Seeking contributors for “Voices of Prostitution Survivors” new page

Nicole O'Connell - Story of a London Call Girl 88

I have created a new page on my blog called Voices of Prostitution Survivors.  So far, there are nine stories up there.

For anyone who has worked in prostitution and would like to contribute a short piece, anything from a few sentences to a few paragraphs, please email me with your piece to ruth@soul-destruction.com or use the contact form on the website.

If you have a blog and/or Twitter account and would like them linked to your piece, please let me know those details. Alternatively, if you would prefer to use a pen name or be kept anonymous, please let me know that too.

To be clear, I am interested to hear from anyone who has worked in prostitution. There is no judgement on how long you worked in prostitution for, whether it be for one day or decades. Nor does it matter what type of prostitution you were involved in, whether that be streetwalking, working in a brothel, or in a massage parlour, or operating as a call girl/escort. I am just looking for real honesty, the power to speak from your heart, and if you can, disclose how you really feel.

For anyone who doesn’t know me well already, I am an author whose writing dispels the “happy hooker” myth and exposes the dark world and the harsh reality of life as a call girl. With my series of novels, Soul Destruction, as well as my charity publication, In Her Own Words… Interview with a London Call Girl, I hope to achieve this, and also change the stigma much of society has against women who work in prostitution. I believe this is mainly through lack of knowledge and understanding. I am hoping this new page, Voices of Prostitution Survivors, will go some way to help people who are not involved in prostitution understand women who have worked/are working in prostitution and, with that understanding, be less likely to judge. I am also hoping this page will help women who have exited prostitution, as well as women who are still in prostitution, gain identification with each other. The comments section can be used as a discussion board for all who read the page.

Another Day, Another Bed, Another Man – 26 December 2000 – 10.30AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

There’s a warm body pressed against my back. My legs are tangled with other legs. Opening my eyes, I see I’m back in my suite at the Radisson. I turn around in the bed. Mickey’s lying next to me. He’s naked on top. I peek under the covers. He’s wearing pants. I lift up my nightdress. I’m wearing knickers. I’m hoping we didn’t have sex.

While Mickey snores, I insert a finger inside my vagina. I bring it up to my nose and check it for scent. We haven’t had sex. What a relief. I am more attracted to him than any man I can remember. I would love to be able to have sex with him. But I’m not capable of normal sex – unpaid sex. It leaves me feeling cold, empty and used.

I lean towards the bedside table. I pick up my packet of cigarettes, pull one out and light it. Although I’d love to spend time with Mickey, I need to get rid of him. He’s a few days off heroin and I need to get some and use it. I can’t remember if I took Stix’s phone number yesterday. I can’t remember travelling back here. The last thing I recall is being in Stix’s lounge, drinking beer and getting stoned. I must’ve blacked out from the booze again.

Stretching my arm over the side of the bed, I pick up my hobo bag from the floor. I hope I’ve got Stix’s number. If not, I can always ask Mickey. That’d be a last resort though. I’m pretty sure he’ll try to stop me scoring.

The number isn’t in my bag. I don’t have Lorna’s number either. She usually just turns up here. She might not appear again since we kind of fell out the other night. The thought of having no connections panics me – not that I want to carry on taking heroin for however much longer I stay here. I don’t. I just need it today. I’ve got the sweats and the aching joints. I’ve been through cold turkey before. I can do it again. But not today.

I stub my cigarette in the ashtray, tumble out of bed then stagger to the bathroom. I still feel slightly drunk. I take a shower, hoping it will sober me up. When I’m done, I apply my make up, hiding a multitude of spots with concealer.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Mickey says as I walk back into the suite. He’s still lying in bed.

I remind myself that just because he calls me beautiful, it doesn’t mean he thinks I am. I let go of the towel I’m wrapped in and step into my white, Armani dress. I wonder how I’m going to get rid of him. If only I had some heroin here, I could take a hit and spend the day with him. I’d love to spend the day with him. He’s a good man. He slept in a bed with me and didn’t fuck me. He’s not like most men.

“What do we do here for breakfast?” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up.

I look out the window and away from his toned, nearly naked body. “I don’t need food. I need a hit.” I didn’t mean to say that.

“Have you got any junk here?”

“No,” I reply. “I don’t know if I can get any. Lorna and me sort of had a row at the party.”

“Over me?” He grins, pulling on his jeans.

“Surprisingly not. She scored for me then used it all.” I omit to tell him that I had a hit without her. That was why she did it.

“I told you to watch her. She’s always after something that girl.” He slips his white t-shirt over his head. “I can get you junk. You got money?”

