Thoughts on that Remarkable, Feminine Sacred Space
By Suki Falconberg
The vagina dentata. It is a mythological construct, a vagina equipped with sharp teeth, supposedly reflecting the male’s fear of losing his member if he invades that mysterious place, a woman’s insides. It is an ambiguous fear since blow jobs are so popular and the male has to brave a whole phalanx of teeth to get one of those. Maybe our vaginas are scarier than our mouths?
The film Teeth, just released, is based on the vagina dentata theme. Dawn (Jess Weixler) is an insecure virgin who is raped and then, for revenge, she castrates her lovers with her deadly vagina.
The vagina as dangerous is not a new theme. Ages ago, I read a science fiction story (the title eludes me) about women who punish the sexual brutality of men by wearing needle-tipped diaphragms.
The fantasy/science fiction realm finds a counterpart in modern day South Africa where a doctor has invented an anti-rape female condom called RapeX. Inserted into the vagina, it has hooks that latch onto the attacker’s penis. It can only be removed surgically, at a hospital, thereby tagging the man as a rapist. (For a longer description of the device, see www.rapestop.net.)
Out of desperation, it is being tested in South Africa, which has the highest rape rates in the world, outside of a conflict zone.
Could this really be the Eden of Non-Rape we women are all looking for? Install one in every vagina? Problems with the device I see are that it can only be worn once and costs about $8 U.S. dollars, a hefty sum in a poor country. Can the average South African woman afford this every day, when she steps out of the house and becomes vulnerable to attack? How many other women around the world could afford an $8-a-day rape barrier? Also, girl children in South Africa are frequent targets of rapists, due to the belief that sex with a virgin will cure AIDS. With her maidenhead, a child could not insert it. And the device looks pretty big—designed for a woman’s body, so I don’t think a child could get it in anyway, even if she didn’t have a hymen.
When I first read of the device, I felt such sadness for its need, and fortunate that I live in a country where, ordinarily, I can step out the door without arming my vagina for a pos-sible attack.
Despite having been raped a great deal, in my past, during a less protected time in my life, the idea of a vagina dentata is not very appealing. I am not out for revenge on all the penises in the world. I don’t want to sport a mini-guillotine at my vaginal entrance. I don’t want to see rows of severed members, like flaccid sausages, laid out like trophies. Upon the many kind men in my life–those who support me with loving care and are pa-tient with all my neurotic female frailties—upon them I would never wish a vagina den-tata. But it is seductive to think of inflicting revenge castration on those who deserve it.
Who deserves it? I could name millions of men—and I do in my other writings—but since this article is going to focus mainly on musings on the vagina, I will be brief. Let me just target one group. I recently read Dancing Girls of Lahore, an account of a Paki-stani red-light district by a British scholar named Louise Brown. She mentions girl chil-dren kept drugged in brothels so they can withstand the pain of large numbers of ‘clients.’ (‘Clients’ is Brown’s word. I would substitute ‘rapist monsters.’ We have to be careful with our terminology.) She says that the girls who ‘enter’ the profession so young are often left with lifelong physical problems: infections, infertility, totally messed up in-sides. (‘Enter’ is Brown’s word, as if this were voluntary. I don’t think the average 10- year-old is going to apply for a job where she has the insides raped out of her every night.)
The Pakistan rape-shit males who shove themselves into helpless girl children are not alone. There are Indian rape-shit males and Cambodian rape-shit males and Thai rape-shit males and Mexican rape-shit males, not to mention American rape-shit males. Just one example of the latter: there is a thriving child prostitution business in Atlanta, Geor-gia, USA, mostly taking advantage of young black girls. Girls as young as 11 or 12 are being raped 30 or more times a night by monster rape-shit American males. Sex tourists having fun on our own soil. I guess it costs too much to take their rape-shit penises to Thailand. Not that I would wish them on the pathetic Thai child sex slave either. I as-sume that grown men in London and Paris and Athens and Dubai and Las Vegas–and any other city in the world you mention—are climbing on girl children and destroying their lives and bodies. There is a Universal Rape-Shit Male. He is those millions out there who add to the nightly rape quota of the shredded whore vagina—whatever the vic-tim’s age: the 8-year-old whore will one day be an 18-year-old whore, if she survives. (Whether it be India or Cambodia or Thailand, the world turns girls into whores pitifully young.)
Grown men raping children. A universally accepted phenomenon. Brown’s description of Pakistan reflects what I have read of all other brothel cultures, from Bombay to Bang-kok. Average age of first sale: 12. Brown says the teen years are the peak ones; then the girl’s desirability fades in her 20’s. Whores who do survive end up in cheap brothels taking on many clients for a few cents. Or they end up begging on the streets.
What kind of twisted sexual world have we created where young, completely unsuitable for sex girl child bodies are considered ‘prime’ for sex? And the girl in her 20’s, just barely starting to become a woman, has no sexual value at all? Damn. Women are barely aware of the infinite beauty of their sexuality by the time they hit 40 or 50. A child cannot have no concept of hers—especially when it is raped away from her.
All of which leads me to this question: what is the appeal of the Lolita child whore va-gina? Why would a grown man want to climb on top of a child? ‘Child’ is not just a 12-year-old. Child is, to me, a 15-year-old, or an 18-year-old. Young, unformed, immature. What is the appeal of sex with girls so young? In my mind 18 is far, far too young for sex. If I could rule the world, no girl under 25 would have sex. By then, the body and the emotions are ready. The girl is slowly becoming a woman.
The child and teen body are not equipped for sex. Young girls have thinner vaginal membranes and so they tear easily, as well as that other obvious fact—they are smaller in size. What an abomination to consider 12 the ‘normal’ age for deflowering. What an abomination to only consider the teenage body desirable. Women are not even interest-ing enough to talk to, let alone have sex with, until they are at least 25 or so. What turned-upside-down view of female sexuality has the rape of the whorechild vagina cre-ated—in Pakistan and India and Thailand—and Atlanta, Georgia?
Is it all the usual ‘excuses’ that makes the whore child vagina desirable?–she is helpless, she is small, she is frail, she is innocent. A man does not have to be a man with a child. He can do anything he wants to her. He does not have to respect her, or listen to her. In a world where most women are still second-class sexual citizens, it should not be surpris-ing that men who are not men like to dominant helpless prostituted children. The child whore is an extension of the way men dominate all women. Why else would all these Pakistani or Indian men line up to use the drugged child whores in those brothels? Or why else would the American man mount the heavily raped child whore in Atlanta?
Frail and small? Is that the appeal? When I worked as a prostitute, I weighed about 125 pounds. I thought that was plenty frail and small enough considering that the average male is so much bigger than we are. It seems that all those hefty 200 pound guys (or even 180 pound guys) would be satisfied with the smallness of the average woman and not have to go to the child-size range for their kicks.
AIDS, of course, has been a big factor in increasing child whore numbers. There is the illusion a child will be ‘clean’ but, of course, she is far more likely to be diseased due to the fact that she tears more easily. It is not a recent illusion: child whores in previous centuries, when syphilis was feared, were also sought after.
A startling fact: at one time, the average age of a girl in an Indian brothel was early 20’s. Now, since the advent of AIDS, it is 13. (Source: Coalition Against Trafficking in Women.)
All those rape-shit penises shoving themselves into pitiful whore bodies–these I would gladly subject to the vagina dentata. It would be satisfying to see the dead weapons hanging in long rows in the air, like empty sausage wrappers. Instead of Vlad, the Im-paler, Suki, the Flag-Pole Flyer.
I have to admit some prejudices in the area of whose members I would like to see flap-ping from those poles. I recently read of how, when the Russian mafia renders a girl ‘suitable’ for trafficking/prostitution in Dubai, they take her to a nearby Pakistani labor camp where they let a different man in every 15 minutes to mount and break her. In ad-dition to all of the Russian mafia, I want to see those Pakistani rape-shit males castrated. But only after they have been spread on their stomachs, tied down, and mercilessly raped anally as many times as the Dubai Trafficked Girls are.
I have had bad feelings toward Pakistani men ever since Bangladesh. 400,000 women held in rape camps by them for months and degraded and sexually savaged beyond places where the human imagination can even go?
But, to be fair, the Rape-Shit Male comes in all nationalities. That famous red-light area in Lahore, Pakistan was once frequented by the British. It is where Kipling raped under-age whores.
One of the worst rape-shit males now is the German one. Over one million Rape-Shit German males per day visit the pitiful trafficked whores of their country and shove their merciless rape-shit penises into these miserable, helpless girls. As a country where pros-titution is legal, the industry has grown hugely due to it being easy for pimps and traf-fickers and to operate, and the majority of the 400,000 prostitutes there are trafficked. The largest number of these at the moment come from the Ukraine, brought in by that merciless Russian mafia.
I don’t know how to get rid of the rape-shit male. I guess if the rape-shit trafficker male has no customers to buy his product, this means no women for sale. But how do we eliminate the customer rapist? All the millions of men who don’t buy the enslaved have to physically stop those who do.
Having a vagina makes a woman vulnerable. She has no place, or home, or country—since everywhere she goes, she might be raped. There is no country without rape-shit males. So woman is not a citizen of any land, to borrow from Virginia Woolf. She could only be a citizen of a country without rape.
