Monthly Archives: November 2008

Some Kind of Bargain

Posted on by rmott62

I am writing to say why I feel very strongly that the slogan “Women are not for Sale” reflects my views as an exited prostitute.

I have told many times it is an insulting comment, for it implies that prostituted do not own their bodies. That they just become property to be sold, hired or rented out.

Well hell, that is the bitter truth for millions of women and girls in the world.

Of course, I know that there is a tiny minority of women who choose and are happy being a sex worker. I just wish they would realise they are a minority, and not put their pleasure above the suffering of the vast majority of prosecuted women and girls.

Being prostituted means losing ownership of your body, often losing ownership of your personality, losing ownership of your own safety, losing ownership of the right to dignity.

All these belong to the john, belong to the manager/pimp – and it their choose when the individual prostituted woman or girl is safe, treated with “respect”, whether she receives decent pay.

The vast majority of prostituted women and girls have no say in what sexual acts are done to them. Even when it is said before what sexual acts are acceptable, many johns feel they have the right to “break the rules”, for they have brought the goods so they will do whatever they want. Many managers/pimps “encourage” the prostituted woman and girl to do sexual acts that are dangerous, or what she has refused to do, for more money and to fulfil the john’s porn fantasies.

Where does the prostituted woman and girl own her body in that situation. Imagine that is you, and say you still own your body. Tell me you are not blanking it all out just to survive the pain and degradation.

I remember when I “work” in a club, when I was pretty much cut off from the “real world”. One early evening I heard noises outside.

It was a small Reclaim the Night march. They stop outside the club, protesting that it was violence to women.

At first, it was very confusing to me. After all, the sex trade teaches you that no-one cares about the violence – that it is not really violence, for don’t you want it.

How can it be rape, when you are pay, when you go with the man/men. How can it be battering when you never think of reporting it, when you were smiling as it happened.

If it was violence, it was not as important as “real” rape or domestic violence.

Hearing that group of women protesting that it did matter what happened to women and girls in sex clubs was surreal.

But it planted a seed of hope into my heart. That seed was my resistance.

I slowly grow to know I did not choose to be prostituted.

I grow to know I did not want endless men fucking into me without seeing that I existed.

I grow to know I would not survive forever the sadistic beatings and sexual tortures.

And I grow to know that if I was to survive I had to find my true essence, and no longer just be the property of the men that brought or sold me.

I was for sale, I was goods. Deal with it.

Of course, I am just one voice, but I do believe many women who were prostituted, hate that all they were were goods.

They hate that their humanity was stolen from them. They hate that it the men’s choice whether they were raped, sexually tortured, beaten up or murdered.

They had no autonomy, just the hope that the man is “decent”.

To see that prostituted women and girls are for sale, means seeing with a clear eye there is a buyer.

But we must protect the john’s rights whatever the consequences. After it so vital that men must have access to sex at every opportunity.

I suppose their dicks would fall off if they don’t get regular sex.

So society must provide the men with a class of women and girls to do whatever sexual acts they want. Especially sexual acts that are considered violent or too extreme to be done to “decent” women and girls.

What does it matter if the prostituted woman or girl is terrified, in agony, cannot escape, is suicidal or is murdered. All that matters is that men have a constant supply of women and girls to act porn fantasies.

Anyhow, as it is said over and over women and girls choose to be prostituted, that it their way to get kicks.

So, I will yell “Women are not for Sale”, for I will not be brought.

Personal Testimonies

Posted on by rmott62

I was saddened when Studs Terkel died this month. I had great admiration for his recording of the personal testimonies of people who are normally overlooked. He left a record of the day-to-day life for many in Chicago which said far more than a “factual”  book could.

I love history, I also love reading fiction. I do not think that they that far apart from each other.

If history claims to be “true”, it must always be remembered it just a matter of opinion. Most history is written by those in power, those who have access to writing, or access to being heard. Even social or left-wing history is highly biased.

Many voices are not recorded. Many voices vanished.

Fiction is the same as history that is shows few voices, but at least it does not pretend to be the “truth”.  I personally find fiction can help me understand some aspects of how humans interact with each other. Powerful fiction can show inner thoughts.

