Read two articles and write a 300 words response to discuss how pornography is treated as a public health crisis, and some of the impacts of its construction as a “crisis.” Must reference to both readings for two times
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Constructing a crisis: porn panics and public
health
Valerie Webber & Rebecca Sullivan
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and public health, Porn Studies, 5:2, 192-196, DOI: 10.1080/23268743.2018.1434110
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INTRODUCTION
Constructing a crisis: porn panics and public health
Valerie Webbera and Rebecca Sullivanb
aCommunity Health & Humanities, Memorial University of Newfoundland, St. John’s, Canada; bDepartment of
English, University of Calgary, Calgary, Canada
Who has the luxury to worry about porn’s impact on health? And who has the power to define
what is ‘healthy sexuality’?
Labelling porn a public health crisis has become the newest tactic for anti-porn activists
seeking to curtail pornography distribution. Thus far, seven American states have declared
pornography a public health crisis and four more have filed similar bills. Hearings on the
matter were held in Canada, although the final decision was that the evidence was too
contradictory to draw any conclusions. Lobbyists in Australia and the United Kingdom
are asking their governments to investigate not so much whether there is a public
health crisis, but to leap ahead and determine how to solve the crisis of pornography.
Yet not one global health agency – the usual experts to identify and define the scope
of a public health issue – supports their claims. Traditionally, the field of public health
has concerned itself with disease prevention by addressing the systemic causes of perva-
sive health problems that impact either a significant majority of people (e.g. sanitation
systems or childhood vaccinations) or the most marginalized segments of a population
(e.g. HIV prevention or safe injection sites). Pornography consumption meets neither of
these criteria. Why then has this debate occupied valuable government time and
resources?
Treating pornography as a ‘public health crisis’ is a gross misallocation of priorities. We
do not believe such claims are motivated by a desire to ensure the physical and social well-
being of the populace. Rather, employing the language of ‘public health’, ostensibly apo-
litical and objective, is a well-devised strategy to impose sexually conservative moral
imperatives. The fact that the public health argument is operationalized primarily by
moral activists with a retrograde understanding of both health and media scholarship,
not by public health professionals or people involved in the pornography industry,
should be enough to give any person pause. Thus, the pieces in this special forum do
not engage with the question ‘is porn a public health crisis’ so much as they critically
reflect upon the catalysts and consequences of this particular turn to public health dis-
course by anti-porn groups.
It is our contention that framing pornography as a health issue is a privileged and pol-
itically motivated misdirection of public health resources. As such, we want to claim our
own space here not to debate on their terms the data, definitions, and untested assump-
tions embedded in that frame. Rather, we regard this effort as an opportunity to diversify
the limited narratives of pornography consumption that presently dominate. The call for
© 2018 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group
CONTACT Valerie Webber valerie.webber@mun.ca
PORN STUDIES
2018, VOL. 5, NO. 2, 192–196
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specific types of ‘evidence’ grants us opportunity to conduct research that makes visible
the experiences of sexual subjectivities which are so often silenced. Indeed, as Filippa
Fox argues, the maintenance of the theory that pornography damages the public’s
health requires the wilful exclusion of the voices of sex workers. This denial that sex
workers are in fact part of ‘the public’ has real and direct consequences on sex workers’
ability to access adequate and respectful healthcare, while health questions of actual rel-
evance to sex workers’ lives go unanswered.
Cicely Marston demonstrates that much of the public health rhetoric about pornogra-
phy begins from the assumption that a healthy sexuality is one that conforms to the social
and cultural conventions of white, settler, heterosexual, middle-class, monogamous pro-
priety. It also singles out pornography as a uniquely and exclusively negative form of
media. Katie Newby and Anne Philpott present ways to think about how explicit sexual
content could be ethically produced and incorporated into sexual health curricula,
especially to discuss consent, safer sex, and distinguishing between visual fantasy and
real-life sex. These efforts by public heath scholars to integrate critical media studies of
sexuality into their research opens up an exciting new vista of academic collaboration
long missing from the media effects models that have dominated public health and
social psychology studies.
If porn is a public health crisis, then, what exactly are the health outcomes of watching
too much pornography? That is the fundamental stumbling block of anti-porn advocates.
