The Digital Turn: How Sex Work Went Mainstream in Ethiopia
By Aksah Italo
Published on 08/18/25
Helen, as she calls herself, is not a street-corner sex worker. She is a young woman whose stage is a smartphone screen, and whose audience spreads across continents. Through her Telegram channel, opened in 2023 and now boasting more than 3,700 subscribers, she posts provocative videos, markets sexual services, and arranges offline encounters in private lodgings.
Her content is curated to entice—close-up shots, sultry poses, and short clips paired with suggestive messages. “Exclusive” encounters, she tells her followers, can happen face-to-face for the right price.
Her feed is a stream of flirtatious taunts, provocative snapshots, and content that leaves little to the imagination. Every pose, every calculated glance, is designed to hook the insatiable appetites of her male audience.
Helen’s business is part of a rapidly expanding digital marketplace that has transformed sex work from a shadowy back-alley trade into an accessible, highly monetized online industry.
The sprawl of the digital age has reshaped the once-hidden terrain of sex work. What was once confined to dimly lit alleyways, whispered about but never acknowledged in polite company, has been pulled into the glare of the public eye.
In the past, one had to drive into a city’s forgotten quarters—past shuttered shops and flickering streetlamps—to find clusters of women waiting for business. Prostitution was a world apart, a disreputable undercurrent far removed from mainstream society.
But the internet, and later social media, erased geography. With platforms like Telegram, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, PornHub, and OnlyFans, anyone with a camera and internet connection can become a global “performer.”
Suddenly, prostitution slipped into the realm of “career choice”—a side hustle for extra spending money, even among middle- and upper-middle-class women
For centuries, prostitution existed on the margins—in royal camps of medieval Ethiopia, in 17th-century Gondar, and later in Addis Ababa’s commercial districts. Customers sought out red-light zones far from polite society.
The kinds of women who would never stand on physical street corners now market their bodies on virtual ones, where pixels replace pavements. Startlingly, a growing number of women are seizing the opportunity with almost alarming enthusiasm.
Founded by two Russian entrepreneurs, Telegram has become Ethiopia’s most discreet red-light app, where the pursuit of sexual satisfaction plays out on glowing screens. With more than 950 million users, its promise of encryption and privacy has made it the platform of choice for cyber sex work.
The sales pitch is direct: lure followers with teasers, then lead them to private, paid channels offering “exclusive,” “uncut,” and “high-quality” content. Transactions flow through mobile money, Telebirr, Ethio Telecom, bank transfers, cryptocurrency, or Telegram’s in-app system.
Since COVID-19, such channels have multiplied. Many are run by independent women using premium memberships to market themselves; others are controlled by agencies promoting women of every background to paying clients worldwide.
But the model has a darker side. Some agencies operate on a “pay-now, service-later” rule, leaving customers cheated. Membership fees range from 600 birr for basic access to over 3,000 birr for top-tier packages, with content delivered through chats, videos, and photo sets designed to keep subscribers hooked.
COVID-19 accelerated the shift to digital sex work. In-person encounters declined due to health fears and restrictions, but demand for sexual content surged. In Ethiopia and beyond, new digital agencies emerged, marketing women to a global audience.
Some providers, like Helen, mix digital and physical services. Others stay purely online, offering sexting, live video, or pre-recorded clips for fees reaching 3,000 birr per session.
Globally, platforms like OnlyFans have redefined pornography. Founded in 2016, the UK-based site now hosts over 1.4 million creators and 300 million paying fans, generating $1.3 billion in revenue in 2023.
This self-produced model bypasses studios and directors. Creators control their image, set their price, and connect directly with fans—but also shoulder risks of harassment, exposure, and reputational damage.
Other platforms, too, have flung open the gates, allowing almost anyone to enter sex work and, for some, make a living from it. Now, a struggling woman can earn money without leaving home, turning images and videos into income.
Some enter out of financial necessity—burdened by bills and debt. Others arrive for different reasons: the intoxicating sense of liberation that comes from controlling how and to whom their bodies are seen.
Ethiopia has laws on media, online content, and child protection, but no specific framework for regulating adult content or cyber sex work. “Social media remains heavily unregulated in Ethiopia,” says Yonathan Tesfaye, deputy director of the Ethiopian Media Authority. “We don’t yet have a robust legal framework.”
That legal vacuum has allowed the trade to flourish in plain sight.
According to U.S. National Health Institute research, economic reasons account for 41.7% of Ethiopian women entering sex work, followed by family and social factors (30.6%). With an estimated 210,967 female sex workers nationwide—projected to rise to 247,000 by 2027—online platforms offer an appealing alternative, reducing physical danger and disease risk.
The rise of cyber sex work has sparked debate. Some argue it empowers women to control their bodies and income, fitting into the gig economy. Others see it as inherently exploitative, stripping away privacy and dignity for short-term gain.
“A sacred body is not something to be sold,” one sociologist said, noting high rates of depression, substance abuse, and suicide among sex workers worldwide.
The digital shift has undeniably changed the profession’s cultural standing. Once vilified, many online sex workers are now framed—especially in liberal discourse—as entrepreneurs rather than outcasts.
But many debate whether this is the new normal. From royal camps to encrypted channels, sex work has always adapted to the times. What’s different now is its reach, speed, and visibility.
In today’s swipe-and-scroll economy, the “oldest profession” is not just surviving—it’s thriving, reshaping ideas about intimacy, commerce, and morality in the process.