I discovered my sexuality through porn. I would have been in Year 7, exploring porn online on the family computer (awkwardly, in my parents’ room), and swapping videos with a close friend.

This was pre-smartphone era, so I have no idea how we were swapping videos. Was it links via email? Did I even have an email address back then? Was it via floppy disk? I digress.

I began to realise the people in the videos I was watching – and the people I was attracted to – weren’t who I was supposed to be focusing on.

Image by: Andrew Robulack

Flash-forward some 24 years, a few sexuality rebrandings, two or three gender transitions, and over a decade in sex work later, and I’m now the CEO of Scarlet Alliance, the peak national body for sex workers.

As I write this, pornography has been thrust into the spotlight in Australia, and not in a good way. Self-styled consent advocates and sexual violence prevention advocates have the Federal Government linking access to pornography to violence against women, porn as an inherent harm to young people, and the internet as a dangerous place.

Chanel Contos and Daniel Principe, appointed ‘consent ambassadors’ for the Federal Government’s consent campaign, are actively conflating porn with violence and aligning with anti-sex work rhetoric.

Principe, an outspoken anti-porn advocate, has used platforms to promote statements like “don’t date anyone who watches porn” and the hashtag #pornharms.

His connections to groups like Exodus Cry and Collective Shout – organisations opposing sex work decriminalisation with ties to anti-LGBTQ faith-based movements — underscore a broader agenda.

He even received a personal mention from Nicola Centofanti during her push to introduce the Swedish model in South Australia.

The Swedish model (also referred to as the ‘Nordic model’, ‘end demand’ model, or the misnomered ‘equality model’) seeks to abolish the sex industry by criminalising the ‘purchase’ of sexual services. That is, it criminalises clients of sex workers and ‘third parties’ such as brothel owners, landlords or even family members who are being financially supported by a sex worker. This model is rejected by all sex worker rights organisations, as well as organisations like Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International.

Although Chanel Contos may not appear as overtly anti-porn at first glance, she has promoted the work of figures like Reem Alsalem, known for her strident anti-trans and anti-sex work stances. Contos and her organisation, Teach Us Consent, continue to frame porn as inherently harmful using cherry-picked research.

Anti-porn sentiment is not new, but this current wave has become increasingly mainstream and created a platform for new puritans, all under the guise of consent education and protecting young people from ‘online harms’. This is reminiscent of other moral panics, and includes the social media bans for children under 16 due to come into effect in Australia at the end of 2025.

An appetite for sensationalism outweighs evidence-based policy.

Cam Wilson from Crikey has done an amazing job of analysing the flawed logic and lack of evidence behind the social media bans, many of which perfectly mirror the trajectory of the pornography debate.

The demonisation of pornography has real consequences, particularly for sex workers – including those whose work is pornography – and other marginalised communities.

The online shadowbanning of health education, sexuality and gender content, feminist porn, sex worker advertising and all related independent thinking is very much a now problem.

The social media ban, along with incoming regulations that require online service providers to prevent under 18s from accessing “online pornography and other harmful content” mean that young people are at real risk of being effectively cut off from educational materials.

While regulators may say that these mechanisms will not prevent young people from accessing health promotion and sexuality information, the reality is that online filtering systems – including those that are human-based – are unable to differentiate between the two. Even Teach Us Consent, founded by Chanel Contos, censors the word “sex” in their social media for fear of being shadowbanned or deplatformed.

While some may argue that their concerns are with so-called ‘violent’ or ‘misogynistic’ porn, there is no consensus on what these definitions actually mean.

By one measure, the New Zealand Classification Office recorded that 10 per cent of popular videos showed physical aggression, whereas the French equality watchdog reported that as much as 90 per cent of online pornography features violence. It’s crucial to note that France criminalises sex work clients and third parties under the ‘Swedish Model,’ framing all sex work as violence.

Another study in The British Journal of Criminology that is frequently cited found 12 per cent of popular videos depict sexual violence, but its methodology was based on categorising key words from the titles of videos like “drill,” “slap,” and “pound” as violent without context.

