Monthly Archives: December 2009

Letting My Teenage Soul Speak

Posted on by rmott62

This week, I have been reaching out for my teenage. I want to hear her, but in her words, not the niceness of hindsight.

She needs to show the middle, the parts without any imaging of exits. She wants tell her truths however ugly, however messy.

She needs it for she can’t remember so much, and she can’t live with that.

I can’t live with so many empty spaces screaming out at me.

Somehow, I want to believe if I let free some of her voice, I will see who I was then, how it made who I am now.

Maybe we can get a small amount of peace.

Much of my life, I have said I was never a teenager.

Not like teenager in books, films, TV. Not like teenagers I meet.

I do not remember angst – just a logical sense that death was my friend. I had no puppy love, I had no love in me. I stop listening much to pop music. I cared little for causes.

I thought I had lost my normal teenage self.

But that was not true.

I may not of listen to Radio One – but I always know something about music.

Whether it was a distraction in the clubs I was whoring in, whether I heard pop in the background as johns were fucking me, whether to somehow remembering I was young as I watched Top of the Pops.

Music was under my skin.

Let my teenage soul speak.

I would dance and somehow I know I was alive.

I dance in my room when no-one was watching. Turn up cassettes so loud to somehow feel something, anything – pretend I was alive.

I hate reggae.

That is on as I dance for men. Up in some room above the pub, it always another private party.

Only I don’t know anyone, recognise some girls.

Know them by the dead looks in their eyes. I never speak to them.

Speaking would kill me, my heart would be smashed into pieces.

I hate reggae.

Dancing for men who don’t speak, only to call me whore, ask how I want to get fucked, saying of things where my mind fades into the music.

Dancing for men who fingers reach into my cunt, who in the dark would have their penis out, trying to fuck me as I dance.

That was meant to be funny – only I had no sense of humour.

I hate reggae.

In my room, I scream out to punk, yell to soul, cry to David Bowie.

It was the music – I had no feeling outside of music.

Now, I cry for my teenager. Music is so precious to me – and it so nearly stolen from me. Now I love most music – only please no 70’s or 80’s reggae, maybe small pieces of Peter Tosh or Bob Marley.

But I am sick if I hear lover’s rock or soft reggae. That is the music of my rapes and whoring.

My teenage needs to speak of her middle.

She does not know the words for who she was.

She hears whore – and thinks of others.

She hears prostitute – it means nothing.

Hears rapes – it makes no sense to her.

Hears me say torture – and she wants to stop listening.

All that language make her go dead inside, but I must be allow to speak. Speak in a language that is forming from then and reaching into now. A language that is not neat, not calm – a language of a deeply wounded soul.

She will just go for it.

I will begin with what I thought was love, thought was some kind of relationship.

What my adult self call it girlfriend experience. What my adult soul has nightmares about then.

Let her speak.

They must love me, I try so hard to love them.

I know you don’t want to say that. I know I should feel hate.

But I want a normal boyfriend. Someone who is interested in me, someone who doesn’t always want sex, someone who introduced me to his parents.

Someone who sees me.

I try so hard to make men like me.

But I always find that they hate me.

They hate me if I don’t have sex immediately. They hate me if I speak of anything they not interested in. They hate me sometimes if I speak although. They hate me if I am tired. They hate me if I show I am in pain when they fucking me. They hate if I am watch TV and not listening to them. They hate me for sleeping when they want to fuck me.

I have no life when I with them.

Sometimes, I hear my adult soul named this as prostitution, say it darned close to sexual slavery, or to be nice lets called it girlfriend experience.

These words somehow makes sense, but it was so messy.

I did get free food and drinks. I did not want to be in my own home, so I stay with men who hated me. Sometimes they give me money, it was a gift not payment.

Sometimes, I with them for weeks, sometimes a couple of hours.

Many times in the long-term “relationships”,  I was locked in their flats, when they went out. I did not mind – though I did get alert when they came back.

