The Price of Survival: Dismantling the Systems That Commodify Women’s Bodies

From the moment we’re born, women are conditioned to see our bodies not as homes for our souls but as products for the world of men to consume. We’re taught our value lies in how desirable we are, how pretty we look, how in shape our bodies can be, how compliant, how silent we can remain in the face of a system that thrives on our sacrifice and erasure.

The male gaze — ever-present, ever-oppressive — defines how we are seen, how we see ourselves, and how we navigate a world designed by men to reduce us. Industries like porn, escort services, and platforms like OnlyFans don’t invent this objectification; they refine it, package it, and sell it back to us wrapped in a lie about empowerment.

I’ve known women who worked in sex work. They were girlfriends, friends, acquaintances — women who sat across from me over cups of tea, speaking their truths as easily as if they were talking about the weather. For them, it was just another part of life. But the stories they shared? They really fucking shook me. Not because of their choices, but because of the weight behind those choices.

Some described it as empowerment, a reclaiming of agency. Many asked me why they should work in a café or a bar, barely making ends meet, when they could make a couple of thousand pounds a week selling their bodies for sex — as if their choice was a no-brainer. Others spoke with a kind of quiet, withdrawn resignation, laying bare their trauma, financial desperation, or survival instinct sharpened by years of societal neglect — or a lack of family support — leaving them with no other choice.

Each story was different, yet the pattern was clear to me: none of these women arrived at this place in isolation. None of them dreamed of growing up one day and being a sex worker.

I tried to understand. I never judged. Why would I? This is a vastly complex subject matter. But I couldn’t shake the question: What brought them here? Was it agency? A sense of sexual liberation? Or was it desperation disguised as freedom? And where was society in all of this, other than watching, consuming, and profiting off their pain?

It was clear to me that platforms like OnlyFans, while marketed as empowering, often perpetuate the commodification of women’s bodies. These platforms don’t dismantle patriarchal systems but reinforce them by framing sexual liberation through a transactional lens.

The Lie of Empowerment

When it exploded during the pandemic, OnlyFans was hailed as a feminist revolution — a way for women to earn on their terms, from the ‘safety’ of their homes. But that’s a half-truth. OnlyFans wasn’t just for those already in adult entertainment. It became a shiny lure for thousands of women — single mothers, students, women who had lost jobs — who saw influencers flaunting their earnings with captions like, “Look how easy this is.” But was it really empowerment? Or just another mirage in a patriarchal desert?

Yes, there are women like Sophie Rain, a 20-year-old OnlyFans model, who reportedly earned $43 million in a single year. Her success is celebrated in headlines, and figures like ESPN’s Stephen A. Smith have noted that her earnings surpass those of many NBA stars. Rain even claims her career aligns with her Christian faith, saying, “The Lord’s very forgiving.” But stories like hers are the exception — misleading and not representative of the harsh realities of sex work.

The Reality of OnlyFans

The vast majority of women on OnlyFans don’t see life-changing wealth. They see endless unpaid hours, harassment, and the constant fear of leaked content. Some of the sex workers I have spoken to have had to create insider apps where they can let other sex workers know that they have been attacked by a ‘John’, to avoid him. They have had to warn each other off ‘violent’ clients. They are left to navigate a system that promises autonomy but delivers exploitation and danger.

Touching on the music industry, even artists like Lily Allen and Kate Nash have turned to OnlyFans — not for explicit content, but to connect with fans and survive in a collapsing music industry. While their use of the platform isn’t exploitative, it still reveals how even women with public platforms are forced into entrepreneurial survival strategies. What does it say about our society when even women at the top of their fields feel they must engage with platforms rooted in commodification just to make a living?

For the average woman, OnlyFans is yet another trap. It dangles the promise of empowerment while feeding on their desperation. Society clings to the narrative: Look at them. They chose this. But did they? I don’t think they did, actually.

The Myth of Choice

Let’s dissect that word: choice. Women don’t “choose” sex work the way we choose a dream career. No. Most arrive here because they have no other viable option. It’s not a choice; it’s survival. The pandemic didn’t invent these pressures — it magnified them. Women of colour, disabled women, queer women — those already on the margins — are hit hardest. And still, society tells them, You chose this.

