The sacred sexiness of Fucktoys

If you’re looking for social commentary that makes you laugh, blush, cringe, and then stare at the wall in both deliberation and quiet wonder, look no further than Annapurna Sriram’s film Fucktoys.

Because it wasn’t just divinely depraved—it was a fucking masterpiece.

Annapurna Sriram’s directorial debut is a deliciously unhinged, campy, psychosexual, and borderline religious experience. It stumbles between mindfuck, clusterfuck, and utter artistic brilliance—somehow making it look graceful. 

A poignant and unapologetic stroke of cinematic genius is a fair assessment.

I recently had the privilege of watching this film at the 41st Miami Film Festival GEMS and attending a Q&A with its director. With a 96% on Rotten Tomatoes, the film follows a sex worker as she wrestles with the news that she’s been cursed. She then sets out on a journey to come up with the money needed to rid her of her gruesome fate, and what unfolds is a story that’s equal parts religion, self-discovery, and transgression—rooted deeply in what it means to be divinely feminine.

Underneath the crude, dark humor lies a sharp critique of how society polices sex, how we dehumanize sex workers and tedious, thankless labor, and how American classism festers in plain sight.

Though often shocking in its chaotic campiness, the film itself isn’t unsettling—but what is unsettling is how precisely it dissects us. Sriram, with glitter as her gavel, puts American society on trial.

Playful, whip-smart, darkly and deeply funny, Fucktoys leaves you breathless—from shock, awe, and laughing your way to six-pack abs. As the credits roll, you’ll feel tipsy from the dwindling ecstasy-like state this film entrances you in from the very first frame. It’s a wild, unforgettable ride that grips you from start to finish.

Theatrical poster for ‘Fucktoys’ (2025).

Sriram stars as AP, a sex worker who taps into her whimsical roots, living in an outdoor cottage-core-themed bedroom in a field of daisies. She wears the same crop top/mini skirt combo every day, has an affinity for red lollipops, and tries to help people whenever she can. She’s confident, imperfect, and looking to find her place. But above all else, she’s a sex-positive riot that is both fun and introspective, seeming to dance every time she’s on-screen. 

She’s a joy to watch. It’s simply impossible not to adore her.

“I wanted to play someone who was desired, who was slutty,” said Sriram during the Q&A. “I wanted to create that.” Especially as a woman of color herself, where roles depicting that are far and few in between, her words landed like a thesis statement for the film itself.

This was an act of reclamation.

“It’s empowering to see people of color and transgender people in such a sexy, sex-positive light,” she added. 

And that’s the undeniable magic of Fucktoys: it’s empowerment cloaked in absurdity. Sriram knows exactly what she’s doing—weaponizing camp and chaos to foster empathy. 

“Cinema has this incredible power of community,” she said. “It makes you look around and say, ‘these are my fucking people.’” And it's alongside those very people that make watching this film such a transformative journey. 

Set in the fictional Trashtown, USA—a manic, neon-drenched world that’s so distinctly American you can practically smell the beer and hamburgers and cigarette smoke—it’s impossible not to connect it to the real thing.

“I wanted it to be like Springfield in The Simpsons,” Sriram laughed. “I think of Trashtown as existing in a parallel universe.”

What she means is that Trashtown exists everywhere—and nowhere—all at once. It’s the forgotten America, both real and mythic.

“[These are] the textures of being American when you’re not from a big city,” Sriram explained. “We never get to see or celebrate these fringes.”

That’s what Fucktoys is at its core—a celebration. Of light, of womanhood, of sex, of femininity, of resilience. It’s a documentary of becoming, filtered through glitter and gasoline and a truly fabulous blue moped. 

It’s rare for a film to feel both unhinged and deeply human, but Fucktoys does exactly that. Beneath all the sparkles, nihilistic one-liners, and chaos lies a pulse that’s achingly personal—the kind that could only come from someone telling their own story.

“I wrote about my time as a sex worker,” she said. “But this film expands beyond sex work and into intimacy.” 

Fittingly, that intimacy carried offscreen too. The intimacy coordinator on set was the same woman who taught Sriram to be a dominatrix ten years ago—a flawlessly handled full-circle moment. There’s community in giving back to those who gave to you. That reciprocity, that reclamation of narrative, pulses at the center of Fucktoys.

Sriram was also candid about the struggle of making it happen: “I was very adamant about casting non-white people wherever I could,” she said. “But financing a film when you’re a first-time female director? It’s heartbreaking. When you’re a man, you’re seen as an investment. When you’re a woman, you’re a risk.”

It took her five years to bring this story to life—a film that’s irreverent and comedic but grounded in heart. 

After watching, you’ll be left dumbfounded, asking, How have I never heard of this film before?

The fact that no one’s talking about it feels criminal. Because Fucktoys doesn’t just entertain—it starts conversations. About the pleasures and heartbreak of womanhood, about ownership, about who gets to be seen and desired.

Fucktoys isn’t just a film—it’s a manifesto wrapped in latex and laughter. It dares you to sit alongside your discomfort, to find beauty in the grotesque, and to remember that desire, shame, and above all else, joy, can coexist in the same breath. It’s rare to see art this brave and unapologetically alive.

Because pleasure and power were never meant to speak in whispers.

“Be loud with your laughter. And your orgasms,” Sriram laughed.

I suppose, much like Fucktoys, that advice extends beyond the limits of film, too—into the way we live, love, and dare to take up space.