Let me explain.

I have been sexually repressed my entire life, which sounds funny, right? I’ve likely slept with more men than you and your group chat have all together.

I have new partners every week and some of the same bedroom partners for years. I am, after all, an escort, sex worker, prostitute, hooker. You name it, I am it.

So this is probably leaving you confused and asking, why? What the hell do you mean you’re sexually repressed? It’s basically all you do.

Bingo! YOU’RE RIGHT! And it is. A lot of what I do is the act of sexy times, lovemaking and hanky-panky.

And because of this, I know sex. I know sensuality, but mainly I know how to cultivate a vibe based on what the person paying is asking for.

Which means my attention and intention have always been focused on what he (or she) wants and hardly ever on me.

Before I got into the adult industry, besides the occasional boyfriend or drunken fuck, I was quite reserved. Yes, I slept with people, had fuck buddies and boyfriends. But I was very shy and very insecure about my body, and that wouldn’t call for the most euphoric, explorative, mind-bending times.

Mostly, it would end with me scurrying to find my panties, lost in a man I hardly know’s bedsheets, and sneaking out before he wakes because God forbid I sit around for too long, overstaying my welcome, which I am sure was expired as soon as he came.

Sex work taught me how to have sex and be sexy in an environment enthused by my presence. It has been liberating.

I see sex for the power that it is and understand how opening it can be, the meeting of new edges.

I want to please, provide, service and facilitate whoever I am with.

And being a professional at it, an expected amount of skill is expected.

An invisible cloak of pressure to be a good lay and to not be remotely unsure.

And here is the repression.

Being good at the skill of sex is not only logistical, it is also vulnerable. And it isn’t so easy being vulnerable in a space you’re a professional at. There is no room for error. Not in my psyche anyway.

When I have had partners, my curiosity is always on them, so much so it is suffocating. I come at these interactions like a negotiation, and there is nothing wrong with that. BDSM, for example, thrives off pre-scene conversations. But in relationships, something more organic takes place.

And in that organic environment, I am a novice.

Yes, I am freaky, and if you have bedded me, you might read this and think, wtf? I like the wild things, but this is a part of my complexity unexplored and desperate for attention.

I have fixated sexual exploration into a projection of whoever is in front of me. This is perfect professionally, but personally it is completely limited.

I have no idea what I like because I have been too busy ensuring I give you what you like first. Or figuring out your desire that sometimes you’re even unsure of.

I have had a lot of sex, done a lot of wild things and been in dynamics that would make vanilla blush.

But me, Bianca. I haven’t had many.

And allowing myself to be a beginner in something I’m paid to do feels regressed, redundant and honestly embarrassing.

I do not know what I like. And I understand my desperation for lovers to know this of themselves was only a big, blinding mirror staring back at me.

What are my edges? What do I like? What’s my sexuality?

I am nervous about this. And excited.

I want to know what it feels like to be in a room filled with people having sex. I want to see men with men, women with women and everything in between.

With me, in between.

I want to feel the discomfort of sexual discovery and lean into it with curiosity and meet myself where I have not been met.

Operation Orgy isn’t my quest to be bodied by 100 men and women. But my quest to feel comfortable in my skin while possibly being around something like that.

It is to reduce my projection onto others and connect with the desire within me.

I want to find parts of myself that can only be discovered through my pussy.

I have spent my entire adult life being sexually of service to others. Now it is my time to be sexually of service to me x

That’s mean, I know, but it’s true.

I have been seeing him for well over a year now and as far as respectful, kind and consistent clients go, he is that. But I cannot fathom his mouth, his tongue, his taste, his kisses.

My God. I like him, I do. He is sweet, he brought me a honey tea cake for after work and does care for me and because of that I have never told him just how badly he needs a trip to the dentist and please, Lord, trim your pubes.

Asian clients, generally speaking, have thick, jet-black, straight hair and the curtain matches the drapes. It’s like being stabbed by a million tiny soldiers while my mouth surrenders to them. I flatten it, creating a diamond with my hands around his cock, and do my best. He is not the biggest, in fact he is my smallest client in every way, so you can imagine the face-to-flesh proximity is not that far.

I have not worked in four weeks. In that time I have not connected with my body in the slightest. Maybe I smoked a joint one night and started dancing with myself twice in the mirror, gym once and a fun run. My body felt like no one was home and I am never enthused when that’s the case. It’s like lending myself out when I’ve been on self-vacation. I’d like to fuck myself first, thanks. But that’s what happens when you have a mind like mine. Not that there is something wrong in there, but I have habits. Deep ones, and they look like leaving myself behind for a week or two. Months at worst, this was a long one.