The worse thing of long-term relationships was my fear that I would relax, and become myself.

I was safe if I was what he wanted me to be.

But so often, I could not or would not sleep. Many men were angry if I went to sleep on them, so I taught myself to stay awake.

It is better than being fucked awake, often through my anus.

How can these be real boyfriends if they give no break.

Something I hid deep in me, is that I switch off as they fuck and torture me – by dreaming I was having sex with a woman who loved me.

That was some escape.

Somehow I still believed in love.

Maybe I was a prostitute – but I still had dreams, I still wanted to believe in trust and hope.

Men made me a whore – but I made the choice to refuse to know that.

I wish to go deeper, and speak on what violence meant to me.

My adult soul writes words of gang-rape, anal rape, deep-throating and endless faceless rapes.

I see those words, and slowly I am letting it into my skin.

I try to cope by not knowing my age – that how I have lost my teenage years.

But I was teenager when I was gang-raped – it mostly happened when I was 14 to 17.

That is young, too bloody young.

One gang-rape steals your soul – I have no idea how many times it happened. For that period, it was my norm.

I was being punished – but I never know what for.

All I knew was each time I survived by assuming I would be murdered – so then it would not matter.

The shock was still being alive.

Deep-throating was the same. I knew I was drowning, I knew I was suffocating.

Sometimes I fainted, in those brief periods I had a break, I reach close to death and felt happy.

But always I was back inside the choking.

I cannot cope with anal sex, I hate it.

I hate that was done to me all the time.

I hate that even when I thought I could switch off as it was done to me, there was always pain, often bleeding.

I hate how much men loved fucking there as pushed my face in the pillows, forced me against walls. Made me beg, made me faint, made me sick.

I will never do anal sex again – for I want love not hate.

I say I must have been a prostitute, a whore – but I was never scum.

Not when I had my own secret places.

I had my reading, I had going to films by myself, I follow Arsenal.

I had my dreams that was a life outside of being fucked, being beaten up, being drunk, being nothing but dirt.

I dream I would one day not know that kind of life existed – I would safe, I would be successful and by Christ I would be would be happy.

I had an idea that the life I was in was the illusion – and if I could stay alive, somehow I would find the real life.

Well, I did stay alive, and I did find a real life.

It may be painful being alive – but my teenage soul is damned proud to be here now.

Don’t Do This Much

Posted on by rmott62

After writing my last post, I have felt a slight release from some of that hell.

I hope it can open some people’s eyes to internal sex trafficking.

I want to promote a new music video that is aimed at teenage girls about internal trafficking.

It is on – mydangerousloverboy.quba.co.uk .

I recommend it because though it very short, it show some of the emotional traps that make young girls feel safe and loved before they know they in prostitution.

Although my path into prostitution was not through a “boyfriend”, but through my close female friend, I understand the desperation to trust and then be blind to danger.

Many girls who are entrapped by internal trafficking do have adults or friends that they can trust, many live with emotional abuse, so easier allow others to manipulate them.

If it appears to be love, if the girl is made special, given expensive gifts and the centre of attention – many vulnerable girls will think it a genuine relationship.

I thought I had a real friend, a friend who treasure me, who could give me some joy, a small degree of safety.

I refuse to see the danger signs.

When I sold out into sadistic prostitution, I still thought she must be my friend.

It was only when I saw her taking money from men, realise that only I had to do the sex, that she was having friendly chat with the men that nearly killed me – that the penny dropped.

But by then I was trapped in prostitution.

It is this wanting to trust that is so dangerous.

Wanting to trust leads making your mind not accept the violence as real, for trust get in the saying the men did not mean it, or you enjoy really.

Young girls can not compute the planning that johns do before raping and torturing prostitutes.

Trust blinds you to managers and pimps, making them into friends or lovers, for that is easier than the reality.

