Not For Sale: The Sex Industry Sell Out

The one and only reason that I am against prostitution and pornography is that I am for people. I believe in people. Male and female we deserve more than this, this narrow view of sexuality and gender, this web of lies concocted and perpetuated by the sex industry and society’s acceptance of it.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Anything that crushes the human spirit, that disregards people’s humanity, must be seen for what it is and put to an end. The fact that the sex industry may have adopted the language of good – freedom of speech, empowerment, liberation of sexuality – does not in fact make it good. It has been a feature of many dominant and damaging ideologies that they have adopted language which appeals to the culture they emerge in. It is a key to their survival. But when that language bears no relation to the realities such systems create and maintain, it must be disregarded. We cannot begin to change things if we do not keep our language real.

The sex industry does men a huge disservice: it teaches them that women want to be treated like sex objects, and that to object to such a view is somehow unmanly and less-than. It perpetuates an aggressive, macho culture in which buying women, fucking women without care or respect is both normal and also something to aspire to, to laugh about, to brag about. A male bonding experience. Porn is no advocator of equality, of gentleness or mutuality. Sex is something the man does to the woman – the rougher and the more holes he penetrates, the better. It is about conquest and domination.

The sex industry does women a huge disservice. Its effects reach far beyond the women directly involved in the making of porn, in lapdancing and prostitution. Womens’ bodies are cheapened by the mere fact that they are everywhere for sale. Women in porn accept any treatment, no matter how painful or degrading, with gratitude and an orgasm to boot. Any woman who objects to women being sold risks being labeled frigid or jealous (!). Women’s magazines, tv chat shows and advice columns have been quick promote the views of the sex industry, telling women who are upset by their husband / son’s use of pornography that it is normal and healthy and to get over it. Women may find themselves coerced into re-enacting sex acts their partners have seen, and their partners are able to point to a whole host of sources which show this is mainstream: it’s normal. Teen magazines feature articles such as ‘position of the fortnight’, and women’s magazines have articles such as ‘how to keep your man happy in bed’ in which blowjobs are just the beginning, the base line of expectation. There are online ‘love and sex advice’ sites where if a woman writes that she finds anal sex painful, she will be given a load of practical advice to make it better. No one ever says, if it hurts, if you don’t want to do it but feel pressured, just don’t do it. You have the right to say no, no explanation required.

Women’s magazines frequently sell the sex industry’s side of the story: lapdancing as harmless fun and a good way to make a quick buck; stripping as a bit of glamour and excitement; 'our day (pre-arranged of course) on a porn set'. We aren’t told the truth and misinformation makes it hard to make informed decisions. Women will often argue in favour of the ‘rights’ of other women ( - I wouldn’t do it myself) to sell their bodies. This is based on ignorance as to the realities of what being fucked for money actually means, and an overwhelming pressure which tells us that to fit in, to be acceptable and non-prudish, non-judgmental, we must go along with it and say that it’s okay, even if it doesn’t feel right.

In such a worldview, there is no room for individuality, for empathy, for respect, for intimacy. People are reduced to their body parts, for financial gain. Sex becomes a formulaic, mechanical act, devoid of connection, with no space for personal preference, feeling or emotion, with pressure to perform on both sides: both parties acting an act, re-creating a vision which has been given us, illustrated for us so graphically in a thousand pornos, making the right noises, looking the part.

We must change this! The omnipresent sex industry has stolen our humanity, stolen our sexuality, stolen the way in which we perceive those around us and short changed us with a twisted, power-laden, financially driven lie. A lie which our society profits from and so continues to sell us. So mainstream is the sex industry propaganda that it has become naturalised, almost invisible. There exists, however, a marginalized but increasingly vocal group of people who risk the wrath of society at large by speaking out, saying ‘it wasn’t good for me – being sold, being forced to act like a pornstar wasn’t good for me’. We must continue to speak out, and work together – male and female, because the sex industry damages both men and women. We need to take action and say, I don’t want to be a part of this, I won’t be a part of this, I’m not buying into it because I want more and you know what, I deserve more. I am a human being and I deserve more.

Emotionally Challenged?

