Collateral damage: thoughts on being a survivor of prostitution

Don’t talk about it like you know what it is, don’t talk about it like I’m not in the same damn room and for fucks sake don’t call it work, its not work its slavery and don’t think because I’m a middle class university educated women that I haven’t done it, that it hasn’t happened to me.

You say this is contested territory while looking sideways at the big words, as if its a game, a discussion to be had, well my body is, always will be, contested territory because of what they did to it, because they bought it, sold it, used it, discarded it.

Don’t argue that there is no difference between this and other forms of capitalism, i would much rather do a sixteen hour shift in a freezer getting soaked through when sorting watercress than be fucked for money, I know this, unless you’ve been where I’m standing you don’t, so stop talking stupid crap, really.

Saying this OUT LOUD, in a public space, scares me, makes my heart hammer in my chest and the words, whatwilltheythinkofme? whatwilltheythinkofme? slide through my mind in shame.

But I can’t be the only one and I was brave enough, strong enough but most of all LUCKY enough that I made it out alive, and if anything I say makes a difference to JUST ONE other woman, the shame will have been worth it.