Update on Voices of Prostitution Survivors Page & Call for New Contributions

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

Do I Have Prostitute Written on My Forehead?” is the latest entry on the Voices of Prostitution Survivors page. There are now eleven stories up there, but I am keen to have as many voices as possible to dispel the ‘happy hooker’ myth and show the reality of working in prostitution at all levels.

If anyone would like to submit a piece to me, I would be very grateful. My email address is ruth@soul-destruction.com or you can use the contact form on here. It could be a few sentences or a few paragraphs. You can use your own name, a pen name, or just ‘anonymous’. If you would like your blog/website and twitter account linked to your piece I can do that for you as well. I also don’t mind if you use a piece you have already published somewhere else, such as your blog or website.

My website has had over 15,000 hits since I launched it just a few months ago. I want not only my fictional work to show the reality of prostitution, but for that to be backed up by firsthand accounts. I have gone some way to doing this with my charity publication, “In Her Own Words… Interview with a London Call Girl”, from which all royalties are being donated to a charity called Beyond the Streets, which help women exit prostitution.

With all my work, I want to show the reality of working in prostitution, not the glossy image the media has been feeding society. I want to reach all sections of society so women in prostitution are not judged and seen as fallen women, but are treated with compassion and understanding as they are some of the most vulnerable women in society with 75% having suffered childhood sexual and physical abuse, 70% having been raped multiple times, and 67% meeting the criteria for posttraumatic stress disorder. It is correct that 95% of women in prostitution have drug addiction issues but it is often the case that addiction to drugs comes after entering prostitution in order to continue to work in prostitution. Research also shows that 9 out of 10 women would like to exit if they could.

If you can be part of what I am trying to accomplish, changing the stigma society has against women who work in prostitution, dispelling the ‘happy hooker’ myth, deterring young, vulnerable girls and women who are the most likely to enter prostitution from making that decision by showing them the reality then I would be very grateful if you could take part in this endeavour. I also hope it will touch women working in prostitution and give them the strength to seek help from specialist charities to exit when they are ready to do so. I also want my work to reach johns, who will think twice before using the services of a woman in prostitution, knowing that she most likely has been abused as a child, been raped multiple times, has posttraumatic stress disorder, and needs to use drugs in order to have sex with him.

I know I want to accomplish a great deal with my work, and I feel the way forward is to use all mediums possible: my fictional series of Soul Destruction novels, my charity publication, and the Voices of Prostitution Survivors page. In the future, perhaps this can be used as a documentary or my novel turned into a film. In the meantime, I need to work with what I can, and I am asking for your assistance with the Voices of Prostitution Survivors page of my website please.  If you can’t submit a piece, please could I ask that you share this page as widely as possible. Many thanks, Ruth – ruth@soul-destruction.com.

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.

Plan in Action (Part 2 of 2) – 24 December 2000 -12.35AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

I hobble up the stairs in the Radisson Hotel. Lorna walks behind me. I’m in stilettos as usual. She’s in flats. As we arrive on the second floor, I take the door key from my hobo bag. Once inside my suite, I slip off my Louboutins. I need to say something. I need to get the smack. I have to be the one who prepares the hits tonight.

I’m determined not to hand over the spoon. I know she’ll be asking for it any minute. I need to ask her for the gear first. Should I do that, or should I wait until she asks for the spoon then suggest she gives me the bag at that point? I’m not sure. I need to decide. I have to get this right. If I mess it up, I won’t die.

“Have you got a dead baby?” I was thinking about that this afternoon. I was going to ask her about it, but then I decided I didn’t want to discuss it. I’m not in the mood. Sometimes I have no control over the words that flow from my lips.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” Lorna takes her position, lying on my queen-sized bed.

“I didn’t mean… I was just thinking earlier, most of the working girls I know have had stillborns or terminations. I was just thinking and it just came out my mouth. I’m sorry.”

Lorna looks at me with narrow eyes. “Have you got one?” she snaps.

“Yes,” I say. “Three… Three dead babies.” I didn’t want to think about this now. Why can’t I control my thoughts and words like normal people? I might not want to be dead if I could control my thoughts. I try to remember what Dr Fielding says about my babies. They went back to the eyes of God. That’s all good if you believe in God, but I struggle with that. I really fucking do. If there is a God, how could he or she have allowed such devastation to happen in my family?

“I had an abortion when I was seventeen.” Lorna’s voice is calmer now.

I put my hand out in her direction, palm open. “Pass the smack.”

“I still get sad about it now.” Lorna places the bag of heroin in my hand. “I think about my baby every day. He’d be six now. Do you think about your babies often?”

“Yes.” That’s the truth. But right now, I don’t want to think about anything other than my plan. That’s why I want to die. I’ve been thinking too much. I don’t want to think about my dead babies. I don’t want to think about my dead mum. I don’t want to think about my absent dad. I don’t want to think about what the babysitters did to me. I don’t want to think about what happened to Milly. Poor Milly. I should have got myself sorted so I could help her. But I couldn’t do it. I can’t do it. I’m giving up. I’ve managed to get the gear. Now I can do something else. I can end it. I’ve been thinking about this since I arrived in Sydney last week. This needs to be done carefully. I have to make sure Lorna doesn’t clock on to what I’m doing.

I’m half-listening as Lorna tells me about the father of her baby. He was her ex-boyfriend. Did she say he hit her before she was pregnant or while she was pregnant? I didn’t catch that properly. Something about being in hospital to check the baby’s heartbeat.

I sprinkle enough heroin in the spoon for about five of my standard hits. I add the water. How am I going to do this? I need to make up two hits. One has to be far stronger than the other. I need to use less water and make them up one at a time. Lorna always makes them both up together so that’s how much water I’ve added – the usual amount. Now I have too much water in the spoon.

I open the drawer in the bedside table. I take out the syringe I used last night. I place it next to the box of tissues. “Will you pass me my inhaler from the bathroom,” I say to Lorna.

“Where is it?” She gets off the bed and stands up.

“I can’t remember…on a shelf I think. Give me your needle so I can do your hit.”

Lorna hands me her works. I put hers on the bed. I take my used needle and draw up half the hit. I put it back beside the box of tissues. While Lorna is in the bathroom, I balance the bent spoon on the bedside table. I run over to the bureau. I rummage through the drawer. I’m sure I stashed another syringe in there the other night.

“I can’t see it,” Lorna shouts from the bathroom.

“Look inside my toiletry bag…the pink one,” I shout back.

I still can’t find another syringe. I open Lorna’s handbag, looking for clean works. I can’t tell if hers are used or new. What does it matter if I’m going to die anyway? I steal one from her bag. I rush to the other side of the bed. Holding the spoon, I draw up the other half of my lethal hit. I put the second needle in the drawer of the bedside table.

Lorna pops her head out the bathroom door. “It’s not in here.”

I fake a cough. “I really need it. Can you check again.”

With Lorna back in the bathroom, I quickly make up another hit – a milder one this time. I draw it up into her syringe that I left on the bed. I need to be careful not to confuse the syringes. I put mine in my mouth, leaving the stain of pink lipstick on the barrel.

I still don’t know how I’m going to get both injections in my arm without her noticing I’m having two hits. Maybe I’ll need to take mine into the bathroom. I remove the syringe from the drawer in the bedside table. I slip it under my bra, between my breasts. I hope it doesn’t fall out.

“Never mind,” I call to Lorna. “I want this hit more than my inhaler. Come back through.”

Lorna returns to the suite. She lies back down on the bed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find it.”

She wouldn’t have done. It was, like I’ll soon be, non-existent.