Sex on screens: the language of sexting and amateur pornography

Abstract

Frequently referred to as ‘sexting’ or ‘amateur pornography’, digital sexual images and videos form an increasingly common part of adult sexual relationships. However, the vocabulary available to speak about these practices is limited, with ‘sexting’ often associated with young people in negative terms. This study is based on 23 interviews with adults in Australia who are 25 years and older. It explores the language adults employ to discuss and comprehend the creation and sharing of sexualised images and videos. Findings show that negative or positive connotations associated with the terms used to discuss sexual images and videos influenced the ways participants drew on, or rejected, terms to align digital practices with their sexual subjectivity. Reticence to engage in active communication about digital sexual practices, and participant’s distancing of their own practices from the terms commonly understood to refer to such practices, made it difficult to engage in conversations about consent or desire in the context of digitally mediated sex. Findings provide insight into the ways that ­digital sexual subjectivities are discursively framed and extend these implications for sexual health promotion with respect to how to frame messages of digital sexual safety in a sex-positive and open way.

Keywords:

• sexting
• adult sexting
• digital communication
• amateur pornography
• sexual discourse

Introduction

New technologies have altered how people communicate and interact with others, including in their sexual and romantic lives (Barrense-Dias, Surís, and Akre 2019). The availability of digital camera technology to enable the capturing and instantaneous sharing of images with cameras in mobile devices and internet technology (Dery 2007) means images and video play an increasingly important part in people’s sex lives and form part of contemporary relationship dynamics (Schwarz 2010a).

Self-produced sexual images and videos, commonly referred to as ‘sexting’ or ‘amateur pornography’ are examples of how these technologies have been incorporated into sexual lives (Garcia et al. 2016; Gesselman, Druet, and Vitzthum 2020; Moor et al. 2022). However, the terminology of ‘sexting’ is mostly associated with young people (Barrense-Dias, Surís, and Akre 2019), despite sexting practices being equally common amongst adults (Doring 2014). In this paper, we explore how adults who use digital technologies in their sex lives describe and talk about their practices. Our findings illustrate how traditional taboos around sex continue to influence contemporary digital sexual subjectivities. We consider how this applies to sexual health promotion, noting that the way adults relate to specific terminology impacts their sexual expression and engagement with sexual consent.

Subjectivity and sexual story telling

Plummer (1996) has written about the significance of ‘sexual stories’ in shaping people’s sexual subjectivities. Drawing broadly from Gagnon and Simon’s account of sexual scripts, Plummer argues that sexual stories, or the stories people tell themselves and others about their sexuality or sex lives (such as such as ‘coming out’ stories among gay men and lesbians) as well as the available public and cultural narratives about sex, both reflect and reinvent sexual cultures. The circulation of sexual stories works to create narratives and discourses which are available for people to draw upon to make sense of their own identities and that of others. Jackson and Scott characterise these narratives as a ‘part of reflexive selfhood’ (Jackson and Scott 2023). Available narratives, stories and language to speak about sexual subjectivities, and the ways these are located, are reflexively engaged with as part of the construction of the self and to make sense of others (Jackson and Scott 2010).

While this circulation of narratives, or stories, provides the opportunity to creatively curate sexual identities and experiences, the silencing of certain stories, or of sexual topics, also works to prevent discussion or limit some stories to particular audiences (Plummer 1996). Plummer (1996) argues that sexual storytelling is political, crucial for grasping politics and morals in modern societies. Stories shape moral and political shifts, influencing self-identity and potentially revolutionising social norms. This paper uses Plummer’s notion of ‘sexual stories’ to examine how adults discuss making and sharing sexual digital content (film, photos). It assesses whether adults’ digital sexual stories allow for new ways to talk about sexual experience, or whether they are constrained by silences and shaped by political and moral influences.

