Pornucopia

Critics say that porn degrades women, dulls

sexual pleasure, and ruins authentic relationships
– are they right?

by Maria Konnikova

Maria Konnikova is the author of Mastermind: How to Think Like Sherlock Holmes
(2013) and the The Confidence Game (2016). She is a columnist for The New Yorker
online and lives in New York.

Edited by Ross Andersen

I don’t remember how old I was when I had my first encounter with pornography,
but I must have been around 10 – the experience is entwined with the sound of
the AOL dial-up tone. It was something relatively benign – a close-up photo of
some genitalia – and I wasn’t much shocked. I grew up in a family not given to
sugarcoating the realities of the human condition and I’d known what to expect.

But what if I’d grown up a decade or so later, when the internet had graduated
beyond the old-school chatrooms and into the ubiquitous juggernaut of today?
My memory might have been decidedly different.

‘The widespread use of internet porn is one of the fastest-moving global

experiments ever unconsciously conducted,’ the US science writer Gary Wilson
told a TEDx audience in 2012. For the first time ever, Wilson explained, we can
track how ever-growing exposure to pornography affects sexual practices,
appetites and trends. Wilson – who is neither a scientist nor a professor – is the
founder of Your Brain On Porn, a site that popularises anti-pornography research.
In his talk, he reiterated the site’s main conclusions: when we have pornography
freely available at our fingertips, the brain’s reward circuits go into overdrive as
they’re exposed to what he terms ‘extreme versions of natural events’. Instead of
one or two possible sexual partners, now there are dozens, hundreds, all readily
accessible in a single click. Like any addiction, Wilson says, the result is a numbed
response to pleasure, from lack of interest in real women to erectile dysfunction.
Ubiquitous pornography undermines natural sexuality.

Wilson’s talk has had approximately 4.6 million views – and its popularity heralds
a new movement in pornography consumption: NoFap. ‘Fap’ comes from
Japanese manga porn, where it is a sound effect for masturbation. NoFap is a
move away from masturbation, and the pornography that so often forms its
backdrop. The rationale derives from a version of Wilson’s argument: when you
are constantly bombarded with heightened sexual stimuli, your virility is
undermined. Your ability to communicate with real sexual beings collapses. You
become isolated – porn, after all, is a solitary pursuit – and your emotional
wellbeing plummets. Refrain from those stimuli, and from acting on them, and
you will find yourself rejuvenated and your sexual powers reawakened, your
emotional equilibrium restored and your happiness rising. When Wilson’s talk
was first released, the self-styled ‘Fapstronauts’ numbered approximately 7,000.
Today, there are more than 150,000.

T he NoFap, brain-on-porn arguments are the latest in a common, critical refrain:

that, for one reason or another, pornography is bad for you. The more traditional
critiques say that pornography is inherently degrading to women – or whoever
happens to be the object of sexual activity – and fosters unrealistic expectations
of sex. It decreases the quality of real relationships and the self-image of those
involved – and increases negative sexual attitudes and actions. Porn-users
compare real humans to the fantastical images, and either come out unimpressed
and reluctant to have real sex, or, at worst, demanding the types of behaviours
they see on screen, regardless of their desirability to their partner. One poll from
the US Pew Research Center in 2007 quantified the feeling, finding that 70 per
cent of Americans said pornography is harmful.

Do any of these criticisms hold water? It would be nice to know. Reliable statistics
about pornography are notoriously difficult to obtain – many people underreport
their own habits, and many porn companies are loath to share any sort of
viewership statistics. But according to ongoing research by Chyng Sun, a
professor of media studies at New York University (NYU), the numbers are high
and rising quickly. She estimates that 36 per cent of internet content is
pornography. One in four internet searches are about porn. There are 40 million
(and growing) regular consumers of porn in the US; and around the world, at any
given time, 1.7 million users are streaming porn. Of the almost 500 men Sun
surveyed in one of her studies, only 1 per cent had never seen porn, and half had
seen their first porn film before they’d turned 13. Cindy Gallop, the founder of the
website Make Love Not Porn, told me recently that, in the past six months, the
average age when children are first exposed to pornography dropped from eight
to six. It wasn’t a deliberate seeking. Online pornography is now so widespread
that it’s easier than ever to ‘stumble’ on it.

