Just stumbling across a Rihanna video on YouTube is enough to "sexualise" a girl, apparently. Photograph: Getty Images
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Laurie Penny on Rihanna: Can watching videos turn a girl into a knicker-dropping strumpet?

We're experiencing a sexual counterrevolution that encompasses a backlash against women’s sexual and reproductive freedom.

Teen sex is catching. According to politicians, we are suffering from an epidemic of promiscuity which is turning our young women into knicker-dropping teen strumpets before our very eyes.

"Sexualisation" is the favourite term of reference for this process - and it’s a curious, toxic word. 

The language of ‘sexualisation’ as employed by professional pearl-clutchers like Claire Perry MP implicitly assumes that sex is only, and always, something done to women and girls rather than something we do ourselves - a logic by which we can only ever be sex objects.  "The teenage girl," as Naomi Wolf observed in her book Promiscuities, "is understood more clearly as a victim of culture and sexuality than as a sexual and cultural creator." 

According to the ‘sexualisation’ logic, a young girl merely has to leaf through a contraband copy of Cosmopolitan or stumble on a Rhianna video on Youtube and wham, that’s it, sexualised. Ruined forever. Nothing to be done, and abuse and wanton, abject harlotry will surely follow. 

"The honest facts of female sexual development in adolescence- especially the facts of girls' desire - have sustained a long history of active censorship," wrote Woolf in 1997. A decade-and-a-half later, it is still modish for politicians and public health officials to behave as if women and girls had no sexual agency whatsoever, and must instead be protected from the terrible disease of “sexualisation”, which young girls are assumed to catch like the common cold. 

Apparently, we cannot cope, as a culture, with the idea that a young girl who experiences sexual desire might not be promiscuous, or wicked, or dangerous. With every technology of pleasure  and knowledge at our fingertips, we are not a society that wants to know about female pleasure, or one that respects female sexual subjectivity. 

And if young women are victimised – one in six children aged between 11 and 17 have experienced sexual abuse – we still seem to have a problem with placing blame where it belongs, with the abusers, whether they are strangers or members of their own family. No politician seems able to come forward and tell adult men to stop abusing young girls. The problem must, instead, lie with female sexuality itself, too much, or too young, or both. This week, national treasure Joanna Lumley took it upon herself to weigh in and tell young women to stop dressing “like trash” if they don’t want to get raped - an attitude that, despite the best efforts of sex-positive feminists, is becoming more and more common.

Young women in particular still receive extremely mixed messages about how they are expected to behave sexually. They are encouraged to look and act available in a passive, submissive manner at all times, but slut-shamed and dismissed, assumed to be complicit in their own abuse, if they ever actually allow the boys to touch them or, heaven forfend, pursue them of their own volition. Young men, of course, can be equally confused and distressed by the violent, thrusting, hyperbolic images that are, increasingly, the only easily available model of adult sexuality - yes, you can find every type of porn imaginable on the internet, but you have to know what you’re looking for first, otherwise you find yourself, like many young men, lost in a world of disembodied dicks brutalising women into submission. We assume, though, that the sexuality of boys is both normal and inherently violent, so nobody seems worried about protecting young men from ‘sexualisation.’

An incredible thing has happened. We live in an age of boundless information. Kids today simply know more, much more, than any generation that has come before them.  I'm typing part of this column, for example, on a device no bigger than my open hand through which I can access, with a couple of finger-swipes, more data than my immediate ancestors ever conceived of in their days of hoarding books in island poverty - although I mainly use it to look at smutty webcomics and find my way to the pub. And yet, with all this hyperabundance of information, with all of these learning tools at our disposal, we have somehow managed to raise yet another generation that remains as ignorant and confused as ever about that most intimate of mysteries, human sexuality. How did this happen?

It happened because adults in this culture persist in seeing their own sexuality as monstrous, as terrifying and compelling and disgusting, rather than as a normal part of human development. It happened because we are unable to provide decent, adequate sex education in schools, or alternative models for sexuality beyond the pornily performative, the sterile and the sexist and the crashingly heteronormative. We surround ourselves with glossy images of faux-nymphettes sucking their thumbs to sell us perfume and underwear and car insurance, and yet we are unable to conceive of an adolescent or pre-adolescent sexuality that is anything but abusive. This says far more about commercial culture than it does about young women, most of whom, if we all calm down for a minute and look at the actual evidence, still don't have sex until they are at least sixteen. 

Our fundamental mistake has been to confuse commercial sexuality, the porny, plastic, airbrushed, pole-twirling, lolly-licking vision of perpetual female heterosexual erotic submission, with sex itself, which is rather like confusing the McDonalds burger menu with food. Most of the available evidence suggests that young people are able to make that distinction right up until the point when they are offered no other language in which to express their own sexual feelings, like hungry late-night revellers who eventually give in and scarf down a Big Mac because there's nothing else open. It is adults, not children, who need to grow up about sexuality, to understand that in between frantic censorship and dull, sphincter-straining YouPorn hardcore pornography is a whole world of pleasure and adventure that young people should feel free to explore without fearing violence and abuse. Sex is not the problem. Sexism is the problem, and always has been.

The truth is that if a young woman is abused, sexually or otherwise, by an adult, it is never her fault, whatever she was wearing or doing. Right now a great chilling effect is going on across the Western world, a sexual counter-revolution that encompasses a backlash against women’s sexual and reproductive freedom, our right to choose when and if and how we fuck and what we do with our bodies afterwards, and the attack on the sexuality of young girls, the assumption that abuse is an inevitable consequence of teenage sexuality, is part of that backlash. In Britain we do not even have many of our nearest cultural neighbors’ excuse of being half-run by rabid religious zealots who regard rape resulting in pregnancy as a gift from Jesus and would exchange the word ‘vagina’ for ‘devil’s dirt-hole’ in school textbooks if they could. Here, we may have turfed the Catholic Church out of the mechanisms of state several centuries ago, but the Priest in the head is harder to evict. 

"There is a sense in much of this literature of an assumed ‘weight of evidence’ which included the idea that girls are ‘directly sexualised’ through their exposure to advertising, tween magazines and television programmes," concludes a recent report from the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. "However there is, in fact, a severe shortage of rigorous research on this emotive issue." In other words, the moral panic is almost entirely made up. That doesn’t stop it from making great political capital. The only people likely to be damaged by the new prudery are young men and women trying to negotiate their developing sexuality in a safe, positive way - and they’re almost nobody’s target voter.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 04 February 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The Intervention Trap

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad