“I have a very high sex drive and need good partners to be satisfied. I’d never risk developing feelings for someone who later turned out to be bad in bed or poorly endowed.”

Some people have a habit of describing others as “bad in bed”. In effect, they assign ratings to the people they sleep with, directly or indirectly, and often take pleasure in sharing those ratings with others. Those who hear such judgements tend to interpret them as objective characteristics of the person in question—something the person is—rather than as expressions of subjective experiences and preferences. Because sexuality is emotionally charged and deeply personal, such labels can have far-reaching consequences.

There is, of course, nothing unreasonable about wanting good sex. The problem is not preference, selectivity or standards. Human beings are not charitable institutions, and no reasonable person argues that anyone should have sex with someone they do not enjoy being with.

The problem is the assumption that there exists a universal scale on which people can be ranked as good, average or bad. The scale itself is a social construct, and one that bears remarkably little resemblance to how sexuality actually works.

Sex is fundamentally a relational and dynamic process. Whenever two or more people have sex, an interaction takes place. Whether that interaction works—or fails—depends on a range of factors: preferences, pace, trust, bodily communication, prior experiences, power dynamics, nervousness, attraction and timing. Most of what is experienced as “good” or “bad” is therefore not a property of the individuals involved, but a property of the interaction itself.

The dynamics of a sexual experience are created jointly, not by a single individual. This implies something many people seem reluctant even to consider, let alone admit: every bad sexual experience one has ever had is something one has contributed to oneself. Reducing it to the competence of the other person obscures one’s own role. More than that, it elevates one’s personal preferences to the status of objective standards. That is both unfair and analytically indefensible.

Sexuality is not, in practice, a one-sided phenomenon. Presenting it as such is a simplification that creates more problems than it solves.

The Consequences of Insecurity

Once people are categorised as “good” or “bad”, it becomes clear that performance is being evaluated, that reputations can be damaged, and that behaviour can become the object of social assessment. A system of norms—and a logic of performance—is established around the most intimate aspects of human life.

The result is insecurity in relation to sexuality. This insecurity is not an individual condition but a social phenomenon. It spreads, affecting far more people than those who are directly discussed. It affects those who have not yet slept with the person making the judgement, as well as those who never will. And, perhaps most ironically, it affects the person making the judgement themselves—the person who says, “He’s bad in bed.”

People tend, often without reflection, to assume that others function much as they do. Those who judge others therefore tend to expect—or believe—that others judge them according to the same logic, that they too may be evaluated and ranked.

Few people enjoy being judged negatively. In an effort to avoid such judgement, self-consciousness and fears of failure emerge. The ever-present possibility of evaluation diminishes spontaneity, experimentation and presence. Who dares try something new when there is a risk of being marked down for it?

Judgement therefore constrains everyone’s freedom to act. It makes sexuality more controlled, more strategic and less free than it would otherwise be.

Safety and trust, by contrast, operate in the opposite direction. When people do not feel at risk of being judged or exposed, they are more willing to communicate, experiment and adjust. That, in turn, creates better dynamics and ultimately better sexual experiences.

It is therefore hardly surprising that people perceived as safe and non-judgemental often have more sexual experiences. Not necessarily because they are “better” according to some scale, but because others feel more comfortable with them.

Informal Power and the Creation of Moral Hierarchies

By saying that someone is bad in bed, a jointly created experience is redefined as an individual deficiency. Responsibility shifts from “we” to “you”, norms are established, and insecurity is created.

Judging other people’s sexual abilities according to a logic of performance obscures the fact that such assessments are always rooted in the subjective preferences of the person making them. Certain bodies and forms of sexual expression come to be seen as legitimate, while others are cast as deviant. An ostensibly universal and objective standard for what counts as “good” is established, and deviations from that standard are treated as shortcomings.

In this way, language becomes more than a means of describing experience; it becomes a mechanism for regulating behaviour. It narrows the range of acceptable variation and makes people more cautious. It influences who dares to take initiative, who withdraws, and who adapts.

This diminishes people’s perceived agency. Agency is not merely the right to choose; it is the experience of having room to act without being immediately judged. When that space contracts, behaviour changes, often without people noticing it themselves. They avoid things that may be misunderstood, things that fall outside the norm, or things that could lead to negative judgements.

The statement therefore functions as a form of informal power, reproducing a moral hierarchy around sexuality. This may happen without reflection or intention, but it nevertheless alters the dynamics.

The greatest paradox is that the logic of performance is often justified as a means of achieving better sex. Yet by introducing standards and hierarchies, it tends instead to make sexuality poorer, narrower and more regulated than it needs to be.