Framings of risk of sexualised digital imagery

Sexting has received significant academic attention with a particular focus on prevalence rates, motivations, and the identification of risk factors (Drouin 2017). Most of this work has focused on adolescents and young people aged up to 25, often framed in terms of risk or moral panic (Angelides 2019; Phippen 2017; Roberts and Ravn 2020). Women and girls are often viewed as potential victims of sexting, risking slut-shaming because of their presumed naive involvement in the practice (Dobson and Ringrose 2016; Hasinoff 2014). Some discussions also involve ‘revenge porn’ – sharing private sexual content online without consent (Bothamley and Tully 2018; Henry, Flynn, and Powell 2019). Scholars, however, challenge the ‘pornography’ label, considering it as abuse rather than imagery intentionally produced for the purposes of sharing (Henry, Flynn, and Powell 2019). Importantly, there is a gendered component to image based sexual abuse, with scholars pointing to how women and girls are specifically targeted in technologically facilitated sexual violence (Powell 2010), and being also more likely to experience negative backlash if and when their participation in image sharing is made public (Ringrose et al. 2012).

Within this literature, there is a relatively small body of work which looks at adults’ engagement in sexting practices (McDaniel and Drouin 2015; Barrense-Dias, Surís, and Akre 2019). ‘Sexy selfies’, posted by women on Tumblr, have been discussed as a component of women’s sexual empowerment (Tiidenberg 2017) and, more recently, men’s negotiation and creation ‘dick pics’ have been investigated as part of contemporary sexual culture (Waling 2023). Others have examined the ways in which images and videos are used to negotiate relationship dynamics that can allow for sexual self-surveillance and curation (Schwarz 2010b).

Similar to sexting, self-created images/videos and partner-produced amateur pornography (‘sex tapes’) raise media concerns regarding risks, including image based sexual abuse. However, in contrast to sexting, greater attention has been paid to adults’ creation of amateur pornography, explored for its enhancement of intimacy; the enjoyment and pleasure observed in video creation/watching (Pini 2009; Schwarz 2010b); and the potential to represent diverse bodies and forms of sexual expression (van Doorn 2010). Yet, research reveals that amateur pornography’s sexual scripts often perpetuate broader gender narratives (van Doorn 2010; Pini 2009).

While offering contextual relevance to sexting and amateur pornography discourse, previous research lacks depth in comprehending how the terms of sexting and amateur pornography are interpreted and applied in sexual contexts. The term ‘sexting’ emerged in the 2000s, coined by the media to denote explicit text/image sharing, notably involving celebrities (Phippen 2017). Phippen (2017) notes how following a sexting-related suicide media attention later shifted to sexting’s impact on youth. Yet sexting’s definition remains uncertain, leading to terminological differences between researchers and participants (Lounsbury, Mitchell, and Finkelhor 2011). Despite young people’s infrequent use of the word ‘sexting’ (Albury 2015), its media prevalence conceals adults’ participation in digital sexual image creation/exchange.

While a general idea of pornography and amateur pornography exists, a universally accepted definition is lacking, as the boundaries of what is considered pornographic change over time in accordance with shifting norms around sexual display, and the different modes of production and consumption afforded by new technologies (Coopersmith 1998; Marko 2008). Additionally, where previously, pornography was understood to be the representation of sex, this boundary has collapsed with the conflation between the pornography creator and consumer in amateur creations (Marko 2008). The production of pornography is now a common part of intimate sexual practice. Scholarship that examines women’s accounts of creating and sharing sexual images has found discussion of pornography assists women to talk about, and locate, their own sexual image creation, providing a discursive tool with which to negotiate their sexual practices and identity (Amundsen 2019). In amateur pornography, a range of possibilities exist where individuals may film themselves for their own private viewing and/or upload the video to digital platforms for viewing by either selected known individuals or unknown mass audiences. Varied terms like ‘netporn,’ ‘realcore,’ ‘alt porn,’ and ‘DIY porn’ add linguistic intricacy (Jacobs, Janssen, and Pasquinelli 2007).

Expanding on research linking digital sexual content to relationship dynamics and sexual subjectivity (Amundsen 2019; Schwarz 2010a), this study interviewed 23 adults aged 25 and above. It explored on how participants talked about creating and exchanging sexual images/videos. It aimed to enhance current understandings of how adults make sense of their sexuality in relation to digital sexual practices.

Methodology

This study applied critical discourse analysis (CDA) with a post-structural perspective to explore participants’ dialogue concerning the creation and engagement with digital sexual images and videos. CDA unveils discourses’ role in shaping social relations (Fairclough 2001). Fairclough (2001) emphasises how texts render ideologies “normal” or “natural,” sustaining inequality and power structures. A post-structural lens acknowledges language’s power and its role in enacting power dynamics (Irving and English 2008). Our study delves into how discourse surrounding digital sexual practices and technology influences the way people understand their sexuality or sexual subjectivity in relation to these practices.

