There's an interesting review in The Atlantic of three feminist themed books on the current (Western) attitudes to sex, and there are some interesting passages:
Porn consumption is now such a fixture of modern life—there is no chance
the American government will take your smut away—that space has opened
up to question its effects without being dismissed as a wannabe censor.
Which isn’t to say that admitting to reservations about current sexual
trends is easy. For Clark-Flory’s 30-something generation (which is also
my generation), being Cool About Sex is a mark of our impeccable social
liberalism. If two or more adults consent to it, whatever it is, no one
else is entitled to an opinion.
Yet here is the conundrum facing feminist writers: Our enlightened
values—less stigma regarding unwed mothers, the acceptance of
homosexuality, greater economic freedom for women, the availability of
contraception, and the embrace of consent culture—haven’t translated
into anything like a paradise of guilt-free fun. The sexual double
standard still exists, and girls who say no are still “frigid” while
those who say yes are still “sluts.” Some men still act with
entitlement, while others feel that, no matter what they do, they are
inescapably positioned as the “bad guys” by the new sexual rules. Half a
century after the sexual revolution and the start of second-wave
feminism, why are the politics of sex still so messy, fraught, and
contested?
More specifically on pornography:
In The Right to Sex: Feminism in the Twenty-First Century, Amia
Srinivasan confesses her reluctance to cover second-wave criticisms of
porn in the feminist-theory course she teaches at Oxford. She is Cool
About Sex, after all, and assumed that her students would be bored by
the question of whether porn oppresses women. She also assumed that the
reputation of “anti-porn feminists,” such as Catharine A. MacKinnon and
Andrea Dworkin, had been fatally damaged by their alliance with the
religious right to pass laws restricting access to pornography. What
self-respecting member of Generation Z would want to line up alongside
Jerry Falwell Sr. and Phyllis Schlafly, particularly when the other side
is selling a fantasy of libertine pleasure?
Yet her class was “riveted,” she
observes in “Talking to My Students About Porn,” the longest essay in
her collection. Their enthusiasm was so great that it made her
reconsider her own diffidence. The exchange is worth quoting at length:
Could
it be that pornography doesn’t merely depict the subordination of
women, but actually makes it real, I asked? Yes, they said. Does porn
silence women, making it harder for them to protest against unwanted
sex, and harder for men to hear those protests? Yes, they said. Does
porn bear responsibility for the objectification of women, for the
marginalization of women, for sexual violence against women? Yes, they
said, yes to all of it.
It wasn’t just the women students talking; the men were saying yes as
well, in some cases even more emphatically … My male students complained
about the routines they were expected to perform in sex; one of them
asked whether it was too utopian to imagine sex was loving and mutual
and not about domination and submission.
Well, it's good to see such things being admitted; I guess it's also something of a sign of the scale of the sexual revolution that you can have a class of (presumably) young adults in Oxford so keen to share with their teacher their views of their own sexual experiences. Not exactly a scene you'd expect in CS Lewis and Tolkien's day!
There is also this aspect of pornography, which I guess I hadn't thought much about before:
But how much do culture and politics shape those wants? Porn-aggregator
sites, to take one example, use algorithms, just like the rest of the
internet. Pornhub pushes featured videos and recommendations, optimized
to build user loyalty and increase revenue, which carry the implicit
message that this is what everyone else finds arousing—that this is the
norm. Compare porn with polarized journalism, or even fast food: How can
we untangle what people “really want” from what they are offered, over
and over, and from what everyone else is being offered too? No one’s
sexual desires exist in a vacuum, immune to outside pressures driven by
capitalism. (Call it the invisible hand job of the market.)
Ha ha.
I think it's good to see serious, non religious, discussion of the downside of ubiquitous easy access to pornography; but it is difficult how you can ever see a solution without in some way being censorious. Let's not shy away from that, I say: people should feel OK with saying "I really think pornography that depicts practice X, Y or Z really ought not be available."