“But Some People Really Are Bad” — Honesty Without Precision Is Not a Virtue

A common objection is that this is simply a matter of honesty, that adults should be able to handle directness. But honesty without precision is not a virtue. Telling someone “you’re bad in bed” attributes to them a fixed and enduring characteristic. It falls well outside what is normally understood as constructive criticism.

Another common objection is that specific and detailed feedback has been provided, yet the person in question has failed to change. This, it is argued, proves that they are bad.

Yet a lack of change can result from many different factors: differing preferences, shame, a lack of trust, or simply because the person does not wish to change. That position is every bit as legitimate as the desire for change itself. In addition, the communication may have been unclear. What seems obvious and self-evident to one person may not be so to another. Often, the desired change involves more than can be communicated—or altered—through words alone.

A lack of change is therefore not, in itself, evidence of another person’s inadequacy.

General advice is rarely either truly general or particularly good. To the extent that broad criteria do exist—such as attentiveness, communication and bodily awareness—they must always be translated into the context of a specific relationship. What works in one relationship does not automatically work in another.

Compatibility Rather Than Performance

The prevailing model of performance creates and reproduces the idea that there are universal criteria against which people’s sexual performance can be objectively measured. It reflects a wider culture of performance, in which ever more aspects of life are organised around comparison, optimisation and ranking.

Whatever one thinks of that tendency in general, it reduces variation and freedom when imported into intimate relationships.

There is therefore every reason to shift the focus away from whether someone is good in general, and towards whether and how two people work together. This leads to the recognition that compatibility is the more reasonable model. That may sound trivial, but it changes the entire analysis.

To say, “We were not sexually compatible” keeps the focus on the relational dynamic and on compatibility itself. It begins from variation and subjectivity, recognising the fact that people want different things, appreciate different forms of expression and have different boundaries. For every sexual behaviour, there are people who enjoy it and people who do not.

It also means accepting responsibility as the adults we actually are. It requires acknowledging our own role in the dynamic, our own biases and our own preferences. That is harder than applying a label. But it is also more accurate and, ultimately, more generous.

Taken together, this creates freedom and security, while opening the door to learning and development—should one wish it. These are foundational conditions for a positive sexual experience.

Carefulness — Both a Virtue and a Matter of Self-Interest

When we speak in terms of compatibility rather than quality, we open the door to more ways of being, more ways of connecting, and more ways of understanding one another. There are therefore good reasons to be more careful in how we speak about other people, because language shapes which experiences become possible.

This shift in perspective also changes how we understand failure. Failure ceases to be a deficiency and becomes information instead. It tells us something about what did not work in a particular encounter, not about a person’s worth or potential. It means recognising that sexuality is complex, relational and constantly changing. It means understanding that every encounter is unique.

Speaking of compatibility rather than quality therefore creates greater freedom, greater security and better conditions for positive sexual experiences. Speaking of people as “bad” does the opposite.

And, in the end, it is both profoundly inaccurate and entirely unnecessary.

The post You’re Not Bad in Bed — We’re Just Wrong for Each Other appeared first on Subversivt.

In Sweden, we make a fist and raise our thumb to signal approval. Try the same gesture in parts of the Middle East and it may be perceived as obscene or deeply offensive. A gesture, in other words, is never merely a gesture. It carries connotations and cultural associations that shape its meaning and determine how it is interpreted. Those meanings cannot simply be ignored.

In Sweden, as in much of the world, the handshake is regarded as a significant social ritual. Its origins are obscure, but today it functions as both a gesture of courtesy and a symbol of equality. As the Prime Minister once put it: “In Sweden, we greet one another. We shake hands with both men and women.”

The Handshake as Norm and Symbol

Refusing to shake hands is widely perceived as both an insult and a statement about the person whose hand is rejected. It is sufficiently norm-breaking to generate headlines, whether the individuals involved are politicians, athletes, or people whose religious beliefs prohibit physical contact with members of the opposite sex.

Even if the handshake is not inherently superior to other forms of greeting, it cannot be reduced to a trivial hand movement—easily interchangeable with any other gesture—as some would have us believe.

The unrestricted right to decline a handshake does not automatically entail a right to avoid the social consequences of that choice.

In contemporary society, conflicts increasingly arise from the friction between different cultural perspectives and systems of norms. To manage such conflicts, the state must develop a coherent approach to balancing multiculturalism, secularism and gender equality. Public institutions need to address these tensions rather than sweeping them aside or dismissing them as insignificant, because they are clearly neither.