Underpinning this analysis is an appreciation of how language relates to experience and understandings of ourselves (Alexander 2008). Stigma and taboo have often characterised discussions of sex (Darnell 2019) and in many parts of Western culture sex is ‘constituted as private, embarrassing, unspoken and wrong’ (Allen 2005, 4). Particularly for women, there are limited spaces in which sex can be spoken about as an act that is purely for pleasure or gratification, rather than reproduction or purposes such as emotional intimacy (Gudelunas 2005). Labels assigned to sexual acts characterise and assign value to such practices. ‘Kink’ sexual practices for example are intentionally labelled in defiance of normative sexual practice. The ways in which particular acts are spoken about has implications for how people make sense of themselves and their sexuality in relationship to such acts, or the ways they are experienced (Alexander 2008; Cameron and Kulick 2003).

Method

This study explored sexting and amateur pornography via qualitative interviews with Australians aged 25 and older. Qualitative research, underpinned by a post-structural perspective (Gannon and Davies 2012), was used to explore participants’ discussion of digital sexual practices and how they perceived their experiences. A reflexive method was adopted, wherein researcher subjectivity was acknowledged, with shared interactions understood to form a component of the data produced (Charmaz 2020; O’Connor, Carpenter, and Coughlan 2018). As part of this reflexive approach, the researcher conducting the interviews (AJ) reflected on the interview process, and their own reactions, via journaling and regular debriefing with the other authors of this paper. This process was necessary to assist the researcher in navigating interviews with participants of wide-ranging ages, genders and sexualities, including in helping to find the right approaches and tones to each interview and managing any personal feelings or reactions to topics discussed. Throughout the interviews, ‘respectful listening’ (Gill 2007) prioritised participant voices and critically engaged with them, interpreting data within its social and cultural context (Gill 2007).

Identifying details were removed during transcription, and pseudonyms were used for all findings. Data management followed stringent protocols; participants were informed their data would remain confidential. Prior to interviews, participants gave fully informed consent, receiving a clear project purpose statement, a consent form, and verbal explanation from the interviewer. Participants also received a $50 gratuity. Ethics approval was received from La Trobe University Human Research Ethics committee (HEC19432).

Participants were recruited via Facebook advertising and word-of-mouth through researchers’ networks. Interested individuals accessed a study information website from which they were directed to an online eligibility survey asking about residence, age, gender, sexuality, and sexting/amateur pornography experience. To be eligible for study inclusion, participants needed to have some experience in creating sexual imagery/videos for non-commercial purposes. The phrasing of this screening was precise, inquiring whether participants had made sexual imagery/videos for non-commercial purposes such as sharing privately or online.

The lead author (AJ) conducted one-on-one interviews over a seven month period in 2020 via Zoom and telephone. Questions covered sexting and amateur pornography experience, the terminology participant’s used to talk to partners, friends or family about such practices, devices/platforms used, and perceptions of risks and benefits.

Interviews were designed to be conducted for approximately 60 min, but in practice they ranged in length from approximately 20-90 min. This significant variation was largely due to a participant’s comfort level in speaking about the topic. In all instances, the researcher attempted to reassure participants of their anonymity and ensure their comfort in speaking about their experiences. This involved checking in with them during the interview and offering to debrief after the conclusion of the interview. None of the interviewees took up the offer to debrief, with participants describing the interview as a positive experience that provided a forum to speak about topics they might otherwise be unable to discuss.

Data for this paper came from interview questions probing participants’ chosen language for discussing their digital sexual practices. Initial analysis focused on responses to questions of preferred terminology and the words used to describe digital sexual imagery/practices. In line with constructivist grounded theory (Charmaz 2017), thematic codes were generated, observing how participants placed word use in relation to others, as well as how participants placed themselves in relation to specific words. Codes reflected language preferences, for example, where participants emphasised the desire for clarity or relatability in chosen language. Co-authors reviewed the coding scheme through transcript checks, verifying codes and data independently and through team meetings in which the data were discussed at length.

