Free Fishnet by Kirstin Innes

late-teens-grew-up-on-Facebook young. Holly also pours out her soul, though. Where the others blog about irritations with clients who don’t read their websites properly before calling, or use their sites to draw attention to political rallies, pulling for sex workers’ rights, she writes about her hatred for her mother; her college courses, her compulsions.
    If there’s one thing I just can not stand it’s bad hygiene. I am OCD and proud of it! If you want to play with me, gentlemen, I’m always always going to insist that you shower first.
    Her father. She writes about her father, sits it all up there alongside the pictures of her, modelling dresses and lingerie, spreading herself wide for the camera. With just two clicks I could book an appointment with her, this fragile bird-thing who I know far too much about.
    Its Fathers day so I wanted to write something about my favourite man in the world, my Daddy!!! Its no secret that me and my mum don’t get on coz she’s an abusive bitch who ruined my childhood with her selfish behaviour. My dad couldn’t stand to live with her, she drove him away just like she drove me away by the time I was sixteen. I went to look for him and we had the most amazing reunion ever, it was like getting a second chance to be a little girl. After years of a jealous woman on a campaign to brake down my confidence, it was amazing to have someone tell me that I was actually beautiful and that I was his princess.
    I imagine the men who come to her, having read this, spent time inside her bruised head, and I hope it’s a ploy, that she’s cleverer than this. Her face is not quite pretty – she missed being pretty by a hair’s width, a blink; everything individually is, but not together. She’s trying to look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s : the eyeliner, the plastic tiara and underfed bones. The other one who goes without pixels is young and posh and beautiful, a student, through in Edinburgh. She calls herself Felicity and for all I know it’s probably her real name. Edinburgh’s not her home town. Why should she care what they think of her up here?
    All this I know, because it’s right there in front of me. Click, click. Felicity charges three times as much as Holly, and is less upfront about the services she provides, although both make it clear that anal sex is not a problem. I look at their skinny bums, Felicity’s beribboned, in satin, Holly’s naked, her hands pulling the cheeks apart, blue-polished fingernails digging into scrappy flesh.
    I am not even ten years older than either of them, but their display, their lack of shame, their sex makes me feel like I’m from another time. You see, Rona? People like to be visible these days. Completely visible. Everything on display for the whole world to see. You’re doing it all wrong.
    I worry about Holly. I worry about her like I worry about the eighteen-year-old girl who lives near me and advertises on the site, doesn’t blog, only hosts two grainy pictures, one of her breasts, one of her shaved crotch, both taken on a mobile phone, and says she does ‘bareback’. No condoms. I want to write to her and warn her.
    I forget that they don’t know me, no matter how much I can read up about them. I wonder if their clients, prospective clients, faceless men at computers, feel the same.
    They are exciting, these lives, though. They are. That they can list, on a site, the things they will do, and men will pay to do those things with them. I find it exciting in spite of myself. In spite of the bits of me that are repulsed.
    There are no new field reports on any of my girls. I go back to the search page.
    Search by Lady’s name:
    Search by Location:
    Search by Services [tick]
    Outcalls Incalls Fetish/Specialist
    This computer is wise to me too, fills in the o and the n and the a after I type the R, and although I’ve broadened it out to