Sugar dating among Chinese university students is one of those topics that everyone gossips about on campus but few name out loud. On the surface it looks like glamorous “糖爸爸” (táng bàba, sugar daddy) arrangements and “包养关系” (bāoyǎng guānxì, kept relationships) that promise iPhones, rent and weekend trips in exchange for companionship. Underneath, it sits in a legal grey zone of commercial sex, fuelled by tuition pressure, consumer culture and a fast-changing sexual landscape in China’s universities. New research on commercial sexual behaviour among students in Eastern China, combined with media reports on app-based “rent-a-date” services, shows how closely sugar dating overlaps with higher-risk sex and how poorly prepared campuses are to deal with it.
A recent cross-sectional study of more than 31,000 students from 13 universities in Zhejiang Province found that 11.9% had ever had sex; among them, 16.7% reported casual sexual behaviour such as hookups or one-night stands. Within this already more liberal group, nearly a third (31.1%) had also engaged in commercial sexual behaviour involving money or material benefits, meaning about 5.2% of sexually active students combined casual and commercial sex. Most of them were male, more likely to drink before sex and more likely to find partners online or in entertainment venues—classic risk factors for HIV and other STIs. Condom use was worryingly low: only about one in five in the commercial sex group used condoms consistently.
In Chinese policy language this is “商业性行为” (shāngyè xìng xíngwéi, commercial sexual behaviour), which the law clearly bans, but students rarely describe it as prostitution. For many, especially those involved in longer-term arrangements, sugar dating is framed as a kind of upgraded romance: a generous older partner offering “赞助” (zànzhù, sponsorship) or “生活费” (shēnghuófèi, living expenses) in return for intimacy, time and sometimes sex. Global research on sugar relationships describes them as sex-for-resources transactions wrapped in companionship and emotional packaging, which makes them feel more legitimate than straightforward sex work and harder for young people to label as risky.
Chinese media have been documenting the blurred lines for years. In Guangzhou, local outlets reported a “大学生援交风” (dàxuéshēng yuánjiāo fēng, wave of student compensated dating), with young women advertising on Weibo and then negotiating prices via WeChat, from a few hundred yuan for a single encounter to several thousand for an overnight stay. Public health experts interviewed in those reports warned that this trend could accelerate HIV transmission among student populations already seeing rising infection numbers.
Then there are the platforms that don’t call themselves sugar-dating apps at all. One widely reported case followed a 19-year-old student from Hangzhou who “rented herself out” via a WeChat-based service called “快来租我” (kuài lái zū wǒ, Quick Come Rent Me). Officially, users could pay around 100 yuan an hour for companionship—eating, shopping, karaoke—but the app also promoted a feature labelled “叫床” (jiàochuáng), literally “call bed”, a term that doubles as slang for sexual moaning. The student openly acknowledged that sex between users was “very commonplace”, even if she personally insisted on boundaries. Legal experts quoted in the story described such apps as occupying a grey area: renting time is legal, renting someone’s body is not, but proving intent is difficult when the arrangement is framed as dating.
Attitudes among students are equally ambivalent. A well-known survey of female graduates in 17 Shanghai universities found that only about a fifth “strongly despised” the idea of being kept, while 56.5% said they could understand “被包养” (bèi bāoyǎng, being financially kept) even if they would never choose it themselves; a small minority said it seemed normal and was a path they might consider. The same survey showed high tolerance for cohabitation, one-night stands and premarital sex in general, alongside very traditional expectations of marital fidelity. In other words, young women may disapprove in principle, but they live in a culture where using money to secure intimacy is widely recognised and quietly normalised.
At the same time, large multi-province surveys show that fewer than one in five undergraduates have had intercourse, and overall sexual knowledge remains middling; many still rely on the internet—including pornography and unmoderated forums—for information. HIV cases among university students have risen over the last decade, particularly among men who have sex with men, but awareness of testing services and practical prevention remains patchy. Against this backdrop, sugar dating and other forms of sexual commerce become one more risky behaviour added to a cluster of low condom use, alcohol-fuelled hookups and poor access to non-judgmental sexual health care.
Money is not the only driver, but it matters. Rising tuition, high city rents and intense pressure to maintain a certain lifestyle—branded cosmetics, smartphones, café culture—make “兼职女友” (jiānzhí nǚyǒu, part-time girlfriend) or “临时男友” (línshí nányǒu, temporary boyfriend) arrangements tempting, especially when recruiters emphasise quick cash and “emotional connection” rather than sex. For some students, particularly men with more economic power, paying for company is framed as a harmless reward in a stressful, competitive society. For those on the selling side, gendered power imbalances are obvious: older, richer partners set the terms; students carry more of the physical and reputational risk.
Universities and authorities have mostly responded with moral warnings and periodic crackdowns on “pornographic” apps, rather than addressing the structural drivers. Yet the Zhejiang data suggest that the students most involved in commercial sex are also those who already drink more, seek partners online and underestimate their HIV risk. Effective interventions will need more than slogans against “不良交往” (bùliáng jiāowǎng, unhealthy relationships). They require comprehensive 性教育 (xìng jiàoyù, sex education) that talks honestly about money, consent, power and online platforms; confidential counselling and affordable HIV testing on campus; and economic support so that students don’t feel they have to monetise their dating life to stay afloat.
Spicy Auntie reporting from the front row of Asia’s ever-evolving intimacy marketplace, clutching my cup of oolong like a weary oracle who has seen too many “exclusive sponsorship offers” slide across too many students’ DMs. And yes, my dears, I have already spoken: if it’s consensual, between adults, and no one is being coerced or lied to, then fine—love, lust or “赞助恋爱” can take the shape it wants. Human desire is a versatile creature, and your Auntie isn’t the Minister of Morality. But let’s not pretend that every sugar arrangement is a fairy tale dipped in rose gold. Many of these deals look more like lopsided negotiations with a shiny filter slapped on for Instagram.
What worries me is not the existence of sugar relationships—those have lived in every society since silk robes and horse-drawn sedans—but the motivation. When a student tells me she’s doing it for “financial independence,” and then proudly flashes her brand-new iPhone 17 Max Glow-in-the-Dark Limited Edition, my eyebrow shoots up like a rocket. Financial independence does not mean “Daddy’s paying my bubble tea habit.” If you’re doing this for basic survival—rent, food, medical bills—my heart softens, because your country and your university should have supported you better. But if you’re doing it because capitalism convinced you that your worth depends on designer sneakers and café aesthetics… oh honey, that’s not empowerment. That’s a marketing campaign using your hormones as collateral.
And boys, don’t think Auntie hasn’t noticed you too. The number of young men entering sugar arrangements—some as “sponsors,” some as “companions”—is climbing fast. Some of you seem to believe that masculinity is measured by how many allowances you can hand out. Others think being “kept” is a fast-track to easy money. You’re all playing the same game, just wearing different jerseys. And in this game, dignity is the currency you should guard most fiercely.
As for the universities—wake up! Stop posting posters about “unhealthy relationships” like you’re scolding naughty toddlers. Repression doesn’t work; it only forces everything underground. What students need is clear, shame-free, practical education: sex ed that doesn’t giggle at the word “condom,” workshops about power dynamics and digital risks, financial support for struggling students, and mental-health services that actually pick up the phone. Teach young people how to choose wisely, negotiate safely, and understand the emotional costs of monetising intimacy.
In the end, Auntie isn’t here to judge your hearts or your desires. I’m here to remind you: your time, your body, your dignity—those are treasures. Don’t trade them lightly. And if you do trade them, at least make sure you’re the one setting the terms, not just the price.