Culture
Explore the complexities of Male Sex Work and its intersection with fashion, resistance, and societal perceptions in this revealing post.
Updated 03:33 pm EDT, August 26, 2025
Published 03:31 pm EDT, August 26, 2025
Producer & Fashion Designer: Natasha Tabunova
Model: Ari Aisenberg
Sunglasses: Wilde Sunglasses
Photography: Flávio Iryoda
Special Thanks: An Wei
Male Sex Work and Fashion
We often speak of resistance in elegant tones, don’t we? Think revolution in couture, protest in pearls. But sometimes, resistance doesn’t, can’t, walk a red carpet. Sometimes it just stands there, under a buzzing neon sign. Sometimes it leans against a lamppost on a forgotten city corner. It might be wearing yesterday’s worn-out jeans, scuffed sneakers, or a leather jacket that quietly hides bruises and so many memories. This issue of AVESSA, firmly rooted in the idea of resistance, simply wouldn’t be complete without looking directly, unflinchingly, at those who literally live in the shadows of society, surviving systems that, let’s be honest, seem designed to erase them.
Here in Spain, male sex work—especially that of migrant and trans men—is a complex, vital space where style becomes far more than just clothing: it’s a signal, it’s armor, an invitation, and often, a crucial disguise. In this world, fashion isn’t frivolous; it’s absolutely essential. It is, quite literally, survival. This story isn’t about judgment, not even a whisper of it. It’s about listening, truly listening. It’s about grasping how the body itself becomes currency, how identity is shaped, sometimes cruelly, by neglect, and how beauty—yes, pure, unadulterated beauty—can still bloom in the very darkest places.
Because sometimes, the greatest resistance isn’t shouting in the streets. It’s simply still being here.
The Night’s Unspoken Language
There’s something uniquely, utterly Spanish about the way the night just swallows the day in cities like Madrid or Barcelona. You feel a certain softness in those gathering shadows, a palpable heat to the deepening darkness. Neon glows like stained glass against the velvet blackness, and in that shimmering half-light, truths emerge that harsh daylight would never, ever allow.
On certain familiar corners, beneath the endless, indifferent throb of city traffic and an almost deafening indifference, there are men. Men with lean bodies and eyes that carry a world of weariness, just waiting. Some have hair dyed in bold, defiant shades and false lashes that glitter with fragile hope; others are in simple gym shorts and cologne that smells far too expensive for the lives they lead. They are here. Selling what they have. Selling, in a profound, intimate way, who they are.
In Spain, male prostitution exists in a peculiar state of being, both starkly visible and profoundly invisible. You can see it, if you know precisely where to look: the bustling energy of Chueca, the hurried thoroughfares near Atocha, the tree-lined quiet of Les Corts, the hushed alleys tucked behind sprawling train stations, the plazas nestled behind pulsing nightclubs. But no one, it seems, really wants to talk about it. The women, bless them, they have shelters. The girls, they have NGOs fighting for their safety. But the men? Especially the queer, the brown, the Black, the migrant ones? They mostly have each other. They have the cold, hard streets.
It’s a truly cruel paradox, isn’t it? Spain, a country celebrated for its liberal laws on paper—where same-sex marriage has been legal since 2005, where sex work itself is decriminalized—still leaves these men in a heartbreaking, agonizing limbo. Because what’s legal isn’t always safe. And what’s tolerated definitely isn’t always protected. Male sex workers tragically fall through cracks so wide they might as well be gaping valleys. They are often too queer for the ingrained machismo, too foreign for rising nationalism, simply too poor for easy pity. So, with incredible, gut-wrenching ingenuity, they rely on performance. On transformation. On fashion—not as some frivolous luxury, but as an essential, articulate language.
A Voice in the Void
Here, clothing does so much more than just cover a body. It signals intent, speaks volumes about experience, whispers directly to potential clientele. There are intricate categories, unspoken codes, a visual vocabulary understood only by those living it. A tank top worn in the wrong district could spell trouble, big trouble. A specific pair of boots might instantly convey whether someone is active, dominant, or available for particular fetishes. A sleeveless shirt on a surprisingly cold night might not be vanity at all; it could be stark necessity, an outward sign of resilience in the face of discomfort.
You learn, quickly and often brutally, to project. To become, with every fiber of your being, what is desired. Some men lean fiercely into hyper-masculinity—worn trainers, bodies sculpted by necessity, shaved heads, eyes that have learned to appear cold and unreadable. Others courageously embrace the femme, the delicate—short shorts that flirt with danger, carefully applied eyeliner, a subtle glitter that catches the streetlights. You become what the night demands. Not because you want to, not because it’s your true self, but because, well, you have to, to survive another hour, another night.
Fashion here isn’t just expressive; it’s profoundly, deeply defensive. The right outfit can be a quiet deterrent to a potentially violent client, a magnetic lure for a higher-paying one, or even a subtle protection against arbitrary police harassment. In places like Barcelona’s gritty yet vibrant Raval or Madrid’s bustling Lavapiés, the boys often swap clothes among themselves, sharing worn shoes, passing along a bottle of cologne like it’s precious currency. There is a deeply felt brotherhood in this makeshift, perilous runway. A family forged not by blood, but by shared struggle and the sheer will to survive.