This issue was recently brought into focus by Trelleborg Municipal Council’s decision that individuals who refuse to shake hands with members of the opposite sex for cultural or religious reasons should not be employed by the municipality.

Several legal scholars criticised the decision, arguing that refusing to shake hands constitutes a religious manifestation protected under the European Convention on Human Rights. Yet the unrestricted right to decline a handshake does not automatically include a right to be shielded from the social consequences of doing so.

Freedom of Religion, Secularism and the Limits of the State

Today, refusing to shake hands is not merely regarded as discourteous. In many cases it functions as an ideological signal, symbolising a desire for gender segregation and separation between Muslims and non-Muslims. Such aspirations largely reflect a particular Islamist interest rather than a universal religious requirement. Refusing to shake hands is an expression of a conservative interpretation of Islam—one that many Muslims do not share—just as it is Hasidic Jews, rather than Jews in general, who commonly avoid handshakes.

Yet while employers are generally entitled to prohibit ideological and religious symbols, no equivalent right exists with regard to symbolic actions. This is despite the fact that refusing to shake hands communicates an individual’s beliefs just as clearly as a political badge, and may similarly lead citizens to perceive representatives of the state as biased or even hostile.

In a secular state, religious beliefs cannot be allowed to take precedence over citizens’ right to neutral treatment.

Indeed, the state’s obligation to uphold objectivity and equal treatment arguably implies a duty not to employ individuals who insist on performing ideological symbolic acts while carrying out public duties, regardless of the reasons behind them.

The alternative—continuing to compromise secular values in favour of ideological special interests—creates an artificial and imagined conflict between diversity and gender equality. The resulting ambiguity undermines trust in the state, makes multicultural coexistence more difficult, and lays the groundwork for escalating conflicts framed in ethical and cultural terms.

This article was originally published in Smedjan (Timbro) on 4 January 2020.

The post Refusing to Shake Hands Is an Ideological Statement appeared first on Subversivt.

People often say that your views on parenting change once you have children of your own. As an expectant parent, I expected as much. What I did not expect was the constant tension between conventional morality and giving my children the tools they need to succeed in contemporary society. Time and again, it becomes clear that the two are no longer aligned. Modern society is full not only of people who benefit from doing the wrong thing, but, more troublingly, of people who do everything right and lose anyway.

A Large Vocabulary Is Valued Only in Theory

We talk endlessly about the importance of knowledge and education. Yet when a friend attended a parent-teacher meeting, she was encouraged to “use less advanced language” with her son. His vocabulary was making the other children feel inadequate.

Unfortunately, it is probably the staff rather than my friend who are responding rationally to the incentives of the system. A rich vocabulary is admired only in theory. In practice, competence often carries remarkably little value. Investment in higher education frequently fails to pay off. Influencers and celebrities are granted the same authority as Nobel Prize winners.

Even governing a country appears not to require formal education. Many ministers lack university degrees. What matters instead is loyalty and ideological conformity. As the old saying goes: “To think freely is admirable; to think correctly is greater.”

When Truth Loses to Narrative

We are often told that children need to learn the value of hard work. Yet research in occupational and environmental medicine suggests that employees who are competent, driven and committed to doing things properly are also more likely to become targets of workplace bullying.

Those who refuse to settle for mediocrity are often pushed aside. Under such conditions, maintaining a strong work ethic can begin to seem almost irrational.

We teach children not to lie. Yet public life repeatedly demonstrates that falsehoods can be rewarded while inconvenient truths are punished. Those who tell compelling stories are often celebrated; those who challenge them are frequently marginalised.

As long as society allows narratives to triumph over facts, should we really be surprised when people conclude that dishonesty is a useful skill?

The Polite Make Way for the Rude

In nursery and primary school, children are taught to wait their turn, show consideration and treat others with respect. Yet in adult life, those who wait patiently are often pushed aside, while the rude and demanding receive attention first.

Public institutions increasingly adapt to disruptive behaviour rather than reinforcing social norms. The lesson absorbed by many is simple: those who make the most noise get what they want.

Perhaps, then, we ought to teach our children to be louder, more demanding and more aggressive in pursuing their interests?

We Punish Whistleblowers

“Some things simply have to be done, otherwise you’re not really a human being,” we tell ourselves.

Yet we also know that people who expose wrongdoing are often punished for doing so. Whistleblowers frequently pay a professional and social price for their integrity. The message society sends is therefore deeply contradictory: we praise courage in principle while penalising it in practice.

We Teach Submission Rather Than Self-Defence

In children’s stories, great strength is usually accompanied by great kindness. Reality is rather different.