The second round of coding involved a close reading of the transcripts employing CDA principles (Fairclough 2001). This approach critically positioned participants’ discussions of sexting and amateur pornography within broader constructions of sex and pornography. This analysis aimed to grasp how words influenced participants’ sexual identities and perceptions. For instance, some distanced themselves from perceptions of deviance or taboos through language. Each account was scrutinised for underlying ideas and rejections of terminology, or associations with specific terms. The focus was on identifying language unveiling sexual meanings, like negative associations with specific terms, and noting preferred sexting/pornography terminology.

Findings

A total of 23 individuals, aged 25 to 75, took part in the study. Most were in their 40s and 50s and residing mainly in Australia’s eastern states. All had higher education; many had an undergraduate (11) or postgraduate degree (10). Their income varied widely, from under $30,000 to around $200,000 annually.

The sample included cisgender men (12), women (10), and one non-binary individual. Most identified as heterosexual (20), while two were bisexual and one was gay. Ethnic self-identification produced diverse terms respecting participants’ preferred terminology. The majority indicated Australian, Australian-Caucasian, British-Caucasian, Caucasian, or Anglo roots (13). Chinese (3), Asian (1), Eurasian (1), Indian (1), and multiple ethnicities, mixed, (4) were also represented.

All participants had experience in creating nude, semi-nude, or suggestive photos. Among them, 22 had shared these images with acquaintances, and six had posted them online. In addition, 12 had made erotic videos, four of which had shared these online, and four had engaged in live-streamed sexual/nude videos. Below we detail how participants navigated language tensions linked to practice and subjectivity. The initial sections centre on participants’ perceptions of sexting and amateur pornography language. The following section reports participants’ accounts of language use in interactions.

Associations with sexting and amateur pornography

Participants narratives highlighted emotional responses to their digital sexual practices, such as connection, intimacy, excitement, vulnerability, nervousness and personal development. When discussing ‘sexting’ or ‘amateur pornography,’ participants perceived these terms as one-dimensional, carrying negativity, or not fitting their experiences. Some felt too old or disconnected for sexting, while others viewed their practices positively, diverging from the term’s connotations:

Sexting. To me the word sexting has a slightly antiseptic sound to it, you know. I’m an old duck, so, this is new terminology for me, but to me it just, sort of, I don’t know, it has that slightly antiseptic, mechanical feel to it. (Linda, ciswoman, heterosexual, 56)

This framing of sexting as ‘antiseptic’ by Linda can be contrasted with her description of digital imagery as ‘fun’ and ‘joyful’, and not a serious experience. In this way, antiseptic as used by Linda pointed to the ways that sexting does not capture the emotional and intimate aspects of creating and sharing digital sexual images. Indeed, participants were keenly aware of the various negative cultural framings of, and associations with, sexting and amateur pornography that were at odds with their experiences. Participants tended to use positive or emotional terms to describe their practices, such as ‘trust’ (Judy, ciswoman, heterosexual, 36), ‘intimacy’ (Judy, ciswoman, heterosexual, 36; Asha, ciswoman, 25, heterosexual) and being ‘sensual’ (Asha, ciswoman, 25, heterosexual).

Frequently participants spoke about digital practices in ways that distanced their practices from pornography. For example, amateur pornography was something they were likely to watch rather than create, leading to a perception that that this term was reserved for professional pornography performers:

Sexting and amateur porn is more… for me personally, I think those two terms are more like the extent or the degree [of the practice] is higher. It’s more professional in a way. It’s more professional…I guess for everyday people we’re probably not there yet. (Judy, ciswoman, heterosexual, 36)

Some participants felt the term ‘amateur pornography’ was excessive and did not reflect their sexual practices. This mirrors Amundsen’s (2019) findings in which women resisted the term pornography, viewed it as ‘contrived and impersonal’ and too public, unlike their personal, private sexting practice. Similarly, participants of all genders viewed amateur pornography as akin to professional/commercial productions, in contrast to their practice which was engaged with for different purposes. While this could indicate a shifting understanding of amateur pornography, or amateur aesthetics, as part of the mainstream, ‘professional’ pornography sphere, it more likely relates to ongoing stigma associated with the concept of pornography more broadly from which participants sought to distance themselves. To distance their practices from pornography, participants used terms such as enjoyment, connection, and beauty to describe images they produced or their experiences with these practices. Lia’s quote demonstrates this distancing:

