i

i thought i would write more this summer but things didn’t work out that way. i was supposed to read more and find a new agent but i ended up out doing drugs and dancing instead. i did lots of things other than drugs; sunbathed in my garden topless and reading a book from a new friend who i am a little bit in love with, not like in the way you think, just in the way that i want to look after her, tell her i know things will be okay. i sunbathed almost naked in the garden a lot over the summer and then my stepdad put cameras all along the roof so i stopped stripping off outside, took myself and my books to my room instead. i started saving up to buy a house. an ex?client?person? older man who loved me very much once gave me a bitcoin wallet with 10k in it and if i still had it i could have bought a house years ago, but its okay, its fine, i don’t want his money. i have my own money now. i dream of doing things with my body for money sometimes. maybe a trauma response or maybe i am afraid it was the only thing i was any good at. i can’t do it again. no, no, i was

in my room a lot this summer. in my room i watched a lot of reality tv. my ex girlfriend from last year used to watch a lot of reality tv. all the money in the world and yet most of her days were spent watching american people get drunk in a house somewhere in the hamptons. and when her wife would get home from work she would make us both dinner, we would all fuck each other and then my hands and my head would be swimming. i was jealous, sometimes, because i wanted a wife. i was scared i would never find someone to love. a couple of weeks ago my girlfriend and i had a threesome and i put them both on their knees, my girls, or, at least, my girl and my girl for the night, cupped their faces in my hands and then pushed them together, watched like a stranger in love. last night, my girlfriend and i picked out a date for our wedding.

my ex girlfriend’s wife would tell me stories about the drug i now do every weekend. i am excited to not do any drugs for the next two months. i booked a beach holiday for my girlfriends birthday and i will be writing something i am excited about for the first half of autumn. i want to be inside this autumn, topless and reading. i went

to a party the other day in a house nobody actually lives in and my friend who i am a little bit in love with danced with me and we spoke about things that felt very important because they were at five in the morning. this

weekend is the last of the summer and i am going to roll into it through friday saturday sunday monday. i got enough of the drug to get me to tueday without falling asleep. i got a new eyeliner and my eyebrows done. i was in an uber the other weekend, driving from one party to another and

i let my

head fall onto my girlfriend’s shoulder like a comet falling into heaven. a big and beautiful crashing inside of me when my forehead met the edge of her collarbone.

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In July, 2020, I found myself laying naked on a sun lounger in the French countryside, sipping a deep bodied red at 10 in the morning. I was pretending to read a copy of the book the man who had brought me there had given me for my birthday – a copy of Supervert’s Necrophilia Variations that I had already managed to spill on. The man who brought me there was an evil man. He would argue that I was more evil that him because he says I made him fall in love with me and then abandoned him. I don’t think what I did counts as abandonment, but I do think what he did counts as evil. I was twenty two and he was fifty. No one knew where I was. I ended up staying with him for around five or six weeks, I can’t remember exactly. He’d taken my passport so technically I couldn’t leave, and when I look back I wonder if I can even comfortably use the phrase “held against my will”, mostly because I didn’t put up much of a fight. Internally, yes, I knew something was very, very wrong. I started to panic when after three weeks he took me to meet his 80 year old mother and made plans to marry me (I had not agreed to this, however what I wanted didn’t seem to matter.) I thought a lot about how I could leave. He felt like a really fucked up version of a dad. I actually felt pangs on guilt at the thought of leaving him there. Pathetic fucker. But on the outside I didn’t give anything away. I just sat morning after morning on the sun lounger, drinking myself into a beautiful nausea. By the time each day had fallen slack around itself, and the night sky had begun descending around the house, I was drunk enough to take whatever the man wanted to do to me.

After he’d done whatever he wanted to me (namely: spreader bars, sodomy, fists) I would wait for him to go to sleep and then sneak downstairs to lay on the sun lounger again. The pool looked so beautiful in the night time, all of the stars reflected in it drowning in chlorine. I took my wine with me, always. The man had bought us cases of what he said was very expensive wine from the vineyard tour he’d taken us on just the week before. We sampled from bottles that were labelled with their years – 1955, 1970, 1998, and I swallowed each glass greedily. It made it easier to talk to the man. I hated talking to him. I remember forcing myself to try and find any redeemable quality about him to make the situation more bearable, but found there were none. Every day he gave me a new reason to think he was a bad person. He’d told me about a former girl he’d kept, starting from when she was 16. She was 30 when he cut her off. She’d gotten too old, he said. I couldn’t imagine ever being 30.

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The man had a long history of doing evil things. When he was 27, he’d taken what he thought was an 18 year old girl on a similar trip to the one I was on. When they boarded the flight, she told him she was actually 15. Instead of taking her home, he noted it as a minor inconvenience and proceeded to do whatever he wanted to her all week. He owned a large telecommunications company and he told me how he had swiped clients and dodged tax; some other financial things that I at the time was too young and too drunk to fully understand the weight of. The man told me I had a lot to work on. I wasn’t a real person until I had experienced real pain, he said. And then he put me through pain. So much of it. And I kept drinking, and drinking, and I didn’t really stop until 6 years after, when earlier this year I decided to try and be sober for a bit. When I got sober, all of the memories of the man came back. I have thought about emailing him back so many times. It would go like

You are a fucker and I hateyou and you made me hate myself more. You are a pedophile and a cunt and I wish I could tell everyone you know how you have to wear a diaper to bed because you piss yourself sometimes.

The man bought us some enormous €6 boxed wine that came with it’s own built in plastic tap. I loved the box wine. It got me drunk fast and we had a near never ending supply of it. I saved nice wine for the morning, afternoons and then we usually went out for dinner if I was not forced to endure making it (“puppy, you are for fucking, cooking and cleaning”), and the box wine was my late night vice. One night as I sat aching outside under the stars, a young boy emerged from the black of the fields around the house. He reminded me of a deer. Nico, his name was. He was 17. I asked him if he was lost, and he said that he lived a house over and he heard a girl and a man shouting, so he’d come to see if everything was okay. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was me, nor the things the man had done to me to make me shout. Instead I said I’d had an argument with my husband but everything was okay. That old guy is your husband? He said. Yeah, I replied. That’s crazy! Why do you like him? He asked. I rubbed my fingers together in the universally known gesture for his money, duh. That was the other thing: I hadn’t earned a penny from being on this hellish trip. The man had loaded three Bitcoins into a hard wallet and was essentially dangling the fee over my head. It was enough to buy me a house, if I was patient and let it grow for a few years. I never did see any money, but I didn’t even want it by the time it over. I just wanted to be at home.

