Sex Work Is Cool Now — And That’s a Good Thing
A few years ago, when I told someone I was a sex worker, I braced for impact. The judgment, the assumptions, the moralizing. It all came fast. Today? I say it and get curious questions, DMs asking for advice, or someone sheepishly admitting they’ve been “thinking of starting an OnlyFans.” The shift isn’t perfect, but it’s real. And to be honest? It feels good.
Sex work is having a moment. Not just in the shadows or behind locked accounts, but in the cultural mainstream. On TikTok, creators talk about sugaring, stripping, and camming with casual confidence. Podcasts like The Whorecast, Private Parts Unknown, and Sluts & Scholars explore the emotional, political, and pleasurable layers of this work. Even mainstream celebrities — from Cardi B to Julia Fox — are unapologetically referencing their sex work roots.
Sex is cool now. Not just in a cheeky “I’ve got a vibrator in my nightstand” kind of way, but in a full, honest, public-facing way. The kind of cool that gets you brand deals, podcast invites, and articles in mainstream magazines. It’s on Instagram, in your favorite influencer’s link-in-bio, and in the way we talk about autonomy, identity, and liberation.
As a sex worker, I welcome it.
For decades, those of us who work in the sex trade — whether online, in clubs, on cam, or in person, have existed in the margins. We’ve been essential to culture, pleasure, and fantasy, yet excluded from safety, rights, and respect. So when I see the explosion of OnlyFans creators, sugaring becoming part of dating discourse, and people openly talking about their “soft launch” into adult work? I don’t roll my eyes. I exhale. This is the world catching up.
Some argue that this new wave of sexiness is performative or capitalistic. They’ll say being a “bimbo” is just a rebrand of patriarchy, that kink is being co-opted by people who’ve never done a scene, or that being “horny online” is a phase. But here’s the truth: when more people feel safe embracing their bodies, exploring power dynamics, and profiting from their erotic capital. That’s not regression. That’s reclamation.
Sure, not everyone calling themselves a “sex worker” has lived the same labor-intensive reality as those doing survival-based or street-based work. And yes, this visibility comes with risk: co-option, misunderstanding, and increased policing. But I’d rather live in a world where being sexually expressive is normalized than one where it’s criminalized.
When sex becomes a topic people feel comfortable discussing, when creators can say “yes, I monetize my nudes,” and when people start challenging shame-based morality we all benefit. Not just sex workers, but everyone who’s ever felt their sexuality made them dirty, deviant, or disposable.
So is sex “cool” now? Maybe. But the bigger win is that it’s becoming something else: honest, human, and worthy of respect.
There’s a predictable backlash, of course. Articles argue that the “sexualization of everything” is bad for women. Critics say the rise of sex work online is just capitalism finding a new body to monetize. And some within the movement worry that the influx of “hot girls with ring lights” on platforms like OnlyFans is erasing the struggles of street-based or survival workers. These conversations matter, but they shouldn’t erase the bigger truth: when sex work becomes safer, more visible, and less shameful, we all win.
Let’s be honest: sex has always been for sale. What’s changing is who gets to profit, and how open they’re allowed to be about it.
According to a 2021 report by Statista, OnlyFans grew from 7 million users in 2019 to over 170 million by 2021. That growth didn’t just come from porn addicts and lonely dudes, it came from people who wanted to pay creators directly. People who see sex work as intimate, curated, and collaborative. That shift in mindset is powerful.
Visibility doesn’t solve everything. It doesn’t end stigma overnight. I’ve still had content removed, accounts shadowbanned, payments held. And trans, disabled, Black, and Indigenous sex workers continue to face disproportionate risks online and offline. But we now have language, platforms, and solidarity we didn’t have even five years ago.
When sex work is seen as a legitimate path, not just something you’re forced into, but something you can choose, enjoy, and define on your own terms. It sends a message. It tells people they have agency over their bodies. That pleasure is not a dirty word. That desire doesn’t have to be hidden to be respected.
The rise of “sex as a vibe” may look aesthetic on the surface, velvet lingerie, neon signs, zodiac memes about choking, but behind it is something deeper: people daring to ask for what they want. To set boundaries. To say, “Yes, I like being desired.” And sometimes? To make a living from it.
And if the internet’s favorite influencer gets a few thousand likes for her thirst trap while I book another client or sell another video, we’re both winning. The more normalized sex work becomes, the more power we all reclaim.