I went back to the gym two days ago and danced with myself this morning. And had the check-in I had been avoiding. Do I stay in this abandonment mode for an extended period of time because of what it feels like to come back home? Probably. Yes. I can feel the cobwebs, the dust build-up, the stiffness, just as you would leave a house empty and unkept. The body is no different.

But alas, it’s fair to say I wasn’t enthused for this job, nor was I feeling even slightly sexy. But like anything, once you start… you wish you started sooner haha.

Feeling sexy hasn’t got too much to do with what I look like, however looking after my body generally leaves my physique in a limber, strong and mobile state, which always feels sexy and, as collateral, looks sexy.

But men don’t care, not as much as we’d like to believe. Either they don’t like you enough to notice, they’re just happy to be there, or they like you enough to notice but their likeness to you ensures that they don’t care.

Men are pretty simple. It’s up to me to ensure they believe that I believe that I am sexy. And then they believe it too.

Back to his size, he comes up to my shoulder, a tiny man. That’s exactly why I fantasise about grabbing this toy-sized man and piffing him off of me when we are fucking. I know I could. I’d likely be able to throw him far too. Straight through the fucking window onto the main road. All thoughts while he is shallowly inside of me.

He’s the type of man that wants his mouth attached to mine the entire time and has no awareness that my dodging his face and turning to the sides over and over may indicate I don’t want to fucking kiss you.

I contemplated removing kissing from my menu. It is very intimate and sometimes I fucking hate it. Maybe I will remove it. It’s just sometimes a good time filler when need be.

God, the way he kisses me… you really can tell a lot by a kiss and what I notice most is men, especially 40 plus, have no idea how to build on that. Their tongues are wild and forceful. Shoving himself into my mouth like a bullet, like we are lovers, like the way I kiss a man playing enthusiastic tongue hockey only when I like them. When I am into a man I’ll lick every part of you and beg you to do the same. But clients and real-life men are planets away from each other. Another reason why it fucks me off so much that dating is so hard in this job. The sex with clients is not what you think it is, even when it’s good, it’s still transactional sex and there are limits to my pleasure in that.

Anyway, the deed got done. I put my bullet on my clit to ensure I had a measly clitoral orgasm while his small member penetrated me. I felt even more grossed out after that. I can’t tell you how many orgasms I’ve had with men that make my skin crawl.

He’s always so much more chatty after he cums. It’s always different with men. But he says next to nothing, fucks me, then yaps away until my alarm goes off for us to shower.

Others can’t get out of here quick enough…

Anyway, that’s my recap. A nice $1,500-an-hour fuck and my entry back into the workforce after more unpaid annual leave.

Time for me to smoke a joint and stretch and connect back to my hard-working body.

Mwa

These might sound like harsh statements to make, like I’m bullying myself or it’s completely insane, but let me explain something to you real quick. Social media has created an epidemic of cool people that were never cool in the first place. Myself being one of them.

This is an anti cool girl essay.

The more I post online of late, and the less aligned it is with the Bondi Brat brand that I created over five years ago, the more followers I lose. Of course I notice, and it does make me feel some type of way. Absolutely. I’m not going to pretend I’m above it. But the more I lose people, the more I lose this part of myself and realise I’ve never been Bondi Brat. Or that cool for that matter.

I’m not even Bianca Sierra. My name is Bianca T*%#\u, and I have always been a bit of a dorky loser.

Naturally pretty, yes, but I had no idea about it and I never did anything to enhance it. I’d always wear boys’ clothes. My 20s were filled with me having jet-black hair, mostly slicked back in a ponytail, wearing trackies, Adidas T-shirts and hoodies. I’d get dolled up every now and then, go out with the girls and look hot, or sleep with boys when I was drunk enough to feel sexy, but that was it. It was an identity that I was wearing. It wasn’t my everyday.

And that is the same with me and social media in many ways.

I am way more goofy and silly and funny and weird than I allow myself to be perceived online, because that is the cringe. Anti-cool girl. The cringe isn’t necessarily showing up and putting a business out there and being marketable, manageable or going for a goal. Sometimes the cringe is just letting your weird out. Letting people actually see you be a fucking loser.

I was discussing this with a friend and questioning whether the reason why I feel so overwhelmed is not because I’m depressed, but because of who I’m performing to be or who I’m pretending to be. Am I just exhausted?