Power is often used to intimidate, exploit or coerce. Yet despite this, we rarely teach children how to defend themselves effectively. On the contrary, we often teach them to retreat, accommodate and avoid confrontation. They learn to adapt rather than resist, to endure rather than challenge.

In many cases they are discouraged even from expressing negative judgements about others, regardless of whether those judgements are justified.

Are We Failing Our Children?

There is, therefore, a troubling possibility: that by raising children according to conventional moral ideals, we may inadvertently be placing them at a disadvantage.

Children who develop strong integrity, a robust moral compass and a commitment to fairness often find themselves operating in environments where those qualities are insufficiently valued. Their rights are more readily compromised, their freedom of movement becomes more restricted, and they carry heightened levels of anxiety into adulthood.

At the theatre, Arthur Miller’s The Crucible continues to resonate. Time and again, John Proctor attempts to do what is morally right, only to be accused of witchcraft and ultimately executed. The play’s central lesson remains painfully familiar.

“No good deed goes unpunished.”

Rarely has that observation felt more relevant.

This article was originally published in Smedjan (Timbro) on 12 October 2019.

The post When Doing the Right Thing Doesn’t Pay appeared first on Subversivt.

“In suffering, humans and animals are equal. There is no difference. A pig is as intelligent as a child with an intellectual disability.”

It has been twenty years since a former spokesperson for the Green Party Youth of Sweden compared people with intellectual disabilities to pigs. The statement, which evokes uncomfortable associations with the debates surrounding eugenics and mental deficiency in the 1930s, is deeply problematic. By identifying the group considered closest to animals, one simultaneously identifies those deemed to possess the least value. The comparison devalues human dignity itself.

Those who make this argument usually insist that their intentions are the opposite: to elevate the status of animals rather than diminish that of human beings. The Green Party spokesperson certainly did. Yet the outcome remains the same. Human beings are dehumanised, and in doing so, violations of their dignity become easier to justify.

One of the villains in this story may well be Disney. Through seemingly harmless entertainment, Disney has long populated its stories with anthropomorphised animal characters. Because it is almost impossible not to form emotional attachments to such characters, it seems entirely plausible that Disney has contributed both to the prevalence of anthropomorphism—the tendency to attribute human qualities to animals—and to our concern for animal welfare.

On the whole, Sweden’s animal welfare legislation is something to be proud of, even if it is burdened by an excessively formalistic regulatory framework and a certain tendency towards anthropomorphism. Consider the case in which the Enforcement Authority discovered an abandoned goldfish and had to contact the County Administrative Board, which then dispatched an animal welfare officer who consulted a state veterinarian before a decision could be made to euthanise it. The concern shown for that goldfish was scarcely less than that often shown for human beings.

Militant animal rights activists, operating from the same anthropomorphic perspective, have at times portrayed animal husbandry as morally equivalent to concentration camps.

Less admirable is the existence of militant animal rights activists who, driven by this same outlook, regard livestock farming as the moral equivalent of mass imprisonment and persecution. Such reasoning has been used to justify arson attacks, assaults and serious death threats—even against children. All of these acts are plainly worse than anything the farmers themselves are accused of doing. Anthropomorphism, in such cases, becomes profoundly inhumane.

Of course, the growing tendency to humanise animals is not Disney’s responsibility alone. Our way of life—including urbanisation and the consumption of neatly packaged meat—has severed many people’s direct connection to animals, both in agriculture and in the wild. As a result, we increasingly project our own species-specific desires onto them and attribute human characteristics to them.

This tendency can be seen in everything from campaigns aimed at protecting hens from the sexual behaviour of roosters to the emergence of luxury spas for dogs. The growing amounts of money people are willing to spend on their pets likewise reflect a tendency to treat them as human substitutes.

Signs of the weakening of the anthropocentric worldview are visible everywhere. Human beings no longer occupy an unquestioned central position within our understanding of the world. This shift may help explain reactions to the behavioural scientist Magnus Söderlund’s provocative suggestion that humans might one day eat human flesh, a proposal that some audience members expressed a willingness to consider. It can be seen in the deployment of animal ambulances to care for injured small birds in Stockholm. It was also evident in the public outrage that followed when the municipality of Ängelholm suggested that residents could humanely euthanise rabbits suffering from rabbit haemorrhagic disease themselves, for example by delivering a swift blow to the back of the neck.

Research is currently under way to combine tissues and genetic material from different species in the search for treatments for human disease. Future developments may involve altering animal brains to make them more closely resemble those of human beings, something that would almost certainly have implications extending beyond more effective animal experimentation.

