Fuck Girl: A Psycho-Sexual Inquiry into Why I Objectify Women

WORDS by CORAL OSBORNE

Coral Osborne is a Certified Sexologist, Sex & Intimacy Coach, and former sex worker. After being doxxed, she discovered her calling in the field of sexology, creating a holistic framework to guide individuals toward sexual sovereignty. She holds a core conviction that our relationship to sex mirrors how we engage with life itself—and that healing the internalized and projected Madonna-Whore split is key to reclaiming wholeness and vitality.

Coral writes a regular column on Substack, where she dissects her own erotic experiences through a sexological lens. She is also at work on her first book, The Whore’s Gospel: Case Studies in Sex, Power, and Truth, a bold exploration of sexuality as a path to freedom.

There were four of us tangled in the sheets. In the spirit of hooker anonymity and guarding the sacred wallet identity, let’s just call them Kendra, Elle, and “the whale.” For the civilians: a whale client in sex work is the big spender, the loyal patron whose bookings dwarf the average. But this isn’t his story.

I’d met them both a month earlier, on a Palm Beach trip with our client. Kendra was hard to miss: platinum-blonde extensions hanging limp, blue eyes that gave her the look of an Aryan Taylor Hayes (look her up, Gen Z and prudes). A Celtic tramp stamp peeked from under skin still glowing an artificial orange. She was a few inches shorter than me—5’3, maybe—but her body was exaggerated into cartoonish proportions. Breasts like boulders bolted to her chest. A BBL that her baby-pink crop top and Dolls Kill plaid skirt flaunted without mercy. Glitter residue still clung to her midriff, catching the light around the Playboy bunny barbell through her navel.

She carried herself with the docility of a girl cast for the role, not writing the script—timid, a little vacant, all air and eyelashes. She wore Angel by Thierry Mugler, the olfactory equivalent of rhinestone thongs and gas-station roses.

As per usual, I was reciting one of my infamous monologues on sex work as an economic indictator. She chimed in with a voice straight out of Anna Nicole Smith—breathy and bubbleheaded, like Marilyn Monroe left too long in the sun. If I had to guess, I don’t think she’d ever heard the term ‘capitalism’ before let alone comprehend what I was talking about. She giggled on cue, hanging on every line as if I were delivering gospel. A porn girl from the Midwest, fresh out of a Catholic household, no older than twenty-two. The cliché was so on-the-nose it could’ve been written by central casting.

I asked her how work was. “Which one?” she replied. Not in witty retort, but in literal reference to whether I was asking about porn or escorting. “Choose one” I replied. Ever so matter of factly she shared how she had just had a threesome with a father and his 22 year old son who worked for the family private equity fund. I gasped as blood rushed south.

That’s the thing with porn girls who escort—they’re far more fluent in the taboo, more willing to entertain the Requiem for a Dream scenarios the rest of us GFE providers wouldn’t touch (clutching my pearls). Bareback and fluid bonding—yes, that means cum inside—weren’t unusual if the money was right and the paperwork was in order. 

She recounted the father–son escapade the way a six-year-old reports back from her first day of kindergarten—wide-eyed, excitable, peppered with innocuous details. There was nothing performative about it; she wasn’t trying to shock. She simply was. An airheaded, slutty golden retriever. And I fucking loved it. I could tell I made her nervous—especially once the words dried up. That silence was exactly what I wanted. She was primed.

What she didn’t know was that a ravenous, primal lust had already taken me. Her skirt had inched itself just high enough to betray a pair of rhinestone-studded Victoria’s Secret PINK panties. Of course. Called it.

As if the other two weren’t even in the room, I pressed my fingers against the fabric, dampness blooming beneath. She bit her lip and squealed, half-innocent, half-performing instinct. I drew slow, deliberate circles around—but never directly on—her clit, teasing the mounting wetness.

We began to kiss. Soft at first, sensual, but edged with hunger. And for the record: I’ve yet to meet a woman who’s a straight up bad kisser—a small but telling data point in the sexological canon.

Then, like a switch flipping, she pressed into me—her pussy practically begging my fingers to disappear inside. Bras came off in unison. Her manufactured breasts barely allowed a finger’s gap, gleaming with shimmery oil. Nipples pink, over-eager, practically advertising.

