Monthly Archives: May 2009

Things are a Little Better

Posted on by rmott62

Yesterday, I made myself better by watching sports all day.

Yes, I know it was sunny, but being with my TV is what I needed.

I let my mind switch down.

The pain did not go. The grief did not go. The anger did not go.

But I let myself not care about others.

I let myself be a wreck. I let myself mourn and mourn.

My Dad is gone.

He may be  in my body. I may dream of him. I remember so much that is good and bad about him.

But he is dead – he is not at the end of the phone, he will not walk into the room again, I will tell bad jokes with him again.

My Dad is gone.

I mourn and I mourn.

I cannot ever get rid of the poison that men put into my body.

When some idiot said that women who had sex with and decided later they were lesbians – that they were “contaminated” – I die inside.

I was contaminated, poisoned and polluted by penises beyond what my mind can count.

That sickness is in my body all the time, but I hope it does not show.

I have slept with women, always with the fear that they find me out as a non-lesbian, a traitor.

That is why although I may well be a lesbian, I am still terrified to own that label.

Coz men have conquered me in the past, I still feel I have betrayed women.

That is a grief I have no idea what to do with.

So I mourn and mourn.

This is a short piece coz I am exhausted, and want to watch more sports.

Tonight I going some women stand-up comedians, I hope I can regain my laughter.

Sure, I am Depressed

Posted on by rmott62

I am depressed.

Depressed that I am finally feeling my Dad’s death as a reality.

Depressed that still I deadened my emotions, still when pain want to go back into being a robot.

Depressed that there so little understanding of how I had adapt to survive most of my life.

Depressed that I find to heard I often have to fit other’s fixed view of who I am.

Depressed that to be included I have pretend I don’t like things that I love.

Depressed that I still feel the sexual torturing in my body.

Depressed that everywhere the sex trade is glamourise.

Depressed that PTSD is made invisible.

Depressed that I am depressed.

I have fucking come close to the point of no return.

Hello is Anyone Out There

Posted on by rmott62

This something I write with deep shame.

But has what I written this week push my readers away. If not, please could I have some support.

I am going through a very hard time since I heard about my stepmum’s illness.

I need to know that my recent anger has scared you lot away.

I need support because my grief for my Dad is so raw. I miss him so much.

I miss him on Sunday afternoon when we chatted on the phone. I miss him when I see paintings he loved. I miss him as be-bop comes on the radio.

I miss as reviews of novel are in the papers. I miss him when I watch football or cricket. I miss when Cornwall is mentioned.

He was my Dad. He was my best friend. He one of the few men in my life.

My emotions are so raw.

I have an anger that is drowning me.

Anger that I feel I am only listen if I fit the preconceived idea of the exited prostituted woman.

Anger that I cannot make the serious changes I want – and it may not happened in my lifetime.

Anger that every label I try to wear, does something to let the fight against the sex trade.

Anger as I wonder if in the end it is only prostituted women and girls who will allow in that their lives are complicated.

Anger that most still see prostituted women and girls as non-humans.

Grief brings my anger to a rawness that makes lose support. Lose support when I need it the most.

Otherwise I will fall into the isolation that was the majority of my life.

The Other Side

Posted on by rmott62

Although I would think that at least 90% of the sex that was put into me was bad sex there was more.

I know bad sex for what it is, because I have known and absorbed good sex.

Good sex is part of my being, it is very quiet – but it is there.

Knowing I give and receive sex that give me back some of my body, has made regain some self-pride.

It is very rare that it happens for usually sex for me is just an act where I am not really there.

The reason I choose celibacy at the moment, is because I don’t want to be detached with someone that I have respect for.

For me good sex break my barriers down, making me feel that I may belong inside my body.

Prostitution stole that from me.

I hate that when I feel sexual, I can feel my body detaching from my mind. I become a performer so smoothly.

I cannot do that any more. I deserve far more than that.

I want sex that pushes the ice out of my body.

I don’t want the woman who may have sex with me to treat me as I am made of china.

