This post is address to all men who are punters or want-to-be punters.

This is a post saying our hate, this is not a love letter.

I see you in all your cowardice, all your hatred of women, all wanting power without working for it.

I know you imagine you are a sex god, that your hands, your tongue, your penis is the source of all pleasure.

You are nothing to me.

I may of fake pleasure to keep safe.

I may of painted a smile on my face.

i may even of said you are the best.

Well, I was lying – inside I nothing but hate for you.

You thought you brought my soul, you nowhere near it.

However much you fuck me, however much you torture me, however you stripped of humanity – you never reach into my soul.

Yes, I was terrified often, yes I would cum even I knew I wanted to not know I existed.

But, you never knew me.

You saw a whore with no past and no future.

You saw a whore who only present was being fucked over and over and over.

You only saw a sex doll with no emotions who perform tricks for you.

Well this doll hate you with every cell of her body.

You paid to rape, you paid to torture – you are just scum, who should be in prison not free as a bird.

I hope you rot in your own poison.

I will try through and to my state of trauma.

I want to hide, I regret self-harming.

In the middle of trauma, suicide seems reasonable.

But my stubborn will means I carry on carrying on – but only with pain, with grief and with a fury.

I can not play nice inside this repetition of hell.

So in this post, I want to to speak to the many ways exited women are kept sub-human, and never allow truly back into society.

In this post, I will touch on what it means to survive internal trafficking.

And in this post, I speak to connecting with others who have known torture or being sub-human, and not limiting connections to simple Western views of politics.

Let me say, this will be written inside trauma, so I may go off track or even lose hope in how to express myself.

But I want to express from and with trauma, it is you as a reader who must slowly learn the the language and connections of the prostituted soul.

I usually write in a language that fits what I think is known of the prostituted, self-censoring the bleakness, the sick humour, the words that exited speak to each other in secret.

I self-censor my sense of abandonment from every side as an exited woman, and say thanks for the crumbs left over for us.

But why should exited women always play nice, as we see, hear and know that there so little being done to say we are fully human, worthy of of dignity and justice.

I speak her not to the sex work lobby – but to those who framed themselves as allies.

I speak to Abolitionists who view as pets who perform our “stories” of pain – but are close down if we speak to wanting justice, speak to our deep understanding of male power and violence, speak to ours lives outside the role of being exited.

You like us as victims, as warnings to other women, as brave witnesses – but you do not want us as full humans with dreams, hobbies, desires and a sexuality.

You want to stay in a state of trauma, so you dig into our pasts looking for proof of pain, looking for evidence that make you say prostitution is a bad thing.

You have no considerations that we don’t want to re-tell over and over, knowing each word that enters our past is another cut into our hearts.

You frame us as brave – but that is the language of being Othered.

We are not brave, we just are witnesses to events and horrors that we should of never known – and now we fight so it is eliminated from this earth.

I try to speak my memories of being internally trafficked.

I was groomed into indoors prostitution from when I was 14,

So young, but after too many years of sexual and mental abuse at home – so thinking I knew it all, so wanting to hard, so thinking nothing mattered.

I like many vulnerable girls who are trapped in the sex trade, thought I could never hurt any more than I already, I thought I was at the bottom of self-hate.

I had a tough naivety.

I had no idea that prostitution would put into pain, terror and hopelessness that made incest seemed like a rehearsal.

Internal trafficking is all about wearing vulnerable girls down until they forget what it is to be human, forget that anyone cares about them, forget that they can be young and know hope.

That is evil, and is done everywhere where prostitution is the norm.

Punters want young flesh, many punters like to fuck away innocence, fuck away childhood or teenage dreams.

Punters will pay for the the lie that his whore is flesh, is a virgin, that he possesses her even whilst knowing hundreds of other punters are and will consume her.

Internal trafficking is just the face of supplying this market.

To be that whore is suicide in slow motion.

To survive that is great – but it is not the end, survival and exiting after being internally trafficked is just the beginning of another hell.

