Chapter 28 Hello, You Sexy Motherfuckers
Hello, You Sexy Motherfuckers
When I was a kid, I’d sit in my front yard in Vegas with my battery-operated yellow boom box for hours, scouring the radio for music, listening to how DJs set the tone for their shows, and sometimes, I’d emulate the sounds.
I was always locked outside anyway, and the radio became my escape from reality.
When I was older, I entered the era of Bob Larson, a radical evangelist my dad was obsessed with.
Bob took calls from anyone dealing with darkness and evil.
For hours, I’d listen to him cast demons out of those who called in to be soothed by his prayers and then sent on their way in their newfound glory.
Was it fake? Sure—I know that now. But as a little girl, I was rapt.
But of all the radio shows Bill listened to, the one that always held my attention most was the man, the self-appointed king of all media: Howard Stern.
Now I know people nowadays have their views on Howard, but the Howard I grew up on was hilarious, cutting edge, and captivating.
Of course, I wasn’t supposed to listen to him with my parents—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t eavesdrop from my bedroom.
Back in the day, Howard would go on for hours on end.
His interviews with celebrities were always eventful—all the porn stars and his particular blend of crass and hilarious would make your jaw drop.
My little-girl self decided I wanted to do what he was doing.
I would be Howard Stern mixed with Delilah.
Raunchy yet soft. There had to be a way to balance them, right?
When Howard got his own show on the E! Network, it was game over for me.
I never missed an episode. I studied him, and I studied his guests.
I watched what made them uncomfortable—and I also saw what brought them out of their shells.
Paying such close attention showed me that deep down, Howard is a genuinely soft man, but for the cameras, he had to bring out that shock factor. It’s what got him the big ratings.
I knew I could do that myself.
* * *
BY 2018, I WAS TIRED of the sex industry—and I was also tired of haters trying to “out me” online.
People would publicly try to shame me by posting my escort ads from Eros—even posting fake ones on other websites.
They would outright lie, and it would enrage me.
I didn’t have a voice or anything but a small online presence of my own to use to stick up for myself.
And we were raising Bailee. What the fuck am I doing raising this kid around this?
I asked myself. I would go to a call and then come home and play “Mommy”—and I knew that one day, she was going to learn the truth about where I was when I wasn’t home.
I knew I would be honest with her when that day came. But I never wanted her to ask, “Why wasn’t I good enough for you to stop?”
So I went to my husband with all my concerns, fears, and a plan for what I wanted to do. One thing I love about my husband is how he’s always able to see the bigger picture—just like on our first night together. It doesn’t matter if it’s a picture for years in the future, he sees it.
In those years, a lot of girls like me had gone online as what we called “internet thots.” This was way before OnlyFans—most girls were doing private Snapchat.
I presented the idea to my husband that I needed to build my own audience—and what quicker way to do that than by getting the attention of men?
It would be like my camming days but on a massive, more professional scale.
It would be a brand, the start of something much, much bigger.
I was nervous as hell. I’d never put myself out there online besides my Eros ads, and I kept my life off social media—as hard as that is to believe now.
Sure, I’d been online, but I’d kept things vague and without context.
I wasn’t making any money from my social media either.
My husband looked me dead in the eye.
“Bunnie, you have the looks. You have the body. Go for it. Build that brand any way you need to, because in the end, it’s all for a brighter, bigger future,” he said.
“You need to start doing sexy photo shoots, you need to start talking to the internet like you do to me, and people will fall in love with your personality.” He told me to start a YouTube channel—and that if I was so worried about the people who were trying to shame me, I should get honest. I should tell my story in my own words.
And with my best friend’s blessing, I was off and running. I started doing photo shoots. I started vlogging on YouTube, and I started building every social media platform that I could. I even started my own blog called Confessions of a White Trash Wife—which shockingly took off immediately.
By 2019, I had built a little bit of a following. I despise the term “influencer”—hell, it wasn’t even a word back then. I wasn’t an influencer then, and I’m not an influencer now.
I had assumed my following would be mostly male because I was so scantily clad, and, well, because of my previous professional experience.
But no. My girls of the interwebs really showed up for me.
I’ve been blessed with a following of mostly females—even when I was doing all my thotiness online.
This makes me so happy—no offense, fellas, but I’m here for you and the girlies.
This was way before the big boom of podcasts—all we had was Joe Rogan and Call Her Daddy and maybe a handful of others.
Nobody even knew how to monetize podcasts yet—that’s how new the industry was.
But I knew in my heart that I was going to try.
No matter how hard I had to work at building my brand, I was going to have my own radio show.
