Amia Srinivasan’s “The Right to Sex” makes it clear: there is no capitalist-friendly way to end the oppression of women.
Dworkin’s fight against pornography, though thoroughly misguided in many aspects, did contain a kernel of truth in its analysis. She was correct that the currently existing heterosexual porn industry isn’t a benign expression of natural and immutable sexual urges but a reinforcement of harmful attitudes towards women, which in turn bolster those attitudes in the viewer. She opposed the criminalization of porn in large part because it would harm the women involved in it who depended on pornography for their livelihood. Instead, Dworkin’s (and MacKinnon’s) movement focused on civil ordinances which would, somewhat complicatedly, allow women who had been “harmed” by the porn industry—whether as an actress or a partner to a porn-addicted man—to sue porn companies in civil court. But this was an ill-fated maneuver. Among other missteps, Dworkin famously allied with the political right, who were fighting to eradicate reproductive rights and reinstate patriarchal familial control over women. It’s easy to rehabilitate a dead controversial figure, as many have done in recent years. We don’t know what Dworkin’s position would be today, so it’s appealing for some to believe that her politics would have developed over time—become sex-worker inclusive, trans-inclusive, and anti-capitalist. But Dworkin’s contemporary and comrade MacKinnon, who is alive, has voiced some troubling ideas about porn and sex work, most recently in a New York Times article about OnlyFans. It is thus disappointing to see that MacKinnon is written of in the same sympathetic vein as Dworkin in Srinivasan’s book. MacKinnon and her cohort consistently conflate support for sex workers with support for the OnlyFans model, but, of course, MacKinnon takes issue with the notion of “sex work” in and of itself: “One measure of this success is the media’s increasing insistence on referring to people used in prostitution and pornography as ‘sex workers.’ What is being done to them is neither sex, in the sense of intimacy and mutuality, nor work, in the sense of productivity and dignity.” This framing is revealing. It’s really a matter of personal preference whether sex has to be “intimate”; there are many kinds of pleasurable sex that couldn’t be classified that way. But, more importantly, it is MacKinnon’s framing of “work” that betrays her analysis and the kinds of feminism she espouses. Sex work cannot be work because work is inherently “productive and dignified,” and of course, nothing a stripper, prostitute, or porn actress does could ever be described that way. Ironically, this is a feminism that privileges well-off white women.Most women around the world do not have the luxury to prioritize the dignity of their labor; usually, work is only “productive and dignified” for bosses. And her decision to cast OnlyFans as the “pimp” and the exploiter of women elides the other factors and agents that make sex work necessary for many. If OnlyFans is a pimp, what about the landlord who demands exorbitant rent, the employer who cuts your hours, or the state which deems you an “illegal alien”? MacKinnon does not argue for canceling rent, or for continuing federal cash payments, all measures that would mitigate women’s dependence on the exploitation of OnlyFans in the midst of a pandemic. In fact, her essay arrived as nationwide eviction moratoriums came to an end and rents were rapidly rising in many cities. Perhaps she thinks there is more “productivity and dignity” in peeing into a bottle at an Amazon warehouse.
