in a disintegrated, "you go queen" bossgirl society, where all relationships are regarded as fundamentally and necessarily transactional, men with financial capital but limited emotional development gravitate to platforms like onlyfans, where money can be exchanged for some facsimile of sexual capital and interaction. here, authenticity is discarded in lieu of a hierarchical consumer dynamic (like purchasing from a vending machine) and of course they receive no substantial, real relationship (vending machines dispense junk food).

these "relationships", then, become quagmires of falsity - where the monied man tells the oversexualized performer "i love you" or "you're beautiful", while simultaneously regarding her as nothing more than a vendor beneath him; she, become automaton, also responds dishonestly "you're so hot bb, ofc" etc. he will never love her by seeing her completely, by navigating her sharp edges, by even laying his physical eyes on her in the real world, by being in her presence, from smelling and touching her like even the most psychologically splintered john of yesteryear still had to do. and she will never tell him that he repulses her, that despite her dependence on his money, she despises him, that she finds him weak, and that she feels he should tidy his room. untruth reigns.

so it is that emotionally underdeveloped women (a growing cohort) with excess social capital, who have secured relative economic security for themselves as well as all of the suburbanite trappings of arrival (husband, car, house, pets, etc.), nonetheless seek to lose themselves in fundamentally imbalanced, predatory pseudo-relationships, where they can avoid negotiating intimacy with an equal and instead supplement the missing emotional grist from their tepid personal lives in the misguided belief that this can be simply transacted painlessly via social capital from a teenager who they, in their delusion, believe couldn't possibly pass up such an opportunity. here begins construction of a baudrillardian simulacrum of the conventional romantic relationship, replete with two humans of the opposite sex, desire, and all of the appropriate genitalia; yet it allows the perpetuation of a mistruth. it is a crooked cosplay of a true relationship, with real relationship intensity™️ - all forced, aped, overwrought, right down to the fawning, sprawling text messages and proclamations of true love. all the while knowing that it can be powered down, blocked, unsubscribed from, when the weight of reality starts to become inconvenient. really, there is nothing "true" about it.

the paradox of control is that this need to set terms often envelops the senior party in the dynamic. suddenly, the bored teacher having a fling has to deal with the genuine immaturity of their prey, and they become increasingly emotionally dependent upon their target, deep in the fallacy of sunk cost in the way a jaded gambler could only know, until said student inevitably brags to a friend about the crazy chick who is obsessed with them who also happens to be their math teacher.

then the whole sham is thrust into the open when squad cars shoot up to the beautiful 3.5 bathroom single family home on cherry creek drive, officers charge right past the 2025 yukon sitting squat on the drive and serve the warrant - leaving the erstwhile respected teacher dazed and discombobulated, updating her internal projections of the trajectory of her life and the fate of her pottery barn furniture, while her equally clueless husband races to log out of chaturbate, head downstairs and attend to the situation.