The $5 Like: How I Turned Instagram Into a Tiny Black Market for Attention

A couple of years ago, I turned my Instagram feed into a tiny black market for attention—literally charging $5 every time someone liked my posts. If they didn’t pay, I blocked them. If they wanted to be unblocked, they could pay the fluctuating fee in my bio—$117.34 one day, $472.85 the next. For a few months, this was how I ran my account. It wasn’t a joke, and I enforced it as if it made perfect sense.

At the time, I was struggling. My business felt shaky, I was overwhelmed, and social media—where I was supposed to “connect,” attract clients, and show what I could do—had started feeling strangely empty. People were liking my posts, sure, but it felt too easy. A like cost the audience nothing, yet it gave them something: a subtle way of saying “I’m here” without really putting anything on the line. It was a tiny, effortless exchange—one that, in theory, worked for both sides. But did it really?

One morning, feeling frustrated and restless, I thought: Why should this be free? If they cared about my content, why not make them prove it?

$5 for a Like

Fueled by that morning’s frustration, I decided to change the rules of engagement. So I announced new rules:

• Likes cost $5.

• If you like a post without paying, I’ll block you.

• To get unblocked, you could pay the fluctuating fee in my bio.

• Comments? They were free—even though I briefly considered charging for them too, until I realized it would kill the fun. If people couldn’t talk back without paying, what was the point? At least comments took effort.

As soon as I posted these rules, I committed. People immediately started testing me, liking posts just to see if I’d follow through. I did. I blocked them and made a spectacle of it—posting screenshots of their blocked accounts in my Stories like trophies. It wasn’t quiet rebellion; it was loud, public chaos, and I leaned into every second.

I remember refreshing my notifications with a weird mixture of adrenaline and resignation, half wondering, Am I actually proving anything? half enjoying how everyone suddenly cared so much about a single tap.

Some thought it was hilarious; others were confused or angry. My DMs lit up with messages ranging from “What the hell is this?” to “I respect the hustle.” A lot of people actually paid the $5 just to stay in the game—and keep playing. Most didn’t, so I blocked them when they balked. Watching people scramble to remove likes before I noticed—hesitate because a tiny reflex tap had suddenly become a high-stakes move—was oddly satisfying. I tracked who had paid, who hadn’t, and who was flirting with the line. I felt like I was running a tiny black market for attention, complete with daily price fluctuations like I was some unhinged day trader of Instagram engagement.

Oddly, the whole thing was a rush—yet exhausting, too. Every night, I’d crash feeling both triumphant and uneasy, half-laughing at the absurdity and half-dreading how many people I’d have to block the next day. All the while, another thought kept nagging me: people could have just scrolled. They didn’t have to tap “like.” They could have passively consumed, taking what worked for them and leaving the rest. Yet some folks couldn’t resist—even if it meant paying or risking a block. Maybe it was just muscle memory, or maybe that tiny tap felt like proof they’d been there. Either way, it wasn’t enough to simply look; they needed that click, no matter the cost.

Vacuuming and Vengeance

In the midst of all this, I turned the chaos into performance. One of my favorite bits was making videos of myself vacuuming, ranting as if I were a pissed-off roommate fed up with doing all the work. I’d push the vacuum back and forth, shouting into the camera: “Oh, you think likes are free? You think you just get to hang out here while I do everything? You don’t get to just sit there—pay up!”

The reactions were a mix of “This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen” and “This is honestly frightening.” Some people cracked up, sending me messages about how “genius” it was. Others felt unsettled, unsure whether I was joking or completely out of my mind. Watching those videos back, I wasn’t just entertained—I was proud. I wasn’t just ranting; I was acting, and it felt like I’d nailed it. There was something satisfying about committing so fully to the bit that it didn’t feel cringey or forced. In the middle of this strange system I’d created, I surprised myself—and maybe that’s why the whole thing stuck with me.

But fully inhabiting this role came at a cost. I’d turned my feed into a show with rules only I understood—some found it entertaining, but it also stirred consequences I didn’t expect.

No Free Passes

As the show went on, new complications emerged. One woman—someone who’d been around for years—liked a post during this period. She wasn’t just another curious onlooker; she’d signed up for one of my earliest offers when I first started building my online consulting business. Seeing her username gave me pause. This wasn’t a random follower testing my resolve—this was an old supporter who assumed she didn’t have to play by the rules.

When I tagged her in the comments, telling her to pay or be blocked, she sent me a DM. She wasn’t angry; just confused. She mentioned being part of my earliest programs, as if her history with me meant she was exempt—like longevity or loyalty gave her a free pass. Blocking her felt ridiculous, but at that point, I’d fully committed to the bit. Even loyalty didn’t get you a pass in this system. I’d built the rules, and I had to live by them. So I blocked her and posted the screenshot in my Stories, same as everyone else.

This time, people who knew her were furious. “What’s wrong with you?” “She’s been with you since the beginning!” they messaged. I understood their anger, but honestly? I think I did her a favor. She learned that assumed privileges don’t always hold, and I learned how much these hidden assumptions color our interactions.

My twisted system wasn’t about playing favorites—it was about making everyone confront the assumptions they carried around. She thought buying something five years ago permanently changed the rules. It didn’t.

A Twisted Economy of Attention

Over time, the system evolved. I introduced an “unlimited likes” package: pay a flat fee, and you could like as many posts as you wanted without fear. I tweaked the unblocking fee daily, posting green and red arrows like market trends. My feed became part live theater, part social experiment, part total chaos.

Between blocking people, updating fees, and showing off my “blocked trophies,” I invested way too much time maintaining this self-imposed nightmare. It was draining, both physically and emotionally, and the deeper I went, the more I felt like I had to keep going—it was as though stopping would make everything I’d poured in worthless. There was constant tension: should I keep going or stop before it all backfired? At one point, a key client sent me a DM saying my antics were off-putting and confusing. They hinted that this was why we hadn’t moved forward on a project. Hearing that stung—it meant my experiment wasn’t just a game anymore; it was affecting my livelihood. Had I gone too far?

But stopping felt like giving up too soon, like all the chaos would mean nothing. I told myself I was proving something, but what? That people valued likes differently when money was on the table? That a simple tap could become a high-stakes decision? Or was I just clinging to the strange sense of control it gave me—a system where I set the rules, no matter how absurd?

At the time, I didn’t think of it as a cultural critique. It definitely wasn’t a viable business model. I was just frustrated and wanted to call the shots. By charging for likes, I made everyone—including myself—question what a ‘like’ really meant.

People hesitated, scrambled, paid, or fumed. Others pivoted to comments—free yet demanding more effort—turning conversation into its own form of currency. Their reactions didn’t just fuel the system; they became part of the performance, shaping its chaos and momentum.

When the frenzy finally died down, I realized something else: people could’ve just scrolled or silently enjoyed the content. They didn’t have to like. But that tiny reflex felt bigger than the cost. By slapping a price tag on a tap, I forced them to decide how much they cared about being seen. It was never just a like; it was proof they were there—and suddenly, it wasn’t free.

I had disrupted something so fundamental that it had always gone unquestioned. It didn’t just push them to reevaluate the value of a like—it forced me to confront how much I needed their attention.