It goes without saying I could just be completely multifaceted and boxing myself into an identity that I don’t necessarily fully align with anymore.. or maybe it’s because I’m four days out for my period, Which is probably closer to the truth. And maybe Bondi Brat (the cool girl) isn’t fake. She is me. She’s just not fucking all of me.

I talk a lot about being authentic and being your authentic self, and I align a lot of that with being sexually expressive and not oppressive. I like to fuck. I talk about sex. I’m sexually open. But that’s probably 2% of me, and nine times out of ten, I’m not getting laid or paid.

The rest, I’m being a bit weird and not that cool.

I isolate myself to do so, so it’s not seen by the masses or it’s a boyfriend privilege to see just how odd I can be. But I am a weirdo, and a lot of my friends are also. I think that we’re all a lot more fucking weird than we let be seen or perceived.

LET YO FREAK OUT 👅

I was talking to a guy on a dating app and he told me that I had “cool girl vibes,” and instantly I thought, what the fuck is a cool girl vibe? What does that even mean? Something about it made the hairs on my body stand up. I didn’t like it because I’m not that cool, and I don’t even know what it means to be cool.

Does cool mean I have nice clothes and I look put together? That I’m pretty? Does cool mean that I am artistic and edgy and creative? What does cool mean to you?

Because cool means, to me, cooling down the weirdness of who you really are.

And I can’t do it anymore. I honestly can’t.

I want to kill Bondi Brat dead. The dramaaaa. I want to wipe away everything and start from zero, but the analytics obsess me and I don’t want to be redundant or quit on myself because Bondi Brat still is, myself and it does give me a sense of value having a following on a platform or having a name that people know before they know me. It makes me feel important and it does make me feel cool.

Because historically I’ve never been cool.

I’ve been picked on. I’ve been excluded. I’ve been made fun of. I had friends bully me for years. One girl in particular would call me Mud Guts and Bin and I’d allow it. Not that cool, hey?

It wasn’t until I started doing sex work that I became remotely interesting to anybody, and I could leverage that. And that’s what I did.

I became sexy. I became interesting. I became someone people wanted to watch. And fuck, that felt good when I’d spent a lot of my life feeling like the person people didn’t really want around.

And now I’ve gotten to the point where I’m like, I don’t need to leverage that anymore. There’s a lot more going on than just making money, being sexy, being confident, talking about sex, whatever. Maybe I just wanna be fucking weird and redundant as well.

And it feels scary.

The narrative in my head is: I’m not hot enough to be weird. Isn’t that a crazy concept? Or I’m not weird enough to be hot. Which one? The latter doesn’t really make sense, but whatever. It’s a strange little world that we’re living in, in this bubble.

And when I start playing around and being weird, that’s when I feel lighter and fun and silly and regulated. All these things that we’re meticulously doing — a 5-to-9 after our 9-to-5, then 5-to-9 routine — on how to be regulated and how to be calm and how to be anti-inflammatory and maybe it’s just to be weird as fuck.

Maybe being weird as fuck is your anti-inflammatory.

And that’s the coolest thing possible?

Fuck, I don’t know.

I was with my friend last night and he said something, and as a joke I rolled on my side and started hysterically crying and convulsing. I was playing a part. I was being a silly weirdo character and it was fun. It was certainly not cool.  And I laughed my ass off.

Laughing is, without a doubt, the best medicine, and I don’t see a lot of people pissing their pants laughing anymore. Like really fucking laughing. Ugly laughing. Face moving, stomach hurting, making-a-weird-noise laughing.

That’s not cool to do. It’s ugly.

It’s ugly to raise your eyebrows and have an expression when you can do some Botox and freeze that. Calm that down. Flatten it out. Iron out your personality. Make yourself flat. One-sided.

Is it uncool to have fun?

Is it cooler to be weird?

WTF is cool anyway. Omg I hate the cool girl narrative, I really fucking do!

I’ve always been a dork. If anyone sat and got to know me, really, I am a bit of a goofball. I can also be socially awkward as hell (I do own an excellent mask) and a lot of the time I am rejected by the masses. Group environments especially.

And it makes me realise that maybe I’m not that cool.

Cool feels like fast fashion to me. I wanna be a freak at a discount rack that no one realises they want but then are so excited they found it.

That feels more like me.

I’ve been spending so much time flattening myself out to be cool enough to be okay. Spending my time being sexy so I’m approved. Being hot. Being pretty.

I’ve spent a lot of time making myself feel pretty, being perceived as pretty. I would not say that I was in that category ten years ago, even though stereotypically I was pretty. I had no idea.