Reality of hate and degradation. Reality that you are nothing to them, but a cash-cow.

Young girls want to hope, want to be loved, want to please others, want to rebel, want to dream, want to grow.

All that means nothing to the sex trade. All that is smashed out of them.

I survived, and got eventually out of the sex trade.

But I live with wounds of that time.

I know I wanted to trust, and that became my trap.

Do not walk pass these girls.

Many Types of Hell

Posted on by rmott62

I have been reading a brilliant article on Emma Thompson in the Guardian film section, about her latest project showing the horrors of the sexual trafficking of women cross countries.

Her anger and the shock of the reality, made me think how trafficking is a building block for the vast majority of girls and women who get trapped inside the sex trade.

Only we must look beyond just country to country trafficking, and see the reality of internal trafficking.

Be that from town to town, street to street, pass from man to man, move into one place to another, from one aspect of the sex trade to another, even from one room to another.

Trafficking is a great way to keep the goods – women and girls – disoriented,  showing them they are sub-humans.

That is why it is the building block that makes the sex trade work.

Trafficking makes the prostituted women and girls silent and without hope. Then they are really for whatever porn-fucks the sex trade forces them to endure.

To be part of the sex trade, being the living dead is a way of staying alive.

To be trafficked is to know you are dead but somehow still breathing.

Looking back at my past with a clear eye, I know I was trafficked.

I was not knocked unconscious and throw into a lorry, and taken out of my country. I was not told anything was wrong.

I cope by telling myself over and over and over, I wanted everything that happened to me.

Only looking back, I see I was in a trap. The trap that pretended that I had freedom.

Being internally trafficked in prostitution has no road map, just that it was living in hell.

There are few words for that time, for all words are stolen or made into nothing.

There is only the silent screaming from millions of women and girls in almost every country, every city, every culture, every building that you choose to ignore.

That screaming is saying make us count – for god’s sake don’t dismiss us.

Look carefully at all prostitution, and you will see trafficking, see slavery laid bare right in front of you.

See in so many street, see young girls selling themselves.

See how often these girls are trafficked into indoors prostitution, how they controlled by others taking their money, others choosing to get them addicted to drugs for control.

That is not freedom, that is not choice – that is slavery.

See girls like I was who started in indoors prostitution.

See the trickery that said to us it was not whoring, it just all these men want you.

See as we learnt not to know the violence – we were told it was a mistake, told we would get used to it, it must be that we like it really, don’t tell no-one, go do just one more time.

We got used to the violence until we no longer felt it.

For we were the living dead.

I have know all forms of sexual violence, violence that meant I live in a haze of not knowing whether I was breathing or not.

I forgot days, didn’t know months and all flowed in one massive raping that never ended.

That is prostitution.

It has no words, no feelings, no future, no hope, no past, no laughter, no tears, no pain, no grief, no desire, no nothing that makes you human.

Only somehow the vast majority of women and girls that live in this hell stay alive.

But, the tragedy they stay alive to be fucked, to be used, to be brainwashed, to be trafficked, and to be made into dirt over and over and over and over.

That is prostitution, that is what you choose to turn away from.

For me, being trafficked was being made to move round different aspects of the sex trade.

I was used mainly by johns who wanted sadistic sex – wanted gang-rapes, wanted me to be unconscious, wanted to fill all my holes in any and every way they could.

I was moved around, moved from London and Cambridge, and other places. Even within the same building, my managers arrange many ways of profiteering from my hell.

I would be filmed, I would do extras for special clients.

Mostly I was just passed round by word of mouth, so I thought, but in a clearer eye I know it was organised to sell me out.

I was just goods to be pass to any man who had money and sadistic porn-dreams.

I lost my rights, for when you are in hell, rights are completely out of reach.

I have no memory of how, but gradually I slipped into being “girlfriend experience”.

For me, that was a fresh hell.

Johns who want girlfriend experience will possess the prostitute in her mind and body, they will owned her.

