Margo Millet specializes in “constructive, recreational appendage analysis,” and for $20 on OnlyFans, she will tell you what Pokémon your penis most resembles and what attacks it might have.
Artfully detailing strangers’ private parts on the internet is not exactly the kind of work the protagonist of Margo’s Got Money Troubles dreamed of doing when she was little, but she’s strapped for cash, parenting solo, and has an uncanny gift for it (such as: “Your Bulbasaur’s special move is Ooze Attack, extremely potent pre-cum”). Before long, and with 200 new followers, Margo has learned her first lesson: “The ones that hate their dicks, they tip the most.”
TV has never shied away from portrayals of sex workers and the business of porn, but Apple TV’s adaptation of Rufi Thorpe’s 2024 novel of the same name, provides one of its most complex. The show’s season finale aired May 20.
OnlyFans is now its own subgenre in pop culture. A decade since it launched, and with more than 4 million creators on the platform, the adult content site, and everything it represents about the future of work for Gen Z, has emerged as one of Hollywood’s most human narratives. As Margo makes clear, “I can’t just go and get another job.” The creator class, also a pain point in the current season of HBO’s Euphoria, has become the ultimate allegory for society: online, we are all just entertainment for one another.
The very niche genre of erotic humiliation is just the tip of the iceberg for Margo (Elle Fanning), a book-smart 20-year-old college dropout who, after a brief affair with her literature professor, finds out she is pregnant, loses her job, and suddenly has to pay double in rent after two roommates move out because they can’t handle the baby’s relentless crying. Turning to OnlyFans, though, ends up being a blessing in disguise; it provides Margo with a stable income while also acting as a creative outlet for her.
Margo quickly runs into a common problem for creators on the platform who don’t have large social media followings: No one can find her. (According to OnlyFans, the platform intentionally limits its search feature as a safety precaution so users don’t accidentally encounter NSFW content they didn’t intend to see.) Online, she learns that posting multiple times a week and collaborating with like-minded creators is the best way to grow her following—and, with the help of her cosplay-obsessed bestie, she creates a persona called Hungry Ghost, an alien with an insatiable sexual appetite. “Give me your boredom, your sadness, your anxieties. I will eat it all,” she writes in her bio, realizing she will have to expand her social media presence beyond OnlyFans to gain more followers. “Find me on TikTok and Instagram to see how my story began.”
It’s the kind of sex work story, unsexy and mundane, rarely entrusted to an audience, and not because those stories don’t exist, but because they have never fit into the tidy—or sensationalized—narratives of how the business actually works. There isn’t anything particularly titillating about the granular details of how to grow your following—in Margo’s case, it’s more funny than anything else.
Thorpe created an OnlyFans account to do research for the book because she didn’t want Margo to be just another content creator who sells the same boring nudes and custom videos. “Part of what makes OnlyFans sexy is when it feels authentic and real, as opposed to hyperproduced pornography that makes it feel less intimate,” Thorpe said in an interview with Variety. Drawn to their ability to combine actual human elements into the profession, she pulled inspiration from unorthodox creators like BigHonkinCaboose, a comedian who incorporates a lot of humor into her OnlyFans, and HarperTheFox, a musician with a gift for creating parody songs about giving head and consensual anal sex.