Monthly Archives: January 2010

Young at Heart No More

Posted on by rmott62

I have been crying, crying that I was never a teenager.

I have written about this before, but I can never write out the pain. I speak to friends, discovering words that fit that time – but nothing addresses the fear and confusion.

I do not know what I was as a teenager.

I was not a child, I could not feel angst, I was not wanting to grow into more years, I had lost interest in discovering my own world.

I was nothing – nothing but what others told me I was or made me into.

I had known I was a fuck-toy since the first time my stepdad made me bleed by finger-fucking as a young girl.

Before than, there must have been a time when I was young, when I had innocence – when freedom was not a delusion.

But as a teenager I had forgotten that time, or chosen not believe I was ever that safe.

When I was to be 12, I had become a girl who no longer care, could not dare to care.

I was slowly becoming a whore, for a whore is a sex-toy that any man can manipulate, used up and throw into the trash.

A whore is made non-human by losing hope, by having hate surrounding her, by her every action being made into sex or pauses between the endless sex.

As I enter my teenage years, I was putting on the clothes of the whore. And ignoring the poison that was killing me.

I do not remember being 13, and that truly scares me.

I know at 12, I was a robot for my stepdad, I know at 14 I was embedded in sadistic prostitution. But 13 is a blank, with occasional vicious flashes.

I see me slowly cutting my arms. Cutting inside a zone where nothing matters, no pain can enter me. I see blood, but cannot imagine it has anything to do with me.

I see me in the bath with my stepdad, not caring as I rub his penis, not caring as his fingers hurt my cunt – just noticing the water is getting cold.

I see me looking at bruises, cuts and marks on my neck, and always forgetting where they came from.

I see me in pubs drunk as usual waiting to pick up by any man, any man that had a bed – knowing I didn’t want to go home.

I see me in bed with my body that I didn’t want to know, see some man hurting that body – and all I can do is not to know.

I see, I see and really look and see I was young, I was a child.

And my heart was being smashed to pieces.

So the only way to live, to survive, was to learn fast to be hard, to not give a damn.

By the time I 14, my heart was young no more. It knew too much.

I look back at that young teenager, and now I hold her, I cry for her.

I want to heal every injuries place in her body, I want every man who used her to be in jail, I want her to rest without fear.

I want her to be young.

But I cannot do the impossible.

Just fight for other young girls, and maybe build a world where teenage girls can be free, can be innocent, can discover themselves and can dream without fear.

New Blog

Posted on by rmott62

I wish to promote a wonderful new blog by a survivor of prostitution – it is survivingprostitutionandaddiction.blogspot.com.

It is written by an amazing and very brave woman. I proudly hold and all other survivors of the sex trade in my heart.

A quote –

“The fact that he used my ‘working’ name didn’t matter. He was looking at me when he said it, touching me when he said it, hurting me when he said it. My body, my vagina, my rectum, are not distant, abstract concepts. They are real, they are a part of me, a living breathing, feeling woman. When they tear, it hurts me. When they bruise, it hurts me. When I was fucked again and again, hard, to fulfill the fantasy of the punters, it was reality for me.”

Without Love

Posted on by rmott62

Dedicated to Sam, thanks so much.

This week I have been in shock and grief about how the neglect and emotional abuse by my Mum, and left me with so damage.

Then I saw this amazing article by Rakhi Kumar – her post is called “13 Should Be Celebrated Not Sold” on her blog Intent. Which made me want to write about being 13.

The time I know love was gone. The time I should of being growing into my essence, but all I did was to attempt to murder my soul.

Without love, I had no foundations, no concept of hope, and a self-hate that grow every day.

13 should of been a time to be selfish in a healthy way.

Be selfish as you discover who you are, what you could be.

Be selfish as you find friendships that are away from your family, interests that are private, discover small moments of lust inside your control.

Be selfish  as you let angst in.

But without love and security, being 13 is a time of grave danger.