So I’ve spent so much time building on this worth of my physicality, which has been profound. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had body dysmorphia and eating disorders all my life, and they’re all somewhat gone. But in doing that, in the quest to see my physical, I have lost the goofy middle.

My goofy middle.

The middle of goofiness is now suppressed and I’ve gotta dig her back out, whilst staying in alignment with all these other parts of myself that I’ve given life to. Because I don’t actually want to kill them. Not really.

I just want to make some fucking room.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with being cool. Nothing wrong with being cool or pretty.

But at what cost ?

Love you freaks x

I was eager for this job, hungry and horny for it. I needed to flex my desire and watch it be consumed by a mere mortal man.

I opened the door to a 6’4”, well-built, blokey-looking man. Once he opened his mouth, I heard the country boy in him and felt a flutter in my fanny. I scanned him up and down — big, strong, masculine. The perfect client for me to fuck my funk out of.

He handed me my money and I obnoxiously counted it in front of him, like I do with all my clients.

“It’s all there,” he said, as I ignored him and continued counting anyway.

I placed the money down and turned to him, still taller than me in my stilettos, black lingerie and leopard sheer dress over the top. I had a feel about me in this job, and he saw it in my eyes. It was primal and I was hungry to feed.

Read more

A quite shameless woman, absolutely shame-riddled about my mind and the way it has always, without doubt, waned. Like the moon. It’s full and big and bright, and then it’s empty and dark.

My very own mind, unable to be tamed by its owner. Me.

There is so much shame in that.

When there is nothing there, I am nothing there.

A complete darkness will swallow the big brightness in me and I can no longer see. Or function. Every day rolls into one. I stop eating, cleaning, showering. I become dark, unlovable, unbearable.

I hate everything about it.

We didn’t talk about it growing up. We hid it, even though we all knew it.

The long sleeves in summer.

The belly aches that would last weeks.

The physical sickness I’d swap out with my mind, as that was much more digestible.

I’m 34 years old and I still spend weeks in bed at a time. Everything rolls into one big lump of darkness and suddenly it’s August.

My money is lowering and I smell.

Forever “starting again.”

How can this part be loved at all?

I hate it. So fucking much.

The Gen Z space is so open. Almost too much. I am uncomfortable in it.

The diagnosing is a trigger. I could say something to anyone and they will turn and say, “I think you have OCD,” or whatever else I seem to represent at the time.

How is this okay?

I can’t fathom it. A regular conversation where my brain is now on show for you to dictate.

I grew up learning that exposing your mind was shameful, and now I’ve landed in a culture where people casually name and diagnose each other’s minds and somehow both make me uncomfortable.

Anyway.

I’m in bed right now. No sheets on my bed and my clothes to be hung scooped to the side that misses a lover.

Overwhelmed. Smelly. Sad and uninterested.

Painfully aware that this is a cycle I’ll have till the end. This discomfort and fear of my own brain turning on itself, and then attacking anyone else who dares come near.

Depression is a lonely, disgusting disease.

And I fucking hate you all the way through.

humiliating human.

Written by Bianca Seirra from Her smelly bed.

Writers note: It’s funny how as soon as I give this part of my a voice, a lightness starts to simmer through the cracks and suddenly I can see my moon again. 💘

And then let the game love you back.

Daaadummmmmmmm!

The dread of posting when no one seems as excited about it as you are.

Stats. We see them everywhere. Mind-boggling numbers. Thousands of people seeing you (or no one at all) and only .001% of them engaging.

The pit. The discomfort. The part of me that squirms and agrees: this is stupid. I should stop.

No one seems to care, so why should I?

I love to write. That’s a given, being on Substack, and I’ll take a stab in the dark that maybe you love it too?

But what if all that love, effort and passion isn’t met with the same fire burning inside you?

What if, in fact, showing this burning desire to write and create is not only met with little to no interaction, but with exit?

People leaving, laughing, walking away. People no longer having the version of you that was kept alive by you.

What happens then?

You’re human. So am I.

It awakens a whisper of doubt. Something so small, yet so irritating. A splinter of black dust in my mind, placed there by the lack of an applauding audience telling me, telling you, just how fucking great and talented we are.

SEE ME! PRAISE ME! LOVE ME!

That’s human too, baby.

There’s nothing superhuman about pretending not to feel that. We want to be included, seen, understood. We are, in fact, mere mortal humans who require connection to live.

