When Protection Becomes Censorship: Crime and Policing Act 2026 Section 104: Pornography, BDSM. The Right to Be Heard - PART ONE

When Protection Becomes Censorship: The New Pornography Law, BDSM and the Right to Be Understood

Why the changes coming into force on 6 November 2026 deserve closer scrutiny, and why I've decided it's time to do something about them.

I've been thinking a great deal lately about the difference between protecting people and controlling them. It’s something I write about a lot and have considerable experience in with my professional alias. 

It's an interesting distinction, particularly when we start looking at how society responds to things it doesn't fully understand.

We all want to live in a society where people are protected from violence, exploitation and abuse. I certainly do. Having spent much of my adult life working within the BDSM and adult industry, I understand the importance of consent, boundaries, responsibility and safeguarding.

But I've also spent enough time in this world to recognise how easily misunderstandings can develop when people make judgements about something they have very little experience of.

And that brings me to the changes in pornography legislation coming into force on 6 November 2026.

Under the Crime and Policing Act 2026, new criminal offences will apply to the possession and publication of certain pornographic images depicting strangulation or suffocation.

On the surface, protecting people from dangerous sexual behaviour sounds perfectly reasonable.

But the more I've looked into these changes, the more questions I've found myself asking.

Particularly about what happens when very different activities, motivations and experiences become grouped together under broad legal definitions.

And perhaps more importantly, whether the people responsible for making these decisions have a sufficiently informed understanding of the communities they are regulating.

Because there is a great deal more to BDSM than what somebody might assume from watching a few minutes of explicit content.

What Is Actually Changing on 6 November?

First, I think it's important to understand what the legislation actually says, rather than relying on the interpretations circulating online.

The new offences concern the possession and publication of pornographic images that explicitly and realistically depict one person strangling or suffocating another.

This includes images appearing to show real people, potentially including realistic AI-generated material.

The government has explained that suffocation generally means depriving someone of air in a way that affects their ability to breathe. Unlike strangulation, it does not necessarily involve pressure being applied to the neck.

The maximum penalty for possession of material covered by the new strangulation and suffocation offence is two years' imprisonment. For publication, it is five years.

The legislation also provides specific legal defences in certain circumstances, including provisions relating to people directly involved in the depicted activity. However, these defences are subject to conditions and do not automatically exempt creators from the restrictions.

That is significant.

It is also important to recognise that the legislation concerns the depiction of particular acts, rather than automatically making every form of consensual facesitting or related fetish activity a new criminal offence.

Existing laws already address physical strangulation, suffocation and assault.

So we are dealing with two different questions.

What should the law prohibit people from physically doing to another person?

And what should the law prohibit adults from creating, possessing or sharing images of?

Those questions are connected, but they are not identical.

The government argues that certain pornographic material can normalise dangerous behaviour and influence sexual attitudes.

I understand that concern.

But I also think we need to examine how broadly these restrictions might operate, particularly when the language used to describe an activity can cover very different situations.

The same argument has been made about violent computer games for decades. Yet scientific research has found no convincing evidence that playing violent video games causes people to commit serious violent crimes. Some studies suggest a possible association with increased aggression, but aggression and criminal violence are two very different things. Of course, pornography and video games aren't directly comparable, but it raises an interesting question. Are we distinguishing between what we fear might influence behaviour and what the evidence actually demonstrates?

And this brings me back to something I feel quite strongly about. We don't have to personally like, understand or approve of something to recognise that it isn't necessarily wrong or harmful. And our discomfort with something shouldn't, in itself, be a reason to prohibit other adults from choosing it.

Where Does Facesitting Fit Into This?

This is where things become particularly interesting to me.

Within the Femdom world, facesitting is a recognised fetish activity. For some people, it is primarily sexual. For others, its appeal is psychological, involving submission, female authority, intimacy, vulnerability or the experience of surrendering control.

There can be an enormous difference between the meaning of an act to the people participating in it and the meaning somebody outside that relationship assigns to it.

Facesitting doesn't necessarily involve nudity, explicit sexual activity or deliberately restricting another person's breathing. Both participants can be fully clothed, and the activity itself doesn't automatically constitute suffocation.