I think amateur porn sounds like when a couple would film themselves in the bedroom having sex and then upload it onto like a porn hub or whatever. But I don’t really do that, so it’s kind of out of my, it’s not like a word that’s related to me as much. (Lia, ciswoman, heterosexual, 27)

Lia described herself as watching rather than creating pornography, even though she had shared an erotic movie of herself online. For Lia, all types of pornography, including amateur pornography, were public representations of sex rather than sexual practice that was associated with intimacy or connection with others.

Illustrated in Linda’s quote above, wherein she describes terminology as unrelatable to given her position as an ‘old duck’, for most participants, the term sexting was associated with young people. It was not related to the sexual practices of consenting adults, and was instead often discussed in conjunction with negative media reporting of youth sexting:

Sexting sounds… it’s something that I’ve never used because it sounds very juvenile as well. It’s often been talked in the media as problematic for kids who are naïve, not naïve, who aren’t aware of what they’re doing and are getting in trouble. (Elijah, cisman, bisexual, 43)

Participants’ narratives of sexting echoed the language of moral panics that linked young people and sexting with child pornography and ‘trouble’ (Angelides 2019). Participants wanted to assign different, more substantial, meanings to their own practices of sexting – ones that were not seen as naïve or problematic. Reinforcing a delegitimisation of young people’s sexuality, participants assigned a more legitimate meaning to their own practices of sexting and created a discursive distance whereby young people’s sexting was viewed as problematic, but the sharing of images between older adults was construed as meaningful.

Discursively locating digital sexual practice

Participants were keenly aware of how the language they used to speak about their digital sexual practices carried cultural and social implications and often used words or phrases either to align or remove their practices from perceived negative connotations. For example, participants used the term ‘erotic’ to refer to sexual imagery that was suggestive or artistic rather than sexual:

What I would consider erotic would be more, I suppose, artistic I suppose, in the sense of you may not actually see genitals or nipples or anything like that. But it might be someone who’s, like, naked or not wearing much, and it’s suggestive but it, kind of, leaves more to the imagination. Whereas I feel, like, pornographic is kind of, like, right there, sort of, you know, in front of you. Nothing’s left to guess. (Michelle, ciswoman, heterosexual, 35)

Participants often compared eroticism to explicit or pornographic content. The distinction between the two might be rooted in perceiving pornography as fantasy depiction, possibly unattainable in person, a concept previously noted by Schussler (2013). Active engagement in self-made sexual videos created a contrast with externally produced, desire-driven, and ‘obscene’ content (Schussler 2013). The participants considered their practices, however, as more discreet and created by what they saw as ordinary individuals.

The ways in which participants wove terms such as ‘erotic’ or ‘artistic’ into their descriptions of producing and sharing sexual imagery, reflected a high/low cultural distinction in which the erotic was synonymous with an acceptable display of sex and the sexual body and explicit was considered crass and lacking refinement. Participants sometimes compared eroticism to art and sought to distinguish their sexting or amateur pornography creation from professionally produced pornography or anything that was seen as imitating mainstream pornography:

Interviewer: And so, we’ve been using words like sexting or amateur porn, but what words would you usually go to or use to describe making these pictures or videos?

Emil: The ones I’ve made myself, I would actually describe as artistic.

Interviewer: Artistic?

Emil: Yeah, actually, in a very tasteful manner.

(Emil, cisman, heterosexual, 45)

Similarly to Patridge’s (2013) discussion on the distinction between exclusivity, art and erotica, drawing on notions of pornographic as a crass representation of sex, erotic and artistic enabled participants to speak about their practices and experiences as legitimate and of higher cultural value than pornography:

Pornography is hard to define, but basically, it’s something that contains no artistic merit and is created and designed to evoke sexual thoughts. Whereas erotic imagery has, sort of, a connection implied with it more than just, like, a purpose. So, pornography exists to get someone off, but erotic imagery could, kind of, stir your heartstrings while you’re at it, or it could be like an expression of an erotic, or an emotional or a physical connection between two or more people, or even one person with themselves. And so, I do think there’s a difference between erotic imagery and pornographic imagery because erotic, it’s not really, it’s less of a product I would say. It’s more of an expression. (Lee, cisman, heterosexual, 33)