I feel personal testimonies are a powerful tool to understand our times, and can with care and the ability to listen without speaking over give a voice to those who usually silenced.

I am very sceptical about “facts”, for most research is made to fit in with a pre-formed idea.

This is very true with facts about the sex trade. A “fact” will be put forward, and then the opposite “fact” is made. Both will believed with great passion. Often both can “true” and “false” at the same time.

But it just a matter of opinion what is believed. That opinion is made of your background, experiences, who you go round with, what media is part of your life, politics, beliefs and on and on.

If someone said to “this is a fact” or ” this is the truth”, I become sceptical very quickly.

Personal testimonies make no claim to be factual.

They say how it is be who they are. If they are speaking of oppression, they want to say how it to lose hope, how it is to live in torture, how it is to resist even by silent means.

I have tracing my American family, I found a noble history of my family joining struggles for the voiceless.

My family were very privileged, and highly aware of that. Many of my family due to their privileged it their duty fight for civil rights for all. They were not radical, their philosophy was liberal Christianity. But I am very proud of them.

During the so-called “Indians wars”, one of my relative was a general who wrote hundreds of letters to the Senate about the cruelty of the soldiers and settlers to the native Americans. He was a man of his time, but he wrote some very outspoken words on how brutal and “evil” Europeans were.

His letters are in the Smithsonian, and are a record that there some protest even in the army about the genocide.

My grandmother was involved in the civil rights movement from the 1920’s until she was too ill in 1980’s. In the 50’s she was on marches, helping with voting registration, encouraging women of her class to care at least.

She was very silent about that time, but as I read her writing I finding out more and more her firm belief that she wanted her America not to be tainted with vicious racism.

When she was 18, she witness a lynching of a black man, after coming out of a party drunk. This affected her whole life. She taught all her children and grandchildren of that act of hate.

Her personal testimony made me know the cruelty of that moment. It made me and many of my family know that fighting for dignity, safety, and equality for all humans is vital.

To fight against human cruelty in all it’s form is the only way to bring that about.

My grandmother was prosecuted during the McCarthy years, she had close friends that committed suicide. It was then she took up living in England.

My uncle was highly involved in the civil rights movement and anti-Vietnam campaigning. Now even though he very unwell, he is in Amnesty International.

In my generation, I have cousins who worked with children who abused, prostituted and generally thrown away by society teenagers.

My family often wrote personal testimonies of those who could not write or felt their opinions did not matter.

In the 1860’s they wrote down some of the words of slaves for the anti-slavery campaign.

As I said they felt it was their duty.

So, when I write my personal testimony I feel rooted to the good part of my family.

I write what I know in my body and mind. I make no claims to be “factual”, but I say I know what it feel to be tortured. I know what feel to made nothing.

I say I know my experiences can and does connect with a great many girls and women. I know my experiences were and are very common.

I like most who give out personal testimonies can do nothing to repair the damage done to me. I choose to speak as a way of preventing such torturing happening to more women and girls.

If someone chooses to disbelieve my words, I can nothing to change their opinion. For I sure they will have many “facts” to show why it is untrue or just a one-off case.

But in the 1860’s many disbelieved the testimonies of slaves, many disbelieved testimonies of the cruelty of the Apartheid system.

All the oppressed can say is what they know, they cannot control how they are heard.

Giving Thanks

Posted on by rmott62

As I am quarter American, I thought I would give some thanks on Thanksgiving Day.

I give thanks that I manage to stay alive after so much male violence in my life.

I give thanks for my friendship with my Dad.

I give thanks that my life now is stable and safe.

I give thanks that I can craft my writing.

I give thanks that my words have some power, and give courage for a change.

I give thanks for my acupuncturist.

I give thanks to Rape Crisis.

I give thanks to my feminist friends.

I give thanks to Sky TV for films, sports and dramas.

I give thanks for digital radio.

I give thanks for all the music that helps me write through my darkness.

I give thanks to all my friends who know the realities of male violence.

I thank myself for never giving in or giving up.