Nico gave me some weed and I then blacked out. Whitey, is what they would call it back home in London. Or is it a British thing? I wasn’t sure. I woke to Nico slapping my face and asking if he should call my husband. I pushed myself up and told him not to worry. I told him to go home and thanked him for the weed. Same time tomorrow? He asked. I didn’t think it was cool to be friends with a teenager, and a part of me was afraid that the man would do something to him because he was crazy and I could see him being jealous of something this stupid. So I told him maybe but I was super busy for the next few nights. I never saw him again, but he did find me on instagram a few months after it happened. Yo! Are you okay? What are you up to now? Sorry if this isn’t you haha.

The next morning, the man asked me if I had fucked Nico. He’s a child, I retorted. He just gave me some weed. The man told me never to speak to Nico ever again. Then he asked me to make him some eggs. I had been putting extra butter in everything I made for him.

The man emailed me in 2025, five years after I was in France, to tell me his brother had passed away. I’d seen photos of his brother when I went to his mother’s house back then. I remember we were taking a walk after dinner and I was being painfully off with him – I couldn’t pretend to like him anymore and my body had started to reject him. I felt like throwing up every time he came near me. Are you sad because I’m me and not Master in our day to day? He asked. No, I lied. I’m just tired.

As the weeks went on, I got drunker and the man got softer and overall everything just got weirder. The man told me he loved me a lot. He told me how he had developed his own personal growth methodology that could make me a better person, but it would be wasted on me because I wasn’t going to do anything with my life. He told me that he had transcended society and that he had a special talent for truly seeing people, figuring them out at first glance. He told me I shouldn’t write about anything to with my life because I was too fragile to ever achieve anything. I was much better suited to just being his wife. He told me not to change him, and how his father had abused him as a child, and that one of his greatest fantasies was to get me pregnant so that I could make daughters that would replace me when I got too old. We went to a beach and I spotted a beautiful woman sunbathing, and the man whispered to me about how much he would love to take her back to our house and ruin her. I licked my ice cream and told him he was a sick fucker. The man always thought I was joking when I insulted him, which was probably a good thing. He had a very delicate ego for someone so enlightened. When we got home I asked if I could have my passport back yet, and he ignored me. I started to research flights back to London and mentally assess how little I could leave with. I didn’t even care about the money anymore. I didn’t want to do anything like this ever again. My body was so tired at that point. My chest hurt when I tried to take a deep breath. I wanted a boring little office job and a boring girlfriend and a boring flat to share with her, boring friends, boring hobbies. Being bored sounded like the most divine thing in the entire world. I want to be bored, I thought. If I never amount to anything, just let me be bored for a bit.

After a few weeks in France, and after visiting his mother, the man drove us to Spain. I looked out the window and told the man that I liked the mountains. “Those are hills,” he said. I was in a mood for the rest of the journey. I sipped the white wine in my water bottle and stared out the window, ignoring his complaints about my attitude.

The man was old and he also underestimated me. He never thought I would actually leave him there, but I did. I left him in Spain, all alone in that huge house, right after our last fight. I had started crying when the man was using my body, and not in the way he liked. He told me that I was ruining this whole thing for him. I cried and ran down the hallway, to the staircase. I was sweating. The house was baking in the July heat. The man chased me up the stairs of that terracotta tinged mansion, right to the attic room with its big window overlooking the mountains. I stood panting at the top, staring at the view. It looked like a woman laying down. I missed women so much. I didn’t want to do this anymore. I couldn’t even pretend to like them at that point, or that years of this hadn’t bore a hole inside my chest. The man wheezed somewhere behind me. “Puppy!” he shouted. I told him to fuck off. Somewhere in it all, the glass of wine I was holding shattered all over the floor, and I stumbled, felt something sharp in my heel. I crumpled downwards and the man walked over to me as though I were a small animal. He sighed and got some tissue to clean at my cut. He picked at the single piece of glass lodged into my foot and dropped it in a glass of water. I wondered if he wanted to keep it.

“You are a fucking alcoholic, do you know that?” He said.

I didn’t think what I was doing counted as alcoholism because I was too busy trying not to kill the man every day. But he was right. The more I thought about it, the more I was confronted with an awful truth: I actually was a fucking alcoholic. He was old, and sick, but he was completely right. I spent a lot of time fucking up my own life because of what the man did to me that summer. I spent a lot of time drinking and sleeping with people I didn’t like. It was difficult to grapple with the fact that he was the one who made me realise I had to get sober, even if I didn’t manage to do it for another six years. It is, in hindsight, the kindest thing he ever said to me.

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I nodded my head and told him I wanted to go to bed. He carried me back down to the second floor and placed me in my bed. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. He kissed me on the forehead and shut the door.

At four in the morning, my alarm went off. I gathered up a small tote bag full of my clothes and quietly made my way up the stairs, past his room. He snored loudly in his bed as I crept into the bathroom to retrieve my passport from his wash bag. I then walked ten minutes in the dark down a dirt road somewhere in rural Spain until I could see headlights. My driver took me to the airport in silence. I didn’t text the man. He texted me though, after I landed. Constantly. He emailed me and called me, apologising. He left voicemails. I was in a new relationship by winter, and for years after I did everything I could to forget about the whole thing.

These days, I will get an occasional email from him. Every few months, like clockwork. They go to my junk folder because I’ve blocked him, but sometimes I scroll through the latest. Once, a photo of a girls’ asshole, close up. Wish you were here, he’d written. In another, he sent me a personality disorder test with “you need this” in the body of the email. In earlier years, after it all happened, he would start every email with “Puppy, I miss you..” and then tell me what a bad person I was.

I fantasise about emailing him back and telling him how I’m sober now, of all the things I have achieved. I got sober for many reasons, not all of them noble. I am on medication that means I can’t drink, or shouldn’t; but mostly I hated the person I was when I was drunk. The man is somewhere out there and I am here in my bedroom with my cat and a life I will be able to remember in front of me. I get sick with joy when I remember this.

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I had this guy once who came to me as a cam client. He was based in Texas and for a very long time he never really interacted with me outside of sending me tips and wanting to talk about how fucked he thought the world had gotten. I tended to agree with him on a lot of things – yes, the world is evil and strange, but also beautiful in its strangeness, and again somehow in its darkness. I never saw his face but he liked to describe himself to me. He was super ugly, he said. He was 5’2 with craters in his cheeks – collateral from his adolescent acne – an awkward stance, bad body odour. I told him many times that I didn’t think these things made him ugly. Beauty is subjective. There would have been lots of beautiful physical and immaterial qualities about him, I’m sure. He told me this was easy for me to say because I am beautiful.

