Girl on the Net

Recent additions to the drug market mean it is now much easier for people who are unhappy with their weight to change it if they’d like to. Ozempic, Mounjaro and other injections have made it possible to lose weight in a rapid and simple way. As always, I want to state very plainly that the shape and size of your body is not a moral question – you are not obliged to be a certain size or look a certain way in order to be worthy of love and admiration. Diet culture is incredibly fucked up, and the way society encourages us to police other people’s bodies is deeply problematic and incredibly harmful to all of us (me included), so you should never feel obliged to change your body if you don’t want to. However, some people do want to, and they choose to use weight loss injections like Mounjaro to help in that process. And holy FUCK do some people want to have opinions about that choice!

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Today’s guest blogger is the fabulous Javi Osei, who blogs over at The Love Script and on Substack as Stranger in Lisbon. She’s here to talk about her experience of phone sex work and the impact it had on her. As she told me in her initial pitch: “The money was real, but so was the emotional burden.” I’m so grateful to her for sharing her experiences, and giving an insight into what it was like for her to work on the phone lines.

Note that this piece contains real (anonymised) quotes from client calls, and as such details some fantasies and obsessions that might be disturbing (and racist). 

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I often get blood on the bedsheets. When I’m fucking someone and I’m due on my period, especially if they have a relatively long dick or we’re shagging in a position that gives depth, sometimes I bleed when we’re fucking. I don’t always notice, because it doesn’t hurt, so I often get blood on the bedsheets. It’s not the end of the world because humans are basically just weird bags of flesh and rocks and liquid, and sometimes when you’re shagging those liquids might spill out in ways that mean you have to do more laundry. It’s the cost of doing business, if you’re in the business of having lovely sex a lot of the time, and I don’t think it’s an onerous one. If the sex is good, then a bit of blood isn’t a huge price to pay – in fact, it’s a fucking bargain. I’m going to tell you two stories about blood on the bedsheets, each one involving a different man. And hopefully in doing so I’m going to illustrate one way to keep shame out of your bedroom, and show why I feel so strongly about banishing shame from my own.

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It feels weird turning up to work when fascism is on the rise. It certainly does for me, anyway. Why am I still posting porn? Who wants to wank when we’re scared about the people we love? Erik’s guest blog pitch couldn’t have come at a better time, when I’ve been wrestling with this question and feeling monstrously silly for continuing to do this horny little job even as I’m shaking with rage at the news. He’s here to talk about the power of horny feelings, and joy, and why we shouldn’t abandon sex in the time of fascism. I’m so very grateful to him for sharing this incredible post.

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I’ve spent far too long trying to come up with ideas to put a spin on this year’s Valentine’s Day post. I promise my lovely site sponsors I’ll do one every year, because Valentine’s Day is pretty big in the sex industry and it’s a good time to remind you of awesome products that you can buy to support my work. This year I’m struggling. Everything’s awful, isn’t it? Fascism, obviously. The latest tranche of Epstein emails. AI making it hard to know what’s real and what isn’t. Genocide. I get that this isn’t the most appropriate way to start a post about Valentine’s Day, but forgive me, it’s all I have. Everything is absolutely terrible, and it’s hard to write a jolly wrap or sexy little vignette designed to sell you sex toys in the shadow of all that.

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