I want to cry so much.

My throat hurts so much coz it so blocked, my eyes are tired of being tired, my heart is in an agony where words disappear to.

I still can’t cry.

I wanted to cry when Lauren Bacall died, for she was my protector when all my world was being thrown to the wolves.

I remember as a 14-year-old wanting to be Lauren Bacall, wanting her presence by my side.

I stood by the bar in a sex club, and try hard to make it into “The Big Sleep”, and make reality disappear.

I imagined the dive I was in was a sophisticated nightclub – where I was wisecracking and keeping men at a distance.

I refuse to see the truth, that I had no voice, no safety, no access to dignity – I refuse to know I was nothing as I imagine I was strong as Lauren Bacall.

I want to cry so much for that lost teenager – but I can’t cry.

I want to cry at the careless use of language that destroyed my soul every day.

I want to cry every time I read, I hear and I come across someone I thought I could trust say “sex worker”.

I want to chop off their head, I want to smash my radio or TV up, I want to stab editors and academics that say those words.

All exited men and women I know, hate the term “sex worker”, and we say over and over and over why we want that language destroyed.

But instead, you listen and copy those who promote that term – do you not question why I and so many exited folks hate to be called sex workers.

It is a term invented and promoted by the sex trade and its allies to make invisible all the common male violence done to the prostituted.

Say prostitution is just work, maybe say it can hard and dangerous work, and it become about the individual prostitute – and never that it is a criminal structure that has the purpose of allowing men access to sadism.

To call it sex work is a terrible lie – said to bring the Left and liberal feminists in line with the sex trade.

I cannot believe how easy it for the Left and liberal feminists allow themselves to be manipulated and guilt-tripped by the sex trade.

I feel like slapping them for so naive/stupid, but i understand it is easier to think it just work and somehow can be made safe – then to know the brutal truth, that male violence is the life-blood of all aspects of prostitution.

Prostitution can never be made safe – for every time a punter makes the choice to buy another human, he is making the choice to own the prostitute body and soul.

That is not work, that is not sex – that is slavery.

Once you have been brought or sold – you know you have no rights to safety, no access to language that others will hear, no access to know consent.

Once you have been brought or sold – you learn to not know rape for it happens too regular for the human mind to comprehend.

Once you have been brought or sold – you teach your body to block out pain from endless tortures of mind, body and soul. You learn as quick as possible how to be alive, but empty of hope, emotions and sense of purpose.

You learn to be a husk.

I want to cry for that empty soul – cry for the endless hate, anger and pain that all the prostituted have forced into them.

I want to cry so, but only my choking and sickness comes.

I want to cry when I hear feminists say it about all women – as yet another of placing the prostituted as an afterthought, hopefully push far enough away to be made invisible.

Yes all women can be on the receiving end of male violence – but it about scale and what it means to belong to the prostituted class.

All women and girls could be raped in their lifetime – but it would considered terrible if a non-prostituted woman is raped in more than 5 separate occasions.

Most of the prostituted are raped in their hundreds, thousands, and in industrialised brothels numbers beyond human comprehension.

Rape is so normal to the prostituted, it become nothing, a non-event.

The prostituted are raped beyond knowing and naming it as rape.

We need another language for that scale of rape, another way of seeing and knowing that reality.

We need the language of extreme torture, the language of numbness and alienation, a language of human rights, a language that reaches into the centuries of silence that built the prostituted class.

I gleaned some language from reading classic horror such as MR James and Edgar Allen Poe.

I gleaned language from reading letters and memoirs from soldiers on the Western Front, in the American Civil War.

I gleaned language from diaries of slaves, from words of twentieth century genocides and civil wars.

Language need to look directly into the void that is prostitution – not turn away to other aspects of male violence, just to abandon yet again the prostituted class.

The men that rape, torture and murder the prostituted on a mass scale – are given permission by making their violence unspeakable – or just unhearable.

We must struggle to find a language that fits that scale – we must face without fear the terror, the agony and the depths of grief that give some meaning to what it is to be prostituted.

And not silenced those who speak out by saying it about all women.

Learn to hear the differences, learn to be quiet and wait for spaces to open for you to talk.

I wish I could cry – i wish so much.

I have put on 60’s girls groups and as the Dixie Cups sing innocent and light songs, I will try to reach into the parts of my mind that has been giving me insomnia.

I find I can face the dark if I play cheerful music.

It may not make sense – it may be that it my way of detaching myself from my own words.

All I know is I write to the parts of me that were crushed or made sub-human, I write and maybe some of the music reaches those parts.

I will try to mend some of that past, I will try to give it a voice, I will try to hold the wounded warrior that cries inside me.

I cannot get images of my broken past, only if I let my mind flow I can feel enough to come to terms with it.

I can learn deep forgiveness for that I could stop what happened to me.

I can feel grief, even if I cannot cry or show sorrow.

I am learning not to deadened myself by vanishing into my TV, not to deadened myself by making sick jokes and acting as if nothing can or would hurt me.

I am learning it is ok to be vulnerable, ok to trust others, ok to say in a clear voice yes it is still hurting – and that hurt is going around for a long time.

By saying that I am finally my true strength and courage – not the fake bravery that claims nothing can ever hurt, the fake power of saying I coped with being inside prostitution.

Let me make it clear – no human can truly cope with being prostituted with deep trauma, without needing to deaden yourself to just stay alive.

There is no such thing as an undamaged prostitute – but all the damage is placed into the prostitute, it is never the fault or some weakness of any prostitute.

It is easier to blame the prostitute – then see the cold hate that create the sex industry that feeds on male violence to the whole prostituted class – be that female, male or children.

All I know is one to survive prostitution is not know the reality of the world you are in.

It is world that is organised, but pretends to be chaotic and run by individuals.

It is a world where the prostituted are pass around, and place into many aspects of the sex trade.

I was as an example was move to several cities, I was placed in flats, in hotels, in clubs, pick up on the street, pick up in pubs.

All this done to confused and mentally abused the prostitute – often making her feel is disgusting for she “chooses” to go to multiple places.

There is always control over the prostituted – the best control is made invisible to the prostitute, so her self-hate and sense of shame will keep her trapped.

It is natural in the situation where you have no control, no access to an exit – it is natural to turn the world of the sex trade upside-down.

It is normal when embedded in prostitution to say that it is empowering, that it was freely chosen, that of the prostitution is fun.

To survive prostitution with some degree of sanity, it is normal to close down the reality of violence, close down the fear that is so deep that most prostitute cannot feel it.

That fear, pain and confusion is always there, only to survive the prostituted learn to firmly not know it part of their reality.

The voices of the “Happy Hookers” are voices of deep damage.

They are voices that cannot think back to how and why they enter the sex trade.

They cannot see or know when they could still be terrified, when they could wordlessly know they were being raped and/or tortured.

They are the voices that cannot see the hurts and pushes that place into the role of the prostitute – for they have to believe it was just their choice to somehow make sense of the insanity they are existing in.

We should not be angry at these voices – we should have deep compassion for their pain, grief, fear and confusion.

We should not hate the Happy Hooker for she/he is being manipulated by the sex trade profiteers and their cynical allies.

Of course, the sex trade has the intelligence to push the voices of these damaged mainly women forward, and for punters and sex trade profiteers to feed them what to say as they hide.

I have written enough for now.