“Yes… Thanks.” I’m shocked he’s offered. He told me the other night that he’d stopped. I’m not going to question it. I don’t want to put him off. I step into my fuchsia high-heels and we leave the suite.

Walking towards to Mickey’s large, white van, I have a recollection of being in it last night. The seats are high up. I remember struggling to get inside. He had to give me a push. I dread to think what we were talking about on the journey. I hope I was too out of it to speak. I’m realising I’m too open when I’m drunk, like the other night when I told Stix I was a hooker. I’m still concerned Mickey knows that about me. If Stix didn’t tell him, maybe I told him myself.

As we drive away, I see Lorna crossing the road from the seafront to the Radisson Hotel. I duck. I don’t want her to see me with Mickey. She’s told me to stay away from him. I’ll spend my time with whoever I want though. I won’t be told what to do.

Waking in a Stranger’s Bed – 25 December 2000 – 2.30PM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

I open my eyes. I’m in a blue bedroom, ocean colour blue. Pink Floyd posters line the wall opposite me. I’m lying in a double bed. I lift up the duvet, peering underneath. I’m completely naked – no knickers, nothing.

Whose bedroom is this? Did I sleep here alone? I slide my fingers between my legs. I rub myself. Bringing my hand up under my nose, I sniff my fingers. I smell of sex. I feel sick in my stomach. I feel sick in my throat. I’m going to throw up.

Rolling out the bed, I look on the carpet for my clothes. They’re not there. I run out the bedroom, naked. This landing is not the landing I saw last night at the party. The bathroom door is open. I throw myself on the white floor tiles. On my knees, head over the toilet, I vomit.

I wipe my eyes with toilet paper. I blow my nose. I rinse my mouth with water from the sink. I run the shower. I need to feel clean. I’ve had sex and I don’t know who’s fucked me. Did they use a condom? I might have caught a disease. I’m sure they’ll find something when I get checked at the clinic, if not from using Lorna’s syringe the other night then from this.

I doubt I’ve been paid, but maybe I was. While I’m waiting for the shower to run hot, I return to the bedroom. My hobo bag is on a wooden chair. I check my purse. There’s four hundred and twenty dollars inside. I’m sure that’s what I had in there yesterday. I haven’t been paid. I’ve had sex with a man for free. Perhaps it wasn’t a man. It could’ve been a woman. That won’t be so bad but it isn’t as likely. Most women wouldn’t have sex with someone as drunk as I was last night.

Back on the landing, I can hear voices coming from downstairs. I’m going to have to go down at some point. I can’t stay up here forever. I tiptoe into the bathroom. I step into the bath and get under the shower. I turn up the heat. The water has to be as hot as I can take it. It’s the only way.

There’s a sponge on the side of the bath. It doesn’t look clean. How can I scrub myself? Tears are making their way into my eyes. I need to scrub my body. I have to scrub it. Ten or so times, I wash the sponge with shower gel under the scorching water. It’s not as clean as I want it to be but it’ll have to do.

I wash my hair three times then finish with conditioner. While the conditioner’s working, I scrub my body thoroughly and rinse. I rinse my hair. Then I scrub my body again. I rinse. I do it again, and rinse. I do it again, and again, and again, until my skin feels raw and I can’t bear the heat and the rawness any longer. I don’t even know who I’ve been washing off me. I don’t feel clean. I need to know who it was and what happened. That should help. Knowing should help. I hope it does.

I sniff the towels that are lying over the bathroom radiator. The black one doesn’t smell of anyone. It smells of fabric conditioner. Wrapped in the towel, I sneak out of the bathroom onto the landing and back inside the blue bedroom. With the door shut, I look around for my clothes. There’s a pile of clothes in the corner by the window. I rummage around and find my underwear and my black skirt and purple top in amongst them.

Before stepping into my knickers, I sniff them. I don’t want to wear them if they smell of sex. Thankfully, they smell clean. Fully dressed, I rub my hair with the towel. I slip on my six-inch heels then return to the bathroom. I replace the towel over the radiator.

Standing in front of the mirror, I open my handbag. I have mascara with me because last night Lorna wouldn’t wait for me to finish my make up before we left my hotel. I apply my mascara then dig in my bag for a lip gloss. I sweep the pale pink shimmer across my lips. I don’t look too bad, though concealer to cover the trademark smackhead spots on my face would have been ideal if I had it in my possession.

With my hobo bag over my shoulder, I wait on the landing. I hear the voices again. There’s at least one woman and two men. I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying. It’s too distant. Do they even know I’m up here? The person who had sex with me might not even be here now.

I will not be ashamed. These things happen. Holding my head high, I walk down the stairs.