I was in indoors prostitution in and out, from 14 till I was 27.

That is my adolescence and time of growth, time of finding what make a person, time that I should I made mistakes that I laugh at.

That time was lost to me, I never was safe or still enough to become human.

Instead in my growing years, I was an sex object that was turn off and on depending on the wills of punters.

My norm was a world of violence, a world where women and girls disappeared, a world where punters could do all harms that humans can invent with no consequences.

And now, as an exited woman, I am meant to just get over all that.

Well, I was tortured, serially raped, gang-raped, had sperm put all over my skin and hair, was orally and anally raped, was strangled, was drown, was beaten up, was close to death several times – and that just the tip of the ice-berg.

I don’t just get over that.

Would think a man torture in prison should just get over it.

Do you  say to a friend who experience rape or domestic violence – just get over it.

But prostituted women are expected to not complain too much, or speak to what punters do to them.

W must not upset others, we must act nice – for as sub-human we are not allowed to feel pain, want justice or even say our experiences are an outrage.

This so hard to write, so I finish for a while.

Please response if you can.

I am in deep trauma, been there too many times, but this need to faced with the will of a tiger.

I want to write to my memories of only true friend and lover.

She died from an OD when I was 17, when she was also 17.

We were soulmates, we were in and out of each of madness and war to survive.

But I don’t know how to grieve.

I start by speaking to who she was to me, although it mostly full of silences where my mind cannot show our deep love for each other.

I don’t remember or know how we meet, only know in a flash we could not be torn apart – only all the time prostitution and drugs was ripping us apart.

I was deep in sadistic indoors prostitution, at the beck and call of any punter who wanted to do torture with no consequences.

She was on heroin, trying to come out that life – with predators knocking at her door to sell her more.

We were a dangerous couple, both on the edge of death, both beyond caring what the outside world thought of us.

But somehow, from some deep place we found we could love.

We decided we could sleep together, but no sex coz we had too much anger and violence in us.

We had had brief moments of being lovers – but our deep love became hugs and quiet crying.

We were wild, we had no interest in people pleasing.

Our pain, our anger, our frustration went into drink, into refusing to sleep, into being a general pain in the neck.

But our pain was ignored, was made to our fault – so how could we care what others thought as they did nothing as our lives were running out.

All they saw was a drug addict and a prostitute.

They refuse to see why we drown ourselves in heroin and violent sex.

I knew she was escaping violent sexual abuse from her father, and the memories she did not want to know.

I try so hard to stop the predators selling her drugs.

I would refuse to let them in the flat, but I had no power or energy to save her.

I help her when she try so hard to come off drugs.

I held her in bed as she screamed at me.

I yell back at her when she thought I was her father about to rape her yet again.

I was there as she cried, sweated till I thought she may melt.

I was there, coz no-one else cared if she lived or died.

I was there coz that was I knew love was.

But still she died.

How do I grieve?

She died because her father found her, and rape her back to the place with no hope, no exit and no love.

I was away for that weekend, and came back to find her body in our bed.

I went numb – I refused to believe she could be dead.

So for that night, I lay by her till I could accept the truth.

After that, I have many blocks and silences.

I know I drunk heavier, I know I a huge anger  – I know I did not know how to say goodbye or cry.

I had to hear women who could of supported me say – it is you who should be dead, she was so much stronger than you.

I know I was banned from her funeral for being drunk and screaming –

Fuck you – none of you did anything for her when she was alive!

I knew she would be proud of me speaking for her, and not going with their fake grief.

But then, we were crazy, we were beyond the acceptable.

Like when we got drunk and smashed up a sex shop.

We did this out of fury, but also coz we sick of the constant chat and no action about how awful the sex shop was for women.

Our action was unwise – we were chased away by the shop owner with a machete, and only made safe by being pick up by the police.

I cannot much time where we were sober, where we were not in a pause between prostitution or drugs – but our love was real.

This post is written from that love.

