For Terri White, editing lads' mags, with their topless pictures of "real women", was a fast track to success. After years defending her career, she confronts the "monster" she helped create – and returns to face the women who bared all for her

As the sound of jazz filled the air in the office that night I diligently got on with the task at hand. It was slow. It was laborious. It was tedious. It was decapitating topless women. I was associate editor on the best-selling men's weekly magazine Nuts and tomorrow was the launch of Assess My Breasts – an online brand extension inviting women to upload pictures of themselves (or rather, their breasts) to be rated out of 10. But first, before we went live, I had to populate it; ensuring it launched with a 100-boob bang rather than a no-boob whimper. Faces were a no-no – part of the "appeal" was anonymity so the girls would feel comfortable with being publicly graded. And so, there I was at 9pm, attempting a mass head-chopping on pictures we kept on file and had sought permission to upload.

Decapitationgate was the peak of the "real girl" phenomenon in men's magazines – ordinary girls, in ordinary situations, pictured in their underwear. A phenomenon we at Nuts had happened upon several months before and one that had made the magazine a huge success. And along with it, a success of the people who worked on it.

I left lads' mags four-and-a-half years ago and, in that time, sales of these magazines (in line with the rest of the industry) have declined significantly, while I've reaped the rewards for being part of their rise. I'm aware that evenings like my one as a trainee serial killer greatly helped my career, and that my nice life has been effectively built on other women's boobs. At the time I fiercely defended the magazine, insisting we didn't exploit women. This conviction has wobbled over the years. Being from a working-class background, I was painfully aware that many, if not most, of these women were from a similar place. Now, with the passage of time, do these women feel that we exploited them? Do they regret their naked five minutes? Had I betrayed the sisterhood for my own gain?

I grew up poor – really poor – and was desperate to change this. University seemed the only way and a month after my final exam (English literature, with a dissertation on black feminist theory) I was in London, working as editorial assistant and PA on a mature men's title, Later. I'd been obsessed with magazines since I picked up my first copy of Just Seventeen. My ambition: learn as much as I could, as quickly as I could, and become an editor by 30.

When I was offered a job on a new magazine launch in 2003, I didn't hesitate. I didn't even care what it was. I'd heard rumours that the company was pumping millions of pounds into it, that the names attached to the launch were some of the biggest in the industry and figured that if it was a success it would be my big break. That magazine was Nuts, and it worked like a dream: I was promoted several times until I was its number three.

Our launch cover star was Nell McAndrew, perkily sporting a vest. Wholesome Beyoncé in a ra-ra skirt soon followed. I loved working for a men's magazine and spouted the magazine's no-nipple policy while getting a kick out of the features we ran on the French SAS and the hunt for Osama bin Laden.

The "real girl" phenomenon, when it happened, surprised us all. Research showed that the young men of Britain didn't want glossy, unattainable, shiny-haired women from LA. They wanted Tracey from the neighbouring village. Moreover, they wanted to see breasts. And more specifically, nipples. The surprise, in retrospect, was that this was ever a surprise.

The concept of "normal" women trying glamour modelling wasn't in itself revolutionary – the now defunct car magazine Max Power and men's monthly FHM had both run model competitions. The difference? We weren't trying to discover a hidden gem who would transform swan-like into a professional. We made a virtue of the fact that they were everyday women. We rejected "professional" shots and encouraged them to submit pictures in day-to-day situations – their bedroom, garden, taking a shower, straddling the kitchen table, crawling on the bonnet of their boyfriend's car. One imaginative girl took a picture of herself in a bush. We gently suggested that they might want to look a bit more "natural" and go easy on the hair extensions, razor-sharp talons and thick fake tan.

Nuts was in the right place at the right time. It burst on to the scene at a particularly unique time in British culture – when reality TV had just exploded and the promise of overnight fame was screamed from the front pages of every tabloid newspaper. "It was a bit of a perfect storm really," says ex-deputy editor of Nuts Hans Seeberg. "At the time we just took a bit of a flyer. The editor said: "Let's try real girls" and the issue did really well." Before long the postbags were bulging. "Girls had seen the likes of Katie Price and Lucy Pinder – who they imagined earned a good living – standing in front of a camera in their bra and pants with their hair and make-up done," says Seeberg, pondering the appeal. "They probably thought, 'That's quite an easy life and I bet I'd make more money than I do working at Boots.'"