Just a Few Words

Posted on by rmott62

I have said elsewhere in my blog that I believe in the abolition of prostitution. I would see as a step-by-step process, but I see no need for any man to pay for sex.

The most important thing is the safety and dignity of prostituted women and girls, not whether a man can have readily available fuck-objects.

I am sick of being told about the women who are happy being paid for sex.

Of course I know they exist, but they are a very tiny minority.

Also their happiness is built on an industry that is prepared to torture, mentally abused, rape, batter, murder millions of women and girls because they are framed as “wanting it”.

Oppression that appears endless is very hard to resist. It is simpler to adjust to it in order to survive.

I adjusted to prostitution by learning to be “happy”, learning to perform as if it did not matter.

I adjusted by losing my self.

I understand thinking there nothing wrong with prostitution. I understand blocking the ugly side, and thinking that I had power, that the money was good, that maybe I would men that respected me.

I would of not survived if I had known my reality.

How can one mind cope with all power was taken away from me. That my opinions, my life outside of prostitution, my hopes, my essence was of no importance

How could I know I could stop the violence. I said no so often, but that word had no relevance. I fought them off, and it seen as funny.

How could I know I was not seen as a human, just a replay of the porn in their heads. How could I see they only saw me as targets to be fucked.

Where the hell is the dignity in that.

But I would say I defenced being prostituted then. It was my choice, only prudes were against it.

As for radical feminist making me against prostitution, that is the most patronising nonsense. Although I respect radical feminists coz they seemed the only group to be prepare to see abolition as an aim, not just tinkering at the edges.  

I was made against prostitution because of my life in it. As I saw who I had become, I choose to resist without reading or meeting any radical feminist.

It was my mind and fierce will to survive that made me hate that men feel entitlement to rape, batter, verbally abused, sexually torture and murder women and girls just because they labelled as prostitutes.

My anger from friends I know. My friend who committed suicide after one too many sadistic john. A friend traumatise after doing three years of “safe” high-class escorting.  A friend had enough of men throwing her out of moving cars coz they were too cheap to pay.

My anger is from every rape I lived through. Every time I had yet more sadistic sex forced into my body. Every time I had to smile when in terror and/or agony. Every time I fake orgasm hoping then the john would stop.

I don’t need to read Andrea Dworkin to be angry. I don’t need to read Melissa Farley to know PTSD.

After all it is embedded in my body.

But it is nice to have a language that expresses what is already there.

So, I will a small part of the fight for abolition.

For I believe prostitution is a massive abuse of the prostituted women’s and girl’s human rights to safety and dignity.

I say to the few women that “enjoy” being prostituted, your enjoyment is on the bodies on many tortured women and girls.

I really don’t care what you do in your private lives. But do not part of an industry that is giving men’s permission to treat prostituted women and girls as sub-humans.

Prostitution make it fortune by giving men permission to hate and degrade women and girls.

Of course there will “nice” johns and women who have chosen. But in the end, they are being used by the sex industry to say there is no real harm in prostitution – only women and girls who made bad choices.

Only it seems to me round of 98% of women and girls are unlucky in prostitution.

I put women and girls who are torture, raped, battered and murdered before the “happy hooker”.

Arsenal FC

Posted on by rmott62

Because I feel mentally drained, I thought I would write of one of my lifetime loves – the football team Arsenal.

I write this because my following of the Gunners made part of a community, give me an interest in social and local history, allow me to have tears, made me laugh, took me away from my abuse.

Arsenal was one reason I did not die. After all, I always needed to know what would happen each season.

My first awareness of Arsenal was at primary school. I join in with the group with Arsenal scarfs. We were proud to be from North London. we bonded by hating Chelsea and Tottenham, and always Man. United.

As we formed hap-hazard teams, we did not speak many words, but we separated ourselves from the rest of the school. We made a gang, and hid all our pain and confusion.

In our silence, we would play out, not going home – not speaking of why we did not go home. With each kick, each yell of tactics – we were cursing our lives.

We were lost in the everyday existence – but in football we found a home.

After my Dad left I went to Arsenal with him. I got so close to him then.

At the matches, I could scream, I could swear, I would eat trash food, I would hug strangers without fear, I could sing without crictism.