I will not break if there force done with love.

I need to be out my body in order to find it again.

In prostitution I may of been detached, but my body was an leaden weight I could never leave.

I want to stop performing. I want the shock of a real orgasm.

I need my body back.

Hell, I want to be loud. I want hold too tightly.

I want to stop being aware of the environment I am in, and lose myself for a short period.

Good sex is not a given. I would say only two men and three women have given me good sex.

Most sex is just tedious – but in my life I have too much of torture being re-named as sex.

I believe that one day I will good sex again.

But after all the boring and horrific sex my body has been put through, I have decided to be damned fussy.

I do not need sex, so if I have it better be strong enough to break down my barriers.

This Year is Pushing to the My Limit

Posted on by rmott62

Hearing about my stepmum’s illness seems to have made me break this week.

Many things I think and feel about prostitution, that I keep to the back of my mind in fear I will offend, have comes to the surface. I will write on some of it, coz I deeply scared I am losing my mind.

I find it interesting that as an exited prostituted woman, if I speak of the horror, it read and listen – but when I try to speak or write that it more complex than that, it often go down like a lead balloon.

But for many exited prostituted women they were in the sex trade long-term, therefore in order to adapt there was both good and bad times.

But always remember when I say “good times” it from the point of view that the prostituted has no freedom, no rights and no words for her existence – so good times are relative.

I was in and out of prostitution for round about 12 years. There is no way I would of survive if it was vicious raping all the time.

There were occasional times when the sexual acts were ok, even on rare occasions I can say now I am free, I could “enjoy”.

There were occasions where johns show some respect, and even noticed that I was a human being.

This must be said.

It does nothing to stop my deep passion that I want prostitution abolished. In many ways, it makes me feel that passion deeper.

For those men still owned me. Those men could switch into violence at any time.

Those men still held my life in their hands.

And no man who truly respect women would buy or sell them just for his sexual kicks.

But if exited prostituted women are to included in the struggle to end the sex trade – the whole of realities must be heard.

For the sex trade can and does divide prostituted women by brainwashing them it not that harmful, and if it is bad it’s the fault of the individual woman.

I feel if exited prostituted women are time and space to express the whole of their realities is may help get rid of the brainwashing from the sex trade.

But all too often when exited women try to say their truth, if they do fit the listener’s/reader’s stereotype, they are spoken or told what they really might to say.

This is ignorant and very patronising.

I also find it interesting that if non-prostituted women speak out against the sex trade, especially women in academia – suddenly shock horror it a bad thing.

But the words of academia are safe wrapped up in statistics, surrounded by footnotes – and if it gets too messy the academic crowd can move to another subject.

I suppose I must be bitter coz I was brought up in Cambridge, so I have see how academic will pick on social issues and move on, leaving the people who have to live it still in a mess.

Sometimes they are cruel for they give the people a glimpse of hope, and then they bugger off to their comfortable lives.

I hope academia doesn’t do this to prostituted women and girls, but allow my heart to be cynical.

But what is so hard is the words of centuries of prostituted women is not heard or just placed into footnotes.

Everything that academia is saying is wrong with prostitution has been expressed by prostituted women as long as they have access to try to communicate their realities.

It is in the graffiti left at archaeological sites where there were brothels. It is in letters exchanged. It is coded in novels. It is in songs and dance.

And it is written as plain politics as prostituted women formed groups to support each other.

In my life,  I have seen and read powerful attacks on the sex trade by exited prostituted women going back to the 1970’s.

They words are very clear-thinking, very upfront about why the destruction of the sex trade is vitally important for full women’s liberation.

But their words are made to disappear.

Andrea Dworkin has somehow been allow to survive – but many exited prostituted women and their groups have been disappeared.

Maybe their language is too visceral to be heard. Maybe it show complexities when others would rather it was simple.

But academia parrot out the words of these lost women, and it is suddenly an issue.

I said I was angry. This is a rant, coz I want the words of prostituted women to be taken more seriously.

