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Internet Entrepreneur
Isabelle
One week later.
The Saturday morning sun shone bright in the student rec center, where my membership card still worked—at least until the end of the semester, anyway. I bounced on my toes in the squat rack, psyching myself up for the last set of my big lift of the day: two forty-five pound plates on the barbell. My two best friends and roommates, April and Farrah, stood nearby, cheering me on.
“You can do it, Izzy!”
“Let’s go, girl!”
“This is the last set, I promise,” I said, and handed my phone to Farrah one last time.
“No worries,” April said. She was my best friend from Minnesota. She came with me to UNLV.
“Yeah, this is easy-peasy. I could do this all day,” Farrah said. She was from Nevada. April and I met her last year, when Farrah was assigned our dorm roommate. The three of us were best friends ever since.
I climbed under the barbell and positioned it across my shoulders. “Ready?”
Farrah gave me the thumbs-up. “Recording! Ready when you are.”
I stood, hoisting all 135 pounds on my back. One, two, three—I squatted one rep after another. Once I hit eight, my quads trembled and hammies burned, and I’d run out of gas. I racked the bar on the pins and celebrated with my friends, who gave me high fives.
“Dang, Izzy. You’re so strong! I couldn’t imagine lifting that much weight,” April said. With delicate features and an even slighter frame, April preferred to keep to the treadmill when she worked out. But you were far more likely to find her in the journalism building instead, where she writes for the student newspaper.
“Yeah, really great job, Iz!” Farrah said. When she came to the gym, she liked to look busy with whatever equipment let her stalk the biggest, most jacked guy in the gym. Farrah, a psych major, is about as boy-crazy as they get. But with her dark features, hourglass figure, and raven-black hair, the boys are pretty wild about her, too.
As for me? Until last year, I was like April, and only did cardio when I came to the gym. I never really got into lifting weights until last year, my freshman year at UNLV. I didn’t really know what I was doing—I just knew I wanted to tone up and get a bigger butt. Who doesn’t, right? But I watched a few YouTube videos about beginning lifting and decided to give it a try. What can I say? I got some quick results, which got me hooked on lifting. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a bodybuilder or anything crazy like that. I like feeling strong, fit and sexy, but I don’t want to end up looking all bulky, if that makes sense.
Every now and then, I make sure to take pictures and videos during my workouts. I know, I know. I can already hear the groans. Guys tend to get really annoyed when they see a girl in the gym, all dolled up in a cute, matching gym outfit, and snapping pictures of her workout on her phone.
When they aren’t trying to pick us up, that is.
“Hey, girls.” A beefy muscle bro sauntered up to us, wearing a too-small t-shirt he’d crudely hacked into a tiny tank-top that hung from his neck like a strip. “Throwing some weight around today, huh? Whatcha recording for?”
“Instagram,” I replied.
“What are you, some kind of influencer? A fitness model?”
“Something like that,” I said.
Actually, though, I don’t like those terms. I prefer to think of myself as aninternet entrepreneur.The real story is, I use my Instagram as a honeypot to lure subscribers to my OnlyFans. Curious? Here’s how it works: I post pictures and videos of my workout, replete with hashtags like #fitness, #gym, #booty—you get the idea. Basically, I’m throwing out booty bait, trawling for horny guys who scroll through Instagram looking for babes. Once they find my content in the hashtags, they’re drawn to my Instagram like moths to a flame. And once I’ve got them on my Insta, they’re suddenly just a click away from my OnlyFans, where my more risque content can be had for a meager $4.99 a month. Voila! That’s it. That’s my whole marketing scheme, and that’s how I started making enough money that I felt comfortable dropping my classes and pursuing this crazy job full time.
“Influencer, huh. Cool.” The beefy gym bro paused to take a few glugs from his gallon jug of water, blatantly checking out the three of us, before he let out a satisfiedaaaaaaah. “Well, come find me if you need a spotter, okay?”
“We’re good, thanks,” I said.
Farrah stared as he walked away. “Mmm. I’d let him spot meany day.”
April giggled. “Ew, Farrah! He’s not even cute!”
“But he’shuge,and that’s what I like,” Farrah said, wiggling her eyebrows.
Done with our workouts, we grabbed our bags and headed for the exit. I’d promised the girls lunch in exchange for their help.
“Thanks again for filming me,” I said while we walked through the parking lot. “I know it’s embarrassing—”
“Embarrassing?” April asked, her head cocked at me. “It’s not embarrassing at all. We were just taking pictures.”