I started to run away from when I was round 7, by the time I was 13 it was a habit that I could not break.

I had drunk alcohol in and out from aged 9, by 13 I could get into pubs, could buy alcohol and drink to drown.

I first smoked when I was too young, by 13 it was my hidden pleasure.

I had been fucked by my stepdad since I was 6, by 13 I had learnt not to care, and to imagine that any man should have me.

By 13 I was ready to be whored out.

Sometimes I dream that at 13 I had the safety to be outwardly vulnerable, not made into a robot who could not and would not care.

But to the predators of the sex trade, my seeming hardness was something that made me easy prey.

I try so hard to not care, that I would refuse to feel pain as I was placed with men pushed me way beyond my limits.

When you don’t care, when love has been taken from you – then you become perfect material for the sex trade.

Men can and will hurt you as much as they can, they will ignore that you are under-aged.

Profiteers will sell you as fresh meat, knowing you were damaged long beyond they got their claws into you.

Hell the sex trade loves “virgins”, they are great earners.

At 13, I did not know  that I had any rights.

I had no rights to speech. To say I was being hurt to my core – words that would name it as torture. Speech that know the word No. Speech that could cry.

I had no rights to know my own body. My body was plundered, raped, brought to the edge of death and made into a sex toy. I had no body, just a husk that was made of holes for men to fuck.

I had no rights to safety. Safety I could not even dream about, I was just amazed that I continue to breathe.

I had no rights to freedom of thought. No, I had learnt by 13 to close my mind down, I empty out any thoughts. Thinking was dangerous is show me glimpses of hope, said this is wrong, said you could die soon. How could I think when pimps, managers and johns told how and what to think.

At 13, I had become nothing.

Sometimes, I think if my Mum had stopped the world for me, if she had said she was sorry that I was hurting so, if she had left my stepdad, if he had gone to jail, if I had some love at home – I dream of that, only to wake into sickness.

At 13, I learnt to stop dreaming and to accept I lived in hell.

So I learnt not to care.

On My Mum

Posted on by rmott62

I think that today my Mum is 70, well to be honest I stopped remembering her birthday long ago.

This is because it is not safe to get that close to my Mum, I cannot be vulnerable near her. I cannot be a daughter to her, not when I know who I became when I lived with her.

My Mum placed her welfare and lifestyle above all else.

Part of that was placing my stepdad as the centre of her universe – he became perfect.

In that view, she saw that he sexually abused her daughter – only it became re-framed.

It was never abuse, it was her slut of a daughter forcing herself on him when he was weak.

It cannot be rape for he never penetrates with his penis. Sure he uses his fingers, he uses his mouth – but he will never make a show by getting her daughter pregnant.

My Mum emotionally abused in many ways.

She could not talk or look at me for weeks on end.

She would say she could read my thoughts, and I thought anything bad about her and my stepdad, she would know, even if we in separate places. For instance, when I was in Cornwall, and she was in Norfolk, I would my mind go blank in terror she would know I hated them.

She told I had brain disease that meant I could not feel pain. Meant I was born liar, for I did not know truth from lies.

My Mum place me in the line of danger.

She ignore it as I became a runaway, just saying it never happened.

Only she did lock me out of her house at night, she did not lay a place for me at meal times.

I felt invisible in my own home. I imagined I was a ghost.

My Mum saw and ignored injuries on my body.

I had red marks round my throat, I had bruises, I found walking hard. I had constant headaches.

I was just weak, always attention seeking.

Well, that was pointless for I got no attention from her.

Oh, I did get pregnant – it was a pimp, not my stepdad – so she was relieved it was nothing to do with her, would not put bumpers into her perfect lifestyle.

I was pregnant coz I was a whore – that’s all.

This is so hard to write, I know I being bitter.

But, she put poison into me.

How the hell can I get rid of that.

How to Create a Whore

Posted on by rmott62

The word whore has the power to hurt, the power to turn that pain invisible to the outside.

