She writes the blind items and tonight she tells you who is the blind one.
Hear her side first.
Cover storyJuicy
COVER: THE SERUM, THE SMEAR AND THE SCREENSHOT. Issue One accuses me of copying a rival's jar.
I deleted nothing, including what I said about you last month, and I have receipts in three colours.
Hear my side before the other woman's lawyer rings the newsstand.
Jade Tillman AI
Hear her side Turn the page
She writes the blind items and tonight she tells you who is the blind one.
Issue One, hot off the press
The magazine plants a story, and the woman it accuses gives you her side before anyone else. Sixteen invented creators, a cover that is a small scandal and a chat that remembers. Every cover star has a sultry portrait, and the gossip is yours to read first.
Sixteen covers, one issue
Flip through every coverA gossip magazine used to give you the story and leave you outside the room. This one opens the door. Each issue plants a scandal about one of sixteen invented creators, and the woman at the centre is waiting at the other end of the chat, ready to tell you what really happened. She has not signed off on the headline. She has opinions about the font.
The magazine is numbered, like any proper one, and the first issue plants a story for every woman in it: a feud, a correction, a blind item, a back-page confession. Reading the cover line takes ten seconds. Tapping Hear her side puts you in a conversation with the person it concerns, and she rarely agrees with the headline.
The pleasure of gossip is being the one who knows. Here, the woman it concerns gets to you before the rumour does, and she tells you her version, bitchy or tender or both. You may then decide whether to believe her, which is the whole game, and she will notice if you do not.
No one in these pages is real. The women, their brands, their rivals and their scandals are made up for the magazine, and each is an AI character. If a story seems to resemble somebody you follow, that is chance, and we would like to know about it so we can change the details.
Imagine opening the issue on a train. The cover line says a ghostwriter has drafted an apology on behalf of someone who has not yet done the thing she will apologise for. You tap, and Ana Tejada greets you with the draft already written, wryly asking whether you would like to read it or be surprised. You are four sentences into a conversation and you already know more than the readers of any other magazine.
Here are six of the sixteen, set as they appear in the issue: a headline, a line from the woman it concerns and a hook for you.
Each story is three lines. The first is the headline in capitals, the second is what she says in answer, and the third is a question aimed at you. Tap Hear her side and the chat opens with that story already in your hand, using one message, so she responds as if you had just slid the magazine across the table.
The stories can be sorted by section (cover story, feud, blind item, correction, back page) and by mood (juicy, petty, shady or sweet). You need no account to read, and the filters remember nothing.
The headlines are written to sound like the real tabloid thing, with capital letters and a certain relish, but the stories underneath are gentle and nearly always funny. Nobody is destroyed. A feud is about a blender. A scandal is a broken kettle in a motel. The malice is theatrical, and the women are the first to admit it.
A blind item hides the name and keeps the story. Ours hide the names of the women in the same magazine, and you are invited to guess.
It gives you a profession, a city and a misdeed, never a name. Rowan Vexley will tell you which Glasgow manager sold a breakdown as a brand refresh, but not who. You guess, she reacts, and she answers hot or cold. People are surprisingly bad at this, and the women enjoy it enormously.
Each woman is the subject of a blind item written by another, and she has views on the accuracy. Bring one up and she will correct it, defend herself or return fire with an item of her own. That small circle of grievance is how the cast stays interesting.
There is nothing to subscribe to before you read. The issue is open, and the chat is a tap away.
It sits on the home page of Issue One, with a headline and a short denial. The issues page holds the rest.
The woman it concerns opens a chat with her story already in hand. This counts as one message, and a guest is allowed 10 before the magazine wants a name.
Tell her what you know, or invent it. Say is for words and Do is for actions; the pace dial in the chat menu runs friendly, flirting, romance, and she follows it faithfully.
She remembers what you told her and brings it into later gossip. A new batch of stories is announced on the page called next issue.
Issue One stays open for as long as you like. New issues arrive in batches, not on a fixed day, and each is announced in the notes before it appears. Nothing disappears when a new one comes, so the back issues stay readable.
Because she remembers, what you tell her can end up in a later story, anonymised and exaggerated. It is the nearest a reader ever gets to the other side of the byline.
If you only have a minute, read the six cover stories on this page, choose the one whose headline irritates you most, and tap. That is a complete visit. People who stay longer tend to wander into the blind items, then into the corrections column, and then to bed rather later than planned.
Three ways to hold the magazine, none of which renews itself.
| Copy | Free issue | Newsstand | Plus |
| Lasts | 3 days from subscribing | Afterwards, as long as you like | 30 days or 365 |
| Your lines | No daily count | 10 a day | No daily count |
| Stars | All sixteen | The first 3 you called | All sixteen |
| She calls first | Yes | No | Yes |
| Price | Nothing | Nothing | $15 or $99 |
Reading is free, and a guest can open a story with no name on the mailing list, up to 10 messages. Subscribing opens every story for 3 days, no card required. After that comes the newsstand copy, and your chats stay saved. A Plus pass is sold two ways: $15 for 30 days, or $99 for the 365-day pass. The cover price goes through in USDT, which also lifts the daily count. No payment is reversible, and the masthead notice names the one legal exception.
No magazine is right the first time. Ours has a column where the cover stars correct the record, mostly to make it worse.
Efua Boateng corrects the claim that she buried the Accra scandal: it buried itself, she says, and she merely held the shovel. Montserrat Fabregas corrects the report that a jar was poison: the label was entirely accurate, which is worse. A good correction reveals more than the error did.
If you take a correction into a chat, she asks you to help phrase the next one. You supply a detail, she supplies the spin, and the result goes into her notes about you. In a sense, you become a source, which is a very flattering thing to be in a newsroom.
Sixteen adult women aged 20 to 55, invented from top to bottom, and proud of their reputations. They are filed by beat, as in a real newsroom.
Jars, sweat and chemistry. They know what goes on skin, and what goes on in rumours.
Kitchens and motels. Their followers see a beach, and they tell you the truth.
Deals, brands and discretion. They know the numbers and refuse to repeat them.
They write, edit, photograph and talk for a living, and every one of them listens harder than she lets on.
They live in the comments, and they have heard everything twice.
The beats give the cast a world. Ana Tejada, a ghostwriter, wrote the apology that appears in someone else's story. Maxine Sjoberg, the columnist, writes the blind items about the same people. They overlap, contradict one another and lend one another alibis, which makes talking to any one of them a way of hearing about the rest.
The cast cross-reference each other with relish. Valeria Bianchi cuts everyone at the show; Briony Steele moderates the comments afterwards; Rosario Gutierrez booked half the guests and names none. Ask one about another and you will get a rumour with an agenda, which is how good gossip should arrive.
The name uses a word usually thrown at women. We use it as a masthead joke, reclaimed, and the cast treats it that way.
Gossip magazines have always run on the gap between what women do and what is said about them. Here the women own their reputations, and the word is a wink at that history. Nobody in these pages is demeaned, and a reader who tries it as an insult will be answered in kind.
Nothing is real. The women are AI characters, the creators and brands are invented, and the stories are fiction. Nobody posts anywhere. All you will find is a portrait of each woman, a long banner leading the home page, and the conversation.
Flirty and gossipy, with the juiciest bits cut. If a scene is heading for explicit, the page blacks out first, and that holds for every plan.
Open the cover story, tap Hear her side and be the first to know. She has been waiting to tell someone.
Open the cover story