That little kid with her yellow boom box wasn’t going to give up.
Everybody knows I’m obsessed with Dolly Parton, and her first big radio hit was called “Dumb Blonde.” I’d been trying to launch my podcast with a friend of mine who happened to be blonde, so we were going to be the Dumb Blondes.
Sadly, my girlfriend couldn’t see the vision and she bowed out, leaving me to forge ahead without her.
There was only one left, and that is how the Dumb Blonde podcast came about.
And it was time for me to speak my truth.
* * *
I STARTED MY PODCAST AT my dining-room table.
I connected with a platform named Podfly that was an absolute godsend.
I had no idea how to set up microphones.
I had no idea how to record, but I knew that I was gonna figure it out, and they taught me how to get everything just right so that I could launch my podcast.
I worked my ass off for years before I ever saw a dollar from that podcast. There were so many times that I felt so defeated and like nobody was listening, but it was the only thing that I had that wasn’t sex work.
I wanted to quit, but it became my baby and my motivation to shed the skin of the old me.
I knew one day the hard work was going to pay off. I just didn’t know when.
The way that I made money to support my podcast—to be able to travel and do interviews before I had a studio—was still through sex work.
When J and I had settled back down to get our lives on track, I didn’t have many sugar daddies, but I did have clients and regulars.
I poured whatever money I made into building our family and building my brand.
I was a one-man band and did it all myself.
I would borrow my husband’s videographer to video my podcast for me for a small fee so that I had visuals, but other than that, I didn’t have a team.
I was too scared to let anyone in to help me.
In 2020, the huge podcast boom happened and the market flooded, and I was scared that I would get lost in the shuffle.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that you can’t deny hard work.
I put my head down and watched as many people started podcasts and ended them.
I started to see a pattern—launch with a bang and go out with a whimper.
But I knew that if I worked quietly and steadily, I would stand the test of time.
Eventually, I had somebody on my team who believed in the vision as much as I did, and that was my hairdresser, Meme.
Well, she started off as my hairdresser and somehow morphed into my manager, camera girl, editor, and everything else I could’ve ever dreamed of.
I remember when I looked at her and said, “Meme, I don’t have money to pay you right now. ”
She looked back at me and she said, “It’s okay. I got you.”
“I promise you one day I’ll be able to take care of you and thank you for all you’ve done,” I told her. And I have.
It’s rare to find somebody who sees your vision, and Meme was a beacon of light. I can’t imagine not having her by my side in this journey. Through every up and down, through every roller-coaster ride, she has always stood by my side—no matter what. Even this book.
* * *
ALONG WITH THE PODCAST BOOM, 2020 was also the year my husband’s career started taking off, and OnlyFans came on the scene. I was hesitant to join at first—I also didn’t know how much money I would make. But again, I sat J down to talk it over.
“I can try it for a month just to see how much money I can make,” I said. And my husband—being the ever-gracious, supporting castmate—nodded.
“Go for it,” he said. And with his blessing, I did several nude photo shoots and launched my OnlyFans.
To my surprise—and shock—I made $50,000 the first month.
I couldn’t believe it. My mind was blown and I wasn’t sure I would ever top it.
But as the months went by, the money kept growing.
I ended up making my first million online on OnlyFans.
It later grew to another million and another—and so on.
That success meant I could finally—after a few decades in the lifestyle—retire from taking clients and doing sex work in the streets. Now I could just work online and make a shitload of money—and nobody ever had to touch me.
I funneled that OnlyFans money into my Dumb Blonde empire, secured our own studio, and was finally able to put Meme on a salary. The podcast wasn’t making any money yet, but things were finally looking up.
* * *
THERE’S BEEN NOTHING BUT BLOOD, sweat, and tears poured into my podcast. I’ve earned the trust of my guests, and I finally started monetizing the whole thing about four years in.
It wasn’t a lot at first. But it grew, and I have now turned it into a multimillion-dollar business.
In 2022, I was making so much money from the podcast that I was finally able to retire 100 percent from all sex work entirely and shut down my OnlyFans.
This was one of the hardest decisions I ever had to make, and I leaned on God.
I know that sounds odd. But I had to have faith that the Big Guy wouldn’t let me fall on my face.
He’d had my back many times before. I had to trust He’d keep me off my back and on my two feet, doing this new career that I truly loved.
And God had me. The minute I got rid of my OnlyFans, my business more than tripled.
God made sure to let me know that I made the right decision by no longer selling my body.
I’m not shaming anybody who sells their body—not ever.
But by the time I retired, I was just done.
And for the first time, I was being seen and heard for what I had to say and not how I looked. And it felt damn good.