I suspect that he liked a little humiliation, though this was not what he eventually wanted me to do. He wanted to send me over an ant farm and pay me to make daily videos in my Pleasers, tending to the ants. He wanted me to put my phone camera low on the ground by the ant farm so he could pretend he was one of the ants too. He wanted me to step on his small holographic ant body with my big shiny shoes. I remember that summer of 2020 like a bruise around an eye, sore when I poke at it. It was scorching in London. It was the year that I took my last ever client. Ant-man happened around May time. I never did receive the ant farm (I didn’t want to risk them running rampant in my room) but I did record a lot of fetish content for him. I made myself up and stooped down low to the lens of my camera, cocking my head one way and the other. Oh, you poor thing, I cooed, pursing my lips. You’re utterly worthless, aren’t you?

I don’t judge any sort of fetish considering I have my own which are questionable at best. I don’t know where they come from and I don’t really want to know. There is a part of me that worries that I have only acquired these fetishes because of all the insanity my body has been through. Each of them like a tic on my neck, every one fatter and uglier than the last. None of them are genuinely repulsive, but at times they cause me to experience a lot of shame, and then the shame turns me on, and I am in this wheel of shame-cum-shame-cum. Because when I push it – when I push myself and the woman I am enacting my fantasies onto to the very edge of where we could go – all of my blood rushes to my face.

I am sitting in the garden reading a copy of Leatherfolk. Jade has been upstairs for a long time, and I don’t know what she is doing but I thought it best to just let her get on with it. I have the day off work because I told my boss I wasn’t feeling too good, and it’s making me feel better to just sit at my table under the July sun in my bikini, browning myself and reading about my sadomasochistic elders. I text a few friends back and think about the new book I’m working on. This summer has been weird so far. Good weird, but weird nonetheless. The song Men’s Needs by The Cribs starts playing through my speaker and I feel like Ant-Man is communicating with me through time. It was my most played song that summer. I would loop it whilst filming all of my content, mouthing along to the words when my face was out of frame. All sorts of fetishes came across my proverbial desk back then: insects, torture, spit, incest, jelly, inflatables, blood. I liked the creativity of it. Filling my shower with green gelatinous goop and splashing around in it, washing it out of my hair for hours after. I see a blue gingham figure moving through the conservatory of my house from my sunspot in the garden. Jade arrives at the back door, posing in the frame. She smooths the hem of her dress out and slowly turns around so I can see all of her efforts. I put my book down and smile at her. There she is, all dressed up, just how I wanted. Bows and knee high socks, all doll-like, ready for me.

I’ve never really had anyone dress up for me like that, but Jade wanted to. When we went up to my room, I told her to stay still whilst I did her makeup. Summer sounds outside the window, birds and the hum of the road, the drone of the fan. I tied her arms together and bound her legs too, took some photos of her at various angles and in different positions. She looks so beautiful. I breathed are you going to behave for me and she looked up at me, nodding, eyes wet and patient. I felt it lunge inside, that thing that makes me want, a desire so strong I sometimes think it has a body of its own. I took her legs over my shoulder and started to move. When we were done, I had small spats of blood over my finger tips, one of her false eyelashes stuck to my foot, and the imprint of her lipstick all over my collarbones.

*

4th July 2026, Howl Queer Festival, Hackney Wick

I am dancing in a hot, dark room in furry leg warmers, a bikini top and cotton shorts. I haven’t had anything to drink but I’ve been sprinkling mkat into my water for hours now, pushing towering bumps of it up my nose. This definitely is one of the worst ideas I’ve had, but I don’t care right now. My skin flared up so badly that I’d spent the last four weeks in my house, crying because my raw flesh had been sticking to my sheets. I remember laying awake at 3am begging God to give me my body back. I would drive it safely this time, I swore. But I broke my promise to him, again, because the second I was let out of my sick bubble again I beelined for the club and the nearest person with a bag. Who cares. I’m young. I have spent so much of my twenties trying to be older than I am, and now that I’m 28 I want to spend my last two years before 30 doing whatever the fuck I want. I don’t want to think about money or the hospital or my immune system. I want to think about how much I love this song. I want to think about how much I love every one around me.

A guy comes up to me and starts staring at Jade. “I love trains,” I am sure he says. “What?” I respond. He points at Jade and then says “trans. I love trans so much,” making a kissy face at her. I tell Jade we should leave this room and go to the smoking area instead.

Outside I spot a guy I briefly dated 10 years ago who I’m friends with now. I think he was the only man that actually respected me when I came out as a lesbian. I find myself asking people, oh wait, you know *** too? And they’re all like yes, he’s for the dolls, of course I know him. I dance with him and Jade dances with his friend. We take some digitals and when I see myself in the photos I almost cry at how much my skin has healed. I don’t want to keep my promise to God. I don’t know how long this will last, which only makes me want to drown in my hedonism. I’d been eating a diet that consisted of nothing but whole foods and grass-fed meats for weeks now. I can afford to have one night of chaos. I think. I hope.

Jade asks me if I want more drugs and I say yes. She takes me and our friend ***** to the disabled toilet and racks up 3 lines on a little ledge by the sink. When someone knocks on the door I yell and say my friends are helping me because I feel sick, sorry, I’ll be out in a moment. This friend is someone Jade and I have kissed before. I watched her snort a line and then she rests her head on my shoulder, laughs and says something I can’t remember. We all usher ourselves outside into the main room and keep going. I can’t remember the last time I felt this good. I could just keep doing this forever, right? I can just keep doing this forever. I’ve felt so happy the past couple of weeks with the life audit I made for myself, with how well I’m responding to my new medication, with the new stuff I’m writing, seeing my best friend again when she came back from Thailand for a bit. I feel so good. Then I feel sort of empty. And cold. I briefly go outside again to wander a little between friends, and when I do I catch eyes with my ex-girlfriend. She stares at me and I stare at her. I start feeling a bit sick, then push it back down; I can hear a song I like inside.

I see a girl who I recognise as the girl who was in a throuple with my ex-throuple before I was in a throuple with them; one of which I had just seen outside. We start talking, and we even end up kissing, then we laugh at what a stupid idea kissing was. “I told her,” she shouts whilst we sway together to the bass, “I told her, like, you wouldn’t know a boundary if it hit you in the face.” And I laugh some more and tell her that she’s pretty, because she is. Jade is kissing someone behind me. I give her a nod and we gather up our girls to head to another room, which is in another building. We don’t have any drugs left, Jade says to our friend. Don’t worry, our friend says. That place is overflowing. Someone will have some.

