Boys Will Be Boys

by Clementine Ford

  There’s a beautiful episode of Freaks and Geeks (Paul Feig’s hilarious, heartfelt coming-of-age television series about teenagers growing up in 1980s Detroit) that explores this very dynamic. For most of the series, Sam Weir (a late blooming fourteen-year-old) has pined after his classmate, Cindy. When they finally start ‘dating’, he realises that the reality is a bit more grown up and a lot less fun than he daydreamed about. Cindy wants to go to make-out parties, something Sam’s not ready for or particularly interested in yet. After Cindy gets mad at him for wearing a turtleneck jumper to cover up the hickey she’s given him, he tells her he wants to go back to being just friends.

  ‘No, Sam, you can’t break up with me,’ Cindy says. ‘You’re supposed to be nice. That’s the only reason why I’m going out with you in the first place!’

  ‘Hey, I am nice!’ he replies. ‘I’m just not having any fun. Are you?’

  I love this scene because it reveals so much about the truth of adolescent sexuality. Cindy wants to experiment with sex and intimacy, and she selects someone she thinks will make that a safe bet for her (both physically and emotionally). But Sam wants to wait until all of him is ready for it—his body and heart.

  It reminds me of another show, the television adaptation of Puberty Blues that ran on Channel Ten between 2012 and 2014. In that, viewers are shown a very different vision of teen sex, one in which the young girls growing up in the beachside suburbs of 1970s New South Wales are used as little more than holes for boys to plunge both their dicks and their disdain into. Having experienced this degrading, dehumanising treatment firsthand, Sue (also fourteen) confides in her mother that she’s had sex and ‘hated it’. Her free-spirited mum responds by giving her a copy of The Joy of Sex, and Sue proceeds to work her way through it with one of her schoolfriends, Woody. The arc that follows is a rare televisual example of truly affirmative and enthusiastic consent, with both Sue and Woody treating the activity almost as a fact-finding mission in which they both get to be Chief Scientists. After Sue has her first (unexpected) orgasm, she walks home alone along the seafront in the early morning light. The camera trains itself on her face, watching as it slowly morphs from an expression of deep thought into one of pure, unbridled joy.

  Why isn’t the sexual awakening of boys like Sam considered as precious as that of girls? Why isn’t the freedom of girls like Sue considered as worthy of defence as that of boys?

  One thing is clear: these contradictions are weaponised in a way that causes harm to everyone. Changing the narrative around sex isn’t just about liberating girls from harmful stereotypes—it’s also about protecting boys from those same damaging ideas. The world is made up of Sams and Sues, and they have a lot to teach us if we just let them.

  The question of what we learn from representations of sex goes well beyond basic pop culture. I knew I couldn’t write this book without looking at the impact that easily accessible pornography has on young men and women, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about wading into it. The conversation itself is fraught, with advocates on both sides of the argument too often unwilling to give an inch towards middle ground. Allow me to generalise for a moment.

  Anti-porn feminists (who are frequently also unsupportive of the autonomous rights of sex workers to choose their own form of employment, and porn performance is a form of sex work) will say there’s no place for orchestrated voyeurism in the fight for liberation from patriarchy. In their view, porn is not just universally harmful but often a catalogued depiction of rape (or at least a how-to). The stance is that there can be no liberation from patriarchy as long as women’s bodies are exploited to provide sexual fulfilment for men, and the sheer mass of pornography is evidence of how far we are from achieving this goal.

  On the other side, you’ll find people who argue that porn itself isn’t the problem. They believe there’s nothing wrong with depicting all manner of sexual proclivities on film, because fantasy isn’t the same as reality and porn is meant to be entertainment, not education. According to this argument, violent porn isn’t necessarily drawn from misogyny but rather from the fact that some people—and yes, that includes women—enjoy BDSM and humiliation, and they shouldn’t be kink-shamed for this. Rather, what’s needed is better understanding of the fact that pornography is a text like any other and it requires literacy.

  I’ve watched my share of porn through the years, and I sympathise with elements of both points of view (except for the anti-sex work stuff). It does disturb me that a good proportion (if not the majority) of freely accessible porn has aspects of misogyny (and in some cases is just a full-on celebration of it), and that it’s being watched by millions of viewers who either aren’t used to or aren’t interested in critically engaging with the impact of this. We live in a misogynistic, capitalist patriarchy; I’m hardly surprised that one of our biggest global industries routinely reflects the hatred of women that permeates all other areas of society. So does Hollywood, for that matter.

  At the same time, I don’t think that voyeurism and pornography is in and of itself harmful. Watching pornography doesn’t make you a misogynist, nor does it necessarily disconnect you from a healthy sexuality. Using visual and erotic aids as a means to get off is hardly an invention of modern technology, and dismissing it as such is an oversimplification. As the academic Bianca Fileborn noted in a 2016 article for The Conversation titled ‘Gonzo: We need to talk about young men and porn’:

  Pornography is neither an uncomplicated positive force, nor an oppressively negative one. It can be a tool for sexual gratification, or used to explore nascent sexual desires, or a source of amusement, or of reassurance that one’s burgeoning sexuality is ‘normal’.