The actual effects of pornography on attitudes, behaviour, life and relationship

satisfaction are difficult to study, and for many years most data have remained
purely correlational or anecdotal. But early on, there emerged suggestive inklings
that those who vocally opposed pornography’s spread might be motivated more
by emotion than any tangible proof.

In 1969, Denmark became the first country to legalise pornography. In the years
that followed, onlookers watched with interest and trepidation: what would
happen to Danish society? As it turns out, nothing – or rather, nothing negative.
When in 1991 Berl Kutchinsky, a criminologist at the University of Copenhagen
who spent his career studying the public effects of pornography, analysed the
data for more than 20 years following legalisation, he found that rates of sexual
aggression had actually fallen. Pornography was proliferating, but the sexual
climate seemed to be improving. The same thing happened, he found, in Sweden
and West Germany, which followed Denmark’s legalisation campaign.

Kutchinsky concluded that the available country-level data ‘would seem to

exclude, beyond any reasonable doubt, that this availability [of pornography] has
had any detrimental effects in the form of increased sexual violence… the
remarkable fact is that they decreased’ – a conclusion that has since been echoed
by multiple studies of country-level data, from nations spanning North and South
America, Europe and Asia. If anything, Kutchnisky wrote, pornography was being
used precisely as it was originally intended: as an expression of a certain fantasy.

When it comes to porn, going beyond correlational evidence can be difficult.

‘Science is so scared of pornography and sexuality, and it’s so discriminated
against, that there’s a ton of work that hasn’t been done,’ Nicole Prause, head of
the Sexual Psychophysiology and Affective Neuroscience Lab at the University of
California, Los Angeles (UCLA), recently told me. ‘Most of the information we
currently have is not experimental or longitudinal. Lots of data talk about
correlates and associations, but the literature is especially bad – it can’t be trusted
– because no one is doing experiments, no one is showing cause and effect. That
needs to change.’
Prause fell into sex research by mistake: she followed a boyfriend to Indiana and
found herself next to the Kinsey Institute, which happened to have an opening for
a researcher. Soon, she was hooked. Today, Prause has become one of the few
researchers in the US to study pornography in the laboratory. A trained
neuroscientist, she focuses much of her efforts on the brain. Using fMRI, PET and
EEG, Prause looks at how we respond to pornography – and how those responses
translate to attitudes and behaviour. She has found that, in many ways,
pornography is no different to a scary movie or a bungee jump. We just view it
differently because it happens to involve sex. ‘There is a general idea that porn is
special or unique in the brain. But frankly, it doesn’t look that different from other
rewards,’ she says. ‘Lots of other things are as powerful. For someone with lower
sex drive, for instance, watching porn evokes the same magnitude response as
eating chocolate, in similar brain areas.’

What’s more, it doesn’t seem to be the case that people become desensitised to
pornography, in the sense that the more you watch it, the more extreme your
viewing content needs to become. When Prause and the psychologist James Pfaus
of Concordia University in Quebec recently measured sexual arousal in 280 men,
they found that watching more pornography actually increased arousal to less
explicit material – and increased the desire for sex with a partner. In other words,
it made them more, not less responsive to ‘normal’ cues, and more, not less,
desirous of real physical relationships. In a 2014 review, Prause likened
pornography addiction – the notion that, like a drug, the more you watch, the
more, and higher doses, you crave – to the emperor who has no clothes: everyone
says it’s there, but there is no actual evidence to support it.

Prause has also studied the question of relationship satisfaction more directly: did
watching pornography negatively impact the quality of sexual intimacy? Working
with the psychologist Cameron Staley of Idaho State University in 2013, she
asked 44 monogamous couples to watch pornography alone and together, to see
how it would affect feelings about their relationship. After each viewing session,
the couples reported on their arousal, sexual satisfaction, perception of
themselves, and their partner’s attractiveness and sexual behaviour. Prause and
Staley found that viewing pornography increased couples’ desire to be with their
significant other, whether they’d seen the film alone or together. Pornography also
increased their evaluation of their own sexual behaviour.