Nobody has any drugs in the new room and I crash spectacularly. I feel like a zombie, cold and devoid of personality, aimlessly dancing in and around the packed bodies inside the club. Jade gets up on the scaffolding of the stage and I get up with her, dancing six feet in the air, then lower myself back down because I feel like I’m about to pass out. I start dancing with some guys who are in heavy leather and metal; I tell one he looks good and then start to read his palm, and as a thank you he gives me a whole bag. The bag doesn’t last as long as we think and then we are back at zombie state. I should have paced myself. Jade then finds someone to give us K and we do too much, way, way too much, and I’m somehow outside now and the sun has come up, and I’m swaying and coming down and laughing with Jade, can’t feel my tongue, we kiss and I can’t feel hers either. And then a guy who keeps messaging me on instagram asking me to go for a drink (he might be gay? does he know I’m gay? I can’t tell but I also don’t want to bring it up) offers me some mkat and back I am on the dancefloor moving to a heavy beat with my hands on a girls waist until they shut off the sound. We move to a forest and then to an afters; and at 11am I squint at the sun, down the remaining drugs in my cup, and tell Jade I want to go home.

When I get back at 1pm, Jade and I shower the grime off ourselves and climb into bed. We sleep for six hours and then fuck again. But it’s not like the other day where it was heavy and fast; it’s the sort I would have gagged at years ago when any form of true intimacy made me feel like a shell of myself, the sort where i would simply watch a body move over mine from the ceiling. I look into her eyes when she touches me and want to fold myself up and live in this feeling forever. I have a strange thought, like I wish I was small enough to just watch her like a giant, and then bat it away. I wonder how Ant-Man is sometimes. I find it strange that I’ll never know what happened to any of the men I spoke to back then, and equally they’ll never know what happened to me. I slather cream on my face so think I almost laugh at my own reflection. I’m too lazy to make my regular anti-inflammatory dinner so I eat 7 pieces of shortbread. I fall asleep in Jade’s arms, and I don’t dream about much at all.

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At 14, I took a babysitting job for kid in my little brother’s class. I would go to this parents house every couple of weeks when they needed a night off – they had three under seven – put the older two kids to bed and then rock the baby on my lap until they got home. I really liked the couple I babysat for. I could tell they were exceptionally good looking and magnetic people, despite having nothing to measure this against. They seemed to have everything that I thought I would have for myself when I got older. A house and a ring yes, but the babies I wasn’t really sure of. I would think of myself as a mother or pregnant and squirm. Hot under my skin. A baby would be like having a parasite inside of me, I thought. I liked the kids though. I like kids in general, even now. I’m good with them. But maybe I’m not supposed to have one myself. I liked talking to the mother, the way she moved, how she asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. She taught me how to make a bottle and change a nappy, despite the fact that I already knew how to do this. I have three siblings, all much younger than me, and I liked playing plastic mother when I was smaller. I think this made me grow up faster than I needed to. I think this made me put others before myself before I even had a concept of what my personhood even meant. When babysitting, I once accidentally made the bottle too hot, right before they were supposed to come home from the theatre – the baby cried and cried and cried, and I paced the living room with him in my arms, trying to soothe him, apologising for hurting him when I did not mean to – and when the mother got home I was a mess because I thought the baby was ruined, he was calm by then and snoring softly but still I wept, and the mother she said it was okay, it’s okay, you didn’t mean to, you’re only a child yourself. But I didn’t really feel like a child. Burning the baby taught me about guilt, but nothing about what I should do with it.

MODEL, 2013-2017

There are a series of photos of me taken when I was fifteen years old – four of me in a square, looking like a grown up, moody in one and a look of ecstasy in another. They were part of my portfolio, the first test shoot I ever did. I was signed to PRM agency, then Leni’s, the no one – when asked why I stopped modelling, I don’t always know what to say. I remember the day I got signed and the day I tapped out in equal clarity. When I got signed, my mum took me to a tall building in Bermondsey, where I sat on a couch and spoke to a man who said he was very excited about me. A woman took me into the hallway and took some photos of me on a digital camera. I never told anyone how badly I had wanted the job, maybe out of embarrassment and maybe because I worried I would be called ugly. I used to watch this show called The Agency under my duvet when I was thirteen and imagine what it would be like to be fawned over like that. When I was modelling I walked, a lot, all over London. I jumped on and off tubes to go sees, to shoots, to castings; met this casting agent who told me she was 17 but she was actually around 30, and when she asked me on a date I said I think you’re too young, despite being only 15 myself. Lots of Xanax during this time too, listening to Lil Peep on the bus, wishing myself thinner and thinner. I got on the tube to a group casting with a girl who I am pretty sure is still working now, and never forgot what she said: I ran out of coke, so it’ll just have to be a Xanny night tonight. I scoffed a bit, involuntarily, and the banging of the central line did little to cover it up. It was just the way she said it. I don’t know. We didn’t hang out again, but she commented on all of my photos with fire emojis for a good three years after our last interaction.

ESCORT AND CAMGIRL, 2016-2020

That was my body. That was my body? That was my body! That was my body. That was my body. That was my body. If and when I tell people, they always apologise to me. Or they ask what it felt like. I keep trying to remember the emotional aspect of it – what I felt, how much I felt it, when – but I can’t seem to draw much up. I remember smiling a lot. And the smell of condoms. Expensive cars and clients who didn’t speak any English. Clubs that were behind a series of doors. Lying about my aspirations, seeing my reflection seethe and twist in the glass windows of hotel rooms, my limbs contorting against the skyline of London in the dark, hundreds of feet above the ground. When my family found out (the first time) I cried for a week straight. I remember watching my body on a pixelated screen, the window encased in a lavender tone, watching my tokens go up and up and up. I remember one guy turning on his video and I could see he was sitting high up in some sort of machinery, like a forklift or something. I remember he asked me to sit on the camera and touch myself. I turned my laptop so the screen was against my sheets, keyboard in the air, and sat on the built-in camera. I remember looking at a polaroid of my best friend at the time, a photo where she was holding a purple dildo in her hand by the window of my room. I don’t think I ever liked her like that. But I kept staring at her, kept doing what the guy had told me to do, kept drowning out the sound of his voice with my own moans. It was the only time I ever came for real in front of a client.

