We Monetized Intimacy. Now Everybody’s Lonely.

We traded depth for dopamine and there’s no turning back.

OnlyFans creator Sophie Rain’s earnings have supposedly topped $40 million this year alone. There’s debate on whether these earnings are real, but the broader point stands: the sexual creator economy is booming. Sophie didn’t need a business degree, a corporate job, or the kind of connections that traditionally pave the way to wealth. What she needed was something far simpler: the attention of men willing to pay for a fleeting sense of intimacy.

Sophie isn’t an anomaly. She’s emblematic of an industry where the boundaries between work, identity, and intimacy have blurred. Platforms like OnlyFans have taken something deeply personal—human connection—and turned it into a goldmine. It’s not sex work; it’s emotional labor rebranded and scaled. Men pay for access, validation, and the illusion of personal connection, and women, in turn, capitalize on the demand. The arrangement seems simple enough, but the implications are anything but.

The question isn’t just what this means for those involved—it’s what it says about and does to all of us. What happens when intimacy becomes something to buy instead of build?

The Rise of Emotional Capitalism

Human connection used to be earned. It required effort, vulnerability, and trust. But today it’s been repackaged as a commodity. OnlyFans, dating apps, and social media promise connection at the tap of a finger, turning attention into one of the most valuable currencies of the modern era.

On OnlyFans, creators grossed a collective $5.6 billion for the platform in 2022 alone. Top earners like Belle Delphine brought in over $1.2 million per month at their peak. Sophie Rain’s $40 million this year isn’t an outlier—it’s the new gold standard for success on platforms where the illusion of access is the product. Men pay for private messages, custom videos, or just the chance to feel seen by someone who has carefully crafted the appearance of closeness.

But OnlyFans didn’t create this dynamic; it just amplified a trend that was already reshaping the way we connect. Social media taught us to perform intimacy long before OnlyFans monetized it. Likes, comments, and shares became the new KPIs of connection, turning relationships into something measurable—and, inevitably, marketable.

This shift has consequences far beyond the economic. Transactional connection is almost oxymoronic. What’s left isn’t intimacy but its hollowed-out version—a performance designed to satiate but never fulfill.

Swiping, Spending, and Still Alone

For men, the effects of emotional capitalism are stark. Loneliness is on the rise, and the numbers speak for themselves: more than 60% of men under 30 report being single, and many say they feel left behind in a world where dating has become increasingly competitive. OnlyFans and social media offer us a lifeline of sorts—a way to scratch the itch of intimacy without the risk or effort of real relationships.

These platforms encourage parasocial relationships, where men feel deeply connected to creators who don’t even know they exist. On the surface, this seems relatively harmless—better to pay for connection than to feel completely alone, right? But over time, these one-sided bonds create a cycle of detachment from reality. The more men invest in these interactions, the less equipped they become to navigate the messiness of real intimacy. It’s easier to pay for validation than to earn it, and the more men rely on this, the less likely they are to break the habit.

Meanwhile, the traditional expectations for men—to “prove worth” through career, status, or stability—haven’t fully disappeared. Many men still feel the weight of those expectations, even as women’s independence has made those same roles feel obsolete. The result is a generation of men who feel stuck—underachieving, disengaged, and excluded from traditional relationships, where emotional capitalism now reigns supreme.

As for me? No, I’ve never paid for OnlyFans, but I, too, bear the cost of this Brave New World. It feels like forming genuine connections is harder than ever—not because it’s tough to find a woman who values real intimacy, but because the entire landscape has changed. With attention now a product and validation given so freely, it often seems like the bar for meaningful connection has been raised beyond reach.

But I’m far from a victim. I’ve turned away from intimacy more times than I’d like to count. I’ve ended relationships or walked away from women because the pool of options feels endless—a mindset shaped by the same attention economy I critique. Social media, dating apps, and platforms that monetize intimacy all feed into a system that floods us with curated, idealized versions of the most beautiful and perfect woman, making it feel like someone better is always just a swipe or click away. Maybe this is just how things work now, but it leaves me here, still single, searching of connection, and wondering if I’m just as much a part of the problem as the world I’m living in.

Trapped Between Curation and Connection

We’ve seen what this new world has done to men—left them detached, disillusioned, and craving connection in all the wrong places. But what about women? How does this same system reshape their lives and relationships?

Platforms like OnlyFans might seem like a way for them to reclaim control—a chance to monetize attention and achieve financial freedom on their own terms. But the boundaries between personal identity and product can never be fully disentangled. What does it mean when intimacy becomes a performance, where every interaction is calculated for impact? The cost isn’t just emotional—it’s relational, eroding the ability to authentically connect.

This dynamic doesn’t stop with creators. Even those who never step onto OnlyFans find themselves caught in the gravity of this new economy. Instagram and TikTok become more socially acceptable halfway points—spaces where young girls and women might not fully monetize their desirability but still actively curate and present themselves to the world with obvious sex appeal. In the end, women are drawn into an ecosystem where attention is the currency and self-monetization is the norm, whether or not they actively play the game.

And yet, the true cost of this shift potentially lies in how it reshapes women’s ability to connect. When intimacy is reframed as transactional, it doesn’t just redefine how others perceive women—it alters how women perceive relationships themselves. Authentic connection requires vulnerability, mutual investment, and trust, but these exist in direct tension with a world that rewards carefully curated personas. Over time, the skills needed for true connection are displaced by a constant negotiation of worth—whether that be in the form of dollar signs or digital hearts.

The result is a paradox: women are more visible than ever but increasingly isolated in their personal relationships. In this new economy, the pursuit of validation through attention leaves little space for the kind of connection that doesn’t need to be measured, scaled, or sold.

What We’ve Lost Along the Way

Sophie Rain is just 20 years old, and she’s made more money in a year than most people will in a lifetime. I don’t begrudge her success. But I also wonder what her story says about the rest of us. She’s not just an adult creator; she’s a product of a system that has turned intimacy into a sterile marketplace.

We’ve built a world where connection is easier to sell than to share, and the cost of that choice is starting to show. Love, intimacy, vulnerability—these things can’t be commodified. And yet both sides keep trying, hoping that maybe this time, the transaction will finally pay off.