Monthly Archives: February 2010

No Game to Me

Posted on by rmott62

I have become a member of an amazing facebook group “Grand TRUTH Auto … I for one am sick of being complacent”. It is a group that tries to informs how mentally damaging the new computer game “Grand Theft Auto 4” is.

It is a game that is mostly about using extreme violence to gain bonuses.

This violence includes weapons such as machine gun, machine saw, baseball bat, flame thrower.

The player can torture, run over bystanders, murder anyone who gets in their way.

This is all meant to fun and entertaining.

For me, with my history, I am highly disturbed by the light-heartened tone as one of making bonuses is by murdering prostitutes.

The aim of the game is to pick up a prostitute off the street, take her to an abandoned area. Get fucked, then pay. And as she leaves, murder her in the most sadistic way the player can imagine, then take the money.

Then you get your bonus.

God, I obviously have no sense of humour, for I looking to how that is funny.

Isn’t it just reflecting some of the violence that happens to prostituted women and girls both on the streets and being used indoors.

It is common for johns to beat up prostitutes in order not to pay them.

Many murders of prostituted women and girls are done by johns too cheap to pay.

It just reflects a world view that prostitutes can be thrown away – hell, money it so much more important than a prostitute’s life.

It is no game for me.

Not when I have been beaten unconscious by johns, who either under-paid me or got it free.

Not when I brought to the edge of death by johns so they could save money

I cannot laugh about that.

I do believe this game does poisons the minds of players who become addicted to it.

It does feed the myth that prostitutes are sub-human and therefore disposable.

Please support the banning of this game.

Living in Films

Posted on by rmott62

I have been detached for most of my life.

Detachment stopped me from dying. Detachment made everything not matter – not even that I existed.

Part of this detachment was my addiction to films. I used them to escape. I used to find people who were outside of my life. I used to know stories.

But, mostly films became a way of pretending I was happy.

As a prostitute, I made roles for myself through films – I pretended to be any woman except the whore or the victim.

I have always been obsessed with film noir. Those women were the clothes I wanted to wear.

I started to imagine I was what I wasn’t, for in that time how could I really know what I was.

I didn’t mind being a doll or a moll. I would be tough as nails, I would wise-crack, I would sell men down the river.

I had to imagine I was so clever, so tough, so funny, so in control, so beautiful – so anything but reality.

I like those films coz sex crackle in every scene, but it was not shown.

I did not see as I was raped, as I was battered, as I had no voice – I did not see that fitting in any film I wanted to watch.

I hated the victim-role, I refused to acknowledge it.

I disappear into musical, into children’s films, into cartoon – into happy endings.

I saw films where there was bad, but it never lasted, where good was real.

I had no attachment to these films, I just live with their joy without understanding them.

In some of those films, I thought I understood love, and it made my stomach cold.

I wanted films where evil was destroyed, massacre, rip to shreds –  so I watch horror films.

I love films where children or outsider destroy the cozy, safe and normal groups or families.

I loved seeing mothers being destroyed by daughter, “Carrie” still bring me joy.

I saw films where sex lead to death, where evil is inside the ordinary, where hate and rage can triumph – these world made sense to me.

I was too dead to be scared, but horror movies stir a slow anger and wanting for justice inside me.

They may be trash movies, but for me they force my warrior to fight back, and force me to live.

I can never fully reject those films.

My brain stay alive by watching many European films, mainly Italian, German and French.

I love black and white Italian and French films with teenagers as leading parts.

I watch teenagers rebelling, running away, feeling lost in another country, in another time – and somewhere I know I still had tears.

Films are a major part of my life.

Many times I chosen to still live just coz there a good film on TV. I have chosen to live to sit alone in the cinema at some empty matinée.

Yes, I am a film addict – but I think god for that, fr it shelter me from a terrible reality of the hell I was living.

For there always a film I need to see.

Always Remember

Posted on by rmott62

This is dedicated to all my readers who have survived multiple abuse.

I wrote this when I first remembering that I was prostituted, but I know it is very important piece.

INTRODUCTION

I want to about a time in my life when memory was hard to find. A time when I lived as if violence was normal. At the time, I handled my life by not handling it. I chose to drink, try not to sleep. I wouldn’t eat healthy food. I had chosen to live reaching out for death.

I had chosen not to see or feel my life. I was just breathing. I thought I was dead. Then, everything would mean nothing.

Now, I’m remembering. All I can see is through a haze. I can’t feel for then, only a coldness in my stomach. Nevertheless, from somewhere, I’m remembering the real.

I know as I’m sick in the bathroom.

CHAPTER 1

I had always thought that being abused by my stepdad was enough. I had known fear, I had known pain, I had known confusion. I didn’t need to know anymore. Only, I didn’t know life was just 1 big sick joke.

I don’t remember when I was first abused outside of my home.

All I can remember is being at a party. I’m standing so still, listening –

“Whore, you’re a fucking whore.”

I don’t care. After all, it was what I was, what I’ve always been.

I think this was my first feeling of fear outside of my home. I think I was 12 or 13, I can’t remember. By that time, I had become a zombie.

I was at my friend’s birthday. The night before, he had stopped being a friend. Now, here, he is an enemy.

This can’t matter, it will not matter.

I had known him since I was a baby. Now, at his home, dead in the countryside, I have forgotten how to see.

When I arrived at his home, I was dazzled by how rich everyone was.

In the guest room, I feel lost, but I always feel lost.

I see him in the room. I don’t mind he’s my friend after all. He’s teasing me. He tells me how stupid I am. He tells that he likes dirty girls.

I think I’m laughing. Only I can’t remember.

He’s touching me, he’s pulling at my clothes. Saying –

“You know you want me.”

Only I don’t. I feel his hand in my cunt. He’s pushing me onto the bed. I feel the familiar pan return. I don’t want this.

I’m kicking him away. He’s just laughing –

“See, I always know that you were a whore.”

I wanted to scream at him, but my voice froze in my throat. I couldn’t speak, so I acted the good guest.

Looking back, I was in shock. I never expected I would get abused outside of home. I thought I was in control of my life. I was beginning to realise that I was never safe.

It was the beginning of giving up.

Afterwards, he treated me like a servant. I was expected not to complain. Once on a walk, he push me into a haystack, laying on top of me. I fought him off. Only, as I fought, I felt I was losing my will.

By the time the party arrived, I don’t care. As I was called whore, I didn’t care. After all, I didn’t matter.