STRIPPER, ONE NIGHT IN 2018

I got this job by walking into the bar and asking if you needed professional dance experience to be considered. When the woman said no, I asked if I could try out, and she told me to come back the next day at 11pm for a three hour trial shift. I lasted 1 hour. The woman looked like a blonde version of Amy Winehouse, and she told me she knew her family. I wore clear Pleasers and a white bikini underneath a red bodycon dress I’d got from New Look when I was 16. There were only two men in the club. All the girls flocked around them, each in their own version of my outfit. Another girl spun silently around a pole on a stage lit with red and green, a bored expression smudged across her face. I lingered around a bit, spoke to one of the guys. He asked where I was from, and I said half Malaysian and Pakistani, and then he told me he didn’t usually like Muslim girls but I was really fit. I didn’t bother to tell him that I wasn’t Muslim, nor did I stick around. I told Blonde Amy that it wasn’t for me and went home. I only went because I was on a hiatus from escorting since my boyfriend at the time didn’t like me doing it. He said this was okay. When I got home I watched him sleeping as I unmade myself. He was a good man, but I hated him in that moment. He had never had to think of his body as something to trade. I would leave him a year later.

PUPPY SLAVE, THE SUMMER OF 2020

The man wants to lay me down on terracotta tiles to see what is sleeping inside of me. Feels like dying. I have always been fascinated by Death. I love Death how I loved my high school girlfriend, sad and slow, always giving more than she gave me credit for. The man even got me a copy of Supervert’s Necrophilia Variations for my birthday. So I laid there on the tiles, still and holy, waiting for death to come. The man moved up and down, his fingers around my wrists. Your body is here but your mind floats somewhere else, in the ether, in the sky.

AURA READER, 2021-2024

This was the only job I had that I felt like I was good at. I loved sitting in my chair, in my own little room, interpreting colours and whatever else I felt for the person in front of me. I don’t know what I believe in – I believe in the Universe, and God in an abstract, energetic sense – but when I was at the crystal shop I believed in everything. Magical things happened to me all the time. I thought about the summer of 2020 all the time, but I could sort of forget it with rose quartz and golden healers, spreading cards out over the cash desk so my colleague could tell me what I needed. I loved working at the crystal shop because I could be in something bigger than me and my stupid problems. I loved everyone there. I loved the market outside. I lived 15 minutes from the shop and after work I would go home to my fiance, make dinner and go to bed. I was so bored in the most blissful way. I had never had a job I was happy at before. I don’t think I had ever actually been happy at all. But I was happy there. I was happy listen to all of the divine and cosmic reasoning for my failings.

WOMEN IN STEM / THE BIG BREAK UP, 2023

I learnt how to code and got a job at a company that gave free coding education to women. I was one of the women they taught to code. I thought I had made it. I lived in a two bedroom flat in Dulwich with my fiance. We had wine with dinner and discussed our days at work, things we wanted. We never had sex. I don’t even know if I wanted to. It wasn’t her, it was me – it was what happened in summer 2020, how I couldn’t let it go. It was making me sick. I spent days building dashboards and nights thinking of all the ways I could blow up my relationship. I wanted to feel something other than the boredom. I did things that were horrible, and I never told my fiance about any of them. In May 2023 the boredom between us grew into a body that slammed our front door shut and moved all of my things back to my parents house, ending three years together. I then spent my days building dashboards and my nights fucking everyone I could. I fucked women who looked like her, women who looked nothing like her, women she would have hated, women she would have liked, women I hated, women I fell in love with, only for a night. I let one woman whip me with her riding crop just because I wanted to know if I could but it soured my mood and I was unable to pull myself out of that lime fog. I wrote a book and got signed to an agency, just like I said I would. I moved into a new house. I got a payrise. Something started happening to my skin. What is happening to my skin? My skin hurts. My skin is falling off, flaking, and it’s spreading. My skin is red. I look it up online, my symptoms. Topical steroid withdrawal. Maybe MCAS. It’s the stress, a doctor tells me, it’s all the stress. Did someone touch you around the age of 22? (I hate you *****.) The trauma damaged your immune system. My skin is sore and weeping. I stick to my sheets. It gets so bad that I move back in with my parents. My skin is bleeding and ripping, all over. I can’t do my job anymore. I leave the coding company. My skin, my skin –

SICK GIRL, JUNE 2024 - JANUARY 2025

– is blistering. I stay inside from summer to winter, waiting for medication. During this time, I watch three seasons of Love Island back to back. I am so itchy that some nights I don’t fall asleep until 7am. I take a plethora of sleeping meds and am mostly unconscious for all of September, October too. I wonder if my ex has cursed me, if someone or something has cursed me. I drive myself crazy wondering why this happened to me. The nurse at the hospital tells me to read Neville Goddard, and I actually do. I stare into the mirror every day and tell myself that I am already better. This is just a dream. I beg God to give me my body back, tell him that he can trust me with it, I’ll be good to her this time, I promise. I avoid mirrors for a while, and then I can’t stop looking in them. My skin hurts. I am bandaged all up my arms and my neck, plasters on my cheeks. I will get medication in 1 weeks time, and I don’t know it yet but within a month I will go back into the world, more determined to taste all of it than ever. I look in the mirror and touch the broken skin over my face. I can’t remember myself before this. I don’t look like me anymore. It’s sad, but I don’t know what I am when I can’t be beautiful.

BOOTH BITCH, 2025

My medication clears me within four weeks. The first time I am able to go to a restaurant again I look around at all of the people in awe. I hadn’t been anywhere but my house and the hospital in seven months. It was so loud. I wanted to hear everything and see everything, touch everything. I wasn’t thinking about my skin, or what happened to me in 2020 – five years since you ruined my body, *****, can you believe it? I get two girlfriends who are married to each other. I had never thought about polyamory before this, but it seemed to fit, so I did it. I loved both of my girlfriends. Now that I’m out of it, maybe I can admit I did feel closer to one than the other. One of my girlfriends is a DJ, so I spend the summer flying everywhere, going on boats, dancing backstage at festivals, slinking through the clubs with both their hands in mine, falling asleep on their sofa at their house. I find a mug that must have been a gift at their wedding and don’t feel any sort of jealousy. I wonder if something is wrong with me. I’d never really been in clubs before this. I’d never really done anything this fun before. My life had thus far been spent being a a stay at home girlfriend or working for men I hated. My life had been about survival. It was nice to just have fun and be young and stupid for a while. But my girlfriends had their own problems. They fought with each other, with me and about me. We fought about the reality of them having children. They were much older than me. One was ten years older, the other around seven. My DJ girlfriend said that she would find a way to marry me, that she would move me in. She slipped one of her rings on my finger and smiled in a way that made me think it would work out. But the babies had to come first. I crashed through the breakup, dating someone else way too soon after, dating people I knew I shouldn’t, being reckless, feeling nothing, watching myself from above my body, lie and lie and lie. I ended up going to SLAA and therapy to recover from my time as booth bitch, to recover and reset from all the horrible things I had done. I imagined my ex-girlfriend’s as mothers and found myself feeling happy for them, even if they hate me now. And the year ended silently, sweetly, and now –

2026

I am going somewhere though I don’t know where that is. I fell in love again and went back into the world. I don’t know what job I can do next, what job I would do. I need to move out. I want to move out. I need some more money and a brand new body. Will you hire me?