She must be at his beck and call, should be able to read his mind. She doesn’t just fuck him, she must love him, must think he is amazing in and out the bed.

She must have no thoughts that are not his, no friends or family, no life outside him.

That is slavery.

It may seemed nicer than other prostitution from the outside.

But from the inside, if the prostitute is not fully his “girlfriend”, she is beaten up, she is raped and on occasions she is murdered.

I learnt that the hard way, so many times the violence was so terrible, that my mind closes down as I remember the girlfriend experience.

I know that when I had a mind of my own, I was raped in so many viscous ways – ways that words cannot say what happened.

The silent screaming is at its loudest when I try to remember that time.

You may think this has nothing to do with trafficking.

But, it was all about being trafficked. Being move round different aspects of the sex trade is trafficking made invisible.

I was completely disoriented and made sub-human. I was a thing that any man could put any pain into me, and it would not mattered, for like all those trafficked into prostitution – I had long since lost ability to feel anything.

As I watched the Emma Thompson’s video, I slowly felt what I never did then.

Look at prostitution – see it is mostly hell.

Look, see and do anything however small.

Crying Into Some Emptiness

Posted on by rmott62

I woke into tears today.

Maybe that is what Boxing Day is about, the hangover from the year.

Yes, I have had many joys this year – but always shadowed by grief and ongoing trauma.

Now, I want to face my grief, pain and a great deal of confusion. I do not know where I going with this, I am sure I am repeating myself. All I can say is this where I am at now.

I really miss Dad and Judy. I miss how joyful they make Christmas and my birthday.

As I write this, I feel I will cry again.

They give me love, when I thought I was nothing but dirt, I had their love.

Every Christmas I have the shadows of memories of violence and hate.

I have memories of Christmases inside my mother’s family.

These were Christmases were I learnt to kill emotions, learnt to dream of death and learnt to smile despite it all.

I associated Christmas with being laugh at for not being able to kill myself, Christmas was being fingered by my stepdad as he laid out the stocking or as I try to eat turkey, Christmas was always his flash presents, always his tongue down my throat.

I learnt to hate Christmas because he would not go away.

I had Christmas where I was date-raped. Rapes that nearly killed me, but I lived.

I was left frozen in my heart. I was becoming the living dead.

And, when I prostituted, Christmas meant nothing, well everything meant nothing.

When I was prostituted I was nothing.

Christmas being prostituted was the normal torture, the normal rapes, the normal brainwashing, the normal not caring, the normal not knowing I had a body, the normal fitting into the sex trade.

Christmas was just a slow time, but it was no escape.

Christmas was my death.

Than after a scream from the middle of my stomach, after a reaching into the emptiness, I made the choice to give myself  back Christmas.

I wanted that comfort, I wanted to have joy as part of me, I wanted to remember there was innocence, I needed Christmas because by heck I deserved it.

So, I feel no guilt enjoying Christmas, for it’s my time now.

Before Settling Down to TV and Radio

Posted on by rmott62

I am determined to enjoy Christmas, even when and as I miss having others round.

It is so quiet by myself, but I need that peace. I am pretty much exhausted by my intensive year.

I am damned proud how I got through this year.

Winter is a time of reflection, a time to try to be comfortable with yourself.

That is a new thing for me.

I have never been comfortable in my skin – for large parts of my life I refused to know that skin was part of me. To know that, would mean knowing that I alive.

How can Christmas mean anything when living inside the sex trade.

Winter when was prostituted was just the same as the rest of the year  – only colder.

But then, I was cold even in the summer sun. I felt relatively normal in winter, coz cold was normal.

Sometimes Christmas period just meant less johns, as they played at being the family men, or were students who went, or had less money to spend.

Sometimes Christmas meant the johns that came were more demanding, and thought it should free as a “gift” to them.

Christmas was a time of violent sex for too many years of my life.