The "perfect storm" was more than just a mix of Big Brother and instant celebrity. As feminist Natasha Walter notes in her book Living Dolls, the third element was the resurgence of glamour modelling – previously seen as an 80s, perm-based phenomenon. "We've always had Page 3 in the newspapers, but I think the fact that you could model for a magazine made it upmarket," says Walter. "That made it attractive to young women – that it was mainstream and a little bit glossier than Page 3."

Walter's theory is borne out by statistics – a 2005 poll revealed that 63% of young women would rather be glamour models than nurses, doctors or teachers. And a survey carried out the following year showed that a third of teenage girls saw Jordan as a role model.

But this new model of "success" for young women came under fire for being reductive and dangerous. "Who are the women who appear to do well and be successful within this culture?" asks Anna van Heeswijk from Object – the organisation that campaigns against the objectification of women. "For the most part it's often women who are completely sexualised in this way. That certainly does have an impact on self-esteem and the aspirations of young women and girls."

Initially I wasn't overly concerned about this shift in the magazine's editorial focus. The champagne corks popped as we posted each circulation rise. To me, it seemed harmless – the copy was cut through with cheeky seaside humour, making it feel like "good clean fun", and there were editorial rules laid down so we didn't disrespect the women we featured. We must never use the word "tits". Swearing was banned. We must never make jokes at their expense. We should write about them with charm and wit. These women were to be put on a pedestal – the suggestion was that if the readers were lucky and not completely hapless, they might one day get to be with a woman like that. Might.

But as the fight for sales became fiercer, we needed to be bigger and bolder. The pictures became more outrageous ("First time topless!"), the volume higher ("100 Real Girls' Breasts!"), the spin more novel ("Real girls in the bath!"). I once ran a brainstorm simply titled "New ways to do breasts". A meeting in which I, and several educated, brilliant men, sat around, scratching our heads trying to "spin" boobs. I walked out of the room with "BUMS??" written in my notebook, believing we'd had an anatomy epiphany, only to be told that bums didn't sell.

I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. We went right into the young man's stomping ground – bars and nightclubs – to take pictures of girls flashing. One windy Monday night in Kingston, I approached a girl to ask if she'd like to be photographed for Nuts. She nodded, put her hands up her skirt and started to pull down her knickers. I stopped her, horrified, and tried to tactfully explain that she didn't need to bare her vagina to get into the magazine.

By the time Assess My Breasts was born, two years into my time at Nuts, I had serious concerns. "In hindsight, that could have perhaps been done a little better," concedes Hans Seeberg. "But it was not the sort of thing that gave me sleepless nights. Knowing the people who worked on Nuts, it wasn't done with any cynicism."

What it did abandon was the idea that the girls' personality was essential. That the readers weren't just interested in her cup size – they wanted to know who she was, where she lived, what her hobbies were, how she took her tea. It's fair to say that a pair of disembodied mammary glands is about as far away from this philosophy as you can get. I knew we were crossing a line, that perhaps we had done so long before, but I buried it and continued to be a happy, hard-working member of the Nuts team. My armour wasn't even punctured when a fellow female journalist approached me in the pub to ask me how I slept at night: I was outraged that she'd asked me such a question.

My personal ambitions were being fulfilled and I felt lucky to have a journalism career, when life could have been so different. And in truth, going in to work was a joy. Contrary to what people might think, Nuts was mainly staffed by left-leaning middle-class family men (and women) who were smart, funny and talented. The office would usually be found picking apart last night's Newsnight, rowing about politics or discussing house prices. The one time we did have topless women in the office – they trooped in with a PR to plug some random product – the editor was horrified and the staff awkward and red-faced with embarrassment, looking intently at their screens. They were the funniest, brightest group of people I'd ever had the pleasure of working with.

Hans Seeberg became a father soon after leaving Nuts and I ask him whether this, coupled with a bit of distance, has resulted in a change of heart or any sleepless nights since. "I don't feel guilty," he says. "I look back on working there with fondness. Lots of people who worked on Nuts at the time had families and no one seemed to have a problem. Plus, there were girls like you working there, which probably made us feel a bit better, too." He does tell me, though, that he may feel differently had he had a daughter and not a son. I think back to my reaction when my younger sister, Roxanne, wanted to be in Nuts. My immediate response was a high-pitched yell of "Over my dead body!"