Yet some forms of facesitting may involve covering the nose or mouth, which could create genuine breathing risks. That's an important distinction, particularly when considering how the law might be interpreted.

So where exactly is the legal boundary between a consensual fetish performance and a prohibited depiction of suffocation?

And how is an independent creator supposed to navigate that distinction when the people interpreting the material may have little understanding of the practices themselves?

The distinction matters.

If a law is intended to address depictions of suffocation, how do we determine when a particular activity becomes suffocation for the purposes of that law?

Does the legislation distinguish sufficiently between a depiction of a consensual power exchange in which breathing is not impaired and one in which a person is genuinely being deprived of air?

How should a creator, platform or consumer make that judgement?

And how consistently will those distinctions be applied?

The government has provided a general explanation of suffocation, but the legislation does not contain a detailed catalogue of every fetish activity that might or might not fall within its scope.

That leaves important questions about interpretation.

I am not suggesting that activities involving restricted breathing are without danger. They are not. Consent does not eliminate physical risk, and even apparently controlled circumstances can have unexpected consequences.

Nor am I arguing that genuinely dangerous acts should be exempt from the law simply because someone describes them as BDSM.

My concern is whether legislation designed to prevent serious harm could also capture material involving consensual adult activities that do not depict the harm the law is intended to address.

That is a distinction worth examining.

And I think the people most familiar with these practices should have an opportunity to contribute to that examination.

There are also two important words I think we need to remember when looking at adult content: fantasy and acting.

From firsthand experience, I know that some scenes are deliberately made to appear more extreme or intimidating on camera than the experience was for the people involved. The viewer sees the performance, not necessarily the conversations, agreed boundaries or preparation behind it.

That doesn't prove every scene is safe, and it certainly doesn't make activities involving restricted breathing risk-free. But it does raise an important question about how we distinguish a depiction of genuine danger from a convincing performance.

In more than 25 years of working within the adult industry, I'm personally unaware of anyone suffering a serious injury or dying during a consensual facesitting session. And despite looking into the subject, I haven't found reliable research establishing how frequently serious injuries occur specifically from facesitting. That doesn't mean incidents have never happened, or that the practice is without risk. But surely it is reasonable to ask what evidence exists and whether the response is proportionate?

I also think we need to recognise that facesitting and strangulation are quite different activities. Even within what people describe as strangulation, there are enormous differences between somebody enjoying the sensation of a hand resting gently against their neck and someone applying force that restricts breathing or blood flow. Although even seemingly gentle pressure can carry risks, these aren't necessarily equivalent experiences. And I'm certainly not suggesting that more dangerous practices should be ignored. Some BDSM activities carry significant risks, and we shouldn't pretend otherwise.

There have been documented deaths associated with BDSM activities, particularly those involving strangulation and asphyxia. But without reliable figures for how many people participate in different practices, or how frequently serious incidents occur, it's difficult to establish the scale of those risks. That is precisely why I think evidence matters. 

A published literature review examining fatalities associated with BDSM practices identified 17 documented deaths, predominantly involving strangulation during erotic asphyxiation. However, the research does not establish the specific risks associated with facesitting, which is an important distinction when considering how different activities are categorised under the law.

More importantly, there is a fundamental distinction between consenting adults choosing to participate in a sexual activity and someone committing an act of violence against another person without their consent. Consent doesn't eliminate physical danger, but it does fundamentally change the nature of the interaction.

We wouldn't suggest prohibiting consensual sex simply because sexual assault and rape exist. That would be an extraordinary response to crimes that are already recognised as serious violations of another person's autonomy. I'm not diminishing those crimes in the slightest. Quite the opposite. I'm questioning whether we are drawing sufficiently clear distinctions between consensual sexual expression, genuinely dangerous practices and deliberate acts of violence.

Because those distinctions matter. And when criminal legislation is involved, surely asking whether the restrictions are proportionate, evidence-based and clearly defined is not only reasonable, but necessary.

Are We Targeting the Right Problems?

There is another question I keep coming back to. What is being done about websites that steal creators' work and host it illegally?

I've seen material taken from creators and made freely accessible elsewhere, sometimes without a paywall, meaningful age checks or even basic restrictions on who can view it. We have spent years discussing the importance of protecting minors from explicit content, and rightly so. But what happens when responsible creators and legitimate platforms are expected to comply with increasingly detailed requirements while stolen material remains readily available elsewhere?

