Hobosexuality: When Love Becomes a Survival Strategy

In an era where modern intimacies take on new shapes—thanks to political, economic, and technological shifts—we’re pretty sure you’ve heard of queerplatonic, ethical non-monogamy, solo polyamory, and all those “the list goes on” types of relationships. But have you ever heard of hobosexual(ity)?

If the term doesn’t ring a bell, chances are you’re familiar with the concept. Especially when you consider recent stats showing that the number of hobosexuals has jumped by over 50 percent in the past decade.

So, you might wonder: what is a hobosexual, and why do their numbers keep growing? Well, a hobosexual isn’t exactly a romantic trope or a sexual identity—it’s more of a social figure that’s emerged out of complicated times. To be more specific, it’s someone who enters a relationship primarily for a place to stay and some financial stability.

While recent studies don’t offer hard evidence on hobosexuals, judging by today’s economic reality—sky-high rent and an ongoing housing crisis—it’s pretty credible that their numbers keep rising. Even a quick scroll through TikTok or YouTube shorts titled “You Might Be With a Hobosexual” shows just how common this kind of so-called identity has become.

@caileneasely

Their life revolves around finding women they can live off of, use, and then dispose of. Your time will be wasted and you will walk away depleted.

♬ original sound – caileneasely

Originally, back in the late 19th and early 20th century, a hobo(sexual) referred to someone who travelled across the U.S. in search of short-term jobs—just enough to get by and indulge in a few small pleasures. And just like with work, hobo(sexuals) were also transient in their relationships. They’d usually find a partner to stay with for a season, mostly to secure a place to sleep, and after a little while—sometimes even just a few weeks—they’d move on to another job and, as a result, another partner.

If you’re feeling uneasy or judgmental about this type of identity, it’s worth remembering that things aren’t always as straightforward as they seem. Going back to history again, hobosexuals emerged in response to economic and geopolitical instability—think the Civil War, the Great Depression, and the rise of industrial capitalism after World Wars I and II.

And the philosophy behind hobosexuality wasn’t about living off others or leading a parasitic lifestyle, especially taking into account that they built the West of the States during the 20^th century—it was rooted in resistance. Resistance to an exploitative capitalist system that stripped basic rights from the lower middle class, and rebellion against rigid gender roles and norms that limited both personal and sexual freedom.

Probably the best examples of hobosexuals aren’t found in the biased, scientifically sexist research of the 20th century, but in semi-fictional, semi-autobiographical narratives—like Charles Bukowski’s Factotum, Sarah Schulman’s LGBTQ+ novel Girls, Visions, and Everything, or Eileen Myles’ Chelsea Girls.

In these stories, the authors capture the struggles of economic decay and social conservatism by following characters who travel across the country, switch jobs just to survive another day, and explore their sexual identities through all kinds of relationships—from casual hookups to, eventually, stable same-sex partnerships.

So—once a revolutionary figure and a symbol of anti-capitalist resistance, and now, suddenly, an energetically memeified and discussed threat to relationships and to one’s mental well-being all over social media? How come?

Exactly how the shift in the definition of what a hobosexual is happened remains unclear, largely due to the lack of research on the practice. But judging from what we do know, we can assume that the reappearance of this social figure in the 21st century is also being called “hobosexual” because of three overlapping traits: an unstable financial situation amid economic uncertainty, sporadic employment, and the absence of stable housing. Beyond those surface-level similarities, though, the two identities—while connected by name—are actually very different.

So, what makes a 21st-century hobosexual different? To start with the two main factors: they settle, and they don’t engage in sex with multiple partners just for pleasure. Instead, they choose carefully and commit to someone with the aim of securing financial and housing stability—placing both themselves and their partner in a transactional relationship, often without the partner even realising it, by disguising it as genuine love.

And that’s exactly what makes them so dangerous—their exploitative and manipulative nature. People on TikTok now share advice on how to spot a hobosexual based on their own experiences.

One of the biggest red flags is love bombing at the beginning of the relationship—when they’re overly affectionate, eager to please, and willing to give their partner whatever they want, all to get what they need in return. Sometimes that’s something small, like the left side of the bed… and sometimes it’s something bigger, like the access to your bank account.

@dannyserene Avoid them! They are narcissistic users #datingapps #hobosexuals #nyc #tips #nycdating #narcissists #datingappsbelike #crazydatingstories #nyclife #newyorkers #foryoupage ♬ original sound – Danny Serene

The next red flag is pressuring their partner to move the relationship forward at an unusually fast pace—like casually suggesting they stay over for a few days, which slowly turns into weeks.

And the last one we’ll mention (though definitely not the least) is a sporadic employment history and no fixed address.

But here’s the tricky part: these last two can be hard to spot. Many modern-day hobosexuals know how to play the main character, carefully curating an image of success with rental cars, Airbnbs, and exciting photos on social media or dating apps. And honestly, it becomes hard to even call this person a hobosexual—it starts looking a lot more like a manipulative narcissist.

Modern literature also reflects hobosexual-type relationships, though in less dramatic or obvious ways. Take Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors, where the protagonist, Cleo, moves in with—and marries—a man she genuinely likes. But the underlying push comes from her expiring visa and the pressure of living in a tiny room in New York. Or Sally Rooney’s latest novel Intermezzo, where Naomi, a student who gets evicted from her accommodation, moves in with Peter. Sure, they love each other—but if she weren’t carrying the weight of financial stress, would they have ended up living together so soon?

There are plenty of other stories, too—like Evenings and Weekends by Oisín McKenna or Soft Core by Brittany Newell—that show how the housing crisis quietly shapes the course of modern relationships.

When comparing the hobosexual identity (if it can be called an identity) of the 20th and 21st centuries, it’s clear that we’re looking at two very different concepts with a few overlapping traits. The first feels more rebellious, sexually adventurous, even romantic in its restlessness. The second leans more toward something transactional—rooted in survival.

We’re not here to defend or judge anyone, because, as you can see, these dynamics are messy, ambiguous, and in serious need of deeper research. But maybe the real question is this: should we be blaming people—or the economic conditions that turned selfless romance into transactional cohabitation?

Words by Dana Shmyha