To return to the vagina, and another area that troubles me. Late at night, I see TV shows with Implant Babes, girls sitting around with their jello-mold bosoms jutting into the air, discussing the virtues of The Big Penis. (I want to make it clear that I have nothing against cleavage, or scanty clothing, and I love to see and display skin—but I recoil from the artificial plastic unreal breasts that are now such a huge fad. They don’t even move normally. No softness or sway them and men tell me they feel like concrete. Ugh.)
These Implant Babes, sitting around talking about The Big Penis, say that the penis can’t be too big. Big is never big enough, for them.
Yes, it can be too big. Big ones hurt. These implant girls do all women everywhere harm if they extol The Big Penis.
The loveliness of foreplay, by the way, has it over The Big Penis. The touch of a man, patient and tender, that melting warm gentle ecstasy of the pleasure he gives, touching and tender—that is way, way above The Big Penis.
When I worked as a prostitute, over a period of several years, I slept with about 500 dif-ferent men. (I can’t be entirely accurate as to numbers since you lose track. I learned, surprisingly—by the way–that this number is quite small, in comparison to the average of 800 a year that some say is the ‘norm’ for a prostitute in the U.S.) Of those 500, most were Caucasian, but a handful were black. All of the black males were too big for me. I know there must be ‘normal’ size black men out there, but it was my misfortune to come across the ones with the big ones.
As a non-prostitute, I also have slept with a number of black men. All of them were too big for me. I always tore, even when aroused. As a prostitute, I was never aroused, so perhaps that might account for the bleeding and pain. Even using a lot of lube did not help. And I know that I tore all the time with other customers as well. I was always in pain. It wasn’t just the big ones that hurt me. It was overuse of a vagina that tears easily to begin with. (It is no wonder that so many prostitutes use drugs—it eases the pain of a torn-up vagina.)
Back to those black men, the way I tore even when sex was voluntary and I was excited (as a non-prostituted woman) tells me that the vagina can only stretch so far. Which brings me to the problem I have with all these women’s magazines who say it can stretch endlessly. An article called “Va-Jay-Jay—Fascinating New Facts about your Lovely Lady Parts” in a recent Cosmopolitan (March 2006) tells me that the vagina can accom-modate even really big ones. It can’t. The dimensions quoted in the article are confus-ing. At rest, the vagina is only a tiny little thing—a couple of inches long and one inch wide at the opening. Aroused, it balloons to about 5 inches in length. So how can it stretch to withstand 8 inches (this was about the size of the black men I had inside me)? Where does the rest go? It went into banging my cervix very painfully, if I read the dia-grams of my insides correctly.
And the opening doesn’t get any bigger, during arousal, in so far as I can tell. I never stretched enough to comfortably take the really thick ones. All these myths about how we can happily accommodate huge dicks do such a disservice to our tender bodies and tender parts.
I want to make clear that this is not a criticism of black men—just their penises. When I was non-prostituted, I seemed to run across black men who were fun and open and light-hearted and not afraid to show affection–character traits I found refreshing and pleasing. My suggestion to you black guys—and to well-endowed white guys—is, don’t get any bigger. Don’t use any of those ‘extend your member’ products. Instead, trim a few inches off those whoppers. Have some mercy on the women of the world.
I always have to draw a distinction between my prostituted and non-prostituted self, and my prostituted and non-prostituted vagina. During prostitution sex, I was stiff and closed up tight and frightened. During ‘real sex’ (the non-commercial type that has some ten-derness to it) I can melt into a pool of ecstatic warmth between my legs if the man—and the circumstances—are right. There needs to be a new vocabulary for sex. ‘Prostitution sex’ is not really sex: it is a brutal forcing ramming shoving miserable act inflicted on an unwilling body. Men don’t really buy ‘sex’ when they buy a body. They buy the finan-cial right to rape. (I get tired of only having this limited pool of words at my disposal.)
While I am on the subject of distinctions, I want to draw one between the vagina that is raped once, and the vagina that is raped thousands of times. Condi’s visit to Japan re-cently will serve as a handy example. She apologized to the Japanese government for a recent incident—the alleged rape of a Japanese adolescent by an American Marine. The Japanese sputtered about the incident being an ‘outrage’ and ‘unforgivable’—all the usual rhetoric. This from a government that not only allows but promotes, through inac-tion, a 30-billion-dollar a year sex industry based on trafficking girls (some just children) in from the Philippines, Colombia, Thailand, and Taiwan—among other countries—and holding them as debt bondage sex slaves who are subjected to any sadistic act any rapist client wants to perform on them, including cutting their genitals with knives, as one poor girl who escaped reported. If Condi really wanted to do something useful about rape, she would launch a long-term, determined campaign to release these girls from slavery. She would demand to visit the brothels where girls are being held—wherever she goes—Japan, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Korea, Iraq (particularly the ones in the Green Zone)—and she would use our considerable military might to release these girls—immediately. And she would not leave it at that—she would make sure the girls received the long-term trauma care they need.
There is yet another military rape case pending in Japan—this one involving four Ma-rines accused of raping a Japanese girl. Again, I would ask why her body is valued and the bodies of the prostituted girls these Marines may have used as release sites not? I do not mean to belittle these ‘nice’ Japanese girls who may have been raped by these Ma-rines. They, too, are important. But why are they so much more important than their suf-fering counterparts, the prostituted adolescents, who are serially raped every day in Japa-nese brothels—and other brothels all over the world–under circumstances far more dev-astating and horrifying than any these ‘respectable’ girls will ever know? The one-time rape of the ‘good’ girl is a hallowed incident; the mass rape of all those ‘bad’ whores is a norm.
The Japanese are dredging up the famous case on Okinawa in the mid-90’s when a group of Marines allegedly raped a young teenager. At that time, the U.S. government’s re-sponse was, “Damn, why didn’t those guys just go out and buy a whore?!” No realiza-tion, of course, that the whore was probably an imported Filipina who had been broken in to her trade, as a young teenager, by being drugged as she took on her long line of ‘cli-ents’ for the night. (These Filipinas really get it from all sides–pardon the terrible sexual pun–since we have turned them into the Whores of Asia—open to all comers, victims of all traffickers. Only their Thai sisters hold higher Whore-of-Asia status.)
I want to draw another distinction—one between the Pampered Vagina and the Raped Vagina. Western female journalists (the kind who write for Cosmo) and trendy sexolo-gists (the kind who are quoted in Cosmo) give the misleading idea that the Pampered Va-gina is the norm. That it is Sacred Feminine Space. That it is a Tender Lotus Blossom and a Precious Treasure. They overlook the irony that, say, in India, this Sacred Yoni Blossom Space is worshipped by selling young girls into prostitution to appease erotic goddesses. It certainly is a huge irony to worship an erotic goddess by destroying a girl’s sexuality. They overlook the horror that entire nations of women (like those in the Sudan) are genitally mutilated. They are subjected to “infibulation”—the most severe form of ‘cultural’ female mutilation, where all outer genitalia—clitoris, labia–are razored off and the remaining tissue is sewn shut, permitting a tiny opening for pee and menstrual fluid. Should the girl survive the razoring (some bleed to death or develop infections they die from)—should she survive, her legs will be bound together, for several weeks, until the wound starts to scar over. Peeing for these girls is beyond any pain zone you will ever go into. As a result, they hold it as long as possible, and develop bladder infec-tions. In fact, infections of all sorts are rampant throughout their lives, as a result of the mutilation, not to mention that intercourse for them is pure hellish suffering—can the Pampered Western Female Vagina actually imagine what it must feel like to be rammed into when your hole has been sewn to a tiny pinpoint and your whole genital area is an infected mess? This is the norm for 120 million women (and growing, since this practice is inflicted on 4 million more girls a year). The Pampered Vagina in not the norm. And I don’t think that the 8-year-old child in the Pakistani red-light district, drugged to endure her long line of ‘clients’ every night, would even remotely see her vagina as Sacred Feminine Space. There is no Sacred Feminine Space left after genital mutilation, or after long lines of rapists mounting you every night.
It is very depressing for me to go into a drugstore because there I see all these dainty pink boxes with flowers on them labeled, Gentle Glide Tampons. I see magazines called Teen Prom with sweet wholesome pampered safe girls in pink dresses on the covers. What good will a Gentle Glide Tampon do a child whore with a vagina ravaged by thousands of rape-shit males? What could these protected girls on magazine covers possibly have to do with the torn mutilated vaginas of all those other millions of girls around the world who are not safe, who are not cherished and pampered and who have had all the Sacred Feminine Space raped or razored out of them?
Fancy pampered Western sexperts, writing for pampered editors of glossy, safe, happy women’s magazines, turn out books about the vagina and call them cutesy things like Vagina, Your Owner’s Manual. Actually, my vagina does not belong to me. It got raped away from me a long time ago. There is no way I will ever get it back, or be able to pro-tect it—because it is still being raped away from me everyday, as I read about the ex-treme oppression of other women’s bodies. The Pakistani whore child in front of her long rape queue does not own her vagina. Fancy glossy safe happy blind pampered Western women experts and sexperts need to include the child-whore vagina in their sex-ual scheme of the universe. The whore body, of whatever age, I have noticed, is invisible to them.
