“I suspect there is a weird phenomenon whereby paying for porn is almost more taboo and more special and kinkier now,” says Alptraum. Because of Tube sites, younger millennials and Generation Z have always known internet porn as abundant and free following a performer on OnlyFans can feel exclusive in a way that simply watching a video of unknown pedigree does not. The platform also capitalized on what Lux Alptraum, a writer and sex educator who's reported on the adult industry for 13 years, says may be a wider cultural shift around paying for adult content. With its structural similarities to social media, OnlyFans quickly proved a hit: The site draws on influencer culture as much as it does the adult world, a dual identity that set it apart from your average camming site. Two years later, Stokely sold a majority stake in OnlyFans to Leonid Radvinsky, whose long career in adult businesses includes owning the camming giant MyFreeCams, the site where Aella worked. The company's founder and CEO, Tim Stokely, created the site in 2016 after launching two other online adult businesses: GlamWorship, a “financial domination” site, and Customs4U, a cam site. In a way, Aella's evolution as a performer parallels the rise of OnlyFans itself. “OnlyFans feels like it's really put the power in the hands of the performers themselves,” says Stoya. “I realized it was kind of my only choice,” he says. He had no experience with sex work, but out of some measure of desperation he decided to give it a go. In May, after a little encouragement from some of his followers, Brayden started an account on OnlyFans, the subscription platform that allows creators to charge for photos and videos, notably explicit ones-a kind of Patreon of porn.
Yet his foray into performing online opened his mind to certain new possibilities. He was earning around $2,000 a month, which was enough to make rent, but Twitch involved streaming himself playing video games for seven or eight hours every day. He turned to Twitch, the livestreaming platform popular with gamers, and he began selling merch-sweatshirts and hats with little weed jokes screen-printed on them. When the place reopened, it felt unsafe, and he made up his mind not to go back-even though he wasn't quite sure what else he'd do. The coronavirus pandemic temporarily shuttered the bar. Then, last March, Brayden's circumstances grew even more precarious.
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