To be a whore is to forget what you were before that word engulfs you.

I want to explore that word, want it to fit into my skin – and not to always to rip out my guts.

I cannot and will not reclaim that word. It was never my word, it will never fit prostituted women and girls.

Whore is a word that fits using prostituted women and girls until they lose any human existence. It is a word of elimination.

It can never be a word of power to women and girls that are classed as whores.

TIME BEFORE BEING A WHORE

To be become a whore it is important that there is an emptiness inside the woman and girl already. An emptiness that will not, cannot be filled.

There are many and varied reasons for this.

It can be from being abused sexually as a child at home, in sexual rings. It can be complete neglect at home.

It can be going in and out of foster, children’s homes – never fitting in unless being used by others.

It can be wanting and needing to rebel, to fit in as a hard case when weeping deep inside.

It can be wanting and needing love so much that you do anything for your boyfriend.

It can be an anger so strong that you stop caring what happens to your body.

It can be being a whore stops your brain thinking and remembering.

That is the point that you are ready for the sex trade.

BEING MADE

For the profiteers of the sex trade are the constant look out for broken women and girls to create as whores.

The profiteers will name themselves as boyfriends, a close friend, managers, businessmen, companion – pimp is so old-fashioned.

Most profiteers will be so understanding and caring.

Only most have a coldness in their eyes that is impossible to forget. A coldness that reminds you that hope is pointless.

It out of their kindness, that they put you up, place you in their environment.

For a short period, the woman or girl is treated as so damned special. For a short period, she gets glimpses of something else, but as she is happy she closes down all else.

She shut down seeing men going in and out his place, shut down seeing money being exchanged, shut down seeing women and girls with dead eyes.

It not her world, so why worry.

Only, she is told it is a good way to make money, if you love me you want make me money.

Nothing is for free you know.

CLOSING DOWN

Now, this would the point that a non-whore would run away.

A girl or woman who was not already broken would not fuck for money with men she does know, cannot trust and she knows will control her.

A girl or woman not already broken would hate any man or woman who place her in that position.

But to become a whore, you must close down at the moment you first have sex for money.

Close down any emotions. Emotions of disgust, of fear, of wanting help.

Close down that physical pain is taking over your body.

Close the depths of sorrow, know that you no longer can have tears.

Close down that you have the right to dignity.

Do that on the first time, and you are ready to be a whore.

Do that and you are a fuck-machine for any and all men.

That is a whore for you.

TO BE A WHORE IS TO BE DEAD

This can be kept up for years, for each man that fuck a whore is just fucking a dead body, so each man is the same to her.

To survive prostitution when being whored out, the woman and girl must murder herself.

She may be still breathing, she may still eat, she may sleep on occasions, she may still shop, she may even have another life outside whoring – but she knows she is really just nothing.

She is dead, the living dead, but her existence is only real as men fuck her, as she is sold for more fucking.

Her will is their will, how she moves her body is their eyes and minds, her interests are their interests, her health is their hands, her mental welfare is their plaything.

Outside their presence, she has no reality.

Men create the whore – then curse her for getting their way.

They curse her as they rape her and named that sex, or even love.

They curse her as they beat her, and then say it whats she likes, didn’t the whore say so.

They curse her as they do porn and torture on her body, and re-named as rough sex, S and M playing, or just his passion took over.

They curse her with words that he pretends she invented.

All she can do is be dead, and hope she can forgot some of what just happened.

SOME LIFE AFTER

For those whores who are lucky enough to exit prostitution, it becomes very clear that the poison of being whored out is deep inside their essence.

Most exited whores do and can make a full and often good life for themselves – but it is usually through a fog of distorted memories of fear, pain and grief.

Most of the tortures and hate they had to endured was survived by forcing it outside their mind and body.

To survive as a whore you cannot know the agony that is continually into your body.

Whores are raped on a constant level in ways that good women would go to hospital, would want to commit suicide, would know as rape or torture.

