Speaker: Amara Moira
Compiled by Ted Chang, on behalf of the Taiwan Sex Workers’ Rights Advocacy Association (TSIWRA).
Preface:
On October 14, 2025, travesti writer, scholar, and sex worker Amara Moira presented the English edition of her book E se eu fosse Puta? (So What If I’m a Puta) and discussed her latest novel NECA at an event hosted in collaboration with the Prostitution Information Center (PIC) and MaFê Moreira Produções in Amsterdam. The evening created a space for cross-linguistic and cross-cultural dialogue on sexual politics.
1. Who Are the Travestis?
In Brazil and across Latin America, the term “travesti” is neither simply equivalent to “trans woman” nor to “drag queen.” This feminized identity, born in the streets, often emerges from Black, mixed-race, or impoverished communities. Excluded from formal employment and family systems, travestis build their own gendered realities and cultures of survival through sex work, makeup, naming, and embodied practices.
Unlike trans people who rely on medical systems to affirm their identities, travestis usually reject medicalized goals such as “sex reassignment surgery” or “passing.” They make the body itself a political statement, asserting that travesti is “another thing” — neither a fake woman nor the same as a man or a woman.
In her lecture, Amara Moira cited anthropologist Don Kulick’s ethnographic work on travestis, pointing out how early community slang such as mona (meaning “fake woman” or “woman of lies”) was reclaimed and transformed by travestis themselves. They no longer accepted the insult of being “fake women,” instead responding:
“Maybe we don’t want to become what you call ‘real women’ — we want to create something else.”
This linguistic and bodily politics disrupts conventional gender categories. As Amara noted, some travestis identify as women; others see themselves as a “third gender”; still others humorously describe themselves as “a woman with a neca (penis).” These expressions reveal how travestis reinvent both gender and the body, crafting their own vocabularies and worldviews from lived experience.
During Brazil’s military dictatorship, travestis were criminalized, expelled, and brutalized under charges such as “public scandal” or “impersonating a woman.” Their existence was pushed to the urban margins — yet in those streets, they developed a resilient language and culture of resistance, which would later form the foundation of Bajubá, the queer Afro-diasporic slang that continues to shape Brazil’s gender and sexual politics today.
2. Bajubá: The Travesti Code of Survival
Bajubá is a coded language developed within the travesti communities of Brazil. Originally used as a form of secret communication to exchange information on the streets—while evading the ears of police and aggressors—it blends Portuguese, Afro-religious ritual language, Italian, and street slang. Over time, it has continuously evolved, functioning both as a system of defense and a poetic act of linguistic creation.
Within the travesti community, “to speak Bajubá” is to assert identity, belonging, and streetwise intelligence. Many of its words carry both erotic and spiritual meanings; they name what is central to the community’s life while subverting dominant gender norms.
When this topic came up during Amara’s lecture, the atmosphere in the room grew animated—audience members began eagerly sharing terms they knew or equivalents from their own languages.
Below is a selection of Bajubá terms, alongside explanations of their origins and meanings:
| Category | Bajubá Expression | Origin / Explanation |
| Genitalia / Gender Subversion | Neca | Means “penis.” The community coined expressions like “a woman with neca,” “feminine neca,” or “the woman’s penis” to playfully overturn the gender system. |
| Sexual Act / Sound | Tchaca Tchaca (also spelled Chaka Chaka) | Refers to the sound of sexual activity. In Brazilian Portuguese slang, the full phrase “Tchaca Tchaca na Butchaca” means having sex or making love. I humorously compared it to the Taiwanese onomatopoeia “啪啪啪” (pa-pa-pa). |
| Condom | Guanto | A linguistic fusion—borrowed from Italian, this term refers to a condom in Bajubá. |
| Orgasm / Ejaculation | Gizar | A poetic creation meaning “to shoot” or “to climax.” During the talk, someone mentioned how the singer Claudia Leitte’s surname (Leitte, meaning “milk” in Portuguese) is humorously used by travestis to describe the moment of orgasm. |
| Danger / Protection | “The Girl with the Ribbon Lace” | A coded expression referring to HIV, inspired by a popular 1980s children’s book title. In the English translation, the translator replaced it with “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” as an equivalent coded metaphor. |
| Sex Position | Roasted Chicken | A term shared by the audience, referring to a specific sexual position. |
| Finger in the Anus | The Grounding Plug | Derived from the Brazilian Portuguese fio-terra, which literally refers to the third prong in an electrical plug that prevents overload. In slang, it metaphorically means inserting a finger into the anus—especially when done to heterosexual men. Amara noted that many men “pretend to be afraid” of this act, revealing tensions around gender and power. She emphasized how such words expose contradictions in sexual culture, and how translation often fails to capture their layered meanings. |
Today, Bajubá continues to evolve. Younger generations may no longer use terms popular a decade ago—but precisely because of this, Moira insists that now is the time to document it. Bajubá carries more than words; it embodies an entire cultural memory and the voice of history.
As travestis gain visibility and access to education, the language’s role has shifted from defense to creation: Bajubá now enters songs, literature, theater, and cinema, emerging as an artistic grammar that subverts mainstream linguistic order.
