Monthly Archives: August 2010

Don’t Call This Trendy

Posted on by rmott62

I am very sick and tired of the betrayal of escorting as a fun, high-earning and trendy for bored privileged women to dip into the sordid world of prostitution.

It has nothing to do with the day-to-day reality for most escorts. Most escorts are in as much danger as any other aspect of prostitution, are highly likely to earn a lot less than they were promised.

The bottom line is like all other forms of prostitution, escorts are under the power and control of managers and johns.

How they choose to frame the escort’s existence is a game to them – and is a matter of life and death to many escorts.

The sex trade has always framed escorting as the positive side of the sex trade – given them other names – high-class whores, courtesans, girlfriend experience.

But why do you buy the sex trade’s lies. When you disbelieve arms traders saying they care about peace, disbelieve racist saying it just we all have to find our own levels.

You believe without questioning that escorting is safe, is respectful to the women that do it, that it is easy to leave – that in many ways it is not really prostitution.

Why cannot you think deeper – and question what it is to brought and sold, even when wrapped up with champagne and dinners out, the escort is a prostitute.

She has no rights – only the rights to do and be whatever the john wants, and whatever her manager have framed her as.

She is goods – like all prostitutes, her humanity is stripped away.

All that matters is she fulfils as many john’s porn-dream as possible, and she then may earn enough to blank it out.

If johns choose to treat her with “respect” and are relatively non-violent, that is a relief.

But often there is a sickness even there. Many “gentle” johns are very mentally abusive.

They may want get under her skin by asking many, many, many personal questions – until she is worn out and let something slip.

They may push her to kiss when there is a no kissing rule.

They go to the edge of violence, and then say they were only joking.

But these johns are rare – most johns buy an escort to use as his personal porn-doll for a long period of time.

Rape is common, beatings are common, sexual torture is totally acceptable – christ the sex trade will sort it out if the john murders the escort.

All this violence is the foundation of all aspects of prostitution – why would escorting be any different.

The only difference is that the sex trade can be effective at making sure it hidden from the public gaze.

If violence slips out to the public gaze – the sex trade will lie saying it must have been a crazy john, must have been illegal practices going on, must have been that the escort misunderstood her job or was crazy herself, was something that done without their knowledge.

Their lies are pathetic – but far too many so-called intelligent people choose to believe them.

The truth is that money is made in escorting by supplying the extras – that is mainly sadistic sex. That is what the sex trade is hiding.

It not well hidden, it doesn’t need to be – when so many want to believe escorting is safe, respectful to women and empowering..

Open your eyes – see the agony, fear and despair that is the norm for the majority of escorts.

It not separate from the rest of prostitution – don’t play the sex trade’s game.

Medals

Posted on by rmott62

I have a dream – a dream that is simple – that survivors of the sex trade are given medals for the sheer determination to stay alive.

I have a dream that statures are placed in every place, in every country, where women and girls have disappeared or been found dead.

That dream would means too many street corners, too many flats, too many clubs, too many saunas, too many back of pubs, too many parks, too many car parks, too many hotels – just too many statures it would crowd everyone out.

But if one in a hundred statures was built then maybe, maybe everyone would stop dismissing the violence that is the centre to the sex trade.

I want every prostituted woman and girl who destroyed by the sex trade to be remembered – not just those unfortunate to die at the hands of a john that kill more than three prostitute.

The disappearances and deaths of the prostituted is no entertainment – that is only of interest to the sensational media, only of interest to be made fiction at some later date.

I want medals and statures to remind and show that the prostituted are full humans.

I want to remember women who are no longer here. I will say here some of their humanity.

I knew women who vanished, I knew their laughter, I would speak drunkenly with them how we would find something more than we had.

These were women I did not allow myself to get too close to – but in the silences we loved each other.

We could not be close for we all knew we may not be there the next day.

And so often the disappearances happened, and the silence grow, and the deadness was the only safe place to be.

The disappearances were being moved round other aspects of the sex trade – moved to another club, another street, another flat, another city, another country.

The disappearances were not just physical – but too many rapes, too much sexual torturing, too many beatings – and the prostitute loses all words, all sense of reality.

And in our guts we knew the disappearances were death.