I n the past decade, experimental approaches such as Prause’s have finally started
to grow in number – and for the most part, their conclusions cast doubt on the
perceived social wisdom of pornography’s detrimental impact. As part of the
2002 Swiss Multicenter Adolescent Survey on Health, more than 7,500 16- to 20-
year-olds were asked about their exposure to online pornography (over three-
quarters of the males and 36 per cent of the females had viewed internet porn in
the past month) and then measured on a variety of behaviours and attitudes. The
researchers found no association between viewing explicit material and then
going on to behave in more sexually risky ways. A 2012 review of studies that,
since 2005, have looked at the effects of internet porn on adolescents’ social
development and attitudes found that the prevailing wisdom that pornography
leads to unrealistic sexual beliefs, more permissive attitudes and more
experimentation is not founded on replicable research. ‘The aggregate literature
has failed to indicate conclusive results,’ the authors conclude in the journal
Sexual Addiction and Compulsivity.

Likewise with sexually violent behaviours or negative attitudes toward women. In

one series of experiments conducted by the sexologist Milton Diamond of the
University of Hawaii, viewing pornography neither made men more violent nor
more prone to having worse attitudes toward women. In a 2013 study of 4,600
15- to 25-year-olds in the Netherlands, the psychologist Gert Martin Hald looked
to see whether pornography-viewing had an effect on a wide variety of sexual
behaviours, such as likelihood of adventurous sex (threesomes, same-sex partners
for self-stated heterosexuals, sex with someone you met online, etc), partner
experience (one-night stands, age of first encounter, number of partners, etc), and
transactional sex (being paid money or something else for sex, paying someone
else for sex). He found that frequency of pornography-consumption did indeed
have an effect – but, once you controlled for other things, such as socio-
demographic factors, risk-seeking, and social relationships, it explained only an
additional 0.3 to 4 per cent of the impact. We shouldn’t dismiss the effect, Hald
says, but rather understand it in context: it is one of many factors, each of which
contributes to behaviour, and its influence is not any greater (and often, less) than
that of other predisposing elements.

Indeed, in another study earlier this year, Hald and the psychologist Neil
Malamuth of UCLA looked at the relationship between negative attitudes toward
women and pornography use. They found that there was, in fact, a link – but only
if a person was already low on a scale of so-called agreeableness. Those results
came as no surprise: in 2012, they, along with the clinical psychologist Mary Koss
of the University of Arizona, found that the only time pornography viewing was
associated with attitudes that condoned any form of violence against women was
in men already at high risk of sexual aggression. When they summarised the data
that preceded their work, they wrote that negative effects ‘are evidence only for a
subgroup of males users, namely those already predisposed to sexual aggression’.
The negative behaviours we blame on pornography, in other words, might have
emerged no matter what; porn is perhaps more symptom than cause.

It’s a message that new research is increasingly supporting. Earlier this year, a
group from VU University Amsterdam in the Netherlands attempted to
disambiguate cause and effect in relationship satisfaction: did frequent
pornography viewing cause people to drift apart – or was it the result of their
having drifted apart already? For three years, the psychologist Linda Muusses and
her colleagues tracked just under 200 newlywed couples, as part of a broader
study on marriage and wellbeing. At regular intervals, both members of every
couple were asked about their use of ‘explicit internet material’, as well as their
happiness with the relationship and their sexual satisfaction. The happier men
were in relationships, they found, the less pornography they watched. Conversely,
more viewing predicted lower happiness a year later. It was a self-reinforcing
cycle: get caught in a good one, with a satisfied relationship, and porn was a non-
issue. But lose satisfaction, watch more porn, and realise your relationship is
further disintegrating.

Muusses and her colleagues also noticed that higher levels of pornography use at
the start of a relationship did not predict a less sexually satisfying experience later
on, for men or women. ‘Our findings suggest that it is implausible that SEIM
[sexually explicit internet material] causes husbands to contrast their sexual
experiences and partner’s attractiveness with their SEIM experiences with long-
lasting effects,’ the authors wrote.