3. NECA: A Novel Written in the Language of Travestis
Extending the tradition of Bajubá as both a language of resistance and creation, Amara Moira’s new work NECA is a literary experiment centered on travesti speech. The novel, currently shortlisted for major Brazilian fiction prizes, takes its title from a Bajubá word itself — neca, meaning “penis.” By choosing this provocative yet humorous term, Amara reverses society’s gaze on gender and desire, setting the tone for a work that challenges the very boundaries of language.
The novel is rooted in Bajubá’s history as a language of travesti resistance. Amara transforms what was once dismissed as a “criminal code” into a literary idiom capable of carrying collective memory and creativity. Within the text, she employs two distinct linguistic strategies — blending what she calls “Old Bajubá” and “Artificial Bajubá” — to construct intergenerational resonance across time and speech.
“Old Bajubá” draws from early ethnographic records and dictionary entries, some nearly a century old. “Artificial Bajubá”, on the other hand, merges words from different regions and generations, all spoken through the inner monologue of a single travesti protagonist. As Amara explains, no real person could possibly know every term used — but that impossibility itself becomes a narrative experiment in transcending reality, exploring how language can carry history, imagination, and identity at once.
In discussing her writing and translation process, Amara explained that her goal is not to ensure comprehension but to sustain curiosity. She seeks to draw readers in by letting them believe they understand; as they continue reading and eventually realize their initial grasp was incomplete, they begin to engage more deeply — or at least feel captivated by the rhythm and strangeness of the travesti language and culture.
This tension is not merely stylistic; it is profoundly political. It compels mainstream readers to experience the failure of understanding, confronting the limits of their own positionality. Amara also insists that translators preserve this sense of strangeness, pushing the boundaries of the target language to evoke the textures of a trans and travesti sensibility — especially since many languages lack the vocabulary to express such embodied experiences.
She gives the example of Bajubá’s coded phrase “the pretty girl with the ribbon lace” for HIV. In the English version, the translator sought an equivalent cultural cipher and chose “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” — at once innocent and ambiguous, extending Bajubá’s tradition of playful protection and double meaning.
The story of NECA begins with a travesti on her first day doing sex work on the streets, following her as she learns — with the guidance of peers — how to survive, how to deal with clients, how to be seen.
Today, NECA is also being adapted into a film, set to premiere in Europe alongside the book’s release. For Amara, NECA is not only a literary work but also a political act — using language and storytelling to make travesti experience visible, speakable, and remembered.
4. E se eu fosse Puta: A Memoir of Sex Work, Feminism, and the Body
Within the cultural and historical landscape of Brazilian travestis, Amara Moira’s most widely known work remains her 2016 memoir, E se eu fosse Puta (What If I Were a Whore?). Blending literary craft with activist intent, the book illuminates the everyday realities of travesti sex workers in Brazil, interweaving personal experience, politics, and prose.
The work began as an anonymous blog, where for two years Amara documented her life as a sex worker — the labor, the anxiety, the pleasure. The blog drew thousands of readers, yet, as she observed, few dared to publicly “like” or share her posts. The stigma surrounding sex work kept admiration in the shadows.
Eventually, the blog entries were compiled into a book by a Brazilian publisher. However, during the presidency of far-right leader Jair Bolsonaro, the book faced censorship. Many bookstores refused to sell any title featuring the word “Puta” (whore) on its cover. Under pressure, the publisher compromised: they added an “r” to the word, transforming the title into E se eu fosse Pura (What If I Were Pure?).
Amara recounted this with wry humor. Despite the censorship, she has come to embrace the book’s double title, seeing in it a paradoxical victory. “The state’s attempt to erase the word only made it more visible,” she noted. In later editions, the book’s cover design incorporated a fold: when closed, the title reads Pura; when the flap is lifted, it reveals Puta. Readers could thus choose their own title, and the design itself became an act of resistance and commentary on censorship politics.
Today, E se eu fosse Puta has been translated into Spanish (2022) and English (2025) — both versions proudly retain Puta in the title. This decision echoes the stance of Gabriela Leite, a pioneering leader of Brazil’s sex workers’ movement:
“We must reclaim the word, to fight the stigma it carries.”
Through her translations, Amara has allowed the term Puta to speak again — this time in English and Spanish — while hoping that one day it can return unapologetically to its rightful place in Portuguese.
5. Puta Feminism
In the latter half of the lecture, I posed a question: “Since Puta Feminism grows out of the lived experiences of sex workers, how is it actually practiced — in activism, education, and advocacy?”
This shifted the discussion from the dialectics of language and identity toward concrete forms of action — knowledge redistribution and the assertion of sex workers as political subjects.
Amara Moira responded that the key to Puta Feminism lies not in how it is defined in theory, but in how it operates in the lived worlds of sex workers. Her first proposal was the creation of a “School of Sex Work” — an educational space by and for sex workers.
“It would be a place where we can learn different forms of sex work, explore various practices, understand safety measures, handle clients’ fantasies, and care for our bodies. These are things no one ever teaches us — we learn them through work itself.”