I find I have become an expert at hiding emotion. It’s the only thing I can hold onto, that I don’t give them the satisfaction of laughing at my tears, or cumming to them. Blank is good. Neutral is good. He finds fault and when any expression can lead to a beating, it’s better to have none. Although sometimes he’ll beat me for that anyway. What’s the fuck’s wrong with you you stupid fucking bitch? Not got anything to say for yourself?

I have nothing to say for myself. My lips remain sealed, there are no words - if there were to be any they would be the wrong ones and lead to more trouble. Talk is, largely, futile. There are words in my head, sometimes, but I stop saying them and sometimes they don’t connect with what’s happening anyway.

What’s inside and what’s outside cease to match up.

I can do blank and I can do detached. But sometimes it’s more than that, sometimes I manage neither but something wildly inappropriate, bearing no relation to what’s happening or how I’m feeling, will out. It’s like all of the expressions of emotion have jumbled into one big mess, firing off at random. So sometimes in the direst circumstances, about to be beaten and raped I’ll laugh, a kind of whatcha gonna do? Which infuriates him or makes him tell me I’m mental. I talk to myself aloud sometimes, apparently, I’m not aware of it until I’m told to shut the fuck up, poems and odd words, comfort words. Rare indeed are the times I’ll cry. I throw up a lot, pass out a lot, play distraction games: reciting mantras, spelling out every third letter of each word, or every word coming at me or spoken over me, thinking in colours or numbers or rhyme.

I’ll smile at times, because I’m told to for the camera or to please the punters, the threat of violence always in the air. It’s a killer, smiling for your abusers, it’s been so long since I’ve really smiled and the pain is at times so great that I don’t know if I’m smiling or grimacing. Showing your teeth, something apes do when they’re scared. Sounds about right, although I kind of get beyond scared – out the other side, a light headed dizzying detachment. You can’t survive if you acknowledge the true danger – can’t live knowing you could die at any time.

I wear a mask at any rate beyond the pulling of the facial muscles – my makeup, heavy makeup for the most part. It’s covering dark circles beneath my eyes and bruises, making the mouth they’ll be fucking more prominent, easy to find, eyelashes thickened and lengthened. Got to please the punters! They don’t want to see past damage or dirt, just the damage and dirt they’ve caused, a part of their conquest, though they’ll ignore bruising between the legs as long as it’s squeaky clean. Of course, often your pain is their pleasure – when they don’t want you to smile but want you to cry. Wiping up the tears and the cum those times they get what they want, having done what it took, feeling the sickness of selling yourself out.

I am in body, out of body, detached, terrified, numb, in pain, sick, drunk, drugged, concussed, injured, sleep deprived, starving… it’s no surprise I guess in retrospect that the emotions should get out of kilter and, further, the facial expressions should become detached from the emotions. This isn’t a tv drama or a film, where the female lead weeps unsnotty silent tears and utters powerful and articulate monologues to a sympathetic audience at the appropriate moment, unveiling herself. This is daily, monotonous torture pure and simple and the consequent breaking down of patterns of emotions. Splitting, PTSD, get in the way of straightforward cause and effect feelings and expressions of emotions. Something triggers the head and it’ll be freeze, laugh cry or vomit as head and body re-live, irrespective of what’s actually happening in realtime. Confusing and nonsensical to an outside perspective.

It is true to say I am hard. Sometimes. But I am also soft, vulnerable. Most people have emotions but emotions have me: different head, different emotion. I am not Angel sad, Angel angry, I am Sad, I am Angry, the main continuity as Angel being that these heads inhabit the same body. To some people, I seem hard and cold, able to speak seemingly without emotion about horror and loss. In fact the very opposite is true: I split, I hardened, I detached, laughed hysterically and inappropriately because I am human, because I am vulnerable. Surviving in traumatic conditions, body and mind do what they have to do to get through, to protect themselves. My unusual reactions are not proof that I am heartless or cold. They are proof that I am human and have remained human. I built a shell around myself, the hard protecting the soft. Remaining vulnerable and open and dying, or closing off and surviving. I made my choice. Tell me you’d have done it differently.