Between the Genders: My Queer Awakening Through Online Sex Work

FEATURE | MAHIMAHI / SEX

Written by Anonymous | Contributing Writer

Illustration by Tashi Donnelly (she/her) | @tashi_rd | Feature Editor

To many of us living under patriarchal and heteronormative capitalism, exploring one’s own gender identity and sexuality can be an undertaking both scarily daunting and beautifully liberating.

Identifying as a cisgender heterosexual male for the majority of my youth, I felt comfortable and confident in my own sexuality and preferences, and positive that my gender identity was that of a male—albeit less traditionally ‘masculine’ than many of my peers. Over the years, however, various things began to occur that made me question my gender identity and sexuality.

Memories arose from my early youth, likely repressed due to coming of age in a hyper-masculine and homophobic culture. Memories of reading a graphic novel of The Iliad when I was young and finding the depiction of the homoerotic relationship between Achilles and Patroclus to be strangely exciting. Memories of tracing delicate lingerie patterns onto the condensation-covered mirror after a hot shower, imagining my reflection adorned in an ever-changing assortment of fantasy bras and stockings. Memories of trying on my older sister’s dresses, in secret, just to see how it would make me feel.

Then one day, in my early twenties, I dropped LSD for the first time, and the egg truly began to crack.

As I looked back at my reflection in the mirror while under the influence of a powerful psychedelic drug, a few things became immediately clear to me. Long-haired and clean-shaven, with a massive serotonin-and-dopamine-flooded smile plastered across my face—I thought I looked like a woman. I thought I looked like a pretty woman. And it felt euphoric.

As I would later realise, this euphoria wasn’t solely due to the acid. It was gender euphoria—and it felt good.

Time passed. I spent years in a relationship with a cisgender woman with whom I shared an attraction to feminine people, regardless of what genitalia was between their legs. It was a relationship in which I felt comfortable and supported with my gender identity, expression, and sexuality as it changed, grew, and evolved over the years.

Then COVID hit, the economy tanked, and I started to brainstorm ideas for an alternative stream of income that might supplement my part-time wages while I studied at university. I remembered reading about an entrepreneurial young man from the UK who, although heterosexual, had become a successful online sex-cam worker and OnlyFans sensation, with the vast majority of his devoted (and well-paying) audience being gay men.

So—webcam in one hand, cock in the other—I dove into this exciting new enterprise with as much energy and vigour as my mentally stressed and economically broke spirit could afford.

What I discovered very quickly, aside from the very real monetary benefits (which were surprisingly pretty decent), was that I actually enjoyed it. It was fun. I liked being an abstract object of desire for people, regardless of their gender or sexual preference.

As I explored more with my comfort and limits with online sex work, I began to dress up more and more femininely when I performed on camera. I bought lingerie for myself and started wearing stockings, bras, and body-stockings. I applied lipstick and shaved my pubic hair. Already being a fairly androgynous-presenting male, I naturally grow very little body hair. This, combined with a freshly clean-shaven face, shoulder-length hair, red lipstick, and lingerie—I was feeling shockingly comfortable, feminine, and sexy in a way that felt entirely new and foreign to me.

What did this mean?

For someone who felt very little connection or affinity for traditional masculinity (as portrayed by society) growing up, there was no grand moment of illumination that totally flipped my perception of myself from masculine to something not-so. It was more of a gradual realisation and consolidation of thoughts and feelings that I had experienced for two decades. A recognition that no, I did not feel much like a boy or a man on the inside. And yes, in many ways, I felt more comfortable viewing myself internally as a woman—or at least, non-binary—but certainly not a man.

Being perceived by most of my online audience as a trans woman, I began to experience the ways in which some people interact with female-presenting individuals and the misogyny this entails.

Although far from being prudish and aware that I was providing literal porn to my audience, I was honestly shocked at how a small minority of these viewers would behave and speak to me in the cam room chat—to someone they perceived as a trans woman. Some of the most disrespectful, misogynistic, and transphobic comments that I had ever seen in my life would, upon occasion, appear across the chat screen. I would respond by promptly kicking the user from the chat and banning them from my cam room.

However, I am pleased to report that these instances, although provoking a fierce and unspeakable wrath to flicker and burn somewhere deep within my core, were few and far between. The vast majority of my interactions with the audience were warm, lovely, and respectful.

I even helped some people with their own struggles and insecurities around their gender identity and sexual preferences, with more than one person confiding in me in a private chat that they were confused by their own attraction to transfeminine people. What did it mean? they asked me.

I told them it meant whatever they wanted it to mean to them, and that what really mattered was treating everyone, regardless of gender and/or sexual identity, with respect. And to always respect people’s identities, avoiding fetishisation or dehumanisation of who they are as individuals.

Most of these people (the majority of them men) thanked me for listening to them and their thoughts, and for providing them with whatever advice I could.

As is increasingly evident with each passing year, the crushing monster of misogyny and the patriarchy swallows all of us without distinction—including cisgender heterosexual men.

While I initially started doing sex-cam work as a means to increase my income in a depressed and COVID-stricken economy, what I came to discover about myself was that the extra money was just a bonus. What I really enjoyed most was the gender euphoria of dressing and presenting femininely online.

As for what this meant for myself—did it mean that I was trans? Ultimately, at this point, I don’t really know or care. My identity was and is myself—masculine and feminine combined. Although I continue to use he/him pronouns and likely will for the rest of my life, ticking the box ‘male’ as a gender identifier just doesn’t feel totally correct anymore.

Despite having very little interaction with the local LGBTQ+ community over the years, as time has gone on, I have felt more and more alignment and affinity with queer culture and identity. My girlfriend is a queer woman, and I now have friends that are trans and lesbian. My own gender identity is as amorphous as it is elusive—Lately, my physical appearance aligns with styles often associated with butch lesbian culture.

If tomorrow someone assumed my gender and sexual identity to be that of a lesbian woman, I suspect the resulting gender-affirming euphoria would be overwhelming.

Much like my experience with gender euphoria, attraction is proving to be more fluid than I once thought. I still don’t feel a strong pull towards most men, but there’s something about a certain softness, a prettiness, that does resonate with me. Maybe, like my reflection in the mirror that night on acid, it’s another piece of myself I’m only just beginning to recognise.

Whatever happens next, I am excited and joyous to learn more about myself on the way. If discovering my own gender euphoria has taught me anything, it’s that joy itself can be an act of defiance. I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t need them—I just know that each step forward brings me closer to something that feels real, something that feels like me. 

And truly, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart—fuck Brian Tamaki, fuck J.K. Rowling, and fuck Elon Musk too. Fuck the lot of them, the fascist swine.