The negative stereotype of pornography, as taboo, obscene, and associated with objectification, was not something participants wanted to associate with in their practice. Rather, they described their practice as imbued with emotional meaning and created in ways that were discreet, suggestive and artistic. ‘Legitimate’ sexual expression was perceived as that which is underpinned by meaning and emotional connection, representative of creativity and imagination, rather than the overt sexual display for the purpose of pleasure, which remains a taboo.

I guess it depends on what it is. If it’s a picture that I’ve sent, that I’m sending… and I would have sent topless pictures a couple of years ago. But they’re … I guess, they’re sexualised imagery but they’re not all that. They’re not very explicit really. And I guess I would think of pornographic as being something that’s quite graphic and explicit. (Sarah, ciswoman, heterosexual, 42)

A continuum emerged, with different terms situated on this continuum in relation to their relationship to, or distance from, pornography:

There’s the full spectrum I guess from a cheeky selfie, through to something that’s really explicit and pornographic…. I wouldn’t do anything that I would consider pornographic, that there’s a line somewhere that what I do is on the sort of less graphic, cheeky kind of. (Sarah, ciswoman, heterosexual, 42)

Participants employed language relationally to locate themselves and their practices in relation to the practices or sexual subjectivities they rejected. Frequently, participants mentioned and then rejected terms like ‘explicit’ or ‘porn’ in favour of language that was more comfortable for them. This cautious word choice allowed them to avoid close association with practices or representations perceived as sexual, crude or taboo. Instead, participants used language to shift the connection of their practice away from pornography towards perceived respectability. They balanced a more daring sexuality with a level of respectability for social acceptance. Consequently, participants averted solely linking their sexual practices to desire or gratification, emphasising emotional connection or eroticism instead.

Euphemisms and avoidance language

Participants used a range of everyday terminology to describe their sexual practices, often using terms not explicitly associated with sex or sexual practices (Table 1). The lexicon suggested by participants is indicative of how they grappled to find the right language to speak about digital sexual practices to the interviewer. Different qualities in the tone of sexting interactions were identified by participants that informed how they talked to the interviewer about their practices. For example, one participant spoke about ‘swapping cute pictures’. Another participant explained, when talking about them in general:

Table 1. Terms used in descriptions of digital sexual imagery creation.

Terms used in descriptions of digital sexual imagery creation**		Number of Participants (N = 23)	%*
Porn		10	43%
Personal porn		1	4%
Sex porn		1	4%
Pornographic		3	13%
Home porn/home-made porn		3	13%
Porn		2	9%
Erotic		6	26%
Erotica		1	4%
Personal erotica		1	4%
Erotic		3	13%
Erotic video		1	4%
Sex		8	35%
Sex tape		2	9%
Sexual/sexual images		2	9%
Sexualised imagery		1	4%
Cam sex		1	4%
Skype sex		1	4%
Sex		1	4%
Intimate		4	17%
Intimate photos		2	9%
Intimate videos/imagery		2	9%
Nude		5	22%
Nudies		1	4%
Nudes		2	9%
Nude		1	4%
Nude photos		1	4%
Private		6	26%
Private x rated videos		1	4%
Private personal videos		1	4%
Private sexually explicit videos		1	4%
Private		1	4%
Private chat		1	4%
Personal video		1	4%
Videos		4	17%
Video of themselves		1	4%
Shower cam		1	4%
Home movies		1	4%
Personal video		1	4%
Photos/Pictures		10	43%
Cheeky selfie/photo		2	9%
Topless photo		1	4%
Cute pictures		1	4%
Picture of his dick		1	4%
Dick pics		3	13%
Sexy image/photo		2	9%
Interactional terms***		11	48%
Cute		1	4%
Flirty		1	4%
Cheeky		1	4%
Playful		1	4%
Intimate		1	4%
Sensual		1	4%
Dirty		2	9%
Sexy		3	13%
Other terms		8	35%
Art/artistic		5	13%
Explicit/explicit images		2	9%
Topless shots		1	4%

* Many participants presented multiple options for terminology. For this reason, the percentages in this table do not sum to 100.