Whores knows to ignore such pain, to not see bleeding, to not know how they ripped up inside, not recognise bruises or cuts.

Whores just know they somehow alive, and some other man is waiting for them.

To survive as a whore the language of rape, battering, humans rights and torture must be closed off from you. This language will destroy, for it holds out hope without any real change.

Later, the fortunate exited whore can reclaim that language and force others to frame all prostitution inside those words, and prayer bloody hard that other women and girls can be prevented from becoming whores.

That is what all whores dream so hard for.

Filling in the Emptiness

Posted on by rmott62

I still find being alone with myself very hard. I am ok in my own flat, but sometimes I cannot leave a crowd without a feeling that I disappear.

It is a legacy from being made into a whore, a legacy from child abuse – a legacy from being nothing but what bastards made me. Leaving me empty.

I have known a void, and however happy, however good company I make – that void is in the depths of my stomach and grasps at my heart.

It is a slow death – only I want to live so hard.

This makes me sick, because I know I fill my life now with so happiness.

Only too often, so often triggers come from nowhere.

I can be with lovely people, having a laugh, feeling calm and like the past is controllable.

Out of nothing jokes on prostitution are told, words saying is so harmless, spoken with ease.

Words that if replace with racial overtones would shut up, and the speaker would be destroyed by others.

Words that say prostitution is allowed to be looked down on, allow there to be  a class of women and girls that we can say are filthy.

Inside jokes I hear my tortures, see the faces of johns seeing me as a piece of shit, smell my cold fear becoming nothing, taste their spit and semen and feel my essence leaving my body.

Hell, it only a joke. So, I have learnt long ago to go empty as others laugh.

I just drink more, and make more jokes, speak more to friends, say turn the music up more.

I cannot reach into that terror and grief that is grabbing my heart.

And it then I terrified to be allow with myself.

Allow with flashbacks, allow with body memories and allow with always having to be so bloody strong.

I want to live in a world where liberals and left-wingers just stop finding prostitution so god-damned funny.

Don’t call it edgy humour, don’t think your jokes are really about empowering prostituted women, don’t you sound like you know anything although about the reality.

Don’t tell those jokes ever.

Not to prove how outrageous you are. Not to show you accept the lifestyle and think it just sex work. Not to place danger in the room.

But, then of course, no prostitute is meant to hear your jokes. And if a prostitute is listening, she has no sense of humour if she not laughing.

How can you laugh when emptiness is making you want to die.

Staring Down My Pit

Posted on by rmott62

January has been a very hard and scary month for me.

I have remembered and known many parts of my past, that I had closed away from myself. Parts that I can no longer shut away.

I make the choice to face down the cruelty and hate that was forced into me. I face through sickness, I face through many wanting to shut up and I choose to know what I am scared of.

How can I not be scared when I stare into the hate – cold hate, hate from centuries of abusing prostituted women and girls, hate that was never personal.

How can I not be scared as I know in my guts, in my heart, in my mind – I was there to be tortured.

Not tortured as a human – but placed into something that is given the name prostitute, whore, escort, companion – a thing that men had formed as soon as they could exchange goods to rape without consequences.

How can I not be scared knowing my rapes, my tortures, my bashings, my listening to language that destroy my soul all meant nothing. It means nothing when there is no concept of justice.

It means nothing when rapists, batterers and torturers can called it business, just a job. It means nothings each times goods or money is exchange, all violence disappears.

Leaving just my empty body unable to compute what had happened.

Yes, I should be scared. I should know I lived inside terror so long and such a regular basis, that my mind had to say it is of no importance.

I could not be scared as a prostitute, so now it clamps down on my heart.

This is where my courage rises up.

To stare into terror and not flinch – that is true courage.

That is my way forward.

Please hold me.

Smile Now

Posted on by rmott62

This is dedicated to Laurelin.