David Ley, an American sex therapist, outlines a series of epistemological and methodo-
logical fallacies that are central to anti-porn claims about the health risks of porn. While
the science of porn addiction and negative neurological effects is contentious at best,
there is something well worth studying here: that is, the shift in political lobbying from
claims of undiagnosable ‘harms’ to women and children, to insisting that young men
are the unwilling victims of a runaway epidemic of pornography. Very little of the
public health debates even acknowledges that porn may be consumed by young
women, or that it has particular and distinct saliency for LGBTQ2IA+ youth. Indeed, as
Madita Oeming points out, the conversation of porn’s supposed harms revolves largely
around the mainstream white, heterosexual, cisgendered male, a victim of his own limit-
less capacity for porn consumption. Diseases of over-consumption are quintessentially
moral, not health crises. They require and invoke a class of passive and entitled consumers
whose supposed well-being outweighs any public or occupational health programmes to
support porn workers, a phenomenon Heather Berg unravels in her contribution to this
forum.
To suggest that a conversation on the health effects of pornography is a privileged one
is not to say that we do not welcome complex and even contentious academic debate on
sexuality. Sexual norms and cultures are important for health outcomes and therefore
require balanced, thoughtful discussion and consideration of the relationship of sexual
media to sexual health. Indeed, critical media and cultural scholars have been engaged
in this work for decades. Sophisticated qualitative methods for understanding how
youth negotiate their media viewing and integrate it with their sexual becoming is
easily accessible but still poorly integrated even by public health scholars who contest
the anti-porn arguments. Research on sexting (Burkett 2015; Albury 2017), online com-
munication (De Ridder and Van Bauwel 2013; Keller 2015; Naezer 2017), media sexualiza-
tion (McRobbie 2008; Attwood 2010; McKee 2010; Smith 2010; Duits and van Zoonen
PORN STUDIES 193
2011), and porn consumption (Attwood 2005; McKee 2007; Smith 2007; Paasonen et al.
2015) that assemble multifaceted analytical frameworks serves to locate pornography
within a complex matrix of sexual media production, distribution, and consumption. Fur-
thermore, it provides opportunities to integrate sexual media into debates on media lit-
eracy and digital citizenship as something other than a risky behaviour to avoid (Keller
and Brown 2002; Jones and Mitchell 2016). Frameworks already exist to educate children
and youth on healthy media usage, rights and responsibilities of social media engage-
ment, critical meaning-making, and identity self-construction. As these issues spill over
into sexual education curricula, it becomes more urgent that we talk about ethical pro-
duction and consumption of sexual media. Yet educational, medical, religious, and
other social systems (not to mention families) still revert to hand-wringing over media
access rather than considering the wider economic, sociocultural, and historical contexts
in which sexual media are embedded. Without these contexts, we cannot have important
conversations about the realities of porn’s pervasiveness in society – what Brian McNair
calls ‘the pornosphere’ (2002, 35) – and how porn can contribute to broadening, rather
than narrowing, the possibilities for safe and fulfilling sexual lives.
The appropriation of public health legislation by anti-porn advocates also illustrates the
importance of public health ethics. Any interventions on private sexual practices must
balance individual rights and security with the public good. It was a hard lesson learned
in the early stages of the HIV/AIDS epidemic – a true public health crisis, but also one
riddled with stigma and discrimination. As concern over the disease mounted, many
health practitioners, decision-makers, and activists campaigning in the name of public
health considered drastic violations of people’s privacy and autonomy as necessary and
justified. This included interventions such as mandatory testing, reporting, and quarantine,
as well as the closure of community sexual spaces such as bathhouses (Herek 1999;
Disman 2003). It continues today in the form of mandatory testing and reporting
(Webber, Bartlett, and Brunger 2016), blood bans for men who have sex with men
(Cascio and Yomtovian 2013; Arora 2017; Crath and Rangel 2017), and the criminalization
of non-disclosure of one’s HIV status to sexual partners (Mykhalovskiy 2011; O’Byrne,
Bryan, and Woodyatt 2013). HIV is an interesting comparative case study to the current
porn panic because it demonstrates how interventions ostensibly intended to protect
the health of the ‘public’ deliberately privilege specific forms of sexual and relational prac-
tice. Public sexual health campaigns and policies based upon weak evidence are danger-
ous because they conflate moral judgment with health intervention, further ostracizing
sexually non-normative populations while failing to result in any measurable improve-
ments to public health.
