Being A Creative Feels Like Prostitution

YES, I KNOW. 'MIMI THIS IS QUITE A HEADER??"

Wait..WAIT. Theologically (BIBLE STUDY HACK), ‘prostitution’ isn’t only about sex, it’s about the misuse of what is sacred. It’s the selling of sacred access under conditions of unequal power. Turning something that should never be sold into a product.

When I say being an influencer/creative feels like prostitution, I’m speaking firsthand.

Let Me Be Real About Money

Last year I had to be honest with myself and get a job.

One, I wanted to grow and have a career and actually learn something beyond how to angle my phone for better lighting. Two, being realistic with my finances…I can’t be up and down forever, checking my bank account with genuine anxiety every morning, wondering if that brand payment from three months ago will finally clear. It was cute when I was 22-25, living off vibes and the occasional brand deal that took four months to arrive. But I’m 28 now.

I like stability and I don’t like gambling my entire existence on whether brands decide to use me or not.

What about the months I’m not active because of private stuff, because I’m depressed, because some personal stuff, because I’m just fucking tired of performing? NO. Should I just suffer and take the beating from the algorithm? NO. Watch my engagement plummet and my “value” to brands evaporate because I dared to be human for a few weeks? NO.

Or should I ragebait just for engagement? NO. Post something deliberately inflammatory, pick fights, manufacture drama I don’t even believe in, just to stay relevant? NO.

Or try to force friendships with other influencers/creatives just to be seen? NO. Show up to events with people I don’t even like, take photos pretending we’re best mates, all for the social currency of being photographed together? NO.

I beg... I have real friendships. I don’t want industry friends who all secretly HATE each other but keep up appearances because being seen together benefits both of your engagement rates. It’s so highschool coded, worse than highschool actually.

Me looking at the 2023-25 landscape

Just Yesterday, Creator Aisha Posted This Reality Check

It’s 28th January 2026, and she’s still chasing money from October and November 2025. Three to four months late. Let that sink in.

“Everybody wants to be an influencer, everyone wants to be a creator until it’s time to get paid,” she said in a TikTok that’s been making rounds. She’s literally counting down the days, watching invoices age like fine wine nobody asked for, while brands sit on her money like it’s theirs to hold hostage.

“Do you know how fucking cheeky that is?”

Yes, Aisha. We ALL do. Because we’ve ALL been there.

And the wildest part? She specified she didn’t even work with them in October or November meaning these are invoices from before that, probably August or September. We’re talking five, six months overdue. Nearly February and she’s still hunting down money from late summer.

This is the creator economy in real time. Not the aesthetic grid posts. Not the “living my best life” reels. This is the behind-the-scenes reality nobody wants to talk about: grown adults having to publicly threaten brands on social media just to get paid for work they already did, delivered, and watched generate profit.

Because here’s the brutal reality about being a content creator that nobody wants to say out loud: it’s the complete lack of CONSISTENCY in what you actually get.

When you’re not signed to a major agency or if you don’t have the best network pushing you, you do not know when, or if…you will see the next cheque. And I’m being so so real because mate, we are in a RECESSION and the good old heyday of 2020 when brands and agencies thought “black is cool let’s throw money at the community” during the BLM uprising, those days are gone, done, finished, never coming back.

Let me give you the numbers they don’t want you to know:

87% of creators have been paid late or faced payment issues, often waiting 60-180 days for money they’ve already earned. Imagine doing your job, delivering the content, watching the brand profit off your face and your audience, and then waiting half a year to get paid.

Meanwhile, your rent is due NOW. Your bills are due NOW. You’re supposed to just… what? Live on air?

Some creators have been so desperate they’ve resorted to publicly “naming and shaming” brands on social media just to pressure them into paying overdue invoices. UK influencer Yasmin Johal revealed in 2020 she was owed over £3,000 by brands, with £1.3K of it past due, leaving her with £27 in her bank account right before Christmas. Twenty-seven pounds. After working her arse off creating content, building engagement, delivering value to brands.

Aisha’s video is just the latest in a long line of creators being forced to beg publicly for money they already earned. The fact that this is normalized, that we’ve accepted “I’m coming for you” threats as a legitimate business practice, tells you everything about the power dynamics at play.

Only about 4% of creators make over $100k a year. Four percent. Meanwhile, 57% of full-time creators earn less than a living wage, we’re talking under £44k, with over half making under £15k annually. You’re working full-time, pouring your life into this, and you’re making less than minimum wage when you actually calculate the hours. BECAUSE IT LOOKS GOOD????

