The Bop House made $10 million in December alone. @bophouse/Instagram


February 11, 2025   6 mins

Six young women in clinging tops and Pokemon slippers line up outside a Florida mansion. A cutesy song plays; they jump in tandem, turning to show off their jiggling bodies from every angle. Welcome to Bop House, a TikTok page and digital meat market of age-ambiguous OnlyFans models with a collective following of more than 33 million. These girls have formed a sorority of sorts, creating content day in, day out and chasing algorithm-friendly trends: on Sunday, they flew to the Super Bowl on a private jet; last month, they filmed a dystopian review of viral cookie brand Crumbl, in every way seeming like a gang of teenaged friends at a sleepover.

“Bop” is Gen Z slang for “baddies on point”, but has developed the spittle-flecked cadence of “slut”; these young women dance, pose, joke and tease millions of TikTok viewers as an extended advertisement for their individual OnlyFans porn accounts. Every now and then, a young edgelord will copy and paste what has become the stock snarky response to OnlyFans content: “Wonderful! Honourable! Optimistic! Radiant! Excellent!” Calling these influencers “whores” savagely scratches an understandable itch: acknowledging the true nature of these videos, supposedly innocuous clips which act as shopfronts for wank material.

The fact is that these influencers have carved out a role in mainstream social media, with the grim nature of their trade couched in cosy euphemism: they make “spicy content”, we are told, probably to remove the shame factor of slinging a teenager a fiver a month to see her boobs. (Shame, after all, is bad for business.) Not only have many of the eight Bop House “creators” neglected to make their ages public, but they have specifically styled themselves to look incredibly young. Twenty-year-old Sophie Rain, the best known of the group, is set to make $60 million this year from her childlike looks and the lure of her self-described virginity. For the babes of the Bop House, this tactic has worked: it made $10 million in December alone.

Their fans are not just slobbering men, but girlypop supporters who crowd out their comment sections with club-bathroom-style compliments (“Camilla’s outfit eats”; “cute!!!”). For these fawning young women, the videos are more than adverts for virtual sex work; they are insights into favourite celebrities — to whom their boyfriends happen to pay a monthly subscription. These girls interpret the Bops’ playfulness not as seduction but as relatability, and they almost never express horror or concern at the reason why their favourite influencers are in that house at all. The Bops’ elision of social-media cults and pornography has achieved the unthinkable: normalising the latter so completely that there is no longer any shock, or compunction, at the fundamental transaction of their work. For many teen girls, these are aspirational figures who seem to be their own age; if it works for them, why not for me?

“For many teen girls, these are aspirational figures; if it works for them, why not for me?”

Part of the pull of the Bop House is its power dynamic of spectator and object, which is also inherent in traditional pornography itself. These girls are monitored at every point of their day; one mini-series sees a girl burst into rooms with a mock gun, whose trigger presents a lollipop. She marauds the house shoving it in her Bopmates’ faces, prompting looks of disdain, frustration and then occasionally seductive playing-along. These girls do not know or particularly like each other, but are forced to put up with each other in the name of content. That we are party to this hostage-like situation is part of its appeal. They are there for us. Each Bop develops her own character as the series progresses, much like traditional reality TV: the model and podcaster Camilla Araújo returned as a wildcard this month to stir up controversy amid an ongoing lawsuit, bringing her 7.6 million TikTok followers and talent for viral soundbites with her. This sex-work sorority is so profitable because it crosses the boundaries of ubiquitous, predictable OnlyFans content: its iconoclastic appeal is that it has conquered the mainstream.

The hostage dynamic has become part of the lexicon of internet virality. Last year, MrBeast locked two people in a room for 90 days with the prize of $500,000, tempting them with exorbitantly expensive “treats” such as beds and a dimmer switch for the room’s fluorescent lighting. In the end, both completed the challenge — only shelling out $20,000 on a collection of Harry Potter books and a coffee machine. The video has 341-million views. Another iteration is Fishtank Live, which sees contestants stuck in a house with no phones for six weeks — a homespun iteration of Big Brother. Divorced from the stringent regulations of established broadcasting networks, Fishtank has a viewer-interaction element which means we can pay to torment contestants, understandably framed as a morbid rerun of the Stanford prison experiment. For $300, a producer will empty a bin on the kitchen floor. For $600, they will remove a bed. Rather than being edited, Fishtank is streamed live 24/7 — the toilets are, disturbingly, available behind a paywall. All this plays into our desire for control over Sim-like subjects, and our need to inflict pain and pleasure on them, without them knowing who we are.

