Letter to a Punter

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Dear I have no words to name you,

I am writing not because I think you will see this, or if by some chance you do, that you’ll be able to comprehend what I saying. No, I write as a personal release for the many performances that I had to give to make you believe I was your Happy Hooker.

I was never happy. At best I was bored, at the very best I was relatively safe—but those times were very rare. Most of the time you, and all the other endless punters that had me, were violent, full of rage and hate, and filled with a cold violence that nearly killed me. I was often tortured by men like you.

All of you do not consider what you do to me to be harmful. You would never consider yourself to be violent; you do not think you have a rage against women. You would say you respect the prostituted—I suppose you would call me a sex worker. You think you are a good guy.

Well, I write to say you can never be the good guy.

A good guy would never even think of buying and owning a prostitute for his selfish sexual wants.

See that—you were selfish when you bought me and other prostitutes. I have heard in your excuse that you "need" sex—like it is impossible to masturbate. No you need a living body under you—even if she is the living dead—to masturbate into. It is not mutual sex—it is you fucking the prostitute who is stripped of the right to safety, the right to turn you away, the right to say no to any sexual act you pay for, especially the dangerous and terrifying ones.

You refuse to see, or, if you do see the prostitute's terror or deadness, you make the choice not to give a damn. As the consumer, you will get your money’s worth.

Now, I would love it if you could just be honest about the real reason you bought me.

Don't speak to me of respect, of it as a sexual adventure, that you thought I was attractive/interesting, that I would do things your girlfriend/wife won't, that it was fine ‘cause it was not sleazy like street prostitution. Stop lying and face the truth.

You buy prostitutes because you know you have complete power and control over another human—buying a prostitute is like buying a slave.

You buy a prostitute knowing she can be raped, battered, murdered, and more than likely, there will be no consequences. You know you can damage her because she is just goods to you. You know she is sub-human.

That is what you are buying—I don't care how you sweeten it.

I want you to know that I and most other prostitutes always hated you. Sure we pasted on the whore's smile, sure we told you that you were a stud and no man could do what you did, sure we told we love being a prostitute.

But know that we lied to survive. Sometimes, if we flattered you enough, the violence was less. Sometimes the right words meant you just penetrated our vaginas and didn’t sexually torture us in other ways. Making you happy sometimes kept us safe.

But in our hearts, we wanted to murder you. I cannot tell you how many times I thought of putting a pillow over your head. How many times I wanted to give you just a small taste of the terror and pain that men like you made my everyday existence.

We were better than you could ever be—for we did not use violence as you did. You were lucky, for the rage inside a prostitute could destroy you. I write this hoping it shows you just how hellish you made my life. I am not sure if makes sense—but that is what your hate has left me with.

You gave me extreme trauma. Trauma from knowing that I had no control or way out as you used my body as your living porn playground. Trauma from having horrific body memories of all the pain you poured into me, which, at the time, I was too dead to feel. Trauma from the grief of knowing men like you stole my teenage and young adulthood years.

I hate you—unless you know you are a criminal—that hate will always be there.
You were never innocent—but you destroyed my right to have innocence.

-Rebecca, United Kingdom