I choose to ignore Christmas, or at less pretend I did not care.

But, this never worked for in my depths of my heart I loved Christmas.

I loved it as I saw or went to King’s College Choir singing “Once in Royal David’s City”, in that I reclaimed Cambridge back into me.

I always heard Phil Spector Christmas album – in shops, in pubs, in restaurants – and my heart would melt. Even as I a “girlfriend experience” or after being fucked behind the pub – hearing the Ronettes and could remember how to smile again.

I always loved lights going up and seeing children knowing Christmas is always magic.

Even as I thought I was dead inside, Christmas always forced into me.

So, I adore Christmas.

All of it, not just selected pieces.

I will now go and enjoy Christmas TV and radio.

I need darned good ghost stories on the radio, cheesy music on the radio, King’s College Choir for my heart.

I need Doctor Who, I need films that are soppy, films that classic film noirs, I need comedy.

I eat and drink and Christmas is part of me.

It was never stolen from me.

Christmas Without Dad

Posted on by rmott62

This is my first Christmas without my Dad, and I really miss him with all my heart.

Christmas was special to him, he try to make it special to all his family and friends who came round. For instance, everyone who spent the night had a stocking in the morning.

I miss the annoying carols and classical music as we woke up, yes not awake yet, but must be cheerful.

I miss that so much, for even as I remember being grumpy, grumpiness comes from a place of love and safety.

Dad give me back Christmas.

In my heart, I always had space for Christmas. A space for love that is given, a love that will be received. A space for quiet moments thinking on small wonders in life.

A space for joy with hope. A space to be a child inside my heart. A space to be free enough to not be alert.

Yes, Christmas had been enough taken from.

Nearly when my stepdad would finger me every Christmas, sending his tongue down my throat.

Nearly during the years I was prostituted, I had no choice but to choose to not know Christmas.

Nearly as for many Christmases, I would get drunk, get fucked, take speed, cut my arms, smash my head into a wall or just lay in bed almost dead.

I could not know Christmas – I though Christmas had abandoned me.

But my Dad slowly give me Christmas back.

Now, I love the traditional. I love Midnight Service, I love Christmas food and booze, I love giving and receiving, I love TV.

But more I love that it can be some innocence, some joy, some quiet, some time to think, some reminder that I matter.

So, I wish you all Merry Christmas, and to thanks you all.

Clearly It Must of Been OK

Posted on by rmott62

Since writing the post “See, You Enjoy It Really”, I have been struck by the glamorising of women’s orgasms, and how it a great ploy to make male violence invisible.

For me, an orgasm is nothing more and nothing less than the biological reaction to being stimulated.

But, always it portrayed that when and if a woman get wet, she must totally into the sex, she must want the man, she obviously is up for it.

But men know their orgasms come whether they want sex or not, know it not some deep emotional connection. Hell, the penis get hard in the cold, get hard when watching TV.

Men know it is biology for them – but for women is some deep emotional and “romantic” drive, or it must that some women are sex-crazed so get wet at a drop of a hat.

So, when men know they are raping, are forcing the women to do sex she doesn’t want, to be in a sexual situation that scares her – if she gets wet, he makes that his get-out clause.

It cannot be rape, if she is cumming –  for it is clear she wants him, she could be loving it really.

When I was prostituted, johns would force orgasms into me on a regular basis.

I do not remember ecstasy, I do not remember feeling the men were ok really, I do not remember some deep connection.

I was just having an orgasm.

I do remember feeling betrayed by my body, I do remember terror, I do remember it did not stop it being painful, I do remember it made me dead inside.

As Laurelin commented in “See, You Enjoy It Really” –

“Pain makes us feel that the body is separate to the self, and sexual feelings can do the very same thing.”

As a prostitute, I was dead inside but I still had orgasms real or fake.

Many times I had orgasms I had no idea that it had happened, for I was too busy remembering to stay alive to give a damn.