Given what I have seen of the blind insensitivity of the ‘decent,’ protected women of the world, I am really proud to be a whore. Ages ago when I was one, I was mostly a dirty joke to the men who bought me and I never went near ‘respectable’ women due to fear of rejection and scorn. Under this double censure, it was hard to overcome feelings of be-ing dirty and worthless. I got a Ph.D. mostly to affirm myself in the eyes of the world, not really because I thought that this imaginary patriarchal construct called higher educa-tion was of any value. When people ‘respect’ me because of this degree, I feel fake. They should respect me for having been a whore—I was worth way more back then, as a I tried to survive in that harsh reality of rape. I have no value conferred by this worthless degree granted by a bunch of blind academics who teach nothing but lies.
I mostly see the world from the point of view of a powerful truth—that of the Raped Va-gina. POV—but in a different sense from the porn meaning. I can’t write on the current issues in the EU without asking what they are doing about that 20-story brothel in Co-logne, Germany stocked with debt-bondage sex slaves trafficked in from the Ukraine. Rape is all tidy and legal in Germany, the Modern-Day, Sexual-Slavery State.
I read article after article on Darfur and all of them seem meaningless to me since they leave out one of the cruelest practices ever inflicted on woman: these writers never note that the thoroughly raped women and girls of the Sudan have already been subjected to a far greater rape—the razoring off of their genitals in an act of massive cultural blindness. It is, by the way, why so many girls in Darfur are dying of the gang rapes—their already damaged, infected vaginas cannot take the additions assault. Yet these gang rapes are mild compared to the way these girls were mutilated to rob them of their sexuality. Fe-male Genital Mutilation is permanent, irreversible rape and an abomination to all women on planet earth. The most atrocious cruelty of all in Darfur passes by completely unno-ticed. All the fancy celebrities like Mia Farrow, with their Save Darfur rhetoric, fail to mention this ‘minor’ fact of female oppression. As if it mattered not, or did not even ex-ist. The great puzzle is that the women do this to their own daughters, feeding the savage practice new victims all the time. I wonder why we feel any sympathy for the women of Darfur when they continue to razor off the genitals of their own girl children. This is my Raped Vagina POV on that conflict.
My Raped Vagina POV controls my vision of history. I can’t see pictures of ragged Af-ghan women, widowed by all the wars inflicted on them—homeless women, sitting in the snow–without imagining their desperate sadness. I hope they are able to sell sex for food to all those rich NATO troops over there. At least it gives them a way to eat. Starving takes more courage than does selling the vagina. The really brave (and foolish women) starve. The smart ones figure out they have this valuable thing between their legs. I am one of the cowards. Put me in the place of the ragged Afghan homeless woman and I would chose daily prostitution-rape over starvation. I’d be hopping all over those occu-pying troops, saying, “I let you rape me long time—just feed me!”) And I’d choose pros-titution with the enemy over being cold. I would fuck to be allowed inside, where it’s warm. Being cold is like a premonition of death. (I want to be warm on this planet since I will have all eternity to be cold in the grave.)
As I ponder survival sex, I wonder how come our species evolved in such a way that this beautiful place we women have between our legs has to be turned, through rape and pros-titution, into a wound that never heals.
“These old whores are really smart. They’ll offer it standing up, to the soldiers on duty at the gates.” Thus said an American soldier stationed in Italy after WWII. He was refer-ring to women who had been starvation prostituted during WWI and were still desper-ately trying to open their legs so they could continue to eat.
A vagina is an asset. It will earn you food. We women are really lucky. If you’re will-ing to fuck anyone who wants you, you will never go hungry.
The latest news out of Iraq is that oil revenues in that country have been in the billions over the last five years and no one knows where the money is going—it seems to be in non-Iraqi banks, and not being used to help the people of that country with social ser-vices, medical facilities, food, etc. (“GAO Asked to Audit Iraqi Oil Revenues,” Associ-ated Press story, March 9, 2008). This same article says that projected Iraqi oil revenues will be about $100 billion for 2007-2008. That is enough to rescue and aid all the 50,000 Iraqi women, girls, and children who are currently involved in selling survival sex as a result of the war. (This 50,000 figure comes from the Women’s Commission for Refugee Women and Children.) That’s plenty to save the vaginas of all Iraqi women and girls from more sexual exploitation. With that kind of money, Iraq can even go to Dubai and rescue all the Iraqi girls sold by their families into the sex trade there. Helping them to live normal lives may be another manner. Brown’s book, referred to above, recounts how Pakistani girls are also sold to Dubai—they go expecting good working conditions, but some are taken advantage of by their ‘agents.’ Once there, the girls are faced with long lines of ‘clients’ (rapists) and even have to be tied down to withstand the pain. If they survive and return home, they can say nothing of their ‘ordeal’ since the mass rape would bring shame on them! (The weird workings of the female mind. She blames her-self for the terrible abuse of the own vagina?)
If tender Iraqi virgins have been sold to Dubai, to feed their families, and long-lines of rapists using them are the result–it will take a lot of that $100 billion to help them re-cover—if any recovery is possible. But with $100 billion dollars—well, it is a start to-ward making reparation for what these girls have suffered.
I am currently obsessed with the Iraqi whore vagina since its raped misery is the result of our current “Operation Iraqi Freedom” campaign and I wake up every morning feeling Phantom Rape Pain between my legs because of all those Iraqi women and girls who have to fuck to survive. I lived through the era of the Vietnamese whore vagina, the re-sult of our other protracted campaign to ‘free’ a people, and felt the same rape within my body every day for the ten long brutal years of that war.
I have felt the rape pain of women from many centuries past.
‘Vagina’ comes from a Greek word meaning ‘sheath for a sword.’ As if it is secondary to the penis. As if its only function is to be ‘put to the sword.’ The etymological origins of ‘fuck’ are similarly brutal: it is derived from words meaning “to strike” and “to pierce with a weapon” and “to beat.” Brownmiller, and many other feminists, say that men rape us because they can. Because they are stronger. Will the vagina ever be safe? As long as men can take it by force, I don’t think so. Such a simple fact—a difference in strength, has governed all of human history. It has determined that the female half of the species will always fear the male half. And that she will always have to fuck for food. All of female human history is governed by the doctrine of fuck-for-food. Fuck-for-food is the reason for marriage, a rape prison almost as terrible as prostitution.
Fancy women’s magazines designed for pampered safe women regard the vagina as Sa-cred Feminine Space—what a huge cruel joke for the millions of prostituted women and girls and children.
In my erotic fantasy novel Tender Bodies and Whore Stories, one of my heroines, Shay-lin, is getting a Ph.D. in Sexual Misery Studies. I want to establish such Ph.D. programs everywhere, not just in the imaginary university I create for her. (Read the novel—there you will see how I replace Sexual Misery Space with Sacred Feminine Space.)
In that novel, I also work out, through fictional catharsis, one of my greatest fears: as-sembly-line sex. I subject some of my poor heroines to it in order to get rid of it from my imagination.
My first introduction, in writing, to this terrible practice came in my teens when I acci-dentally stumbled across a passage in a book (now long forgotten, I don’t even remember the title) about how Roman legions in ancient Britain lined up to use Saxon girls until they died from exhaustion and bleeding. This same passage mentioned Napoleon’s troops doing the same on the island of Elba. Why just these two instances were cited I don’t know. I imagine that in whatever real Troy there was, the Greek troops, camped on the beach in front of the city, were doing the same to captive Trojan girls. When the Goths sacked Rome, they practiced it. At Masada, the soldiers were inflicting this terri-ble mass rape on captive girls. Every army and navy throughout history has probably practiced it. And every male civilian population.
That first passage, read in my teens, horrified me because until then my imagination about sex had not extended that far. I didn’t know it was possible to rape anyone to death since I knew nothing about rape. I was protected, the whole time I was growing up, from anyone hurting me sexually. And I grew up in an era when sex was so forbidden as a topic of conversation for ‘nice’ girls that I only had the vaguest idea about what inter-course was until I was fifteen. That was the year I read Fanny Hill and also Lady Chat-terley. Until then, I knew men had this thing called a penis, but I didn’t know quite what they did with it. And I certainly didn’t know what one looked like, never even having seen a picture of one. (When I first put my hand around one, later in my innocent young life, it looked and felt like this alien instrument. Damn, how could anybody be shaped like that?)
Those two novels—Fanny and Lady Chat–were a big illumination since they contained graphic descriptions of intercourse. I had not even looked at my own vagina in a mirror yet since I was rather afraid of what I would find and this kind of exploration was not en-couraged in my growing-up era. So the way Fanny described hers was very helpful—as was what she experienced when men were inside her. Until Fanny, I didn’t even know men went inside women, let alone what it felt like. (Fanny has always been one of my favorite literary heroines, along with Jane Eyre. I am kind of a combo of those two women.)
Shortly thereafter–now that I knew what happened between men and women (thanks to Fanny)–I came across the passage about the Roman legions. Then I dipped into another book about Bar Girls Around the World. How this racy volume ended up in the chaste military-base library where I did my reading, I don’t know. (I was a military brat and the whole time I was growing up, we were stationed on military bases around the world.)
It was a small library with lots of comfortable chairs and cosy nooks and a colorful corner for kids full of Dr. Seuss and Peter Pan and a cardboard Tink hovering over one area, dangling from a string, and stuffed animals with big pink-and-blue bows and little red-and-green wooden trains. I spent a lot of my free time in that small library, and what I read on that one rainy afternoon about the bar girls of the world saddened and depressed me. The danger to their vaginas was a blow to my safe little library world, with its trains and stuffed animals, and to my protected vagina. The Roman legions had already de-stroyed my safety and now the bar girls completed that destruction.
