“Hey there, boys,” says Gao Yang in a soft, sultry voice. It’s 11 p.m., and she’s just logged onto the Gugu live-chat platform as a group host. For the next 10 minutes, she’ll attempt to seduce her audience — all young men — into giving her virtual gifts or even requesting a lucrative one-on-one.

Few of the men might realize that Gao is only 16 years old.

Live-chat platforms began gaining popularity in China about a decade ago, mostly catering to the country’s vast gaming community. However, the focus has firmly shifted to emotional engagement in recent years, as users seek intimate companionship from group hosts, sometimes requiring language and behavior bordering on the risqué.

Increasingly, underage hosts like Gao are being lured into this online world, with ads promising “a high income from minimum effort.” Once recruited, they must host group chats filled with much older men and women, while some are even offered training in how to “act seductively” to ensure users spend more money.

Yet, while tech companies and the third-party agencies that manage the hosts turn a profit, the minors working in this largely unregulated industry say they are being exposed to explicit content, fraud, sexual harassment, and public shaming — with any and all complaints falling on deaf ears.

On the line

High school student Gao — just one of 196 million underage internet users in China, according to the latest official data — launched her late-night online career on Nov. 3 last year.

It was a typical session: She and several other female hosts were introduced one by one into a live audio chat filled mostly with men, while an emcee prompted users to reward them with virtual gifts. For an added premium, the men could ask for a private conversation with the host of their choice.

Although shy, Gao soon realized that her voice could make her real money. The recruiter at the third-party agency that she initially talked to after answering an online ad suggested that she could earn up to 10,000 yuan ($1,400) a month working in her spare time, and shared the story of a university student who had paid off all her debts after just three months.

“They said it was simple: If someone liked my voice, they’d send me gifts. The platforms would take a 40% cut and I’d keep the rest,” says Gao.

Major live-chat platforms in China like Gugu and Laoyuegou make no secret of their business model, offering clear prices for various types of interaction — for example, 2 yuan to chat in the group with a host for one minute, 6 yuan for three minutes, 20 yuan to play a game of truth or dare, or the 250 yuan for a one-on-one chat as virtual partners.

The only criteria in most recruitment ads are for hosts to be “young, obedient, and willing to work long term.” When the reporter answered an ad posing as a minor, she connected with a recruiter via the WeChat messaging app who suggested that she should “borrow an adult’s ID card” to first register an account with a live-chat platform.

Gao scheduled her online work from 9 p.m. to midnight, to avoid falling behind in her studies. Yet, despite high expectations, after two weeks her income had amounted to less than 50 yuan.

“Sweet and spicy — that’s how you make money. Being sweet alone won’t cut it,” she recalls a fellow host telling her, explaining that the “sweet” was making conversation and playing games, while the “spicy” involved luring users into private chats and soliciting tips with suggestive or explicit content. It was obvious then that just talking and singing wasn’t going to cut it.

Hosts also come under pressure from so-called “room managers,” who run daily operations for the third-party agencies. These behind-the-scenes moderators set performance targets for each host, as well as monitor their interaction data and earnings.

Gao says that her manager informed her early on that she was expected to make 3,000 yuan in monthly tips, otherwise her salary would be docked by 70%. To help ensure users keep tipping, he would also coach hosts on how to flirt by using increasingly explicit language.

Based on his advice, Gao began experimenting with suggestive phrases. She mimicked the speaking style of popular streamers, pinching her voice to sound sweeter, and carefully curated her public profile, uploading filtered selfies and occasionally posting more revealing photos. Soon, her followers increased significantly.

Gao’s first paying client tipped 10 yuan in a group chat and then paid for a half-hour private conversation, during which he constantly made explicit demands. She felt ashamed and angry at first, but as the tips kept coming, she says that her resistance crumbled.

“Rotten to my core”

Li Li, a 17-year-old tourism management student in Bengbu, in the eastern Anhui province, works part time on the Miyi social networking platform, where male users can pay to chat over audio or video with women. The first minute is free, and then it’s 20 yuan a minute for video calls, and 15 yuan a minute for voice calls.

She says that during that free minute, the female hosts will naturally show their best side — maybe pull down their collar at the right moment, or blow a kiss — and when time has almost run out, they will prompt the man to send a gift to keep chatting. “As long as I don’t actually meet the guys in person, it’s fine,” she says.

When she started, Li was among 32 new hosts assigned to a room manager known as Ah Jie. He would frequently share scripts designed to “hook big spenders” and maintain client relationships. He would also organize so-called “business coaching sessions,” which were often used to praise the top performers while publicly criticizing those failing to reach their targets.

Ah Jie told Li on her third day that she should aim to chat privately with at least 20 new users every day, with a view to building emotional connections that would allow her to guide them toward spending larger amounts.