I had orgasm in extreme pain, it did nothing to lessen the pain, but usually give the johns an excuse to carry on torturing me.

I had orgasm as men forced to have multiple ones in me to big up their egos. Often they force orgasms till I was at a state of exhaustion, even would faint on occasions.

To their minds getting a whore to faint, coz of their sexual prowess, was a huge triumph.

An orgasm for a whore is no exit, just a victory for the john. It gives her no rest or peace.

Orgasms become associated with betrayal and pain, so it is natural to cut them away.

To be a good whore, you must able to cum on command. That is never natural, so to survive the mind will be detached.

I could cum whilst thinking of shopping, I come cum as watch birds out the window, I even came as a john fuck me, but left on his TV and I watch a Mexican soap.

I never notice the johns, so why would I care about cumming.

So, let’s be honest about prostitution and orgasms.

Do not imagine that many prostituted women and girls enjoy sex even when they having orgasms on demand. No one should have an orgasm on demand, an orgasm should from their heart and some kind of connection.

An orgasm on demand is from a place where the body has learnt to try to protect itself by cumming. It feels the danger, and knows to let go.

But in reality, having an orgasm is no protection, no for the vast majority of prostituted women and girls is places them into danger.

Johns ravel in getting a whore to cum, often pushes beyond her pain boundaries, making it keep going beyond her physical limits, leaving his sperm and hate all over her body.

He wants her to cum until she becomes nothing – then he can say he has made it with a whore.

That is the reality of orgasms for prostituted women and girls.

Nothing about connection there.

So, to get a more realistic view of orgasms during male violence would be needed if we want end the sex trade.

Do not think of orgasms as spiritual, something that shows the inner nature of a woman- remember an orgasm is just a biological reaction

If you are lucky enough to be in a safe place, without threats and brainwashing, to have an orgasm that is a deep connection and appears spiritual – well, that is fabulous, but it is darned privileged.

Do not think that is the norm for far too many women and girls, especially the prostituted.

Remember that cumming can be from fear, can be coz a rapist is stimulating the body, can even just from exhaustion.

Don’t view orgasms with Cosmopolitan eyes, eyes that all orgasms must be good, and kept heterosexuality nice and stable.

Don’t make orgasm so special, they are just a reaction.

View the woman not the orgasm.

Tomorrow

Posted on by rmott62

Tomorrow is my birthday.

My first birthday without Dad. I feel an overwhelming sadness.

I cannot cry, instead I have an intense sickness in my stomach, a slow headache.

And a scream in my heart.

After all the damage done to me by men, my Dad was precious to me because he held me, loved me and give me hope.

I find this birthday hard, because it a family traditional to have my birthday together, and then have separate Christmases.

I ache to be with him so much.

This is a selfish post, but please know the grief is strong.

It This Being Human

Posted on by rmott62

One thing I have had to face through remembering my past, is facing head-on what it is to turn into a sub-human.

One way to survive the horror of that, is to always believe others had worse,  to believe that no-one would be torture in the way I was torture.

The best way to survive is to believe that if is torture, is must be because I wanted or deserved it.

It cannot be that the torture is calculated and comes from a deep hate.

Like the vast majority of prostituted women, I survive by refusing to know my reality.

Now, it is crashing on top of me. Now, I gasp for air as I know I was made sub-human.

I want you to hear what it was to be a prostitute.

There is a porn-speak that sums it –

“Three holes and two hands”.

That is a whore for you.

When I was young, my stepdad had pictures of some fashionable artist who painted chairs as parts of women – their legs, their cunts, their mouths, their arms and heads – never their heads.

Those paintings were your ideal whore, every function there for any man to fuck.

Men know whores are objects – could be high-class and be named as fast cars, can be street prostitutes and compare to going to the toilet, any whore is just like buying beer.

Sometimes he can make her precious goods, sometimes she is garbage he throws away.

But she is never a real woman.

