How The Oscars Ruined My Pussy

Words: Luna Sofia Miranda

“Are you the girl from Anora?” he asked. I hesitated, trying to intuit if he was going to spend money.

“Yes,” I sighed. 

“I saw on Instagram that you were working tonight. I can’t believe you’re still here,” he blurted. I grit my teeth. In the last year, I had invested over $40,000 in my acting career. I had paid for private audition coaching, editorial pictures, headshots, and publicity. I had produced my own work, paid my way to the Cannes, New York, and Toronto Film Festivals, and attended the Oscars on my own dollar. I had fought my way into the heart of Hollywood, hoping to cement my presence as a professional actress.

What I found was a dying film industry; averse to taking risks on new talent and original material, Hollywood is losing money and audiences fast. In a piece titled How Hollywood Learned to Love Influencers, Taylor Lorenz speaks to how the content creator industry has surpassed Hollywood, not only in terms of clout and money, but in cultural capital. Failing to generate any significant income in the film world, I went back to the strip club. “Pumps is home,” I said, faking a smile. It wasn’t a lie. 

“Is it true you met them here?” He knew who I was and the story that had followed me for a year; In 2022, while working at Pumps Strip Club, I met Sean Baker and Samantha Quan. They cast me as Lulu in Anora (2024), which won a record number of Academy Awards.

I knew what this customer wanted; to hear the story straight from my mouth. I had spent the last month dealing with this type of client. “I would love to tell you all about Anora,” I said sweetly “if you buy 10 dances and tip me $200 dollars.”  He confessed that he’d already spent all his money on another dancer. “I would still love to talk to you, though,” he said. I walked away, rolling my eyes. 

I called them the Anora Boys. They came into the club wearing Anora merch, asking for “Luna” or “Lulu”. The Anora Boys were not experienced strip-club patrons. They didn’t understand the norms and expectations of the establishment. They had no intention of spending money, they simply wanted proximity to the film and its makers, and I was the most accessible point of contact they could find. 

“In a landscape where audiences crave short form, relatable content, the ubiquity surrounding movie stars can’t compete with 24/7 access to content-creators.”

After I realized that Anora was not going to cement my presence in Hollywood, I decided that the second best thing I could do was use my clout to get new clients into the strip club and onto my OnlyFans. I told every journalist and outlet I spoke to that I still work at Pumps. I posted on Instagram every night “Working at @pumpsbrooklyn 6pm-4am.” I promoted my OnlyFans on social media for months, throwing a party in Brooklyn to announce its launch. I laid breadcrumbs all over the internet, hoping to attract a swarm of new clients. 

I remember being in the 5th grade in 2008 and having a seminar about staying safe online. Young girls cautioned about posting provocative content, clueing people into their whereabouts, and talking to strangers. Fifteen years later, I was doing the exact opposite; posting bikini pictures on my story, telling my 13,000 followers where I worked and when I would be there. We’re at the peak of content-creator culture, where fans know everything about their favorite creators, from their sleep cycle to their childhood traumas to their sex lives. 

As the iconic American movie star dies out, content creators replace actors as objects of fixation. Ana de Armas told Vanity Fair that movie stars are disappearing “because of social media… There is so much information out there and oversharing. The concept of a movie star is someone untouchable you only see onscreen. That mystery is gone.” In a landscape where audiences crave short form, relatable content, the ubiquity surrounding movie stars can’t compete with 24/7 access to content-creators. 

My online activity was attracting fans, followers, and customers, but it wasn’t the people I expected. I wanted men who were interested in purchasing my services, but these men weren’t coming to me, in fact, I was repelling them. Upon learning I was “the girl from Anora,” they lost interest. Suddenly, my regular clients seemed afraid to talk to me. The customer base I’d nurtured for years wasn’t interested in spending time with a famous person, it was counterintuitive to the discretion and authenticity they wanted. 

Other clients were under the impression that because they’d known me “before I was famous,” they could continue their relationship without paying me. I was an investment they had made and it had paid off. They were waiting to collect their dividend - increased access to me. 

Fans will often talk about discovering an online celebrity before they went mainstream, talking as if they had contributed to their success, like buying a $5 stock before the company skyrockets. I’ve joked with many potential clients that they should “invest early” - meaning they should purchase my services before I got so famous I would become inaccessible to them.  But the joke is on me. As content creator culture reaches a fever pitch, making money online is more feasible than generating income in the film industry. Selling social and physical proximity to myself may be a strategy I cannot abandon. 

Pop star Slayyyter told NME that while her stans - a type of super fan - show her the most dedication, they are also entitled and territorial. On the flip side, they “ride harder than a normal fan base” says Slayyyter. “They want to know how my day was, buy my merch, come to my show…they wanna be my friend, interact with me online…” Privacy, it seems, is a hot commodity that even many famous people cannot afford.

I thought I could translate internet clout into the direct purchase of services, but it doesn’t work - fans don’t want person-to-person services; they want parasocial relationships. Parasocial relationships rely on a promise that will never be fulfilled, keeping stans hooked on the idea of access. Once I break the fourth wall and allow people access to me, via chatting on OnlyFans or lapdances at the club, I fall off the pedestal and that elusive promise dies. 

By advertising myself as a “famous sex worker,” I repelled customers who wanted genuine services and attracted folks who wanted novelty. But the minute a fan buys a picture of my pussy or pays me for a dance, the novelty dies, and the transaction ends. It turns out, Oscar Pussy doesn’t sell well. I will always be better in your fantasies.