Didn’t Reinvent the Wheel

Posted on by rmott62

One of the many things about the sex trade that makes me angry is how the constantly saying what they do is new.

That is complete and sickening rubbish.

There is no new porn. There is no new form of prostitution.

Torture is not new. Mental abuse is not new. Rape is not new. Murder is not new.

The only thing that could be called new is the endless changes in technology, and how the sex trade uses that to it’s advantage.

But I would say the first caveman who pass stones to rape a woman “invented” prostitution. The first caveman to draw a raping “invented” porn.

All new porn is just old porn. As all rapes become the same. As all abuse of prostituted women and girls is old.

After all, there is only a limited amount of way to destroy women and girls sexually, physically and mentally.

Men have always penetrated in every hole. Men have alway use double-penetration, use anal to mouth raping, done anal sex till near death.

Men have always had a group of women and girls that they choose to label as “whores” so they do as much violent sex as their imagined.

If you think modern porn and prostitution have a look at history.

Look at the violent porn that popular in ancient Rome and Athens. Look and see how they built massive industries on degrading prostituted women and girls.

It is easy to romanticise that time for we have records from the men who used that sex trade. We have no records of the women and girls in the sex trade.

So it is easy to place porn fantasy onto that time, imagine the women and girl then felt no pain, were liberated by their “job”, were just very randy.

After that is what men have told us – so it must be true.

No thinking maybe the sex trade was just plain old slavery. That it was degrading and highly dangerous for the women and girls.

But why should we care, it so long ago.

Hell I bloody care coz the way those women and girls were treated is still happening today.

There is nothing new in the sex trade.

There is nothing with the sex trade having artificial differences between the courtesan/high-class escort and the street prostitute.

There has always been an artificial division between indoors and outdoors prostitution. Between doing prostitution and doing porn.

The sex trade has always encouraged these divisions, making small elites in it’s oppressive system to prevent the women and girls seeing the reality.

If the sex trade can get women who are in or exited fighting amongst themselves, then it has won a war.

That why the myth of the courtesan is promoted for centuries in all cultures that gained from prostitution.

To promote the concept of the prostituted women who is in control, will be rich, is beautiful, highly educated and with a high sex drive, that is a wonderful recruitment poster for the sex trade.

She is everywhere in history. There in ancient Japan, ancient Rome and ancient China. There for knights to kill dragons for in the Middle Ages. There to welcome royalty after the English Civil. There romping through Georgian times. There in the Belle Epoch.

Whenever men want to say prostitution is not that bad, they reel off the history of the courtesan – as if it was believable proof.

But were not many of these courtesans thrown away and discarded when men decided that they were no good for orgasms any more.

I cannot believe that many did not have violence on their body and minds as the men who fuck them remember that they were just whores.

I am sure there were murders of these courtesans as unwanted goods.

After all I know that today high-class escorts are beaten up, raped and murdered, and that cannot be new.

But the myth of the courtesan is to imagine that prostitution can be made safe by having artificial concept that some men may respect the prostitute.

What is not new is when a man chooses to own a prostitute, whether a street prostitute or courtesan – he chooses how he will treat her.

So if the prostitute is placed on a pedestal, is allow to have a mind, is shown off to others, is made to think she is safe – it is because the man who owns her chooses to keep her that way.

If the prostitute is raped by many men, is beaten up for thinking outside of his words, is made to forget she has any existence – that too is the choices of the men that owned her.

That is not new, that was known by the first caveman who gained power through exchanging a woman or girls round for sex.

The degradation of women and girls goes back before we made any records.

We must struggle to end it.

Not say of it has always been there, as if that means anything.

Prostitution is not some natural phenomenon – it is an invention by men to have power and control over women and girls.

Like any invention it can be destroyed – if we only have the will to place the human rights and dignity of prostituted women and girls above the cruelty and greed of the sex trade.

Hell, it is for the future, and to repair some of the past.

Roles

Posted on by rmott62

All my life I have felt I had to be roles.