Dedicated to Jennifer Kempton, and all other exited folks who left us too early.

I am writing this in a shock, deep grief and complex trauma.

Last week, I heard about the terrible early death of Jennifer Kempton, who as an exited woman founded Survivor’s Ink.

She was a great warrior, who give back dignity and hope to so many exited folks.

I hardly knew except through the network of exited women and their allies, but her death has pull out all my buried grief.

I want to write to one of the most important reason so many exited folks die young or before they can reach a place of peace.

This is the almost total lack of proper exiting programmes anywhere.

When the prostituted exit for the most part, they are left to fend for themselves.

They may receive coffee and condoms.

If very lucky they may get short-term generalised counselling, may get help with re-housing or finding a job.

But it is usual that any decent help is formed and provided by mainly exited women who have no proper funds and do their work whilst living with extreme trauma.

Even in countries with the Nordic Model, there are no real long-term specialist exiting programmes for the prostituted.

This is killing us everyday – we may commit suicide, we can be murdered by pimps and their followers, may die from lack of knowing how to fend for ourselves.

Our deaths is a constant reminder to all who say they back the Nordic Model to do much much more.

I cannot live with the constant grief of the prostituted who manage to exit being abandoned.

When we exit prostitution, that is just beginning of a long struggle back to personhood, back to dignity, back to self-respect and back to a life that can made safe.

It is a rebirth, and like a new-born we do not know or understand the rules of the “real” world.

I remember not knowing how to shop, for punters brought so much.

I had no idea how to pay bills, how to look for somewhere safe to , look for work.

I had no idea how to be an adult, as I still carried my damaged child and teenager in me.

I was drowning, but I received no help, no support – I had to fight every inch of the way to get back some kind of real life.

This is not good enough.

We have to fight even as we carry millions of demons reminding how pimps and punters made us sub- human.

We have known torture, we have known serial rapes, we have known imprisonment, we have known too many disappearances and deaths.

But when we exit, we are meant to just get on with it and not make too many demands.

At the same time, if we choose to be open about our past – there is the constant demand that we tell our stories over and over and over – with no interest that it may send us back into hell every time you ask that.

Worse is the demand that we give evidence that you choose whether to believe or not.

This is done with no knowledge of how extreme trauma can lead to fragmented memory, or how we survive by blocking out.

Our words come out non-linear with many gaps and silences.

Our words are the words that you want to know.

So as we speak, our words are only heard for what you already think – not the depths of the truths we try to express.

My grief is making this very hard to write, coz so much of my soul wants to deaden what I feel and think.

I just know I want exiting to be taken seriously.

We need specialist long-term for exited people.

Not counselling for eight weeks, then everything is somehow fixed.

Not counselling that is just connected harm reduction, but keeping the prostituted trapped.

No, there should be training to how the prostituted react to extreme complex trauma, training in disassociation, and training in listening to the gaps and silences.

This need to be offered whenever the exited person ask for it. It can be several years till trauma becomes something that need to be tackled.

I cannot write much more, just leave you with this.

Know those of us who have exited the sex trade are strong, grateful to be alive, truth-tellers and have an evil sense of humour.

But we still live with extreme trauma, demons that follow us and confusion.

Do not take us for granted, if you really care fight for long-term specialist exiting programmes everywhere.

I have watching “Three Girls” on BBC, and have highly triggered with emotions, memories and gut reaction to what it was to be a teenage prostituted girl.

It is a good drama, but for me very close to my reality that I have shut away in a locked box.

To see that vulnerability, that frustrated fury, that pain that is deadened, that lack of hope is too unbearable to allow back in me.

But to make that no girl is trapped in that hell, I will speak to my truths.

I speak not to change my past, not to “heal” myself.

No, that pain, grief and confusion cannot not be cured, but the majority of the time it can made smaller and controllable.

I write because girls from all backgrounds, all classes, all cultures can be made vulnerable enough to be internally trafficked.