Such a school, she explained, would serve not only as a training ground but also as a political act of epistemic recognition — affirming sex work as a domain of expertise, embodied knowledge, and technique.
She then turned to the realities of digital-era sex work, arguing that today’s workers must also know how to hack social media: build websites, optimize search engines, shoot and edit high-quality content. “If you run an OnlyFans or produce erotic videos,” she said, “you need to understand lighting, framing, sound, and post-production.” For Amara, image-making is not an extension of shame but a reclamation of visual sovereignty — a form of cultural production.
The discussion also touched on the long-standing tension between sex workers and mainstream feminist movements in Brazil. Amara noted that many sex workers distance themselves from feminism because, historically, feminist organizations have shown hostility or indifference toward their struggles. She pointed out that numerous women’s groups either lack the vocabulary to address sex work or simply choose not to engage with the perspectives of sex worker collectives.
Puta Feminism, she said, seeks to repair that rupture — to bring feminism back into relation with sex work, and to ensure that the bodies and experiences of sex workers are no longer omitted from feminist discourse.
Audience members shared their own interpretations and actions. One participant described practicing Puta Feminism by centering sex workers as knowledge producers:“Read more of what sex workers write. Listen to what sex workers say — not just those who talk about us.”
Another described it as a philosophy against slut-shaming, one that restores desire to its humanity — affirming that sex, emotion, and money are all part of the spectrum of human interaction, not deviations from it.
Some participants proposed institutional applications: adding anti–sex work phobia clauses to event policies, ensuring that sex workers are always welcomed and safe, just as events now routinely prohibit homophobia and transphobia. Others suggested clear consent protocols for photography and filming, so participants retain control over their own images.
The conversation culminated in a self-critical reflection on broader liberation movements. One attendee observed that many social movements — particularly gay rights movements — once distanced themselves from sex work in pursuit of respectability:
“We said, ‘We can marry, we can have families, we’re clean.’ But Puta Feminism rejects ‘cleanliness’ as a passport to inclusion.”
Its power lies precisely in refusing that boundary.
Some emphasized that the transformative power of Puta Feminism emerges when people stop distancing themselves from sex workers and instead recognize shared conditions of labor and humanity. By refusing to draw boundaries between the “respectable” and the “stigmatized,” this perspective reveals that sex, desire, and work are not separate domains but interconnected dimensions of human experience.
Amid laughter and applause, Amara spoke about continuing her creative engagement with sex work. Though she no longer works on the streets, she remains active in sexual image-making and collaboration — writing scripts, filming, helping friends manage their online accounts. She described her ongoing involvement in erotic image-making as a continuation of sex work in another form, a kind of labor that intertwines technique, creativity, and emotion.
Her talk reminded the audience that knowledge is not born only in academia — it also emerges in the streets, in bodies, in the lived economies of desire and labor. When sex workers write, create, and speak, they cease to be objects of study and become producers of knowledge.
From the street language of travestis to the political praxis of Puta Feminism, Amara traces a path where experience becomes pedagogy and the body becomes text. Perhaps this is Puta Feminism’s most compelling force: it teaches the world anew that knowledge can emerge from every body and experience — and that everyone has the right to speak, write, and be seen in their own language.
To realign language, knowledge, body, and dignity — that is the promise of Puta Feminism.
Postscript: When “Puta Feminism” Returns to Taiwan
After the lecture, I sent my notes back to Taiwan — and the TSIWRA group chat instantly erupted into a lively debate:“How should we translate Puta Feminism?”
Some proposed a direct translation, like “婊子女性主義” (Bitch Feminism), while others preferred the more localized and provocatively playful “破麻女性主義”(Slutty Feminism). Some argued for “蕩婦女性主義” (Slut Feminism) to confront the fear and misogyny embedded in language; others suggested “娼妓女性主義” (Prostitute Feminism) or “性工作女性主義” (Sex Work Feminism) to ground the term more firmly in the context of activism.
As the discussion heated up, a new proposal surfaced — “thàn-tsia̍h-tsa-bóo Feminism” (趁食查某主義), a term in Taiwanese Hokkien literally meaning “women who earn a living”. It was both an embrace of a local tongue and an anti-colonial linguistic experiment. Perhaps, by turning “趁食查某” into a proud statement, we were echoing the very essence of Puta Feminism: to let a word once used in contempt grow back its dignity.
Later, some members consulted Portuguese speakers and learned that “puta feminista” in Portuguese actually means “feminist whore/bitch” — not a formal school of thought like “X Feminism.”In Portuguese, feminista functions as an adjective, so the phrase implies “a bad girl within feminism” — more of an attitude than an academic framework.
But whether we call it “趁食查某主義” or “the bad girls of feminism,” all these debates reveal the same truth: the word “puta” always carries its edges — linguistic, social, and erotic. It forces us to confront the politics of class, gender, and desire embedded in our speech.
And it is precisely in those sharp edges, in the friction between shame and pride, that the brilliance of the word puta truly shines.