History teaches that dehumanisation is a prerequisite for many of the worst atrocities people commit against one another—from everyday failures of empathy to the extreme cases of genocide and ethnic cleansing. Yet anthropomorphism is permitted to expand with remarkably little scrutiny.

The Green Party Youth spokesperson, Disney, or the person who calls an animal ambulance to rescue a sparrow obviously do not wish to see the return of the human rights abuses that scarred the twentieth century. Nevertheless, the further we move away from an anthropocentric understanding of the world, the greater the risk that we drift in that direction.

It is something worth reflecting upon the next time the urge to treat the family cat as though it were a small child becomes overwhelming.

This article was originally published in Smedjan (Timbro) on 17 September 2019.

The post The Humanisation of Animals Dehumanises Human Beings appeared first on Subversivt.

A protruding stomach beneath a creased shirt. A dark line of dirt and skin residue visible inside the collar. An ill-fitting polyester suit carrying the unmistakable smell of sweat embedded deep within the fabric. Thin black hair combed carefully across a balding scalp. Glasses with narrow metal frames that constantly slide down a damp nose.

That is how I imagine the man who pays to have sex with anatomically correct—well, more or less—Barbie dolls at the doll brothel in Helsinki. A sad and distasteful figure, expressing his sexuality in what strikes me as the most tragic way imaginable.

Sex dolls of varying quality have existed for many years, and doll brothels are far from the novelty they have been made out to be in Swedish media. Even so, I have never paid them much attention. Are they pathetic? Yes. Harmful? Unlikely.

True Love

When the Swedish newspaper Expressen writes about sex robots, it does so from an almost saccharine perspective:

“One of the wonderful things about sex is the personal connection. But how would it feel to sleep with someone who has no personality, someone who is literally just a doll?”

I do not know. The idea of sleeping with a doll feels remote to me. Yet the view of relationships and sexuality conveyed by Expressen rings false—indeed, almost hostile to sexuality itself. Sex can be everything they describe. But it can also be wonderfully impersonal, delightfully uncomplicated, intensely physical and entirely free of emotional attachment.

Deep and meaningful relationships are valuable. Fleeting encounters can be valuable too. Do we really need to rank these different forms of intimacy? And why does Expressen feel compelled to push us into a template in which “real” sex must involve emotional closeness and intimacy, while sex that falls short of those criteria is treated as inferior—or even wrong?

The view of relationships and sexuality conveyed by Expressen rings false—indeed, almost hostile to sexuality itself.

Modern society has already transformed the nature of human relationships. Most people have fewer deep personal relationships than previous generations, and those relationships often play a less central role in their lives. Marriage itself increasingly rests upon an active and conditional form of love: people remain together because they choose to, and they can always choose otherwise.

This shift has encouraged the emergence of a wide range of new relationship structures, from blended families to polyamorous arrangements. It has also changed the conditions under which people have sex, with whom they have it, and why.

But robots? Surely that is taking things too far. Does it not undermine the very foundations on which society is built? And what happens if people form deep attachments to them—which they almost certainly will? Will robots eventually replace romantic relationships between human beings? And if they do, is that necessarily a problem?

That depends, of course, on whom you ask.

Many people are deeply sceptical. Kathleen Richardson, Professor of Ethics and a researcher specialising in the cultural dimensions of robotics and artificial intelligence, launched a campaign against sex robots. She argues that our ability to form stable, long-term and meaningful interpersonal relationships is under threat—a development that, in her view, sex robots will only accelerate.

David Levy, by contrast, sees things very differently—and with no small degree of enthusiasm. In his book Love and Sex with Robots, he argues that robots could provide companionship and intimacy for people who currently lack both. He identifies numerous potential applications and predicts that it is only a matter of time before sex robots become commonplace and socially accepted.

To say, “You may not buy a doll; instead you should attend therapy so that you become more like the rest of us,” is as paternalistic as it is illiberal.

We, as a society, can of course oppose or prohibit the kinds of relationships we consider undesirable—because we regard them as inauthentic or because we find them distasteful. It is always easy to wage war against what one dislikes.

The argument about authenticity reminds me of other debates. Is a friendship that developed and exists primarily on Facebook somehow less valuable than one that began at a drunken party, in a workplace, or over a garden fence on a sunny afternoon? After more than a decade of social media, I am inclined to say no. How I met my friends, or the means through which we communicate, is not what determines the depth of our relationship or the value I place upon it.