I forgot what my essence as I fitted in. Fitted in to be safe. Fitted in to some sense of my environment. Fitted in to fit in.

I lost my soul.

Now I write, I speak and I listen to get as much of my soul back.

It is the less I do to reward that I survived.

I was born the year the Beatles were first a hit in Britain. As I born there were changes all around.

I was born to make my parents better.

My first role before I could speak. A role I was guarantee to fail.

In that failure, I felt the seeds of detachment from my mother.

I try the clothes of being a daughter, but they would never fit.

I try being good, but being a child I would slip into naughtiness.

I was never quite right, but I keep practicing.

But when my stepdad enter my life, I had to learn the rules of being his sex toy damned quick.

I became that role. I swallow down my sickness. I learnt to push the sex away when it was not happening.

I learnt without lessons how to silent as he eat me out, silent as I had his penis in my hands.

I learnt without lessons to lay like a stature as he slowly rub in all.

I learnt without lessons to have expression as pain went through me as finger or hands were too deep in me.

I was the role of his sex toy, and toys make no sound and know no pain.

I became the role of the child who look straight into hard-porn and did nothing.

I did not flinch. I was not sick. I had no tears. I could not scream out my lungs.

I was the role of the dead as I know hard-core porn was my end.

So the role of the prostitute was the end of the training from the coldness of my mother, the rapes of my stepdad and the deadness of hard-core porn.

I had been trained to not complain. Trained to blank out pain. Trained to pleased men who went out of their way to torture me. Trained to forget I had an existence outside of sex.

I say all this coz, I so sick of all the excuses made for prostitution – mainly that it is a free choice.

I would in the role of the prostitute – it my choice to be there.

That is the words of my role.

I speak the words johns want to hear. I speak the words that managers have drip-feed into my brain.

But more I have say the words that fit the role I had become.

How could I be the role of the raped by so many men I don’t know how to count them.

How could I be the role of the battered, that goes so much I have no idea where the bleeding come from or why I am bruised.

How can I be the role of the woman who take morning-after pills like aspirin.

How can I be the role of the alcoholic who drink to not know there could be pain.

I cannot.

So I become the role of woman who just like violent anonymous sex.

I become the role of the rebel who does not need food or sleep.

I become the role of the bad that is why I am hurt so often.

I become the role of saying I must be happy because I have forgotten that I can say anything else.

Now, the pain of PTSD is breaking the roles I thought I was – and slowly and with a great deal of grief and pain finding my true essence.

Finding my self, is knowing I was made by others in order they could control me. Control me in order to make me a pliant sex toy.

A toy that was raped, mentally abused, brought close to death and made to believe it was all I deserved.

I see that now, and the clash of the old roles with my finding my essence make me sick to my core.

But it is so worth, for the role of my true self is where I go towards.

To find that, I have to know what I had to hide behind artificial roles. That is the only way forward.

My Stepmum

Posted on by rmott62

I have learnt that my stepmum’s stomach cancer is now inoperative.

She may only have a few week to live.

She has always been a good woman.

She is a Christian but one of the really good one.

I have never known her to be mean, or selfish ever. She just is good and brings out the good in others.

But she has had to live with pain from cancer. Both her husbands died. Her first husband in a RAF accident and my Dad this January.

But none of this made her bitter or depressed.

The only time I have known her to be depressed is since Dad died – but that is so understandable.

I very shaken up.

It is so relentless.

On My Music

Posted on by rmott62

I am writing this show my taste in music, and give you all some coded clues of part of who I sorted it out. So here my collection

B

Bach, Brandenberg Concertos. Bach, Cellos Suites. Barrelhouse Boogie. Beach Boys, Greatest Hits. Chuck Berry, Best of. Big Band, Blues & Boogie: Roots of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Blind Boys of Alabama, Higher Grounds. Blues, Century of. Blue Moods:17 Sax Gems. Blue Note, Best of. 2 Bluegrass albums. Boogie-Woogie Piano.

