Worship Me, But Don’t Touch Me

(The cult of sexual attention without consequence)

A woman’s body has become currency.
Not personality. Not principles. Not depth.
But skin, lips, waist, and eyes.
The more you show, the more likes you get.
The more you pose, the faster the reach grows.
The algorithm rewards the body — because the body gets clicks.
This is no longer self-expression. It’s attention economics.
It’s a transaction: I give you some sex appeal, you give me attention.
And both sides know it’s a game.
Only one pretends she doesn’t.

You can’t say “I do it because it pays.”
No.
You have to say it’s empowerment. That it’s personal. That it’s a fight for freedom.
You must deny logic and claim it’s all “for yourself.”
But the truth is: if no one looked, no one liked, no one desired — the photo wouldn’t exist.
Because it’s not “for yourself.” It’s for the reaction.

I want to be desired — but not judged.
I want your gaze — but not your desire.
I want your admiration — but if you express it, you’re disgusting.
This paradox drives a whole generation.
The woman puts her body on a pedestal but forbids anyone from interpreting it.
She wants to be beautiful, sexy, powerful — but also untouchable, innocent, and sacred.
She wants to enter the ring but take no punches.
And if any man dares — he’s no longer a person. He’s violence. He’s aggression. He’s the threat.

Modern femininity pretends it’s not sexual — even though everything screams sexuality.
Every filter, every pose, every trend is built to provoke desire.
And yet it demands saint-like distance.
It’s like stripping on stage and demanding that the audience look only into your eyes.

It’s no longer about connection. It’s about the spotlight.
Not about intimacy — but control of the gaze.
She no longer wants a relationship — she wants an audience.
She wants to be worshipped, admired, adored — but with no commitment.
Because real connection requires surrender. A choice. A letting go of other options.
And that means losing likes, losing reach, losing control.
So she chooses admiration from hundreds over love from one.
Because one photo gives more dopamine than one touch.

Relationships collapse because everything has become a performance.
Flirting was replaced with posing.
Love — with self-adoration.
Instead of looking into each other’s eyes — it’s selfies.
Instead of dates — headlines.
Instead of a body in bed — a body on screen.
And then the great surprise: men don’t fight, don’t chase, don’t care.
How can they, when they’ve been reduced to silent spectators, clapping without speaking?

Female sexuality has become a weapon of influence.
And that’s fine — every kind of strength can be good.
But if strength avoids responsibility, it becomes manipulation.
And that’s exactly what we’re watching.
Not liberation. Not equality.
But a cult of worship without touch.
A cult of being looked at — without being reached.
A cult of provocation — without consequence.

Worship me. But don’t touch me.
Look. Admire. Click. But don’t come close.
Because I want power — not closeness.
Attention — not connection.
Emotion — but only on my terms.

And maybe that’s the price we pay for a culture that confused attention with love.