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i come to you from my bed at 1:04am. i am full of ten oysters, some chicken, popcorn and my throat hurts. i really need to stop vaping. i haven’t smoked a cigarette since december 28th 2025. my girlfriend recently went to montpellier and brought some french vogues back with her. this morning when she was wrapping her towel around her to make her way to the shower, i brought the packet close to my nose and inhaled. smells like being 15. smells like nights out and november time. later on we spoke about how when we live together we could smoke on the balcony in the summer. i was charging my vape with her portable charger, eating baklava in a cafe in dalston with my hand on her knee. at this point i don’t know if just smoking once in a while would be better than constantly sucking on my vape like a nicotine addicted toddler. i kind of give myself the ick when i vape. it was fun at one point but now i’m doing it all the time. reminds me of that song milk by the 1975, you know where he goes yeah she’s doing it all the time. i listened to that song 183 times in a single day last year, according to my spotify wrapped. anyway, this is more of a thought dump / life update. life update number one: i’m going to move in with my girlfriend, just as soon as we both get out shit together with jobs. she was made redundant a couple of weeks ago, and last tuesday i got fired from the gallery.

i’ve been having a weird time/week. last night my mother texted me “stop fucking up” because i took the car to pick up my girlfriend from the airport yesterday and ended up scratching it. she cried to my brother about it. i currently live at home with my mum and my stepdad and my little brother - i moved back in in 2024 after getting sick with tsw and admitting that i needed help. before that, i lived in house shares and twice with a partner, from 18-26. it was weird to move back home. then i got comfy, but comfort comes with an asterisk. i often feel anxious and like i am wasting my life. i want to be independant again more than anything. i am scared that my body won’t be able to handle full time work again. i am scared of fucking up and having to come home again. my stepdad and mum told me i could stay for as long as i like, but now it has been almost two years and i don’t think any of us expected me to still be here at this point. i do not have a good relationship with my stepdad. he is an alcoholic and would often get drunk and verbally abuse me and my brother when we were younger. my mum is still with him. most likely for the sake of comfort. he earns a more than decent wage, and though she earns good money herself she has told me so many times how much she likes her house and her clothes and her jewellery. i guess she’s like me, just she is in a comfy but not comfy marriage, and i am in a comfy but not comfy house: we both are too frozen with fear to go back into the world alone.

the upside to living at home is that i get to live in london and i don’t pay any rent. the

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My first ‘big’ escorting job was a three day weekend holiday to Geneva in 2017 with a man I will call Al because I can’t remember his name or even a thread of what it might have been. I was paid £6000 for the trip. Al was in his mid sixties, extremely overweight, American, always had his phone in his hand, and liked barely legal girls. I was coming up to 19 fast, and he wanted to a chance to book me before my birthday. I know this because my boss/pimp/whatever you want to call him told me that he had informed his clients that my birthday was coming up and this month was the last chance they would have to fuck me whilst I was still 18. I made more money in May 2017 than I ever have in my entire life.

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I arrived at Heathrow airport hungover from the previous evening. I am almost certain that I had been out clubbing with someone I was dating at the time and had only gotten home at around 5am – my flight sometime in the mid morning. Adam, my boss, had told me that another girl would be coming on the trip with me. I can’t remember her real name, but I have never forgotten her face, or her kindness. She was kind by way of being blunt with me, which I didn’t really appreciate until years later when I had already learnt the lessons she had tried to instill in me back then. Anna was peroxide blonde and was born in Russia, but had spent the last few years living in London. She had signed with the escort agency a few weeks after arriving. She was thirty, she said, and at the time I thought that was an age where you would just know things, but now as thirty looms over me I know that she was probably just as lost as I was. Maybe not – she seemed so glamourous. I saw her waiting for me outside Yo Sushi, her hair perfectly straightened, a hot pink Juicy Couture tracksuit to keep her comfy on the flight. She had long, french acrylics and a frozen face that I thought made her look like a Barbie. When I waved to her, she ushered me over and gave me a hug. She grabbed my hand when she pulled away and turned it over. “Your nails not nice,” she said. “Let me fix it.” She was right – my nails looked gross. They have always been very short on account of the fact that I like to fuck women, but men hated it, especially clients. Adam told me off about it all the time. “You’re so pretty until you look at your hands,” he would say to me. Anna took me to a boots and bought three sets of press on nails. “Do them on the flight” she instructed me. My hangover was mixing with my comedown in a way that was sort of bending reality. I felt sad because of all the coke and dehydrated and bloated from all the wine. I told Anna that I wanted something to drink, so we sat in a bar drinking warm white wine until they called our gate. I’m not here, I’m not here, I kept thinking. I’m still in bed. I’m still a child, somehow.

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I met him at his house in West London. It was a large building with three or four floors and a lift inside. I texted Adam to let him know I had arrived at the job, then rang the bell. A doorman let me in and pointed me towards the lift. I remember looking at myself in the mirror in the lift and squeezing my hands together. I can’t remember what I was wearing, but I do know I was wearing a pair of black Dr Marten boots and I still had bits of bleach in my hair from a modelling job I’d done a few days before. I was drunk, I think – something or other was making me dizzy as the lift pushed me upwards. I was sad, too. My ex girlfriend who I was still hopelessly in love with had just hard launched her new girlfriend, who was a girl she had been hanging around with towards the end of our relationship. It is hard articulate just how much I loved her, but if you had asked me then if I would die for anyone I would have said her name. She didn’t know what I was doing and I hoped she would never find out. I hoped that no one would ever find out. Since this was the first time I had done anything, I was naive enough to believe it could stay a secret forever. I don’t speak to my entire extended family anymore, for lots of reasons (a story on estrangement for another time) but them finding out I had being doing sex work was threaded into the final push of exile.

When the door to the lift opened, I took in the flat. In my memory, everything is golden. The lights were bright and orange everywhere, lots of mirrors, gold trim on everything. There were lots of family photos around, perched on various surfaces. I heard someone call Rosie, the name I had chosen for myself, (it was the name of the girl I had a crush on at the time, which is a little unhinged but I wasn’t exactly of sound mind at 18) and so I walked through two or three rooms until I wound up in a living room. On the sofa was a very frail old man. He told me to call him Mr. M. He looked a bit like my grandad, or at least what I remembered of my grandad. I hadn’t seen him since I was 5. Ten years after meeting Mr. M, I would go to view my grandad’s body at a house I hadn’t been to since I was a child, and my experience with Mr. M would cross my mind. Mr. M stood to shake my hand and I towered over him. I am 5”10. He couldn’t have been taller than 5”2.

