Nailing my feminist colours to the mast

Last week, Gail Dines wrote an article for Guardian CiF about the Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas. 

The porn industry, as Dines saw it, is one of mercenary men subjecting women to demeaning and dangerous acts for profit. It’s not a new description: in the late nineties, pro-porn campaigner, Nina Hartley, admitted, ‘you’re seeing more of these videos of women getting dragged on their faces, and spit [sic] on, and having their heads dunked in the toilet.’ 

If, like me, you’re a feminist who luridly enjoys a bit of blue, the choice often seems to be self-restraint, or a betrayal of your principles. When women are so routinely abused in porn, it’s little wonder some feminists find themselves standing outside sex shops, shouting at the men that frequent them.

But many argue that porn doesn’t have to be anti-feminist. Groups like Our Porn, Ourselves are part of a long-term campaign to close the gap between feminism and porn. There is a difference, they argue, between endorsing abuse, and observing a good old shag. Even when a woman is being dominated, she can still have agency and be an equal in the act. Surely we can resist genuine oppression while embracing our sexuality?

Most certainly we can, but agency is a difficult issue when porn is viewed by young impressionable people. It is estimated that 97% of males between 15-18 have seen a porn film. I doubt these inexperienced boys understand the subtleties of sex; that ostensibly abusive acts can be carried out with trust and love. More likely they will take such acts at face value, and internalise them as a formative experience of adult relationships.

So what are feminists to do? Can we accept porn as part of society while still remaining true to our principles?

Whilst pondering this question, an observation Dines made struck a chord with me. She noted: ‘from sitting in the business seminars it quickly became clear that what excites these guys (and it was overwhelmingly men) is not sex, but money.’ So I wonder; instead of resisting porn, why don’t we start seeing it as a business, as pornographers do? Then, we could subject it to the same rules and regulations as we would with any other: equality, health and safety, and – most importantly – unionisation.

The problem with condemning porn is that it pushes it out of public view, unintentionally making it harder to ensure the wellbeing of its users, and for porn actors to make their voices heard. By denying porn a role, we do nothing to prevent the harm we so oppose. Indeed Jenna Jameson hinted at this in October when she called for American porn to be unionised, noting that some porn actors do not refuse unprotected sex for fear of losing a job. This barely registered in the mainstream media – and I have to wonder whether that was because a campaign for a porn actors’ union must first allow porn to be socially acceptable.

We should just accept that porn is here to stay. Only then can we concentrate our energies on regulating it to protect those that consume it, and unionising it to protect those that make it. In fact, by giving porn actors the voice in the debate they are so often denied, we might naturally regulate content: it is a lot more difficult to get someone to demean themselves if they are part of a powerful and empowered workforce.

Porn, in one form or another, has been part of our lives for thousands of years. It was here long before we were, and will most probably outlive us. It’s time that feminists as a whole accepted that fact, and concentrate on shaping porn to reflect the values we claim to hold. Who knows – if we get to a point where porn and misogyny have been disentangled altogether – we might even enjoy it.