So if someone genuinely feels loved by a robot, can that feeling simply be dismissed as “inauthentic”? And why should it matter? By what right do I deny another person the experience of love, companionship or sexuality simply because I find it distasteful? Especially when we are talking about dolls that, unlike human beings, do not have to compromise themselves in order to provide affection, companionship or intimacy.

Perhaps the central question raised by sex robots is not technological at all. Perhaps it concerns what rights we believe people should have to pleasure—and perhaps more importantly, what right they have to the experience of love.

Kathleen Richardson is distinctly sceptical:

“Paedophiles and rapists, people who cannot form relationships—they need therapy, not dolls.”

To say, “You may not buy a doll; instead you should attend therapy so that you become more like the rest of us,” is as paternalistic as it is illiberal.

Not everyone shares the same aspirations. Not everyone wants human relationships, nor does everyone place the same value on them. A ban would affect not only those who seek a robot as a substitute for human intimacy, but also those who see it as a complement to existing relationships. It would restrict both groups in the name of helping one.

I cannot help thinking about the many countries where homosexuality or adultery remain prohibited. We are rightly appalled by such laws. Yet how different is their desire to regulate sexuality from our own? By what right do they—or we—set the criteria for what consenting adults may do?

Digisexuality — Coming Soon to a Home Near You

Homosexuality. Bisexuality. Sadomasochism. Transsexuality. All of these were once regarded as illnesses, pathologies, or even crimes. Today they are broadly accepted in much of the Western world as normal variations of human sexuality. It is as though a heavy blanket had finally been lifted, allowing light to reach areas that had long been hidden in shadow.

Most people would agree that this has been a positive development. Yet when it comes to digisexuality—the preference for artificial sexual experiences over sex with human beings—the reaction is often very different.

My intellect tells me that it probably should not be. The resistance likely stems from the fact that digisexuality is new and unfamiliar. It unsettles us in the same way that the unknown often does. I descend into the uncomfortable, the distasteful and the unfamiliar. And suddenly I begin to glimpse small, shimmering possibilities.

Robots designed to meet human desires and fantasies could offer almost limitless opportunities to explore sexuality. In privacy and without pressure, people could experiment with different positions, refine their sexual skills, or bring fantasies to life. If the Finnish Defence Forces use virtual simulators to train for war, why should Finnish virgins not visit doll brothels to practise before taking the step of being with a flesh-and-blood partner?

A positive view of robotic sex is probably only a Netflix series away.

Several researchers argue that as technology becomes more sophisticated, increasing numbers of people will come to regard artificial sex as a meaningful part of their sexual identity. Given the transformative effect that Sex and the City and Fifty Shades of Grey had on the sex-toy industry, it seems likely that mainstream acceptance of robot sex may be closer than many imagine.

I suppose that means there may come a day when I look back on my current sex life with the same amused sense of superiority that I now reserve for 1970s pornography. The thought fills me with equal parts dread and fascination. What lies beyond the familiar?

“A Business Like This Would Destroy Homes”

But are sex robots and dolls really nothing more than harmless sex toys? Am I oversimplifying matters by treating this primarily as a question of sexual morality?

Much of the criticism directed at sex robots boils down to the claim that they are antisocial, uncivilised and a threat to women, children and social cohesion. When a robot brothel was proposed in Houston, opponents argued:

“A business like this would destroy homes, families, finances of our neighbours and cause major community uproars in the city.”

These are, of course, assumptions rather than established facts. The intensity of the reaction strikes me as wildly disproportionate when compared with more realistic assessments of the risks and harms that sex robots are likely to pose. In other words, all the hallmarks of a moral panic are present.

Criminologist Nina Rung, for example, stated bluntly that men who visit such establishments will be “using violence, degradation and hatred against a female body that can never say no”.

Her statement paints a deeply troubling picture of men and male sexuality. Why, exactly, are men assumed to purchase sex in order to humiliate, harm or dominate? And if one can abuse a female body in the form of a doll, does that not imply a risk that sexual violence against women will become normalised?

The discussion bears all the signs of moral panic.

As I read the research of sociologist Teela Sanders with increasing interest, I begin to realise that the underlying premise may be flawed. Men do not generally purchase sexual services for those reasons. If the premise is mistaken, then the conclusion probably is too. It is true that we do not yet know precisely why people visit doll brothels or how they behave while there. But we do know a great deal about why men buy sex more generally. In Paying for Pleasure, Sanders presents research findings that point in a direction almost entirely opposite to that suggested by the most vocal critics.