I am writing this after reading Laurelin’s comment on my “Invisible Chains” post, on how so many feminists seemed to willfully ignore or dismiss the psychological abuse of prostituted women and girls.

There is an insistence that unless the prostitute is plainly physically or sexually abused, unless she has been externally trafficked, unless she is under-aged, unless she is a street prostitute who is addicted to drugs – then there is no abuse or violence.

But all this must be visible to an outsider, or it is clear that she has chosen the lifestyle of the prostitute.

It is very easy to ignore the mental abuse if you have already decided that prostituted women are mostly happy, and rarely coerced.

But for the sex trade to succeed is must be built on breaking down the mental welfare of the vast majority of the women and girls that enter that world.

It must turn them into goods for men to fuck, to beat, to verbally abuse, and to leave to die.

The sex trade wants sub-humans not women and girls.

But the real sickness of the sex trade and it’s consumers is that wants these sub-humans to smile, to flatter the men, to say how much they love sex, to perform and forget that there ever was a life elsewhere.

I know that is how the sex trade works, what pisses me off is feminists seeing the smile and thinking that is all that matters.

Look, would you think if a battered woman said she love her boyfriend/husband that she doesn’t need help. If a “good” woman is raped, and then said it was all her own fault, would you just take at her word.

No, most feminists would see that as mental abuse.

But prostituted women and girls live with rape and battering on regular basis, and it is named choice, suddenly she is into rough sex.

What sickened me is often when exited prostituted women attempt to describe the violence/sexual torture they had to endure, they are confronted with feminists who will not judge their choices.

I am all for not judging prostituted women and girls, but christ, it completely fine to judge johns and pimps/managers.

When you view rape of “good” women or girls, or see domestic violence do you speak as if it the choice of the woman or girl. Do you not then judge the batterer or rapist.

But all rules are reversed for prostituted women and girls, they by some miracle don’t get mentally abused.

Even after the sex trade has often used the common practice of breaking them down, that is made invisible.

Many prostitutes are made to do the most violent sexual acts, usually life-threatening and used to destroy their essence, on their first experience. This is often put alongside treats, words of love or affection, or with johns who just do “normal” sex.

Most prostitutes are told over an over that this world is the only one that understand them, that the sex trade is their family. This alongside threats or suggestions, that if they speak to outsiders or even think of asking for help, that they could be killed or the violence would not be believed.

Now, if this is happening to non-prostituted women and girls is would named as Stockholm Syndrome. But for prostitutes it is named as choice or lifestyle, and then everything is hunky-dory.

When you rape a woman and girl over and over and over and over – until she can no longer name it rape, cannot know it abuse, cannot feel it violence, cannot remember it is her body that is being destroyed.

Then you have made a prostitute.

When you form her into a body that is strangled, is penetrated in and every hole in her body, is able to go close to death and then act as if nothing much had happened.

Then you have made a prostitute.

To make a true prostitute – she must smile, she must say how wonderful her life is, she must not even imagine a life outside of the sex trade.

That is not a human, that may as well be a sex doll.

And yet so many feminists continue to insist prostitution is a choice for the woman or girl.

This ignore that the responsibility is fully with the sex trade and it’s consumers.

The sex trade knows and doesn’t give a shit that the vast majority of the women and girls that are turned out as prostitutes are thoroughly mentally damaged, hell if they dead inside they are more fuckable.

Johns ignores dead eyes, bruises, fear, that she may be under-aged, that she clearly trapped. What does that matter compare to his sexual fantasy. Hell he may as well add to the harm, for she is not a real human anyhow.

If you choose to call it a choice – then place yourself in the situation where you have to be sexually used by a stream of men. Men who can do any violence they want without any punishment.

If you choose to call it choice – then place yourself as the prostitute who is viciously raped or tortured, and know not even to imagine asking for help. Place yourself in that situation, and know another man is waiting to rape you.

This can happen to all prostitute, whether working in hotels or flats or on the streets.

As long as men know there is a class of women and girls that they can rape, sell, torture, buy or kill – there will be prostitutes.