She says her opening line in any chat is, “What game would you like to play today, baby?” It lets her quickly know if the man is a rookie or a seasoned user. With newcomers, she shows extreme patience, walking them through how to top up their accounts and send gifts, but with more experienced clients, the conversation is more subtle — a word like “play” can hint at various customized services.

According to Gao and Li, the men they interact with are mostly 25 to 35 years old, are hooked on virtual worlds, and have monotonous lives and limited social circles. Some are looking for emotional comfort; others are simply thrill-seekers.

Li has found that retaining users requires establishing intimacy. “You have to treat them like friends, not just walking wallets. Only by forming emotional bonds will they keep spending,” she says.

To make more money, she began working longer hours, often staying awake until dawn. She would sleep through her alarm the next day, too drained to even open her eyes, and was soon skipping classes. After about a year, Li felt increasingly hopeless about the future.

Every time she checked her phone, she would have dozens of messages from men looking to chat — some used explicit language, while some sent unsolicited nude images. However, what once had horrified and angered her now left her numb. Block, delete, next client, repeat.

After abandoning her studies, emotional crashes became routine. Insomnia kept her up at night, and when she did sleep, she would be jolted awake by nightmares. “I felt rotten to my core,” Li recalls.

She says the live-chat platforms’ systems for reporting abuse are effectively useless. Despite multiple complaints, nothing has changed. The moderators just brush her off with responses like, “They haven’t touched you physically. You’re here to make money — don’t be so sensitive.”

Toxic relationships

On May 12, Gao received a flood of notifications in a WeChat group with 133 other hosts about two colleagues who were being questioned by police over suspected lewd behavior. Some also shared links to recent exposés about online scams and “sex chat hosts.”

According to media reports, hosts on some live-chat apps were found to be stringing users along with promises of offline dates and real relationships, collecting substantial sums in tips before either blocking them or vanishing completely. In 2022, a group including a female livestreamer on Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok, received prison sentences ranging from one to four years for a scam that tricked at least 10 men this way.

Hou Shizhao, director of the Chizhou Law Firm, says such behavior is considered fraud under China’s Criminal Law, and explains that anyone who instigates a person under 18 to commit a crime could face more severe punishment. Distributing obscene materials, or providing conditions for such activities, also constitutes illegal behavior, he adds.

When asked about the risks posed to minors in the industry, one room manager told the reporter, “No one is forcing them.” He insisted that all the underage hosts in his chat room were there by choice. “Sure, there’s pressure to perform, but the exit is right there — they can walk away at any time,” he said.

Unnerved by the negative media coverage, Gao decided to take a break from the chat rooms this year and finally came clean to her mother about her part-time job. After hearing this revelation, her mother confiscated her phone, brought in her grandmother as a full-time guardian, and forbade Gao from going outside alone.

By contrast, Li was far less concerned. “I know it might be fraud,” she says, “but compared with waiting tables or passing out flyers, sweet-talking on the phone is much easier.”

She has long gotten used to being cast as an “underachieving outcast.” After failing the high school entrance exam, Li had little option but to enroll in a vocational school 40 kilometers from her hometown. On the upside, this gave her an opportunity to escape her overbearing family.

Compared with her classmates, who spent evenings and weekends working at juice bars and clothing stores, Li was taken with the perks of “monetizing attention.” In the chat rooms, she’d receive virtual gifts, which meant she could occasionally enjoy a bubble tea or manicure. One big spender even promised to take her on a road trip to southwestern China’s picturesque Yunnan province.

She made 800 yuan in her first month, allowing her to treat all her roommates to a meal at a hotpot restaurant. However, rumors spread like wildfire on campus. Within a week, whispers about “Li the cam girl” had made their way from the classrooms to the dorms, leading to classmates giving her the cold shoulder. Li says this treatment stung at first, but gradually she learned to tune it out.

Zong Chunshan, who directs a psychological counseling service center for young people in Beijing, explains that youths who grow up lacking family care are often emotionally starved, “forcing them to seek connection elsewhere” and making them vulnerable to toxic relationships.

Gao eventually quit her job. In a chat group, she confessed that every exposé about live-chat hosts had made her heart race — like living with a time bomb that could destroy her life at any moment.

“If I have to face legal consequences, so be it,” she posted in the group. In an attempt to get others to halt their illegal activities, she added: “It takes more courage to climb out of a quagmire than it does to step in. I hope you all wake up soon.”

(Due to privacy concerns, Gao Yang and Li Li are pseudonyms.)

Reported by Xian Yunzhen.

A version of this article originally appeared in The Beijing News. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Chen Yue; contributions: Kiong Xin Xi; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Visuals from Anna42f and VectorMachine//VectorStock, reedited by Sixth Tone)