Once upon a time in the sacred halls of the internet, a new career path emerged; one that required no CV, no GCSEs, and certainly no references from Mrs Jenkins, the headmistress. All it required was a ring light, a wi-fi connection, and a moral compass pointed somewhere between their groin and certain online social media platforms. Yes, we’re talking about the modern entrepreneurial sex kitten; the online exhibitionist turned self-made mogul. Empowered, emboldened, and entirely algorithm-driven.
“Everyone hated me at school, but their dads loved me” reads the profile blurb of the surgically-enhanced Spartan class of influencers, pouting into their iPhones like they’re mapping their lips for Google Earth. But there’s an awkward truth lurking beneath the perfectly contoured cleavage of this economic ecosystem… What happens when the tits sag and the clicks stop?
Because here’s the thing: the internet is a cruel god. One day you’re God’s gift to the male gaze, the next you’re getting two likes and a “you okay hun?” on your latest attempt at a thirst trap in soft lighting and a support bra. The business model is built on scarcity and youth. But every year, a fresh crop of “I just turned 18 xx” rolls in like a hormone-fuelled harvest. And the old guard? They’re left selling used bathwater to simps with a nostalgia kink and a subscription budget that’s already stretched thin.
So where do ex-sluts go to retire, aged 25 and with no qualifications?
There are no pensions in the attention economy. No union for Only30YearOlds. And retraining to be a dental hygienist after three years of licking microphones on TikTok is, frankly, beyond most. Especially when your Google results are less LinkedIn and more “Link In Bio”.
Of course, planning for the future was never part of the aesthetic. Retirement? That’s for your nan with a Premium Bond fetish and a bungalow in Bognor. These girls weren’t opening ISAs, they were opening their legs to as many guys as they could and getting loyalty points to pay for the monthly top up the lip filler clinic. There’s no five-year strategy beyond “get flown out by a footballer” and maybe, just maybe, launch a lash serum. The concept of financial planning is as foreign as a book without pictures. They were banking on being hot forever, which is sad, in a tragic Greek myth sort of way.
We are heading for a crisis. A whole generation of people whose only skill is getting algorithmically adored. No qualifications, no fallback plan, and no idea how to do a nine-to-five without doing dances or twerking.
And then there’s the relationship carnage. Try building a lasting bond when your career involves DMing: “Thanks babe 💋” to 200 sweaty accounts a day while your boyfriend’s in the kitchen wondering if you flirt with the delivery drivers too. Trust becomes a luxury, and emotional intimacy gets outsourced to a pinned comment. The simps, oh, the glorious simps, are the scaffolding propping up this entire economy. Men so lonely they’d pay a stranger to say their name out loud with fake enthusiasm and a rented cleavage. They’re not dating, they’re donating. And when these women eventually hit 30 and the digital queue of drooling wallets moves on to fresher meat, they’ll look around and realise they’ve built their empire on men who thought “buying feet pics” was a form of courtship. Good luck raising a family on that foundation.
Society must prepare; we will probbly need support centres. Perhaps government-funded community hubs where ex-content creators can learn about taxes, trousers, and the strange concept of walking around fully clothed. We may even need a national helpline: “Thank you for calling SLUTS, the Support Line for Unemployed Tarts & Spicies, Press 1 if your subscribers have dropped below 50, Press 2 if you’re considering becoming a Wellness Coach…”
It’s either that or we brace ourselves for a surge in applicants to Love Island: Overused Edition. But don’t worry, in the end, capitalism always finds a way. They’ll probably pivot their OF websites to teach us how to suck eggs.
Photo by Peter Neumann