The first person to trouble my conscience was Natasha Walter. She interviewed me for Living Dolls when I was deputy editor of Maxim magazine a couple of years later. In her book, Walter recounts the conversation: "When I asked White whether she thought the women who strip for these magazines are being exploited, she bridled. She insisted that the glamour-modelling world respects and celebrates women, and again returned to the theme of free choice. 'We are never misogynistic about the women who model for us. They sell the magazine for us.' And she added: 'I find it really offensive when people say that. It's their choice. A lot of them have huge ambitions, or just want to be in a magazine. Who are we to judge them?'"

My skin shrinks a little tighter against my bones as I re-read it. I remember feeling very defensive when being interviewed by Natasha and not entirely believing each word that shot out of my mouth. I speak to Natasha again now and ask her what she thought of my argument. "At the time I thought you were wrong and I still think that women who say that are wrong," she says. "Because when we participate in this type of exploitative media, we're not just reflecting it, we're also reinforcing, and helping it to grow. So if we don't like that kind of media why are we participating in it and encouraging it?"

Twenty-eight-year-old Lucy Marles was in Nuts when she was in her early 20s and waitressing in Pizza Hut. I travel to Torquay, keen to discover if she now looks back on her semi-naked magazine appearance with fondness, or with deep regret. A bright and articulate woman, she has three AS levels and a secretarial diploma, and now works in an auction house. When I ask her what motivated her to pose, she breaks into an easy grin. "I was just focused on having a good time," she says. "I thought it would be nice if it led somewhere, but if it didn't I wouldn't be heartbroken."

Lucy says several times that she was just "having fun", then mentions a relationship that broke down at the same time. I ask if it was a factor. "I maybe did it because of that," she says. "Deep down perhaps I was thinking, 'This has happened, I'm gutted, look at what you've messed up.'" But she says she enjoyed the attention and insists she has no regrets. "It involved being in front of a camera and showing off my youth. That was it, really."

Vikki Hansekowitsch, from Harrogate, sent pictures of herself to FHM and Zoo. It was her then boyfriend's idea. "Just a laugh,," she says. She refutes any suggestion of exploitation. "It's a positive thing – it boosts a girl's confidence. It's up to you what you do with your body, and if you're having fun, just do it."

The next natural step in men's media was online and mobile, both of which became more important as print sales declined. Unlike the print features (which are mainly unpaid), women on the mobile sites get a cut of the profits when their picture is downloaded. And so I head for Caffè Nero in Hull to meet Shaz. Shaz gets 5p in every pound, but doesn't think this is a fair amount. "It's our bodies that we're showing," she says. Currently unemployed, Shaz makes around £10 per month, which doesn't even cover the cost of her pay-as-you-go dongle.

She submitted her first picture to a mobile site at the age of 36 at a friend's encouragement, after her ex-husband had left her for a younger woman, leaving her depressed. Initially, Shaz didn't show her face – "I was worried my family would think I was slapper," she says. "But it's my life and I'm doing it for myself." Shaz received around 200 positive comments from men on the site, and is now on several "real girl" sites. "When I was younger, I was obese – 13st by the age of 12. I lost all that weight, but it always stuck in my head that I was fat and ugly. Doing this has boosted my confidence." She tells me she'd still love to be in one of the magazines. Just once. All three women angrily react to my suggestion that many women don't agree with what they did. "Who am I to say it's wrong? Who's anyone to say it's wrong? It's our choice at the end of the day," states Lucy firmly.

I put this "personal choice" argument to Anna van Heeswijk. "The issue of choice is complex and doesn't exist in a vacuum," she says. "And the issues we're discussing are far broader than those of individual choice. Because when women are persistently objectified and sexualised, and pornographic images become more mainstream and more normalised, that has an effect on how women and girls feel about themselves and on our choices."

While lads' mags alone didn't create this sexualised culture, they responded to it and reinforced it, helping it grow into a mass-market monster wearing a glossy mask of normality. We told a generation of young men that a woman's value lay in the pertness of her breasts and willingness to flash in a public place before going home to have sex. The dirty kind. We told a generation of young women that it wasn't necessary to get an education or build a career to improve your life. Just be willing to bare your breasts and look what you could win! A pot of gold! And a footballer! And I was a part of that for entirely selfish reasons. I tossed any concerns out of the window in favour of the feel of the monthly payslip and the warm glow of success.

But I still feel awkward at the thought of telling women that they should not and could not participate in this culture. The dominant voices in this debate are still those from the middle class, who can only imagine what it's like to walk in these women's 5in heels. I remember what it's like to feel that opportunities just don't exist for your kind and that when they come along you need to cling on for dear life. And maybe, just maybe, some of the women who claim to do it and enjoy it really do mean it.

