sexual liberation doesn’t exist

the gaze is still male, even when we hold the camera.

Sexual liberation was supposed to mean freedom. Autonomy. A full-bodied yes. But somewhere along the way, we confused being sexual with being sexualized. We decided that feeling desirable in the third person was the same as desire itself. And now, too often, what gets praised as empowerment is really just performance: of availability, of openness, of hotness.

We’re not embracing our sexualities, we’re embracing being sexualized. We’re internalizing categories made by men and finding comfort, even pleasure, in fitting into them. We derive our power from how well we can seduce the male gaze, then call it feminist when we enjoy the validation. We think because we’re in control of the performance, we must be free. But who is this performance for?

This isn’t a purity argument, and it isn’t about sex being inherently bad. It’s about recognizing that calling something liberation doesn’t make it so, especially when the stage, the script, and the applause are still owned by someone else.

Modern Tools, Old Scripts

OnlyFans is often held up as proof of a new era: women profiting from their own image, selling access to their bodies and erotic selves without a middleman. It’s a seductive narrative. Direct-to-consumer sexiness. Autonomy with a cashout. But the system it operates within hasn’t changed, it’s simply adapted.

The truth is, most of the content that thrives on these platforms doesn’t challenge norms; it reinforces them. The same old fantasies. “Submissive,” “girlish,” “eager to please,” still top the charts. The camera angles, the aesthetics, the power dynamics remain painfully familiar. You might be your own boss now, but the consumer is still king. And the king, more often than not, wants the same thing he always did.

Even our so-called freedom is tiered. Race, class, and desirability politics intersect to decide whose “liberation” sells. What gets called empowerment for some still means invisibility, fetishization, or exclusion for others.

This isn’t far from what Playboy was doing decades ago. The packaging was more polished, the marketing more controlled, but the underlying principle was the same: sell the fantasy of the desirable woman to the men who feel entitled to her. The Playboy Bunny wasn’t a symbol of liberation. She was a symbol of compliance dressed up in satin and ears.

Now, instead of a magazine spread, it’s a subscriber count. Instead of a casting director, it’s an algorithm. But the fundamental power dynamics remain. We’re not subverting the system, we’re self-managing within it. We’re curating our own objectification and calling it agency.

My Body, Whose Choice?

We see this collapse of performance and liberation in fashion too. The rise of hyper-revealing clothing has been defended under the banner of "my body, my choice" and on paper, it is. But when the styles that dominate are those that mimic porn aesthetics, when the default expression of femininity is tight, sheer, and always just a little bit hungry for attention, you have to ask: whose desire are we really dressing for?

There’s nothing wrong with showing skin. But when empowerment only registers as sexiness, when the outfits we call liberating still cater to the same gaze that once punished us for wearing them, we’ve circled back into captivity. A prettier kind, maybe. One with better PR. But captivity nonetheless.

We’ve learned to feel good about being wanted. We’ve been taught that attention is power. That hotness is currency. That being the kind of person others want to fuck is the highest form of feminine success. It’s no wonder so many of us find pleasure in playing the part, we’ve been told that performance is the path to freedom.

But pleasure isn’t the same as power. And visibility isn’t the same as agency. We’re not free just because we like the cage.

What Sexual Agency Really Looks Like

So if this isn’t it, if this curated, commodified, performative sexuality isn’t liberation, then what is?

It’s harder to define, because it’s quieter. It doesn’t come with an aesthetic. It might not even come with an audience. True sexual agency isn’t about being seen, it’s about being felt. It’s rooted in presence. In saying yes because you want to, not because you’re supposed to. In saying no without apology. In wanting things that are messy, tender, off-script.

Real agency means feeling your desire without translating it into marketable content. It means asking what you want when no one else is watching. It might look like dressing up, or dressing down. Hooking up, or staying home. Showing off, or staying sacred. The point is that you choose, not in reaction to a gaze, but in conversation with yourself.

And sometimes, that choice will be sexy. Sometimes, it won’t. Either way, it’s yours.

The Stage Isn’t Ours

We’ve been told we’re free because we can choose to be seen. Because we can sell our image on our own terms. Because we can wear what we want and name it empowerment. But if the framework never changed, if the audience is still the same, if the camera is still pointed in the same direction, then maybe what we’ve been sold isn’t liberation. Maybe it’s just better lighting.

We confuse attention with power. We confuse being desired with being in control. We’re taught that if we enjoy being watched, we must be winning. But how much of our joy is still about proving we’re worthy of being wanted? How many of our choices are actually ours?

None of this is about shame. It’s about noticing how easily liberation becomes costume. How the same systems that once punished us for our sexuality are now turning a profit from it, and calling that progress.

If we ever want real freedom, it won’t come from perfecting the performance. It’ll come from stepping behind the curtain. From figuring out who we are when we’re not being watched. From wanting things that aren’t aesthetic or monetized or even explainable.

We don’t have to be palatable to be powerful. We don’t have to be sexy to be sovereign. We don’t have to be seen to be real.
And maybe—just maybe—liberation isn’t something we show. It’s something we feel.

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