Rather than treating men as a single homogeneous group, Sanders distinguishes between different categories of sex buyers. This allows her to demonstrate that not all men who purchase sex are participants in a patriarchal system designed to oppress women, nor do they necessarily derive satisfaction from domination. Most men who buy sex are not violent. They are not motivated by misogyny. Many are not even seeking sex in the narrow sense of the word. What they are often seeking instead is intimacy, companionship and human connection.

I do not find the theory of a universal ideological misogyny particularly persuasive—the idea that all men are participants in a shared worldview that justifies and preserves female subordination within a patriarchal order. Yes, some men hate women. Yes, sexism, discrimination and oppression exist. But for once, the phrase “not all men” seems entirely justified.

Traditional analyses have too often reduced complex realities to simplistic generalisations. Violent and misogynistic men have been conflated with men who are neither violent nor misogynistic. It is hardly surprising that the resulting picture of male sexuality is confused and contradictory.

Women have been able to enjoy sex toys for more than half a century and are often celebrated for doing so. They are seen as liberated, empowered and in touch with their sexuality. Yet when men use sexual aids, they are frequently portrayed as uncivilised, sordid or morally suspect. It is taken for granted that men desire sex, yet the people who have sex with men are condemned if they are women and criminalised if they are dolls.

Most men who buy sex are not violent, are not motivated by misogyny, and are not necessarily seeking sex in the first place.

A significant portion of the criticism also focuses on the physical appearance of the dolls themselves. They are considered too attractive, insufficiently realistic, or too obviously designed around fantasy. Their breasts are too large, their waists too narrow, their clothing too revealing.

While female dolls are criticised and effectively slut-shamed, male dolls pass largely unnoticed. No one writes articles about their oversized penises or their provocative appearance. No one asks whether women might choose to abuse them, or whether such behaviour could reinforce misandry.

I find these superficial and highly generalised portrayals deeply troubling. They rest on an outdated understanding of masculinity and femininity, one in which male sexuality is inherently destructive and uncontrollable, while female sexuality requires protection from it. Most importantly, these assumptions prevent us from imagining women as consumers and dolls as male. More alarmingly still, they prevent us from recognising men as victims and women as perpetrators.

Ban What Ought to Be Banned

This sexist framing of dolls and sex robots appears again and again. When organisations such as the Swedish Women’s Lobby, Roks and Unizon call for bans, they consistently speak of men purchasing female dolls. The question they ask is:“Why are men willing to spend tens of thousands of kronor on a robot that obeys their every command?”

It is the wrong question. What they ought to be asking is:“Why are people willing to spend tens of thousands of kronor on a robot that obeys their every command?” Partly because it avoids an inaccurate generalisation. But also because it avoids erasing female sexuality and treating it in a way that is, ironically, rather anti-feminist.

Human sexuality is multifaceted. What people want, how they want it, and when they want it varies enormously. Sexuality encompasses everything from drawers full of toys to romance to entirely casual encounters. To assume that women could not possibly want a sex robot is absurd. It implies that women do not really desire sex. Or that if they do, they require deep emotional attachment, scented candles and prolonged eye contact before they can enjoy it.

The global sex-toy market is worth billions of dollars annually, and women account for a substantial proportion of those purchases. There are products designed for virtually every preference, whether used alone or with one or several partners. Including dolls.

Admittedly, many current designs require the woman to be on top and doing most of the work—a feature I strongly suspect is a bug rather than an intentional design choice. But the step from a man in the bedside drawer to a man in the wardrobe is probably not all that great.

Creating and maintaining moral taboos around sexuality is a far greater offence than having sex with a doll.

Levy’s prediction that people would one day marry robots has already come true. People are currently marrying dolls, robots and even holograms. If there is something that ought to be prohibited, however, it is not immediately obvious that dolls and sex robots belong on that list.

If we wish to ban them because we fear misogyny, we must first accept that the feminist theory of ideological misogyny is correct. Yet the evidence suggests that people who purchase sex—whether from humans or potentially from robots—rarely do so out of a conscious desire to dominate women.

If we wish to ban them because we fear users will abuse dolls and then transfer that behaviour to real people, we must assume that people purchase sex from dolls for fundamentally different reasons than they purchase sex from human beings. Yet there is little evidence to support such an assumption.

And if we wish to ban them because we fear they will damage human relationships, then we must overlook the fact that there is currently no clear evidence either proving or disproving that our interactions with robots affect how we treat other human beings. We must also assume that the broader cultural shifts taking place in relationships are entirely negative.

Meanwhile, real people continue to suffer within parts of the sex and pornography industries. Abuse, exploitation and human trafficking remain serious and pressing problems. Against that backdrop, focusing primarily on men—and only men—who have sex with soulless dolls looks less like a genuine effort to improve society and more like moral posturing.

