CN: Sexual assault, sexual violence, non-consensual image sharing, digital sexual abuse, non-consensual nudes
For many people, thinking about sex – when we might do it, how we might do it, who we might do it with – is a regular part of life. Of course, the way we think about and engage with sex in 2022 is very different from how it was even 20 years ago, because so much of our interaction with others now happens online. One of the key ways sex has changed is that taking and sending sexy pictures has become standard within sexual or sex-related communication. Apps such as Snapchat have been heralded as leading the digital sexual revolution, providing features which benefit sexters such as time-limited images and screenshot notifications. ‘Sending nudes’ is form of sexual expression which only seems to be increasing.
While sharing sexy pics has become increasingly common in the past decade, it has a long and varied history. Sarah Goodridge, who in 1828 painted a picture of her own breasts to send to a man, acts as evidence that we have been doing this for at least 200 years. When personal cameras became widely available, it became even easier to take sexual explicit photos for the pleasure of others. The Twitter account @whoresofyore (run by author and academic Kate Lister, who we recently spoke to about her new book on the history of sex work) is a great source to see evidence of this. It collects and shares nude and pornographic images that also stretch as far back as the 1800s, demonstrating that Victorians were just as sexual as we are.
As cameras evolved from polaroid to disposable to digital, it became easier to take pictures in private, creating the perfect climate for nudes. With smartphones bringing high-quality cameras, high-speed internet access, social media networks and dating apps right into our pockets in 2022, sharing sexy content has never been more straightforward.
With this in mind, it’s hardly surprising that sending nudes is becoming more and more common. A survey hosted by GQ reports that 40% of men aged 16-24 consider sending nudes ‘the new normal’; a regular and anticipated element of a sexual relationship. Another survey of single Americans found that 38% of Generation Z and 37% of millennials had sent a sexual photo before. Almost half of all millennial women in a YouGov study say they have received a ‘dick pic’, and, in a disappointing but unsurprising turn of events, 9 out of every 10 women hadn’t requested it.
While consensually sending sexy photos to your partner is a perfectly fun and normal thing to do, there is a dark side to this practice. The term ‘revenge pornography’ refers to the act of sharing sexual imagery of a person without their consent. It can involve sharing the images or videos on social media, adult websites, or on sites that specifically host non-consensual sexual content. Images are sometimes accompanied by other personal details, including names, addresses, universities, or workplaces. Others are uploaded anonymously, with the victim only finding out this content has been shared if they (or someone they know) stumbles upon it by accident.
It’s difficult to know how many people have had sexual images shared without consent. Some might never become aware that their images have been shared, and others, understandably, don’t want to discuss or report their experience. For the Revenge Porn Helpline, a support line for survivors, numbers seem to be increasing. As many as 18,700 cases were reported to police in England and Wales between January 2018 and August 2021. Although anyone can be affected by revenge porn, 80% of these reports came from women. Some statistics also note that members of the LGBT community are disproportionately affected. This problem is growing, with no sign of slowing down.
The cohort of people who have had sexual imagery shared without consent contains many famous alumni. Some argue that Marilyn Monroe is one of the first ever victims, after her nude images were bought and published in Playboy by Hugh Hefner in 1953. Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee had their sex tape stolen and sold in the 1990s, which has recently been serialised (controversially) by HBO. More recently, the celebrity hacking scandal in 2014 exposed several actresses, models, and singers; Jennifer Lawrence notably told Vanity Fair that the experience felt like a ‘sexual violation’. In the UK, reality TV star Zara McDermott has spoken publicly about her multiple experiences of having sexual images shared without consent, in a documentary simply titled Revenge Porn.
Sadly, some who report their experience of having sexual images shared without their consent are met with dismissal, ignorance and judgement. A lack of training on this issue within the police force, combined with unhelpful and harmful responses, is contributing to a climate which limits the extent to which an affected person might find justice. One survivor was told, “well, at least you’ve learned your lesson now”, by the officer with whom she spoke. Another key aspect of this phenomenon which limits justice is its legal categorisation; in UK law, sharing images without consent isn’t classed as a sexual offence, meaning that those who report are not guaranteed anonymity. As many are advocating, the harms of being affected by having sexual images shared without consent can be huge, and the experience has more than a little in common with other forms of sexual violence.
Sexual violence is not just physically harmful but has a lasting impact, resulting in a loss of control over one’s body and sexual autonomy, something which typically stays with those affected for years after their experience. If we accept that a person has a right to control access to their body, this rule shouldn’t change when considering images of the body. Some forms of sexual harassment, such as catcalling and flashing, don’t involve a physical interaction at all- but are still considered part of a wider culture that sexualises women’s bodies, and can leave a person feeling threatened and fearful.