Real women don’t let thousands of men fuck them, real women may not do whatever porn fantasies the man want, real women may complain, real women feel pain at inconvenient times, real women expects some dignity, real women would show fear.

Whores are great coz you can whatever you like to them and they will never mind.

They can be fucked at any time, in whatever way.

For whores have no morals, no pain barriers, no sense of pride, no tears, no fear – why would they when all they are three holes and two hands.

I live with that knowledge that johns viewed me that way. I live with their hate, I live with their desire to degrade me, I live with all was a fuck-toy that had no rights to be fully human.

When I say I live with trauma – this is the true meaning of it.

Trauma is knowing for a large portion of my life, I had no knowledge how to be human.

I know how to perform, I know how to close down, I know how to be hard – but I know nothing of life.

Coming away from the sex trade, is discovering that you no idea what being human is.

When I being fucked over and over and over and over.

When I was being sexually tortured over and over and over and over.

When I was being brainwashed over and over and over and over.

When I was made into trash over and over and over and over.

When all that was my reality, I had no time or space to know if I was fully alive or not. All I know was my days went on and on and on, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I had flashes of being human.

I got when music would reach into my heart. I had times I was dancing for joy, dancing out a rage I could not name, dancing to flirt.

But dancing was also set up by managers, and I begun to hate clubs and dancing unless I was robot. I danced with men, I made them happy – as I dreamt of death.

I could on occasions allow nature into me. It was hard not to be detached, but sometimes I could feel weather, hear birds, notice views. It try to force life into me – but I was too scared.

I found it hard to hold onto friends, coz I was too destructive, I was too close to male violence and wanting to kill myself to be a friend.

And my only true friend kill herself – so I made the choice to hardened my heart.

I could have that much pain when I lived without safety or security.

I have heard being human is having your basic needs fulfilled.

On that scale, I was not human.

Having security and safety is a basic human right – and I would say the vast majority of prostituted women and girls do not have that luxury.

I certainly did not.

Not when all I was was an object to be fucked. I had no security that I could have a place in this world – all I was what men said I was.

Safety was a joke. I was raped, tortured, degraded, mentally abused and made to know that was all I was. Safety could not even be imagined.

It is a shock that I was never murdered.

Food is a basic right.

I chose to eat trash or not to eat. I could afford real food, but what was the point.

Sleep is a basic right.

I refused to sleep beyond cat-napping. I took speed to stay awake, I got drunk to stay awake.

I was kept awake by all the demands of the johns, the pain I refuse to know kept me awake.

I did not want to sleep in case I remember what I did not want to know.

Also, if in “boyfriend experience”, if I was stupid enough to fall asleep, the johns would fuck me awake or bash me up for my “rudeness”.

Sleep was dangerous.

Self-respect is a basic human right.

That is something I hid away.

If johns saw I has an inkling of self-respect, their hate and violence would increase.

How dare their porn-toy have a mind and will of its own.

I hid myself until I too forgot who the hell I was.

So, what the hell is being human after being prostituted.

It is my life’s struggle to find that out.

Look Back Over My Year

Posted on by rmott62

I have been thinking about the year that I have just had. I needed to know why it had been such a roller-coaster of a year.

At this time last year, my Dad was beginning to ill.

For several years, he had been going in and out of sickness, so my family were not too worried at first. But as Christmas rolled in, we all slowly realise how serious it was.

He died in January, and it was terrible, but he was suffering so much.

Dad’s death has been with all this year. He was a good dad, but also my best friend. The farther from his death, the more I miss him.

All this year I have the shadow of grief with me. This is not bad, for it has given me a sense of mission.

I want my campaigning work to make a real change. In my heart, I campaign to make Dad bloody proud of me.

One way, I dealt with a little part of my grief was by going to the Hillsborough Memorial Service in Liverpool.

There was an open showing of the rawness of grief and the search for justice.