We sat down and he poured me a glass of champagne. He looked me up and down as I sipped and fiddled with my skirt. I didn’t know how to be just yet – both as a person and in this new job I had found myself in. I can’t really remember much of our conversation, only fragments: I remember him telling me how beautiful I was. How he had never seen a girl who looked like me before. He told me he would do whatever he could for me if I was good to him. He said he would give me whatever I wanted. How much do you want? He asked. Per month, for you. Quick. I smiled and thought fuck it. I said I want ten thousand pounds a month. Okay, he said. Done. Write your bank details here. He had a very dry voice. Like he had a chest infection. My heart beat quickly as I wrote down my account number. I had said ten thousand as a joke. I pulled the number from no where. Maybe he was joking, too. I didn’t know people could even have that much money.

After that, I remember he showed me a photo album of his family. I looked at photos of him and a blonde woman, who was younger than him but much older than me. My wife, he said. She doesn’t know you’re here. He showed me a photo of his daughter. Teenager, like you, he laughed. He put his hand on my breast and squeezed it as I flicked through the photo album. I remember being a little annoyed. I’m a nosy person. I was really enjoying looking through the photos. I remember thinking it was weird how much I looked like his daughter – but I guess we had similar mixes, and we were similar ages. I am Indian-Malaysian, Pakistani, and white, and his daughter would have been a mix of Indian and white. He asked me to go to his bedroom, so I put the album down and walked down long and dim hallways until I found it.

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He asked me to remove his clothes for him and then laid down flat on the bed, where the excess skin of his body fell slack like a hairy puddle around him. I had never seen someone so frail. I didn’t know if old people were just like that or perhaps he had lost a lot of weight rapidly, which gave him that sort of melted effect. He couldn’t stop coughing.

He asked me to go down on him and I remember catching my own eye in the mirror above the bed and thinking I am actually going to have to do this. Mr. M had paid Adam £1000 for 1 hour of my time. I would get £750 of this. It was more money than I had ever had in my life. At the time, I did not have a great home situation, which I won’t go into too much but I will say this: I did not want to have to go home. So I did what he asked. Luckily it didn’t last very long before he told me to stop. He said he wanted me to leave the room and do it again, but this time to pretend to be his daughter. Again I caught my own reflection in the mirror and winced internally. I though of being his sugar baby for just a month and how that would mean I would have a good cushion for a while – I wouldn’t have to do this for long, surely. So again, I did what he asked. When it was done, he asked me to sit on top of him. You’re so beautiful, beautiful child, he said to me. I felt sick. I put my hand over his face and went shhh. He laughed. Don’t make me excited again, I am prone to a heart attack. I laughed with him. No really, he said, sternly. I could have a heart attack. Please don’t make me excited. I said sorry and sat next to him with my knees to my chest. The hour was almost up. Mr. M told me to take home two bottles of champagne and then he gave me an extra thousand as a tip. He pulled on a robe and walked me back to the lift. Goodbye my sweet girl, he said. He gave me a kiss on the hand and waved me off.

The next day, ten thousand pounds was deposited into my bank account. I remember jumping around my room and dancing to some old 1975 song, laughing. I could pay rent for months with it. Or go on holiday. Or cruise eBay for hours. All of the money was gone within a few months. If I was anything as a teenager, I was a hedonist (I still am now.) I scorched through my money, spending it on oysters and clothes, drugs and champagne, on girls I fell in love with. All these years later, all I have to show for my years making more money than I knew what to do with is a lambskin Prada coat that doesn’t fit my adult body.

Mr. M wasn’t outwardly violent to me but he did make me feel deeply sad and uncomfortable – I thought about his daughter a lot, and what he possibly could have done to her. I only met him once more, and that time he also wanted me to pretend I was his daughter, this time by way of using her name and wearing a dress he had taken from her wardrobe. The actual “work” only ever last five or ten minutes. He was genuinely scared I would give him a heart attack, so he would stop to close his eyes and calm down so he wouldn’t excite himself too much, as he put it. When that session was over, I spoke to him more about his life. He said he had met his wife when he was thirty and she was fifteen – that he had married her just two months after they met and had been together ever since. I have always loved young girls, he explained. He told me how his business had only really taken off in his forties. He offered me some advice that I didn’t take; he told me to save everything he gave me and to come and live in this house so he could see me whenever he wanted. “I would miss my Mum,” I remember saying. He said something about only needing a daddy.

I only knew Mr. M for a grand total of three weeks. He would send me messages of lots of thumbs up and hearts, or just my name over and over. Rosie (heart eye emoji) Rosie (thumbs up emoji) Rosie (a row of rose emojis.) I would text him photos of things I’d bought with his money. He seemed to enjoy this. He sent me links of things he wanted me to wear the next time I saw him, but that time would never come. I only saw him twice, and in that time I made around twelve thousand pounds from him.

When a new month rolled around I expected a second lump of money to hit my account, but it didn’t. He stopped texting me. And I didn’t think about it too much – I was sad that I had lost my income, but the lump sum he’d given me was good enough. I would have strange flashbacks of his voice, him straining out his daughter’s name during our sessions, and when this happened I would feel like I couldn’t breathe, like there was a weight on my chest. I all but forgot about him, but after a few months, I got curious – I decided to bring it up to Adam. We were at a bar sitting in a corner booth together. Every month, Adam asked all the girls at the agency to meet him there so he could collect his 25% from everyone. I actually liked some of the other girls, although I only ever saw them at the bar once a month, so whatever friendship we had was limited to a twenty minute catch up every four weeks. As Adam counted my money, I asked - what happened to Mr. M?

He died ages ago, he said. When I asked how, he said: old age, probably.

I didn’t really know how to feel. I didn’t feel sad. It was more like, oh, that happened. I thought more about his daughter than I ever did about him after I learnt he had died. I tried to find her online, but all I found was an old Instagram account that hadn’t been updated in years, and has since been deleted – Mr. M and his daughter sitting on a park bench together, his ring encrusted hand planted firmly on her knee.

