By Christine Emba (Rewritten Summary)
Today’s youth are increasingly disillusioned with the role pornography plays in shaping their sexual expectations and experiences. In conversations with college students and young adults, it’s clear: porn has deeply influenced their understanding of intimacy, often in disturbing ways.
A recent documentary featuring British OnlyFans creator Lily Phillips, titled “I Slept With 100 Men in One Day,” went viral this year. The film, which documents her emotional and physical toll, is a striking illustration of how extreme sexual performances have become normalized in a culture saturated with pornographic content. Phillips herself, through tears, admits, “It’s not for the weak girls,” questioning whether she would ever do it again.
While the stunt is undeniably excessive, it reflects a broader trend: the increasing extremity of sexual content is now required for visibility and relevance. This isn’t surprising in a society that’s become numb to women’s sexualization and objectification. As porn continues to flood the internet—BYU estimated in 2023 that 12% of all websites contain pornographic material—the boundaries of “normal” have drastically shifted.
Proponents of porn often highlight the concept of “ethical porn,” but this makes up a fraction of what’s consumed. The majority of mainstream content is violent, degrading, and profoundly dehumanizing. One teenager, writing in The Free Press, likened modern porn to something far beyond what previous generations encountered—comparing Playboy to an American Girl catalog by contrast.
The consequences are playing out in real time. Generation Z, the first to grow up with unlimited, immediate access to porn, is reporting disturbing trends. Choking, slapping, and spitting—once considered fringe or taboo—have become normalized even in early sexual encounters. This shift erodes trust, particularly among young women, and shapes behaviors that confuse aggression with intimacy.
And it’s only accelerating. With virtual reality and AI, porn will become even more immersive and addictive. Some, like the writer Aella, have even gone as far as defending AI-generated child pornography—highlighting how unmoored from ethical boundaries the conversation has become.
In her book Girl on Girl, journalist Sophie Gilbert outlines how pop culture from the late 20th and early 21st centuries subtly (and not so subtly) convinced women to objectify themselves. Female bodies became commodities—molded, displayed, and surveilled for approval and consumption. The promise of sexual empowerment was reduced to performative leverage. As feminism’s goals narrowed, the space for exploitation grew.
Gilbert traces cultural turning points—like the shift from Riot Grrrl punk activism to the consumerist sex appeal of the Spice Girls, or the replacement of empowered supermodels with waifish, pliable teenage girls. Reality TV and paparazzi culture turned public self-exposure into a currency.
Yet Gilbert, despite vividly describing porn’s negative influence, hesitates to fully denounce it. She writes, “I’m not interested in kink-shaming… I’m not remotely opposed to porn,” just pages after citing a study in which 38% of British women under 40 had experienced unwanted physical violence during sex. Her analysis draws a direct line between violent porn and real-world abuse—but she pulls back before making definitive judgments.
This hesitation is not unusual. Criticizing porn remains taboo, especially in progressive spaces where nonjudgmentalism reigns. There’s a fear of sounding prudish or disrespecting sex workers. But this avoidance comes at a cost. In choosing not to question porn’s influence, society relinquishes critical discernment.
The porn industry operates without regard for public well-being. It shapes desire for profit, pushing boundaries with little concern for consequence. Lily Phillips’s story is just one example of how what once was shocking is now routine. As this trajectory continues, it’s not hard to imagine even more extreme norms emerging.
Interestingly, those most willing to criticize porn today are often religious or politically conservative voices—groups that are frequently dismissed out of hand. But cracks are forming. Feminist thinkers like Andrea Dworkin are being rediscovered, and public figures like comedian Theo Von are speaking openly about quitting porn and the peace they’ve found in doing so.
Members of Gen Z, perhaps because they were raised inside this system, are becoming more vocal in their critiques. Philosopher Amia Srinivasan has written about students who clearly connect porn to the objectification and abuse of women. They’re not afraid to say what many older generations avoid: pornography has harmed us.
We are being reshaped—our behaviors, our desires, and our relationships—by an industry that profits from detachment and dehumanization. And unless we’re willing to acknowledge this truth, we’ll keep sliding deeper into a cultural landscape where empathy and connection are sacrificed in favor of spectacle.
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