I don’t remember too much of that bar-girl book except a few really depressing sections. One was in a Thai bar where a really sluttish older whore (the book’s way of describing her) was trying to get some big, ugly rough coarse German sailors to use her and she was hiking up her skirt (no undies) and pointing to the area between her legs and licking her painted lips in a crude way and saying “yum yum.” It made me think of how she must have looked at twelve, which seemed to be the average age of the rest of the girls in the bar receiving the crude attentions of the ugly German sailors. It made me think of how she was once fresh and sweet until the men turned her into something as crude as they were.
This Thai bar girl sent me into such a tailspin of a depression, that I abandoned the book for a while. I went over and sat in the kid’s section and read some Peter Pan, with Tinker Bell hovering above me like a Guardian Fairy. On that wet afternoon, I remember that her wings looked pale bluish from the rainy half-light coming from the window.
When I went back to the bar-girl book, I read a section on Japan, the country I was cur-rently sitting in—an innocent teenage protected girl–on this rainy afternoon, reading about rape and sadness in a military-base library. This was the 1960’s, when I was sitting reading on this wet afternoon. The book said that the older Japanese bar girls dated from just after WWII when they had been broken by pimps and criminals as soon as the American and Australian GI’s landed since the Japanese saw a big, big source of profit in rape-broken bodies. Pimps and criminals seasoned homeless, war-destitute girls through assembly-line rape in the bombed-out buildings and then turned them out, all ready for rape and fun, for the ready-to-party conquerors. And the pimps, the book said, were right about profits. Huge amounts of foreign currency flowed through the vaginas of the girls, right into the hands of pimps and profiteers and corrupt police and politicians and busi-nessmen. The Japanese could not keep the rape factories stoked up at a high-enough heat. They had to run 24-hours a day, with vagina served up piping hot by the slice, for the hundreds of thousands of conquerors. (Vagina by-the-slice was also being served up piping hot in post-war Italy under identical conditions: pimp- and criminal-controlled vaginas serving as conduits for cash. GI’s brought the idea of pizza by the piping-hot slice back from Italy, too—along with learning the fun of the war-time rape of piping-hot vagina slices.)
The Japanese whore vaginas were a windfall—without them, no economic recovery would have been possible. These women’s raped bodies formed the basis of the prosper-ity of modern Japan.
That was enough for me. I put the book in a corner, behind other books, in hopes I would never find it or have to look at it again. Then my eye fell on The World of Suzie Wong. I read it that night and it was not too depressing except when the hero cruelly makes fun of her for pretending she is a virgin in her fantasy world. I have never re-read the book, but I do remember the way Suzie says she hated ‘short times.’ I later learned that all whores hate short times and the disgust of instant sex with crude ugly men who just climb on and don’t care.
Ever since I was tiny, I’d been aware, in some dim way, that there were these girls out-side the gates of the bases where I lived that everyone made fun of for sexual reasons I didn’t comprehend in my innocent childhood. The bar-girl book, along with Fanny’s fill-ing me in on what men and women did together, made it clearer. I’d always felt sad for these girls, and now that I knew what sex was, at least through reading, I felt sadder. It really puzzled me how I could sit in the snack bar and have French fries and a milkshake with a GI who was being nice to me, and then he could go outside the gate and be mean to one of those girls.
After the bar-girl book, I resolutely stayed away from reading about prostitution. It was depressing enough seeing all the GI’s around me going outside the gate to hurt the girls.
Then, in my late teens and early 20’s, I accidentally came across several more pieces of assembly-line sex information that have haunted me ever since, just like the bar-girl book. I read a news story about how worn-out French whores from Marseilles were shipped into North Africa to service the French soldiers there. The girls were raped 60 times a day. For some reason, the pimps who shipped them in were prosecuted and im-prisoned, but the article said the girls were not imprisoned for what they had done. What had they done, I wondered? It said they were returned to Marseilles. To where? Back to their brothels? The article didn’t say.
I came across the enlightening information that Marseilles was also the source for worn-out French whores used in assembly-line brothels for local men in Morocco. These places are called abattoirs, slaughterhouses, and the women are subjected to rape every few minutes by a different man for 15 to 20 hours a day. They can be raped a hundred or more times a day.
The last piece of information that I imbibed, back then in my more innocent years, was from a book called Female Sexual Slavery. It opens with the description of an abattoir brothel in the immigrant section of Paris where worn-out French whores are sent to ser-vice (dreadful cold word) 80 Middle Eastern men a day, 160 a day on weekends, so their pimps can get some last fuck money out of them before they die of rape exhaustion.
In so far as I have been able to determine, this is still going on, decades after it was un-covered in Female Sexual Slavery. These poor abattoir whores are described as ‘apa-thetic’ when they’re not working. When they are working, a buzzer goes off every 5 minutes so one man can get off and the next can get on. Timed fuck.
The women are not allowed to leave the house. Where would they go if they could? (Can the women even still walk after all this physical abuse?) Laughing, joking police-men stroll by the gates, taking kickbacks, knowing full well what is going on inside. Not caring, I assume, since the imagination of those not being shoved into by crude sadistic rapist shit males cannot extend to the pain. I assume the imagination of other French women cannot extend this far either. They must know what is going on? It is no secret anymore, what is being done to our bodies. If I could find out easily, and if the Sources section of the book I’m currently finishing up (The Raped Vagina) consists of over 400 entries (and this is only a portion of what is in print about prostitution/trafficking), every-one on the planet who can read should know—what is going on.
But way back then, in my teens, information was scarce and what little I read about as-sembly-line sex terrified me. It intensified the Phantom Rape Pain between my legs, something I have felt all my life, even before I knew what sex and rape are. I was seem-ingly born with a body that is being constantly raped, as a tribute to the history of the fe-male body for the past 3000 years.
It is a real liability—to have a vagina. As long as you do, you are never safe. Men can rape and break you at any moment. They can reduce you to nothing. Once broken, that’s it. I cannot fathom this fashionable, trendy word: empowerment. Where did this ridicu-lous notion come from? Women have no ‘empowerment.’ As long as we can be raped and broken and reduced to nothing, we are nothing. Men are the superior, dominant be-ings on this planet. We women are nothing but rape sites.
After those terrifying pieces of knowledge about assembly-line sex, ages ago in my teens, I once again resolutely stayed away from any mention of prostitution in print. I didn’t want to know anymore.
In my 20’s I was gang raped and this experience had a deep impact on me. Even though it was a continuation of the Phantom Rape Pain that had plagued me all my life, this event drove the fear of assembly-line sex so deeply into me that this fear rules my life. Since that rape, I have had agoraphobia, a fear of leaving enclosed spaces. It takes me forever to force myself across the threshold in the morning. The possibility of dark hard humiliating rape is always out there. Having to face people in all my shame and sadness is out there. I hate facing ‘normal’ people. I hate facing unraped women. They are so bright and happy and safe. It is unbearable to be with them in their sunshine normality.
If I don’t force myself to leave the house everyday, things can become impossible. When I have been sick and out of work, I have stayed home with my animals and loved and cared for them. A great comfort but this seclusion made facing people impossible. Dur-ing these times, the only trips outside the door would be for food. Those days were terri-ble. I’d feel cold and shaky the whole time I was at the supermarket, and the faces of all those normal, safe, unraped women made me feel hopeless and sad beyond repair. All those shining lovely glowing sexy girls on the covers of Cosmo and Glamour and Teen Prom on the magazine shelves made the ordeal of the supermarket even worse. All these happy protected women who live in a fantasy land where there is no rape and degradation and terrible forcing of men into our bodies. All these women living in this happy illusion that we are ‘empowered.’
I have to force myself to leave the house everyday, for fear I may never get across the threshold again. Thus, this is what having a vagina that got badly raped does to a woman.
That gang rape was just one of a number of rapes I’ve been subjected to, but it was the worst in terms of numbers. It was half a dozen men and they all went more than once so I was probably raped 12 to 15 times. I can’t know the exact number. And I passed out a lot toward the end. And I couldn’t walk after the ordeal was over with. How does the abattoir whore in Morocco get up after her 100 a day? Does she just pee where she lays, like the Korean Comfort Women report doing during their daily rape quotas? One says that when she would wet herself and bleed too much, the men would just kick her and leave. (It’s a real puzzle as to why women have to be reduced to this state of extreme pain and degradation because they have vaginas. I don’t think that magic space should be treated this way. Apparently the rapist shit males of the world and the indifferent pro-tected respectable women of the world do not agree with me.)
Even that mild, mild gang rape that was inflicted on me—nothing like what happens to the abattoir whores in Paris with their 160 a day on weekends, and the buzzer going off every 5 minutes for the next rapist shit to get on—even that mild rape terrified me for-ever. I am broken. Men don’t need to make me submissive anymore. I am completely docile—and have no dignity, or existence, beyond a raped being. You have proven your superiority over me.