So what the fuck happens when it’s no one but me or you, echoing our own words and dreams back to ourselves, with no one there to catch them with applause and praise?

Well that, my friend, is the love of the game.

Let that be enough when no one is there to catch your words.

Let that be enough when you pour your heart and soul onto a Word doc and not even one like (besides yourself) is staring back at you.

Let that be enough when you peep another writer with thousands of interactions and subscriptions and that small shadow of doubt rears its dreary head.

Let that be enough when you read someone else’s work and see their skill without questioning your own.

Of course it would be wonderful to be paid for our passions, but isn’t it just as wonderful to have passions anyway?

So when your soul is on paper and no one is praising the expression, know that your love of this game is the foundation of everything to come.

Don’t waver. Don’t quit. Buckle down with passion and grit.

For the love of the game will always be more fulfilling than a stranger’s praise or any fleeting moments of fame.

This is your sign to keep going. 💘💘

Tighten the seal. Go within.

It’s over with Joe. Nothing really ever started to begin with, but the closing of a chapter never really feels like something to celebrate when it happens like this. Unsure if it’s my ego that needs healing or my heart. Unsure if he’d even care. Unsure if I was played the entire time. Certain I played myself.

When my heart takes a hit, I become sharper, meaner, more ruthless.

I don’t care.

There’s freedom in that. But also judgement.

The way I express it, more comfortable doing that in aggression than happiness. Happiness is so fleeting, the sensation of it deeply rooted in vulnerability — when is it going to go again?

I give my heart to people who don’t want it from the start, who never had the hands to hold it. So I make it smaller, rounder, more easily kept. I change me in hopes that the hands they never had to begin with would hold this version, and they would stay.

A woman so loud about authenticity, so unsure of how to be that herself.

Is that uncertainty due to others or who I choose to give my authenticity to?

Choose better.

Realising I’m not meant to sit at every table just because I know how to sit on a chair. Not every person is for me just because we get along, and just as much as some don’t like me, I don’t like them either.

Why force it?

You can feel when it just isn’t quite right, can’t you? You know when he or she isn’t your match all the way through, through enough depth to keep you grounded when the hard parts arise. You know when you’re trying to fit a triangle through a circle, yet you push anyway.

Why?

The confidence you lost in these people mirrors the confidence you lost within yourself, trying to be someone you never were for someone who was never for you.

Expecting your confidence to stay while you stay in places not built for you is a tightrope to insanity.

Leave.

I left, but have I left right?

The judgement surrounding my every move, thought and action. Crippling.

Unable to decipher whether my ego is bruised and I’m speaking from that or my heart. Unable to decipher whether they’d even care.

Judging the fact that I do.

— ego

Written December 3rd, 2023

By Bianca Seirra

I am used to that sensation now.

I got in the Uber and sent my friend my location. If I don’t message you by 10:30pm — call the cops, something is wrong.

Security is an option, something I have never felt I needed though, even after being assaulted by a regular. Maybe it’s my deep, connected disconnect from my body and ability to compartmentalise. Maybe it’s because I don’t value my safety. Maybe I am naïve? What’s wrong with being naïve, after all? I have an undoubting knowing that I am safe and protected. I will live to be old. I can feel myself looking back at my life as if from the peak of a mountain, looking around, taking it all in.

What a fucking life.

I had two clients before I left my suite in the CBD and jumped into a cab to the suburbs. I was running 45 minutes late. A not-punctual prostitute. I take the fact they’re paying to fuck me and run with it sometimes. Are you really going to complain that your rent-a-fuck is running late? Likely not.

I think to myself regularly how good I could be if I applied myself, if I respected myself enough that I would respect others and their time, like I expect them to respect me. Hypocrisy runs deep in my veins.

My cab pulled up. I told my mate I’d arrived and messaged my client.

Out front.

Come to the other entrance, he replied.

This instantly annoyed me. Why aren’t you here waiting for me? Why am I walking around the street looking for the entrance? And where the fuck am I?

It’s a flutter of frustration, walking around unsure where to go or what to expect. Feeling annoyed or high-strung is a much more manageable sensation than fear.

I was out west. It was suburban. It reminded me of where I grew up in Melbourne, about 50 minutes outside of the CBD. I lived in a few places out there: Oakleigh, Berwick, Cranbourne, a brief stint in Dandenong, Hampton Park and Mooroolbark. I’ve moved around quite a bit. Maybe that’s why I feel like a plant without a pot 99% of the time.

He is in front of me. A wog, Lebanese mix.