We knew suicide was a risk of the job – as a manager laugh about. We all were harsh about cutting our bodies, about taking ods, about being care-less about our bodies.

We call it graveyard humour – but inside our essences were not laughing but screaming.

And we live knowing murder was a high risk of the job.

If we never said it out loud – then maybe we would safe.

There little else we could do to protect ourselves.

So every time you came out breathing from some sadistic john – you bloody deserve a medal.

But then I and millions of prostituted women and girls would be drowning in medals.

But it may open eyes of the wilfully ignorant of what it is to be prostituted.

I can dream.

Being Girlfriend Material

Posted on by rmott62

If I was to say the worst times I had as a prostitute – it was when I being paid the most, when I was kept the longest – when I was being girlfriend material.

Those were the times that destroyed my ability to have a free sexuality.

Those were the times where I had to so embedded in whatever porn role they wanted me to be, that I lost my essence.

Those were the times where I am still sickened until I want to die, that infects my nightmares still.

And those are the times I find so hard to speak about without self-hate suffocating me.

To be girlfriend material, is to know that the john does not just want to fuck you – he wants to owned you completely.

He wants to have you as his property long enough to rip into your soul.

Many johns act as the imagined boyfriend would.

Speaking about stuff outside fucking – speaking of interests, speaking of family and friends, speaking of films and TV – he will speak and speak, hoping to break the barriers a prostitute has to have to survive.

Hoping she will say something personal – say she has a family, say her real name, say some interest which is private to her.

He is not a boyfriend, it not a way of communicating or gaining intimacy. He is a john – wanting full control and power over the prostitute.

He is digging for spaces that keep her mentally safe, spaces of the limited privacy she can own – he seek them out and them uses her own words to prove she is nothing.

I had these men “discover” I loved football or films. They trashed it as they saw I had a small light in my eye.

For most johns who want girlfriend material are cruel men.

One man who saw I loved films, would take to many films – but all I had to give him a hand-job, I had to let him fist and finger me, and when he thought he could get away with I had to suck his dick.

I don’t remember the films.

I had men beat me up for loving football – saying I wasn’t a real woman. Men made me hold football to my heart, as they beat and rape it out of me – I love football all the more in revenge.

Being girlfriend material is the closest to hell that I have known.

It so hard to keep remembering that all you are is his whore – when he surrounds with the illusion of romantic love.

When he walks you in a park, when he watches TV with you, when he buys you restaurant meals, when he shows you off to his friend.

It hard to remember your role, it is easy to forget that he owns you.

But the smallest slip, and the john will make you remember. He will violently fuck back to be his whore.

Many johns want the girlfriend experience to be that she is allowed to have some intelligence – only not too much, and always on his terms.

When johns speak to you as if they see you have a brain, when they have kept for several days or even months – it is easy to slip into thinking you can have a conversation.

But to be a good whore, you must always make the man know he is superior on every level – never ever make him feel he does not understand when you can.

That can be fatal – and is sure as hell going leads to a beating and sadistic sex.

The whore who wants to survive has the intelligence to play dumb.

I have been raped for knowing about classical music, for knowing too many painters, for having an interest in history. Christ, they destroy me because I could read.

That does not fit their porn fantasy – so they fuck me until I became a cartoon whore again.

In their fantasy, the girlfriend-whore is attractive enough for him to see with, has enough brains that she does not embarrass him when with his friends and family, will do domestic stuff for him – and of course will be fucked any and every way he imagine.

But the best thing, she is never a real girlfriend – so he can throw her away any time, she has no rights to no to him, and she must pleased all the time.

If she get above her station – he has every right to fuck her back to being his whore.

She is goods, he is the consumer – there is no relationship here, only master-slave.

I hated girlfriend experience – I do not know how I survive it.

I did and I am glad – for now I can condemn it.

Listening to Prince

Posted on by rmott62

I am listening to Prince and I am crying.

I hear Prince, and know how much my freedom to any form of sexuality has been stolen from me. How I may never feel or know the bare rawness of adult and wanted sex.

I listen to Prince, I watch the wonderful sex scene in “Don’t Look Now”, I hear close friends speak of sex with a faraway look – I know I cannot reach into that.

When someone said there is nothing wrong with prostitution, nothing wrong with how porn is made, nothing wrong with the sex trade.

