‘I’m Reclaiming My Power in A Violent World’

When I found out about the Atlanta shootings on March 16 last year, my whole body froze, and my heart sank into my stomach. Another anti-Asian hate crime in the prolonged waking nightmare since the pandemic began in 2020. But this one felt more sinister, hit closer to home. The criminal rampaged three massage parlors, killing eight people, six of whom were Asian women. Mainstream media reported that he had a “sex addiction” and wanted to “eliminate the temptation.” 

When I looked at the pictures of the victims and learned their names and stories, I found bits and pieces of myself in them: moving to a foreign land for “regular immigrant reason”, working in personal service industries that often employ women. Asian women in any predominantly white country face a specific combination of misogyny and racism. We are haunted by the hypersexualized stereotype of being exotic and subservient, subjected to lustful fantasies, but also violence and disgust. 

I am an Asian sex worker, and men who harbor that kind of mentality are an unavoidable occupational hazard. The ones who openly admit to their “Asian fetish,” the ones who ask, “Where are you really from?” or assume they know the answer, the ones who bring up my racialized features as a “compliment,” the ones who use the same features to insult me. These experiences are not unique to Asian sex workers, but they are more nakedly and shamelessly on display in my line of work. 

Harnessing the power of female sexuality in a violent patriarchal world is a double-edged sword. Doing so puts me in even greater danger, and exposes me to people and institutions who fetishize and marginalize me. But at the same time, sex work is one of very few avenues that allow me to earn a livable income as a neurodivergent, queer Asian immigrant. 

I started my modeling and online sex work career in late 2019, not long before the start of the pandemic. Men had been telling me I looked like a slut before I was even sexually active. Instead of wielding their words as a shield, I chose to sharpen my sexuality and wield it as a blade. But starting a high-risk business during the pandemic was already challenging, and doing so during a time of heightened anti-Asian sentiments and violence compounded the danger and number of obstacles. Harnessing the power of female sexuality in a violent patriarchal world is a double-edged sword. Doing so puts me in even greater danger, and exposes me to people and institutions who fetishize and marginalize me. But at the same time, sex work is one of very few avenues that allow me to earn a livable income as a neurodivergent, queer Asian immigrant. 

The harm of fetishization of Asian women is well documented, but when it comes to the way it specifically damages the well-being of Asian sex workers, society seems to condone it. Look to the past: As early as 1875, the Page Act barred immigration to Chinese women for “lewd and immoral purposes.” During the Korean War and Vietnam War, the US’s military established local sex tourism industry by opening “rest and relaxation” stations. They employed working-class women in bars, nightclubs, and massage parlors for sexual services, and then denigrated them for it. These tropes are also depicted in pop culture such as “The World of Suzie Wong” (1960), “Full Metal Jacket” (1987), and “Miss Saigon” (1989-2018), feeding into the stereotype that Asian women are alluring, sexually excessive yet subservient, that we need to be saved from our origins but also disposable because of it. 

Too often, our multiple ethnic and cultural identities and lived experiences are reduced down to a porn category. Men, especially white men, seek us out for our race yet devalue our time and energy, because it is acceptable to deem Asian women as cheap and disposable commodities rather than real people to be cherished and respected. Our dehumanization is status quo, and renders us even more naked and vulnerable than we already are. Racial fetishization spawns violence on both interpersonal and geopolitical levels, its lasting effects reverberating throughout generations, influencing our livelihood, the way we navigate the world, and our place within it. 

But being an Asian sex worker, or any sex worker of color, means that you must lean into the dehumanizing fantasies clients have in their head, and carefully leverage them to get you what you want. It often feels like playing with fire.

Here are some sex work logistics you might not know: Clients find me and my colleagues through racial keywords like “Asian Mistress” or “Asian fetish.” Websites or camrooms with “#Asian” drive more traffic, and content would be top seller if they are tagged and titled “Asian.” In order to boost visibility to generate income, I subject myself to this degrading yet banal process of reducing myself to racial epithets, or risk drowning in the sea of white-dominated algorithms. 

Even though my race has nothing to do with the services I offer, I am pressured by the media landscape, by the need to game the capitalistic system through making my race the selling point, and my skin and culture as a marketing gimmick. With each “Asian” tag I attach to my content, it feels like I am alienating and betraying myself by perpetuating the toxic idea that people should seek me out for my race because it’s the most attractive thing about me. 

Before potential clients even interact with me, my race already sets expectations, and precedes my style and persona. Usually within the first two sentences of their inquiries, I can tell whether they want to know me, or want me to play the stereotype. They say they “love” Asian women as their introduction, but what they have in mind for “Asian women” is very specific. They think they know everything about me, where I’m from, and what they’re entitled to just by my race—not unlike the men I encounter in my daily life. You may have ideas about the types of men who approach me, but these clients are not that different from the types of men I encounter in my daily life. These days, I don’t give men like this an ounce of my attention for free anymore, and not even for money. The people whom I let into my life, both personal and business, are those who understand that I am so much more than my appearance, that I am not defined by my race.

As a dominatrix, I carve out the space within this white male-dominated world to reshape the power dynamic and flip the stereotype on its head.

But race is not just skin color or culture, it’s a power dynamic. My work is BDSM and fetish-based, and power is as much of a currency to me as money. As a dominatrix, I carve out the space within this white male-dominated world to reshape the power dynamic and flip the stereotype on its head. I take back my power by humanizing myself, by untangling and rewiring harmful associations within people who dare to relinquish control and better themselves in service to me. I remind them that race has no correlation to one’s attractiveness or ability to dominate. I introduce them to parts of myself and my culture that are meaningful and worth celebrating in a non-sexual context. I show them that dominatrices, despite seeming larger than life at times, can still have our own vulnerabilities and suffering. 

These powerful moments are real, yet I remain painfully aware that it is still catering to a particular white male fantasy. There’s a certain confining parameter to this “empowerment” while still trying to survive patriarchal capitalism. In the blurry space between fantasy and reality, I keep up a constant and exhausting push and pull between empowerment and resignation—balance is so hard to achieve, and even more tiresome to maintain.

This is my reality, as well as the reality of a growing number of women seeking alternative ways to achieve financial stability, which in turn leaves them exposed to exploitation, legal persecution, and moral panic from the masses.

The nature of this business is volatile and unpredictable which requires us to constantly change and adapt ourselves to ever shifting laws, platform policies and keyword updates. It is so hard to keep up without compromising my values, but I find that I must stay true to myself if I want to survive. After my first sex work burn out, I stop dismissing my discomfort over using commoditizing my race and it from my marketing altogether. Instead, I focus on honing my skills and uniqueness as power to attract others. This may cost me some business, but expressing my sexuality on my own terms is invaluable to me. 

Sex work is the kind of work that can liberate or destroy a person, and it all depends on how sex workers are treated personally and structurally. Being an Asian sex worker is alienating even within the communities we belong in. Mainstream whorephobia means Asian civilians (non-sex workers) blame us for inviting the violence we face daily at this job, and shame us for perpetuating and catering to the white male gaze, which extends the idea that sex workers are disposable. Meanwhile, white sex workers frequently reduce Asian cultures to aesthetics and cosplay to latch onto for exposure, heedless of the harm they send our way. 

Asian sex workers everywhere deserve to be seen as complex humans with a plethora of lived experiences from all walks of lives. It is already absurd for us to have to raise this demand to begin with. We are not here for your approval, we are here to survive and prosper against all odds.