He was approx. 6’4 and built. Not shredded, just solid. He looked strong, he looked like a man — I liked it.

His house was nice, clean, minimal, newly renovated and crisp. A projector for a TV screen. I had just bought my own projector two days ago — instantly, I took that as a sign I was where I was meant to be. I could make a sign or theory out of thin air. The power of intrusive thoughts, downloads and a creative mind. The way I think is normal to me, but I know from when I speak freely to people that my thought process is not typical.

He had two couches, a huge rug and a marble coffee table. The kitchen was sexy, the splashback was mirrored. I remember clocking my reflection and thinking how good I looked in this kitchen. The curtains were closed and I noted the exits. I had scoped the place out within five seconds of walking in. I knew where and how I’d get out if I needed to and assessed the risk.

There was none.

His energy was warm and excitable. I matched it.

“Hey, baby.”

I embraced him in a big hug. I’ve gotten better at hugging. I hold people tighter and longer. Once you get past the part that it’s too long, it’s not long enough. I pulled back and looked up at him.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, giving him another peck on the lips.

He complimented me. The greatest compliment a whore can get. “Wow, you look even better than your photos.” I can tell when this is genuine or when this is rehearsed, reused and retold.

He was genuine. I thanked him for the compliment.

We sat on the couch. He offered me water, I watched him pour that motherfucker and his own. Sip first, big boy and he did after I took his drink and gave him mine. It pays not to get to comfortable, he is a stranger after all and I’ve known girls to be drugged and raped at work.

We sat on the couch and spoke. It was easy. He had grunt, a bit of personality. I could tell he was sure of himself and what he believed in, and they’re my favourite type of people to be around. Regardless of whether I agree or not, people who are sure are safe. They stand for something, and I like that.

We made small talk that turned into long talk, talking about theories, AI, the future, our passions and how we love to cook. We were talking for well over an hour and I was aware I still hadn’t fucked him. I must put in effort to have deep conversations as well as being flirty. It’s not natural for me to sit in both at the same time.

I laid back on the couch and pulled him on top of me, hooking the back of my leg around his neck. He moved forward, his body weight on mine.

I felt excited.

Excited to get fucked, excited to finish work, excited to go home and smoke a joint.

He kissed me softly and made his way down to…..

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And why I can’t live without it.

We hear it all the time, and we feel it.

Be seen. Make content. Put yourself out there. Post 30 videos a day. Go viral.

We hear it while we see it.

We witness women living luxurious lifestyles, being flown all over the world on brand deals. Someone as generic as you or me living a life that seems like a dream. People building businesses that have scaled largely because of the online movement and the virality of social media.

It leaves us thinking, Well, if they can, why can’t I?

Double that down with the belief that I must be on social media to be successful.

And then comes the exchange.

My soul for social media?

You might read that and think it sounds deranged, dramatic, out of touch.

Or maybe you agree.

But I can’t help but feel it to be as true as the sun is in the day and the moon is at night.

You see, I love to be seen. I love being online. I like to play and be ridiculous. The exposure pushes some kind of psychological limit that the sadist in me enjoys toying with.

Sometimes.

Then there is the other, darker side of me. The analyser. The one who likes to rip things apart, look underneath every element of my psyche and ask:

Why?

That trait, while hundreds of little videos of me exist out there, each encapsulating whatever mood I was in at the time, frozen in time, for anyone to consume, derails me.

I move rather slowly in the physical, but in the spiritual and emotional world I am a V line train with no stops. I move fast, evolving into a new baseline every few hours, days, weeks, and then circling back again and again.

I am cyclical.

I am a woman.

Alas, this article isn’t about womanhood, although I could go on about that for essays.

This article is about the part of me I put out there to be consumed that no longer wants to be eaten days after.

And there is the first tab open in my head.

That video. That post. That emotion encapsulated in a 60-second clip that I no longer relate to, still sitting there to be consumed—possibly by the masses or possibly by no one at all.

Each finding a home of discomfort in me.

Maybe it is the way I post, what I say or how I do it. Or maybe it’s just that human beings have not evolved enough to do something so unnatural.

We were not built to superficially connect with this many people, in this many places, while being exposed to this many different lives and lifestyles.

Will this be the new normal?

It seems so.

But I am unsure how much of me I have to mute down to facilitate this hobby.

Because that’s what it is, right? A hobby?

I am posting content with nothing to show for it other than me watching it back over and over again. Soon enough developing a cringe-like effect, a repulsion towards a version of me I loved at the time and have since moved away from.

