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Fear and Loathing of Social Media ...

I have a passionate love/hate relationship with social media, I like the interconnections and sharing of knowledge and being part of a community, I enjoy sharing photographic knowledge and connecting with sex workers, academics and those who are passionate about photography but I loath the surveillant nature and the expectations that exist about free entertainment and access to free content. I am stuck in this Generation X hell of a pre and the existence of the post-internet world where I remember what it was like pre-internet and I am hankering for a nostalgic world of not being connected. I know better though than to believe the world was a better place without the internet. I thoroughly enjoy interviewing 20-year-old research subjects who know no other world than a web-based one. Who for them there is no offline and online self, it's all the same self. I have endless arguments in my head about what is it that I am doing on social media, I find the gaze of men unsettling and I have given twitter and Instagram the arse on more than one occasion. It's the first thing I ditch when I'm pissed off at the world. I have had more than one man tell me my twitter feed is not as entertaining as it was three years ago when I was tweeting about the practice of sex work, or men lamenting that I don't post erotic content or I talk about photography too much or men telling me they'd never want to meet me or I am too outspoken, too sarcastic, too something that does not fit the norm of how a woman is supposed to act online.

So, I locked my account before I jumped ship to Paris and did some webs soul searching. I don't want to give up my social media accounts, but nor can I use it the way I have been, so I have decided to turn my feeds into a nirvana of photography knowledge, after all, it's not like I do not know what I am talking about, I hold a Masters Degree in Photography and I am a second-year PhD student in photography. So, from today, this morning actually at about 7.30am my twitter feed is now solely about la vie photographique and everything photography related. Just making the decision makes me feel so much better, I feel like I am reclaiming my little bit on the webs. I also need to fund my photographic research, so I kindly ask that anyone wishing to access my social media accounts then please donate £25, you can use the button below and I'll add you to my social media network.

I look forward to flooding the interwebs with photography knowledge. I understand that this may not suit everyone's idea of the way we are meant to use social media but regrettably, I need to fund my research and I cannot do that unless I monetise my time online.

Social Media Access

We travel in the same universe; we exist on different planes that intersect through her husbands' nakedness.

A regular client for me is someone who has been seeing me for years; there are too many to name, too many to remember in one sitting, there indeed are a select few who have been seeing two or three times a month, every month for years. Men who have transcended the status of client and landed firmly between my legs like a lover. Men who still pay because money keeps sex civilised, bounded. Respectable. Men who occasionally forget to pay and pay me next time because a blissful just fucked state makes me absent-minded. Some men who no longer pay but gift me thousands of pounds here and there.   Men, I imagine illicit affairs with. Men whose cum I want dripping out of me.  Men who know everything about me, and I know everything about them, names, lives, travel schedules, where they got their last tan from. Men who set up appointments through their work e-mails and e-mail me when I'm away asking when I am back. 

Men who have watched me have a crymax post fucking as I settle and crumble under the pressure of being a whore and an academic. Men who know how to fuck, the men I authentically fuck. The real wetness and orgasms, the boundary exploring, the intimate connection that hobbyists try to haggle for but never get. The sore knees and displaced hips.  The Battersea set I call them.  Educated, smart, intelligent, tall, trustworthy men. Well travelled, accomplished,  come complete with a family and a Battersea mortgage. Handsome. So fucking attractive, really bloody handsome with majestic cocks and astonishing abilities to fuck and drip sweat onto me.

Our lives are intertwined, whether we like it or not. Sexually and on social media, so it came as no surprises that one of my weekly husband's wife popped up and followed me on Instagram.  I'm not worried, these things happen, and with the interconnectivity between our offline and online selves I am genuinely not surprised at all. Why would I be? I've been looking at her timeline, admiring her constructed visual marriage. We frequent the same places. Dine at the same eateries, fuck the same man, the children all swim at the same Clapham Common paddling pool which is opposite my apartment, where her husband comes to fuck me.  Not sure it's jealousy, ambition to be the next Mrs or an inquisitive nature that makes me keep looking at her photos.  We travel in the same universe; we exist on different planes that intersect through her husbands' nakedness.

What is interesting though, are the dates on the photos.  Two weeks ago a certain Battersea set gent asked if I'd mind flying to Sicily for a quick 24 hours of sun, fucking and passport control. Paid, of course, I did not doubt the genuine nature of his offer, and I liked the idea very much of taking off at Gatwick and having him wait for me.  I suitably declined and rationalised it by prioritising PhD deadlines over a penis. The end of it, so I thought. No. He came to me, and I thought nothing of it. He left his holiday, flew back to London, fucked me for five hours and then flew back to Sicily.  I know he did this, not because he told me he did, but because a photograph posted to her timeline that came with a  comment that they were having a lovely time sans so & so who had to dash back to London for work. 

Through her Instagram feed, I see him in his natural state. Adoring father, middle-class traveller, comfortable lifestyle, attentive husband. Quirky dresser.  I know better though, know better to believe the visual lies and narratives we tell ourselves through Mediterranean filters, a tilt-shift blur and the hashtag of #happilymarried

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