Over the past couple of years, I have been writing a book—The Raped Vagina: A Mili-tary Prostitute’s Story. It’s almost done and will be out shortly. It has entailed my read-ing vastly in the area of prostitution/trafficking since the book combines autobiography with research. Sadly, this reading made me aware of yet more assembly-line sex in-stances. There are two that haunt me: one is a description of a trafficked girl in London who was raped 50-60 times a day and over 80 times on Christmas Day. She escaped and found refuge with Poppy, a London group that helps trafficked girls. What haunts me is not so much what happened to this girl but what a Poppy volunteer said about this girl. Poppy says this girl is now fine and doing well. This was a real puzzle. Surely, the women who help at Poppy must be aware of the long-term effects of mass rape? They are, by now, becoming quite well documented since we now accord to the prostitute the same PTSD that we do to torture victims. How can Poppy think that all is fine and dandy with this woman who was forced 50-60 times a day, 80 times on Christmas Day, day of gentle peace and sweetness and giving–and I guess the men who forced her went home to play with their daughters and kiss their wives. Given the normal women (wives and daughters) outside the rape-room, and the trauma and disgust of crude ugly rape-shit males on top of you, 80 times on Christmas Day, believe me, you will never be fine again. I am not ‘fine’ after only 15 rapes in one day. It did not ‘empower’ me.
The second instance that haunts me is finding out how traffickers break girls. They all operate similarly but apparently the Albanian and Russian mafias are particularly brutal. The girl I mentioned above, the Russian one trafficked into Dubai and set up by the Rus-sian mafia as a portable brothel in a Pakistani labor camp, where the men were let in every 15 minutes—apparently she is typical of how the traffickers work. I have read similar descriptions in Tijuana, a border city for breaking girls before they are sent into the U.S. The gangs who break the girls in Tijuana prize the ones who can take 50 rapes a day, docilely, without insanity or suicide—that is, they are ‘prized’ until they wear out and are thrown away.
I have come to call in my mind the prostitute broken in the Pakistani labor camp the Du-bai Girl. Her counterparts are all over that ‘pleasure’ city, with its enormous wealth. They come mostly from the Ukraine and Moldova—two desperately poor countries whose chief export is the Raped Vagina. Unprotected girls from orphanages in the Ukraine are a favorite source for traffickers, but other girls are also pimped and procured by their own countrymen and relatives. People are sometimes surprised that traffickers can treat girls in such unimaginably brutal ways, but looking at it from their point of view, it would be foolish to not take advantage of this replaceable, incredibly lucrative form of making money.
For one, there is no prosecution or punishment anywhere for the traffickers so they run no risks. They operate with complete impunity worldwide thanks to corrupt police, border guards, and politicians and to the indifference of other politicians and of practically eve-ryone else, including all the respectable women whose vaginas are not being raped inside out all day.
The only ones subject to punishment are the girls themselves. Should they actually be arrested in a brothel raid, they will be taken to a police station and treated like dirt, like the ‘dirty whores’ they are. Should they be deported, they will return to a Ukraine or Moldova where they will again be treated like the dirty whores they are: rejected by the families that sold them, turned into public whores for the men of the town, blamed for now being public filth.
Should a girl dare try to prosecute her procurer or trafficker, the judge will tell her she is a dirty whore who got what she deserved in Dubai and her traffickers will threaten to mu-tilate or kill her if she dares say a word against them. Such is the fate of the vagina in the Ukraine, or Moldova.
(It is also the fate of the dirty gang raped vagina in America. I did not go to the police after my own assault since I did not want to be treated like a dirty joke by another group of macho men—and maybe even raped again, by this new ‘entitled’ to be rough bunch. And, besides, I was so sick and in such shock, I was barely conscious. I was too dam-aged to go anywhere, for help.)
The mass-raped whore vagina fares no better than the gang-raped one in the U.S. Of the many girls trafficked into massage parlour brothels from Asia and Eastern Europe, if they are ever ‘rescued’ in a brothel raid, they are jailed and treated like the whore filth they are by police and judges and their owners get off with a light fine or a probationary warning and the rapists called their clients don’t get anything done to them at all. The girls have no escape since if they try to prosecute, they are threatened by their still at-large traffick-ers and owners with death or bodily injury.
Such is the fate of the whore vagina in America. I saw this operating on an episode of that ridiculous show Law and Order: SVU. They raided a New York brothel full of traf-ficked Chinese girls and the girls were handcuffed and shoved roughly into police vans, as if they were the criminals. But then this show is always on the side of the respectable vagina. It apotheosizes the ‘normal’ girl who is raped once and ignores the massive rape of throwaway street walkers and other undesirables. In one episode, a poor porn star was getting double-banged–both the vagina and the rear end–mercilessly and she was being set up for one of those gang-bang porn fests where 300 slimes shits would use her in a row while it was being filmed and then her porn pimps would put her on Howard Stern so she could tell how much she enjoyed the experience. The Law and Order cops treated her like dirt. It’s peculiar that on this show a girl gets raped once and she’s all upset and nervous and full of PTSD and ready to cut her wrists and she has sympathy and counsel-ors at her disposable. But the whore/porn vagina is garbage.
One-time rape is nothing. Before I got gang raped, I was raped by individual men. It was nothing compared to the torture of gang rape. I cannot even imagine how any women can survive ‘mass’ rape—what I would call the gang rape of the body on a daily basis.
To return to why traffickers cannot be stopped. Who would pass up so much money for no work (except the energy required to beat and rape a girl into submission) and with no possible punishment or repercussions. And it is so easy. The girls are available and un-protected everywhere—and no one gives a damn what happens to them, particularly the relatives who sell them, the sex tourists who seek them out, the navies who need them for R & R, and the indifferent prosperous pampered women who read Cosmo and live in a fantasy world where rape will never happen to their special protected bodies.
Besides, for the traffickers, it is a renewable resource. Wear out one vagina and there are thousands to take its place. Traffickers can purchase a girl and make hundreds of thou-sands of dollars off of her vagina by slotting thousands upon thousands of men in there before it wears out. That is the magic and beauty of the vagina—the amount of tremen-dous abuse it can take before it breaks down completely and has to be replaced by an-other slot hole. It is no wonder trafficking is now bigger than the drug trade.
Traffickers will never be stopped since there will never be a shortage of customer rapists. As a British man who uses whores on his business trips to Dubai said to me: “It is so easy. There are these young, really young prostitutes everywhere. No man is going to turn down this. It’s what men think is owed them. Young girls to fuck. Men don’t see it as doing anything wrong. It’s just young girls available to fuck and you think you’re do-ing them a favor since they smile and flirt to get the money. They get the money and that means it’s okay.” When I asked if he knew that it was mostly the girls’ pimps and own-ers who got the money, he said that most men didn’t want to know that and that there were girls there who worked on their own. He said he tried to pick ones who worked on their own. I asked how could he tell and he was vague in his answer.
I don’t know if this businessman knows how his whore was broken in to the trade. Even if she is now ‘independent,’ it is likely that she was once turned into a whore by traffick-ers. A woman doesn’t choose to do this on their own. There is a tortured path that leads to such a miserable fate for her vagina—men she doesn’t know, British businessmen, slotting themselves in there for rape fun on their trips to Dubai.
The Dubai Girl I mentioned earlier, after her breaking in by the Pakistani rape-shits, is set to work to service businessmen, tourists, religious men, mechanics, other laborers, mili-tary contractors, soldiers, and the navies of the world, since this is a major docking port for them. American sailors are among the Dubai Girl’s customer rapists. What haunts me about the Dubai Girl is not so much the breaking-in process—the letting in of a dif-ferent Pakistani rape-shit slime monster every 15 minutes. Or even the way her shredded vagina is shoved into by rape-shit, slime-monster American sailors. And rape-shit American military contractors, since this is a major sex playground city for all of those highly paid Blackwater/Halliburton KGB men—it is their R & R stop off to and from Iraq. All of this is, of course, troubling. But what really bothers me is the way an American woman journalist asked a Dubai Girl who had escaped her traffickers, and was now working as a prostitute on her own in that city, why she didn’t go work in a shop-ping mall. Dubai is rich. It has lots of malls.
So the female journalist from American sits there in front of the Dubai Girl, who has been broken—forever, by a session in a Pakistani labor camp, and by businessmen and tourists and religious men and sailors and military contractors—and asks her why she doesn’t go work at a fancy mall, instead of still prostituting herself. (If I were the Dubai Girl, I think I’d be afraid of pimps getting a hold of me again—and setting me up again for assembly-line sex.)
Even though I am grateful to this journalist—it takes much courage for her to put herself in danger in order to interview these women ( a courage I do not have)–the fact that the journalist did not understand the girl and how she can’t go work at a mall is what haunts me and troubles me deeply. There is no shopping mall after being broken so brutally. There is no shopping mall after a succession of businessmen and tourists and mechanics and laborers and military contractors–and let’s toss in a few UN Peacekeepers along with those sailors from America and Britain and France and every other navy in the world—there is no shopping mall after all these men climb on to get their crude ugly fuck on your dead body.
There is no café latte at a cosy little coffee shop either. There is no normal ever again. There is only a rape-dead body and a rape-dead mind and a rape-dead soul. There is no recovery after this kind of torture. There is no way to block out the crude sweat slime ugliness of the male and his filthy dick when he shoves it in. This is your reality—forever. There is no shopping mall.
The journalist who interviewed the Dubai Girl also takes photographs. She says she does not want to show the cigarette burns and cuts and abrasions and bruises on the traf-ficked girls’ bodies because she does not want to portray them as victims. To that, I say, why not? They are definitely victims. There is no ‘empowerment’ or ‘survival’ after this kind of treatment. We have as proof the testimonies of the Korean Comfort Women—they were broken in the same way as the Dubai Girl—raped 30 to 50 times a day, sometimes even more. Even those still alive did not ‘survive.’ They tell us so. They say their spirits are dead—60 years after they escaped. They say, “Give me back my girlhood, my womanhood, my body, my life.”