And when women try to reclaim the narrative, we’re handed yet another lie: that sexual liberation through commodification is the pinnacle of feminism. Let me be clear: sexual agency matters. But we must ask: Who profits from this agency? And at what cost? When systemic pressures, economic disparity, and trauma shape these decisions, how free is that choice?

The Cognitive Dissonance of Men: Lessons from the Lily Phillips Documentary

Let’s talk about what everyone seems to be commenting on across social media in relation to this topic in the last few days… a female sex worker willingly had sex with over 100 men — for free!

The documentary “I Slept With 100 Men in One Day” chronicles OnlyFans performer Lily Phillips as she attempts to engage sexually with 100 men within a single day. The film provides an intimate look into Phillips’ experience, capturing her emotional and physical responses throughout the event. Notably, Phillips breaks down in tears during the documentary, expressing feelings of discomfort and disassociation. Despite the evident toll, she expresses a desire to push further, planning to have sex with 1,000 men in 24 hours in a future endeavour to break a world record.

I am not quite sure how she will physically do that, and I shall not lie, my brain isn’t capable of going there either. The concept of having sex with 1,000 men in 24 hours is highly improbable from a logistical, physical, and medical perspective. Now, I am not a genius at mathematics, but there are only 1,440 minutes in 24 hours. To engage with 1,000 men, each encounter would need to last just over 1.4 minutes. This timeframe would have to include transitions between participants, any necessary preparation, and potential breaks. Realistically, this would be impossible to manage.

Not to mention the physical toll. Repeated sexual activity within such a short timeframe could lead to serious physical harm, including tearing, infections, or trauma to the body. The risk of sexually transmitted infections (STIs) would also be extraordinarily high, even with strict use of protection. In short, it is insane, illogical, and indicative of someone who is not in their right mental state to attempt such a thing. Yet I guarantee you thousands of men will apply via her OnlyFans, and by applying, they will have to subscribe to her page. Money and notoriety. It cannot be worth what she is doing to receive it.

This kind of endeavour raises serious questions about the individual’s mental and emotional state. It suggests to me that there is a large degree of detachment or dissociation happening that could indicate underlying psychological struggles or societal pressures distorting what might otherwise be rational behaviour. The pursuit of extreme acts for financial or public attention often reflects the impact of commodification, trauma, or a desperate need for validation in a culture that rewards sensationalism.

The Backlash and Broader Debate

The documentary has ignited significant debate regarding the implications of such extreme acts within the adult entertainment industry. Critics and thousands of social media users — many hiding behind anonymous profiles and usernames the length of my arm — argue that these stunts perpetuate the commodification of women’s bodies and raise concerns about the physical and mental health of those involved.

That’s not even touching on the torrent of trolling comments calling her a slut, a whore, a dirty cunt, and worse. Notably absent from this vitriol is any mention of the various men — some married, some fathers, brothers, sons, grandsons — who travelled across the globe to have sex with her. The film, though in its simplicity, serves as a lens through which to examine broader societal issues related to objectification, consent, and the pressures faced by individuals in the sex work industry.

One moment cut to the heart of this issue for me. A young man — one of the ‘Johns’ — admitted feeling guilty about what he was doing. He confessed that if his father found out, he’d be thrown out of the house. That single admission revealed a deep truth: these men know. They know what they’re doing is exploitative, harmful, and wrong. And yet, they do it anyway.

Why Do They Do It?

Is it entitlement? A lapse in judgment? No, it’s something deeper: a societal conditioning that prioritises men’s desires over ethical considerations. They compartmentalise their guilt, justifying their actions by blaming women’s “choices” to be there. Shame, as it turns out, isn’t enough to stop harmful behaviour when the structures that enable and normalise it remain intact.

This moment of cognitive dissonance — the man knowing it’s wrong, fearing judgment, and still acting — exposes the dangerous feedback loop men are trapped in. Many grow up in a world where women’s bodies are commodified, and masculinity is equated with sexual conquest. This isn’t an accident; it’s the deliberate product of patriarchal conditioning, where power, dominance, and entitlement are sold as the ultimate markers of male success.