And that’s only the posting.

Then there is the consuming.

The eating of others.

The lives and lifestyles you watch, taking up valuable space in your psyche. The watching. The swiping. The scrolling. The hours of it taking up your space, your time, your soul.

A drug easier to access than alcohol and arguably worse for you.

Connection—skin to skin—is on the low. Mental health difficulties are on the rise. Parasocial relationships take precedence over genuine ones. Self-consideration, self-discernment and curiosity fall away while adopted beliefs and opinions rise in their place.

And then there is our cognitive function. The inability to focus for more than .2 seconds before reaching for something else. Reaching for anything that might make our brains cooperate before considering simply putting the fucking phone down and allowing the human brain to be just that:

Human.

I would say that is pretty soul-consuming, wouldn’t you?

So that leaves me with the question:

Can I be successful without social media?

And what would life look like?

I’ve done it multiple times. Months without it. Deactivating and living.

Whenever I come back, the first question is:

Are you okay? Where did you go?

Mainly from strangers. People I have never met in the flesh. People who don’t have my personal phone number.

How do I say, I’ve never been better since removing myself from this phone-fucking vortex?

But I feel so much better that eventually I am ready to come back.

I am ready to post with purpose and make money. I am ready for people to see me.

Again.

Then eventually I’m checking my phone more times than I’m checking in with myself.

Little by little, I am consuming and consumed once again. Doubting the very human I am through subconscious comparison to others.

You might read this and think it sounds so fucking dramatic.

But as I write this, I can’t help but know it is exactly the truth.

So it leaves me with the question: can I be successful without social media, and do I need to exchange my soul for it?

Written by Bianca Sierra xoxox

For the three days before, I had not showered. I had not had a moment where I wasn’t shoving huge amounts of food into my face.

When my eyes opened this morning, I felt my organs ache, my waist felt pushed out and my stomach felt like it was pulling away from my torso more than felt natural. My body felt sticky, my skin swollen, and my lower back felt like it couldn’t carry my weight. My neck felt crippled and the smell coming off my body was dirty.

For four days and three nights, I lay on that couch and spent upwards of $1,000 on Uber Eats.

Of all the vices I’ve had in my life, consumption and control is the one I have always been a victim to.

Overeating has always had me by the fucking jugular.

I purge too.

I’m usually really “good” the first few days of my bingeing. I’ll overeat and then immediately vomit my food. It’s in and out and, although terrible, in my mind no weight gain will be made. In fact, I lose weight.

But then I get comfortable, like I do with most things.

I’ll binge on food I know is harder to bring back up. Pizzas, breads, pastries. I won’t drink enough water in between. I’ll sit a little too long after I eat and when I eventually go to make myself sick, nothing comes up.

I’ve failed my process.

That’s the only time I begin to feel shame about what I’m doing to myself.

A massive sense of failure washes over me. I stand over the toilet, looking down into the bowl, face fucking myself with my index and middle finger, desperately trying to get everything up.

It doesn’t help that I have almost no gag reflex.

The amount of times I’ve split the back of my throat, causing me to bleed, you’d think I would stop.

I don’t.

There are three types of bingeing and purging for me. Once I have all three activated, it’s very hard for me to stop.

Type 1.

Eating a standard meal and throwing up afterwards.

I wouldn’t even say I’m bingeing at this point. I’ve eaten a meal that feels less “clean”, so afterwards I go and throw it up. Maybe not all of it, but most of it, and then I get on with my day.

The Maserati of my disordered eating.

Sleek. Efficient. High functioning.

It keeps me thin and light, and I feel accomplished that I was able to eat something and then release it.

Type 1 never lasts.

Type 2.

Bingeing and purging.

This one is a slippery slope.

The purging is a response to the eating. The eating is the problem. (All of it is)

Once I get into the cycle of shoving food into my face faster than my body can process it, feeling so sick that I vomit, then feeling empty enough to eat again, I’ve slipped.

Eat. Vomit. Order. Eat. Vomit.

Repeat.

I’ll do this until my body is so exhausted that I fall asleep before I can purge the last meal.

Which, to me, means failure.

I’ve failed.

Type 3.

I binge and I don’t purge.

This is where I punish myself.

I was unable to overeat and be sick, so now I punish myself and my body.

When I type that out, it sounds so fucked up.

Because it is.

I get so compulsive with this behaviour that I can’t stop.

I’m typing this naked on my toilet, sitting over a dirty bowl with dried vomit splashed up the sides.

I am so ashamed and disgusted with myself.