As the example of HIV illustrates, it is imperative that public health always first and fore-
most considers the ethical implications of its own practice, in order to balance ‘the need to
exercise power to ensure the health of populations and, at the same time, to avoid abuses
of such power’ (Thomas et al. 2002, 1057). Public health ethics hinges upon defining the
boundaries of the public/private divide. Sexuality, especially with regards to its relation-
ship with pornography, tends to incite chaotic interpretations of ethics because of the
many ways in which it brings ‘the public’ and ‘the private’ into complicated collision
with one another. How the public/private divide is drawn – how the private is perceived
to ooze out and corrupt the public – is an important factor in determining when and how
the collective should be entitled to compel the individual towards ‘healthy’ decisions.
194 V. WEBBER AND R. SULLIVAN
Tragically, the history of public health interventions on people’s sexuality is rife with
abuse: forced sterilizations, false mental health diagnoses, criminalization and incarcera-
tion, dangerous and untested therapeutic interventions, medical incompetence, and
human rights violations. The examples are too long to exhaustively list, but some that
stand out include the Puerto Rican birth control pill trials (1956), the Tuskegee syphilis
experiments conducted on African American men (1932–1972), and the incarceration of
‘promiscuous’ women in Magdalene Laundries (which lasted until the 1990s in some
countries). Abuses like these have disproportionately impacted racialized communities,
sex workers, and sexually non-normative folks. The claims in favour of labelling porn a
public health crisis promise nothing different.
Our reasons for drawing attention to dark chapters in the history of public regulation of
sexuality is not to say that sex should be off-limits to public health officials and experts, but
to insist that we learn from past errors and abuses. People of marginalized genders and
sexualities who have historically encountered stigma and discrimination due to previous
sexual health policies must be consulted and their experiences prioritized. In our own
work, as a public health scholar and a media studies scholar, we seek out sex workers,
LGBTQ2IA+, HIV+ people, and racialized groups unjustly labelled as ‘hypersexual’ as
those who must be heard first and loudest (Webber 2017; Sullivan 2014; Sullivan and
McKee 2015). They were all but absent in recent hearings in Canada, which had substan-
tially more submissions from evangelical leaders and anti-porn organizations than they did
from public health scientists or sexual health harm reduction agencies.
Health can be too easily portrayed as value-free and easily understood. Similarly,
healthy sexuality is often narrowly defined to conform to heteronormative, middle-class,
nuclear family-oriented ideals. When a public health debate that could potentially result
in legislation begins from weak frameworks and over-simplified definitions, the conse-
quences can be catastrophic. As Thomas et al. (2002, 1058) state, the fundamental
ethical principle of public health is that ‘programs and policies should incorporate a
variety of approaches that anticipate and respect diverse values, beliefs, and cultures in
the community’. Porn is a factor of public sexual health, on that point we heartily
concur. However, it is not necessarily intoxicating our youth or decaying social values. It
is also sometimes a path to sexual self-discovery, a vehicle for safer and consensual sex
practices, and a window into the spectrum of gender and sexual diversity. Thus, we can
perhaps express some gratitude to those who began this debate – as deceptively as
they did – so that we can begin to develop public health policies and programmes that
support more expressive, diverse, and inclusive sexualities. The pieces in this forum are
offered as a beginning of a new debate, thoughtfully framed and ethically accountable.
No potential conflict of interest was reported by the authors.
Albury, Kath. 2017. ‘Just Because It’s Public Doesn’t Mean It’s Any of Your Business: Adults’ and
Children’s Sexual Rights in Digitally Mediated Spaces.’ New Media & Society 19 (5): 713–725.
Arora, Kavita Shah. 2017. ‘Righting Anachronistic Exclusions: The Ethics of Blood Donation by Men
Who Have Sex with Men.’ Journal of Gay & Lesbian Social Services 29 (1): 87–90.
PORN STUDIES 195
Attwood, Feona. 2005. ‘What Do People Do With Porn? Qualitative Research Into the Consumption,
Use, and Experience of Pornography and Other Sexually Explicit Media.’ Sexuality and Culture 9 (2):
65–86.
Attwood, Feona. 2010. Mainstreaming Sex: The Sexualization of Western Culture. London: I.B. Tauris.
Burkett, Melissa. 2015. ‘Sex(t) Talk: A Qualitative Analysis of Young Adults’ Negotiations of the
Pleasures and Perils of Sexting.’ Sexuality & Culture 19 (4): 835–863.
