Horse Face

Four

I know I said I was going to do more research this time around and, in my defence, I have read lots about OnlyFans but reading isn't the same as actually doing is it? Here is what I know about OnlyFans so far.

It's a website where you post half-naked pictures of yourself and lock them with a price. This means only people who have paid you can see them.

You need lots of fans. Fans are like Facebook friends; they follow you and get notified when you post something new.

You can use private messaging to chat, and fans can message you to ask for personal pictures, which you can also price lock.

Everyone on there uses a lot of emojis, and I mean a lot - I don't even know if I have a marrow emoji on my phone!

People devise and post menus (actual menus) for the services they offer. With all three courses and a price list and everything.

I actually found the last one quite disturbing. There is something quite macabre about advertising body parts as a starter. It gave me images of a waiter lifting off a silver dome to reveal a pair of severed boobs underneath. And it reminds me of that film Jeepers Creepers where there were jars of eyes everywhere.

The one thing I didn't research was clothing. What do you wear for a photoshoot for OnlyFans? I wonder as I walk through my bedroom and into the ensuite. Perhaps I should text and ask Philip since he was so much more thorough than me whilst looking at the site last night. Then I remember his reaction afterward so perhaps not.

Whilst I am brushing my teeth, I decide that my usual underwear probably isn't your typical OnlyFans outfit, and I am racking my brains as to what I could possibly own aside from rather large (but so comfortable) knickers.

When Philip and I first met I didn't own a pair of big pants. It was all frilly French knickers and thongs; I didn't even know what a pair of sloggies were. We used to walk past Marks and Spencer's and joke that it would, one day, be my favourite shop. (It still isn't, but it's definitely up there).

I rinse out my toothbrush and head into the bedroom to have a look at what I do have, I must have something.

I did have a nice satin pair of light pink sleep shorts and matching camisole, which would have been ideal, but bloody Dexter the demon dog stole them out of the clean washing basket and ate a bit of them. I tried to stop him, but the conservatory doors were open, and he hot pawed it into the garden with them in his mouth while Fat Pug laid on the floor watching us running around the garden, rolling his eyes.

I pull open my underwear drawer and notice how full it is, nobody needs this many pairs of knickers, I think as I pull pair after pair of near identical waisties out and dump them in a pile on my bed.

I don't really know why I keep buying them but it's hard to shake the 'you can never have enough knickers mentality.' I don't think I am alone in this; all women pack a few extra pairs of knickers when they go away don't they? You know, just in case.

I dig a bit further toward the back of the drawer and feel a handful of fabric that is precariously hanging over the edge just waiting for that one tiny nudge to push it down the back. You know. Where absolutely no one can reach. Apart from the borrowers.

I fumble around for a few seconds trying to use my index finger and thumb to nip at the material and pull it back through, but I scrape my knuckle on the top of the chest. And then it falls onto the floor behind the unit. Obviously.

I have to heave the massive white chest of drawers out from its position against the wall and reach my hand around the back. Ew, I can feel something fluffy on the floor, this must be what it feels like to do a challenge on I'm a celebrity. I finally grab the handful of cloth, lift it out and throw it on the bed and then walk the chest of drawers one side at a time back into position. God that's heavy, and now I am all red-faced and breathless and sweaty.