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Stranger than fiction

Another post written for Porn Recovery UK – check out their website here and my post here.

(**Trigger warning** – contains general descriptions of porn and may be triggering.)

Pornography can be difficult to define. Are ‘tasteful’ naked photos porn or are they art? Are sex scenes in movies porn? What about if you can’t see any actual genitalia – is it still pornographic? Censors and governments struggle with the definition but most people seem to agree that it’s largely visual. Photos, paintings, movies, live shows – users participate in porn by watching it. Although the dictionary defines pornography more broadly (“obscene literature, art, or photography, designed to excite sexual desire”) the average person tends to limit their definition of porn to the visual. And when we’re talking about the damage caused by porn we rarely think of any forms of porn other than visual. It’s difficult to imagine how harm can come from pornographic literature – it doesn’t even use real people, so no one is being harmed. It’s surely a better alternative to the kind of porn that exploits those who participate in it, right?

I spent nearly four years as a compulsive porn user and it was never just the visual that captured my attention. I watched plenty of online clips, sometimes daily, but I also spent many nights reading porn fiction stories, sometimes in addition to movies clips and sometimes in their own. I call it porn fiction because it’s not the same as what is commonly known as erotica. The porn fiction that’s online and consumed by thousands of porn users is cheap, crude, amateurish and poorly written. By no stretch of the imagination can it be called literature, and it’s certainly a far cry from the Mills-and Boon-on-steroids that makes up most of the erotica sold in bookstores. This isn’t simply dirty romance literature. Online porn fiction is, at its most innocuous, hard-core porn in written form. It’s graphic, detailed and often violent, and I believe it is as damaging as any porn you can watch on your computer.

Like anything else in porn, fiction covers a vast range of material. You have to know what you’re looking for… do you want male/female, male/male, bondage, discipline, male domination, female domination, mind control, forced submission, transgender, gay, lesbian, bi, interracial, humiliation, pain, rape, sadism, gynaecology… or a combination of several of these options? How about something you hadn’t even imagined yet? It’s all there, and more, in incredible detail.

Porn addiction, like any addiction, changes over time. Very few people start with hard-core porn, just as very few people start a drug addiction with large doses of cocaine. Users build up a tolerance, and even things that were firmly in the “I would never, ever want to watch that” category become acceptable over time as we become desensitised and our brain and body needs a bigger, more exciting hit in order to become aroused. This is very normal but most porn users don’t know that, and it can be very confusing to realise you’ve gone from fairly tame pictures to movie clips that once horrified you. How, you wonder, did I move from being disgusted to aroused? I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me I know that porn fiction is part of what helped to desensitise me to things that had previously sickened me.

A large part of the problem with porn fiction is that it creates scenarios you usually don’t find in porn movies. There is more dialogue, for one thing, which is noticeably absent from real movies. Movie viewers don’t want chit-chat, they want action. The dialogue in most movies takes the form of women being called dirty sluts and whores, but that’s about the limit of ‘conversation’. Porn fiction is different. The writers can take their time… but in most cases the dialogue takes the scene to a level that many porn users would not be comfortable watching. It’s one thing to have a brief shot of a woman looking apprehensive or demeaned; it’s quite another thing to be privy to her thoughts, to know exactly what she’s feeling about the situation. And if what she is feeling is fear or humiliation it takes a standard porn situation to a very different place.

Another difference in porn fiction is that it creates scenarios that either couldn’t be filmed or can’t even exist in real life. Mind control is a big sub-genre of porn fiction and it often involves protagonists (usually women) being forced, by some sort of mind control drug or device, into demeaning sexual acts in public places, or forced to have sex with men they hate or who terrify them. In real life we call that torture and rape but in porn fiction it’s just another mind control scenario. And again, these are not scenes most people would be comfortable watching, but reading it is somehow different.