Would I do it all again knowing what I know now? No. We did too much damage. While the magazines themselves may be in decline, the culture they helped to create can still be seen in towns and cities all around the UK – from the Saturday-night porny perspex heels to the casual DIY sex tapes and still-held hopes for fast fame. And, in retrospect, I could have built a career and achieved the financial security I hankered for without my Nuts years and without using other women's breasts as my stepping stone to get there.

Sali Hughes on Loaded

Guardian beauty columnist Sali Hughes worked as a fashion writer on Loaded in the late 1990s

Sali Hughes, former Loaded fashion writer.

Loaded was my first journalism job, and people assumed I spent my days being sexually harassed and swerving gropes. That wasn't the case. The men I worked with were knowledgeable, talented and, in their brutally honest way, encouraged my writing career. All were hilariously funny, broadly feminist and politically conscious. Women were equals who they happened to fancy like mad.

Still, they were atrociously behaved. No one turned up for my job interview because they'd got pissed the night before and forgotten. While waiting, I reorganised the fashion cupboard and got the job. They took me to the pub to celebrate. We had arcade games, a weed smokers' roof terrace, a duvet in a cupboard to sleep off hangovers. It was brilliant fun.

In 1999, I left to go freelance. I was ready to go. The party was over and it was evident on the page. But I'm sure being one of the only women on Loaded helped my career. I was more organised than the men, more efficient. I'm not sure my career would have progressed so quickly from a women's glossy.

I'm still friends with several Loaded writers. The magazine is unrecognisable now. It's soft-porn drivel, but in its day it was fresh and exciting. We put Kathy Burke on the cover and ran features on communism and crisps. Loaded's influence on popular culture was extraordinary. I'm proud, as a woman, to have played a part and held my own.

Indira Das-Gupta on Zoo

PR manager Indira Das-Gupta was news editor at Zoo. She worked there from its launch in 2003

Indira Das-Gupta.

When I saw an ad for news editor at Emap's new men's magazine, it was all very top secret. Nobody knew the name or the content. The ad I replied to described it as a "newsy weekly for men". But as I was to discover, there was actually very little news, unless you count stories about elephant wanking.

All the headlines in Zoo were in superlatives, everything was the "biggest, longest, fastest, heaviest… in the world!" When it was first published, some supermarkets threatened to put it on the top shelf as the content was deemed unsuitable for children. The images that didn't make it into the magazine were even more shocking although with time I became desensitised to it all.

Working at Zoo was surreal, amusing and occasionally bordered on stomach churning. I was often the only woman in editorial meetings. My colleagues certainly didn't temper their comments for my benefit. It sometimes felt like they were deliberately trying to see if they could provoke a reaction. On one occasion someone told a joke comparing biting into a rotten apple to being raped – oh how my sides ached.

Memorable moments include having to watch Abi Titmuss's home-made sex DVD with a female lawyer to check the legality of our report. Then there was the time we arranged for a bar to be set up in the home of a couple banned from every pub in Britain. We also managed to get a painting by Charles Bronson to give away – not the actor but the convicted criminal.

In the end I was forced out of my job because management felt they needed a man to be news editor. Did he do a better job? That's not for me to say. But despite everything, whenever I think of my time at Zoo I can't help but smile.

Lili Harges on Arena

Picture editor Lili Harges worked at men's magazine Arena until 2006

Lili Harges.

If one thing summed up how strange it was to be a woman working on a testosterone-packed men's magazine, it was the Rachel Stevens question. By the early 2000s she barely had a career any more and yet every other month she seemed to be on the cover. The women on staff just didn't get it. But to the men, it was a no-brainer. She sold magazines, and we went where the market went.

I spent four years at Arena, coming up with ideas for images, setting up shoots with celebrities and researching photos. Gone were the days when Arena had majored on arty, vaguely homoerotic fashion images. First Loaded and then FHM knocked that tendency out of British men's magazines. If we photographed a chef, he had to be surrounded by underdressed models.

Though men held most of the senior positions on the magazine, the Arena office was never a frat house. The staff could be great fun and I enjoyed working there. But regardless of talent, work-ethic or even humour, as a woman you felt you'd never quite make it into the inner circle. At the same time there was a gulf between the urban sophisticate in Arena's pages and the men in the office, who were often ordinary men with wives and kids. Even our editor had minimal interest in sports, fashion, books, politics, DIY or even going to the pub. In its own way the magazine's view of men was just as restrictive as its view of women.