W hy, then, does the disconnect persist between theory, opinion and social
sentiment, on the one hand, and empirical research, on the other? Part of the
problem stems from the difficulty of saying exactly what pornography actually is.
The deeper I ventured into the world of pornography, online or not, speaking with
producers, viewers, distributors, the stars themselves, the more I realised how
misplaced the very premise of that framing was: there isn’t a monolithic
‘pornography’, just like there isn’t a monolithic ‘Hollywood film’. When we go to
the cinema, there are dramas and comedies, horror and sci-fi, thrillers and
romantic romps – movies to suit any mood, any taste, any occasion. The
experience and effects of each differ. We don’t emerge from Selma in the same
frame of mind as we do from When Harry Met Sally. But while we understand that
implicitly when it comes to mainstream cinema, we don’t see pornography with
the same level of nuance. ‘We cherry-pick the worst, most aggressive examples,’
said the media researcher Chyng Sun.

I heard the same refrain over and over, from every researcher and every member
of the pornography industry I spoke with: pornography is to sex as Hollywood
films are to real life. Pornography is fantasy, pure and simple. And just as any
fantasy can be channelled in any direction, so too can pornography. There are bad
fantasies – Sun’s ‘worst, most aggressive examples’, just as there are good
fantasies, instances of pornography that should pass any feminist’s muster, both
in terms of quality and the ethical standards of filming. As Coyote Amrich of
Good Vibrations, an adult retailer in San Francisco (one of the oldest such
retailers in the country) puts it: ‘Just like not everyone is a Bernie Madoff in
finance, not every person involved in porn is this terrible person. Some are really
great and have allowed incredible content and have been supportive of male and
female performers, and help people make great careers.’

That short description goes to the heart of what makes pornography the kind of
fantasy we can feel good about versus the kind we should actively question. It’s
not a question of content but rather one of ethics, where the number-one criterion
is the treatment of the actors. ‘Are the women enjoying themselves and having
authentic pleasure as far as we can tell? Are the other people in the scene with
them not saying debasing things to them or, if they are, is it clear that it’s wanted
– yes, I want you to call me a slut, so call me a slut?’ Amrich explained. It matters
little what acts are being performed or how; we shouldn’t be quick to dismiss
something as bad just because we, personally, don’t think anyone could possibly
enjoy it. What matters is that the people performing these acts enjoy their
performance. As Jamie Martin, who previously worked with Amrich at Good
Vibes, put it: ‘If it’s not hurting anyone, and someone is going to get off on it, why
not?’

Amrich refuses to stock any films where the ethical treatment of actors isn’t
completely clear, a stance I saw from multiple buyers, distributors and retailers.
Increasingly, people insist that the product they host on their site or bring to their
customers comes from a place of clear desire. Not all porn is created equal. ‘We
need to move past the notion that a female performer is a victim. It’s antiquated,’
Amrich says. ‘It doesn’t acknowledge female power, pleasure, women taking
control of sexuality. It only serves the idea that a woman who is sexual is being
taken advantage of.’
Jiz Lee, recognised as one of the leading modern genderqueer adult performers,
has been in the industry for more than 10 years, and says ethical pornography is a
priority. The single biggest marker of such porn is that it costs the consumer
something. ‘By paying for it, it’s a guarantee,’ Lee told me, taking a break from
shooting with the director Shine Louise Houston. ‘Otherwise, it can be hard to tell
if it was ethically shot. Paying helps insure it, and helps the company be in good
standing.’ These days, they point out, the internet doesn’t just function as a way to
distribute pornography; it’s a way of gauging quality and blacklisting those sites
that don’t meet certain standards. ‘I won’t work for a company that has a poor
record or is exploitative,’ Lee says. ‘And I will tell everybody else.’

Ethical pornography is becoming increasingly less exceptional. The porn industry

of today is a far cry from the ‘San Pornando Valley’ adult entertainment industry
of the 1990s. There are more women in charge, more readily enforced standards,
and more accountability.