CHAPTER 2

As I became a teenager, I lost belief in hope. Instead, I made death my best friend.

I could no longer understand anything. I tried to make sense of my world, but I didn’t want to live.

I turned to self-destruction.

I begun to drink in order to die.

As I grow into a teenager, I disappeared into pubs. I drunk lager, but I couldn’t taste it. I just drink to remind myself what a piece of shit I was. I know that all I deserved was death or pain.

Now, I look back at my drinking, and I can’t imagine how I stay alive. I look back at myself, and I don’t want to recognise her. I see a person who lived to die. She’s not scared, she just accepts pain as normal. I had decided to lose who I was. I wanted not to feel. When events happened to me, it was as if nothing had happened.

Drinking, my world grow smaller. I wanted to forget everything. Always, pain reminded me that I was still alive. I chose to believe that pain was all I deserves.

CHAPTER 3

As I grow into a teenager, I lost everything that should of matter to me. I lost my family. I lost the habit of going to school. I lost my love for cats. I lost the sense that I existed.

I had to do everything alone. I know I had to invent my own rules. I run away from home, only I always come back. I thought I should stop eating, only I didn’t like being hungry. I thought I should not sleep, only my eyes always shut.

So, all I could do is to cut my arms. I saw beauty as the blood was flowing.

Remember, how quiet my room is. See I’m alone. Sitting so still, holding my knife. I don’t remember how it got into my hand. It’s just there.

CHAPTER 4

I had drifted into a world where nothing mattered. I could feel my self-hate creep into every cell. I wanted to stop feeling. I wanted to be nothing.

I’m 14, I don’t go to school, only to get register.

I’m dying. I’m by the teacher’s cars, I’m hiding. I see someone, I see her eyes. I see her blazing with hate, then quickly going dead. Yes, I see her, as she sees me. We know we must be friends.

I see she cares about nothing. We don’t care a we play “Roots”. I white, tied round my neck, crawling on my hands and knees. Her black, stick in hand, playing whipping me, playing my master. No, we don’t care, we couldn’t care. We enjoy shocking our teachers, pulling us apart as we hit each other. We just run away, screaming –

“Fuck you all.”

Yes, she was my friend as we loudly spoke of hating our parents. My friend as we laid on her bed, drinking. My friend as I shown her my cuts. We just laughed at death.

Yes, we understood each other.

Now, I look back, I see I was desperate for some type of love. I needed to be needed. I always know she was dangerous. Only, I thought I was in control.

We begun to run away together, running into the night. We didn’t care for our homes, but we wanted our homes to care for us.

She said –

” I know somewhere that’s really bad.”

I thought I know what bad was. Only I know nothing.

She took me to a club, round midnight. I saw a queue of young girls. They all looked as if they were dead. I decided not to look.

I was excited to be going into an adult club, especially as we got in free. Inside, we got free drinks. We felt great, we were special.

Looking back, I can see how blind I was. I couldn’t see the reality. I didn’t see that the girls were under-aged. I wouldn’t see the men were all old.

I was 14, I thought I understood. I thought I know everything.

I enjoyed having my drinks brought for me. I thought I was sophisticated. Only, no man spoke to me. I imagined I was in a movie, imagined I was Joan Crawford. I drunk cocktails. I thought I could belong.

Only, I said nothing.

All I did was to wait. Wait for the music to stop. Then men would come to me. Then they would take me away. Always there was no words. I just know to go with them.

This is a time that’s hard to remember. I always want to blame myself. I don’t why I stayed in that club. I don’t know why I didn’t run away. I had the dumbness of cattle going to it’s own slaughter.

Always, we went back to private flats. Close the door and no-one will care. No-one will see.

There’s a kitchen, a corridor, a bathroom. I can see, but I can’t see. There’s always a bedroom.

I know what to do. I get undressed. All that was normal. I lay naked on the bed, I know to wait.

Waiting, for what I thought I knew.

Always I remember the closed door. After that, all I see is flashes. All I feel is a sickness. I want to remember, all I feel is fear.

I can remember that I had a fury all the time.

I can remember thinking that it would be just sex. I knew I had to lay still, not to feel, then it would all be over.

Only, I knew nothing. As i saw their eyes staring into me, I could feel their hate. I didn’t want it, but had my arms tied. Then, sex happened.

I feel terror. I wanted to forget what is happened to me. Only, always I get flashes inside my sickness. I remember 1 man on top of me, I see others standing round watching. I remember I was chocked. I remember pain was  everywhere. Not just inside my cunt.

Mainly, I remember their contempt. They never spoke to me. All they did was to push me into the right position. I never had time to think. All I could do , was to remember how to breathe.

I was thrown out onto the street. I knew I was a piece of rubbish.

Now, I can see slightly more. I can see how many injuries I had. I imagined my bleeding was my period. I knew I was lying to myself, I was terrified to think anything else. I decided not to see I was bleeding all over. If you don’t see, it’s not there. I see cuts and bruises all over my body. This couldn’t matter. It mustn’t matter.

CHAPTER 5

I walked through my injuries. i had been thrown out of some flat at 3 in the morning. All I do was to wait for the sun to rise. I look at people coming home from night shifts. I want to stay on the streets. It’s so calm.

I wait for my friend, she will walk me home. I can’t think where she is.

At the time, I had lost the will to be aware. I wanted to be a ghost. Then, nothing could hurt me. Then, I would stop caring that no-one cared.

Sometimes, I imagined that my mother saw my injuries, it force her to care. I dreamt she stopped the world for me. She would take me to her heart, saying –

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,”

Always I would wake. My mother saying –

“You only get what you deserve.”

Until I was 17, I thought my mother would care. I hoped against hope, that she would see her wounded daughter and save her.

All she did was to ignore me.

I needed her attention. I thought by accepting violence, she would see me. I thought that if I was murdered, then she would be sorry.

I was accepting that I deserved male violence. It was my way of being close to death. Only it brought me back to life. I learnt to get use to men raping me 1 after the other. After all, it was all I deserved.

I thought that if my mum saw me as a slut, that was all I was.

Only, I wasn’t even good at that. Often I only got £5, I was cheap. Mostly I wasn’t paid. I was too confused to notice. Sometimes, I wasn’t paid, because I was knocked unconscious.