The top 1% on Twitch get over 50% of all revenue. It’s an extreme power-law distribution where a tiny elite thrive while the vast majority are scraping by, taking brand deals they don’t believe in just to survive, promoting products they’d never actually use, slowly selling off pieces of their integrity just to make rent.

And if you think you can just negotiate better rates? Think again. Brands will literally offer creators “exposure” instead of payment. As if exposure pays bills. As if your landlord accepts Instagram impressions.

This is the power imbalance.

The BLM Bait-and-Switch: How Black Creators Got Used and Discarded

And for Black creators specifically? We got used. Exploited. Tokenised. Thrown away.

In 2020, amid Black Lives Matter protests and global racial reckoning, brands were falling over themselves to work with us. Suddenly every company wanted a Black face in their campaign. They were apologising for past exclusion, promising change, pledging investment in Black creators and diversity initiatives. Some brands even admitted they’d never worked with Black influencers before and were “sorry” for that oversight.

2020-23

For a brief, shining moment, it felt like maybe things were changing. Black creators saw opportunities surge, brand partnerships, influencer campaigns during Black History Month, dedicated creator funds. Nicole Ocran, a Black British podcaster and fashion influencer, saw her following and brand interest explode in 2020. She was getting outreach from brands admitting their past non-inclusivity and wanting to do better.

By 2023, Black British creators were reporting their worst financial year EVER as creators.

The invitations dried up. The opportunities vanished. The diversity budgets got quietly cut or “reallocated.” The brands that were so apologetic in 2020 went radio silent.

One study found Black UK influencers earn 34% less than white counterparts for the same work. Not slightly less, 34% less. For identical collaborations, identical follower counts, identical engagement rates. The pay gap actually widened since 2020. All that talk of equity and inclusion made things worse.

Nicole Ocran called 2023 her lowest earning year ever as a creator. Far less interest from brands, barely any invitations to events or press trips, a sense that the industry’s focus on diversity was “a backwards step” compared to 2020. She didn’t see any major Black History Month campaigns in 2023 and was invited to only one BHM-related event.

Fellow Black influencer Ellesse put it bluntly: “If the only content creators getting paid during Black History Month are white, we have a problem.” She used to get booked for both Pride and Black History Month campaigns. In 2023? Zero. Nothing. Complete silence.

What happened? “Diversity fatigue.” Companies treated the 2020 racial reckoning like a trend that had run its course. As Alvin Owusu-Fordwuo from UK’s Tag Agency noted, there was an attitude of “three years on, you had your moment.”

As if systemic racism has an expiration date. As if Black creators deserved attention for a news cycle and should now be grateful for whatever scraps they get.

Everybody say yeah yeahhhhhh

Brands reverted to “business as usual”, picking collaborators purely by follower counts and engagement stats, “letting diversity and inclusion fall by the wayside.” Never mind that Black creators might have smaller metrics specifically because of historical underpromotion, algorithmic bias, and the very exclusion brands were supposedly addressing.

As Ellesse said: “In 2020 it was about ‘what does this person bring to the table’ rather than ‘what do this person’s stats bring’... Now brands are entirely risk-averse and view Black creators as a risk.” Translation: Black influencers are seen as less profitable, less safe, less desirable. So companies default to the homogenous pool of white creators who “seem safer”, a self-fulfilling cycle that denies opportunities to talent of colour.

We were used for corporate virtue-signaling and are now disposable.

This is exactly like prostitution. During the “hot moment,” the client showers attention and money, but out of self-interest, for their own needs (in this case, brands’ PR needs during a racial reckoning). Once those needs are satisfied, the worker is cast aside. Used and discarded.

The psychological impact of going from actively courted to invisible is brutal. As Ellesse observed: “Brands have lost any kind of integrity they claimed to have in 2020. Now they only care about making money.” She noted that some white creators are still being “paid generously,” so budget cuts aren’t the excuse, it’s where the money is being allocated. Right back to white influencers, like nothing ever changed.

Multiple Black creators described feeling tokenised by predominantly white marketing teams who expect Black talent to be “grateful” for the little opportunities they get. There’s a lack of Black decision-makers in the industry, so the same biases keep repeating. The homogeneous leadership hires homogeneous talent, and the cycle continues.

