Fear of white panties

SO ok, it's not that I think that they're going to eat my brains when I'm not looking, and it's not because they're white, a colour that is the worst colour IMHO. No. it's because the only time that I have worn white panties since before I was a teenager was for a photo shoot. For porn.

So I better get this out of the way before I continue. If you troll, you will be deleted, or possibly berated by my commenters. I'm ok with that, so take your trolly ass comments and go somewhere else. This is very personal and I would appreciate it if you went elsewhere. Thank you. Also this may be triggering for anyone who has found themselves in this situation. It sure as hell triggered me.

As I sit here watching the Brier (men's curling tournament: dorky I know) I can't help but think about just how many people out there have seen the evidence of my desperation (hunger). Desperate for money (for food) and sold down the river by women I trusted. Now I'm not saying that I am a moron and do whatever someone tells me to do, what I am saying is that women who I respected, who were older then me, more experienced then me, and in every way I could see amazing feminists sold me on the idea that it was an ok thing to do for money. (Obviously I had not been introduced to what I later have learned is "radical feminism.") Sure a regular job could be better, but I needed money and quick, and they had all done it. It would be over in no time. Easiest $400 I ever made. Yes you read that last figure right. (That price alone is degrading especially given the amont of money that they made off of my humiliation.) I traumatised myself for $400, but then again I had no money and no food and I couldn't find work in Austin (I was living out of my van and didn't have a phone number at the time). I shoved it into a box in the darkest corner of my mind. I almost didn't finish at the time-he offered to give me all the film back because it was so hard, but I was hungry. Looking back I know what I would have done, but desperation makes you do desperate things.

So I got triggered (which thankfully is happening less and less as time passes and I progress in my therapy) in the oddest of circumstances. Even though I recognised immediately why I was getting the panic attack feeling that sometimes accompanies my PTSD I didn't want to believe it. That and I was in the middle of a store which is not exactly the ideal place to have a panic attack. It was the fact that I needed knickers and here I was face to face with white ones for the first time since that day.

Breathe. Just breathe.

It was horribly uncomfortable at the time. As I sit here it all comes rushing back to me, in fragments. When teh photographer asshole with the gorgeously huge house thought that discussing what kind of labia he and his friend liked. He apparently liked mine. At the time I couldn't understand how that would possibly something that it would be to discuss. I must say I've learned since then. Also part of the (one sided) conversation was how his friend likes labia that looks like a little girls. Oh great. I'm nauseous just thinking about it, but I need you to know how horrible it is to actually be there. It's not sexy, it's not fun and I'm not being prudish for saying that. Not only are you selling your body, but you can't (as I tried to do) pretend that it's just like any other work situation. That I was not the one being exploited, that I was somehow weaseling easy money out of them, though I know that they made 20x that at least). The guy doing it and every person thereafter sees you as a thing, and object that is there for their pleasure. I was not a person to him. I am not a person to whoever has seen those pictures. I am a dirty slut/whore/schoolgirl that wants it. Oh yeah, I want to be degraded and used. Even with that distant look in my eye I want it. I am a thing to be used and discarded. Part of selling of a person as an object is selling that I want to be treated that way, that I want them to dehumanise me, because we have to make the woman hating freaks feel special.

The Schoolgirl

The shoot was of course horrific and cliched. I had to dress in white knickers (oh how nice, he let me keep them. I think I threw them out the window in his nice suburban neighbourhood, but I know I got rid of them right away), a plaid skirt and a white button down shirt. It bugged me because of how cliched it was, but also the way in which it was done. For the removal of clothes I was supposed to look elsewhere, be distracted. Act like this is what I do alone in my room, perform for men (who aren't supposed to be there). It was voyeuristic, but in a way that disturbed me more then the others. Not only was I supposed to be pretending to be the innocent schoolgirl gone naughty (*puke*), because obviously deep down we're all sluts who just can't get enough of male attention and approval. Even the ones who glare at you or look completely and utterly unhappy to be there. If *you* got that girl (thing) alone then you could make her want it, after all she's just a slut. We all are. I was supposed to do it in such a way that showed complete detachment, not even what is usually there which is a facade of connection. When the pictures were developed I was to be a totally detached object. Not to mention the whole sexualisation of under age girls which I am not going to get into as I trust my dear readers know about it all ready.

That's where my fear of white knickers comes from. I needed to get that out, and will spend another post theorising and discussing the path which led me there, and which ultimately led me here, to my strict anti-pornstitution stance. But this drained me. I know it's good to talk, I needed this out there so that another young woman who is unsure can get a look at what it's really like, what they really want you to do. You are an object to them, one that they can exploit for money. There's no positive way to spin this, as there is lots of corroborating evidence that supports me, but as I have learned sometimes you have to tell the personal in order for someone to believe your political (and I believe that they are the same thing.) Although I can imagine the porn apologists trying to spin this into something other then it is, but how about for once we call a spade a spade. Because I'm right here and I'll keep screaming until porn goes away. You can't spin me. This is my experience in all it's horribleness. You can't spin it.

(look for Pt II in the next weekish)