It was a world where I could belong and be invisible at the same time.

Dad shown me the Arsenal museum, which feed my love of social history.

I love the changes of how supporters support, the changes in clothes, the changes in rules. All change, but the basic of football remain the same.

I felt safe in that.

With my Dad, I got autographs of my heroes. He brought me posters, signed footballs, scarfs. My Dad allow to have a passion.

But always going home to my Mum and stepdad, and they hated my love of football.

They hated I had an existence outside of them.

They would watch films when I wanted Match of the Day, they took down my posters, they went on and on that “girls don’t watch football”.

They wanted to murder my passion, hoping to destroy my essence.

But I was very stubborn, the more they hate football the more I loved it.

Why should I care, when loving Arsenal give me a family outside of their hate.

I know they were just jealous.

As my life disappeared more and more into male violence, most of my passion and essence disappeared.

But never my love of Arsenal.

I don’t how, but I follow the players, know where Arsenal was in the table, notice the change of managers, keep up with the gossip.

My world was closing down. Somehow Arsenal give me a reason to want to live, even just to know they had beaten Tottenham.

As I was prostituted, as I was raped over and over, as men brought onto the edge of death – I let myself be distracted by replaying Arsenal games.

It became my secret strength.

I would say that Arsenal give me the will to save my own life.

Now, I watch as much football as I want.

Now, I laugh that girls don’t like or understand football. I mainly keep silent as others, often out of snobbery and ignorance, say such utter rubbish.

I laugh as I hear only “stupid” people follow football. When football give me an interest in history, in other cultures, how people inter-react with each other, how government manipulate popular culture, how strangers can be a community – and of course, the outside rule.

Football feed my love of the arts. I read novels going into footballer’s psyche, especially my favourite “The Loneliness of the Goalkeeper”. I love football photography.

But more, beautiful football is a form of art. It can as beautiful as dance. It also has aggression, it is delicate.

I was brought up with ballet, and could watch football with same eyes.

So I end by thanking Arsenal for allowing me save my essence.

So, Prostitution Just a Service

Posted on by rmott62

I found it very triggering when I went to London RTN, and found a pro-prostitution lobby on the march.

It was hard to see calmly after many years of male violence enacted on my body in the name of prostitution.

Maybe if I had named myself as a “sex worker” I would of not only be safe and I would of felt empowered.

Then I would of given out my body as a service to men. In that universe, none of the men would of been violent. I would only done sexual acts that made me happy. Everything would of been hunky-dory.

If you choose to view prostitution and working in the sex trade as a service, try to think more carefully about what is be offered.

Look at the word “service” and who is being provided with that service.

When it is said that prostitution is just a service, it is about providing with a live object for men to masturbate into. Lap-dancing is a service providing live porn with added extras. Porn “actresses” show women as holes and hands for men to wank into.

These are just a few services that the sex trade can provide men with.

The goods being offered may be live women and girls, but it is better when they forget that.

To be make a good service, it is better if the woman or girl is dead inside.

Then she will smile and fake orgasms even when in great pain. She will forget how to be terrified even when his actions are putting her on the edge of death.

Being dead inside, she will never complain about the conditions she has to work in.

But if there is a complaint, is it heard or taken seriously.

Many women in the sex trade are punished for not smiling, not performing in a perfect manner, not sucking up to their manager/pimp.

They may be beaten up, they may be gang-raped, they may be murdered.

That how many “bosses” in the sex trade deal with women’s “complaints”

And not performing right for the john can be very foolish.

It can literally be a life and death situation.

Many johns are sadistic and would think twice about beating up a woman for not providing the service with a smile and an orgasm. Johns need no excuse to strangle, rape in places the prostituted woman has said no to, to gang-rape, to force her unconscious.

Do you think those types of men give a damn if she is in agony, if she is degraded, or even she was to die.

It just is a cheap trick.

When anyone defence prostitution as a service, they are defencing men’s right to treat a whole class of women and girls to treated as a dustbin for their pure hatred of all women and girls.

So, if say that it is say it just a service – then don’t have the nerve to call yourself a feminist.