Powerful Men and the Culture They Shape

Look at Donald Trump on the cover of TIME Magazine, a man who bragged about grabbing women “by the pussy” without consequence — a statement excused as “locker room talk” but one that reverberated globally as a signal that misogyny is permissible when wielded by the powerful. Then there’s Andrew Tate, the self-proclaimed alpha male, whose misogynistic rhetoric has amassed millions of followers, including women who have internalised his toxic worldview. His philosophy reduces women to commodities and teaches men to revel in entitlement.

Closer to home, Conor McGregor embodies another facet of this dynamic. His hyper-masculinity, aggression, and veneer of invincibility — all celebrated by the media — mask troubling behaviours and allegations. His brand feeds into a culture that glorifies dominance and brushes off accountability as an inconvenience to success. These figures create a dangerous template for young men: empathy is dulled, accountability is sidelined, and gratification takes precedence over integrity.

But it doesn’t end there. Look at figures like Diddy and Jay-Z, two cultural titans celebrated as icons of success and resilience. They’ve shaped music, media, and business, yet their legacies are not without deeply problematic shadows. Diddy, currently facing allegations of sexual assault and abuse, is a stark reminder that immense power and wealth often shield men from accountability. Meanwhile, Jay-Z, despite rebranding himself as a family man and cultural philanthropist, has faced criticism for his infidelities and the ways his early career contributed to the objectification of women in hip-hop.

These men — Trump, Tate, McGregor, Diddy, and Jay-Z — represent the spectrum of this cultural epidemic. Some are more blatant, others more nuanced, but they all contribute to a framework where power and entitlement are rewarded, and the cost is borne by women. Young men look to them as role models, internalising the message that conquest equals masculinity and that the price of harm is negligible when measured against fame or fortune.

A Glimmer of Hope

And yet, even in this landscape, there are flickers of conscience. Like the man in the Lily Phillips documentary who confessed he’d be ashamed if his father knew, there’s often a small, unspoken awareness of wrongdoing. That spark of guilt, however faint, is the key. It’s proof that the system hasn’t entirely snuffed out empathy, and it offers a sliver of hope — if we’re willing to act on it.

But how do we foster that awareness? It starts with dismantling the very systems that shield these men from consequences. It requires a cultural reckoning with what we glorify and who we excuse. It means teaching young men that masculinity is not about dominance or entitlement but about respect, empathy, and integrity. And it means holding figures like Diddy, Jay-Z, and others to the same standards we demand of those less insulated by wealth and power.

Breaking the System

It’s easy to judge Lily or the women on OnlyFans. It’s harder to confront the culture that encourages these extremes for fame, clicks, or survival. And I have learned — or perhaps reached the conclusion — that it’s not enough to ask, Why do women turn to sex work? We need to ask, Why did we create a world where this was their best option?

• Education: Teach boys that empathy is strength, that consent is non-negotiable, and that women are not their entitlement.
• Economic Reform: Give women financial stability that doesn’t depend on selling their bodies — on the street or online.
• Challenging Stigma: Stop judging women for surviving. Start questioning the systems that exploit them.
• Media Responsibility: Enough with glorifying sex work as an easy path to success. Let’s talk about the risks, the trauma, and the truth behind the glamour.

A Call to Action

It’s not enough to see these systems and do nothing. Every time you say, “It’s their choice,” without interrogating the structures behind that choice, you are complicit. This isn’t just about sex work. It’s about dismantling a culture that commodifies women’s bodies and profits off their pain. The system isn’t broken — it was built this way.

Consider the harrowing reality: during the COVID-19 pandemic, vulnerabilities to human trafficking intensified. The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime reported that traffickers adapted to the pandemic by exploiting victims online, increasing risks of grooming and sexual exploitation.

In the UK, a 2023 report highlighted that prosecution rates for traffickers remain appallingly low. Meanwhile, nearly half of women feel unsafe walking the streets at night, and over a third alter their routes due to safety concerns. In Ireland, Ruhama reported a 30% rise in women affected by prostitution and human trafficking last year alone.

These statistics aren’t just numbers — they represent lives devastated by a system that commodifies women’s bodies and profits from their exploitation.

So I ask you: Look harder. Dig deeper. Stop hiding behind the lie of “choice.” Because women’s lives depend on it.