Much Easier Than a Tinder Date

The changing norms that allow women to buy sex toys are generally regarded as positive and liberating. Women exercising control over their own pleasure and desire. Women no longer having to wait for a man to want sex before satisfying their needs. As glamour model Jessica Ryan once remarked about her sex robot:

“As a female, it’s so much easier than a Tinder date.”

Seen from that perspective, the sex robot could represent a form of genuine emancipation. Men become an option rather than a necessity for sexual fulfilment. And defending dolls might, paradoxically, become a feminist position.

I visit the RealDoll website and spend some time carefully designing a robot of my own. The final price comes to $12,873. I do not buy it. But I find myself acknowledging that the idea of a sex robot can be just as intriguing as the idea of a new vibrator.

It seems that my prejudices about lonely men having sex with dolls were simply wrong. The same applies to claims that the phenomenon is primarily about misogynistic men exploiting female bodies. Indeed, it is not even primarily about men. And that, perhaps, is symptomatic of the debate itself. The discussion is driven first and foremost by moral assumptions rather than evidence, understanding or curiosity.

Of course, we can ban sex robots simply because we dislike them. But I remain convinced that creating and maintaining moral taboos around sexuality is a far greater offence than having sex with a doll. Given what we currently know, the idea of banning sex robots strikes me as every bit as hostile to sexuality as it is absurd.

First published in Smedjan (Timbro) on 29 April 2019.

The post Sex Robots — Threat or Opportunity? appeared first on Subversivt.

The script is almost painfully predictable. It begins with reports that a school has restricted or cancelled some aspect of a traditional celebration. The familiar cast of characters soon appears: the outraged parent, the upset child, and the teacher who explains and defends the decision. In the next act, a senior manager arrives to declare that the entire affair is simply a misunderstanding. Whether it truly was a misunderstanding or merely a rapid retreat is rarely established.

Loud voices then rush in to interpret events according to their preferred narrative. On one side are those crying “fake news” and accusing newspapers of serving the interests of racists. They know the parents are lying or confused. On the other side are those convinced that Swedish traditions are under attack in the name of multicultural nihilism. They know the manager is lying and that the school has backtracked only because of media pressure.

A careful reading of the evidence, rather than an ideological one, reveals that a small number of schools have indeed chosen not to hold Saint Lucia celebrations. It is also true that one can observe more “subversive” changes, such as boys playing Lucia and girls dressing as gingerbread figures.

The Swedish Christmas tradition—with its blend of pagan, Christian and secular influences—continues to evolve, as all traditions do. Yet these changes are more likely to be a condition for its survival than a threat to it. And the fact that a handful of schools choose not to participate hardly suggests that the Lucia tradition is disappearing. If anything, it is more popular than ever.

That does not mean public concern can simply be dismissed as ignorance tinged with racism. Traditions matter. Together with cultural heritage and shared values, they form part of the social glue that binds society together. For individuals, Christmas and the weeks leading up to it—with their rituals, preparations, anticipation and sense of community—provide continuity, meaning and reassurance.

To dismiss people’s fears that important values are being lost is simply arrogant.

Attempting to associate those concerns with people who spread hatred is equally arrogant. From a behavioural perspective, strong reactions to changes in tradition are entirely understandable. Even more so when people feel that politicians or cultural elites are actively attempting to impose those changes.

How else should one interpret claims that there is no indigenous Swedish culture, or that barbarism is the only thing that is truly Swedish? How should one interpret public figures expressing hopes that Lucia processions might disappear altogether? Or the repeated insistence that Swedish Christmas traditions are largely mythical because “a real Swedish Christmas has a German Christmas tree, Dutch saffron buns and a Turkish Father Christmas”?

I assume the intentions behind such arguments are good. Yet claiming that Swedish culture or Swedish traditions do not exist is not merely false and historically illiterate. It deprives people of the continuity, security and sense of belonging that traditions provide. It severs a connection to previous generations, to history and to culture itself—connections that become all the more important in a rapidly changing world.  Ironically, it also makes inclusion more difficult for people from other cultural backgrounds. Without culture and tradition, there is nothing into which anyone can be included.

Failing to recognise the importance of tradition—denying it or diminishing it—is therefore an attitude that is both extreme and harmful. Those who persist in doing so display not merely ignorance, but a profound failure of judgement and moral perspective.

This article was first published in Smedjan on 20 December 2018.

The post Without Traditions, Christmas Eve Is Just Another Bloody Monday appeared first on Subversivt.