C

Cajun. Johnny Cash, At Folsom Prison. Johnny Cash, Best of. Tracy Chapman. Eddie Cochran, Best of. John Coltrane, Trane’s Blues. Cotton Club. Count Basie, Classic Years. Country Classics.

D

Bo Diddley. Drivin’ 60’s

E

Steve Earle, Copperhead Road. Eurythmics, Greatest Hits.

F

Ella Fitzgerald, A-Tisket, A-Tasket. Aretha Franklin, Platinum Collection.

G

Gershwin, Rhapsody in Blue, American in Paris & Piano Concerto. Girl Talk, Mairi Wilson, Barb Jungr & Claire Martin. Gob-Iron, Blues Harmonica Anthology.

H

Buddy Holly, Best of. John Lee Hooker. Etta James, Best of. Jazz, Century of.

K

Freddy King, Hideaway. The Kinks Story 1964- 1966.  Gladys Knight & the Pips, Before Now & After Then.

L

Peggy Lee. Jerry Lee Lewis, Essential Collection. Jerry Lee Lewis, Killer Collection. Leadberry, Best of.

M

Claire Martin. Mozart, Eine Kliene Nachtmusik, Concertos for Flute & Harp, Horn Concertos.

N

Nelville Brothers, Walkin’ in the Shadow of Life. Northern Soul. Number One Soul Collection.

O

Roy Orbison

P

Prince, Best of.

R

Bonnie Raitt, Sweet Forgiveness. Otis Redding, Definitive Collection. Jimmy Reed, The Sun is Shining. Reel Cool.

S

60’s Jukebox Collection. Jimmy Smith, Dot Com Blues. Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, 1958 London Sessions. Soul Deep : the Story of Black Popular Music. The Sounds of 1950’s America. Dusty Springfield, Hits. Stax/Volt Revue, Live in Paris. Stax/Volt Revue, Live in London. Stravinsky, The Firebird & The Rites of Spring. Sigur Ros, We Play Carelessly. Sun Records.

T

Tex-Mex Party.

V

Vivaldi, Fours Seasons & Concertos. Gene Vincent, Rocky Road Blues.

W

Muddy Walters, Rollin’ & Tumblin’. Gillian Welch, Revival. Junior Well, Best of. Hank Williams, Best of. Hank Williams, Jambalaya.

Y

Lester Young, Lester Leaps Again.

So take what you can from that.

Headache from Hell

Posted on by rmott62

This week I have had a headache all week.

It the screaming of my soul. It is the grief that can never get released.

It is my prostituted self coming alive.

Or on the mundane level it the menopause.

All I know is I can look at my times of prostitution, times of unwanted sex with strangers who did not hand over money – I see that time with a clear eye.

I was once told to see and know pain from our lives – it should viewed as an eagle see.

That is in focus. Imagine there is a wounded rabbit in a field full of rabbits. See it from a mile in the sky, see the prey. See no surroundings, no distractions – just see your food, all else is of no purpose.

Then when you dive for the target, you will not miss, and it will be an instance kill.

That is how I must write to speak for and with my prostituted self.

My life then was utter chaos.

I lived inside a world that made no sense.

The only sense I could make was that I must be evil for I was getting damaged over and over and over again.

I made sense by refusing to be fully alive.

So now, I can only unpacked my past by having an forsenic eye.

To know my truths I have be harsh with myself and see all I can without judgement.

I cannot paint a clear picture of the innocent victim, when my guts knows my self-hate made me not care how I was fucked, how I was brought and sold.

How my self-hate had anger when kindness reach out to me, knowing I was worth nothing so why should I be pitied.

How my self-hate give me anger in wrong places. Anger when no men brought me drinks, or pay for me, but still wanted sex. Anger that I never fought back. Anger that I manipulated men to get a bed so I could run away from my own head.

Anger that I know all I was was sex, while I hated it at the same time.

I see all that with an eagle’s eye.

An eye that does not pity, does not expect to repair that past. No, my eagle eye see and knows without judging.

My headache is the tears that I cannot cry.

I am going forward, but my journey is very tough.