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i heard that girls don’t feel like this, girls are not depraved like this, but i am, i am, i am depraved or i must be, i can’t be right, because my desire seems to be bent in some way, seems to slalom around the things it should chase and greedily swallow the things it shouldn’t, my desire is ugly and unfathomable, it barks in the night, it makes me think of all sort of things and all sorts of girls, in all sorts of ways, all of them over the years it

makes me think about Jade and her body of razors, sharp and angular, think about tying her up and placing my fist deep inside of her, only so i can see that screwed up expression, her eyes rolling back, only so i can tell her she’s so good, that she’s my good girl, mine, mine, and those braids of rope indentations around her wrists, how i kept an album on my phone for the marks i left on her, how she thanked me for them, how i kissed every single one and told her how beautiful she was when she lost herself in it, in all that pain, and my desire, my desire

it makes me think of how i feel when i am all dressed up, rope and latex encasing my skin, evil rubber doll, evil daddy, femme vampire, how when i see my teeth marks on a woman i like i feel myself blushing and like an animal i just want more of her, i want to tear into her and hear how she sounds when i am inside of her, and i want to live inside of that feeling for as long as i can, all of my desire, brutal and backwards it

it makes me think of Sim when i was 16, the way i took her for dinner for our one month anniversary, teenage love, simple and everlasting, the way i pushed her against the wall of a bathroom stall and covered her mouth and nose with one hand and put the other under her skirt, told her to be quiet for me, be quiet for me and she was so good, i, i think about her sometimes – a long time ago, i dreamt she married a boy, and when her new husband was making the rounds with their guests i took her to another bathroom just like the one back then, made her unravel on my fingers and

i think of Grace, brave girl, who loved bruises just as much as i do, who called me daddy, how i would turn her ass and her thighs purple with a paddle or a hairbrush or sometimes just my hand, my palm stinging where it made contact with her flesh and i loved it, i love how she loved it just like me, the perversion, the intimacy of depravity, a deeper sort of grief when a relationship like that ends, when you are a sadist and you find a true masochist who really sees you, sees all of your desire, ugly as you have been told it is, sees how romantic it can be, who says yes i want those things too, no you are not wrong, you are just right for me – my desire is strange but Grace did not care, and she was so good to me, taking photos of every shade her bruises flushed, pink and red and blue and purple and green and finally a dandelion yellow, all of them all over her skin, and i scratched my name into her chest with a needle and she wore me like that for days after, i scratched ‘god’s favourite girl’ into her stomach and she proudly flashed it to me whenever i saw her, i kissed where i had marked her and she always said thank you, thank you, thank you and

once she called me a pervert with a smile smacked across her face, cheeks crimson, every part of her red and hot and wet from what i had just done to her. i sat with it for a little bit, the way it made me feel, that word - pervert - and i thought yes i am, i am a pervert and i cannot be any other way. i am a femme and a lesbian and a sadist, and i know my desire is like a dog, always has been – jaws dripping, forever hunting the next beautiful thing it can sink its teeth into

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I met the guy at a hotel. Outside I texted my boss, let’s call him Adam (boss doesn’t seem like the right word but neither does pimp – he was the man who ran the agency I was signed to) to let him know I had arrived. I had to let Adam know as soon as I got there and as soon as I left, or if the client wanted an extra hour. Sometimes I would tell Adam I had left and then told the guy to just pay me directly for the extra hour – Adam took 25% of everything I made, and sometimes it was worth it, especially if the guy just wanted to talk and drink. The client who wanted to use me as a human toilet was French, and he was also a c*nt to me, so in my head forever after, I referred to him as French c*nt. I have never told anyone this story.

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After texting Adam I remember sitting in the lobby of the hotel and waiting with my hands folded in my lap.

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I have redacted/changed names for anonymity. The only name that hasn’t changed is Suki. He was my cat.

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Friday, 24th February 2023

So much to say all of a sudden. I can hardly read my writing sometimes. Still listening to Alex G and dreaming of writing a book.

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donate to an evil femme

It’s 1:22am and I have work in the morning. I should sleep, but I can’t. I’m thinking too much. I’m thinking too much because this afternoon I read an article which made me irate with anger. And I tried, I tried so hard not to care and to unplug and go about my life, but this is when I became even angrier, because the content of the article does impact my real life. The article can’t exist in a vacuum. It can’t be contained to the Internet. The rhetoric within it spreads into the real world, into the interactions I have every day. I can’t decide to ignore it, or switch off the fact that I care, because the content of the article is many things but above all it is lesbophobic, it is homophobic, and I can’t choose not to be a lesbian. I just am.

You are queer but you are not a lesbian, and the distinction does matter. It matters because I can’t be changed, I can’t switch it off, and you can. There are real and serious consequences to realising you are a lesbian. My “choice” was either living an empty and numb life, lying to myself about having any attraction to men, or living truthfully and taking said consequences as a result. There are people in the world who want me dead because I am a lesbian. There are people who think I am an abomination and depraved, people who see my relationships as nothing more than a porn category, men who are convinced I must secretly desire them, because I must be doing this purely because I had a “bad experience” with a man, women who can’t believe that there really is no man, fictional or otherwise, that I am attracted to. You use the word lesbian like it’s something you do, but it is something you are, and you are erasing that, you are erasing our history by implying that you can choose this. You frame it as feminist, but feminism has nothing to do with it. The two are not synonymous. I could be a bad feminist and a lesbian, because my lesbianism would be separate from my feminism. It has nothing to do with men, either. It is not because of them, and equally it is not in spite of them. My lesbianism is about my inherent and natural attraction to women – exclusively women – and nothing more. That’s all it ever can be.

I have to be a lesbian whether I am having a bad day or a good day, whether men are kind or abusive to me, whether they even believe me or not. I have to be a lesbian when they are debating my right to marriage, when I cried after my cousin told me I couldn’t be a godparent to her son because of what I am. I have to be a lesbian whether the government is labour or tory, whether the president is red or blue, whether people think I am disgusting, whether men want to kill me or masturbate to me, whether I live in a utopia or a dystopia, whether it’s cringe or cool or politically convenient or not. When I am hated, when I hate myself, when I love myself, when I laugh, when I dream, when I fuck, when I get my heart broken; and today, in this cultural moment, I have to be a lesbian when a woman who is not a lesbian writes a fuckass essay about my own community, about how she is a lesbian but not, like, fully, because she really does love men, she does, really, but she’s committed, she’s committed to the bit, because that’s all it is, it’s a bit and it’s sooooo hard, it’s like quitting Amazon but she has a rose toy and female friendships and she’ll stay strong, she’ll really show the men who’s on top with this one. And when hundreds of actual lesbians like me tell her hey that hurts, that actually makes things a lot worse for me out there in the real world, she will say ah well, that’s your problem, and most importantly that her “choice” actually makes her more queer than me, somehow.

I’ll be a lesbian tomorrow, and the day after that, and the year after that, forever. Maybe I can’t blame her for wanting to be one of us. I love being a lesbian, despite everything that comes with it. After all, I have only ever felt alive when another woman’s heart is beating under mine. I’m sorry it’s not the same for you. Perhaps you wish you could feel what I feel, too.