  This last one is particularly key. Well-made porn—which is to say, porn that’s founded on principles of consent, mutual pleasure and respect—can help people to understand their own desires and kinks, while reassuring them that there’s nothing ‘wrong’ with them. It can be used in sexual relationships to start dialogues that might not otherwise have been explored. It can be a space for people to receive positive, sexual validation denied to them in mainstream society—a place where different kinds of bodies are celebrated and respectfully depicted as sexual. For young queer and gender-diverse people especially, it can provide an essential outlet for safely exploring their own sexuality and identities without the risk of being harmed either by people around them or by narratives that reinforce exclusion.

  The problem as I understand it lies at the point where capitalism, patriarchy and misogyny intersect. The global porn industry pulls in roughly US$4.9 billion per year. One-third of all internet downloads are pornographic in nature. Supply meets demand, and considering that misogyny pervades most of capitalism’s global structures, why wouldn’t it also exist in a content provision business that just happens to sell sexual fantasies? And that’s an essential fact to remember—that what’s being sold here is fantasy, not reality.

  Let’s be real. You can find anything online if you look hard enough for it. (I once fell into an internet hole reading about ‘starseeds’, and that was a real trip. Go on and Google it, it’s safe for work I promise.) More concerning to me than the prospect of people searching for visual sex aids online is: a) the age at which they first start looking for it; b) the ease with which it’s possible to find truly heinous and brutal expressions of sexual violence against women for free and absent of any depiction of consent or prior negotiation; and c) whether or not individuals have been given the literacy tools to fully understand what it is they’re looking at, and whether they understand it’s not ‘real’. I’m not saying that, for example, pornography featuring BDSM should be banned. BDSM is a valid form of sexual delight for many people, and operates as a culture with its own specific set of rules. But consensually navigated BDSM isn’t the same thing as sex that involves non-consensual violence. Does a thirteen-year-old boy watching either scenario play out in a free eight-minute video online really have the cognitive skills yet to understa
nd the difference? For that matter, should we always assume that a thirty-five-year-old does?

  Sexual violence wasn’t invented alongside modern pornography, although the latter can certainly amplify attitudes that help the former to be perpetrated. The abundance of amateur pornography (which isn’t guaranteed to have been made safely, or with performers who’ve been paid properly—or at all—and given control of their consent) provides a template for behaviours that can become toxic depending on how and what they’re used for. The steady rise in men filming sex without the consent of their partner is a good example of this, as is the even more horrifying practice of groups of men filming sexual assaults and then sharing them online as a form of toxic bonding. In fact, it isn’t unusual for young men to use porn and degradation as a bonding activity. In his 2008 book Guyland, Michael Kimmel writes that, ‘guys [like this] tend to like the extreme stuff, the double penetrations and humiliating scenes. They watch it together with guys and they make fun of the women in the scene.’

  But the heightening of sexist attitudes and unhealthy expressions of masculinity among peers isn’t the only risk posed by excessive porn consumption. Studies have shown a heightened risk of erectile dysfunction in men who consume large amounts of porn, with the idea being that it can decrease the ability to maintain sexual stimulation with a partner. With respect to intimacy, a 2017 meta-analysis of more than fifty studies (comprising more than 50,000 respondents) conducted by researchers from Indiana University and the University of Hawaii found that viewing porn resulted in a lower sense of relationship satisfaction, with one suggestion for this being that mainstream porn leads to men having unrealistic expectations of sex.

  But still, I’d argue that the problem here is less to do with the concept of porn as erotic voyeurism and more to do with how gender inequality, capitalism and society’s rampant misogyny informs its creation. Like I said, supply and demand is the governing force of all economic industries and pornography is no different. To change the way porn is consumed and understood, we can’t just get rid of it. Nor should we have to sacrifice entirely a tool that can be used so positively for sexual pleasure. Instead, we should focus on changing the culture that creates both an economic and social market for unethical, sexist pornography to abound in. This has always proven to be a much trickier proposition.

  That said, there are ways we can do this. Contrary to popular belief, boys in fact have a far richer relationship with sexuality than traditional gender stereotypes would have us believe. They need to be invited to have a conversation about the complexities of sex and expression. One of the obvious ways to do this is by talking with them about porn sex versus real sex, and incorporating discussions of consent into this. It isn’t just imperative that we do so to promote positive emotional health in kids; it’s also vital from a physical health perspective.