So what’s the problem here? We’re still talking about fiction, where no one is being hurt. Even regular, non-porn fiction creates intense scenarios that would never happen in real life and we don’t worry about those. It’s just fun and escapism. This is true, but porn fiction is not read in the same way as other fiction. Porn fiction isn’t about escapism or entertainment. It exists to sexually arouse the user and lead to orgasm, in exactly the same way as porn movies or pictures. When porn fiction pushes the envelope – as most of it does – it means that users are becoming aroused by scenes they aren’t comfortable watching. Except of course they are watching these scenes. The imagination is extremely powerful and anyone who’s read porn fiction has visualised those scenes in full detail. When users are aroused by these mind-scenarios, triggered by the written word, they start to need visual stimulation to match the scenes in their head. For me, reading porn fiction helped bridge the gap between tamer porn and hard-core, violent porn. The more I read fiction, the more I needed movie clips that were closer to what I’d seen in my imagination when reading. After reading fiction I was willing to cross boundaries that previously I hadn’t wanted to cross. I’ve heard people say that porn fiction is a safe option for porn users because no one gets hurt and it’s not as bad as real porn. I don’t believe that. Porn fiction wasn’t a safe option for me; it was a door into the kind of porn that used to disgust and terrify me.

I haven’t used porn in over seven years but it’s still part of my life – not because I still watch it or think about it all the time, but because of my memories. I have scenes in my head that might never fully disappear and a lot of them are from porn fiction. I have vivid memories of scenes my mind created and they are as real to me as anything I saw. They haunt me just as much. In some ways they haunt me more, because I know I built those memories myself. I want to think I’m above it, but the truth is my mind is capable of creating detailed, technicolour, realistic porn scenes. I created them, I enjoyed them, I refined them when they got boring, I replayed them over and over in my mind. The fact that I hate them now doesn’t change that. And I know that reading porn fiction helped put those scenes there. It is not a safe, harmless alternative to ‘real’ porn. It may not use real people, but it’s real nonetheless, and it does real damage. I have the scars in my mind to prove that.

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First exposure

Here’s a piece I wrote for Porn Recovery UK (big thanks to Duncan for asking me to write it). My post is here.

Technically, I suppose, my first exposure to porn was when I was ten or eleven and I found some of my brother’s magazines whilst snooping in his room one afternoon. I remember being fascinated and horrified at the same time. These were photos of women who hid nothing, and their casual boldness scared me because it was so alien to everything I knew. I went back again and again to look at these magazines when there was no one at home. That was my first experience of porn but what I saw later was so different it made those magazines look like fashion mags.

When I was in my late 20s I spent a Saturday afternoon playing card games on my computer. The internet was only accessible via dial up so I wasn’t on there much, but this day I decided to search for more games. I clicked on a link that said ‘free card games’ and suddenly I was at a porn site. It was that simple. I didn’t go searching for porn; I had never even imagined seeing it. There was no secret craving for porn and I was completely shocked that I’d landed on this site. In truth it was fairly tame. It was photographs only, and at this point I didn’t even know you could watch porn films online; I thought you had to buy videos at a sleazy shop for that. The pictures were rougher than what I’d seen in my brother’s magazines and the women looked … more demeaned, I guess. They seemed more humiliated, more like victims. I understand now that their humiliation was what attracted me. It resonated with my own experiences of being shamed, put down and emotionally abused. I didn’t go to porn because I wanted to see naked women or, later, because I wanted to see women have sex. I wasn’t aroused by the women; I simply identified with their powerlessness, with the way they were treated as worthless objects. It made sense to me.

That afternoon I forgot about the card games. For the first time, I typed the word ‘porn’ into a search engine. I can remember shaking, and my heart was pounding from fear. I felt like I’d crossed a line, taken a step that I couldn’t have imagined ever taking. Obviously I’d seen pornographic images before, in the magazines, but actually typing ‘porn’ into my computer was something very different. I wasn’t looking at something I’d stumbled across accidentally; I was deliberately choosing porn. And making that choice for the first time wasn’t exciting or liberating or fun. It was simply terrifying.

Within weeks, I knew all the search terms that would quickly find me the images I wanted to see. Within months, I’d discovered movies. A little while after that I found porn fiction, where I could read about impossibly degrading acts that couldn’t happen in real life. I had an entirely new language of code words, abbreviations and acronyms. I knew the names of acts that I hadn’t even known existed a few months before. I was an expert at finding what I wanted to see. Finding my chosen content got faster, easier, more streamlined … but it never stopped being terrifying, and I never stopped hating myself for it.

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Speaking out

I’ve been pondering the idea of disclosure about porn addiction. When is it appropriate? When is it helpful? When is it necessary?