The Algorithm Rewards Your Worst Self: How Platforms Pimp Out Negativity for Profit

Here’s something that will genuinely shock you: Facebook’s algorithm weighted an “Angry” reaction as five times more valuable than a “Like” for years.

Let that sink in. Five times. From 2017 onwards, Facebook’s system systematically boosted content that made people angry because rage kept people scrolling. Facebook’s own data scientists later confirmed that posts with lots of angry reactions were disproportionately misinformation, toxic, and low-quality. But the algorithm didn’t care about quality, it cared about engagement.

As whistleblower Frances Haugen told the UK Parliament: “Anger and hate is the easiest way to grow on Facebook.”

check the newspaper then lol

The platforms know this. They have the internal research. They see the data. And they choose profit over wellbeing anyway. They are, effectively, algorithmic pimps, pushing creators toward toxic behaviour because that’s what generates engagement, which generates ad revenue.

YouTube’s recommendation engine has historically pushed users toward increasingly extreme content to keep them watching, the “rabbit hole” effect.

X’s algorithm favors tweets that spark outrage because more replies and quote-tweets equal more engagement. TikTok’s For You Page can make you viral overnight, but only if you’re willing to do increasingly shocking things to capture attention in a three-second window.

This creates a perverse incentive: be your worst self or be invisible.

Look at UK stream culture, creators who push negativity and clickbait consistently because they know it drives numbers. The “cloutrage” economy: using outrage to gain clout, manufacturing controversy for views, pushing boundaries until something breaks.

And it WORKS. That’s the sick part. The system rewards it with visibility, with followers, with money. The creator who posts measured, thoughtful content gets drowned out. The creator who posts rage-bait, exposing, or does something deliberately inflammatory trends for days.

As one commentary put it, we’re in an “amoral, algorithmic universe that rewards anything that garners attention” regardless of harm. It’s a “twisted form of online entrepreneurship” where the product is outrage and the payment is engagement.

This is structural coercion. Just like a pimp might push a sex worker to do increasingly risky or degrading acts because “that’s what the clients want,” platforms push creators toward increasingly toxic content because “that’s what the algorithm rewards.” You might not want to. It might violate your values, damage your mental health, harm your community. But if you want to eat, if you want to stay relevant, you do it anyway.

Those influencers in ‘Dubai’, luxury everything, but barely any visible brand deals? We ALL see them. We all know something doesn’t add up. How are they really funding that lifestyle? They’re not HONEST about it. Whether it’s sugar dating, OnlyFans, escorting, crypto schemes, family wealth….there’s a massive gap between the image and the economic reality.

But admitting that would shatter the illusion. So the performance continues. The lies continue. Because the industry runs on aspirational fantasy, not truth.

Love Island: When You Sell Your Love Life for Content

Love Island contestants go on supposedly to find love. Everyone knows the real goal: launch an influencer career, get brand deals, become famous. Your relationships, kisses, heartbreak, tears, sex, all sold to millions of viewers.

During filming, contestants are paid about £250 per week, basically minimum wage. Meanwhile, Love Island generates millions in revenue. The contestants, whose actual lives are the content, get poverty wages.

Most contestants don’t get substantial deals after they leave. Once there’s a new season, brands move to the fresh roster.

Nathan Massey won Love Island 2016. Six months later, his agent told him “nobody wants to pursue you guys anymore.” He was back doing construction with his dad, describing it as devastating, “ashamed,” like he’d failed. But he hadn’t failed. The public’s attention just moved on.

During the show, you’re isolated, surveilled 24/7, manipulated by producers for drama. You have no control over how you’re portrayed. When episodes air, you watch a version of yourself, a character producers created from your real life, get crucified by millions of people.

At least four people associated with Love Island have died by suicide. Two former contestants: Sophie Gradon in 2018, Mike Thalassitis in 2019. The show’s host Caroline Flack in 2020.

Faye Winter from 2021 spoke of being “in a really dark place” after the show due to relentless trolling, unable to eat, consumed by anxiety, feeling like the world hated her for a version of herself she didn’t recognise.

You sell your love life, your vulnerability, your emotional breakdowns for public consumption. You trade the most private, sacred parts of human experience for a shot at fame. The show profits enormously. You get £250 a week and trauma. EXCUSEEEEEE

What’s Actually Being Sold: The Sacred Stuff

This is where theology matters.