The Dubai Girl is no different from any other ‘comfort woman.’ I don’t think she has a cast-iron vagina that would make her immune to the horrors of assembly-line sex. Here are a few testimonies from the Korean Comfort Girls from a book called Comfort Women Speak: Testimony by Sex Slaves of the Japanese Military:
“I worked from 8 in the morning till 10 at night….I was forced to have sex with 20 to 40 soldiers a day…we all ended up having venereal diseases….Some girls became hysterical and crazy.”
“The most painful thing was continuous, forced sex act with soldiers. Saturdays and Sun-days were the worst, facing 30 to 40 men a day I felt like a living corpse. When sol-diers came to my room and did it to me one after another, it was done to a lifeless body. Again. And again. And again…”
“I was forced to service sex to…40 to 50 on Sundays. We were exhausted, weakened, and some of us could not even eat meals. We were in the state of the ‘half-dead.’ Some girls became really sick and could not recover from the ordeal”
“I became ill soon after I became a sex slave and started to bleed severely through my vagina…I frequently thought of killing myself…I had poor health. I was still bleeding, and it became worse when I received many men.”
I think the above can help us to do a simple equation: Korean Comfort Girl = Modern Day Comfort Girl in the form of the Dubai Girl who had a different Pakistani laborer climb on her every fifteen minutes. She is definitely a victim. I don’t know what more has to happen to her to make her one. Does the rape quota have to be 300 rape-shit de-stroyers and murderers of the female body, to make her a victim? The poor Korean Com-fort Girl who reported being used 300 times in 18 hours, peeing and bleeding where she lay, is a victim. I’m not sure how it would be possible to rape her any more than that. Does it have to be a man every 3 minutes for 24 hours for her to qualify as ‘victim’ status.
All this refusal to see as victims the deeply damaged, those subjected to extremes of rape torture, troubles me deeply. I only went through a fraction of the rape hell that these other girls do—I was on the outskirts, the very mild mild edge of rape hell, with my pal-try little gang rape. (These other girls are in the searing center of this hell.) But I was definitely a victim. And my time in prostitution was so much less harsh since I could pick men, shield myself from rough ones, walk around and leave my house, and not be chained in a room with bars on the window and subject to terror and humiliation. Even so, I feel destroyed by intercourse with men I didn’t know. Sex without tenderness.
If she has also serviced many other men—businessmen, tourists, military men—then the Dubai Girl will have had to numb out, even die inside, to survive. This is why there is no other life outside prostitution. Once you are in, you can never get out. Even if you leave it, you go back. There isn’t any place for you in the normal world after the disgust of all those men inside you. I think that is the big fact that is left out: the nature of this sex act–this terrible fact that you have strangers inside you–is revolting—and yet this aspect is never written about or mentioned.
After I accidentally, by some miracle unknown to me, got out of prostitution, there was no shopping mall for me. I have never felt that I left prostitution in any true sense. I’m still in it because I can’t walk around like a normal woman. After I got out, I couldn’t even face the idea of going to the store to buy some English muffins and apples. Facing customers at a store in a shopping mall—clean respectable shining safe protected women in all of their fantasy-world ignorance and indifference–would have been unthinkable. And I was not even broken the way the Dubai Girl was. She probably had to lie there under those Pakistani rape shits for weeks till she got properly broken in. From what I have read, the traffickers really break you—they make sure every last corner of the va-gina is scoured with pain, every last naked inch of you inside is invaded, every last ounce of rape fuck is shoved into you, and every last inch of dignity is raped out of your hole. They make sure you have your insides raped right out of you. They really break you.
No polite shopping mall full of ‘normal’ women after that. How could you face the fa-vored and protected women of the world after that? How could you sell one of them a fancy silk scarf after that? You can’t ever look in their eyes since they are so protected.
You know there is no protection or gentleness for you. You can’t sit at a café and have a cup of coffee and a cookie. You can’t look at the normal women around you and know they are protected and you will never be shielded from the harsh raped pain of your body. No arms around you can keep you safe–ever. Even the gentle soft air on a beautiful day with a light cool breeze hurts. That gentleness in the air does not belong to you since your body no longer belongs anywhere except in the middle of rape pain. That gentle cool wind hurts when it caresses you since you are still being raped.
I struggle with words to express this and fail.
How, I wonder, would one of those sweet protected girls on the cover of Prom Girl, in her pink sweet dress, respond to having the insides raped out of her?
This has been the great mystery of life for me, ever since I can remember. What is the difference between the girl who is a piece of shredded raped whore garbage and the sweet protected one in her pink dress? I could never understand how one girl got to be a whore vagina with no dignity or safety or tenderness visited on her, and how the other girl is so precious and valued. Why isn’t every girl’s vagina sacred space? When that trafficked abattoir whore in Morocco was a tiny baby, did she have ‘destined to be a whore raped a 100 times a day in a foreign land’ tattooed inside her little vagina as she kicked her tiny pink feet in the air. It is a real puzzle that she is on her back underneath a 100 filthy rough rapists everyday, being laughed at as they mount her and kill her with their filthy penises, and another girl is sitting and laughing and flirting with her boyfriend at a coffee shop and then they take a stroll and he puts his arm around her and kisses her forehead with affection. As if she too had some dignity. She has none if the Moroccan abattoir whore exists. The abattoir whore makes life and tenderness and freedom impossible for all women.
There is a question I live by. It comes from the philosopher William James. He asks: “If all humans could be kept happy in exchange for the unbearable suffering of one being at the far edge of the universe, would it be worth it?” His answer was ‘no.’ That such a moral exchange would be ‘abhorrent.” I agree with him.
It seems no matter where I travel, I cannot rid myself of Phantom Rape Pain. In London, when I go off to eat at my favorite veggie restaurant in Soho, I am aware that trafficked Albanian adolescents are working in upstairs brothels, maybe one right above where I’m enjoying my meal. When I walk around Paris, the beauty of the architecture is ruined by the incomprehensible pain of the abattoir whores.
I know that I became a prostitute because of Phantom Rape Pain. I was driven to find out what it felt like for real. I know that I became a prostitute in order to re-enact my own gang rape—and the mass rape of women for centuries of rape time. I had to venture into the territory I feared the most.
As a writer, I go into the territory that the academic woman usually ignores when she writes on prostitution: I want her to realize that what is at the center of prostitution is a sex act so revolting and degrading that she would not survive, mind and sanity, intact, if she had to experience it.
I want the normal woman who browses at the local fancy mall to know that if she were treated the way the average trafficked prostitute is—burned with cigarettes, terrorized, on her knees with a penis forced into mouth for money—this would be considered a crime if it were perpetrated upon her, yet it is the reality that the street whore a few blocks over lives through everyday. And that street whore is considered the ‘criminal’–for ‘allow-ing’ such deep degradation and torture to happen to her. Nothing happens to the real criminals–her pimp and her customer/rapist.
Would the average woman—academic or otherwise—really ‘put up with’ being treated with such brutal ugliness and cruelty? If this average woman had to do for a few minutes what the street whore has to ‘put up with’ every day, would she not be outraged, trauma-tized, go into a state of shock, maybe become dazed and half-insane, to hide from her everyday torture.
I don’t think the ordinary average woman has a clue—about what the torture of the va-gina feels like in prostitution. Where did all these ordinary women mislay their vaginas, I wonder?
I have come to the conclusion that the greatest sin we inflict on the prostitute is not just the physical pain but the destruction of her sexuality. What a precious thing to destroy.
I always write about such dark, tortured things—to rid myself of my overwhelming fears. Words are the only place I can find to contain them. But there is a light shining humor-ous not-so-frightened side of me that I have managed to find over the years—largely due to kind men. A kind man helped me to get out of prostitution all those years ago. I could not have freed myself on my own. I probably owe him my life and the fact that I am free to write and walk around and find some peace now.
In my more cheerful moments, I think my vagina—used as it is– is a sacred, special place. Maybe that is what has made it special—so much use. Not overuse, but I mean when sex is chosen and voluntary and I can exercise my right to lay down with the men I want—and however many men I want. A tough freedom to find in a world that con-demns female sexuality so heavily. The vagina is made to fuck and make love and be lusty and joyful—and then we are scorned and despised for the very joy of our bodies.
I have a very conflicted relationship with my own sexuality. I have experienced the worst men are capable of in terms of sexual violence. Yet their strength and power are also what make them appealing, when I am willing, not forced. I am frightened of the very power that attracts me.
Is my vagina Sacred Feminine Space? Sometimes. Although it has been heavily over-used, it does not seem dirty or defiled. It still seems like a precious mystery to me. What’s going on in there? Despite diagrams, I can never seem to adequately map my in-sides. All sorts of little mysterious nooks and crannies. It is a miniature mythical treas-ure cave. The mystery of how does it feel to a man, when he is inside me? I have asked many of them. Maybe the most poetic description was like “crushed, rolled velvet.”