I climbed over her, tongue and lips tracing, sucking, devouring. But I needed more. I slithered upward until my pussy slid across her left breast, grinding in deliberate circles. By then, I couldn’t tell you what she was doing; I wasn’t noticing. I was in my carnal taker. I could’ve come in seconds, but the buildup had already eclipsed the intensity of my usual climax.

Heavy breath. Sticky skin. Direct clit-to-nipple friction. My first.

And yes—you caught me. I only knew it existed from porn. “Dove fucking,” as they call it. I’d been on a compilation kick. Research, of course.

Before I knew it, we were scissoring—tribbing, if we’re using industry jargon—with me on top. There’s something so uninhibited about it, almost juvenile in its primal rush. Like humping your first pillow, playing doctor with your cousin, or the American Pie apple pie moment. It’s taboo, it’s discovery, it’s pure sensation.

I came the hardest I’d ever come. And then I came again. And again. Entirely consumed by my own pleasure. 

Moments later, the whale had his way with her. I slipped off to the bathroom—my patented stage-one exit. I was exhilarated, and I wanted to hold on to that feeling without the ruinous optics of my Boris Johnson doppelgänger of a client.

Shortly thereafter they emerged and said the client suggested we exchange numbers – as if he’d just orchestrated some grand romantic union instead of a four-way he bought by the hour. I obliged with an internal eye roll—he didn’t get it. I gave her a limp half-hug that had all the gravitas of a pat on the head, and sent her on her way.

Immediately afterward I thought: is this what it feels like to be a boy? To split sex from emotion so cleanly, and not only tolerate it, but revel in it? How basic and internally misogynistic of me.

—-

I’ve always been the first draft pick for girlfriends hoping to spice up their relationship with a third. Still am. And my answer has always been a resounding, no fucking way. To me it feels like incest—even with friends who’ve also done sex work. I give the same answer when solicited by a male friend: “I respect you too much to fuck you.” 

For me, it’s simple: I either have to believe I’m in love enough to risk detonating the friendship, or I need there to be no emotional ties whatsoever. No in-between.

But I digress. By all accounts, I’m a straight woman. Outside of a few performative threesomes under the influence of love or drugs, my encounters with women have been driven by pecuniary interests rather than passion, otherwise known as ‘gay for pay’. Which is why I kept asking myself: why did I just have the most intense, back-to-back orgasms with a girl who was, by all metrics, white trash?

Let’s break it down. 

Evolutionary Psychology 

As I recently learned from my new bestie Rollo Tomassi, humans evolved to run on dual gendered strategies:

Mating strategies are long-term. They’re about provisioning, protection, and parental investment. They light up the evaluative brain: Is this person reliable? Safe? Capable of sharing resources?  These strategies evolved because women in our ancestral past were vulnerable—pregnancy and child-rearing demanded stability and security.

Sexual strategies are short-term. They’re about immediacy—arousal, novelty, genetic upside. This is the circuitry behind “hot monkey sex in Cancún” versus the drawn-out courtship of “prove your commitment first.” Sexual strategies are primal, often in direct contradiction to what we’d consciously choose in a mate.

Here’s where it landed for me: I had the most primal, present, uninhibited orgasm of my life with a woman who was my opposite in every way—blond haired blue eyed, curvy, bimbo, performatively feminine. And that made perfect sense once I reframed it as sexual strategy, not mating strategy.

Because with men, our bodies run the mating calculus whether we like it or not, even if it’s humming in the background of a sexual strategy. Scanning for safety, long-term viability, the hidden costs of surrender. That vigilance blunts the edge of raw abandon. But with this chick? None of that noise. She wasn’t someone my nervous system slotted into the provisioning/partnering file. She was pure sex, zero stakes.

And that’s the evolutionary point: mating strategy demands discernment; sexual strategy demands immediacy. Mating is about the ultimate outcome—who can protect me and my offspring? Sexual is about the proximate outcome—who ignites my arousal in this exact moment?

I bypassed my default strategy by categorically shifting my gender preference so my nervous system understood this is temporary, this is safe, this is about pleasure only. Which is why that orgasm felt so intoxicating—because it was unmediated, stripped of agenda.

