Known for their risque content, subscription site OnlyFans has decided to reach audiences beyond their bread and butter viewers—that is, horny Gen-Z kids and Millennials. By gearing a new branch of their content apparatus towards the Baby Boom generation, OnlyFans seeks to secure their monopoly on direct-to-fan explicit content. Hence, OnlyFans for Boomers. Enjoy the following free trial before subscribing!


A sensibly-clad gentleman fires off one email after another, his tone effortlessly professional. All the best, James. See you all (virtually!) tomorrow. His stamina is astounding, clearing out his inbox at a relentless pace.

Working remotely from his living room, he stretches sensually upward from his ergonomic chair. In two tries he manages to rise to his feet, an involuntary grumble of effort escaping his lips. He adjusts the t-shirt he has elected to tuck into his boxy jeans at a severe angle and runs a hand through his thinning mane.

An alluring smile crossing his lips, he presses down, ever so gently, on the button under his desk. Slowly, seductively, his desk rises, converting from sitting to standing position. He straps on his wrist guards, adjusting the Velcro to maximal tightness, and returns to his inbox. His fingers dance across the keyboard.

Could you forward me those numbers? Thanks! Best, James.


A stout woman with a sharply angled haircut enters a hip coffee shop. She orders a latte and scrolls through her Facebook feed as she awaits her order, liking, commenting, and tagging her friends on each successive post. The bangles on her wrist chime and her long, lacquered nails clack against the screen as she forwards an article about the dangers of marijuana to her twenty-something son.

At last—serenity!—her coffee arrives. As she puts her coral-pink lips to the steaming beverage, she pauses. Arching her over-tweezed eyebrows, she marches back up to the counter. Her sensible flats spank the tile floor as she bypasses the line and a purse the size of a dishwasher sways against her haunches.

“Excuse me, this doesn’t taste like a latte. Did you use whole milk?” The young cashier touches his septum piercing nervously, unused to direct confrontation.

“Uh, sorry, we only have oat milk.” She asks to speak to a manager. He shrugs and does not call her a Karen as he turns to his supervisor, who refunds her order. The crowd cheers at the justice she has restored.

She takes a selfie in which only the top half of her face appears in the foreground corner and posts said picture to Facebook, tagging the location.


An alarm blares to life and a hand calmly pats it to silence. The red digital lettering reads 4:30 AM. A man, who looks a bit like Colin Firth, gently extrudes his nightguard before lurching off the bed.

He doesn’t need the alarm; he always wakes up just before it goes off, anyway. He pulls on a pair of slacks, a breathable t-shirt, and comfortable shoes that he can slip on and off easily. It’s travel-wear. He checks the boarding passes he’s printed out even though his daughter has shown him many times how to save the tickets to the wallet in his iPhone. He prefers his actual wallet, which is about the size of a brick and about as heavy.

He shoves it into his back pocket and its heft tests the seams of his pleated khaki pants. Every edge of the wallet is visible, leaving very little to the imagination.

He checks the boarding pass again. Only eight hours until their flight. They’d be cutting it close, he knows. He usually likes to get to the airport at least twelve hours early.

Grumbling, he eases himself down into the chair at his desk, elevating his knee to reduce its arthritic swelling. His eyes glimmer with sexual fervor as he tracks a storm to which he has no reasonable fear or connection. He jingles his car keys on his lap in a “come hither” manner until his family is finally ready to leave.


PREMIUM MEMBERSHIP SNEAK PEAK:

Bruce Springsteen springs and gyrates across the screen, just as spry as he was during the ‘85 “Born to Run” tour. The toned muscles of his septuagenarian body strain at the fibers of his throwback t-shirt.

Perspiring from the unbridled physicality of his on-stage performance, he douses himself in a freshly-opened can of tomato sauce made from tomatoes grown right there in the Garden State, baby.

Drenched in sweat and tomato sauce, he flirtatiously cleans off the lenses of his cheaters on his dark-wash jeans. He checks his steps on his Fitbit, smiling coyly to himself. The opening chords of “Glory Days” erupt from the speakers…

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