Today I received a package from a reader who sent me over 100 postcards of kink, bondage, and fetish prostitutes and their numbers. If you want to whip a woman, if you want to chain one up, whatever you want, there is a number of a woman. All women who sell sex.
As sex positive as I may be, when I receive a letter from someone who reads my blog, who reads of my rapes, who reads of my being used as a sexual toy as a child by adults. I don’t know of any woman who has been raped who would receive dozens, and dozens, hundreds of images, like this, without triggering. The accompanying letter told of a conversation in which one male told the other male ‘with a smirk, “Send them to Elizabeth”.’ Yes, send them to me for that is what and who I am, a series of holes to be used, an object, a thing, an item, an it, for rent, for money, for being overpowered, for being beaten; this is who I am, hundreds of images of who I am.
They say, it is not your fault, at least that is what women who have been raped say. Is that what men say? Or Edwardian Grandmothers? Or am I just a whore? No images today, I have to sleep, or not, because of images. Because 75% of those street workers interviewed WERE sexually abused by a father figure (father, step-father, someone who should protect, someone who should care more about that person than their own self).
Send them to Elizabeth. This is who you are…..
(I will send out postcards this weekend, not because I receive mail, I don’t, or I didn’t this week. And not because I won’t have nightmares but because they degraded me, shamed me, made me cry, made me scream used my body like meat; then like day old meat, like week old meat. But the “I” inside never died; and though it hurts like hell, it isn’t going to die today either.)
No pictures today, plenty of pictures in MY mind.
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