These oversimplified categorisations overlook the diversity of consensual sexual practices, stigmatising non-heteronormative and BDSM relationships by equating certain sexual preferences with deviance. They reinforce harmful stereotypes and further marginalise those whose sexuality falls outside traditional norms.

Moreover, these anti-porn narratives ignore the explicit negotiation of consent involved in the production of porn and the broader sex work industry, undermining its legitimacy.

Fear-based porn education, like It’s Time We Talked by Maree Crabbe and The Line by Our Watch, critiques porn using language that is concerningly similar to language used to demonise LGBTQ+ communities – framing any sex outside of penis-in-vagina heteronormative intercourse as dangerous, risky and weird.

They also make negative judgments about the bodies of porn performers, STI and HIV risk, and state that porn performers “can end up with serious and lasting damage to their bodies or emotional wellbeing”. These all overlap with homophobic fears of queer sexuality and ex-gay rhetoric.

For many, including LGBTQ+ individuals, pornography serves as a space of validation and freedom – a medium where we can see our identities and desires reflected, often for the first time.

This representation can be an affirming experience, providing a sense of connection in an environment where our sexualities are otherwise marginalised or misunderstood.

Pornography has also historically been the only source of media where trans women have been portrayed positively and as sexually desirable; it has opened up opportunities for people (particularly straight men) to discover and explore their sexual attraction to trans women. While having the only representation of trans women being through porn can be an issue, that is a symptom of broader societal stigma.

By attacking porn broadly without acknowledging these positive aspects, new regulations risk pushing queer and non-mainstream sexualities further into the shadows, exacerbating stigma and discrimination.

In response to this moral panic, the Federal Government is implementing an age verification pilot for pornography.

Age verification legislation had long been the purview of conservative legislators in the USA, with the Free Speech Coalition and ACLU launching court challenges. So far, 19 US states have passed age verification laws, with Texas attempting to follow suit in the Supreme Court.

Meanwhile, a district judge ruled that a similar law in Tennessee “would likely suppress the First Amendment free-speech rights of adults without actually preventing children from accessing” pornography.

Project 2025 – a far-right ‘wish list’ for the second term of Donald Trump’s presidency – goes further with its reactionary ideals. It proposes criminalising pornography and imprisoning those who produce it, and links pornography with ‘transgender ideology’. This link between pornography and trans people is also being promoted by anti-gender advocates, claiming that trans people are groomed into a trans identity through exposure to porn.

The US-based Traffickinghub campaign (with its founding in Exodus Cry) has also spurred far-right extremists to post threats against porn producers and sex workers on social media.

Age verification schemes and other crackdowns on access to pornography pose severe risks, especially for LGBTQ+ youth. These mechanisms often require intrusive data collection, raising privacy and security concerns.

For marginalised individuals wary of surveillance, such requirements can create additional barriers, leading them to forego accessing valuable online resources altogether. Age verification measures also risk reducing young people’s access to crucial information on sexuality and safer sex practices.

For LGBTQ+ youth, who may not receive inclusive sex education elsewhere, pornography and online communities often serve as vital sources of information and support. Blocking access risks pushing them into more precarious, unregulated spaces or leaving them without guidance on exploring their identity and practising safe sexual behaviours.

Instead of succumbing to moral panic, we need evidence-based policies inclusive of the communities most affected. Demonising porn, implementing ill-considered age-gating measures and bans on content do more harm than good.

Looking back at my own experiences as a young person, pornography was essential to me discovering my sexuality. Had I not had access to it, there would have undoubtedly been many more years before I knew who I was.

Some people may argue that, as there is greater media representation and inclusion of LGBTQ+ identities in the mainstream, young people can understand their sexuality through non-pornographic media. I think this is a red herring. In a world still saturated with heterosexism and cissexism, and due to the fundamental sexual aspect of sexuality, pornography will always play a crucial role in many people’s discovery of their sexuality.

It’s critical that discussions about pornography reflect its diverse uses and impacts, ensuring that solutions protect freedoms and privacy while promoting safety, education and inclusivity.

If you are a sex worker, please consider joining Scarlet Alliance and supporting the advocates who are speaking out on these issues.

If you aren’t a sex worker, be equally afraid that your access to informed and reliable information online is under threat.