care if they “disappear”.

The world of the sex trade is careless of it’s “employees”.

It lets them get beaten up. It lets them be raped. It is careless of their mental health.

And it does not care if the “clients” murdered the women or girls.

This comes from disconnecting the woman from the prostitute or porn actress.

If you refuse to see that many women and girls in the sex trade come from backgrounds that taught to hate themselves, then there can be no understanding of why it is abuse.

Then there can no harm.

To refuse to see the background of lifetimes of sexual violence in many women in the sex trade.

To refuse to see poverty as a force driving women and girls work that they hate and endangered them.

To refuse to see the racism of the sex trade constantly wanting the “exotic” to gain yet more money.

To refuse to see that many sexual acts done in porn and prostitution are just violence coming from hate of women.

To refuse to see how young the girls are in porn and prostitution. To lie that they looked 16, 18 or 21.

To refuse to see that the sex trade is multi-billions dollars business.

To refuse to see fear when women or girls are rape in porn videos.

To refuse to see the pain forced into prostituted women or girls. 

Refuse all that, then buy your slice of the sex trade. 

But the voices of survivors are getting louder and louder.

Their words of the pain forced into their bodies and minds.

They speak of the rapes. The beatings. The lack of freedom. The lack of a voice.

They are saying now, and they will ignore your refusal to see.

The sex trade is afraid of survivors, for it cannot control them

On Hiding

Posted on by rmott62

I have been reading Women’s Space, and found this amazing quote by Andrea Dworkin.

“I can hide my prostituting because I went to college and no one ever looks for a woman’s real life anyhow. I thought I was a real tough-ass and I was: tough-calloused; tough-numb; tough-desperate;tough-scared; tough-hungry; tough-beaten-by-men-often; tough-done-it-every-which-way-including-up …”

I read this several days ago, and it has allowed grief to enter my heart.

In Andrea Dworkin’s, I see how my soul was hidden when I was prostituted.

I hid in hardness. I hid in toughness. I hid hoping I would be invisible.

And as a prostituted woman and girl I was invisible. My reality could not exist.

I was brought up upper middle-class.
It was impossible that someone of my background could be prostituted.

That became my truth. I was not a prostitute.

I was just mad to imagine I could be one.

I hid all evidence of prostitution from my family . I hid it when I did volunteer work.

But mostly I hid it from myself.

I would see the money, and refuse to connect. I would see injuries on my body and refuse to connect. I would know I had been with loads of men, and refuse to connect.

I could not be what I was.

So I fall into living with toughness.

I got tough-drunk. As it made me stay awake without thinking. It dampen some of the pain when I too often had violent sex.

I was tough-thin as I refuse to eat healthy food. I would eat as little as I could, usually just grazing. I could not eat with the constant sickness in my stomach. I would never eat in front of men.

I was a tough-liar. I lied that it did not hurt. I lied that I cared about some of the men. I lied to myself that I could stop it any time. I lied that it was unimportant.

I was tough-I-do-rough-sex. I know nothing else. I did not know I could say “no” and be heard.

I was tough-I-am-your-porn-doll. I went silent as my limbs were posed like a photo from “Hustler”. I went silent as men spoke over me, what to do to me. I went silent when photos were taken as souvenirs. 

I was tough-can’t-remember-won’t-remember. I refused to know what was done to me. I refused to remember how I got injuries. I refused to say how I got pregnant.  I refused to be what I was.

Now I say it loud.

I was prostituted. I was beaten up . I was raped. I was forced to play porn games. I was brought close to death.

That reality is mine.

But worst than that that reality is the lives of the majority of prostituted women and girls. To quote Andrea Dworkin –

“It is the bottom. Prostituted women are the bottom…. prostitution comes from male dominance, not from female nature.”

By viewing all prostituted women and girls as the “lowest of the low”, men can hide the rapes . the beatings and the murders.

It is hidden in no “real” harm done. It is hidden in rough sex gone wrong. It is hidden that is what she wanted, so I had no choice.

And it is hidden that I paid for that prostitute, so I can do what the hell I like.

No wonder that most prostituted women and girls hide the violence they have to live through. For who will would care enough to make real changes.

I hope by speaking out. By not hiding, I will lose most of my toughness.

This post is quite rambling, but this is a very deep place for me.