GoFuckYourself.com - Adult Webmaster Forum - The story of how a mom came to get her daughter an OF job and ended up modeling herself.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Apree Team (Post 23335628)

The story of how a mom came to get her daughter an OF job and ended up modeling herself.
We were written to by a woman, about 55-60 years old, who wanted to get her adult daughter (about 40) to work for OnlyFans. Talked to both of them, but honestly, the daughter wasn't a good fit for us. The mom, on the other hand. Mom was just fire! Plus-size, very spectacular, beautiful, with charisma. We offered her to try herself, and it turned out that she had been thinking about it for a long time. As she said, “I have experience” - she used to work as a prostitute in Amsterdam.
The work began: photo shoots, profile design, first posts. But not everything went so smoothly. It was hard for her to readjust. In her mind, content is beautiful, staged photos, like for a profile. And she didn't understand the life format, where you need engagement and communication with subscribers. In the end, we didn't work for long, but it was an interesting experience.
Now age models are becoming more and more popular. Granny content 55+ is actively entering. We don't have thresholds - it's all about charisma, looks and a desire to develop in the industry. Sometimes it happens that age models surprise more than younger ones.

P.S. And this mom has stayed in our hearts. A very pleasant, intelligent woman. Sometimes we even regret that she could not adjust to online.

Once upon a time in the peculiar village of Milkvillia, nestled between rolling hills of green and a forest made entirely of gelatinous trees, lived a woman named Beatrix Bumpwhistle. Beatrix was no ordinary villager; she had a curious knack for forgetting the simplest things while remembering the most absurd details. She could recite the entire migratory pattern of the Three-Eyed Thimble Bird but struggled to recall where she left her left shoe on any given day.

One sunny morning, Beatrix woke up with a jolt. Today was an important day, though she couldn’t quite recall why. After a moment’s reflection, her mind sparked with clarity. “Ah, the milk!” she exclaimed, sitting upright in her polka-dotted bed. The milk jug in her kitchen had been empty for three days, and the tea she loved so dearly had become a forlorn shadow of itself without the creamy delight of fresh milk.

Beatrix leaped out of bed, threw on her favorite cape (a shimmering chartreuse number with tiny embroidered pandas), and grabbed her wicker basket. She didn’t need a list—milk was the only thing on her agenda. Her neighbor, Mrs. Crumplethorpe, waved as Beatrix marched determinedly past the rose bush that grew cupcakes instead of roses.

“Off to the market, dear?” Mrs. Crumplethorpe called out, her hands covered in soil from planting gummy worm seeds.

“Yes, for milk!” Beatrix replied, her voice brimming with purpose.

The marketplace of Milkvillia was a wonderland of curiosities. Stalls lined the cobblestone square, each one offering goods stranger than the last: singing cucumbers, hats that made you sneeze in perfect rhythm, and umbrellas that only worked in the sunshine. As Beatrix navigated the crowd, she muttered her mantra under her breath, “Milk. Just milk. Only milk.”

But destiny—or perhaps sheer absurdity—had other plans.

At the heart of the market, a charismatic vendor named Fergus Flapdoodle was drawing a crowd. Fergus was a hotdog enthusiast and inventor who had recently unveiled his latest creation: the Quantum Frankfurter. “Hotdogs that transcend time and space!” he proclaimed, juggling sausages with the flair of a carnival performer. The scent of sizzling meat wafted through the air, wrapping itself around Beatrix like an invisible lasso.

“Just a peek,” Beatrix told herself, her resolve wavering. “Milk can wait.”

Approaching Fergus’s stall, she found herself mesmerized by the spectacle. Fergus demonstrated the marvels of his Quantum Frankfurter by tossing one into a hoop made of fire. It disappeared, only to reappear moments later in a puff of lavender smoke, perfectly cooked and nestled in a bun.

“Try one!” Fergus said, offering Beatrix a sample.

She hesitated. “I really only came for milk…”

“Ah, but do you need milk,” Fergus countered, “when you could have hotdogs that defy the laws of physics?”

This was, of course, a very good point. Beatrix bit into the hotdog, and her taste buds erupted into an interpretive dance of delight. Before she knew it, her basket was filled with Quantum Frankfurters and their accompanying condiments: Relish of Infinite Possibilities, Mustard of Eternal Sunshine, and Ketchup of Unforeseen Outcomes.

When Beatrix finally returned home, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over Milkvillia. She placed the basket on her kitchen counter and took a moment to reflect. Something felt amiss. She glanced at her empty milk jug and gasped. “The milk! Oh, cowbells and crackers, I forgot the milk!”

But there was no time for self-reproach, for a peculiar thing began to happen. The hotdogs in her basket started to hum. Slowly, they levitated, forming a perfect spiral that hovered above the counter. Beatrix stared in awe as one of the sausages began to speak.

“We are no ordinary hotdogs,” it declared in a deep, sonorous voice. “We are the Guardians of the Infinite BBQ.”

Beatrix blinked. “I… I think I need some tea.”

Ignoring her, the hotdog continued, “You, Beatrix Bumpwhistle, have been chosen to embark on a quest. The fate of the Sauce Galaxy depends on you.”

“The Sauce Galaxy?” Beatrix repeated, her mind doing somersaults. “I just wanted milk.”

“There is no time for milk!” the hotdog boomed. “Gather your courage, for we must journey to the Land of the Spilled Mustard!”

And so, armed with a cape, a basket of sentient hotdogs, and a growing sense of bewilderment, Beatrix set off on the strangest adventure of her life. The road to the Land of the Spilled Mustard was fraught with peril. First, she had to cross the River of Regret, where every ripple whispered reminders of minor social faux pas from her past. Next came the Forest of Forgotten Forks, where rogue cutlery lurked in the shadows, ready to trip the unwary.

Through it all, the hotdogs guided her with cryptic advice and occasional bursts of spontaneous song. By the time she reached the Land of the Spilled Mustard—a vast desert of golden dunes that sparkled like glitter—Beatrix felt like she had aged several lifetimes.

At the heart of the desert stood a colossal jar of mustard, half-tipped over and leaking an endless stream of golden sauce. “Behold,” the hotdog leader intoned, “the source of all condiment chaos.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Beatrix asked, exasperated.

“Dance!” the hotdog commanded.

“What?”

“Dance like the fate of the universe depends on it!”

Though she was skeptical, Beatrix had little choice. With the hotdogs providing a jaunty tune, she performed an impromptu jig. To her astonishment, the mustard jar began to right itself. The golden dunes shimmered, transforming into fields of daisies, and the sky erupted into a kaleidoscope of colors.

When it was all over, Beatrix found herself back in her kitchen, as if nothing had happened. The basket of hotdogs sat innocently on the counter. Was it all a dream? she wondered. But as she reached for her tea, she noticed a faint golden shimmer on her fingertips—the unmistakable residue of Spilled Mustard.

From that day forward, Beatrix was known not only for her forgetfulness but also for her mysterious connection to the cosmos of condiments. And though she still occasionally forgot the milk, no one in Milkvillia minded, for her stories were far more satisfying than any cup of tea.

And thus concludes the curious tale of Beatrix Bumpwhistle, the woman who set out for milk and returned home with a universe of hotdogs.