What I didn’t notice, or chose not to notice was the presence of my friend. Sometimes I heard her chatting with the men. Laughing with them. This was too confusing. She was never bruised. I never saw her having sex. Finally, I saw her taking a load of cash.

She saw me, and laughed.

CHAPTER 6

I was changing, changing into a person I didn’t want to know. A person I grow to hate.

I put my terror deep down into my stomach. I chose to forget that I had a brain. I stop imaging that I needed love. None of that mattered. I was just a piece of shit. Why else did i live with pain all the time.

I was living by the skin of my teeth. Personally, I had no idea why I was still alive. I knew I still alive, for I saw in the morning.

Once I took an overdose, I was unconscious for a few days. I was able to touch death. I don’t why I survived, only that somewhere there was a fierce will to live.

Somewhere a voice saying –

“Live,1 day you will tell your story.”

CHAPTER 7

Abuse destroys memory. That’s all I know. When I remember, it’s all messed up. I remember with doubts that any of it can be real, knowing it is the truth.

Abuse destroys emotions. That’s all I know. All that is left is an empty shell. Crying hides in corners. Anger rises as bile from the pit of my stomach, only to get struck in my throat. I put compassion deep in a grave.

I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to feel my teenage years. It is a broken time.

I had become a person who walked towards danger. It didn’t matter, I would be dead soon.

That time didn’t matter. It mustn’t matter. Now, I look at my past. I want to see beyond the sickness. I want to see with tears. All I feel is a coldness. I see that I survived. I want to miss out that time, and go straight to the end. That would be so easy. I could avoid what I don’t want to see.

Only, I must remember, I must allow myself to feel. For that time belongs to me. All I know that as I remember, I’m learning to rest.

I can remember that I am wandering the streets. I can remember that I cut my arms. I don’t why I keep cutting, only I can’t stop.

Anyhow, I have forgotten who I am.

CHAPTER 8

Now I try to lay down some of the abuse that I can remember. Maybe then, I can gain some stillness.

When I do remember, I always forget my age. All I feel is others hate all around me. All I know is that I deserve their hatred.

I thought I could be friends with men. All I found was rape and battering. I taught myself that I was an object to be used. I was a slut after all. I chose to stop feeling. I watch as their eyes went into me. I was still as they touched me all over. Always, I forgot they could be friends.

I just know whatever happened couln’t be stopped. There was nothing that I could do. It didn’t matter, for now I was nothing.

I became angry that I still search for love. I thought that I would find a lover. I imagined I would be brought flowers. I would taken to the cinema. I would be special. Someone would like talking to me. I would be seen.

I so wanted to be ordinary.

All I knew was to accept violence. I remembered as men fucked me in alleys, behind pubs. As they unzipped my trousers, I lost all emotions. They never look at my eyes. I was just a hole where they left their sperm. If they did speak, it was to call me names.

I remember a man screwing me in a graveyard. I remember the coldness of the stone. I know the man didn’t see me. All I could do was to imagine sinking into the grave, there I would suffocate. All I heard was –

“Was that ok.”

I had separated from my cunt. it was nothing to me.

After all, my cunt was betraying me.

CHAPTER 9

I can remember events, events that penetrate my brain. What I don’t remember is how I continued.

Looking back, I see a person who walks towards death, as she wanted to live so much.

I hear somewhere –

“This is not all there is. Please child, hold on in there.”

CHAPTER 10

I’m walking. I think I’m walking home, I know I’m walking somewhere. I walk down a familiar road from the same old pub. I know the route by heart.

I imagine the streets are safe.

I allow myself to glimpse happiness.

I see a bunch of skinheads sitting on a wall. I see people avoiding them. I think nothing. I see them spitting. This means nothing to me. I walk straight pass them.

They see me. They know me, know I’m easy.

They surround me. I don’t think, this is nothing. They push and poke at me. I hear their words, I see their laughter. I imagine that I am safe. I hear –

“There’s only 1 thing to do with a dyke.”

For some reason, I thought of Anita in “West Side Story”. I thought these things don’t happen. Not with all these people walking round.

Only, I felt a hand reaching into my cunt. I heard skinhead girls screaming at me. All I could feel was their eyes staring into me.

I lay there like a dead fish. I just wanted it to be over.

From nowhere a policeman came. He wasn’t worried, saying –

“Calm down, boys. Don’t be silly.”

I saw he was laughing with the skinheads. Nothing mattered.

The policeman turned to me –

“You know, it’s not safe to be out so late at night.”

Then I walked home alone.

CHAPTER 11

I had decided to give up on trust. I live in a world where I had to make my own rules. As I tried to invent my life, I had no idea where to start.

All I know was that I had to changed.

Until I changed, everything went on as usual.

I was betrayed by wanting to be friends with men. I was always caught with their violence. I lost all hope.

I wanted to find friendship in a man. I thought then I could be normal. Then, I would be able to relax.

I thought I could be close with a man. A man I thought I didn’t fear. A man I thought as a joker.

After he went I sat in shock, I had forgotten how to speak. I just had to shut it out.

I just shut my eyes. I couldn’t cry. I felt my body shaking. I must remember how to stay in control.

All I can think was that he had been a good friend for years. He had never touched me before. I remembered I had always felt safe with him. I had been drunk in front of him. After all, I had never felt fear around him. With him, I could imagine that I could trust men.

Here now, he’s smashing all that. Here now, he places me back into the sewer.

He stayed destroying me for 6 hours. Still, somehow, I imagined he was my mate. I needed that idea, it felt safe. As I saw his eyes staring into me, I knew our friendship had gone. I knew not to fight.

For some reason, my pride got in the way. I keep telling him to go.

He just hit me, so hard, I hit the wall on the other side of the room.

So, I give up. After all, I wanted to live.

All I could feel was his hate creeping in on every inch of my room. I knew there was no escape, only there may be an end.

He told to get undressed. I knew to obey him. I knew to stop thinking.

When he was fucking me, I could hear him asking me what I scared of. Then he would do that. Sometimes I heard him speaking to me in a voice of a child. All the time, he was giving me pain that I couldn’t imagine could exist. He bit, scratched and ripped at my vagina. I imagined he was tearing me out. He placed his penis in every hole he could find, including my left ear. He tied me up. All the time, He wouldn’t stop speaking.  He told me he was doing aversion therapy, taking the place of my stepdad.  After all, he was curing me.

I lay under him, I try to remember to keep breathing. Itried watching trains passing by the window, I imagined that I would be fine.