Men, on the other hand, have to work much harder to usher us into that state. They have to disarm the evaluative circuitry, peel back the layers of vigilance, and persuade both the psyche and body that it’s safe for us to fully surrender. That’s why true seduction feels Herculean—it’s not about the moves, it’s about dissolving the defenses.

Women, meanwhile, can just short-circuit the whole system by being…well, women. No evolutionary overhead, no subconscious mate calculus, just the embodied permission of skin on skin.

Erotic Transference 

Growing up as Laney Boggs pre-glowup meant living outside the economy of desirability. I wasn’t the girl boys openly longed for until I learned how to perform. And I certainly wasn’t the blonde, busty cheerleader archetype who raked in validation just by existing. That early exclusion stamps itself on the psyche as a double wound: shame (I’m not chosen) and envy (why is she rewarded for embodying a caricature of femininity?).

Kendra embodied that archetype in the flesh. Which meant that fucking her wasn’t just sex—it was subconscious revenge and reclamation rolled into one. Poetic justice, if you will. I was no longer the rejected outsider watching the desirable girl hoard attention; I was inside the frame, curating the scene, but with agency and conquest. Every orgasm felt like a psychic reversal: the wound not just healed but inverted.

And here’s where erotic transference comes in. Sex often becomes the stage where we unconsciously re-enact unresolved dynamics—childhood humiliations, old exclusions, archetypes that once wounded us. The cheerleader who once symbolized my invisibility was now the vessel through which my body wrote a different ending. That’s the alchemy of transference: desire gets braided with memory, lust with justice.

So when I came, I wasn’t just climaxing. I was collapsing a hierarchy. Fucking her became both erotic act and psychic coup. 

Psychoanalytic Theory

I fucked my shadow. That’s the simplest way to put it.

Closeted, I carried the internalized Madonna–Whore split like a second skin. Id, ego, superego—all locked in their cold war. What happened with her was a shadow integration moment: merging with what I’d split off and spent years disowning.

The nerd-to-desirable arc is really about reclaiming the exiled feminine. As the outsider, I’d built a whole persona around intellect and rebellion. The “manic pixie goth girl,” the dark-edged muse who scoffed at superficiality. Think Neve Campbell in Wild Things. Meanwhile, the ‘desirable girl’—the glossy teen-idol, Kelly Kapowski incarnate—was everything I rejected. Shallow, performative, powerful in her currency. I disavowed her, but in truth I envied her.

So the climax I experienced with Kendra was integration in its rawest form. I fused with what I once hated, envied, and excluded myself from. The ego dissolved, and in that dissolution, tension discharged as primal orgasm.

Erotically, there’s always a status layer pulsing underneath. As a teenager, she would’ve towered above me in erotic capital. But as an adult, I dominated—socially and sexually. The girl who once embodied exclusion was now beneath me, both literally and figuratively. 

Why do you think Elon Musk is such a procreative womanizer? It’s ‘revenge of the nerd’, dressed up as biology. Status, power, shadow—all converging in the erotic theater. Thing is, when you don’t have a comprehensive understanding of your shadow, it can easily take over under the guise of liberation or unbridled hedonism.

Fearful Avoidant Attachment 

Attachment theory adds yet another layer to this anomaly. With fearful-avoidant wiring—the cocktail of craving intimacy while fearing it—my nervous system usually runs on a push-pull loop. Approach, retreat. Longing, recoil. Desire, dread.

And this is precisely why sex with Kendra, my archetypal aesthetic counterpart, worked. She wasn’t someone I admired, identified with, or even wanted to grab cocktails with over girl gossip—and that made her a low barrier to entry (wink, wink). There was no risk she’d penetrate my inner world, no danger of tumbling into attachment territory. She was erotic without being threatening, desirable without demanding intimacy. For once, the contradiction that usually derails me dissolved: 

The approach impulse—desire, arousal, surrender—could run free. 

The retreat impulse—fear of engulfment, fear of being trapped—never had to activate.

The sex was pure sensation, unmediated by scrutiny. My orgasm wasn’t diluted by unconscious calculations about safety, stability, or what happens after. It was animal and undivided.

That’s the cruel mercy of fearful-avoidant wiring: sometimes the best sex doesn’t come from the person you think you want, but from the one who carries no emotional stakes. 