I went as a football fan, and left feeling a connection as exited prostituted woman.

I was crying tears of no justice for every torture I had to survived; no justice as johns rape, maim and mentally abused, and came away feeling nothing much has happen; no justice as the women are named whores and the men jack the lads.

Inside Hillsborough I felt some solidarity. I was proud to grieve.

Throughout this year, my blog has a power that sometimes makes me scared. Power to make real change.

My blog has changed attitudes, made others very angry, has given women the will to exit prostitution, has been called lies, has made my family hate my words, made other members of family very proud of my determination, made me so sick, gone to Canada, Australia, USA, Brazil, South Africa, New Zealand and Italy (those are the places I know).

I find it hard to believe that in less than two years it has such power.

What makes me very proud is that my blog is continually used to further anti-sex trade campaigns in England and other countries.

I am proud to be quoted, all I ask is the politeness to ask and tell me exactly where my words are going. Well, that’s manners ain’t it.

The power of my words means I am attacked by the pro-sex trade lobby and it’s cronies.

This is a back-handed compliment, but it hurts so much and can paralyse me if I am not careful.

I am attacked for daring to be still alive. To have the courage to not just remember the tortures and hate, but that is the foundation of the sex trade. Not just to remember, but to speak out in the public sphere.

Prostituted women are not meant to survive – and if they do live, then through the constant mental abuse they are meant to forget.

Most exited prostituted cannot or will no remember what they were forced to live inside. Most cut away that part of their life.

But few can cut away the damage and trauma that is in their body and mind after being prostituted.

I feel my blog is more than my experiences, it has become a voice for so many exited prostituted women who have been silenced.

This year, was when Polanski once again was in the headlines. This triggered for me memories of my stepdad and his arrogance that raping me was nothing, coz I must have wanted it.

I choose to dismiss my stepdad, for he throw away a large part of my life –  so why should I care about his.

This year was taken up a lot with preparing and giving a speech for Feminists in London.

I am still shocked by how my speech had the power to altered many women’s attitudes to prostitution. I placed it as human rights issues, I speak freely that it torture, that if there is choice it is the limited choices of the trapped. I called johns rapists and criminals, and that we must stop making excuses for them.

The most important part of my speech was to say if you place yourself in my shoes – that is being gang-raped, forced anal sex and deep-throating – and still say prostitution is harm-free and you would do it – then maybe then, I will say prostitution is ok.

Prostitution must have a human face, not just statistics, essays and gossip – but real women and girls that lived inside torture and degradation.

Women and girls who could be you, if a few things went wrong in your life.

If you would not accept sexual torture in your life – why the hell do you think there some separate class of women and girls that will.

In June, my stepmum died. This meant a whole layer of my family was gone.

London was changed for me, for it became the place that I campaign in, rather than a family home.

It give me a freedom to fight for real change, for I could be more fully into my work, without having to close it down.

This opening up brought out my rage and grief, at why I am campaigning so damned hard.

I campaign so more girls go into the hell that I was forced to live with. That is my dream, it may be miles away – but I will never stop dreaming.

This year, my dreaming was give a piece of hope. The House of Lords passing Clause 14, was a route towards changing attitudes to say that men have no right to buy women and girls just for their orgasms.

It is not ideal, and a long way from stopping prostitution. But it was spoken as a humans rights issue for the prostituted – not the rights of men to have sex when and wherever they want.

It is the start of the beginning – but a damned good start.

It added to the celebration at Reclaim the Night this year.

At the end of this year, I went to a meeting about why men choose to buy sex. This was very hard for me, coz their justifications are like poison in my body.

All this I have had extreme trauma – not all the time, but a shadow that sticks close to me.

I have continue to campaign through trauma, I have had to put up with attacks through trauma, I have grieve the loss of Dad through trauma, I have written my blog through trauma.

I am very proud of that.

And to end, this year I have built on my friendships and they solid – that is a major achievement.