Reclaim the Night

Posted on by rmott62

Even though I am not quite sure if I the physical strength, I am going to London RTN.

I am doing because it means a lot to me.

I march for freedom of movement of all women and girls. Freedom from male violence and hate in all it’s forms.

Of course, in my heart I march and remember my friends that died from male violence.

I march holding in my heart all prostituted women and girls that now being tortured just so men can fulfil their porn fantasies.

I march knowing women are being date-raped by men who assume it is no crime.

I march for all the girls struck inside their homes with a relative who rapes them over and over.

I march to stop the fear of walking home alone.

I march for all women in the sex trade who may fear rape or battering.

RTN for me is more about the common everyday violence that goes on in homes, sex clubs, friend’s places, brothels, massage parlours, inside families.

RTN is not just about reclaiming the streets, but making women and girls have safe private spaces.

Although I scared about my PTSD, I will go on RTN with anger and grief.

I hope it will give me back my strength.

Words Are Chocking Me Up

Posted on by rmott62

THIS IS TRIGGERING

I think I will try in some words that come from the place of me that are wordless.

How can I describe torture when all I have is the screaming in every cell in my body. How do I describe the pain when sickness suffocates me.

When I remember my legs ache with the memory that I could never escape.

My stomach carries the sickness of having poisonous hate poured into me.

My chest stops wanting to breathe as it was squashed from far too many men raping me.

My anus is in agony as it knows the vicious raping it went through over and over.

My vagina wants to hides not to know it treated as dirt.

My head aches with knowing far too much.

And my throat is chocking as it had penises, fists and objects forced into it.

How do I say the torturing.

Being laid out like an autopsy, every limb posed like a porn photo-shoot.

How objects went all my holes, even those I had forgotten existed.

How penises rammed me until I forgot how to breathe.

How hands fisted, ripped, torn at, hit and strangled.

How teeth ripped at my vagina.

How feet kicked at my stomach and head.

Hell, that was prostitution for me.

It me give the gift of trauma.

And I am meant to grateful that I survived.

Just Don’t Know What To Do

Posted on by rmott62

I cannot do this all any more. I am at the end of my tether.

What the hell is the point of life when it is endless pain.

However much I do to go forward, my past continues to destroy me.

I may of lost a very close friend, coz from the depths of my trauma I said something very hurtful and offensive to her.

What is wrong is that PTSD is that I cannot remember how and why I said it. I believe that I did, I feel fully responsible for my bad behaviour.

PTSD is no excuse.

But it is so rare that I connect, or even let friendship into my life.

This woman is someone I could connect with, where I could lose being a role.

I said much of my truth to her.

Now the hurting part of me yet again sabotages my striving to happiness.

It makes me hate myself.

It seem the more I say the truth of being prostituted, the more I put up barriers.

I am so scared now.

My Body is Screaming

Posted on by rmott62

I am in agony, like every cell of my body is knowing and remembering my own reality.

I have written for years, I have spoke for years, but often with detachment.

I see my life, but mostly I am not part of it.

Now as my anus screams in agony. Now as I sick in the bathroom. Now as headaches don’t go with any painkillers.

Now I know that I was tortured.

I have written and said I was tortured many times in many places. But always it was just a fact to be tidied away.

Now, as I write I was tortured an overwhelming grief is squeezing my chest. There is is sick in my throat. My vagina and anus are in agony.

I was tortured.

A close friend of mine said that PTSD is like being re-tortured again.

All the pain that was blocked out. All the anger that was pushed away. All the terror that had no place to go.

That is all there as PTSD takes over the body.

I know in every cell that men used my body to beyond it’s limits.

I cried as I write that.

I do not know how I am alive. I do not know why my friends died or disappeared.

I see and feel that men experimented with my body for their porn kicks.

You don’t anally someone against a wall, holding their legs – without knowing they are in agony. You do force penises, fists or objects down the throat without knowing they are terrified. You do smashed them into walls without knowing that is violence.

But when done to a prostituted woman it is not made to not matter.

I cannot live with all that poison in my body.

I will find some path out, but after 21 years of male violence being forced into me, it is a scary and painful road out.