When I first saw the title of a recent post on TheConversation.com co-authored by Australian academics Sarah Ashton and Maggie Kirkman, only part of the work’s title displayed on the news aggregator which linked off to it: “We need a new definition of pornography.”

Ugh, I thought to myself, here we go, again.

As I read the post – the full title of which is “We need a new definition of pornography – with consent at the centre” – shaking my head with mild, anticipatory irritation quickly transformed into nodding it in full agreement.

The crux of Ashton and Kirkman’s argument in favor of a new definition of pornography is that for far too long, people have been using the words “pornography” and “porn” in connection with things which aren’t a form of entertainment, but a form of crime.

“‘Revenge porn’ is the distribution or publication on a website of sexual material without the consent of the person depicted,” the authors note. This usually follows the ending of an intimate relationship. The vengeful person publicises the images that were assumed by the subject or sender to be confidential.”

A few paragraphs later in the piece, the authors address child pornography in similar fashion.

“When an adult produces or distributes a sexual image of a child, it’s usually called ‘child porn’ and is a criminal offence because (among other reasons) children cannot legally give consent. Once images have been shared, they have a perpetual life on the net, maintaining the victim’s experience of abuse. As with revenge porn, there is potential for endless damage to the victim.”

Ashton and Kirkman declare it “perplexing” that “the terms ‘revenge porn’ and ‘child porn’ tend to be used without differentiating these inherently violent acts from consensual pornography.”

“To describe them this way normalises sexual violence occurring in the digital realm,” they assert. “Words matter. Disregarding consent by describing acts of non-consensual violence as ‘pornography’ has the effect of minimising the significance of consent.”

I’m inclined to agree – and I’d add that there’s a corollary to the “words matter” axiom: Describing things such as nonconsensual distribution of privately produced erotica and images of the sexual abuse of children as forms of “pornography” also serves to sustain the many negative stereotypes and stigmas surrounding legitimate adult entertainment.

There’s plenty of legitimate criticism of adult entertainment and the adult industry to be had, no doubt. But to equate the products our industry with sexually-explicit materials distributed without the consent of any of the people depicted therein, or with images of child sexual abuse, is akin to comparing a commercially-distributed brand of vodka with methamphetamine produced by someone unknown cook in his backyard lab. The former may be bad for you if you consume it irresponsibly, but at least it’s made in accordance with laws and industry standards. The latter isn’t just patently illegal, it’s also made from God-knows-what.

So, what do Ashton and Kirkman propose as the new definition of “pornography”?

“Material deemed sexual, given the context, that has the primary intention of sexually arousing the consumer and is produced and distributed with the consent of all persons involved.”

I can’t speak for all my peers in the adult industry, or the viewers for whom we produce content, but that definition certainly works for me. It could be expanded upon, sure, by specifying that consent of the persons involved should include their consent to every individual sex act depicted, but I suppose that would fall under the general heading of “produced” in the suggested definition.

In any event, it’s a definition that’s a far cry better than “I know it when I see it.”

Dictionary stock image by doctor-a