I read many blogs and forums that focus on porn addiction and other forms of sexual brokenness. Many of them claim that full disclosure, as soon as possible, is vital to healing. I can certainly see the benefits to this approach. The secrecy of porn is part of its attraction and part of its trap. If everyone knows about it then you can no longer believe the lie that “one time won’t hurt… no one will know” – because there’s a good chance someone WILL know. In fact there’s a very good chance someone will ask about it, and unless you’re really good at a blatant lie your face will give you away. Don’t kid yourself about this; you will give yourself away. Being open about porn gives you accountability that you may not appreciate at the time, but will be thankful for later.

Disclosing your struggle with porn also gives you freedom to ask for help and to be honest about how you’re going. It means those who care about you will probably be more sensitive to things that might be a trigger and hopefully they’ll think twice before suggesting an outing to an R-rated film, for example. There are many advantages to full disclosure, and yet it’s not something I have chosen. I still have too many reservations and concerns about disclosure and I’m not sure I’ll ever go fully public with my story. Here are some of my reasons:

1. Identity
I’ve written about this before, and it’s still a concern for me. I see a lot of blogs and websites where people label themselves as sex addicts or porn addicts. The biggest problem with this for me is that “addict” becomes the person’s sole identity, not a part. Identity and behaviour are not the same thing, and separating my behaviour from my identity has been an important part of my healing. I spent years believing that my porn use proved I was disgusting and perverted, and until I was able to put ‘me’ and ‘my choices and behaviour’ in separate boxes I couldn’t get past that belief. Making that mental separation was key and enabled me to move forward in healing, to understand why porn worked as pain relief, and to forgive myself. If I’d gone public straight away with my struggle I would be forever identified as a porn addict. There’s no taking it back once you’ve said it. And in those early days of healing, I would have believed it. Now I’m much further down the road and I know my identity is not “addict”. I am a hurt and broken person who made terrible and unwise choices from a place of pain, and those choices became an addiction. I will always have the scars of porn addiction and it will always have to be a factor in some everyday things but even so, porn use is something I did. It’s not who I am, and I don’t want it to be who I am publicly.

2. Safety
My counsellor was the first person I turned to for help when starting to deal with my porn addiction. Disclosing the truth to her, even without going into any real detail about it, was a huge risk. Despite the three years of trust I’d built in our counselling relationship I still had no idea how she would react. Thankfully her response was compassionate and reassuring, and that alone was the beginning of my healing. In fact her response was vital, because if I’d had any hint from her of revulsion or condemnation I would have refused to talk about it ever again and my healing would have stopped before it began. I needed to know that she understood and I needed my disclosure to be safe. If I tell everyone about my history with porn I can’t predict the outcome and it becomes very unsafe. I have no way of controlling what people think, what they will say and how they will treat me. And when I feel unsafe, my instinct is to turn to behaviours that make me feel better… like porn. I can’t put myself at risk like that. Honesty is important, but my healing must come first.

3. It’s not just my story
Although my porn use happened solo and no one else ever participated, it’s not just about me. There is trauma in my past that is directly related to other people, and the pain of the trauma is part of what led me to porn. When I talk with people about my porn history they almost always ask what led me there. Most people understand that porn addiction is not just about sexual gratification, and it usually goes far deeper and further back than the time spent on porn. This is true for me too. My story is not about four years of porn use; it is about decades of pain, grief and denial that led to a number of self destructive behaviours, of which porn was just one. I can’t talk about porn as though it happened in isolation because that’s not how it works. There is a story, and if I went public with my porn use, the rest of my story would come out too. But there are people intimately involved in the chapters of my story, and I do not have their permission to share their part in it.

There are times when I wish everyone knew about my history with porn. It feels like it would be easier, even a relief. But in truth, I think it would do me more harm than good. Limited disclosure is controversial, but it’s right for me. Staying silent, and disclosing only to those I trust, keeps me safe. It helps me protect my heart. It helps me heal.

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Who am I?

