A sex doll brothel has opened in Helsinki, and the phenomenon of sex robots provokes reactions so strong that some are calling for them to be banned. Yet creating and maintaining moral taboos around sexuality is a far greater offence than having sex with a doll, argues Hanna-Karin Grensman.
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.
