By Jenna

“You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.” – Margaret Atwood

I think the reason Margaret Atwood speaks so powerfully to me and many other women is clear. Our views of our own bodies are shaped by how men treat us. We start receiving those messages as teenagers and for some of us even younger. The sexualisation is insidious and we are not aware until it is far too late.

I have vivid memories of being in the bath as a child, pretending I was a porn star. I would have sexual day dreams and write things about men that I had no business knowing. I didn’t figure out until much later that the reason I did those things was because I had been abused. My brain protected me from having the memories of that playing out all the time. I am thankful because life was hard enough without those memories but it meant I internalised the sexual trauma, denied ever being a victim and turned myself into what I thought I was. What I thought I should be. A slut. A whore.

I was an unhappy child, bullied at school and frequently told how ugly and unshaggable I was. Thoughts of suicide and wanting to disappear were always lingering. One night I took all the puffs in my asthma inhaler, thinking that might work. I was very sad the next day when I woke up.

I can still hear some words to this day. I would have done anything to be beautiful. To be sexy. They leave you alone when you’re sexy. That’s what I thought. Instead, I made myself small, had issues with eating, wore baggy clothes and didn’t stand out.

I struggled with my sexuality. Knowing I liked women made me even more ashamed. What kind of girl was I? I couldn’t do sexy. I couldn’t do boys. I couldn’t even make friends. I was a shell.

It wasn’t until I was 18 that I realised that could change. Much older men were taking an interest in me and it was a revelation. My interest in sex wasn’t healthy. Looking back now, I realise that’s not surprising.

I began taking the ‘sexy makes you popular’ theory as far as I could. I wouldn’t say no to anyone. Or to any act. I would be the cool girl now. That would be my thing. Being submissive was extra cool. Made me even more popular.

When I started selling sex, it made me money. It was my ‘speciality’. I could give submissive. I could give porn star. I was such a cool girl! If only those kids could see me now! I get paid for this. I’m not a lesbian. I’m not ugly. They are paying me because I’m so good at this!

Do some of the men smell and cause me physical and psychological pain? Well yes but no job is perfect. I’m making money. Good money. I make loads more than some of the other girls because I know what to do. I let those men do anything. I’m not strict and boring. I’m the cool girl. Hardcore.

I continued to play that role for years and I sold that role so hard, I had me believing it too. I thought the only way I could have sex was if it was rough. I sought it out. It was normal. Yet I always felt deep down that something was very wrong. The suicidal thoughts continued to haunt me. The emotional breakdowns. The anxiety. The feeling of never being good enough for anything except sex.

When I was selling sex, it was a secret. A double life. It was for all the women I ever worked with. So it always comes as a surprise when I see women who are currently selling sex pushing how great it is. Not so much what they are saying (they are proud sex workers who love their jobs etc) because I would have said the same. To the men that paid me at least.

I didn’t want to be a victim. I’ve never wanted to be a victim. I only ever wanted to be the cool girl. The loved girl.

Prostitution is such a secret world (despite the world’s obsession with pornography) that I am always surprised and saddened to see women speaking publicly in support of it.

I’ve seen women pushing for full decriminalisation and claiming that the Nordic model will make women unsafe and stigmatised. They don’t want people telling them how to live their lives. They don’t want to be told that they’re victims. Why would they? Our world pushes extreme pornography. There are misogynistic narratives spun through all our lives. Victims can never win. Why now? She wishes! She’s got a book to sell! She made money! Jumping on the bandwagon! She doesn’t look traumatised!

Over and over, we hear hateful rhetoric about women and girls and it has become so normalised that we don’t even question it. We internalise it. For some of us we ignore our own sexualities because of it.

Selling sex isn’t safe. It will never be safe. So can’t we look at punishing those that hurt us for once? Can’t we look at getting meaningful support and exit strategies for women who just don’t want to do it anymore?

I wrote this poem for all the women out there who wanted to be cool girls:

I’m breathing

I’ve fought demons.
Made of male flesh.
I’ve battled devils sent to abuse.
The deepest parts of me violated in the extreme.
For a man’s five minutes of pleasure.
I took their pleasure and I made it my own.
Because no one wants to be raped over and over.
The evil I’ve seen looked me in the eye.
Not scared to state their desires.
There is honesty in this depravity.
No false promises here.
If you can’t take this pain, I’ll go somewhere else.
I can take this pain.
I can sink to new lows.
You’ve no idea the depths I’ve swum in.

I’m still here.
My body in one piece.
It’s older, fleshier, more imperfections but I’m breathing.
I’m walking.
My back hurts.
I feel pain where I should feel pleasure but I’m breathing.
I cry sometimes, feel anger, desperate.
Hopeless even.
But I’m breathing.
I’m not defeated.

I found my voice.
I use it even when my hands shake.
I use it with um’s and er’s.
I use it to tell my story.
To explain the reality of this world of quick pleasures.

I will never be prey in that world again.
I will protect and speak the truth.
Those demons will not destroy me.
I am here, broken maybe, but I’m breathing.