“Identity is such a crucial affair that one shouldn’t rush into it.” – David Quammen

I read a lot of blogs and websites about pornography use, addiction, recovery and other related subjects. One thing that really sticks out for me is the use of language. I see the word ‘addict’ a lot, with people referring to themselves as sex addicts, porn addicts and the like. Hand in hand with that are words like ‘clean’, ‘sober’ and ‘recovery’. People say things like, “I’ve been clean for 2 years, 3 months and 17 days,” or “I’ve reached 8 months sobriety”. What they mean is, they haven’t watched porn or engaged in other related behaviours for that amount of time. I’ve been reading these words and phrases for a while now and I have to say I’m not totally comfortable with them. Let me explain.

Firstly, the word ‘addict’. I’ve talked about addiction on this blog quite a lot so clearly I’m okay with that but I’m not okay with saying “I’m a porn addict”. Or even “I was a porn addict”. There is a whole lot of baggage that comes with that phrase, and not all of it is clear. If I call myself an addict, what am I really saying? Does that mean I have a genetic predisposition to addiction? Does it mean I have to spend my whole life conscious of that addiction, careful not to do anything that might set me off? Does it mean my environment, my childhood, even my free will, had no part to play in the choices I made about porn because I was always going to be an addict anyway? Was I born an addict and just had to wait for it to show itself? Does it define me?

The definition aspect is where it all falls apart for me. It’s true that my behaviour with porn was out of control and I felt like I couldn’t stop it. It certainly followed the typical cycle of addiction. But I followed that same addiction cycle with alcohol and shopping and, to a lesser degree, binge eating. So do I call myself an alcoholic? A shopoholic? A food addict? A porn addict? A combination of all four? And what about other things that define me? I’m also a Christian. A woman. A writer. I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend, a pet owner, a neighbour; I’m a person who struggles with anxiety and depression; I’m a counselling client; I’m a survivor of difficult circumstances. I’m someone with allergies. I have a big phobia that impacts a lot of things in my life. Which one of those things is me?

See the problem here? I’m not just one thing, and the minute I start defining myself by that way then I give the definition first place. My future decisions will be influenced by it. If I call myself a porn addict I am giving it more power and influence than it deserves. I was addicted to porn, no question about that, and it continues to affect many parts of my life and decisions like what I watch and read. Despite that, it’s only a part of me. It’s not, and will never be my entire identity.

The other thing that makes me a uncomfortable is a constant emphasis on ‘days sober’ or ‘days clean’. (I don’t like the terms sober or clean anyway, because despite my actions I don’t consider that I was either drunk or dirty. But I digress…) My issue with counting days is that it puts all the focus on abstinence, as though abstinence is the end goal in healing. Don’t get me wrong; I think it’s very important to avoid unhealthy behaviours. However, I stopped watching porn more than seven years ago. I don’t know the exact date, but I can definitely say I had at least seven years “clean”. And you know what? That means nothing. It could have been 15 years, or 20. It doesn’t matter, because my healing didn’t start until I began talking about porn with my counsellor and a few trusted friends. It was only then that I could view it side by side with events from my past, and understand that porn had been a coping mechanism, something to dull the pain I felt in my life. Abstinence is vital to healing, but it’s not the goal. I don’t want to spend all my time desperately counting the days since I last watched porn, and desperately trying not to watch it again. I want to spend my time healing from the hurts that pushed me towards porn and other unhealthy ways of coping with pain. I want to concentrate on learning healthier ways to cope. Healing involves so much more than just avoiding porn and for me, counting ‘days clean’ takes attention away from the work I need to do as I heal.

So with all of that, who am I? I am a woman who was in pain for many years. I’m a woman who, because of pain, was addicted to porn and made other bad choices too. I’m a woman who is still paying a price for those choices. I am so many things, good and bad. But above all, I am healing.

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Missing porn

“Just because you got the monkey off your back
doesn’t mean the circus has left town.”
– George Carlin

I miss porn.

I don’t know how to explain that statement, even to myself. I’m holding it alongside so many contradictory things. I mean, I hate porn. I hate that I watched it, certainly, but I also hate it for what it is: for the violence, the ugliness, the horrific treatment of women. I hate the way it destroys lives and tears families apart. I don’t even want to watch it anymore. I have images in my memory but I don’t replay them; I just want them to go away. I certainly don’t want any new images in my mind. I can still remember the hold porn had on me, the feeling of sheer desperation, believing I had nowhere to turn and no way out of behaviour that made me despise myself.