  For example, research conducted in 2014 by the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine among adolescents from three different British locations found there’s an inadequate transmission of accurate sex education in a porn-viewing culture. One of the consequences of this can be seen in the ‘expectations, experiences and circumstances of anal sex among [heterosexual] young people’. Many of the girls responding to the study said they felt expected to ‘do anal’. Conversely, while some young men said they avoided anal sex out of concern for their partner’s comfort, others admitted to pushing for it despite believing it would probably hurt her. In fact, researchers found that girls’ pleasure was ‘often absent in narratives of anal heterosex’ and that this was seemingly accepted as normal. Of more immediate concern though was the lack of adequate health education available on how to have healthy and safe anal sex in the first place. The consequences of ignoring it cannot be downplayed. In 2018, the Australian journalist Patrick Wood reported on the impact pornography was having on adolescent sexuality, with one of the most distressing stories told being that of a sixteen-year-old girl who will now spend the rest of her life wearing a colostomy bag after ‘attempting’ anal sex with a group of boys. While we absolutely must focus on improving consent dialogues (in adolescents particularly), the knowledge that some of them are engaging in potentially risky sexual behaviour without proper precautions or preparation means we also have to significantly improve the practicalities of sex education so that girls stop turning up to the doctor complaining of rectal bleeding and tears so severe they become permanently injured.

  But alongside encouraging literacy in the viewing of porn, we also need to prioritise literacy in the having of sex. There’s a subtle difference between consenting to an act freely and consenting to it because you feel it’s expected of you. In having dialogues about sex and intimacy with young people, we should be encouraging them to think about what desire actually is. Do they want to do something because they have a genuine curiosity or erotic thrill over it, or does their impulse stem more from the sense that this is what’s expected of them? Remember, professional porn performers are paid and have contracts, directors and catering on-set. It’s one thing to watch porn for entertainment and sexual release, but part of that aforementioned need for literacy involves its consumers understanding that what they’re seeing isn’t a field guide; nor does it have to be instrumental in directing their tastes. If we’re going to talk about the problems of porn, let’s not discount the fact that it sits in this weird cultural space where libertarianism meets abject prudishness. Attempts to address sex education realistically with young people frequently results in the Helen Lovejoys of the world freaking out. But issues of pleasure and consent should be considered central rather than peripheral to comprehensive sex education, and porn is realistically going to form a huge part of that discussion. If young men can happily watch a woman being ploughed by three dicks at once, they should also have the fortitude to talk openly about the importance of lube and how to make sure it feels good for her.

  Gone are the days when parents and educators could focus exclusively on the matters of biology and reproduction, leaving children to figure out everything else in the back seats of cars and in other people’s bedrooms. We live in an internet era and, like it or not, most kids today have their first sexual experience by way of searching for or stumbling across porn online. For boys, the average age at which this occurs is eleven, which means we need to start teaching kids about sexual health and consent much earlier than that.

  And really, having an open dialogue about porn is an excellent way to talk to adolescents about consent. I know these conversations can be difficult to have. It’s hard to imagine children who only yesterday seemed to be toddling around the playground suddenly diving into adult experiences you think they may not be ready for. The advent and growth of sexting alone is a terrifying prospect for parents suddenly confronted by their child’s burgeoning sexual exploration, and it’s understandable—if unwise—that some people want to ignore it for as long as possible. But healthy sexual choices are best made by people who’ve been encouraged to talk about sexuality in all its complexities. Yet as we keep seeing time and time again, this dialogue still appears to be largely absent in Australia’s education institutions.

  There are ways to talk to your kids about porn that are helpful and respectful of their burgeoning sexuality—but the conversation also needs to go far beyond just the physical. Talk to them about sexism and misogyny, and how each of these things inform the gender inequality that exists across all industries, not just pornography. Research some of the people within the porn creation community who are actively challenging sexism in their industry and championing really important, positive things, like women’s sexual pleasure and consent. Encourage the young people in your life to be critical of all the media they consume, not just the sexy kind. Ask them to consider the potential power imbalances in play. Do they even really like the porn they’re watching? Tell them about this amazing thing called feminist pornography.* Use this as an opportunity to talk to them about the economics of production, too. If they’re using pornography to get
off, they should make ethical choices about how they consume it, starting with paying for it and knowing where that money goes, and having assurance that the performers involved are all being appropriately compensated and respected. If it’s easier for fathers or a trusted male figure to have this conversation with boys alone, then do that.

  Talk to them about consent.

  Talk to them about consent.

  Did I mention you need to talk to them about consent?

  Foster the kind of relationship with your children that lets them know they can speak to you about anything, and that they will find love and safety in your arms.

  Because it’s true that children mimic what they see in media. It’s true that the rise of young men filming women without their consent (or filming actual sexual assaults) and then sharing it around is underpinned by a learned misogyny that finds a bigger platform through the media, including mainstream pornography. Slut-shaming and victim-blaming have always been used as weapons against women, and the internet in general makes it easier for this to happen on a widespread level. These things wouldn’t disappear if you got rid of porn, because the root cause of men’s violence against women isn’t sex—it’s misogyny.

  The fundamental truth is that we live in a world where gender inequality is still a reality, and myths about male and female sexuality are still fiercely held with all the intensity of someone trying to stop a slippery butt plug from falling out of their well-oiled hole.

  But if the reality of women being harmed by this shit isn’t enough to make you sit up and take notice, then maybe you’ll start to care when we look at how it hurts men too.