Cascio, M. Ariel, and Roslyn Yomtovian. 2013. ‘Sex, Risk, and Education in Donor Educational
Materials: Review and Critique.’ Transfusion Medicine Reviews 27 (1): 50–55.
Crath, Rory, and Cristian Rangel. 2017. ‘Paradoxes of an Assimilation Politics: Media Production of Gay
Male Belonging in the Canadian “Vital Public” From the Tainted Blood Scandal to the Present.’
Culture, Health & Sexuality 19 (7): 796–810.
De Ridder, Sander, and Sofie Van Bauwel. 2013. ‘Commenting on Pictures: Teens Negotiating Gender
and Sexualities on Social Networking Sites.’ Sexualities 16 (5–6): 565–586.
Disman, Christopher. 2003. ‘The San Francisco Bathhouse Battles of 1984: Civil Liberties, AIDS Risk,
and Shifts in Health Policy.’ Journal of Homosexuality 44 (3–4): 71–129.
Duits, Linda, and Liesbet van Zoonen. 2011. ‘Coming to Terms with Sexualization.’ European Journal
of Cultural Studies 14 (5): 491–506.
Herek, Gregory M. 1999. ‘AIDS and Stigma.’ American Behavioral Scientist 42 (7): 1106–1116.
Jones, Lisa M., and Kimberly J. Mitchell. 2016. ‘Defining and Measuring Youth Digital Citizenship.’ New
Media & Society 18 (9): 2063–2079.
Keller, Jessalynn. 2015. Girls’ Feminist Blogging in a Postfeminist Age. New York: Routledge.
Keller, Sarah N., and Jane D. Brown. 2002. ‘Media Interventions to Promote Responsible Sexual
Behavior.’ Journal of Sex Research 39 (1): 67–72.
McKee, Alan. 2007. ‘The Relationship Between Attitudes Towards Women, Consumption of
Pornography, and Other Demographic Variables in a Survey of 1023 Consumers of
Pornography.’ International Journal of Sexual Health 19 (1): 31–45.
McKee, Alan. 2010. ‘Everything is Child Abuse.’ Media International Australia 135: 131–140.
McNair, Brian. 2002. Striptease Culture: Sex, Media and the Democratization of Desire. New York:
Routledge.
McRobbie, Angela. 2008. ‘Pornographic Permutations.’ The Communication Review 11 (3): 225–236.
Mykhalovskiy, Eric. 2011. ‘The Problem of “Significant Risk”: Exploring the Public Health Impact of
Criminalizing HIV Non-Disclosure.’ Social Science & Medicine 73 (5): 668–675.
Naezer, Marijke. 2017. ‘From Risky Behaviour to Sexy Adventures: Reconceptualising Young People’s
Online Sexual Activities.’ Culture, Health & Sexuality 9: 1–15.
O’Byrne, Patrick, Alyssa Bryan, and Cory Woodyatt. 2013. ‘Nondisclosure Prosecutions and HIV
Prevention: Results From an Ottawa-Based Gay Men’s Sex Survey.’ Journal of the Association of
Nurses in AIDS Care 24 (1): 81–87.
Paasonen, Susanna, Katariina Kyröjä, Kaarina Nikunen, and Laura Saarenmaa. 2015. ‘“We Hid Porn
Magazines in the Nearby Woods”: Memory-Work and Pornography Consumption in Finland.’
Sexualities 18 (4): 394–412.
Smith, Clarissa. 2007. One For the Girls. London: Intellect Ltd.
Smith, Clarissa. 2010. ‘Pornographication: A Discourse For All Seasons.’ International Journal of Media
and Cultural Politics 6 (1): 103–108.
Sullivan, Rebecca. 2014. Bonnie Sherr Klein’s Not a Love Story. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
Sullivan, Rebecca, and Alan McKee. 2015. Pornography: Structures, Agency, and Performance. London:
Polity.
Thomas, James C., Michael Sage, Jack Dillenberg, and V. James Guillory. 2002. ‘A Code of Ethics for
Public Health.’ American Journal of Public Health 92 (7): 1057–1059.
Webber, Valerie. 2017. ‘“I‘m Not Gonna Run Around and Put a Condom on Every Dick I See”: Tensions
in Safer Sex Activism Among Queer Communities in Montreal, Québec.’ Sexuality & Culture, https://
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Pathogen Protocol and the Dangerous Doctor.’ Critical Public Health 26 (4): 359–367.
196 V. WEBBER AND R. SULLIVAN
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A sex worker perspective
Filippa Fox
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10.1080/23268743.2018.1434111
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FORUM
A sex worker perspective
Filippa Foxa,b
aSex worker, Australia; bMelbourne School of Population and Global Health, University of Melbourne, Australia
I write this article as a femme academic who works both in the public health sector and in
the sex industry. Due to anti-sex work stigma in both academia and public health, I have
chosen to author this article under a pseudonym. This act of self-erasure speaks to the
epistemic injustice sex workers face in scholarly and policy dialogues about our health.
My own understanding of epistemic injustice is drawn from the work of José Medina
and Gaile Pohlhaus Jr, as well as Miranda Fricker (Fricker 2009; Medina 2011; Pohlhaus
Jr 2012). The notion of epistemic injustice marks those ways in which we can be
harmed in our capacity as knowers when communicating with others (Fricker 2009).
Medina amends Fricker’s original account by arguing for a temporal understanding of
durable epistemic injustices, using the term ‘dominant social imaginary’ to refer to the
mainstream understanding of particular aspects of the world and the limits of that under-
standing. Durable epistemic injustices are those which occur when groups of marginalized
persons fail to be recognized in the dominant social imaginary for long historical periods
as subjects who can speak for themselves (Medina 2011). Pohlhaus Jr uses the term ‘wilful
hermeneutical ignorance’ to describe how, despite epistemic resistance and knowledge
production by marginally situated knowers, ‘dominantly situated knowers nonetheless
continue to misunderstand and misinterpret the world’ (2012, 716).
I am wearily familiar with the longstanding ideological coalition between the religious
right and sex worker exclusionary radical feminism in the United States. Aziza Ahmed
(2011) has written an excellent article on the history of this coalition and its impact on
HIV/AIDS prevention and policy around the world. The current public health policies pro-
posed by this coalition – exemplified by the longstanding anti-prostitution pledge pre-
venting foreign non-governmental organizations from receiving US HIV/AIDS funding if
they do not oppose ‘prostitution’ – make life considerably harder for those of us involved
in the sex industry. At every turn, we are made invisible from dialogues about our own
health and well-being.
One of the most longstanding strategies of sex worker exclusionary radical feminism
has been to insist on a causal relationship between pornography and violence against
women, exemplified by Robin Morgan’s (1980) ‘Theory and Practice: Pornography and
Rape’ and Andrea Dworkin’s (1980) ‘Beaver and Male Power in Pornography’. The small
number of articles that serve as an evidence base for this myth have been discredited
time and time again, and yet the myth itself endures as an all-too-effective discursive strat-
egy for justifying the erasure of sex worker voices from public discourse.
© 2018 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group
CONTACT Filippa Fox filippafoxx@gmail.com Sex worker, Australia; Melbourne School of Population and Global
Health, University of Melbourne, Australia
PORN STUDIES
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We are understood as victims of violence whose knowledge is coerced and therefore
untrustworthy. Those of us who refuse to be victims are seen instead as threats to the
social order – illegitimate, criminal subjects unable to be assimilated into polite society.
Our bodies are understood reductively as vectors of disease; either literally through unsub-
stantiated claims of heightened STI rates, or figuratively as agents of moral decay. To
engage the services of sex workers or to consume the pornography we produce is seen
as morally reprehensible. It is assumed that we are all cisgender women who exist in con-
trast to good wives and good mothers in monogamous, reproductive sexual relationships.
We are seen as a threat to these relationships. Just as our bodies are believed to be infec-
tious, we are believed to pollute the social environment, encouraging violence and under-
mining the heteronormative family unit. We are constructed both as helpless victims and
as powerful manipulators of the social order.
This construction of the sex worker subject did not arise with the coalition between the
religious right and sex worker exclusionary radical feminism. It has been with us since at
least the earliest stages of British imperialism exemplified by the 1864 Contagious Diseases
Act in British-occupied India. In the dominant social imaginary, we have been understood
for a long historical period as subjects unable to speak or reason for ourselves.
It is because of this durable epistemic injustice that it does not occur to many non-sex
workers that we have uniquely useful, nuanced, and plural perspectives on our own health
and work. Although we actively resist, most non-sex workers continue to dismiss the epis-
temic resources we develop. They maintain their ignorance about our lives while simul-
taneously claiming to have expertise over them. For sex workers who experience
compounding historical injustices, such as transfemme workers, Indigenous and First
Nations workers, or Black workers, this ongoing exclusion from the dominant social ima-
ginary is even more thorough and violent.