That will always destroyed prostitutes mentally.

The only cure is saying no man has the right to buy and sell women and girls just for their orgasms, power, hate, will to degrade and their stupid egos.

Men in Packs

Posted on by rmott62

Last night I watched a documentary about stag dos, and the danger that if they go with prostitutes that the women had been trafficked.

I was triggered so much that I sick for half the night.

I thought it this happens to most prostitutes, trafficked or not. Most prostitutes are meant to be on demand for packs of men, and must do whatever their whim is.

But to focus just on stags dos is ridiculous.

Men go in packs to use prostitutes for any and no reason.

It can to celebrate your team winning, to drown your tears when they lose.

It may students passing an exam or celebrating being 21.

It may coz one man is still a virgin.

It may bonding for businessmen.

It may just coz their pub is near the red light district.

Christ, it can be any man of any class, background and culture.

Put a man in a pack, and say sex is his prize, and I will guarantee he will give a shit about her human rights and dignity.

Hell, he won’t see that she is a human.

I remember inside my trauma, the fear when men came in packs. Maybe as individuals they were decent human beings, but once drunk and egg on by the pack – the only rule left for me was trying to stay alive and not hurt too bad.

These were the men that gang-raped me.

Men when they gang-rape are breaking every internal law that said keep another human being safe. As an individual, many of the men raping would view gang-rape was evil, when done to good women.

But there is the rub, it was fine to gang-rape a whore. She wants, needs and enjoy it.

If she doesn’t like it, it is her job, it is his right to be part of fucking her.

Also, many men can pretend they only did it because they didn’t to appear weak or gay.

Gang-raping a whore is a bonding experience – and for me was a slow death.

I had men who came in packs queuing to take terms to fuck me.

It was all so civilised, as they stood or sat waiting, they would chat and joke. As men came I sometimes hear their criticism of how my performance was.

Mainly along the lines – she lay like the dead, she wasn’t very friendly, doesn’t talk much silly bitch.

But each one would fuck me.

None give a damned if I was alive or not. I was just a slot machine they push their penis into.

Many times packs of men would choose the prostitute they would use.

This happened to me when I worked in clubs, I was chosen as I sat at the bar.

Most men that choose me wanted to do sadistic violence to me.

A few when we were alone would chat, some saying they don’t want to do really – just don’t want to look bad in front of their friends/colleagues.

Well, no-one can see what was happening in that room, so it would easy to not fuck me, just sit until time is up.

He could be a good guy.

But always I was fucked, often with anger and contempt because they had some a small moment of humanity before me.

Then I was made into nothing, and they could walk away like nothing had happened.

Every time packs of men use prostituted women and girls, they are destroying her ability to be human.

I find this so hard to write about, because their leisure is my trauma.

Last night, after watching the documentary I had a splitting headache until I sick and sick.

I was sick as my guts know the tortures, agony, fear, hate and degradation that packs of men put into me.

And they thought it was nothing.

All I know is no man has to buy a prostitute – all men can walk away from that.

Invisible Chains

Posted on by rmott62

I have been reading a piece by End Human Trafficking on the invisible chains that traffickers use to keep their victims silent.

I found it very triggering, and thought if you replace “trafficker” with manager, or with johns – then much of what traffickers do was familiar to me.

To be prostituted is to be trapped inside mental abuse.

To know not to be silent, is a freedom most prostituted women and girls cannot imagine.

I will use quotes, and then be personal.

But know my personal is just a small part of prostituted women and girls lived through every second of every day.

“Traffickers  control victim’s perception of their situation and the world by being the their primary or only source of information ….  The traffickers have also told you that you have no rights.”

I lived inside their reality, I came to believe that non-prostituted world was a delusion.

I was told I was safe, I was protected, I was understood, I could leave everything up to men.

I could not think, could not say, could not allow it to compute that if I so safe and protected – how come I was raped, beaten and degraded so often, too often.