** The terms sexting and amateur pornography have not been listed in the table as these terms were introduced by the interviewer for the participant to discuss and were mostly rejected by participants as preferred terminology.

*** Terms used by participants that placed emphasis on the interactional aspect of their photos of videos.

I might describe different qualities during an interaction, like, maybe some that are just a bit kind of cute or flirty. (Sebastian, cisman, heterosexual, 32)

In other instances, participants described the focus or content of the photography or videography as a way to find language for their sexual practices. For example, in speaking about an experience of sexting, Lia (ciswoman, heterosexual, 27) said, ‘He sent me a picture of his dick’. Others spoke about ‘pictures or videos of yourself’. (Benjamin, cisman, heterosexual, 75).

Participants described using vague, non-sexual language to talk about digital sexual practices with others:

I am trying to think if there’s any other kind of word or words that would describe that…I wouldn’t be in the conversation saying, ‘Oh, this person has amateur porn videos’. It would be just videos of themselves or whatever. (Tomas, cisman, gay, 26)

Language, such as ‘flirty’ or ‘cute’, was used to de-sexualise participants’ own practice and, as discussed above, distance it from pornography.

Participants also spoke about their discomfort and uncertainty in selecting words to talk with others and sexual partners. One participant described carefully selecting, balancing and grappling with language to find terminology that suited the context of an interaction with a sexual partner:

Even when you’re, sort of, comfortable with these things, it can be a little bit awkward sometimes…I’m not going to talk about secret gardens and butterflies and all that kind of stuff… Sometimes, you want to use anatomically correct terms, sometimes you want to use more, I suppose, harsh, well, not harsher terms I suppose, more pornographic terms if that’s what they, like, they actually want to refer to things. And other times you might use gross euphemisms, but it depends on the person, and it depends on the situation. (Joe, cisman, heterosexual, 51)

Here, only euphemisms or explicit language are used to sexually communicate, with Hysi (2011) previously noting that outside of these extremes, only technical, inaccessible language is available to talk about sex and the body. This gap in language inhibits attempts to express desire (Darnell 2019).

Participants relied on context to make sense of vague or absent language as a result of an overarching discomfort in speaking about sex. One participant stated they preferred the term ‘artistic photos’ as a way to describe their practice but in ordinary interactions and talk with friends would not speak about the practices at all:

Interviewer: So, when you’re speaking with someone else, you would normally use the phrase artistic photos?

Emil: Actually, I don’t discuss those things at all with anyone.

Interviewer: Okay. Alright.

Emil: I’m actually quite outgoing, and I joke around a lot, but when it comes down to relationships and things in relation to, you know, things happening in the bedroom, I don’t share them at all. (Emil, cisman, heterosexual, 45)

In this case, talk about sex remained shrouded by silence and discomfort, reinforcing ideas about what is private, and not to be publicly revealed.

Similarly, Lia (ciswoman, heterosexual, 27), described her sexual practices as being without ‘a label’; a notion that was reflected in other participants’ accounts that did not name the practice in their interactions with the person they were engaging with:

Thinking of the last person who I am currently with just now doing this—I don’t know that we called it anything particular—said Hi, got talking and took it from there. (Arun, cisman, heterosexual, 58)

Indeed, some participants explained that no words would be used to discuss sexting or amateur pornography; it was an action without a name:

The kind of conventional term is like sexting, but I don’t really use that. I mean, that’s obviously the cover-all. Just, like, I guess that describes it. It’s not something that I define with an overall phrase. It’s always like an individual interaction. (Sebastian, cisman, heterosexual, 32)

The use of everyday language provided participants significant scope to talk about their practices in ways they considered morally and socially acceptable. However, for many there remained general discomfort when discussing sexual practices without euphemisms or overly explicit language. This discomfort resulted in participants relying on context to vaguely communicate about these sexual practices.

