There’s a particular kind of cognitive dissonance involved with being trans and visible online in 2026. Scroll your newsfeed long enough and trans people are treated like abstractions, talking points, threats. Scroll just a little further and those same people are being loved, tipped, subscribed to, flirted with, obsessed over, chased. While anti-trans lawmakers increasingly pass legislation restricting where and how trans people can exist, trans people are also the target of intense romantic and sexual desire.
Trans content creators have become more visible online in recent years (though brand deals have steadily dropped off for trans creators since 2023). Spicy creators are seeing a boon, too: According to PornHub’s 2025 Year in Review, transgender porn was the second most-viewed category of the year, up five spots from the previous year. For some trans content creators, this isn’t really a surprise: trans people are hot and have always been desired—the political noise around their existence, they say, is just manufactured bullshit.
“Nothing the political climate is or does will affect that people will find me attractive. And whether I’m trans or not doesn’t have a ton to do with people’s attraction,” says Bloody, a content creator who operates both in the safe for work gaming space and on the spicier paywalled side of OnlyFans. For her, experiencing desire online is both gender-affirming and simply “hot.”
For Memphis Oliver Murphy, a model and DJ whose stage name is Memphy, there’s a clear difference between the conversation she observes about trans people and the way she’s treated online.
“The contrast is major. In politics and mainstream media, especially with recent conversations about trans women just existing in public spaces like the bathroom, there’s this constant framing of us as ‘other,’ as something outside what society supposedly wants,” she tells Playboy. “But the engagement I experience online is the complete opposite. Social media has allowed me to exist in a space where individuality is celebrated rather than scrutinized, and where I’m met with curiosity, appreciation, and genuine connection instead of fear or moral panic.”
She’s also met with desire, which makes her feel powerful.
“It honestly feels incredible. In a moment where transness is often framed as something negative or controversial, being openly desired feels like a quiet but powerful contradiction to that narrative,” she says. “It reminds me that attraction isn’t universal, and it doesn’t have to be.”
Purrhime, Purr for short, is a non-binary cosplay and boudoir model. They see desire as more complicated—and more hard-won. Before coming out as trans, they spent much of their life being treated as “different” or undesirable because of their lazy eye, visible vision impairments, neurodivergence, and queerness. “I’ve actually struggled with the idea of being desired for a long time despite what I do for work,” they explain. In some ways, adding transness to the mix didn’t compound that feeling so much as clarify it. Once they felt safe enough to come out, they realized “doing boudoir modeling has actually helped me feel a lot more comfortable in my own skin—and in many ways helped me realize my identity.”
Memphis finds comfort in the control that social media offers her over her image, which “has been empowering in ways that feel essential,” she says. “Trans women deserve the ability to define ourselves, especially when so much media representation is filtered through stereotypes or designed to make us look harsh, undesirable, or inhuman. Being able to choose how I’m seen, and how my body and identity are presented, gives me a sense of agency and safety that isn’t always available to trans people in public life.”
That sense of agency resonates with Purr too. “Having control over my image and what I choose to show has honestly given me a lot of power and safety,” they say. They’re firm about their boundaries: no nudity, no sexual acts—limits they set early on to protect their mental health and navigate gender dysphoria tied to parts of their body they cannot change. Rather than restrict creativity, those boundaries have sharpened it. “Setting these hard boundaries and working within them has been incredible for my growth as a person and lets me think of fun new ways to keep creating sexy art.”
Sex sells, and while Bloody, Memphis, and Purr all evoke desire as part of their livelihood, that desire is often misunderstood. Bloody knows “people are attracted to me because I’m a hot lady. It’s not complicated. You see me, you’re attracted to me – that’s attraction to a person, not a category. Fetishization exists, and some trans women lean into that, which is fine (I don’t judge them). I’m just lucky enough to be able to say no.” Memphis echoes this. “People often misunderstand that attraction to a trans person is somehow separate from ‘real’ attraction. But desire doesn’t work like that. If someone finds a trans person attractive, they’re simply finding a person attractive, period. It isn’t about labels or outside opinions; it’s about genuine chemistry and connection. Attraction is personal, instinctive, and real, regardless of how society tries to frame it.”
Purr is candid about fetishization as well—especially in the current political climate. “It definitely can feel kinda weird being desired in one space while being openly hated in another,” they say. At times, they note, the desire they receive is rooted less in appreciation and more in objectification. “Not being seen as a person but rather a thing is at least something you sometimes have to learn to deal with on the job.” They keep dialogue open with their audience about respect and aren’t afraid to shut down interactions that cross a line. Having navigated fetishization even before coming out due to their disability, they’ve done the work to understand that behavior doesn’t define their worth.
They also push back on the idea that trans desire is new or niche. “People have been trans and have been attracted to trans people since the dawn of time,” they say. Trans sex workers, they add, have long been foundational to the adult industry. But they’re quick to emphasize that trans people are not a monolith. “For me personally, I love toeing that line of being a boy and a girl, or a girlish boy, or a boyish girl—or even just a concept,” they say with a smile. “But that isn’t everyone.”
While the political climate might not impact desire, it does impact trans people and their daily lives. For Bloody, it’s been difficult to get Hormone Replacement Therapy, despite being prescribed it for the past eight years.
“I have been having a hard time finding a doctor to prescribe me meds, meds that I need to live because I don’t produce hormones anymore,” she says. “So you know, that’s what the political climate is doing.” That real-life impact comes simply from her trying to exist, says Bloody. “Trans people are just a deep scapegoat in politics. We’ve never actually done anything to negatively affect the populace or any of these rich, billionaire political people. We are a small, tiny, fragile population of people just trying to live.”
Still, adoring fans have built communities that make Bloody and Memphis feel welcome and celebrated. Coming out is what helped Bloody become a content creator in the first place, and she knows her supportive community is something that many trans people don’t have. That community doesn’t just affirm her – it sustains others. “My community has raised over $230,000 for Trans Lifeline,” Bloody says. “We do charity streams pretty regularly. I also take the money I make and hire trans people – my editors are trans, my personal assistant is trans – and I try to pay people enough to actually get by.” She’s clear-eyed about the limits of that impact. “I can’t revolutionize an entire population. I can’t singlehandedly support a full charity. But I do everything I can in the small doses I can.”