I want to scream back – there endless ways I can say about their destruction – but how’s about the stealing of a human ability to have the freedom to have a full sexuality.

I do not know how to be close on an intimate level.

I can do friendship dead easy, as long as there is no lust and no intimacy entering my space.

When I kiss, I find it almost impossible not be detached, not thinking several steps ahead, thinking what role should I be.

I hate this – especially when it with a woman who wants just a kiss, and to lets things fall into place.

But I can never be that natural.

Sex for me is always associated with being a role, being inside their fantasy – not allowing myself the freedom to fantasise.

I always have to be detached, always on the alert, always making them happy not caring about that I may have needs.

I hate this – my life is a million miles from my years in prostitution, but sex is still tainted with that pollution.

I listen to Prince, and imagine being wild in my sex life.

But I cannot imagine having that freedom.

When I get even slightly out of control, even by my own hands – I am terrified that I repeating porn again – I quickly get depressed.

I have still in control.

This makes me cry so bloody much.

Imagine Being Goods

Posted on by rmott62

Try to imagine what it is to be embedded inside prostitution, to imagine in solid form what it is to made into goods.

Do not just see as several rapes, do not see it several bad choices – see it as a complete destruction of everything that makes the prostitute human.

She cannot be human – she must be moulded into fuck-goods that can and will used by any and all johns.

That is where your imagination must go – not into the soft places that make prostitution harm-free, not to the places that equates with other violence to women and girls and gives the prostituted no language – no go beyond what you think prostitution is.

Although, I see very clearly that prostitution is part of a continuum of violence done to women and girls – I find that quite a limiting and often patronising way to view what prostitutes have to endured.

I personally find nothing wrong in separating out oppressed groups – giving them the right to find their own language for their lives, the right to say loud and clear the differences, not always having to fit in by being the same.

Allow the voices of the prostituted, especially exited women, to have their own anger, own pain, own grief, own ways of forcing a change, own ways of regaining pleasures, and to speak of how it not just more rapes and more male violence.

Let them speak – hear hard without placing you life on top to drown their voices out.

Imagine the freedom of being able to speak out after made into goods, goods that convince you that you are nothing.

Wouldn’t you want to scream down a mountain range.

As an exited prostitute, I am continually told what my reality was. The more I remembered and feel my past, the more others want to control how I should remember it.

It may be to keep me in the victim-role, it may be to say over and over it could have never have been that violent or callous, it may be to tell me to hate or care about men more, it may be to define my experiences like “normal” rape not sexual torture.

I was controlled in every cell of my body and mind when I was prostituted – I am damned if I will be controlled now, even by those who wish me well.

I will not be made malleable goods again.

I will not be your victim-whore, your brave exited woman, your once a prostitute always a prostitute, your damaged goods – I will speak out on my terms, and hopefully then make connections and hit on some truths.

I am angry at being told, well actually educated, that prostitution is just bad sex, just many rapes.

Well, on a very superficial level that is kind of true.

Sure, most prostituted women and girls are raped – raped beyond counting, raped beyond the human mind being able to understand what is happening, raped until she is nothing but goods.

In that world, it impossible for the prostitute to name that as rape.

And out of that world , I still am very uncomfortable with the word rape.

Rape is often done to an individual by someone who they remember their face, rape is often rare in the individual women’s life.

Prostituted women and girls have too faces to remember, they all become one. There is nothing rare about sexual violence in their world.

It so common it is all that they are.

How can a prostitute named that as rape or even abuse, when she feels and knows she just there to be holes and hands for any and all men that has brought her.

That is not rape – that is being goods to be fucked.

I do not call that rape – I call it sexual torture, I called destruction of the human essence, I called robbery of access to human rights – I call it rape on a scale that beyond your imagination.

Just don’t give clichés comparing most rapes with prostitution.

Hear why exited women cannot connect with that language.

Imagine being made into goods that is whatever porn men can imagine.

Imagine that, and you somewhere near what it is prostituted.

Imagine that and place it into indoors prostitution, and you are somewhere near what this blog is screaming about.

I will speak here of being the “good” whore, the whore who knows how to survive whilst all the time wanting to die.

To be able to survive indoors prostitution, you must override all instincts that tells you men could be dangerous.

