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Slowly, day by day, Isabelle was teaching me to trust again—not justherbut the people around me, too.
“Did Cale get mad when you told him we’re dating?” I’d asked.
“Not at all. He was actually really cute about it,” she’d said.
Apparently, when she told Cale, he’d pumped his fist and declared, “I knew it! As soon as I saw your pictures in his house, I justknewyou were the chick Rusty was keeping secret from us. Aw, man. That’s so great. I’m so happy for you guys.”
Isabelle was spending more and more time at the house; obviously, she watched Minka when I was on the road. And when I was home,neither of us wanted her to go back to her place, either. Her friends were bummed she wasn’t around nearly as much, but at least she got to hang out with them when I was on the road.
“When are you going to meet them? They’re dying to meet you!” she’d said.
“Soon, soon,” I’d promised. “I’ll have a lot more free time in the offseason.”
Her age was less and less of an issue for me—actually, she was so mature for her age, I completely stopped thinking about her age altogether. The only time I remembered the age difference was when we were out in public, and I could swear I felt people leering at us, no doubt wondering,ew, what’s that creepy older guy doing with that beautiful young girl?
But Isabelle never noticed. “No one’s even looking at us,” she’d reassure me with a giggle. “And even if they are, so what? I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you. You’re hot.”
It wasn’t a coincidence that I’d found my game the moment I found Isabelle. I owed all my success to her. She was my muse, my fountain of youth,andmy dirty little secret. All wrapped up in one.
Road trips were bittersweet. On one hand, I hated leaving Isabelle. On the other hand, when we were apart, she spoiled me with so many sweet, sexy, and downright dirty pictures and text messages, I felt like aking.Our “sexting” was almost as good as theactualsex. She had me thinking about her constantly. She wassogood at getting inside my head; really, it was no wonder she’d made such good money doing exactly that.
Over time, I learned more about her OnlyFans. The more I learned about it, the more comfortable I was with it, and the more impressed I was by her success. She wasn’t successful merely because she was smoking hot—sure, that was a big part of it, but she put so much more work into it than justlooking good.She was a legitimate businesswoman; she studied market trends and created marketing strategies. She was always busting her ass on it. It was obvious to me that she had a knack for business, and she’d be a success in whatever she put her mind to.
Just like a “real” job, modeling wasn’t all sunshine and roses; her work came with its fair share of frustrations and downsides. Oftentimes, she’d vent to me about her metrics, and her concerns that she was being screwed over by the mysterious “algorithm.”
It was a term I’d heard thrown around a lot over the years, but still didn’t quite grasp.
“Whatisthe algorithm, anyway?” I’d asked.
“Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” she’d responded rhetorically. “The algorithm is some kind of AI formula that determines which content a user sees.” She could tell from my expression that I still didn’t understand. “Let’s say you walk into a bookstore to buy a book. The algorithm determines which books are on the shelves. And everybody who walks into the bookstore will see different books on the shelves, because the algorithm only displays the books it thinks each customer is most likely to buy.”
“Ohh. I think I get it now. Weird.”
“Anyway, if the algorithm doesn’t think your work will sell, or if it decides it doesn’t like you or something? You’re screwed, because now no one will see your work. The algorithm controls your fate, yet no one really knows what it’s looking for or how it works. And it’s always changing, too. I don’t even think the people who coded it know how it truly works.”
“Jeez. Sounds kind of bizarre,” I said. “It’s like the robots are in control or something.”
“Exactly!” she laughed. “It’ssuperbizarre. But all you can do is try to create stuff that fans want to see and hope for the best.”
That was another one of the frustrations with her work—the segment of loudmouth fans who pestered and pressured her to post nudes.
The first time she told me about them, I groaned. “I gotta say, I’m not wild about that, Isabelle.”
“Neither am I,” she said. “Those fans are a minority. A veryvocalminority, but a minority nonetheless.”
“Well, I don’t like them. In fact, I’d say they’re notrealfans of yours. They’re just horny assholes.”
She giggled. “I’m not fond of them either. But I also have some sweetheart fans who’ve messaged me, begging me to not change a thing andneverpost nudes.”
That had me stumped. Who the helldidn’twant to see her naked?
“Really? Why not?” I’d asked.
“Because I think they understand that there’s something powerful in leaving something to the imagination.They know thatwantingis better thangetting.”
That struck me as really profound—so profound I’d have to turn it around in my head for days, pondering it.
“You really think so?” I’d asked, unsure.