No, I had to live so I believe this was my only world.

For I know, without their word, no-one would believe there was such a hell.

“They may force or entice you to take drugs or to drink alcohol and become addicted.”

Of course, for young girls this is not hard. It can be rebellious, wearing away awareness that the drink and or alcohol are being used to make you pliable.

When at 14, I was given free drinks, access to some drugs, I thought I was so hard.

I became a drunk without noticing.

I did not notice the pain as much if I drink enough spirits. I could not care.

I did think that all this free stuff had a price.

“Sometimes hope is the strongest weapon.”

God, hope nearly murdered me.

Hope is always held out by managers and or johns.

For them it all part of the game – for the prostituted woman or girl it is an erosion of their ability to be human.

Manager give me hope by saying it was wrong that one particular john was so violent. They would apologise, say they should protected me better.

Only to send me back to more and usually worse violence.

Sorry was a word of hope.

Sorry now is a word I cannot hear without proof of real change.

Johns held out hope as a prize I would never reach.

Hope that they would rescue me, married me, take me away. Hope that I would be an ordinary girlfriend.

Hope that love was real. Hope that they saw I was human.

Hope that this it will just “normal” sex without beating, anal, deep-throated, or constant name-calling.

Hope that I would not have to be detached, but might be connected.

Johns love dashing the hopes of prostitutes, it grind them into the dirt.

To survive, I learnt to throw away hope.

“One strong control tactic for creating emotional dependencies is providing occasional indulgences, like gifts, affection or information. These indulgences, especially when coupled with false promises, lure you into a false sense of security and trust.”

Here, I feel a deep sickness.

This trick kept me trapped for many years. It made me feel stupid for falling for their charm and ability to flash their cash.

I was often with johns who buy me expensive meals in posh hotels or restaurants – I choose to be in that moment, and forget what would do to me later.

I love being spoilt, so I easier cut out the rapes, the beatings and the hate in their eyes – as I eat and chatted lightly.

I could imagine that they cared a small bit.

I was given gifts – books, tapes, pictures etc. Stuff surrounded me.

Stuff could take away my deadness, that I had felt terror, that my body was screaming in agony.

But stuff give me false hope.

I thought I could trust the giver – then knew I was stupid as the raped, beat and call me whore.

I shut it down again.

“They may repeatedly tell you are alone in your situation, that no one will help or believe you, that you have no rights, that what has happened is your fault, or that there is no hope.”

Isolation is a powerful weapon in prostitution, it completely destroyed any essence that has managed to survive.

I knew as somehow crawled away from their sadistic violence that I was alone, I would never be believed, I should not even think to ask for help.

How could I get help when I brought it on myself. I was dirt, I had been fucked over and into over and over and over and over.

How dare I want help, when real women were being beaten and raped. Women who were innocent and deserving of help.

Whores like me don’t need help – just need to get on with doing their job.

Even when my pain was close to killing me, I did not imagine I could ask for help.

I had been made sub-human so why would I care about my welfare.

“Sometimes, sexual harassment and threatened sexual violence are even more effective tools of control. The traffickers may call you sexual names or threaten rape or assault.”

I find it odd, but some of the worse parts of my trauma is knowing this constant threats and harassment.

Many times, I work with managers who would feel me up, say how much they wanted to fuck me it just a joke, would call me slut whore and money-grabbing bitch.

They never raped me – only sent to johns to rape and rape and rape.

I get nightmares of johns who threaten me with burying my body somewhere, maybe chopping me up. That was a great joke.

I had johns who would strangle me till I nearly stopped breathing. God, that was so funny.

I was stalked by johns who had sadistically raped me. But now, they just want to be friends, say sorry – they won’t hurt me.

Gentle johns would laugh about how other johns might hurt me, they won’t, of course.

But I see how turn on they are talking about the violence.

This all I can write, for I see the darkness of that world. I see I was trapped, and only survived by not knowing that.