How I Made Thousands of Dollars Wearing Other Women’s Bras

By [Name Withheld]

They don’t tell you when you sign up for college just how many times you’ll check your bank account and audibly groan. And if they do, they certainly don’t mention that salvation might come in the form of a complete stranger buying your used bra online.

My name’s not important, and maybe it never will be. But what I discovered between late-night dorm chats, unethical economics professors, and the slow financial crush of adulthood—that part is worth sharing.

I was nineteen. Majoring in Business Administration. Living off campus because the dorms were full and the idea of communal showers gave me the ick. My parents helped when they could, but I was proud. I’d gotten into a decent state school on merit, and I was determined to carry the rest myself.

That’s how I ended up digging through Reddit one night, searching for gig work that didn’t involve plasma donation or babysitting rich kids. And that’s how I stumbled across The Marketplace.

Chapter One: The Whisper Network of Worn Things

It started with Natalie. My roommate. She was everything I wasn’t—blonde, confident, always wearing some overpriced sorority hoodie with her name embroidered on the wrist. I once joked that she was sponsored by dry shampoo.

One Thursday night, she let something slip: "You know Jenna made like $300 last month selling her socks?"

"On Poshmark?" I asked, honestly confused.

She laughed. "No. Worn socks. Like, fetish stuff."

I stared. Then I Googled. Then I spiraled.

Back in my room, I registered an anonymous profile on one of the more vanilla sites. I didn’t post a photo—just listed a bra I’d worn during finals week. I described it in the same tone I’d use on a Facebook Marketplace couch ad: gently used, washed only in cold water, still holds shape.

It sold in 3 hours.

$65. Plus shipping.

I was stunned. And also hooked.

Chapter Two: From Closet to Commerce

A normal girl might’ve stopped there, grateful for the rent money. But I’m not normal—I’m a business major.

The first problem was inventory. Bras are expensive. A single Victoria’s Secret push-up could run $50, and if you’re shipping it off to some guy in Scottsdale Arizona, you never see it again.

That’s when I started sourcing.

I visited Goodwill that weekend and walked out with 11 bras for $12.
Back at my tiny apartment, the real work began. I spent hours shooting macro photos of each bra’s intricate lace and stitching, obsessing over lighting until every detail popped just right. I even roped a friend in to help with the shots—someone to hold reflectors, adjust angles, and make sure the images felt polished. But it wasn’t just about pictures. I modeled each one myself, wearing every bra to capture authentic angles, poses, and vibes. Sometimes I’d film short clips, little glimpses that made each piece come alive on screen.

“Wore this during a late-night cram session. The lace is soft and breathable. Size 32D.”

It was a lot of fun, honestly—making up stories, playing dress-up, and diving into a role for each bra, turning ordinary undergarments into characters with a past and personality.

I wasn’t lying. I’d worn them—well, not originally, but I put so much effort into embodying each story, I practically gave those bras a stronger workout than their first owners ever did. The role-playing wasn’t just for show; it made the stories real enough to sell.

The role-playing wasn’t just for show; it made the stories real enough to sell. In fact, several of the bras actually fit me great and were super comfortable—which, if you know, you know, is no small feat. So for those lucky few bras—and their eventual buyers—I actually wore them quite a bit after the "photoshoot."

Chapter Three: Scaling the Intimate Empire

The thing about used bra buyers is that they’re intense. They want stories. They want specificity. They don’t just want “a bra,” they want your bra—after a yoga class, or a breakup, or a long walk under a wool coat in August.

So I wrote.

I invented entire personas. I kept spreadsheets. I batched my content and wrote auto-responders. I even learned to upsell.

"Want the matching panties? +$20"
"Want me to wear it for 48 hours instead of 24? +$15"

I started clearing $900 a month.

But here’s the thing—every persona, every backstory, was rooted in something real. I might've given each bra a fictional name or a curated mood, but the core details—the way it fit, how it felt, what I was doing when I wore it—those were all mine. The truth was always the foundation.

It just got complicated because of the scale. I had dozens of bras and hundreds of interactions, and the challenge became keeping track of which persona was tied to which lived experience. But none of it was made up to deceive.

Bratags was never about faking stories. The whole point was to make the truth traceable—to sell real, lived moments wrapped in lace. And honestly, every human has thousands of those moments. It’s just a matter of choosing which ones to tell, and which ones to sell.

I also became obsessed with operations. I developed a scent preservation method involving Mason jars, rice, and a mini fridge. I started writing hand-written notes in Sharpie with kiss marks. Some guys tipped just for the handwriting.

Chapter Four: The Ethics of Elastic

I started to question it—was this deceptive? Was I exploiting a kink? Was I misleading them about whose sweat was on what?

I asked Natalie.

"Girl, they don’t care. They want the story. It’s like pro wrestling. Everyone knows it’s scripted. That’s what makes it better."

I had found the sweet spot between fantasy and commerce. And the margins were delicious.

By my senior year, I had cleared just under $17,000—mostly through direct sales, all of it technically resale income.

Chapter Five: The Tag That Changed Everything

It happened while I was folding my 200th bra into a discreet brown envelope. I wished there was a way to keep track of them. A digital closet of sorts. A way to prove authenticity without showing my face or compromising my privacy.

And that’s when it clicked: What if each bra had a tag—just like the bra tag itself—but digital? A profile. A story. A timestamp. A QR code.

I called it Bratags. A fusion of “bra” and “tag.”

At first it was just a spreadsheet and some photo metadata. Then a friend in CS helped me build a prototype. Then I applied for a $10k university startup grant and won.

And somehow, improbably, the girl who used to sell other women’s bras on kink sites was now the CEO of bratags.com.

We launched six months later with ten Models and fifty bras. Every tag had a backstory, an origin, a path. Customers could track their favorites, get notifications, even order “storyline drops.”

One Model wore a bra on a cross-country train ride and documented the entire thing in audio clips. Another did a breakup series—four bras, one for each week of her emotional unraveling.

We weren’t just selling bras anymore.

We were selling continuity.

Final Note:

Sometimes I get messages from new girls. Broke girls. Girls Googling in the dark like I was.

They ask: “Is it real? Can I actually make money doing this?”

I don’t give them this whole pitch about empowerment or sex work solidarity.
I just tell them the truth:
Yes. You can.

And maybe—if you’re smart, if you treat it like a business instead of a hustle—you won’t just make money wearing other women’s bras.

You might build something real.
You might build something lasting.
You might even build Bratags.