I N 2 0 1 6 , WH E N he was 22 years old, Clément Cas-
telli was cast in Les Marseillais, “the most famous TV
show” in France, he tells me. The reality dating series
drops a group of attractive young people in various
cities, where they participate in an opulent pleasure
riot once advertised as “pool parties, beaches, eve-
nings in the hippest clubs in the city but also work!”
Castelli, who had earned a modicum of renown as a
standout teen soccer player, was in season 5, set in
Capetown, South Africa.
The following year, he briefly appeared on another
show, Les Vacances des Anges, in which contestants
were lured to a Greek vacation fixer-upper and told to
fend for themselves, sometimes to embarrassing effect.
In one episode, Castelli and his castmates worked as
butchers for a local meat trader, tasked with chopping
off the heads of chickens and pigs; the scene takes a
surprising turn when Castelli vomits. Castelli considers
his stint in reality TV the “best experience of my life,”
adding, “I did some crazy things like swimming with
white sharks” and a “photo shoot with a big lion.” He
texts me an image as proof. The lion is indeed very big.
A blogger and model, Castelli is a content creator
skilled in the multihyphenate arts of cross-platform
production. Today he has an Instagram following just
north of 387,000. He relocated to London last year—
“The life I led in France did not suit me anymore,”
he wrote in a blog post about wanting a new start—
and his feed presents the kind of manicured, jet-set
existence the photo-sharing app typically rewards:
posts full of bright, chunky colors, stylish shots from
trendy travel hubs like Mykonos and Saint-Tropez, the
occasional inspirational quote. It’s all very polished,
controlled, and slightly envy-inducing. Castelli, in
other words, is an influencer. He belongs to a now-
established class of shrewd millennials and Gen Z-ers
who leverage their social currency on Instagram and
YouTube into brand partnerships and one-off promo-
tional deals. In the past few years, he’s cashed in with
ABC Nice, luxury watch retailer Daniel Wellington,
and weight loss supplements.
Then, he pivoted. In March some of his Instagram
followers encouraged him, via DM, to join OnlyFans, a
subscription website where influencers are known to
upload revealing and risky content. On the site, you’ll
see topless bathroom selfies and videos of influenc-
ers masturbating or engaging in sexual intercourse.
Occasionally, they might upload clips of themselves
cooking or exercising in the buff. Castelli had never
heard of the platform. “I thought ‘WTF!’ ” he says. “And
then I thought, ‘But why not?’ ”
Castelli knew how much his followers enjoyed
his bare-chested beach shots—his comments are a
near-endless stream of heart-eye emoji—and that
he could capitalize on their desires. In this, he rep-
resents a shift quietly underway in some corners of
influencerdom. Partnerships and #sponcon can lead
to considerable paydays, but there now exists an addi-
tional source of revenue with the rise of bare-all sub-
scription fandom. In front of a camera, and sometimes
with multiple partners, they are no longer just influ-
encers but digital sex deities.
My fascination with this community began last
year, when a friend made a casual reference to Only-
Fans over dinner. Intrigued, I inquired among other
friends. Had they also heard of the site? Were there
other platforms like it? Around then I saw another
reference, this time a meme on Instagram Stories that
poked fun at the complicated, sometimes twisted,
tech-puppeteered evolution of modern relationships:
how, as we matured, we went from “Friend me on
Facebook” to “Like my Instagram post” to “Subscribe
to my OnlyFans for $12 a month.” Eventually, my curi-
osity took a turn of its own. I signed up for a few
accounts in the name of research; soon they became
gateways to private fulfillment. I was, I realized, get-