The coalition between the religious right and sex worker exclusionary radical feminism
in the United States is effective precisely because it can comfortably expect non-sex
workers not to have access to sex worker perspectives. Non-sex workers who may not
share the political orientation of the religious right may nevertheless find it easier to
believe what the dominant social imaginary says about pornography than to seek out
the epistemic resources developed by porn workers.
Sex workers remain stigmatized and hidden from the dominant social imaginary in
ways which make it hard for others to understand us as potential conversational partners
with expert knowledge about our own lives. The social epistemological perspective I have
traced here clarifies how the marginalization of sex workers makes possible the endurance
of myths which are at odds with our lived experience. This perspective also clarifies the
wilful failure of dominantly situated persons to use the epistemic resources we develop.
Furthermore, the erasure of porn and other sex workers from the ongoing public dialo-
gue about pornography and health prevents us from addressing the very real health crises
which we do face. At present, I live and work in Australia in a jurisdiction where sex work is
legalized and licensed. Unlicensed and non-compliant workers continue to face criminaliza-
tion and punitive interference by the police. The Australian healthcare system provides ade-
quate care to a greater proportion of marginalized people, including sex workers;
nonetheless, sex work stigma regularly affects the quality of the care we receive.
Mikey Way, Australian porn worker and activist, noted to me in conversation:
198 F. FOX
Medical practitioners here have no knowledge of the standard practices in the porn industry
and often need to be taught them during medical appointments, effectively requiring us to
out ourselves and place ourselves at risk of discriminatory behaviour. On top of that, many
of the things we rely on as porn performers are under-researched – e.g., the effects of men-
strual sponges on physical health, the impact of anal douches and enemas on health, harm
minimization for [consensual] bareback sexual contact, and the success or lack thereof of a
testing-based [STI] transmission prevention method.
Much of what Mikey brought up has parallels in my own experience with other sectors
of sex work: discriminatory behaviour on the part of health professionals, the requirement
to educate doctors, incorrect diagnoses based on false assumptions about risk, and a
dearth of evidence related to my needs and health practices as a worker.
Many of us face even greater barriers accessing mental health care and finding provi-
ders who respect our occupation and do not assume, for example, that we are sex workers
because we have experienced trauma, or that our work is the sole cause of our ill-health.
American porn worker Andre Shakti (2017) addresses a number of similar points related
to sex worker health in her excellent Rewire commentary ‘No One in the Porn Industry Likes
a Broken Vagina’, including the lack of workplace protections, the difficulty of accessing
private insurance in the United States as a sex worker, and the potential legal ramifications
of disclosing sex worker status to health professionals.
As a scholar, activist, and worker dedicated to improving sex worker access to appropriate
and adequate healthcare, I find the language of pornography as a ‘public health crisis’ to be
deeply and deliberately disingenuous. It is the latest strategy in a long history of epistemic
injustice committed against sex workers. Because of the persistent erasure of porn and other
sex workers from the public dialogue on pornography and health, it is difficult for us to join
this conversation and use it is as a platform to improve our own occupational health and
safety. I call this an erasure because I want to be clear that we are having ongoing conversa-
tions about our health. It is the responsibility of health professionals and policy-makers to
listen to us. It is the responsibility of non-sex workers to exhibit epistemic humility and
make an effort to understand and use the epistemic resources we create.
No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.
Ahmed, Aziza. 2011. ‘Feminism, Power, and Sex Work in the Context of HIV/AIDS: Consequences for
Women’s Health.’ Harvard Journal of Law and Gender 34: 226–258.
Dworkin, Andrea. 1980. ‘Beaver and Male Power in Pornography.’ New Political Science 1 (4): 37–41.
Fricker, Miranda. 2009. Epistemic Injustice: Power and the Ethics of Knowing. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Medina, José. 2011. ‘The Relevance of Credibility Excess in a Proportional View of Epistemic Injustice:
Differential Epistemic Authority and the Social Imaginary.’ Social Epistemology 25 (1): 15–35.
Morgan, Robin. 1980. ‘Theory and Practice: Pornography and Rape.’ In Take Back the Night: Women on
Pornography, edited by Laura Lederer, 134–140. New York: William Morrow.
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