Discussion

In the past, sexual imagery was mainly professionally produced – with commercial pornography representing sex. If images or videos were made, this would generally have been in private (e.g. using video cameras or polaroids) with limited options for sharing. However, new technology has increasingly made sexual imagery a common part of human interaction, intimacy and connection. The act of consuming sexual imagery is intricately connected with its creation and dissemination. The findings in this paper suggest that terms like ‘amateur porn’ or ‘sexting’ fail to capture emotional, pleasurable, or ordinary aspects of digital sexual practices and discursively position these practices as, what Cameron and Kulick (2003) describe as, ‘forbidden’ sexual acts. It is evident that adults do not relate to the terms of sexting and amateur pornography because their experiences are at odds with the connotations of these terms.

Participants in this study tended to use positive language to describe digital sexual practices that emphasised the creative, artistic and interactive aspects of creating and sharing digital sexual imagery, using words such as ‘flirty’, ‘cheeky’, or ‘erotic’. This could be read as an opportunity to creatively construct ways to talk about sex that are not shrouded by the discomfort, stigma and taboo previously identified by Darnell (2019). However, with an absence of language that did not locate the practices as stigmatised, participants’ communication about these practices with their sexual partners was enabled through a generalised capacity to ‘read’ into the context.

Previous work has found that typically, much sexual communication is conducted via non-verbal cues or hints that relate to the setting, context or timing of actions rather than direct discussion about sexual acts or desires (Hess and Coffelt 2012; Brady et al. 2018). As noted by Darnell (2019), it is not uncommon for people to feel uncomfortable speaking about sex in face-to-face interactions. It is therefore unsurprising that people do not have language or skills for speaking about digital sexual practices. However, contextual online communication is made more difficult due to the absence of body language or other social cues to guide the interactions. Replicating offline communication strategies that are reliant on context creates barriers for the negotiation of digital sexual imagery exchange, including the expression of desire and consent.

Sidestepping the language of ‘sexting’ and ‘amateur porn’ and using language that distanced their practices from pornography enabled participants to discursively construct, and distinguish themselves from, the Other; a concept previously identified by McKee (2017). In this case, the Other was perceived by participants as overtly sexual, young and naïve, or involved in practices devoid of the same significance as their own, adult practices. In this way, the Other worked to help participants identify and locate who they were and were not in relation to other ‘subject positions’ (Staunæs 2005, 153). Importantly, taboos around sexual practices mean that the discursive manifestation of the Other allowed participants to partake in digital sexual practices that may be new or novel while avoiding what they considered to be negative associations. Language, carefully selected, served as an important discursive tool to evade association with what might be considered negative or obscene practices and associated subjectivities. However, in deploying this discursive tool, participants reinforced the very taboo of the sexual practices that they were trying to avoid, thereby producing a cycle that continues to perpetuate an absence of language.

Conclusion

This study has examined how Australian adults discuss their digital sexual activities and interests. In the study, participant’s language drew from various discourses, sometimes reflecting shame or impropriety, while explicit terminology made some participants feel uncomfortable. Alternatively, softer and more distanced terms enabled the reframing of sexual activities to align with participants’ self-identified sexualities. There was no absence of vocabulary on sexting or amateur pornography, but the divergence in terms, and the underlying implication that something might at times be askance in their sexual practices in the minds of others (and sometimes themselves), registered as uneasiness or hesitance in some participants’ accounts.

Participants’ reluctance to discuss digital sexual activities and their detachment from commonly understood terminology limits discussions about sexual practice. Despite Hasinoff (2016) finding increased discourse in relation to online sexual consent, the absence of a cohesive vocabulary to talk about sexting and amateur pornography in this Australian sample poses challenges for promoting active consent in digital realms and for education about digital sexual safety. Health messaging related to online consent and digital sexual safety requires clear messages about types of sexual practices such as sexting. These messages are most likely to be effective if they recognise the frequency of adults’ engagement in such practices and acknowledge the benefits of these practices for many people (pleasure, fun, joy, connection, trust, intimacy) that were emphasised in these findings. However, even sex positive health and safety messaging is difficult without an established language for talking about what is taking place. What is clear from this study is that adults do not relate to existing terminology of sexting, nor terminology that aligns their practices with pornography. There is therefore a need for more research and public conversation to begin to establish a greater dialogue about online sexual practices.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Additional information

Funding

This project was funded by an Australian Research Council Discovery Grant (DP190102027). The views expressed in this article are those of the authors and are not necessarily those of the Australian Government or the Australian Research Council.