And yet, within all of this—within the grime and the grief, the fear and the precarity—there is undeniable style. There is quiet elegance. There is raw, unyielding resistance. You see it in the way a boy lines his eyes with kohl, creating a defiant gaze, and still walks with an undeniable swagger. In the way a trans man carefully tucks his binder under a daring mesh top, proudly claiming his own reflection, his own truth, against all odds. In the way a migrant, undocumented and utterly alone, still cares enough, despite everything, to meticulously match his belt to his knock-off Balenciaga sneakers. Because dignity, that fierce, unshakeable sense of self, is meticulously stitched into these choices. And sometimes, just sometimes, a cheap, worn jacket becomes a magnificent cape.
Echoes of History, Present Realities
Historically, fashion and sex work have always been deeply, inextricably entangled. Think of the dazzling demi-mondaines of Belle Époque Paris, whose elaborate gowns spoke volumes of their power; the vibrant hustlers of Christopher Street in New York, whose defiant self-expression challenged societal norms; the anonymous, yet impeccably styled, rent boys of London’s Piccadilly Circus. Style was their weapon, their means to seduce, their essential tool for survival, and often, their only shield.
In Spain, during Franco’s repressive dictatorship, prostitution was officially persecuted—but often conveniently looked away from if it served the regime’s murky, underground needs. Male prostitution, however, was met with particularly brutal repression, viewed as an affront to traditional values and a source of moral contagion. Men caught soliciting other men were mercilessly beaten, unjustly jailed, sent away for “rehabilitation” in horrifying institutions. And yet, with unimaginable courage, they kept showing up. In wide lapels. In daring platform heels. In clandestine clubs and behind train stations. They kept showing up, a silent, glittering army refusing to be extinguished.
Today, Spain pretends it has moved far beyond that dark era. But for many sex workers, especially men and trans individuals, agonizingly little has truly changed. They continue to face pervasive violence, relentless extortion, grave HIV risks, and soul-crushing police apathy. And yet, they resist. Not with megaphones, but with mascara that defies tears. With muscle that embodies their physical and emotional strength. With every defiant motion.
Organizations like Hetaira and Fundación Triángulo have commendably begun addressing the dire needs of male and trans sex workers, but funding remains tragically scarce, a testament to society’s continued discomfort. Politicians often use them as convenient scapegoats, or worse, ignore their very existence completely. Clients range from married businessmen seeking forbidden thrills to tourists looking for a ‘local’ experience without consequence. Many of these men are undocumented, living in constant fear of deportation. Most bravely send what little money they earn back home to families who believe they’re working in kitchens, in hotels, building a different life. They navigate double lives in cramped, rented rooms, holding their profound secrets close, locked away in their phones.
And fashion? It’s one of the precious few places they still have any semblance of control. One sex worker, originally from the sun-drenched Dominican Republic, describes his closet not just as a place for clothes, but as his sacred altar. In a voice half-proud, half-weary from the weight of his existence, he confides, “If I’m going to be a fantasy, I’ll be the best-dressed fantasy you’ve ever seen.” He buys second-hand Versace shirts, worn but still beautiful, and fastens each button with almost religious precision, an act of reverence for himself.
Another, a Moroccan trans man with quiet strength, wears Adidas head to toe. “It’s my armor,” he explains simply. “I don’t want to be looked at like a woman, or a freak,” he says, a raw vulnerability in his eyes. “So I dress like a guy who will break your face.” But his voice is gentle, almost melodic. He wears a thin chain with his mother’s name delicately inscribed around his neck, a constant reminder of love and connection.
There’s a kind of poignant poetry in this—the way fashion can affirm a profound truth no one else wants to acknowledge. That these men are real. That their lives matter, deeply. That pleasure, pain, and power don’t belong only to the rich, or the legal, or the universally loved.
Reclaiming the Narrative Through Style
In Madrid, there’s a growing, vibrant underground scene of queer fashion collectives that proudly includes former and current sex workers. They meticulously create zines, often collaborating on pop-up shows, and boldly walk in guerrilla runways that challenge conventional spaces. It’s DIY glamour infused with a powerful, collective message: “We are here. We are beautiful. We will not disappear.” They wear knock-offs alongside custom-made pieces, expertly mixing drag aesthetics with gritty streetwear, and in doing so, they bravely transform personal trauma into powerful silhouette, into wearable art. They are fundamentally challenging the very idea of who fashion is for, tearing down artificial barriers. And in doing so, they’re fiercely reclaiming their own narratives, defining their own stories.
Because that’s the extraordinary thing about fashion. It doesn’t just dress bodies—it dresses stories. And every story, every single one, even the most marginalized ones written in the starkest margins of society, deserves style. So what does resistance truly look like in the complex, hidden world of male prostitution in Spain? It looks like resilience, etched into every line of their faces.
It looks like a young kid in a crop top who still finds the energy to dance, even when no one pays him.
It looks like bruised knees and glitter lips that refuse to fade.
Like condoms carefully tucked into back pockets and dreams no one else believes in.
It looks like holding your own, fiercely and bravely, in a world that never made a comfortable space for you.
It looks like fashion—not as fleeting fantasy, but as an unyielding refusal.
To refuse shame. To refuse invisibility. To refuse the insidious idea that your life, in all its complexity and pain, can’t also be beautiful. And maybe that’s what fashion has always been best at—making the invisible, truly impossible to ignore.
Meet Omar Enrique Matos: part aficionado writer, bespoke tailor, radio host, and former fashion booker. With a flair for fashion and a penchant for fun, Omar seamlessly blends expertise an passion with entertainment. From crafting bespoke suits to sharing style secrets on air, he’s a true Renaissance man of the fashion world.
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