I hate all those things about porn but I still miss it. I miss its comfort. Even to me that sounds appalling. Comfort should be used to describe something warm and cosy – a fond memory of time with friends, a special toy from childhood, even a favourite dessert – but not porn. I know that porn was never comfortable, never nice, never even really enjoyable, but it was still a comfort to me. And I miss that.

There were other things, both before porn and at the same time. I self-medicated with alcohol off and on for years and I miss that too, in a different way. Over a period of just a few years I spent tens of thousands of dollars – all my savings and then some – in an effort to make myself feel better. And always, there’s food… binge eating continues to be my go-to comfort behaviour and I’m struggling to change that without getting caught in my other default behaviour of setting ridiculous and convoluted food rules for myself. So why do I miss porn more than the other things? Why was it different?

I think there are a few reasons. On the surface, porn has very few consequences. I could feel better instantly, in my own home and without having to spend a cent. I didn’t have to worry about damaging my liver or getting fat or not having any money in the bank. I could just go to my favourite websites and watch porn and it didn’t affect anything else. Of course I had the anxiety of making sure no one knew about it and I had to live with the shame and disgust afterwards, but none of that mattered at the time. When I watched porn I could block out every bad feeling in my life. Apart from the physical feelings I could be completely numb. Everything in my life that was hurting me just went away, instantly and completely, as though it had never existed. And I have nothing in my life now that will do that for me. When I’m hurting or feeling bad I have ways to work through it, but that’s the thing – it’s work. With porn I didn’t have to work through anything; I just made it all go away.

When I started depending on porn I was at my lowest point, far lower than when I’d been drinking or shopping or eating. Those things had all stopped working for me and I was feeling worse than I had ever felt before. Porn, despite all the awful things about it, kept me going. It was the only thing that kept me going, some days. Before porn I felt like I still had some coping abilities of my own, even though I was using alcohol and other things to help me. But when I hit the very bottom there was nothing left. I felt empty and helpless and it was porn that kept me going. Not me, not my own ability to hang on, just porn. I needed it. It didn’t matter that it made me feel shame and made me hate myself – I felt shame and self-loathing anyway, long before I found porn, so it didn’t make any difference. I know that it was an incredibly unhealthy coping mechanism but it did enable me to cope. It worked brilliantly and far better than anything else had.

I say that I have no fond memories of porn but that’s not true. I remember that it helped. I remember that it comforted me. Talking about porn and getting help has been great, but it means that I can’t go back. When porn was still a secret I could keep it as a safety net. There was this tiny thought hidden deep inside me that maybe, if things got really bad, then maybe it would be okay to go back to it. Just once or twice. No one would know and I could move on afterwards and pretend it never happened. But now… now I have people who care enough to ask me how I’m going, and I know I couldn’t lie to them. This is a good thing and I don’t regret coming clean about porn, not for a minute. But my safety net is gone and so I feel afraid about what will happen if I reach my lowest point again. Because all I will have is me – no porn, nothing else. And without porn, with just me…  I don’t know if I have it in me to survive that place.

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Grief

“The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves.” – Sophocles

For me, there came a point where the self-hatred and shame diminished. A point where I was able to think about porn without despising myself for what I did, where I could accept that I made bad choices but recognise the place of pain from which those choices came.

That’s when the grief set in.

When I was pushing the truth away, not wanting to acknowledge that I’d ever chosen to watch porn, I had this little fantasy in my head. I knew I would have to face my past eventually, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I was certain it would be pretty awful, actually. But I had this tiny hope that after the awfulness was over, it would all go away. I thought that by “dealing with porn” I’d be able to put it behind me and it would never bother me again. I thought I would be able to live my life as though I’d never heard of porn, never chosen to watch it, never been caught in its trap. I never articulated it but I know in the back of my mind I was just waiting for the moment where everything was okay again.

Of course it was nonsense, that fantasy. How could things be ‘okay again’ when they were never okay in the first place? I didn’t watch porn because I was happy; I watched it because I was in pain and I wanted to make the pain go away. And once I’d watched it, everything changed for me. It set my life on a path, and even though that path was temporary I can’t pretend I never travelled it.