The men who make the choice to buy and sell these girls are from all backgrounds, all classes and all classes.

If you only see it happening to working-class girls, then you are throwing away girls from other classes.

If you think only Muslim men pimp out white girls – then your racism is letting off the men from other beliefs or cultures who pimp and consume these girls who can from all ethnicities.

But in this post, I need to dig in my personal anger, pain and desire to close down to explain the reality of being internally trafficked

Firstly, it was a time full of blanks and refusal to remember the reality of what I was suffering.

To open up that time, I must say I cannot know the facts, just reach down into a sense of cold terror and a sickness without end.

This is the main reason I hardly ever write on a personal level about that time.

I am terrified of being told that I am liar, that it just fantasy.

Too often people try to trip me up by demanding proof and the facts.

But I cannot see the rooms, the punters, not even the pimps with a clear eyes.

There too many, there too much torturing, it was too endless for my mind to hold.

To truly hear a woman or girl who has been internally trafficked, listen beyond the few words she can say – hear of each punter and multiple into hundreds, hear of every pimps and see he never work in isolation.

Listen to a survivor as you would anyone who has been severely tortured.

This means expect huge gaps and silences, do speak to linear time but be led by how memory makes circles round pain and grief till it is becomes bearable to be framed in words.

I remember my past in bits and pieces, remember strong and appalling events that smashed down my blocking out.

I know my first night when I lost hope, and became automatic as men pay and sold me.

Like the vast majority of girls who are coerced into prostitution, my first night was extremely violent after along period of being made to believe I was loved and special.

This is painful to remember on so many levels.

It is painful to see how desperate I was for any form of love or community, that I fall in with older men who give drinks, money, drugs and what I though was a family.

It is painful how hard I made myself as I saw other girls who been used many times, and I thought they were cool.

It is painful to see me drunk, high or hyper and imaging I was in control or happy.

So, I was what is called a street-wise kid, in that view I choose prostitution as a lifestyle choice.

Fuck that – and how that make young girls into throwaways and sub-human.

That first night, I was gang-raped for six hours.

That was my introduction to the closed world of prostitution.

I was 14, and I did exit prostitution until I was 27.

That first night was an introduction to knowing I had no human rights.

That first night was an introduction to being made into sexual goods to be pass around to any man who make the choice to be a punter.

That first night give a lasting passion to end torture and to destroy the sex trade at its roots.

But that first night also made hope vanish, and hide till safe enough to be seen.

To be an teenage prostitute is to be used as sex doll that punters can rape, torture, mentally abuse and often kill with no coincidences.

The men who make the choice to pimp out girls know their is a huge market for them, it is a huge amounts of money that those pimps get.

Without punters making the choice to consume under-aged prostituted girls, this form of violence would never exist or be small enough to be controlled and shut down.

That is why I will fully back the Nordic Model, for it punters who are the cause of all the harms done to these girls.

I am glad “Three Girls ” was made, but don’t let it be just a flash in the pan – fight for real change.

To understand what it is to be prostituted, and drop the language of sex worker – it is vital to write to the middle of that world.

For to be prostituted is to be trapped in another world, a world shut away from safety, a world shut away from loved ones, a world where hope is drown in pain and grief.

I enter this world when I was in my early teens, a child who thought she know she would could never be hurt any more.

Boy, I was so wrong – I like most under-aged prostituted girls had an hardened naivety.

I thought I understand rape – I had no idea.

I thought I knew pain – I had no idea.

I thought I not hate myself any more – I had no idea.

I learnt fast to somehow stay alive, to somehow keep a small slice of privacy to myself – I must kill my emotions, stop thinking of a future, and be nothing until I could something.

By the time, I hit my twenties, I was embedded in the world of being sex goods.

By my twenties, I had forgotten to hope, I had cut off most friends or family.

By my twenties, I had made myself into a sex robot, and all life outside the world of prostitution was surreal.

I was dead – but stubbornly keep breathing.

