Confessions of an OnlyFans Ghostwriter

The Craigslist ad was seeking someone to sext on OnlyFans. It sounded good to me: remote, well paid, creative, and sexy. In the spring of 2021, I had just received my last severance check from the media company I’d been laid off from, and just paid my deposit for grad school. I had just turned 25. It could be fun, I thought, to pretend to be someone else. (Along those lines, I’m using a pseudonym here.) Carefree, young, horny, hairless. The kind of girl who was constantly masturbating—not using a Hitachi in a vegan co-op, but touching herself in an athletic, graceful way. The kind of girl who always cums during sex, multiple times. The kind of girl who is always DTF, especially if it’s with you. For my interview with the model I dressed sharp and wore a lot of eyeliner. She was fresh faced, pretty in an approachable way. She smiled and asked me thoughtful questions about my writing. Then she offered me the job on the spot. I said yes.

For three months, I worked a 6 a.m. shift, pretending to be a fun-loving girl next door. OnlyFans markets itself as a website for all kinds of creators, but in practice it’s a marketplace for basically any kind of porn you can imagine—a highly-interactive PornHub. Creators post sexy pictures of themselves and entice users to buy expensive pay-per-view content, or sext with them. That’s where I came in: top creators simply get too many messages for one person to reply to. There is a whole cottage industry for ghostwriting OnlyFans chats. Some of it is run by enormous branding agencies and staffed by labor offshore in countries like the Philippines. My job was run directly by my boss, no middleman. All of the chatters I knew lived in North America. Some of them did other kinds of sex work on top of ghostwriting on OnlyFans. Others were like me and were just good at pretending to be horny online. 

But obviously there was a learning curve. You’d think after spending my adolescence catfishing men on ChatRoulette, it would come naturally, but most of my sexts sounded kind of ESL, at least at first. Slavic, maybe. Baby you make me horny. Baby I am so wet for your penis. Baby I want to ride your cock like it is a mechanical bull. Baby cum on my perfect little face. Daddy I am sooo wet rn 4 u <3. Suck on mommy’s titties!! I bet your cock is literally so small lmao. I bet ur a virgin because u have no game haha. Oh my god am I making you hard? That’s sooo awkward. Can I see? Pretty please? 😈😈😈😈😈😈

I was better when they asked me personal questions. Like what I liked to do in the morning (hot yoga then masturbate in my gym’s sauna, eat my bff’s pussy), or what I was reading, or what my interests were (hiking, going to the beach with my friend whose pussy I like to eat, making awesome healthy meals). Inevitably, stuff from my own life seeped in. I was online for hours, and had to make it fun for myself—trying to convince men to read Donald Antrim, suggesting they check out the Au Pairs. But the main thing I tried to make clear was that I was almost always fucking, thinking about fucking, or trying to fuck. That way you’d know that if you just so happened to need a little help with that morning wood, I was totally there, in a cool down to earth way. Just as long as you paid.

The guys I talked to didn’t really care too much for the details, but they did help move things along. They wanted to get off talking to the hot early 20-something girl they thought they were messaging. They wanted to see her tits, hear her cum for them, rate their cock. What I also provided was a girlfriend experience. They wanted someone who could listen. They’d blow entire paychecks so they could see and hear all of her and fall in love in the process. I was there to facilitate it, on demand. The money that rolled into my account was perhaps better than you’d expect, but definitely not enough to cover my rent, so I cobbled together other freelance gigs on the side. In the meantime, the sound of my boss fingering herself in the videos I would send out started to sound like white noise. 

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