Men say it is how warm we are inside that makes coming quickly so seductive. They don’t want to wait when the rawness of heat combines with slick wetness, and a pink rush of tight friction squeezes them to ram it deep and hard…
Men tell me that we women are not all the same inside—something I would never have known since I am not into other women. My only knowledge of what other women look like is through porn and I have never touched another woman between her legs. Men tell me that some vaginas are softer, some rougher, some tougher, some more tender. Size is a big consideration. Tighter is better. (It was a selling point I had as a prostitute—a small one, or so they told me.)
I always find it funny that the men I go to bed with know a lot more about the vagina than I do, since they are acquainted with so many different ones. Mine is the only one I know.
My vagina is special now since I am no longer prostituted. And it is special when I be-come intimate with patient, gentle men who don’t frighten me. There are a lot of those men out there. No vagina dentata for them. Instead I have another fantasy. I would like to offer them a Magic Vagina. Vagina Magicus. A supreme tight wet hot beyond deli-cious magical place. Every time kind men enter me, I would like them to visit warm, or-gasmic, intense, melting, ecstatic galaxies. The good men of the world deserve this—our Feminine Sacred Space.
Suki Falconberg, © 2008
Suki is a contributing editor for Cyrano’s Journal Online. The above article is an excerpt from Suki’s book, The Raped Vagina: A Military Prosti-tute’s Story, which will be out later in 2008. Meanwhile, she has a novel already out–Tender Bodies and Whore Stories, an erotic fantasy about military prostitution. This book and its sequel, Comfort the Comfort Women, are available at www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, and www.borders.com.
Stolen Words Stolen Days
This is a long and mostly detailed rendition of what happened to me after my arrival in Tel Aviv. I would like to submit this information to the media and any NGOs or organizations that can use the information. By not doing anything I feel I will have more stolen from me. I hope you reading this can also use the information, submit it to the media, etc. I give you permission to do so, just do not use my full name and keep the integrity of the story. It would help me if you could spread this information around, submit it to organizations and the media and would make it easier for me.
I never anticipated these problems. I asked so many people, so many questions. When I entered Israel I thought I might be questioned because of my name but not what ended up happening. When I approached the non-Israel passport stand, the woman asked me my father’s name, probably because I was born in Iran that questions started coming. When I said Mohammad Reza I was pretty sure I would be questioned further. She asked me my grandfather’s name, I didn’t know, I didn’t have relations with him. She told me to stand on the side of the counter. I waited. Then I was taken to an office to be questioned. They asked me why I was coming there, where I was coming from, what I was doing there, who I knew here, how I knew them, did I have family here, what I studied, where I studied, my contact info, my friends’ contact info. Then I was asked to wait in this room. I was then questioned again, this time more aggressively. The woman again asked me the same questions, asked me about my flights, then she saw my papers, some of my papers were about volunteering in Nablus. The woman accused me of lying, saying I wanted to volunteer instead of sight see or visit friends. She wanted me to log into my email so she could go through it because she didn’t believe me and said since I emailed my friend that she wanted to see. I refused, saying I couldn’t “as an American.” This meant nothing here.
You mean nothing here. This was then followed by her taking my papers then me waiting more. Then I was taken to find my bag, they then went through all my things, x-rayed them, wiped them down for explosives, everything. They kept questioning me, the same questions, different people. Emptied my bags, excavated them. I was padded down, or frisked as well. They also x-rayed my jacket and shoes. Then after this humiliation I was made to wait again. I was told I wasn’t getting into Israel. I asked them why and the woman said that I lied, when I asked what I lied about she just told me to sit in the room. There’s a high arrogance about them. As if I was being let into the Garden of Eden or something. They are also extremely ignorant. For people with such official positions, I feel they barely had a high school degree. The women at the passport counters just looked like housewives. It is like a military state, where everyone has to run it, with no training except to intimidate and be aggressive. My mistake is to assume good, being naïve, being honest and open.
They fingerprinted me and photographed me at the airport. My other friend that I met in the cell didn’t let them do that, I wish I hadn’t either. But what did I know? I don’t think I’ll be allowed in ever now.
After waiting a long period we were taken to Tel Aviv immigration. I say we because there was also two girls from the U.S. that were Palestinian that weren’t being let in and a tourist girl from Germany. During this time they really told us nothing, one of the American-Palestinian girls asked where we were going, that is how we found out we were going to Tel Aviv Immigration. It was supposedly still on the grounds of the Ben Gurion Airport. The German girl didn’t want to go in because she knew they were going to lock us up. I was more naïve, thinking we were going to just get searched again and get released back to the airport. I wasn’t expecting what happened. Fortunately for the Am-Pal girls their mother had called the airport and the place where we were and they were able to speak with her and were going to be flown out that day to London. They would send you back to where you flew to Tel Aviv from not where you came from, unless you were a migrant worker, apparently. We were made to put our bags in a room and we couldn’t take any pens, cameras, glass objects, or our phones with us. At this point I still didn’t understand, I was too naïve. They put us in a cell. I thought we would just have to wait at the most that day for our flights. By the way my flight landed at 5am on the 17th. I was interrogated for around 7 hours at the airport until I was taken to Tel Aviv immigration around 1pm. After the Am-Pal girls left I inquired about when my flight was. The guard told me I was to leave on the 20th. At this point I completely broke down because I did not want to be there for 3 days. By the way I thought it was the 16th because that is when I flew out, I forgot I had landed the next day, so I thought it was four days. I was a little relieved to find out later it was a day less but it didn’t make much difference. The reason why I had to stay till the 20th was because they were only going to fly me back to the same city I came from on the same exact airline. Earlier flights were apparently booked. I asked them what about my rights; they didn’t allow me to contact the US embassy or my mom. The woman said that I was arrested (even though I wasn’t), not saying for what and I didn’t have rights because I never entered Israel (I was still at the airport). It is quite strange being in that position, as this is stuff I have studied. To be living it is another thing. I said what about international law and I know people at the UN, she said go ahead and contact them if I wanted. She grabbed my arm and screamed to “put her back in her cell.”
No one knew where I was. They knew I was supposed to be en route to Palestine. Some hopefully knew I had been detained. I texted some friends and my mom at the airport during my interrogation.
I had never felt so invisible, powerless and worthless, and so much hate.
I was never told why I was there, no one told me anything. I never felt so alone.
They treated us like criminals. Most or all don’t seem educated past secondary school.
If we complained about our conditions they would scream at us. The cell was dirty, the blankets they gave us were old, and nothing was cleaned. They barely took out the trash. When someone complained about the dirty cell the “big boss,” as they called him, started screaming at the woman and threw the broom and dust pan into the room and told her to clean it. There was a cleaning lady but she didn’t really clean well and made the room dirtier. She was also yelled at. He said that he cleaned his office so we should clean up after ourselves. There was some kind of attitude that we were in some kind of hotel. Even one girl was told she was being taken to a “mini-hotel,” another Am-Pal girl that came the night after the earlier ones left. Every night new people would come, 3-5 women. The room had 6 beds but often there would be 7 of us. It was a room of maybe 8×10, there was a bathroom and two showers. The bathroom looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for a long time. There was little air circulation. There was a window but the way the building was made no breeze came in and it had two layers of “bars” that also impeded air circulation. They would put on the air conditioning at night, not during the day, and it would get so cold, like almost 50ºF, and caused us to get sick. I started getting sick, wanting to vomit, probably because of the stress, the conditions. The only time we were able to leave the cell was to smoke a cigarette, which would be at the most three times a day. No exercise, fresh air or sunshine. And we would just stand in the hallway in front of the cell, in front of open windows to smoke the cigarettes. I would just pretend to smoke just to leave the cell. The floor was dirty, the blankets and this thin mattress cover were old. They didn’t change these things, and with people coming in and out from different countries who knows what was in the blankets. Sick people, bacteria. They gave some a toothbrush. This is about all we got.
The cells were mostly filled with migrant workers, with a few Palestinians who were trying to get to Palestine (who were coming from elsewhere). The migrant workers had come on different visas and would just overstay their time. There were women from the Philippines, Georgia, Russia, Uzbekistan, Sri Lanka, Moldova, Nepal etc. They were all shocked when I told them I was American and just a tourist. They wondered why I was there. A lot of the migrant workers would be sent to jail, or Ramle, before they came to the immigration detention center. A woman from Nepal stayed in Ramle for 6 months just because she was waiting to get paid by her employer, then she came to the detention center to get deported. She didn’t want to leave. I doubt there are any inquiries as to what situation these people are deported back to, if their lives are at risk, from torture, etc. According to the migrant workers it appeared that Ramle was better than the detention center, as they had a small garden, and were allowed to walk around, and had better food.
A Filipino woman said: “This place makes you crazy. You’ll see. They tell you that you will leave tomorrow, then two more days, then more. You go crazy in here.” I probably would have gone crazy if I stayed any longer than I did.
They barely gave us water. They told us to drink from the tap when it didn’t seem drinkable; it tasted like paint or something. They had intense lighting in the room. Three large circular lights on the ceiling, that were probably 1-1.5 feet in diameter, with a high intensity, almost as a fog light, and then by each bed there was a large light, the shape of a football, attached to the wall, twice as big as a football, also with a high intensity. They would leave these lights on into the night to maybe midnight or 2am, and sometimes during the day. They would also sometimes turn them on further in the middle of the night when they were bringing in new people. When I asked for a bandaid for a sore I had on my foot they gave me some tape and gauze that wasn’t even packaged.
