The Magic Vagina

— Thoughts on that Remarkable, Feminine Sacred Space
The pampered vagina from the pages of Cosmopolitan is very different from the vagina out in a world where slavery, rape, mutilation, infection, tearing, bleeding and fuck-for-food desperation are alarmingly normal.

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 more scary 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 possible 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 patient with all my neurotic female frailties — upon them I would never wish a vagina dentata. 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 Pakistani red-light district by a British scholar named Louise Brown. She mentions girl children 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 insides. ('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, Georgia, 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 assume 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 victim'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 Bangkok. 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 vagina? 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 interesting 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 created — 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 surprising 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 Impaler, Suki, the Flag-Pole Flyer.

I have to admit some prejudices in the area of whose members I would like to see flapping 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 addition 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 visited.

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 prostitution is legal, the industry has grown hugely due to it being easy for pimps and traffickers 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.

When I worked as a prostitute, over a period of several years, I slept with about 500 different 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 accommodate even really big ones. It can't. The dimensions quoted in the article are confusing. 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 diagrams 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 tenderness 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 financial 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 recently 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 inaction, a 30-billion-dollar a year sex industry based on trafficking girls (some just children) in from the Philippines, Columbia, 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 were 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 Marines 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 Marines. They, too, are important. But why are they so much more important than their suffering counterparts, the prostituted adolescents, who are serially raped every day in Japanese brothels — and other brothels all over the world — under circumstances far more devastating 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 response was, "Damn, why didn't those guys just go out and buy a whore?!" No realization, 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 'clients' 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 sexologists (the kind who are quoted in Cosmo) give the misleading idea that the Pampered Vagina 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 infections. 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 protect it — because it is still being raped away from me everyday, as I read about the extreme 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 sexual 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 being 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 education 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 Vagina. 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 Cologne, German 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. Female 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 unnoticed. 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 exist. 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 Afghan 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 occupying troops, saying, "I let you rape me long time — just feed me!") And I'd chose prostitution 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 prostitution, 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 referring to women who had been starvation prostituted during WWI and were still desperately 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 willing 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 services, medical facilities, food, etc. ("GAO Asked to Audit Iraqi Oil Revenues," Associated 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 herself 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 recover — if any recovery is possible. But with $100 billion dollars — well, it is a start toward 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 result 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 Sacred 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, Shaylin, 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: assembly-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 accidentally 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 terrible 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 intercourse was until I was fifteen. That was the year I read Fanny Hill and also Lady Chatterley. 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 encouraged 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 destroyed 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 currently 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 businessmen. 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 prosperity 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 outside 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 filling 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 imprisoned, 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 service (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 uncovered in Female Sexual Slavery. These poor abattoir whores are described as 'apathetic' 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 policemen 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), everyone 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 assembly-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 seemingly born with a body that is being constantly raped, as a tribute to the history of the female 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 ridiculous 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 beings 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. During these times, the only trips outside the door would be for food. Those days were terrible. 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 shelvesmade 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 protected 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 forever. 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 Military Prostitute's Story. It's almost done and will be out shortly. It has entailed my reading 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 instances. 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 Russian 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 Dubai 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 everyone 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 mutilate 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 damaged to go anywhere, for help.)