But regardless of what pornography insiders say, for consumers, especially

younger ones who are growing up with a ubiquitous internet, the view is quite
different. Unlike Hollywood, where it’s clear to anyone that they are watching an
idealised version of reality, with pornography, that realisation is often absent. For
one simple reason: we don’t talk about sexual pleasure as children, adolescents or
adults. It’s a taboo, guilt-ridden area. In the absence of other options,
pornography becomes a de facto way of educating yourself about sexuality. As one
2014 study of low-income black and Hispanic youth put it, led by Emily Rothman
of the Boston University School of Public Health, quoting an interview with a
porn-watching adolescent: ‘Without porn, I wouldn’t know half the things I know
now.’

T he sex researcher Alice Dreger of Northwestern University in Chicago recently

live-tweeted from a high-school sex-education class – her son’s. His teacher’s
approach, it soon became clear, was absolute avoidance of any topics other than
abstinence. Any attempt to broaden the conversation was stonewalled. And
therein lies the problem. We see pornography as a socially destructive force, but
there’s nothing inherently destructive about it. It becomes so only when it is the
one thing adolescents see as they discover sex: they use it as a learning script. It’s
not a problem of pornography as such, but rather, a problem of the absence of a
competing script, something that contextualises porn as a fantastical, not real-life,
experience.
The way to change that – and to change the negative effects such a misperception
can have – isn’t to restrict or ban pornography. It’s to bring the discussion of
sexual pleasure to the foreground, especially in sex-ed. ‘We need to supplement
pornography with non-porn sexual education, so that porn becomes fantasy sex
rather than a real-world template,’ Zhana Vrangalova, a psychologist at NYU who
specialises in sexuality, told me. ‘We need to give people permission to enjoy sex.
Until we do that, they will go to porn. Because you can’t kill curiosity.’

Already, certain movements are trying to do just that. Jessica Cooper helps run
ScrewSmart, a sex-education collaborative in Philadelphia that aims to foster
open dialogue about sexual pleasure. The group meets with students, hosts
workshops, discusses porn and its role openly and honestly. ‘One of the biggest
issues for sexuality in general is permission,’ Cooper told me. ‘People want
permission to like things they like, want what they want. We are giving them
permission to say yes. Your desires are valid, sexuality is important, what you
want to do is not wrong. Porn does that, especially to women. They need to be
told, I’m not an evil, weird creature for enjoying this.’

Other programmes are starting with even younger children – an important step
given the ever-earlier pornography exposure that might otherwise seep through
unexplained. In Norway, Line Jansrud, the presenter of Newton, an educational
show on state TV, gives herself a hickey with a vacuum cleaner, kisses a tomato
and uses a lubricated dildo on an anatomically correct doll model. She wants to
explain how real sex works, so that children and adolescents can distinguish
Hollywood from real life. Her target audience: third-graders.

The effects of this social change reach far beyond sexual education as such. ‘We’re
missing important therapeutic effects of using erotica because of taboos,’ Prause
says. ‘Aroused states and orgasms do really nice things for the brain and body.’
Erotica can, for some women, be the mythical Viagra that has thus far gone
missing, a way of empowering them and ‘putting their brain in that mode, helping
it do what it’s been programmed to do’. There is certainly a desire for it, albeit
largely unspoken in normal circumstances: when Prause’s group placed an ad for
one of their recent studies, the response broke their phone lines. They had to take
it offline. There is also evidence that the social effects of watching porn can spread
beyond the individual: pornography has been shown to improve acceptance of
homosexuality, birth control and extra-marital sex.
 And porn has the potential to go even further. Sun doesn’t like pornography –
but it’s not actual porn she doesn’t like. It’s the social norms and standards that
led to the creation of certain stereotypes in the first place: not a result of
pornography, but rather a reflection of the direction broader society has taken.
‘We live in a patriarchy, where women are fundamentally objectified. We shouldn’t
be surprised to see it play out in pornography.’

We shouldn’t be worrying about whether pornography has negative

repercussions on society. We should be worrying about the kind of society that
would lead to the types of pornography we find distasteful in the first place – and
work on fixing that society rather than blaming its inevitable result.

aeon.co 22 June 2015