There are quiet moments in modern life when you realize the technology has outrun the species.

Not by a little.
By miles.

It’s the moment you see someone talking lovingly to a phone screen.
Or when you realize your smartwatch understands your stress better than your spouse.
Or when you catch yourself feeling grateful for a notification.

But the real turning point arrived when people began forming attachments to folks they do not actually know — and their nervous systems failed to object.

The body, ever eager, simply said:
“Oh, attention! Oh, possibility! Oh, someone who might care!”
And from there, it was off to the races.

Welcome to the new sexual attachment system: parasocial intimacy — the kind that feels mutual, behaves reciprocal, and isn’t either.

This is not a glitch in human evolution.
It’s the predictable outcome of a world that monetizes attention and calls it connection.

There is a phrase that belongs in the Museum of Things Therapists No Longer Believe: Relax. It’s just porn.

That line worked when porn was a static product—when erotic content was one-directional, not designed to talk back, and incapable of forming a simulation of intimacy.

But OnlyFans is not porn.

OnlyFans is a relational technology—a system that simulates attachment, personal attention, erotic attunement, and emotional responsiveness. It is designed to feel like connection because connection is the product.

The research—still emerging, but powerful—confirms this.

Studies now argue that OnlyFans is not simply “NSFW content delivered via subscription” but a new ecosystem of digital intimacy, parasocial attachment, sexual learning, identity experimentation, and emotional labor (Hamilton et al., 2023; Lippmann et al., 2023; Tynan & Linehan, 2024).

And because it is relational, not merely sexual, its blast radius is relational as well: marriages, partners, children, and the emotional architecture of the household.

This is not moral panic.
This is a public health conversation, twenty minutes before the smoke alarm goes off.

There is a woman awake at 2:11 a.m., sitting on the edge of her bed, scrolling through r/relationship_advice.

Her partner hasn’t texted back.
Her body feels electric with dread.
She turns to strangers—strangers she will never meet—because she cannot bear the weight of her own fear in silence.

This is not weakness.
This is honesty.

Every night, millions of people open Reddit not because they enjoy chaos but because they need a place where their emotional truth is allowed to exist.

That alone makes Reddit one of the most remarkable emotional archives of our time.

Some cultures perfect bread. Some perfect calligraphy.

America, in its eternal improvisational brilliance, has perfected enmity.

We manufacture it, distribute it, and export it globally like it’s a subsidized crop. Enmity is our artisanal sourdough—fermented, shared, photographed, and wildly overvalued.

The digital age merely gave us the industrial kitchen.

But to understand why half the country seems permanently on the brink of a personalized holy war, we have to begin not with the internet, but with the small, neglected psychological fact that people so often behave as if their self-worth depends on having an enemy.

Enmity offers direction. It offers meaning.

And in a lonely culture, it offers a kind of counterfeit intimacy—the connection of shared antagonism.

This is Cultural Narcissism’s latest trick, and it’s a good one.

There are very few things left in society that can still produce genuine surprise.

Yet every few years, a major newspaper rediscovers—often with biblical awe—that women possess not only an inner life but a sexual one as well.

The latest entry in this recurring cycle is Lucy Denyer’s piece in The Telegraph, in which the revelation that a woman watches pornography is presented with the startled tone usually reserved for rare meteorological phenomena.

The entire article reads like someone has just stumbled upon a secret civilization.

Apparently, women have both desire and internet access. Who knew?

Everyone, of course. Except the Feed.

Every generation invents new words for sex—not because desire is changing, but because we’re finally honest enough to name the patterns we used to pretend were accidents.

The old categories weren’t built for actual humans. They were built for forms, surveys, and the kind of public conversations that depend on polite fictions.

The 2020s have no patience for polite fictions. And that’s how almondsexuality entered the room.

Almondsexual didn’t crawl out of academia or a think tank.

It was born in the digital commons—the LGBTQ+ corners of the internet where people do the real labor of naming their inner lives.

These communities have always been ahead of the curve, inventing vocabulary long before institutions realize their glossary is 40 years out of date.

If you want to understand what’s happening to American sexuality, don’t bother with marriage statistics or dating questionnaires.

Look at the “most viewed” section of Pornhub.

That’s where the erotic imagination of the country is being shaped, standardized, and exported in real time.

And according to a new long-range study in The Journal of Sex Research, what people are watching today looks markedly different from what they watched 25 years ago.

Visible physical aggression in mainstream pornography hasn’t crept upward; it has tripled.

Not because all of America suddenly became leather-friendly, but because online porn now runs on an economy of intensity rather than intimacy.

The dorm light flickers. A cracked phone leans against a coffee mug. She snaps another shot, widens her eyes, shrinks her chin, and waits for the algorithm to smile back.

A new study in Telematics and Informatics — by Yao Song, Qiyuan Zhou, Wenyi Li, and Yuqing Liu of Sichuan University and Hong Kong Polytechnic University — analyzed more than 13,000 pairs of edited selfies from Rednote, one of China’s most popular lifestyle apps.

The researchers wanted to quantify what beauty means when filtered through class.

They discovered that as regional income falls, faces grow softer. Eyes widen, noses shrink, jaws narrow, skin brightens. The lower the GDP, the younger the face looks.

We talk about beauty as personal expression, but Liu’s dataset reads more like economic confession.

Once upon a time, luxury meant imported marble and a concierge with a memory for faces. Now it means airplane mode.

“Offline is the new luxury” began as a meme on Instagram—a joke about burnout chic—but somewhere between irony and exhaustion, it became a social ideal.

In a world where attention is currency, silence has become the new status symbol. You’re not rich because you’re visible. You’re rich because you can vanish.

Bestowed attention is the rarest form of modern affection — rarer than silence, rarer than truth, and almost regarded as impolite.

To bestow attention is to notice someone deliberately.

Not because you are bored or virtuous, but because you have decided that, for one moment, they are the only thing you see.

It isn’t the attention of commerce or crisis. It costs nothing, which is probably why it’s so undervalued.

We live in a world that can broadcast a wedding to a million strangers but can’t sustain eye contact across a table.

Attention has become a traded commodity. Everyone wants it; no one treasures it. We count its clicks but ignore its meaning.

Bestowed attention refuses that economy. It isn’t exchanged or extracted; it’s offered.

We used to whisper our marriages into each other’s ears.
Now we broadcast them to strangers and call it connection.

A client told me recently, “Our marriage is fine—until I open my phone.”

The algorithm, she meant, has become a third partner in the relationship—seductive, judgmental, and always awake.

It knows what kind of spouse you should be, what kind of house you should own, and which couple on TikTok has already out-loved you.

Once upon a time, privacy was romantic. Now it’s suspicious.

He began every morning with a monologue.

At seventy-three, Napoleon Hill still wore a suit that hadn’t been in style since Eisenhower, dictating into a battered Dictaphone as if God were taking notes.

From his scratched oak desk, he delivered the secrets of success between calls from creditors. America had moved on to television; Hill was still peddling faith like it was a growth stock.

Years earlier, he’d claimed to be Franklin Roosevelt’s secret adviser—the invisible hand behind “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” He repeated it so often that others began to believe him. Hill never needed convincing.

He didn’t invent self-help. He informed its performative art—the solemn theater of certainty. The first American to turn conviction itself into a product. Confident bullshit, sold at full retail.