Only, I stopped breathing. It felt so nice. It was calm, I was floating away. I just looked down, seeing someone, seeing me. Seeing a lump of flesh getting fucked. I see it so clearly. I see his penis in my mouth, pillow over my eyes. I see his fist in my cunt. I see it all, I won’t believe it. I will just die. That would be so easy.

Only, he is pouring hot breath into my lungs, saying –

“Don’t die on me, bitch.”

Even now, I hate him. I hate that he betrayed me.  I hate that he wouldn’t allow me to die. I hate that he wanted me to remember him. I hate that I can’t forget him. All I know, is I wish him some of my pain.

I should have told someone. All I knew, it was my word against his. Silence was safer. After all, he said if I told, he would say how I enjoyed violent sex. Wasn’t I just screwed up by my stepdad.

So, I continued as if nothing had happened.

CHAPTER 12

I decided I wasn’t affected. Only, I was losing control. I drunk in order to die. I eat junk food, as little as possible.  I was throwing myself away.

I try not to close my eyes. If I fall asleep, I would relax. If I relaxed, the pain came back.

I was living in pubs. When they closed, I went to men’s houses. I let them hate me. In their violence, I forgot I had a brain.

I couldn’t care. For me, being raped was normal. I got smashed up, I knew it was all that I deserved.

I wouldn’t feel how terrified I was. I thought I was strong. Whatever I did, I never died. I couldn’t die.

It all happened because I was bad, that’s all.

But, for some reason, I couldn’t stop caring. I wanted to die so much. Always, something wild wanted to live. It was always there.

I would hear a child crying –

“Please make it stop. I want it to stop.”

CHAPTER 13

When I was 17, I worshiped death. I knew that hope was a useless emotion.

As I reached 17, I tried suicide. My mother caught me, she just laughed, saying –

“You can’t even do that.”

I was walking headlong into danger. I didn’t care, I couldn’t care. Safety was just a dream.

At the time, I thought I knew everything. I thought I was in control. I thought I could handle the pain. After all, I could stop it at any time.

God, I was so young.

1 night, I stayed behind at the club. I went back with the DJ. I known he hit women. He was the sort of man that I deserved.

I thought i knew how he would treat me. I was so naive.

I see it now. I see a teenager trying to make sense of her world. She is trying so hard.

I see her when I see streetwise kids looking defiant. I see their fear. I feel their emptiness. As I see them now, I cry.

Then, I couldn’t allow myself to think. I couldn’t feel. All I knew was to keep moving.

I let him take me to his flat. He never looked at me. After all, I was a whore. So far, so normal.

I was fascinated by his posters. Images of women crawling to the camera on their hand and knees. Some dragged by chains, some in cages. I thought I understood.

When he fuck me, it was so hard, so quick. I could hear somewhere I was screaming. Only, I never made any noise. I would never show that much fear.

I found he was hitting me, telling me to stop screaming.  He throw me out of the flat. I could not think if I was in pain.

Only, I could not stop bleeding. I just ignore that.

Only, the bleeding went on for days. The pain wouldn’t fade. I could barely walk. I fainted going down the stairs.

As I rose from the fainting, I heard my mum saying I faking illness. I said nothing. Only the hate grow.

Somehow, I knew that I was pregnant. Even after a test was negative, I just knew. I could feel a being slowly spreading poison into my veins. As the second test came back positive, I thought see I don’t always lie.

I don’t how I knew, I thought it would just my luck. All I knew there was no was I was going to have a baby.

How could I bring a baby into my world. A world where my mother hates me. A world where the baby has no father. How could I tell the baby it’s father is a rapist. A world where the baby’s mother would be dead soon.

No, I couldn’t have a baby.

But, I wanted something that was mine. I wanted a baby as my private prize.

So, I did the right thing. I had an abortion.

No-one asked me how I felt about it. So, I carried on like nothing had happened.

Years later, I cried for my loss. I knew I was right to have the abortion. But I had always thought I would be a mother later.

CHAPTER 14

I knew I had to escape my world. I had reached my bottom. By touching hell, I found I wanted another life. Maybe I would find myself.

I was back in the world where I was being paid for sex. I knew this world. I could be an object for men to have sex in. I thought I could forget the pain, as I was counting the money.

At the time, having money meant I was someone. Only I never could stay hold of the money. I would throw it away, it was burning into my heart. I was paid a lot, but I wasted it. I would throw it into the river.

I was drawn to men who debase me. They fitted the image I had of myself.

I found a punter who enjoyed hurting me.It was a slow suicide. I knew he would not run out of ideas of how to hurt me. I didn’t care, I just took his money. After all, he paid over the top. I would be his property,

Every time he fucked me, I felt like I was dead. But always I went back to him. I was addicted.

He anally abused me. He always forced it up me. I never had any warning. Always, he pushed me against a wall with my legs together. Often I would faint, I could feel my heart trying to stop. I never died.

I stopped the pain by drowning in whisky.

It was my way of committing suicide. I took the pain, I knew I was nothing. I was going in and out of consciousness, nothing mattered. I let him humiliate me. It didn’t matter. I got used to him telling me to be quiet, when all I wanted to do was to scream and scream. It didn’t matter. It means nothing.

Only, my body was shocked by the pain.

As time went on, I couldn’t go on. I tried to act normal, to act as if nothing was happening.

Once after being with him, I went to a party. I walked across town, ignoring the pain. I ignored the blood in my knickers. I walked, imaging I would forget. At the party, I danced like there was no tomorrow.

Then I sat down. The pain shoot up me, going straight to my heart. I fainted. I had lost control.

There was a panic, others saw blood on my chair. I couldn’t understand the fuss, it wasn’t important. Before I could speak, I was being taken to a hospital.

I has always been scared of hospitals. I thought I would be locked away for good. I was scared to be ill, I could not be that vulnerable. I was scared to be scared.

There I was treated as I deserved. The nurse took 1 look of me and dismiss me. She saw my injuries were anal, told me I was wasting her time. After all, no-one gets torn there less they want it. I felt she saw who I was. I didn’t care she didn’t use a painkiller as she sew me up. She looked into my bag, seeing a wad of cash. Yes, she saw me.

I just wanted to be invisible.

For the first time, the pain was penetrating my deadness. I still made no fuss. Only, inside my screaming was getting louder and louder. I wanted to cry. Only, I couldn’t.