As goods, your job is to please those men. It no matter if you want to run out the room, no matter if your instinct is to be sick or fight back, no matter what pain and humiliation he puts into you, and no matter that you have forgotten who you really are.

You are goods – he has brought you for his perfect porn-fuck, so you better be good.

Be good at pleasing, if you want to have a small degree of safety and some hope it will over and done with as quickly as his money runs out.

I know I learnt to read men before they enter the room.

I knew that kept me relatively safe, often save my life.

I had to be whatever porn-role they wanted before they had spoken.

The good whore will be doing his will, making him have the illusion she can read his mind.

This is survival – but of the sex trade and johns say it the art of the whore, that she is manipulating him, shows she is in control and therefore must be happy.

No, it is done to avoid as much violence as possible, to not be murdered or sexually tortured to the point where you forget you are alive, to have a tiny piece of pride in such a sick situation.

The prostitute can never control the amount of violence that the johns uses – she can just try by pleasing him, maybe make him see her long enough not to destroy her.

She must make herself into goods – for being too human would put too much terror into her.

This post is very hard to write – and is all over the place. I may end here for now, and retreat back to sports.

Just imagine beyond what you think it is to be prostituted – imagine that voice of silence that cannot stop screaming in rage, grief and pain.

Hear that voice – and you are on the way to hearing the prostituted.

Tired of Being Tired

Posted on by rmott62

Writing this blog is important – but darn it is exhausting.

I thought I was writing a simple blog, a blog that would used my experiences as an example of what wrong with prostitution.

I was so naive thinking it was simple, the more I write, the more complicated this blog becomes.

And what I thought might happened did. The hate and anger of the pro-sex trade lobby came out to tear down my blog.

All this has made me exhausted, has made me scared, has made have trauma on a scale I could have never imagined.

All this has not made stop my blog – it may of slow me down, it may have made me want to hide – but it has never stop me.

Instead, it has made it very clear to me how huge the hate and anger is coming from those who want to keep the status quo of the sex trade.

I used to think that were naive, that all they needed was being educated about the conditions of the vast majority of those trapped in the sex trade.

I would not say that now – I think many supporters of the sex trade are highly organised, and have endless resources and access to the media.

I am not worry about those who sit on the fence, for I do believe most are naive and uneducated about the realities of the sex trade.

Why would they not be.

They are told that prostitution is just bad sex, but a lot of time can be fun and a high money-earner.

They are told that porn is not real – so cannot hurt the actors.

They are told that the sex trade deals in-house with sadistic johns, under-aged prostitutes and external trafficking.

They are told that most indoors is safe and well-ordered.

Basically the sex trade controls how the public views their industry.

I find it is not hard to get through to most who sit on the fence – once they hear or read the conditions, and take in the effects it has on women and girls in the sex trade – they often see it as a human rights issue.

Just that simple belief is a power surge for all the work I do.

I deeply believe that the majority of people who know the true conditions of the sex trade, find it unbearable that such torture can exist – especially when they know it on their doorstep and everywhere.

But as that belief increases – the hate and rage of those who promote and want to gain from the sex trade grows.

They target everyone who speaks out against the sex trade – but their vicious and sick rage is aimed at women who have exited the sex trade and speak their truths.

They hate us for being alive.

We should have killed ourselves long ago – we should have die of an od, should have cut ours wrists. We should have been a statistic of the far too many murdered women and girls in the sex trade.

We should not be able to speak out – because the horrors we had to endured have pushed us over the edge. Our trauma should be too terrible to find words to fit it. We should speak – and everyone who hears us will dismiss as mad and or delusional.

We are hated because our speech is believed.

It is believed by people from many backgrounds, many beliefs, from having experiences of the sex trade to those who know nothing about it.

We cause an earthquake as we are believed.

We are hated more that my soul can handle for not forgetting.

We were not meant to remember how often, how casually we were sexually tortured, how often we brought to the brink of death – how many women and girls we lost as in that world.

We were not meant to remember how it felt to made sub-human, made to so dead inside we could not feel pain, had no grief – we were to forget that we were just goods.

We are hated that as we speak out we see connections.

We see that nothing in the sex trade is an accident, or some one-off event.

The violence is always planned, the violence is always made to be the fault of the individual whore never that there a huge market for any sadism men can imagine.

