Confessions of a prostitute

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.

*trigger warning*

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.



12 thoughts on “Confessions of a prostitute

    • Millie, can you edit this comment to take away her name? Sorry for butting in G… perhaps you have changed your mind but last I heard you didn’t want your name on this blog…?

  1. My friend, I really appreciate your honest posts. I know it must cost you a lot to re-live these awful experiences. I want you to know that your voice matters – because it does. For all you have endured, you are articulate, compassionate, human. Please continue doing what you are doing.

  2. It is really amazing of you to have the courage to share your story. I find that writing is really therapeutic to me when dealing with anxiety and sexual pain that I struggle with. It gives you the chance to think about it from outside of yourself. I hope it has the same positive effect on you, because I’m sure it will for readers who find themselves in similar situations.

  3. The people who were only happy with you when they were sexually exploiting you were the lowest form of humanity. I am not happy that you are suffering, but I am happy that you are still you and you are still here. I am happy with you right now. it makes me happy every time I read your blog that you are still with us and still alive and still there to be on this journey with me. I am so sorry this point in your life is so hard. I guess what I’m trying to say is that some people see things differently than others. You’ve spent a lot of time around people who see you as having no worth of your own–only having worth as an object. I see you differently, and I’m sure many other people do. The difference between us, in my humble opinion, is that we are not assholes and do not see others as only there for our own personal use. It is not that they somehow know you more intimately or know the “real” shameful you. I know some of the horrible things they did to you. I can imagine others because I lived through similar things. I also know how you might have felt, during and after them and what you might have done, because I know how I felt and also because many things you have told us. I have done terrible things myself. None of that justifies depriving you of your basic dignity, humiliating you, or physically hurting you. We all do and feel shameful things We all feel bad about ourselves from time to time. Your dignity is a basic right.

    I don’t judge you for feeling this compulsion. I can understand where it comes from and how hard it is to deal with these feelings. I do see it as perhaps a form of self-harming (the physical risk to you is quite high, as you know). I know when I was in a more vulnerable place, I made a list of about 20 things to do that could conceivably help before I did anything to self-harm–everything from pet the cat to call my therapist to clean something and look at how nice and sparkly that makes things. The list could be repeated after I got to the end of it (I never did need to go beyond #10). If nothing else, it kept me occupied until the impulse passed. For a long time, I kept that list in my wallet so I could take it out and remind myself whenever I needed to. It might be time for a list.

    I do very much understand wanting to be dead and wanting to feel nothing. However, I know for myself that when I feel nothing some other part of me feels the most immense pain possible, and what I am dealing with now is years of feeling the pain of being of feeling like nothing when I wanted to count. I don’t know if that’s the case for you or not.

    Take care. Sending lots of love, my friend.

  4. Thank you all so so much….
    Yes, I think it is some form of self-harming – a very powerful and dangerous form. I have been cutting recently but the numbness fades so fast, I think that’s why I have this compulsion now šŸ˜¦ the idea of that list sounds just amazing – I will try that out, thank you for sharing…
    Thank you all for your care… I don’t feel I deserve it but it nonetheless means so much… x

  5. Hello, Thanks for sharing first of all, I am new to all this and I’ve just posted my first entry to a blog. I came across yours and I can completely empathize with the way you feel. I had years after all my abuse stopped, filled with lots of sex.. that actually meant everything to me, I wanted to be sexy and I wanted to be loved and sex was the only way i had ever been loved or been looked upon as having a worth. I beg you to take a step back, you have done it before, look at the world around you. Sexual objectification of women by other women, men and the media is what triggers my mind set into hating humanity. I am a woman, I am not sex.. I have a name and an address, i have a birthday and a family. I am not merely sex or for someone to use me for sexual gratification.
    I disagree with your comment that it is your choice to be a prostitute, as it is the situation that you are in that is making you feel like that, the abusers that still have that little bit of control (the voice in your head) telling you that you are only good when you are having sex. Please think about this long and hard before you make your decisions about life. And please take a look at my blog too take care of yourself x

  6. Somehow, after reading some posts in this blog, I have this strong urge to hold you… to hold you while you cry, to gently stroke your head, to hug you forever. Sorry, just to say it, I’m a guy, I’m usually not that emotionally, but after what I’ve read, I’m just tearing up. It’s evengetting hard to keep on writing. Will end now, sorry. Lots of love! M.

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