When I got home, I lay on my bed.

The next morning, I could not move.

CHAPTER 15

I was paralysed. My body had given up on me, all I could move was my eyes. At first, it meant nothing to me, only it went on for days.

Now I know my body had had enough, so it closed down. It would stop me from destroying myself. My body had enough of pain in every cell. Enough of eating junk food. Enough of knocking back pills in order to stay awake. Enough of cuts across my arms.

Now, enough was enough.

All I could was to think, as I stared at the ceiling.

I knew I could slip quietly into death. That would not matter.It would be nothing. Only –

“Live, damned you , live,”

I decided to live, if only to prove that I could.

CONCLUSION

This piece of writing was one of the hardest thing I have done. This is because it goes back to a time that seems to have no end.

Only, there was an end.

Now, I look back with awe and wonder that I came out of that time alive. Now, I look back and I am deeply proud of the person I was then. I see I was always a fighter. I was never destroyed completely.

They could rape my body, but they could never reach me.

I cannot say that I was a good person then. Only I don’t care, for I survived.     

It Can’t Be Made Safe Enough

Posted on by rmott62

Often I hear, read and are told, that if prostitution was made safer, than what’s the problem.

I never understand that concept, for me I would say it like placing a band-aid on cut throat. It may make the helper feel better, but little or nothing to protect the prostituted woman or girl.

To be honest, when I hear the language of a safer form of prostitution, I know I am hearing the words of all those who will gain from the sex trade.

Even though some say it from the goodness of their heart,  they have fallen naively into traps of pimps, managers and johns.

One thing that gets to me, is the constant emphasis on the johns wearing condoms.

On the practical level, this is extremely naive – for it assume that johns give a damn about protection, that they twice about STD’s  or getting a whore pregnant.

It assume that all johns do is penetration, or maybe anal or oral.  That there not many and varied ways of placing the prostituted woman or girl in danger.

It assume that profiteers from prostitution do not persuade the prostituted woman or girl, she will earn more if she get screwed without protection.

It assume that prostituted woman or girl like herself enough to care if she get a STD or AIDS.

That is just the practical level.

Wearing condoms only works if the sex trade give a damn about the goods – knowing the whore is there to be thrown away.

If she get sick from preventable sexual diseases, there are millions of more girls that can be lure into the sex trade.

If she get pregnant, there are always abortions or she can just work with a child.

If  her cunt gets ruined, that no problem coz she can just be chuck out.

There is a huge belief that indoors prostitution must be safe, or at least safer than street prostitution.

This I cannot get my head round.

What is safe about being struck in a room with a strange man who knows he has permission to do whatever he wants to you.

What is safe about being struck in that room when he can use as much time as he wants to fulfill his porn fantasy. Only thing stopping him is not having enough money.

What is safe for the prostitute when the john can torture, rape, batter and play games with her life, behind what becomes private just because a door is shut.

Yes, I heard the weasel words of the sex trade.

Words of how that they look after their girls.

They give escorts bodyguards, they place cameras in the room, they have alarm systems, they banned dodgy johns – hell the safety of their girls is top of their list of things to be done.

As I hear those words, I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

All I know is I have a sickness in my throat, and a dread in my heart.

Remember any man can rape or batter, can even murder, any prostitute in less than a minute.

So, even with a bodyguard, camera or working alarm – she is never safe enough.

But that is in an imagined world where the sex trade gives a damn if she is being raped or battered.

In reality, the violence is the norm, and she is expected to put up with and to act as she is enjoying it.

If there is a bodyguard or men watching the cameras, more than likely they will get their rocks off as she is being sexually tortured.

Hell, some of the film in the camera can make even more profit if sold as “amateur” porn.

As for alarm systems, even if they are turned on – how when being raped, sexually tortured or battered can you think clearly enough to use the alarm. That is assuming the prostitute can reach the alarm.

The sex trade get a massive profit from extras, which is mostly sadistic sex.

The sex trade fleeces dangerous johns every hour of every day. Why should the sex trade give a damn whether johns put their goods in danger.

Remember in the world of the sex trade money speak very loud, and prostituted women and girls are just disposable.

I am told prostitution would safer if under-aged prostitution and trafficking were stopped.

The sex trade would never allow that – although it will give the false image that all prostitutes choose their lifestyle – and under-aged and or trafficked prostituted are rare.

Of course, the sex trade will say they will deal with that problem in-house.

Knowing all the time, that all the sex trade is built on the blood of women and girls who had no choice, were brainwashed, were placed into terror, cannot know there is an exit.

The sex trade makes its huge profits from having a class of women and girls who have no voice, no power, no idea of their life span.

These are women and girls that can be manipulated into whatever violent porn fantasy that makes the biggest profit.

In that environment, there is never any safety for the prostitute.

We can only make it safe enough when we built a world that refuses to allow any john to buy any prostitute for any reason.

Then we can slowly destroy the sex trade.

Then we can truly speak of safety.

What Image Suit You

Posted on by rmott62

The image of the whore is spread across history, into pictures, into books, drowning out TV dramas, into lectures at colleges, inside edgy jokes, making urban documentaries serious, holding up the good in all religions and philosophies – shit, the whore is everywhere.

Everywhere there is the whore, but as a real human being.

I want to look at the stereotypes images of the whore, and I will question them all. All I want is that the whore is just a girl or woman who is as complex, as you are who reading this.

But, I am a realistic, I know having cartoon whores makes it easier to pity, to condemn, to say I wouldn’t do that but I mustn’t judge, to raise the whore on a pedestal, to make her a goddess, to say she is nothing but dirt, and generally to turn away from her human side.

THE WHORE AS VICTIM

The simple stereotype of the whore is that she is the endless victim.

A victim who will never recover, a victim who goes head-long into trouble.

Her rapes are seen, but at the same time they are ignored with a shrug – well, that’s her job ain’t it.

It is seen their extreme violence done to her, it is seen she is trapped, it is seen that her life span may be short.

It is seen that her mind, body and soul has been stolen by the sex trade.

But nothing is done.

She is a victim that others have decided no-one can or would be willing to help.

Every night, in cities people walk pass whores, knowing they are not happy, knowing they may do acts that would sickened the passer-bys.

All the time, people walk by buildings where  it is rumoured women are trapped in brothels.

All the time, others read of trafficking.

They may feel pity, they may have a small degree of shock – but most just say prostitution will always be there.