There was a consistent idea that we were in some kind of free hotel. One guard even said the cleaning was room service, even though my cellmate and I decided to clean just so we could have our door open and wait outside when the mopping was dry. When I asked if we could go outside to get sun I had to tap on the small window on the door and he said to stop tapping because it made him crazy, then yelled at me to open the window then walked away. We couldn’t leave the windows open at night because of mosquitos. I have bites all over my body from them though, and maybe other bugs. The worst is that they didn’t let us call anyone. No one knew we were there. The woman from the embassy was of no help, Eve Zukerman. My mom had called and emailed her because she received my text and didn’t hear from me. All she would tell me was what Israel had the right to do; she didn’t even help me speak to my mom. Although I told Eve what I was going through she said couldn’t do anything besides look up flights, confirming that I had to leave on the 20th and stated that I had to go to Barcelona on the same airline because that was the policy in Israel.
I couldn’t sleep because of lack of ventilation, unsanitary conditions. Whenever I put on the thick blankets they gave us, thick blankets for winter but given to us in the summer, I felt things crawling on my body and biting me. I couldn’t eat because of depression and the circumstances. I had no appetite even though I was hungry. I would eat maybe once or twice a day. I ate just so the hunger pains wouldn’t hurt as much. I saw about 18 people come and go because 6 new people would arrive every day and about the same number would leave that day. Some people were very depressing to be around. One lady wouldn’t stop complaining, all day and all night. It was increasing my stress. They would constantly yell at us. Screaming at everyone.
When I asked to get a change of clothes because I couldn’t keep wearing my shirt and jeans after two days, I couldn’t sleep, the guard said, “this is not perfection” in terms of the conditions. Later I was allowed to get a change of clothes, this is when I smuggled my phone in my jacket sleeve back to my room, because they searched the things that we took from the bags. I then texted my mom and friend again, so they knew what was going on and could contact people if they kept me there longer. I also used my phone to take pictures. They have cameras in the room, I don’t know how they didn’t catch me, maybe because I was really discreet.
Other cells had tvs but for some reason ours didn’t. Most of the people there were men. I think there were about 10 cells occupied. They would sometimes pack the cells with people. It made it hotter and loud.
I made some ‘friends’ in this experience though, as I met an American-Palestinian girl who I got along with well and she being there made the time go by faster. Also she developed a good rapport with the guards and whatnot, even the “big boss” which was good to be attached to. She was let into Israel though before I left so I was pretty much alone the last night. Every day and night people came but they usually left quickly. I also met a Columbian-Palestinian who was staying there fore weeks for his court day. He wanted to enter Palestine because all his family was there.
When they took me to my flight to Barcelona neither men appeared to be very educated. The driver, who turned out to be a policeman escorted me onto the plane, then handed my passport to the male cabin crewmember and just said “deport.” He was very ignorant and barely knew any English. He said who are you, and the guy said policeman, and he asked for id. The cabin crew person gave my passport to the captain, which furthered my treatment as if I was a criminal. Insult to injury. The cabin crewmember said he didn’t know what to do because he wasn’t given a letter and this had never happened before. It was all new to him, according to him.
The Israelis had a strong arrogance about their state; they acted like I wanted to stay. I am haunted by any Jewish symbolism and traumatized by these events. Who will compensate me for all the money I spent going home and getting there. I have spent basically $1,000 on this nightmare. Three days of my life have been taken away from me. How am I supposed to be compensated? Who will compensate me? No one should have to go through this, be treated like this. Not only did I pay around $600 for my ticket to Tel Aviv but also 247 euros to change my ticket as they only flew me back to Barcelona.
I was treated like an animal. Put in a cage, yelled at, not allowed out, not allowed to call anyone. They are the animals. Surrounded by such stupid people. They were like people off the street made policemen, made to guard immigrants. They treat the migrant workers like slaves, like dirt. To lock someone up like that.
I’ll never travel alone again. I used to feel free to travel alone, and comfortable. I’ve done a lot of traveling by myself, even in Iran.
When I gave my passport to the woman at the airport I should have known. What a sick state. Illegal, built on blood and conducting genocide, acting with impunity. It is sick.
After being back and speaking to my friends and my mom I found out even more sick information. When my mom or my friend in Palestine would call any Israeli authority they would not tell them where I was or that I was even there. They told my friend in Palestine that I was not even there and they told my mom that I was no longer being detained. This makes me even sicker.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
© 2008 Stolen Words Stolen Days
Monday, June 23, 2008 by: Mike Adams
(NaturalNews) It appears that the use of electroshock punishment tactics isn’t limited to the U.S. military these days: The state of Massachusetts has renewed a special education school’s authority to use electric shocks as a form of punishment, even after the school admitted to administering excessive and unfair shocks to two children after being told to do so by a prank caller.
Last year, a prank caller believed to be a former student called the Judge Rotenberg Educational Center in Canton, MA, in the middle of the night. Posing as an administrator, the caller told school officials to administer electric shock treatments to two students, one 16 and one 19, for infractions that had allegedly happened more than five hours before. In response to the call, the two students were awakened; one was shocked 22 times, and the other was shocked 77 times.
“I think it’s fair to say that [giving someone] 77 shocks is unusual,” school spokesperson Ernest Corrigan later admitted. “It is excessive to what is normal protocol. Giving 22 shocks is also excessive.” So why did they give the shocks to children? And why did they do so after merely receiving a prank phone call?
According to Nancy Alterio, the executive director of Massachusetts’ Disabled Persons Protection Committee, which received a phone tip about the incident, a third person was also shocked based on the same prank call.
In response to the incident, the school fired seven people, claiming, “This [incident] happened, we reported it and we’ve taken steps necessary so that this doesn’t happen again,” Corrigan said.
How America treats mentally disabled children…
Rotenberg has approximately 250 students, most of whom live in one of 38 nearby group homes. All the students have mental disabilities that make it difficult for them to function in normal society, and many are low-functioning autistic children. About two-thirds of Rotenberg’s students are minors.
It is my belief, by the way, that nearly all of these children were put into this mental state through either vaccinations, exposure to toxic chemicals or severe nutritional deficiencies during their mother’s pregnancy. In other words, virtually all the children in the facility could have avoided mental retardation if our nation had a healthy food supply and realistic nutritional support for expectant mothers.
While much of the behavior modification treatment at the school is based on rewards, Rotenberg remains the only school in the United States to still use electric shock as a form of therapy. The state of Massachusetts has twice tried to have the school closed due to the practice, but has failed both times.
According to Rotenberg’s Web site, shock therapy is only used “after obtaining prior parental, medical, psychiatric, human rights, peer review and individual approval from a Massachusetts Probate Court.” (They forgot to mention it also includes a “prank phone call.”) Corrigan dismissed the shock as similar in pain to a bee sting, and the school maintains that the shocks have “no significant negative side effects.” You will note, however, that they did not subject their own employees to such electroshock treatment before firing them. That would be cruel, of course.
There’s something rotten in Rotenberg
Sixty percent of the school’s students have court-authorized treatment plans that include electric shocks as punishment. And autism experts and patient’s rights advocates dispute the claim that the shocks are harmless, pointing to the inevitable psychological harm done by such a practice.
According to Barry Pizant of the Brown University Center for the Study of Human Development, shock punishment “interferes with [autistic students’] ability [to] trust people who are with them, and these are people who already have trouble understanding people.”
Yet the Massachusetts Office of Health and Human Services recently extended Rotenberg’s authorization to use electric shock by one year. To continue using electric shock therapy, the school must prove that it only uses shocks to punish the most dangerous and self-destructive behaviors, and must also prove that the shocks reduce the occurrence of those behaviors. Shocks must not be used for “seemingly minor infractions” such as swearing or getting out of seats without permission, and the school must show that it is committed to phasing out the treatments, particularly for students who are about to leave the school. Further, the state criticized the school for failing to customize treatments to individual students, and for failing to address the root causes of disruptive behavior.
Rotenberg has reportedly also agreed to eliminate the practice of delayed punishment or shocking sleeping students, as occurred in the August incident.
Opposition to electroshock therapy for autistic children
Mental health advocates expressed disgust that the practice of shocking children will continue. “I see [shock therapy] as the last vestige of [an] old practice that was proven ineffective and we should have stopped doing it all together 20 or 30 years ago,” Pizant said. “If you look in the mainstream of people working with kids with disabilities these aversives are totally out of the mainstream.”
“I think it’s barbaric and there are really no words,” said Rita Shreffler, executive director of the National Autism Association, “It’s inexplicable. There’s no reason to [shock] another human being.” Shreffler urged parents with special needs children to carefully investigate the people or institutions that they entrust their children to.
Many schools, of course, continues to assault children with both chemicals (pharmaceuticals) and electric shocks, all under the guise of helping these children in some way. But the truth is that that mentally disabled children need love, nutrition and good parenting, not chemicals and electric shocks.
But I suppose it’s not so surprising to learn that a nation now engaged in the routine torture of war prisoners — in direct violation of the very U.N. treaties our veterans fought so hard to defend — would also invoke electric shocks on mentally retarded children, too. There is no longer any respect for the value of a human being by our nation’s leaders, and it appears some institutions disappointingly agree with that assessment.
If I had my way about all this, I would march into the Rotenberg school with a law enforcement team, arrest these school employees, and charge them with first degree assault of a minor. Let them spend a few years behind bars to think about what they’ve done.