Lily Phillips is an OnlyFans model who, as a publicity stunt and an add-on to her subscription platform, slept with 100 men in one day. This act, captured in a documentary, catapulted her into the global spotlight. Predictably, the reactions were swift and polarising, especially among conservative commentators, who framed her actions as emblematic of moral and cultural decay. However, what strikes me most about the discourse is the pretence of concern: do these commentators genuinely care about Lily Phillips? Does anyone? And if they don’t, should they?
This question, whether we care about people like Lily, goes beyond her specific case. It challenges the ethics of profiting from public judgment while claiming moral high ground.
Figures like Candace Owens, Matt Walsh, and Russell Brand have been at the forefront of the reactionary commentary. Candace Owens, in a widely shared interview, positioned herself as a voice of “concern” for Phillips. Yet, this concern often felt performative. Owens accused Phillips’ mother of being abusive for not intervening in her career choices, a claim Phillips strongly denied. When corrected, Owens ignored her and continued to push the narrative in subsequent videos. This suggests that Owens’ focus was less about understanding Phillips and more about promoting her own ideals of motherhood and morality.
Similarly, Russell Brand framed Phillips’ exhaustion in the documentary as a spiritual reckoning, claiming her tears were evidence of divine intervention, a return to the sacred value of sex. While Brand draws on his past experiences with promiscuity to connect with Phillips’ story, he often uses these moments to remind viewers of his own growth and redemption. Like Owens, Brand’s commentary centres his views rather than what Phillips says about her experience.
Matt Walsh, in his video titled “Why This Viral OnlyFans Model Deserves Zero Sympathy,” disregarded even the mask of empathy. Instead, he used Phillips’ story as a springboard to critique modern feminism, claiming it promotes freedom without accountability. Walsh dismissed Phillips’ own assertion that she neither seeks nor needs sympathy, saying, “I don’t want people to pity me or feel sorry for me; this is what I chose to do,” framing her instead as a cautionary tale to advance his broader argument against female autonomy.
While conservative commentators use Phillips to advance traditionalist values, radical feminists frame her story as a symptom of systemic exploitation. Julie Bindel, for instance, shifted the focus to the men who participated in the stunt, questioning their motives and calling for greater regulation of the porn industry. Yet, like the conservatives, Bindel ultimately used Phillips as a symbol to advance her own agenda, this time advocating for the abolition of pornography. Though less judgmental toward Phillips herself, this perspective still reduces her to a vehicle for broader societal criticism.
The common thread in all these reactions is that they commodify Phillips’ story. Content creators on all sides profit from positioning her as a victim or a moral failure. This raises the question of can anyone truly care for Lily while simultaneously using her story to advance their own views? And if they don’t genuinely care, is it ethical to claim they do?
The reality is that none of these commentators know Phillips personally or have insight into her mental or emotional state. Candace Owens, for example, confidently labelled Phillips as “traumatised” despite Phillips explicitly rejecting this classification saying in response to Owens ‘I personally don’t think I was traumatised, I chose to do this this was something that I wanted to do I mean I’m not going to sit here and say it was fucking easy but I don’t think I was traumatised from it at all’.
Exhaustion and overwhelm do not inherently equate to trauma, a fact most adults can relate to in different contexts. Similarly, Phillips’ claim of dissociation during the event is complex and not something that can or should be pathologised by strangers on the internet.
Ultimately, the people most qualified to care about Phillips are those who know her personally, friends, family, and people she trusts. Public figures claiming to care while ignoring her own voice only add to the noise, making it harder for Phillips to define her narrative on her own terms. In the documentary, Phillips reflected on the emotional toll of her public persona, stating, “Everyday someone picking at you, that’s the hard part, and also the pure fact that people think so much less of you.” She admitted she struggles to “make real friends who just see me for who I am and not like a porn star online, this sort of persona,” expressing frustration about the challenges of being reduced to a caricature. Phillips also highlighted the toxic nature of online platforms, saying, “All of social media, like everyone is praying on your downfall.”
As for the rest of us, we might reflect on whether our opinions truly matter and as she says are they helpful. If the goal is to support Phillips, or anyone in a similar position, then respecting her autonomy and privacy is essential. Public commentary that frames her as a victim or moral cautionary tale does little to help her and may, in fact, exacerbate potential harm.
The discourse surrounding Lily Phillips is a reflection of how society engages with viral figures. We project our values onto their stories, often under the guise of care, while ignoring the ethical implications of profiting from their narratives. If Phillips is in need of help, the endless stream of commentary will not provide it. True care would mean stepping back, allowing her room to breathe, and trusting that those who genuinely know and love her are better equipped to offer support.
So, does anyone truly care about Lily Phillips? Perhaps, but it is unlikely that the loudest voices in this discourse are among them. While there may be some genuine concern, it often feels limited and misplaced. I don’t think most contributors to this conversation are acting with outright malice, but I would encourage them to redirect their concern inward. Instead of amplifying narratives that portray Phillips as a vulnerable victim and inviting further voyeuristic scrutiny of her supposed weakest moments, they might reflect on their own contributions to the larger societal issues they claim to address.
Should we care? That is for each of us to decide. If we do, the most meaningful action may be to speak less, listen more, and respect her autonomy, allowing her the space to reclaim her story on her own terms.
