My OF Followers

By Jean-Philippe Gabriel — frameworklove.com | January 14, 2026

When I started my X account, @frameworklove, traction was slow. That was expected. What mattered more to me was developing an honest process—one I could live with, whether anyone was watching or not.

Anyone on X knows the landscape. There are thoughtful accounts, bots, and then there are the women—OnlyFans creators, sex workers, models—who openly advertise themselves. They are not the kind of followers the algorithm rewards, and most advice says to avoid them.

Early on, I followed back generously. Like many do. And then a question arose that mattered more than I expected: Should I follow them back?

It sounds like a small question, even a silly one. But for me it wasn’t. Because I talk about love—specifically the love Christ points to: a love that does not calculate, a love that gives rather than extracts. And whenever such questions arise, the answer is rarely the one we want. It is usually the one we already know, but prefer to ignore.

So I followed back. With one exception only: I do not follow accounts that spread hate, harassment, or harm.

What I didn’t anticipate was the result. The number of OF accounts following me grew quickly—so quickly, in fact, that I noticed something else happening: real users would follow, then quietly unfollow. I can only assume my visible follower list played a role.

Should I change?

I can’t. And more importantly, I won’t.

Because the only reason to unfollow—or not follow—would be to curate a more “respectable” audience. To trade human beings for optics. Once I saw that clearly, the question answered itself.

Most of these women never send anything explicit. It’s usually just a “Hi,” or “Hello there.” No hate. No manipulation. No judgment. Just presence. This is me. DM me if you’re interested.

If only more of us were that honest.

So this has become a kind of test for me—a small laboratory of conscience. And I decided that I would rather fail on X—where success, in my case, is mostly vanity anyway—than succeed by quietly excluding people I have no right to dismiss.

That said, it does sadden me. Yes, some accounts are bots. Some may be traps. But many are real. All of them are visible. And all of them, whether we like it or not, are vulnerable.

When another one follows me now, I no longer think, I wish this were a real engager. I find myself fearing the very real possibility of desperation or despair. I will never know—I don’t engage through messaging—but the symbolism alone is enough to give pause.

And so, if anything, this followership has become a mirror. Because love, if it is real, does not begin by sorting people into categories of worth. It begins by refusing to turn away simply because someone complicates our image. What began as discomfort slowly became a test—not of principle, but of myself.

Following those accounts still feels awkward. I still have the instinct to curate—to protect how my account looks, how I look. I can hear the quiet calculations forming: What will people think? Will this hurt my credibility? Will this cost me traction?

And then I realized that this was precisely the moment love enters.

Love, the kind Christ points to, is not comfortable. It does not flatter the self. It is a mirror. And standing in front of that mirror, I noticed something unsettling: when I judged them, I was also judging myself. When I worried about appearances, I was trying to save myself—from embarrassment, from loss, from being misunderstood.

That temptation is subtle, but constant: the temptation to preserve a clean image, to optimize outcomes, to choose safety over openness.

Resisting it comes at a cost.

Love invites messiness. It allows complication. It risks misunderstanding, loss, even failure. It does not promise success—certainly not on social media. What it offers instead is honesty.

So when another account follows me now, and I feel that familiar hesitation rise, I recognize it for what it is—not temptation from outside, but fear from within.

And each time, I choose again. Not because I am good. But because love is hard.

And so I follow back.

Not as a statement.

Not as virtue.

But as practice.