Prostitution is the sale of sacred access under unequal power. It takes something meant to be private, holy, and intimate, and turns it into a commodity. Often this happens through economic pressure or structural coercion, not free choice.

But sex is not the only thing that is sacred.

Authenticity is sacred. Your real self. Your honest thoughts. Your personality. In the creator economy, authenticity becomes a product. You do not simply share your thoughts. You perform them for algorithms. Vulnerability is staged. Emotion is timed. Everything is shaped for approval, reach, and engagement.

Intimacy is sacred. In the creator economy, intimacy is monetised through parasocial relationships. Followers feel emotionally close to someone they do not know. That one-sided bond becomes the asset. Trust is built, then sold to brands. Friendship itself becomes the product.

Creativity is sacred. The urge to make something meaningful. In the creator economy, creativity is reduced to content. Value is measured by metrics, not truth or depth. The guiding question is no longer “Is this honest?” or “Does this matter?” It becomes “Will this perform?” and “What is the engagement rate?”

Structural Coercion

Prostitution has never been about free choice in a vacuum. It comes from inequality, poverty, limited options.

The creator economy follows the same structure.

You are not “free” when the choice is perform your life online or struggle to live. You are not free when stable work pays less than visibility. You are not free when clout is framed as the only path out.

That is not passion. That is coercion with good lighting.

The power imbalance is total:

Platforms control visibility and income without accountability. Algorithms change rules without explanation. Brands delay payment, offer exposure, or drop you overnight. Agencies take large cuts. No unions, protections, or stability. One cancellation can erase years of work.

You sell access to your inner life under conditions where you hold no power.

Perform or disappear. Commodify or starve.

You guys read my substack right now:

When Engagement Has Casualties

Reality TV suicides. Influencers openly suicidal. Widespread burnout, anxiety, identity collapse.

When your worth is measured by metrics, when your relationships become content, when your survival depends on public approval, something breaks. You split in two. The person and the brand. The gap grows. You feel hollow, fraudulent, trapped.

And if you pause for mental health, the system punishes you. Reach drops. Brands disappear. Income vanishes.

So you push through the crisis….

Me writing

So I Got A Fucking Job

At 28, I’m not doing this anymore on these terms.

I want stability. I want to wake up knowing I’ll get paid for my work. I want to separate my personal life from my professional life. I want to build skills that matter beyond “understanding the algorithm.”

I’m not gambling my entire existence on algorithmic favor that could disappear tomorrow.

I’m not ragebait-posting just to stay relevant.

I’m not forcing parasocial intimacy with thousands of strangers who think they know me but don’t.

I’m not accepting “exposure” as payment while brands make millions off my face and audience.

I’m not waiting six months to get paid for work I did half a year ago while my landlord demands rent today.

I’m not posting threatening TikToks just to shame brands into paying invoices that should’ve cleared months ago.

I’m not participating in an industry that saw my Blackness as profitable for one PR moment during BLM and then discarded me when the moment passed.

My authenticity is not a product. My relationships are not content. My creativity is not a metric. My intimacy is not a commodity. My sacred self is not for SALE.

I got a job and I have a career. I chose stability over the gambling addiction of chasing virality. I chose mental health over metrics.

I chose to stop prostituting myself.

And I’m not ashamed of that. I’m relieved.

ME AT WORK

The Uncomfortable Truth

The creator economy is a digital red-light district dressed up in aesthetic posts, ring lights, and brand deals.

It promises freedom, creativity, wealth, fame. It delivers precarity, exploitation, mental health crises, and the slow erosion of your sense of self.

It takes the most intimate parts of human experience, authenticity, connection, creativity, love, and turns them into products to be optimised, monetised, and discarded when they stop performing.

The platforms are the pimps. The brands are the johns. The audience is complicit, consuming intimacy as entertainment, rewarding controversy with engagement, demanding constant access while giving nothing in return.

And the creators? We’re the ones selling ourselves. Sometimes willingly, often out of necessity. Always under conditions we don’t control, in a system designed to extract maximum value while providing minimum protection.

Aisha shouldn’t have to threaten brands on TikTok to get paid. Yasmin shouldn’t have been left with £27 before Christmas. Black creators shouldn’t have been tokenized during BLM then ghosted when the PR moment passed. Love Island contestants shouldn’t trade trauma for £250 a week.

None of this is normal. None of this is okay.

And I’m done pretending it is.