These victims are stepped over, whilst nicer victims who are more pliable are helped.

WHORES ARE GREAT BUSINESSWOMEN

This is the concept that the good whore will makes a ton of money by manipulating johns.

She is the whore who will always be safe, always in control.

She will fuck men whilst hating them for being so weak.

She is the praying mantis of the sex trade.

In reality, she is just some porn-dream invented by men, invented so men can fuck, rape, beat up, humiliate, murder, torture all whores – without the inconvenient of having a conscience.

However violent and hateful his actions are, he will seen as the victim.

It was the whore who made him crazy, the whore who put in his head such vicious sexual acts, the whore who made him lose his true path.

THE WHORE IS THERE TO MAKE GOOD GOOD

This leads to the most dangerous stereotype. The whore is the epitome of bad, the bad women from all time and every culture.

If it wasn’t for the whore being the ultimate scapegoat, how on earth would boys and men know what women they can marry, settle down with.

If it wasn’t for the whore, where could boys and men put all their fuck-dreams, how could they fuck hard and nearly murder and it not rape or even real violence.

If it wasn’t for whores putting their lives on the line, then what would happen to the porn industry, where would armed forces be able to rest and relax, what would happen the income of countries where fucking is a tourist attraction.

The whores save good women from rape, from the pure hate of men – or so the myth makes out.

It is utter bullshit.

Men who rape, batter, torture and murder the whore – will hate and abuse the good women too.

But the whore lives inside the male hate and violence without any idea that others give a damn.

For the whore, her purpose is to be a lightening rod for male hate.

Her safety, her soul, her dreams, her life expectancy, her rights to be a full human – all that is of no importance.

All she is living porn, to be screwed in every hole, even to make holes that don’t exist.

She is trash, that no care is taken if she gets STD’s, pregnant or AIDS. After all, she is the dirt that spread the diseases into good women.

The whore cannot never be truly pitied – for it a truth that is constantly said that she is pure evil.

That shut the whore up very efficiently.

END WORD

This is just a start – for it is exhausting writing this.

All I want is that you look for the human in the whore.

That is a start.

Other Stuff

Posted on by rmott62

To survive my grief and confusion, I must have other stuff.

First and most important are my close friends.

Friends who listen to my whole life, and still bring back my laughter.

Friends who see the whore’s terror, whore finding she is in agony in the mind and body, whore who can’t cry but body shake with deep sorrow.

Friends who listen on the phone, in room full of other – listen without judging, without disgust, without comparing.

Friends who show how alive I am.

Friends who show me that I can give and receive love.

I have found I believe in some kind of Christian.

I don’t go to church much – but I prayer a lot.

Not as I did, out of desperation pleading for some help, any help.

Not as I did, out of a fury determined to find there was nothing there.

Not as I did, going in and out of liberal Christian beliefs knowing I would never fit, never fit coz my heart was closed by knowing I was bad.

No – all that is no longer my clothes.

My belief is that the lowest, the most scared, the ones who have known how man makes a hell on earth, the confused, the hurt in every cell in their bodies – these are the people who I prayer with and for.

When I prayer, I prayer to a space that I cannot name, I prayer into the centre of my guts not knowing how and why I do.

All I know I feel a courage, a belief that my is true, a holding, a place to rest.

All I know in prayer I can place my fury at injustice, place my invisible tears at the waste of a billions of girls and women to the sex trade.

All I know is I can prayer walking in a busy city road, prayer as I watch TV, I always feel prayer as I write this.

I am person who cannot fit with ritual or feel silly when praying with others.

I don’t why but my prayer as part of the general noise of my life.

But I not good with silence – too many years of not speaking, not being heard if I did speak,

Too many years of words of others being made my reality – words that murdered any ability to prayer.

I would I am very anarchist Christian –  I believe in the Gospels and that’s all. I don’t want a building, I don’t want that community – I just want and need to discover and fight for my own path.

But sometimes I go to Quakers or Unitarians – they don’t mind my kicking against the club.

I get great relief from TV, in TV I switch off this blog, let my hurt child, my lost teenager, my exhausted whore to have a break.

For the child, she love Doctor Who, music that is just fun, finding Bewitched and the Avengers. My child likes to laugh and get safely scared.

For the teenager, I watch “youth” drama. She love all the vampire stuff, especially Being Human. She watches TV teenager, wants the angst of Dawson Creek, laugh with Glee. She watches CSI, to fancy some women in the programme.

She wants to be safe enough to fancy women on TV without sex destroying her joy of lust.

She watches horror stuff, for she enjoy the ride of artificial fear, knowing nothing bad can happen to her now. But horror must be like a ride at a fair – no real sickness, no connection to real torture – just horror with it tongue deeply in its cheek.

Her favourite horrors are not so scary – such as Carrie, Hitchcock, Don’t Look Now, old horror films.  As long as it takes away her real terror – than she enjoys a damned good scare.

My teenager loves cricket, football and rugby. She spends hours watching sports, happy being in the moment – letting her sorrow, pain and rage melt slowly away.

And the whore love dark and complicated dramas. She love Six Feet Under, Dexter, True Blood. She wants to taken away from her reality by complex plots, fine acting and world that are not her’s.

She love music and arts documentaries, love how they remind that her brain store knowledge of culture both low and high, even when she thought her mind was dead.

I write this post to reward my soul.

Insomnia

Posted on by rmott62

I have woken up when it is still dark, still little noise.

I listen to classical music and want to write. Sometimes writing can done in a haze, and this is one of those times.

I woke up crying, I woke into a sense I am slowly growing into me. A me I hardly know.

I cry at the grief I am so cut off from my self.

I cry with relief I have the courage and will to not be scare to seek my self.

I cry as I laugh that actually I am not too shabby.

My heart is aching with a pain, a pain that is life.

In this last week I stare directly at some of my deepest terror.

I look at Girlfriend Experience, and named some of the times doing that.

I saw GFE for what it is – it was  not just bad one-night stands, it was not love, it was not being a good escort, it certainly was never a way out.

No, it was a form of slavery.

What else, when the men that had me owned my body.

My body could fuck at anytime, anywhere. My body was theirs to torture, to rape and to throw away when they got bored.

My body survived by refusing to feel, and acting like it did not care.

What else, when the men that had me owned my mind.

My every thought had to fit in with their thoughts, I had to fit to whatever sick porn-fantasy they had.

