Prostitution is full of grief.
The grief of seeing a crossroad and always taking the wrong turning.
That is how I remember prostitution – that is how it is remembered through self-loathing and inability to see all choice was stolen from me, was stolen from all my prostituted Sisters.
It is easier to blame yourself for taking too many wrong turning – than to know a reality of mental and physical manipulation, of being trapped into hell in degrees.
How can the truth be seen and known, when it so gradual?
The trap is make the prostitute feel it is her choice to have more and more sadist acts done to her.
Make her feel it the only way to get decent money; tell her she more adventurous than other women; say she is special so punters ask for her; say it just a one-off; say it is a punishment and won’t happen again.
It is a drip-feed of making the prostitute lose feeling, driving her into at first shocked numbness leading into violence so routine she is dead but somehow alive.
I know that deadness, I still carry it as I remember, I still carry it into all my words on what prostituted meant to me.