I realise I’ve done a few blog posts about the periods of my life where I entered prostitution, so forgive me if you’re reading something I’ve repeated before. I guess I’m just struggling. Well I know I’m struggling, but the problem is I’ve hit a point where I’m feeling I should go back into that mess. It’s like an uncontrollable urge. I want to explain why. I’m sad that women are judged before they can speak. So maybe speaking now will open people’s eyes.
1) Women, and men, have their right to make their own choice. If a person wants to work as a prostitute, then leave them be. You’d be outraged if anyone tried judging you. What gives you the right to judge them?
2) Sometimes people are in that mess because life shits on them. That’s where I’m at currently.
I am in a hideous amount of emotional pain. I feel like I’m suffocating in grief for my children, and guilt for stuff I was forced to do, and just the hurt of what was done to me and others. I was horse-riding today and rode past some children playing on a trampoline. They looked so carefree. So happy. So giggly. They saw us on the horses and started yelling ‘horseys! horseys!’ and laughing. Then went back to playing. I felt a pang of loneliness, when I watched. It was a sight I simply couldn’t empathise with – watching a group of children playing so innocently. I played games as a child, but never so care-free. Any games I played with the children in the ring, for example, were tainted in pain, and used as lessons to equip us better – stuck in the mud, for example, became a lifesaver for enhancing our running stamina, and built up our compassion and ability to look for people in need of help. Also it helped us judge how safe ‘helping’ someone was – was a ‘dangerous’ person (the person who was ‘it’) too close by; would we both end up stuck if we stopped to save one? Any games I played at home were doing mostly in silence, or were actually games designed by my family of abusers…so you can well imagine. I watched these children today, just for a moment, and some deep hidden part of my younger self started to cry, with just resentment and hurt, of what was robbed from me and what I will never get back.
But mostly the grief is choking me. Grief for my children, for my darling little ones who I could not save or protect. Grief for the children I grew up with. Grief for myself. Survivor’s guilt – how am I here, and the others aren’t? What did I do? Why do I deserve this right more than them? Why didn’t I save them?
I want to go onto the streets and find someone, anyone, who’ll pin me down in a bed… paying no regards to my feelings or even my humanity, be interested only in my body…. hurt me, hurt me, force themselves into me, groan in my expressionless face, then slump sideways and lie next to me, regaining their breath.
Why on earth would I want that, you ask…
I remember previously, going out on the streets wearing a miniskirt and heavy make-up, smoking. I always smoke when I go. It’s my only companion. I also fool myself into thinking it makes me look harder, so nobody would try to kill me. The risk of being kidnapped and dumped in a ditch doesn’t escape me. On one occasion, just under a year ago, I was taken to a town nearby. I had no idea where I was. I was scared. But I wanted their approval. But they didn’t say I was good. They said I wasn’t good enough. And that nearly destroyed me, frankly.
There comes a point where my self-worth reaches so low, that some unhealed part of my head kicks back in and whispers to me – “you know the only thing that ever made people happy when you were little, was when you laid on a bed for them and let them shove their dicks into you. That’s the only thing that made you good.” And, because my self-worth is in ruins, I believe that voice because – truthfully – that voice is right. They only ever viewed me as good and worthwhile when I satisfied their need for pleasure and earnt them money. Some little part of my inner child who only ever saw approval in that situation, who hasn’t had the chance to heal and hear better approvals from genuine caring adults, wakes up when my self-worth hits this point. And I have no energy left to try and stop the whispers.
The other thing with prostitution, for me, is that I’m not in it for the money. I refuse the money. But being raped, or even ‘giving consent’ but deep down not wanting it, numbs every part of me. For a few hours, I am nothing… in oblivion… hurting but not aware of the pain, everything just gone. I am nothing. That’s what they make me. And, currently, I crave that nothingness.
I remember standing nervously at the foot of his bed. This was his house – it must be, there were photographs on his bedside table. I tried not to look, but I caught a glimpse of a couple, and burned with shame. He took his shoes and socks off first. Random. But kept staring at me. Slowly stripped, and just stared at me. Hungry. He looked hungry. Starving. I focussed on just looking at the floor. At my feet. At trying not to think of my friends who would be so ashamed, I was sure. I tried not to think of the 10am lecture the next day.
Trousers off now, then pants. He was bottom half naked, and top half still with shirt and tie. He stepped in front of me, reached around to the back of my head, and sharply pulled my hair so that my head was forced up. “Undress me” he growled. Numbly, I did. I undid his tie, and each button on his shirt. He pushed my head down as I went further down his shirt, so in the end I was kneeling. I was trembling with fear. I told myself to grow up – it was my fault I was here. My face was right in front of his crotch. He pushed my face onto it. It was clear what he wanted. I was obedient. I gave him what he wanted. Felt it fill my mouth. As it filled my mouth, a blank feeling filled my head. I was gradually turning into nothing. Good.
When he’d finished grunting, I awkwardly remained kneeling, until he roughly grabbed my hair and pulled me back to my feet. He took my hand, and pulled me to the bed. No words spoken. I lay down on my back, as he took off all of my clothes hungrily. At some point he must have seen the photographs on his bedside table. I heard his breath catch, and he leant across me – put the photographs down on their front, so he couldn’t see the image anymore. He’d wiped her existence. I had wiped their existence. Deeper shame burned through me, and my mind moved nearer to complete nothingness.
With two belts, he tied my wrists to the sides of the bed. They like doing this. One told me why once. That it makes my chest all theirs; I can’t curl up under their chest or try to hold myself protectively away from them. I’m all their’s. All exposed. He cupped my chest and squeezed, so hard I had to bite my lip to stop me from making a sound in pain. Then he rolled on top of me. I braced myself for what was to come, my head firmly to one side, staring at my outstretched fingers. Then he pushed himself into me. I lay statue still, and completely silent. Silent, unnoticed tears trickled down my cheeks. They were lonely tears. My mind filled number still, until the image of him moving up and down seemed far away somehow. I was nothing. I was empty. An empty shell he was filling for his pleasure. I stared at my fingers and forgot they were mine. I felt my tears but was unaware they were mine; instead, I thought, ‘that poor girl is crying. I hope she’s okay. I wish someone kind would hold her.’ I had lost awareness that it was me, crying, on the bed, whilst he pounded into me. I had lost awareness of myself, because myself had crashed into a black hole and become nothing. He roughly bit my chest, pulling, clamping, and yet I hardly felt anything. Everything was numb now. I continued staring sideways, at my fingers, crying tears that I didn’t realise were mine. I could have been dead. For a moment, I believed I was, that I had just become a body. A body full of nothing, that he was having sex with.
Then he groaned, one long groan, with hot breath…onto my cheek and into my ear. It half woke me up and I closed my eyes, to hide my tears from him. “You’re amazing…” he grunted, before rolling out and off of me. His head was now heavily in my armpit as he drifted into sleepiness. Still I stared at my fingers.
He sat up, untied my wrists, helped me up and handed my clothes back to me. “How much?” He asked. I shook my head, refusing to look at him. I didn’t want his money. He’d given me nothingness and he’d said I was amazing. That was all I needed. For now, the pain in my head had ceased to exist, and my self-worth had returned. I owed him my life, surely…?
He said nothing, then muttered thanks. He put the photoframe back up. His wife, partner, whoever she was…she existed again. I let myself out of his house, and returned to the streets. It was 4am. I thought for a moment, then decided I would head home.
I crave that nothingness; that escape from pain, from reality, from my body. I crave that moment of being dead. I crave that approval. But mostly I crave that death they all give me. I want that empty, nothing, deadness back. I want to be dead.
It’s the least I deserve.