With her, there was zero fear of loss, and that’s precisely what made me feel limitless. When the nervous system isn’t bracing for abandonment or entanglement, it can finally drop into pure pleasure. The reason it was so good is because, frankly, I didn’t care to ever see her again. Indifference became its own kind of freedom.

The contradiction is that detachment can mimic the very conditions of safety we spend years trying to build in intimacy. By the way, studies show roughly 50% of men lean avoidant, compared to about 25% of women (Schmitt et al. 2003), which further explains men’s proclivity for casual sex.

Societal Conditioning 

Client aside, I—like most women—always wanted something from the men I slept with: a relationship, validation, proof that I was worth choosing. Sex with men rarely existed as just sex; it was almost always tethered to a hidden transaction.

And this is where societal conditioning worms its way in. Women are culturally trained to police one another, especially those who embody patriarchal ideals of femininity. We easily assign moral projections to our opposites. For example, Pamela Anderson was coded as a ‘dumb blond sex object’. We sneered while secretly clocking the power it afforded her in the erotic economy. That’s internalized misogyny at work—the compulsion to disavow the women who play into the Male Gaze, even as men reward them for it. And my, how wrong we were about Pamela.

But here’s the double bind: libido doesn’t obey politics. Desire doesn’t check in with your ideology before firing. The orgasm with her wasn’t only physical release; it was rebellion against the superego—the moralizing inner voice that insists you shouldn’t want this. The pleasure detonated precisely because it was transgressive. Because it broke my own conscious values.

This is the secret engine of eroticism: we often get off on what we’re told not to want. The forbidden, the disdained, the caricature we swore we’d never envy. 

Epoligue 

We all have a sexual landscape—though most of us fixate on one narrow path and go Hellen Keller to what else is available because no one tells us otherwise. This goes both ways: the type-A woman who swears she can’t cum unless her inbox is at zero and believes fellatio symbolizes capitulation, and the hedonistic fuckboy who’s convinced that slow sex and eye contact are “gay” and can’t get there without jackhammering in doggy. But the truth is, there are many ways to skin a cat.

Sex researcher Charles Mosher identified three dimensions of sex Partner Engagement, Trance, Role Play.

Partner engagement is the sex most often portrayed in media, often in the form of heated romance and unfettered passion. Partner engagement is when your sexual arousal and engrossment is increased through connection with your partner. This is often expressed through sustained eye contact, kissing and expressing words of love and desire. There’s a strong relational component at play.

Trance, otherwise known as flow state, involves deeply focusing on the sensations and emotions of a sexual experience. Those who prefer trance often close their eyes, become less talkative, and tune inward to their own and their partner’s internal responses. They feel a deeper connection by immersing themselves in the sensations and emotions of the moment.

Role play can take many forms, from traditional scenarios like doctor and patient to subtle expressions like embodying or subverting societal roles of masculinity or femininity.

These enactments can heighten sexual arousal by allowing people to step out of their everyday personas and explore new facets of themselves. 

I role-played with Kendra, but despite what you may believe, my baseline oscillates between vanilla partnered engagement and trance, thanks to my recent immersion into Tantra.

Most people tend toward one dimension out of comfort, fear, or shame. But what if I told you that we can all access any of these dimensions—and that doing so doesn’t make us bad?

I always say sex is like food. Most days, we’re content with our Sweetgreen salad—maintenance sex. Some days, we crave a Michelin tasting menu—something exquisite, intentional, multi-coursed. And then there are days we just want a Double Quarter Pounder with cheese and extra bacon. The key? It’s all about moderation.

The best sex—even when it’s “casual”—carries an emotional resolution that gives it its potency. Climax, to me, is the body’s most raw, unfiltered expression of self. In other words, you can quite literally fuck the pain away.

So while I could flatten this whole encounter with Kendra into a lesson on sexual objectification, what if instead I gave her the dignity of another title: sexual conduit. Not an object stripped of meaning, but a passageway—an unlikely channel through which I was allowed to touch something primal, unbound and cathartic that needed to be ephemeral to be impactful. Because the truth is, I’ve been a Kendra too. I’ve stood in that same threshold role for others—before her, after her—sometimes knowingly, sometimes not. And maybe that’s the paradox of eros: we take turns being doorways for each other, vessels through which desire finds its shape, even if only for a night.

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