I have spent years refusing to know my twenties – refusing that time when all the light at the end of the tunnel, was nothing but a train on fire.

I keep alive with having negative dreams and ideas.

I was alive when I cut myself, alive as I was sick after overdosing, alive as the pain from punters filter pass my numbness.

I read philosophy that spoke to killing strangers for no reason or cause, I dreamt of the neutron bomb destroying all people and leaving architecture standing.

I had no power, no access to free choices, no right to safety – all I had was escape into death and destruction.

I could not name this as fury – I was not safe or secure enough to know anger.

Anger is a privilege that only comes when we are safe, when our anger can be expressed without torture, hate and mental abuse being throw at us.

Anger is liberation, but it is very unsafe for the prostituted.

I could not name it as grief or trauma – how could I know that when I heard only words of empowerment, that I had the power to manipulate punters, that it was my choice to be in this world.

Grief is unable to be when trapped into terror, and no idea if you will survive the next hour let alone get out of the twenties.

Grief comes when you have security, when you can see connections, when you have a past with a future.

Prostituted women only have the present, for all else is too painful to be with.

Trauma is in every cell of the prostituted.

Every time, a punter makes a choice to buy a prostitute, he is pouring trauma into her.

To be prostituted is more than living with being serially raped.

It is to be raped over and over and over and over and over until you forget that you have a body.

It is to be gang-raped but by one punter after another after another after another after another – until punters all become the same, with no face, no nationality, and no heart.

No punter buys a prostituted woman to just have ordinary sex, or think he is buying a human.

All punters are buying sexual goods, only seeing glimpses of life as his private sex-doll.

Punters are paying to own, to control, to pour as much pain as possible into her.

Punters are paying to be in a world of torture, hate and pain, where he is is the boss and there are no consequences.

This is not a world where prostituted women can stop rape, stop torture or even get the punter to wear a condom.

It not a world of mutual consent, not a world where no has any meaning.

It is a world where a whole class of mainly women have become the unrapable.

A world with no rape, just consumers maybe overstepping the mark, just a few bad apples.

To be prostituted in most cultures, is not allow to be human,

Think of basic rights, and apply them to the prostituted. I will look at UN human rights and think on it.

It starts with that all should be free and live in dignity.

Well, that means nothing to punters and sex trade profiteers who decide to make the prostituted into sub-human sexual goods.

Where is dignity as you are raped, as you are tortured, as you are mentally broken down?

Then there is the idea that there should be life, liberty and security for all humans.

Not for the prostituted, we must not be human enough to have those simple rights.

Oh, there the classic universal human to not be tortured, be in the line of degrading treatment or punishment.

Well, the sex trade profiteers just rebrand degradation and torture as kinky sex, S/M, extras etc, then there must no problem.

After all, if the torturing and degradation gets too much, well the prostituted are disposal and will be replaced.

There is the right to no arbitrary arrests.

But how can governments get taxes off the prostituted, if these arrests are not regular?

There is the human right to freedom of movement.

Well, the sex trade profiteers have a sick sense of humour about that one.

They move the prostituted all over the place, from one sadist form of prostitution to another sadist part of the sex trade.

No prostitute have full freedom or control on how and why she is moved.

There is the right to freedom of thought, opinion, expression.

That is stolen from the prostituted from the first punters to fuck her and the first exchange of goods or money for that act.

To be prostituted is stop all free thoughts, to have opinion force down your throat by sex trade profiteers and punters, and all expression raped out of you.

To think too freely when embedded in prostitution can be a ticket to death.

It is best to forget you have a mind or sense of being an individual.

There is the right to leisure, including paid holidays.

Prostituted women can only dream of that.

Punters don’t care if it is Christmas or Bank Holiday, their right to fuck is more important.

Heck, why would prostitutes need to have leisure, all they doing is being paid to do what most do for their leisure time?

That is some of human rights that are stolen from the prostituted – and we are meant to be calm about this.

I will end here, for I have two posts in one – I hope it makes sense.