I Quit My (Successful) Acting Career for OnlyFans

Bradley Hamilton gave up his day job as a mainstream actor to earn big money as a self-made porn impresario—and he couldn’t be happier. [View in Browser]( [Esquire Sunday Reads]( [I Abandoned a Successful Acting Career to Be an OnlyFans Sex Performer]( I Abandoned a Successful Acting Career to Be an OnlyFans Sex Performer My shooting partners would ask, “Why don’t you show who you are?” I would tell them because my other career is not super accepting of porn. It got to the point where the money in OnlyFans was so good — I was making more than $200,000 a year stunt-cocking — that I decided I’m gonna go for it and make my own page. I wanted a thing of my own, to have control. Acting, the normal kind, started to feel like a job. I was sick of doing Christmas movies and projects I wasn’t excited about. That was seven months ago and it’s been a fantastic decision. OnlyFans has given me a healthier grasp on my sex life. Making sex my career has calmed me down a lot because I have to be more responsible about my sexual health and my reputation. Porn is a small industry; if you’re rude or not on good behavior, people are going to hear about it. I can’t put my body at risk or put myself in bad situations. I can turn down sex now. I don’t spend all my time approaching women at bars or trying to find a girl off Bumble, which I used to do 24/7. I was never able to relax and enjoy myself. [Read the Full Story]( [MORE FROM ESQUIRE]( [Chris Estrada Is the Hardest Working Man in Comedy]( Chris Estrada Is the Hardest Working Man in Comedy The day Chris Estrada’s life changed started like so many before it: up early, in the car, off to work in a warehouse. Day shifts loading trucks. Day shifts unloading boxes. Years of this. For a while, it was nights, too. Two or three jobs, for nearly two decades. It felt as if this was how the rest of his life would go. It wasn’t. On the day Estrada’s life changed, in 2019, he’d been unpacking boxes of clothes all morning. At 12:30, on lunch break, he was in his car when a call came from comedian and producer Fred Armisen. He wanted to work with Estrada on a project that would become This Fool, the Hulu show based loosely on Estrada’s life and tightly on his love of Los Angeles. [Read the Full Story]( [A 700-Mile Road Trip with Emmett Till’s Only Living Relative]( A 700-Mile Road Trip with Emmett Till’s Only Living Relative On Tuesday, July 18, Patrick Weems got a call from an official at the Department of the Interior. President Biden, the official told Weems, was planning to designate three sites as a National Monument in honor of Emmett Till—in just a few days. Weems is the executive director of the Emmett Till Interpretive Center, an educational museum in Sumner, Mississippi, near the spot where Till was tortured and murdered in 1955 at the age of 14 after whistling at a white woman. Since 2017 Weems been campaigning to create a National Park in Till’s honor. This was the call he had been waiting for. There was suddenly a lot to do. Weems would have to get to Washington, but—more important—so would Rev. Wheeler Parker, Jr., who was Emmett Till’s cousin and best friend, and the last eyewitness to Till’s abduction. It took us 13 hours to drive him to the White House for this week's historic ceremony. With the help of a sportswriter, a sprinter van, and a bag of peanuts, we made it. [Read the Full Story]( [Please Allow Danny and Michael Philippou To Terrify You]( Please Allow Danny and Michael Philippou To Terrify You Initially, Talk to Me, the new supernatural horror movie from twins Danny and Michael Philippou, was scheduled to be an eight-week production. But when the first-time feature filmmakers opted for promising young Australian talents over proven stars, the budget shrank. The shoot? Reduced to five weeks. Which was fine, doable enough—until the day of the big montage scene. In it, a group of Australian teens takes turns clasping a magical embalmed hand, which in turn makes them possessed by the dead. It's a demonic party game the Philippous wanted to shoot with the quick-cut, laughing gas energy of a drug trip. One problem: they didn’t have time to get all the shots they wanted. For the previous 10 years, the Philippous had been making exuberant Internet candy under the YouTube handle RackaRacka. You’ve very likely stumbled across their work. The channel has 6.8 million subscribers, and its videos—in which they imagine, for instance, faceoffs between the characters in Game of Thrones and Lord of the Rings, or Ronald McDonald caught in a pizza delivery car chase—have netted over a billion views. Working as an all-hats DIY filmmaking duo, they learned to do it all—and quickly. Racka style. Suffice to say, they got the shots. [Read the Full Story]( [You Knew Sinead O'Connor Was Right, Even Then]( You Knew Sinead O'Connor Was Right, Even Then “Idon’t know no shame,” Sinéad O’Connor sang in “Mandinka,” her first hit song, from her 1987 debut album The Lion and the Cobra, “I feel no pain.” If the first claim was true— which for anyone raised Catholic anywhere is a skyscraper-sized “if”— the second was demonstrably false. Sinéad O’Connor’s life and career and art were about pain: exorcising it, escaping it, endlessly searching for ways to transcend her own and to spare future generations theirs. She never got relief, and she never got a reprieve; loss and abuse visited her in wave after wave until the very end. The news of her death today, at the startlingly young age of 56, a year and a half after the death of her son Shane, feels at once like a shock and an inevitability. She broke through globally with a cover of Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U,” but you know that already. You have heard how she turns a breakup song into an expression of pure mourning, how she goes through all five Kubler-Ross stages of grief and then goes back and adds three more. It was huge in 1990, inescapable really, in a way no artist could replicate. And as for the ripping of the picture: we knew she was right, even then. [Read the Full Story]( [The Two Weirdest Years in Music]( The Two Weirdest Years in Music There is a moment in musical history, at the end of the ‘80s and the beginning of the ‘90s, that is not quite the former and not yet the latter. A formless, colorless span of time whose music can’t be lumped in with the peppy, preppy pop and rock of the Reagan era nor the groundbreaking indie, R&B, and hip-hop of the Clinton years, and is thus in danger of being forgotten. It’s not even a span of time as much as a silver. A slice: two or three strange years as one era evolved into another. This Slice is fizzy and sweet and ultimately not satisfying. It is the Diet Slice. The Diet Slice gets its name from the low-calorie version of Slice, a popular soft drink of the time which set itself apart from its shelf-mates by claiming to be somewhat natural; its can crowed “with 10% real juice,” later downgraded to “contains real juice,” and although I eventually stopped paying attention, I bet toward the end it was more like “is technically a liquid.” As a beverage, it was refreshing and indistinct. Like the music of the time, you would consume it if it were there, but you are never thirsty for it. [Read the Full Story]( Follow Us [Unsubscribe]( | [Privacy Notice/Notice at Collection]( esquire.com ©2023 Hearst Magazine Media, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Hearst Magazines, 300 West 57th Street, New York, NY 10019