To survive my mind had to be two steps ahead of them, so I avoided as much hitting and raping as I could.

But a slave is hit and raped for no reason, except to remind her that she is just dirt.

I stare deep into GFE and know it is sick.

I know that and cry.

I have stare deep into how young I was when I made my self dead to my reality.

I was a child – I cut away my soul when I was round 12 or 13.

I died when I knew that my stepdad would have me at anytime, any place, he had me or not have me just depending on his whim.

I died as each Friday night he finger me, eat me out, push his penis down my throat.

I died as he stroke me after or before, saying how much he loved me, that he would never hurt me, that I made him do these things, as he would cry.

I died as I was wandering the street not remembering why I wouldn’t go home, not caring if it was cold or dark . Not giving a fuck.

I died as I realise drink made me not care.

I died as I found it easy to be under-aged in a pub,  pubs where cash was above the law.

I died as I found it was easy to get a bed if you went with any man. Not care what they did.

How can a corpse care.

I died, I died and I was a child.

I was 12, I was 13.

Read that again – read that clear.

I was 12, I was 13.

I enter indoors prostitution as the role I deserved when I was 14 – but I enter already dead.

This week, I have face that I was a child, not some adult who was so damned hard.

The men that had me were child rapists. No exchange of money, no exchange of sex for having a bed for the night, no that I may asked them to be with them – none of that is an excuse.

Those men known, enjoy and got huge power-trip from raping a child – knowing I would never tell, and it was a non-crime fucking another whore.

I never cried then – so I will sure as hell cry now.

And I cry more knowing that the vast majority of prostituted women were made dead as young girls.

I cry that we lived in a world where that has made that invisible.

Maybe I get a little sleep now.

Waves of Trauma

Posted on by rmott62

Today I got the trauma of remembering GFE and how young I was when I became dead enough to become a whore.

Trauma is the shock of knowing what makes you sick, what put you into terror, what degradation had been part of you – knowing that was a reality that you lived through.

Trauma comes from a sickness lying dormant in your stomach, it the headaches that no painkiller can cure.

Trauma is when your eyesight is blurred and refusing to see a real world – but the optician finds nothing wrong.

Trauma is lying in being raped over an over and over, knowing you are alone in the room.

Trauma is thinking you are worth nothing, that others have it much worse than you.

Trauma is shutting your eyes and being in rooms, being behind pubs, being in hotels rooms, being at parties – always that moment struck in time before he will sexually torture you.

Trauma is the screaming of no, and on voice comes out.

Trauma is the need to fuck for money again, to be degraded, to be a fuck-doll – anything not to think  any more.

Trauma is the war against self-harming, not getting drunk, not cutting up, not going out late at night to wander round dangerous parts of the city.

Trauma is learning to comfort yourself by any means.

Trauma is having the courage to reach out to friends.

Trauma is learning that you can cry.

Trauma is allowing yourself to prayer.

I speak of trauma and hope other will reach out to me and all brave survivors of the sex trade.

Damned Girlfriend Experience

Posted on by rmott62

Dedicated to Biting Beaver, for being a huge inspiration.

An aspect of prostitution that lives inside my trauma is the GFE (Girlfriend Experience}.

This usually is when the john wants you as an escort, but not just for sex, but to control every other aspect of your mind and body.

That in the sex trade is what a girlfriend is. Always held inside his porn-mind, the “girlfriend” will have to be interested in everything he is, everything he does.

She must eat the food he likes, drinks when he wants, watch TV with him, go to parties with him, meet his friends, dress as he wants, sleep when he let her sleep – and of course, have sex whenever and wherever he wants.

Being a GFE is to be turned into a porn robot..

Like many prostitutes I hated every second of GFE, for it felt like being enslaved. I feel sick as I remember some of what I had to do for those men.

Those men love the power of owning another human being – the more degraded I was the more pleasure the johns got.

I was their property, so I had no rights, only hope it would not be too bad.

And I was paid enough to block it out when it was over.

Some men did not even pretend that they saw me as a human.

One man who round 40 years older than me, would meet in the pub. There he ignore for most of the night, only to take back to his house.

There he would violently anally abused for several hours. This would be once a week, until I too ill to do it any more.

That was GFE at it’s most brutal – not as the media portrays it, but a reality for a great many escorts all over the world.

There was no affection, no interest that I had a life outside of him.

No to be GFE, the prostitute must forget she is real.

She is whatever fuck-doll the john wants.

I had johns who would dress me up, and take me to posh parties. Showing that they had a girlfriend – never mention the money in public.

This was a nightmare for a whore has no place except as decoration as those parties. I try to talk, but what can I say – so I learnt quick to follow converations, and say words that made it sound like I was normal.

All the time drink was a problem, my intinct was get ratted, but I knew to drink little so I could have a tiny bit of control.

Only to be drunk for the fucking later make deadened some of the pain.

Even at posh parties, some johns loved the power-trip of fucking me, degrading in the toilet, in the car, in some bedroom – knowing anyone could walk in. They loved fingering me as we danced, or were sitting talking to others.

Always reminding me what I was – like I could ever forget.

Some johns would meet in pubs with their mates. Again to prove they could get a girlfriend, get a trophy.

This was terrible, for the relaxed atmosphere would fool my brain that it was real. Speaking and drinking with his mates, I thought I was liked, that I was was of some interest.

That maybe I was human.

That was knocked out me damned fast, when he was fucking me later. Then I remember I was just holes and a porn-dream.

Some johns would have me for a week or more.

Then to survive, I made myself nothing. I was a blank piece of paper that they scribbled all over.

One man was obsessed with American football and Japan.

I eat tasteless soup and raw fish – maybe it very good, but my sickness made taste like nothing. He show me cartoons of schoolgirls getting raped, I just smiled.

He would watched Superbowl all night, I had to watch every second.

If I lost interest, or my eyes wander or dare to close, he hit me hard.

And he wanted sex on demand, anal sex, endless oral sex, sex without condoms, experiments with my pain thresholds. Sex was all I was.

Sometimes he went out, and locked me in the house. I don’t why for I had long ago lost the will to escape, I was too dead inside to care.

That is GFE, it is the murdering of the woman’s soul. She becomes nothing, her will is dead.

No wonder most exited prostituted women look back at GFE, and feel a rage at being owned so thoroughly.

But GFE is made out to be safe and a great little earner.

I would say there is nothing safe about GFE, it just depends on how violent the porn-fantasy of the john is.