So now I am feeling grief as I realise that porn is, irrevocably, one of the things that has shaped my life. I can’t change that, ever. I can’t go back and unsee the things I’ve seen. I can’t go back and erase unhealthy fantasies. I no longer feel the shame and self-hatred I once harboured, but I can’t live as though those feelings were never there. No matter what I do, I can never again be happily ignorant about porn.

Part of me rebels against that. I don’t want to be that woman, the woman who watched porn. I don’t want the knowledge it gave me. I don’t want to know what addiction feels like. Even as I take pride in how far I’ve come in my healing, I desperately wish I’d never had to make the journey at all.

And yet, here I am. I have made choices, and watching porn was one of those choices. Because of that, I have scars; and although I no longer feel the sharp pain of the wound, sometimes the scars still ache. I can’t change that, and so for now I have to live with the grief. I grieve the happy oblivion I thought I would have once I started talking about porn. I grieve because nothing can take away the images I have in my head. I grieve what might have been, if I’d never taken this particular path. And I can’t help grieving the death of my dream-self, who existed only in my mind, and who has no scars at all.

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Disgusting and perverted

“The only thing more disgusting and perverted than a man who watches pornography is a woman who watches it.”

I saw this comment recently on an online article about the harms of the porn industry. It was a good article that made some valid points, and the comments, as with all online content, were a mixed bag. And then that one. It hit me like a punch in the stomach.

“The only thing more disgusting and perverted than a man who watches pornography is a woman who watches it.”

The comment has now been removed from the article. It doesn’t matter, really, because it is indicative of a belief  so ingrained that the comment itself is almost unnecessary – the belief that porn is consumed solely by young, horny men who are not old enough or mature enough to control their hormones. This belief is often unwittingly reinforced by women who seek to oppose porn because of the general harms it causes to women. I constantly hear women say, “Well, I’m a feminist…” The implication is clear – if you are a feminist, you care about women and (rightly) oppose anything that promotes degradation of, and violence against women. And thus, you would never go near porn.

But here’s my problem. I am a woman. I am a feminist. I care about women. I despise violence of any kind, including violence against women. I hate the degradation and objectification of women. All of these things are true about me, and yet I still spent several years in a cycle of compulsive porn viewing. I’m not alone, either – 17% of women admit to a pornography addiction. That’s one in every six women admitting to a pornography addiction. It doesn’t include women who watch pornography occasionally but wouldn’t consider themselves addicted and it doesn’t include women who are addicted but can’t yet bring themselves to admit it, even in an anonymous survey. So chances are the real figures are probably higher, particularly given the fact that one in three pornography downloads are done by women.

Whilst we constantly hear the stats about men and porn use, and the harms of porn, we don’t hear much about women who watch it, except perhaps from those few women who want to defend pornography and its supposed harmlessness. There is a massive silence on the issue, and so women who are caught up in compulsive porn use are not getting the help they need because the only voices they are hearing are the ones that say ‘decent women don’t watch porn’.

I was trapped in porn addiction for about four years. I spent that time watching women being treated as objects, in scenes of violence and degradation. I couldn’t understand what drew me to it and I didn’t know how to stop. Like most people caught up in an addiction, I hated myself for it, but what made it worse was that I had never heard of another woman doing the things I was doing. I couldn’t believe that any woman would willingly watch porn, and everything I read and heard confirmed that. As a result, I felt like a freak, and a failed woman. I was not a real woman, regardless of what I believed about equality and dignity, because women don’t watch porn.

Even after I became free of the addiction, I did not become free of the shame, or the conviction that women who care about women don’t watch porn. That women who are mature and intelligent don’t watch porn. That women and men who are older than about 25 don’t watch porn. That porn exists only as a masturbatory aid for uncontrolled boys and young men. That porn is only about sex.

I am not condoning porn. I’ve seen a lot of it and I believe it’s damaging. I am also not suggesting we should stop talking about the harms it causes both to the people who watch it and the people – particularly women – who participate in it. What I am suggesting is that we need to recognise that women do watch pornography. Often their reasons for watching are complicated and are more to do with self-loathing and self-esteem issues than sex, but they still watch it. They watch it, and sometimes they hate themselves for it. By concentrating only on young men, and by assuming that ‘feminist’ means you would never go near porn, we are perpetuating a cycle of shame and silence.

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