We see that it not a world of individual pimps, individual johns, individuals managers, individual madams, individual porn barons, individual profiteers – no, they are all inter-connected. They may complete with each other, but in the end they feed off each other.

In the end, they all make huge profits by having disposable women and girls to be fucked and thrown away.

And they will continue their business by any means – using the media to promote a nice image of themselves.

These profiteers are slowly destroying women and girls to feed their greed.

But because they replace the disappeared women and girls with fresh meat – it appears unimportant.

But exited women who speak out remind of disappearances, the violence, the sexual torturing, the acceptance that it is ok to kill a whore, that under-aged prostitution is a normal, that there is both internal and external trafficking, that PTSD is extreme inside exited women.

The inconvenient truths that the sex trade supporters want to shut us up about.

That is why they want us dead.

And that is why we will live harder.

And speak out louder.

There was No Golden Age

Posted on by rmott62

One thing that is maddening is how so many want to believe there was a Golden Age of Prostitution.

Well, as all the history of prostitution was written and promoted by the sex trade and is supporters, that is simple belief. There little or no records left by the prostituted class – if they do leave a record it is destroyed or distorted.

Leaving an image that all whores were whores were goddesses, courtesans, working in brothels was so much better than other work, were victim-types, were just examples to show the corruption of their times.

All whores in history are never given the privilege of being full humans – so the reader can place any stereotype they wish on them.

I find the latest fashion for re-calling a time, a Golden Age, when prostitutes were worshipped as almost goddesses, were placed high above the messy business of the sex trade – a time that was a myth.

Well, if you believe in unicorns, believe there really were Amazons, believe Santa exist – than you can believe that prostitutes in ancient cultures were not slaves.

Could it not be that the sex trade has always enslaved the prostituted, and has always built a language and culture that give the illusion of freedom and empowerment.

There is so pro-sex trade fascination with temple-prostitution. It is made out these types of prostitutes were empowered, were even worshipped. That the men were darn lucky to be fuck by them.

Give them a name of a goddess, make sure they have no record of their real lives and that they have dead for at least a thousand years – then we can say whatever pro-sex trade myth we like about them.

So dismiss evidence that the vast majority prostitutes inside temples were slaves with no prospect of escape except death.

Dismiss the evidence that there nothing religious about temples that were just brothels. Like brothels in most cultures, most centuries – would want younger and younger whores, and throwaway the whores that looked too old or other ways not marketable.

Could it not be that men who wanted an endless prostitution-class named it as a temple, give the prostitute the names of goddesses.

Maybe out of guilt, maybe because it was a great to increase the market.

But, I find little or no evidence of women and girls that were prostituted being any more than slaves.

There are other times which were considered the Golden Age.

The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in parts of Europe for the high-class courtesan for example.

She is written down as a great way for lower-class women to gain access to male power. She, of course, uses her womanly wiles to manipulate men.

It is she who has control, she who is on occasions the real power behind the throne.

Sorry, but that is utter bullshit – and just proves the history of prostitution is written by the profiteers of the sex trade and johns – never by the prostituted.

Most courtesans were kept on a firm lease.

Their “power” only lasted as long as they considered to be fuckable.

They had to stay young-looking, had to be available to all men in the court, had the constant threat of being thrown away for a younger and more fuckable model.

Sure, courtesans were given permission to read, to run salons, to play at having a brain.

But, then the sex trade has always had multiple markets for johns to select.

The market of intelligent whore who johns can still own and can do as he wants – that market is highly profitable.

The courtesan is no more or less than a doll to the men that used her.

She can read, she may even write, she can socialise with other courtesans – but in the end, she must remember she is there to be fucked.

She must never forget she is just a whore.

I have no time to write more – but there was no Golden Age.

Prostitution is always based on sexual slavery – no matter what fancy words are put on it.

Bloody Hard to See the Bright Side

Posted on by rmott62

Recently, I have trying so hard to see the positive side of the work I do against the sex trade. Looking for the bright side, has me dragged down into depression.

I know that often before great change there is masses of fear, a huge backlash and it is easy to despair.

So I must believe there is a change coming, that all the resistance from so many different angles to the sex trade, is making cracks in their power.

I must believe that – hope is a force that feeds this blog.