The john controls what happens in the GFE, do not believe the myth that prostitute has the power. That is just a porn-myth, very popular in Playboy, Hustler, any silly porn film of escorting and mainstream culture.

If the john fantasy is that he is “controlled” by a whore, he will makes the rules appear that way.

But it he who do the fucking, he will choose how much degradation there will be, he can do pretend submissive for he holds all the cards.

For if she breaks his rules, she will be hit, scream at, fucked violently, thrown back into the gutter.

But most GFE are with johns who enjoyed degrading the whore, enjoy pushing her fear and pain thresholds to the limit, enjoy fucking her into exhaustion – they want a whore not a girlfriend.

So please stop glamorising the GFE, and see as yet sexual and mental torture of prostituted women.

A Whore’s Rage

Posted on by rmott62

Whores are never listen to – unless they say they are happy.

Whores are not allowed to speak of pain. To speak of being made nothing. To speak of hatred of the sex trade.

Whores are not allowed to have rage – they must quiet, perform at other’s will or command.

Well, whores have a rage that is not from one individual – they rage from centuries of sexually abusing billions of whores in every culture.

Whores rage as they read histories of prostitution always written from the sex trade’s point of view.

A history that without any evidence from whores said they were always happy, always empowered – but always there is the other, the prostituted woman/girls. She is always enslaved, always treated with extreme sadism, always getting fucked until her soul is dead.

The whore rages as there is no middle ground – always both the whore and prostituted woman/girl are never given the right and dignity to be a human. Only a fantasy, a cause, a means to an end.

History has no interest in the thoughts, dreams and backgrounds of the whore or the prostitute.

To see her and all her sisters as humans would mean thinking, maybe even the happiest whore has no freedom in the sex trade.

Whether she was an elite whore in ancient Athens, whether she was a courtesan in Versailles, whether she is a high-class whore to the Hollywood elite – or even some stupid whore- dream of sci-fi TV.

All whores are not allow to have a past, or to to dream of a future – and her present is made dead to her.

The only time that counts to be a whore is the time johns, pimps, managers and all the sex trade are controlling your thoughts, what happens to your body – all else has no relevance.

A whore may as well be a machine.

A whore has place in culture, her only place is to formed into whatever image or concept that will protrays the sex trade as harmless fun.

Many whores see the arts and feel sickened.

The whore hears music, the many song and trends are built on her misery.

Listen to jazz and the blues, and so much romance of brothels in that culture. I personally hate “House of the Rising Sun”, get well piss off with the legends of Louis Armstrong being a child in a whore-house, sick that jazz fans see whores as some fun decoration to the music.

Read so many great male novels – and the whore is often there. Teaching the hero how to be a man, comforting him when no-one else understand him, being the bad to show how good the good is, an excuse to write porn and say it is literature, the character that can be murdered and the reader won’t give a damn.

In art galleries she stares down, she is is named model who the artist can fuck and throw away. In the paintings she is stripped of emotions, she just a husk for the artist to show his power and greatness.

The whore knows she is on TV. Usually the body being cut up in CSI, the background to show the characters are in a dodgy part of the city. She is often the whore with the heart of gold, the damaged whore, the whore who murdered some johns, the whore who jolly and make erotic a costume drama.

She is always a minor character, just there for spice, or to give the main character’s hidden depths. The whore can never has a 3-D, it would shatter all cultures for the whore to be human.

Now, I writing all this as a whore who loves history, loves the arts- music and TV give me massive pleasure.

I want these things to belong to whores as much as any other group.

I want music that speak of wanting more that being a fuck-toy, more than waiting for that next john to use you.

I want history to speak of the centuries of torture, how wars were fought to get more and more women and girls to enslaved inside brothels and others parts of the sex trade, of the throwing away of high-class hookers and courtesans when men got bored or didn’t like the way they look. History should say loud and clear that whores have always been murdered, always been forced into hard-core porn, always had done to what now is named gonzo.

Being a whore has always been a waste of women and girls – always left them with extreme trauma, with injuries that may be permanent, with dieseases that destroy their futures, with self-hatred.

There has never been safety for whores. Never safety as any john at any time in history has and will torture, murder and rape any whore, and know it is not a real crime.

None of that is inside history – only the glamour and blame which is the language of the sex trade.

A whore should see in art galleries images that show starkness, show empty souls, show their dreams of another life. Not in galleries where a select and often converted few will go – but into national galleries open to all who wander in.

A whore should have novels that speak to her – speaking to the silences, saying what is true but words are kept hidden from. Novels such as Jean Rhys, where the words on the page are a beginning to understanding that there is still a soul inside every whore.

A whore deserve to be inside history and culture.

But there is more rage.

The rage of how no-one listen to the whore. Even when she is screaming so loud that it could bring down a skyscaper, even when her words are clear and reasonable, even when she speak with a voice that cut into their guts – no-one listens.

Whores have always said that the vast majority of prostitution is torture, and that it destroys the essence of the woman or girl who does it.

The first cavewoman who was raped and then given an object to make it better – she was the first whore, and I bet you she protested and it was not heard.

Is it that exchange of goods, money or being put into a class named whore – is that some type of magic that makes all  sexual and mental violence disappear. Does this magic make hatred of women and girls invisible.

Not in the whore’s eyes, she remembers all.

Whores know their personal histories, but also as they become aware of their own agony and betrayal, they feel and carry the centuries of destroying whores for male fuck-dreams.

Every sexual act of violence you can imagine, and those sexual tortures that are outside your imagination have always been inflicted on whores on a mass scale for all human history.

Always these acts are done with the full knowledge of the culture, society and authority surrounding the men that fuck or sell whores.

Whores would never exist if those men were punished, made outcasts, locked for long periods in jail and made to view as idiots.

The sex trade thrive and always grows because all cultures and societies are on the side of johns and pimps – and will refuse to hear or see the rivers of blood from the torture and deaths of billions of whores.

It is not rocket science, if no man could ever buy a whore anywhere, the sex trade would be destroy.

What the fuck made humans ever think making whores was such an excellent idea.

We are meant to be against rape, against torture, against kidnapping, against brainwashing, against murder, against violent porn, against the destruction of the human soul.

Only not for whores – they do not count.

Well, I speak a  whore who is full of rage.

If you choose discount whores as derserving of being full humans – than all your language of human rights or being against violence against women is meaningless.