Let me tell you a tale about my little adventure into the world of OnlyFans. You see, I’m an old cunt who’s had his fair share of craziness in the bars of Bangkok, Pattaya, and Angeles City. But it turns out, the real shocker wasn’t those wild nights; it was my brief rendezvous with OnlyFans. Yep, that’s right, strap in (or on?) for the ride.
Now, you’d think that after surviving the neon-lit chaos of Southeast Asia, and battlefield dysentry in some bumfuck town in the middle of the desert, nothing in the digital realm could faze me, right? Well, let’s just say I was in for a surprise. OnlyFans, my friends, is a different kind of beast. Instead of the in-your-face debauchery, it’s all about the sales funnel tease – a carefully crafted seduction plan.
On OnlyFans, these creators are like marketing ninjas. They lure you in with promises of exclusive content, personal chats, and the privilege of being in their inner circle. It’s like they went to the same school as the nightlife pros of Southeast Asia, except their battlefield is your bank account.
I’ve seen my fair share of manipulation and strategy, but these OnlyFans creators took it to a whole new level. My wallet was their playground, and they played hard (unlike my dick). What started as a casual subscription fee turned into a financial black hole. It’s like every click, every message, every special request came with a hidden price tag.
I couldn’t help but feel like I’d walked into a digital strip club, only instead of dollar bills, I was tossing away digital coins and instead of my cock, my credit card balance was being sucked. The connections, if you can even call them that, felt about as genuine as a knock-off Rolex bought from a street vendor.
Looking back at my OnlyFans escapade, I can’t help but shake my head and remind myself what a dickhead I am. Unlike the bars of Southeast Asia, where you’re at least sharing those wild moments with others, this was a lonely journey. It’s a stark reminder that in this digital age, intimacy can be bought, packaged, and sold in bulk. And those who buy it, like me, are left feeling emptier than a dodgy (or any) politician’s promise.
Now I know that you could say the bars and clubs I allegedly have been in are designed to drain pesos or baht from your wallet at a great rate of knots, but for me at least there is a sense of connection and not just a script that is vomited up to everyone. I would like to think that in the early days of the pandemic, sites like OnlyFans were a god-send for those poor fuckers stuck in their apartments with their pants around their ankles. Still, I’ve had more connection on a $1.99 phone-sex line in the 1980s than I felt here.
While my encounters on OnlyFans might not measure up, the feeling of being used and abused for your hard-earned cash knows no boundaries. As a veteran who’s seen it all, I can’t help but wonder if the real battlefield isn’t on the streets but in the digital realm, where desire is exploited and connection is just another line item on the expense report.
Cheers to OnlyFans, the circus that left this old bastard feeling used and abused, all while making the creators a pretty penny.
PS: I won’t name and shame the creators that I interacted with, as there were some nice ones. If you want some advice – close your fucking account now.