Superficially, yes.

But on the inside, deep down, my soul — the way I hurt her destroys me.

The way I punish my physical body destroys me too.

I don’t know how my body can survive a life like this.

And I’m scared for my future.

I’ve been doing this for almost twenty years.

The movie Thirteen always seemed so dramatic to some people. There were things they were doing that I wasn’t, but there were other things I was.

Self-harm was huge.

Bingeing. Purging. Cutting.

When I look back, I don’t think I considered bingeing and purging self-harm. I found the way I ate repulsive, and throwing up was simply balancing it out.

Yin and yang, if you will.

Food has always been an issue for me.

Drinking too.

Not necessarily the drinking itself, but what it does to my brain afterwards. I can get away with it once or twice, but drink excessively during the week, stay out, lose my routine, and it becomes almost impossible for me to do the things I need to do in order not to get sick.

Depressed.

Triggered.

I’m meant to be flying to Bali a week before my healing retreat to meet a guy.

I spoke to him yesterday and mentioned I was feeling depressed. He didn’t really understand what that means for me because I am a very warm and happy person. I laugh and smile and chat.

You wouldn’t know how I feel deep, deep down.

But I also just don’t talk at all when I feel this way.

I drop off the face of the earth and then reappear.

A lot of people in my life understand this part of me.

A lot don’t.

I don’t expect anyone to.

I tell people I’m depressed.

It’s hard because maybe I’m not ?

It’s hard to explain this feeling, but I imagine it would be similar to how an ice addict feels after a huge bender. My brain feels fried. My body feels weak, but in a different way.

And it takes me weeks to recover.

The difference between food addiction and ice is that almost everyone knows what it’s like to overeat. To feel full, sluggish, fat.

But overeating and bingeing are not the same thing.

Bingeing for a full week, throwing in drinking and purging, wreaks havoc on my body. Then my brain goes with it, and I feel “depressed” and physically unable.

My body aches.

But because not everyone smokes ice and everyone eats, it’s treated differently.

If I’d had an ice bender, people would understand that something was wrong.

Oh. Okay. Go to rehab. Get better.

If I say I overate for a week and I feel completely fucked, it’s:

Don’t be stupid.

You’re not fat.

Everyone overeats.

It’s all in your head.

It feels like the most unapproachable addiction or disorder there is.

And I would know.

I’ve had them all.

Including ice.

Ice was the only thing that stopped my binge eating.

Go figure.

I’ve been getting closer to a crossroads for some time.

And I’m there now.

I’m staring at two paths.

One is the same one I’ve been on.

Except it’s not really a path.

It’s a loop.

The loop gets bigger as I get older, but eventually I loop back around to the same fucking place.

Here.

I have been in this exact position more times than I could possibly count.

The other path is different.

I step differently there.

I move differently.

It looks scary.

But I need to take it.

I am taking it.

I’m going to write every day for ten weeks from now and document my journey to healing.

Every single day, I have to choose a step on the new path. And every step will imprint a level of consistency and effort I have never really put into myself.

Not really.

I want to try.

I want to heal.

I’m so close to being able to create this life.

I am creating it.

But the food, the purging, the binge drinking, the smoking — they’re holding me back.

I don’t want this version of me to have the main stage anymore.

It’s time for something new to take charge.

Written by Bianca Seirra, March 2023.

This man was handsome. Tall, tanned, bleached-blonde buzz cut hair. He didn’t look like a regular client and he was hotter than a “hot client.” He was the type of man I’d look twice at on the street and happily welcome approaching me.

He came into the room and for a second I was confused. Had I met him before?

The house mum told me he’d specifically booked for me, but I’d remember a man like this.

Then again, I don’t always remember them.

I can consume many men in a day and walk past one of them hours later thinking, why does that face look so familiar?

“I think I’ve fucked that man” crosses my mind occasionally when I see a face that feels like I should know it, but I can’t quite remember how.

He walked into the room and placed his things on the bench.

Mercedes key. Wallet.

I scanned quickly.

Rings. No wedding ring.

He didn’t look like a Mercedes driver. He didn’t give me relationship energy either. Men who are cheating have a way about them. An energy. Something I can usually feel.

Not this guy.

He was casual and collected. Surfy looking. A few random tattoos peeking out from underneath a T-shirt with holes — the kind of holes designed to be there on an expensive shirt that somehow doesn’t look expensive at all.

And he was so deliciously hot.

For the first time in a while, I wasn’t thinking about work.

I was just excited to fuck him.

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