But resisting the sex trade is exhausting and very terrifying.

It is a different terror from being prostituted.

During these years, I was numb to terror, I was nothing but goods that were fucked and moved about.

I could not allow myself to be a full human – then I had to hard and tough to survive.

Now, I cannot live by cutting away emotions, I can never go back to being sub-human.

Now the hate thrown in my direction by the sex trade and its supporters hurts me to the core.

I let in the terror, I let in my deep grief, I know that I now a human.

I can never be made into fuck-goods again – that can be celebrated.

But inside that celebration is overwhelming pain.

I know my honesty to say I have grief, pain and terror, is seen by supporters of the sex trade are an opening to attack me.

They think I am vulnerable – well they could not be more wrong.

I have a massive and protective warrior spirit.

My warrior spirit can see and know terror, know it for what it really is, not the disguises it puts on itself.

I see rape not a sexual exchange, I see sexual torture not offering of extras for johns, I see sexual slavery not consent.

I see having to wear the mask of being happy, for there is no escape, no hope and no end.

My warrior spirit carries that terror, and forms them into words to show others an inkling of what prostitution is. It is just glimpses, for I am protected from knowing all the terror.

My warrior spirit shows me the reality of the pain.

The pain of having no part of my body not made into porn, not made into goods that is cut up into maximum profit, the pain of never owning my own body.

The pain of giving men satisfaction, as they ripped into me, as they me into holes to fuck until they were bored or their money run out.

The pain of having to survive by acting like I was having a great time.

The warrior spirit forms that into words. Words that teach me to forgive myself for being such a good actor. Words that in that forgiveness gives me some peace of mind.

My warrior spirit is finally letting in grief. Grief has made so human, and given me a solid strength.

I grieve that I was never a child, never a teenager, never a young adult.

I was whatever men who fuck me wanted me to be, I was the object that was marketable, I was nothing but roles.

I grieve that I survive by making death my best friend.

I grieve how alienated I was from my body, how I did not know severe injuries, how I was numbed to endless sexual torture, how I barely notice my abortion, how I lost I was human.

I grieve with a sickness that has no end – to that prostitute that was me on that bed, knowing she just has to listen to her own breathing – then she can imagine she is still alive.

Somehow my warrior spirit places that grief into words. Words showing that reality of prostitution.

So when they sex trade supporters choose to view my grief, pain and terror as my vulnerability – they do not know they are my power-source.

I know I can never be in that pain and terror ever again.

Sure the attacks I get from the sex trade and its supporters are bloody awful, they make me very scare on occasions.

But I do not believe they will do me physical damage  – they will never rape me again, I will never be their porn-doll again.

They can make me despair, but in that despair I am reminded why I fight so hard to destroy the sex trade.

In the hate-speech to me and other great exited women, they show the sex trade as it really is.

It wants us to be wiped off the face of this world – thus showing they have no heart and are complete cowards.

They are afraid of exited women who speak out, for we are saying the truth.

The truth that prostitution is built on violence and degradation of a class named prostitute. No double-speech can hide that.

No language of empowerment can that away from sexual slavery, no language of free choice will stop it is built on coercion and all forms of trafficking, no speaking of sex work with end that the vast of the prostituted have no basis human rights.

When an exited woman speaks out she cause an earthquake inside the sex trade – no wonder they wants us dead.

So I may find it hard to see the bright side – but I know in my heart the sex trade is slowly crumbling.

Handel on the Radio

Posted on by rmott62

Handel is some of the most peace-giving music we are lucky enough to have.

Inside my PTSD, I sure need some peace.

Handel was my Dad’s favourite composer.

Listening to Handel, I feel the depth of grief. I would want to say – did you hear that. I speak into silence.

Handel reminds that there is good in the world.

When PTSD is forcing into my mind and body all the horror, hate and degradation I known.

Handel gives me back beauty.

When the bodies memories sick out all the ugliness men chose to put into my mind and body.

Handel reminds there something there is more than this simple day-to-day life, this life of struggle, this time of confusion.

There is more, there is a spirit that wants and need us to fight for justice, to move forward when things appear impossible – to believe we can and will make it better.

I listen to Handel, hoping to find my route to peace of mind.

But, I cannot have true peace when I know millions of prostituted women and girls are trapped in hell, are given no hope of an exit.