Another similarity between the two experiences is the response of the general public. Revenge porn survivors are sometimes met with victim-blaming rhetoric, arguments such as “if you don’t want sexual pictures to be circulated, you shouldn’t take them”. This claim isn’t so distant from the ever-familiar “you shouldn’t have been wearing that skirt”. Responses such as these place blame on the person affected, rather than addressing the wider social and cultural norms which allow sexual violence to exist unchecked, or the perpetrator of the harm.
While people should, of course, feel free to take and share their own nudes without fear of them being passed on, this victim-blaming mentality also discounts the myriad ways in which a person can be victimised without ever taking or sharing their nudes. People like Georgia Harrison, who was recorded having sex on an indoor security camera without her knowledge, or people like Gina Martin, who was ‘upskirted’ at a festival (and later went on to successfully campaign for the act to become illegal), could have done very little to prevent their experience. Even worse, this attitude ignores footage that might be taken during sexual assault, something that has happened during several notable sexual assault trials, including the Steubenville rape case. The rise of ‘deepfake’ porn – technology that superimposes the face of a person onto an image or video – means that this content can be created without anyone photographing your body at all. Anyone with access to the right technology and a photo of your face can produce it. It’s clear that, much like with sexual violence, the problem lies not with the behaviour of the victims but with the behaviour of the perpetrators.
Even the way we talk about the experience as ‘revenge porn’ is a misnomer. The very term ‘revenge’ suggests that the image sharing has been done in response to a perceived wrong carried out by the survivor, a ‘well-they-started-it’ framing of the situation. The image-sharing may be initiated by something as simple as breaking up with your partner. As a culture, we often take issue with women prioritising their own wants or needs over the people around them, but break ups (while sometimes messy and painful) are a routine part of life. Responding to being dumped by your girlfriend by circulating her nudes is the adult equivalent of throwing a tantrum, and is most definitely an act of aggression rather than revenge.
Interestingly, we don’t frame other harms in this way. There’s no such thing as a revenge assault, or a revenge burglary, for instance, because even if these crimes were motivated by revenge, it still isn’t an appropriate reaction. Centring revenge in this way not only focuses on the act the survivor did to ‘deserve’ this exposure, but ignores other motives a person might have outside of revenge. For example, “collector culture” – a phenomenon in which nude images of women are swapped, traded, and collected online – isn’t necessarily motivated by an intent to humiliate or harass the women depicted (although this is certainly one of the outcomes), but is more about voyeurism and sexual gratification.
Because the law specifies images must be shared with “the intention of causing distress”, cases where the perpetrator has purely voyeuristic intentions are going unprosecuted. One woman, who was able to provide police with a text message from her ex-boyfriend confessing to sharing her sexual images, was shocked to find it rendered her case unprosecutable because he claimed in the text he had “never meant to hurt her”. Unsurprisingly, the news that the images weren’t shared maliciously was of little comfort to her, and did nothing to alleviate the feeling of being exposed in such a way.
Calling it ‘porn’ isn’t quite right either. While pornography isn’t the easiest term to define – age, culture, and personal taste affect what we consider as pornographic – the term typically refers to explicit, commercial content. As Sophie Maddocks argues, ‘the term pornography conflates private visual material with public content meant for mass consumption’. Framing sexual images taken in secret for a private and personally selected audience as ‘pornography’ is at best inaccurate, and at worst cruel. Calling these stolen images ‘porn’ also legitimatises them and offers a venue for them to be shared online, with adult websites such as PornHub having recently come under fire for allowing stolen sexual content to be shared on their website under the guise of ‘amateur pornography’.
As a society, it’s so important that we begin to change the dialogue around revenge porn. The harms and impact of the experience are made even worse by a culture which sees it as voyeurism rather than violation. Consider how much harm is caused by all the additional people who search for, view, and share revenge porn content. There are, however, steps being taken to ensure non-consensual sexual image sharing is taken seriously. Reframing the act as ‘intimate image abuse’ or ‘digital sexual abuse’, as many are now doing, is beginning to shift our rhetoric around the experience. These terms prioritise the experience of the person affected, and don’t sexualise or sensationalise the act of image sharing.
It’s already so difficult for women to have positive relationships with their sexuality. Between trying to tread the delicate (read: non-existent) line between ‘slut’ and ‘prude’, embracing your own body image, and navigating the dangers of sexual violence, sex is a turbulent playing field. But sending nudes consensually is a fun and healthy way for a person to express their sexuality, and women shouldn’t be punished for it.
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Image description: Two hands hold a phone in the position of someone looking at the screen. The hands and phone are well lit, and the person wears silver rings and nude nail polish. The rest of the image is dimly lit, so you cannot see the rest of the person or much of the background.
Image credit: Pricilla Du Preez, free to use under the Unsplash license.