This is also the promise of OnlyFans, and we should see the “sellers” in that dynamic as just as strange, vulnerable and desperate as those contestants in MrBeast’s prison cell. Yes, some of the Bop House girls earn more money than I or any reader could ever hope to — but the vast majority of OnlyFans “models” do not, and leave the industry having lost priceless assets: agency, privacy and identity beyond a blur of oiled body parts. In its way, OnlyFans is its own reality show — and the Bop House in particular must truly feel like a fishtank, a panopticon, and one in which you are required not only to be constantly sexy but also constantly entertaining and likeable, given your dual role as porn star and influencer.

The boundaries of subject and viewer are collapsing, and this is affecting how real men see real women. As the Venn diagram of social media and pornography grinds towards a perfect circle, we are left with the subliminal impression that everything around us is a form of softcore pornography. Jostling with makeup tutorials, prank videos and recipes, the Bop House crucially targets everyone’s feeds; porn is fast becoming just another genre.

This was never the intention of liberal feminism; fourth-wavers would be horrified to realise that their girlboss, secure-the-bag mantra, which has casualised prostitution as a fun and consequence-free shortcut to empowerment, has landed them in servitude to the men who most despise them. But it is a product of their naivety, and of a culture of kindness which promotes tolerance at all costs — and which means that those of us who are critical of the spectre of the digital bordello are intolerant and so must be incorrect. The sacrality of tolerance is contingent on an unspoken contract of discretion, which holds that furries, hentai freaks and porn addicts have an inviolable right to arousal, as long they keep their side of the bargain by both dutifully buying our feet pics and not being complete horndogs in public life.

Yet the licensing of digital pornography, and the way it was given the green light by feminists at the dawn of OnlyFans in 2016, and seized upon as a way for young women to better themselves, has of course had unintended consequences. Ten years ago, it might have been impossible to imagine a mainstream website where young women — including my own peers — would sell homemade, bespoke pornography; now, it is difficult to imagine a world without it. This irrevocable shift came about because of aggressive marketing, with OnlyFans girls becoming their own pimps and flooding social media with adverts, something which has at points made X almost unbearable to use. Now, gooner content (look it up, or don’t) is everywhere, having bled into the mainstream so utterly that it is no longer particularly surprising to hear of a house of barely legal autopornographers hawking masturbation videos from a rented house in Florida, nor that we can expect teasers for those videos to be seen by children.

By styling themselves as teenage girls, the Bops intend to outrage viewers — and to profit from their notoriety. Liberal feminism lends “sex workers” a curious exceptionalism in that they are rarely held responsible for the grim tastes they cater to, such as teen porn. It focuses so evangelically on individual choice and identity that it has blinkered itself to uncomfortable truths — in this case, that there is another individual on the other end of this transaction, a priapic man who likes very young girls. For a movement so obsessed with individuality, it is ironic that the OnlyFans girl — the Frankenstein’s monster of fourth-wave feminism — is not allotted individual responsibility for the twisted sexualities she promotes.

For the Bops, the existence of their weird fans only becomes frighteningly apparent when, as Sophie Rain tells MailOnline, the girls are “woken up to people knocking at the door at night”. One of the problems with digital prostitution is that it has a veneer of secure remoteness which inevitably proves permeable to “fans” who already believe that access to your body is a matter of mere negotiation.

The elision of OnlyFans with conventional social media has turned all Gen Z women into porn stars-in-waiting. In a world where everything is content, the sorts of boys who grow up calling Bop House girls “whores” in TikTok comment sections will find it difficult to handle real-life crushes, which cannot be satisfied by paying for a “spicy video”. The message of OnlyFans is the same as that of Fishtank: you, a powerful viewer, can pay to control me, a desired but despicable subject, and in that way to temporarily own my body. And while we can no longer hope to regulate internet porn nor protect its stars, we can and must wake up to the value of our own dignity and privacy. Fourth-wave feminism has let vulnerable women down. The best we can do is to insist on our autonomy: take yourself offline, jump out of the tank.


Poppy Sowerby is an UnHerd columnist

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