Handel calms me.

But from that calmness, I get the power to keep on fighting the sex trade.

My Dad’s Spirit

Posted on by rmott62

This is a record of why I loved my Dad, and how I carry parts of his spirit inside my essence. It is also how his spirit was one reason I was able to separate myself from violence and degradation.

My Dad was a good man – he was never perfect, he never pretended that he less or more than others – he just believe in seeing the good in others, and that brought out the good in him.

I would say my Dad taught me never to judge.

He also knew that some people made the choice to put hate into the world, made the choice to destroy others for their own gain.

He found that hard to understand, it would make him weep on occasions.

He hated anyone who harm a child.

The only time I saw fury in my Dad, an anger that terrified both me and him – was when he heard and believed that my stepdad had abused me.

I really thought my Dad was going to kill my stepdad. I was just glad we were in England, and my stepdad was in France.

His anger was guilt he had not protected me or seen that it was happening. His anger was confusion that any adult could even think to rape a child. His anger was that it had gone for years, and I had never trusted him enough to tell him.

His anger was grief, frustration and a rage at injustice.

I was scared, I almost leapt out of a moving car – but at the moment I knew he had never known.

At the moment, the lies of my mother and stepdad were broken. The lies saying my Dad just did not care, that he knew and thought I was just a slag.

Seeing his frustrated rage, all I saw was he had always loved me, just could not know how to reach out to me.

For years, I had coped by deciding I did not need my Dad’s love.

I knew I did not deserve his love, for I was fucking men all over the place, I was drinking myself to death and I was nothing that could be loved.

I made him judge me, so then I could hate him.

I acted violent in front of him, I would run away, I swear all the time, I beat up his son – I knew where I stood if he hated me.

But what I got back was unrelenting love, patience and wanting to make my life better.

This I could not understand. All I knew was to run away from his love.

As I got embedded inside prostitution, I avoided my Dad as much I could.

I thought I would go mad, if he saw me as full human – he may see his daughter getting fucked to almost dead, he may see I had given up hope.

But even then, he reached out to me, and I let in his presence in small moments.

He gave love through our love of American and British films of 1930’s to 1950’s. We would sit together to watch Match of the Day. We went to matinees when I was visiting him in London. We went to art galleries, had pub lunches. He shown me the architecture of London.

This during my years of hell was a haze – but now all those things are part of my essence.

Whenever I am in London, I am amazed how alive I am.

I feel my Dad walking alongside me in London.

He was a publisher, so we often went to Bloomsbury, doing architecture tours and speaking of Virginia Woolf. I walked there all the time, amazed by my knowledge and love of the place.

It is the same in the City of London, I know the small Wren churches, where Johnson lived, the Inns of Law, where Dickens wrote, where Marlowe was murdered, etc etc.

My Dad give me a love of London – after the years of shit in London given to me by my stepdad and prostitution – that was an amazing gift.

Now, London is a city of literature, paintings, sports events, theatre, parks, festivals – and more, as I see with my Dad by my side.

I still know hotels where I did prostitution, still know what Soho and King’s Cross is and was, still know how often I wanted to die in London.

But I will make the choice to seek the good in London, then I follow my Dad’s spirit.

My Dad believe in human justice and that it was a very hard road to get it.

I was brought with tales of his family in America being against MacCarthy, being deeply involved with the civil rights movement. I was encouraged to be involved with human’s right struggle, such as Anti-Apartheid and Chile Solidarity.

It was seen as a duty to fight for human rights, I know it would hard and sometimes very depressing, for I see my Dad’s family have major attacks for their belief that there must be justice.

I know my Dad is behind this blog, he knew little of what it is about. But he knew I am striving for justice and human dignity, and that made him proud.

When I get attacked, when I feel I am fighting an evil that could have destroyed me, when I close to despair – I reach into essence and find my Dad cheer-leading me to fight harder.

I miss my Dad phoning me on Sunday afternoon, I miss saying have you seen that film/exhibition, I miss moaning about Arsenal or Ipswich with him, I miss seeing Cornwall with him, I miss his dinner parties, I miss watching comfort TV with him, I miss being silent in a room with us both reading, I miss talking about jazz with him.

I really miss my Dad.

But he is deep inside me.