I don't want to suggest that every legitimate platform behaves responsibly or that illegal websites are the only source of the problem. But surely content theft, unauthorised distribution and enforcement deserve a central place in this conversation.

Are we doing enough to pursue the people profiting from stolen content? How many cases are investigated, and how often are those responsible held accountable? I'd genuinely like to see the figures.

There is another question I think deserves asking.

We know that copyright piracy is taken seriously in the UK. Police have shut down websites distributing stolen subscription content, disrupted illegal streaming operations and pursued those profiting from the work of other creators.

And rightly so.

But what about independent adult creators whose work is stolen, copied and distributed across websites without their permission?

This isn't a hypothetical problem. It's something that has been documented for years.

So I'm curious. Are the same resources and enforcement efforts being directed towards protecting their intellectual property? And if they aren't, why not?

Because if we're serious about protecting women working in the adult industry, surely protecting their livelihoods and their ownership of the work they create should be part of that conversation too.

Because restricting what a compliant creator may publish does not, by itself, remove the copies that have already escaped their control.

And if the objective is to protect young people, shouldn't we be looking at where they are actually encountering this material, rather than assuming that regulating the most visible businesses solves the problem?

What's even more concerning to me is a disturbing investigation published by CNN in March 2026, which uncovered a website hosting more than 20,000 videos categorised as so-called “sleep” content, some attracting hundreds of thousands of views. The website reportedly received around 62 million visits in February alone, across all its content.

The investigation also uncovered online communities where men allegedly exchanged advice about drugging and sexually assaulting women. The legality of some of the material was seriously questioned.

I won't name the website because I have absolutely no desire to promote it. But surely this raises a far more pressing question about where our attention and enforcement resources should be directed?

We're talking about potential evidence of real sexual abuse, women who may have been filmed without their knowledge or consent, and communities allegedly discussing how to commit these crimes.

How can we have a serious conversation about protecting women without making these situations a central priority?

And this is precisely why I believe we need to distinguish between consensual adult fantasy and actual abuse. They are not the same thing, and treating them as though they are risks overlooking the people who genuinely need protection.

Sometimes I can't help wondering whether the adult industry has become an easy target. A convenient box to tick to demonstrate that something is being done to tackle violence against women and children, while potentially more serious issues requiring meaningful investigation, resources and enforcement remain inadequately addressed.

Because being seen to take action and actually making people safer are not necessarily the same thing.

More Laws, or Better Enforcement?

I also find myself questioning how we measure whether new restrictions actually work.

We already have laws addressing violent pornography and non-consensual acts. So what evidence shows that refining or extending the criminal law will achieve better outcomes than improving the enforcement of protections that already exist?

This brings me back to my earlier concern about the political tick-box exercise. Will we suddenly see an increase in prosecutions for material depicting consensual activities that were perfectly lawful before 6 November 2026? And if we do, will those increased prosecution figures be presented as evidence that the new legislation is working?

Because an increase in prosecutions doesn't necessarily mean a reduction in violence or that more women are being protected. It may simply mean that more activities have been brought within the scope of criminal law.

And surely the real measure of success should be whether fewer people are being harmed, not simply how many people are being prosecuted?

I know that proving wrongdoing can be difficult. Evidence may be incomplete, and victims may be frightened to speak out. That raises a different set of questions: how do we make reporting safer, investigations more effective and support more accessible?

An act doesn't have to be illegal to be wrong. And making something illegal doesn't automatically mean the people who need protection will feel able to seek help.

Sometimes I wonder whether governments are under pressure to be seen to be doing something, when the harder work is finding out why existing safeguards aren't working as intended.

I'm not against modernising legislation. Quite the opposite. Laws should evolve with technology and the way people actually live. But I'd like to see evidence of effectiveness, not simply another announcement that something has been prohibited.

When Even Legal Advice Cannot Give a Clear Answer

Not all facesitting content will fall within the new offence. I understand that.

But this is precisely the problem I'm trying to highlight. How are people supposed to know which material does?

I've been advised to seek legal guidance. That sounds sensible, until you consider what happens when even a qualified solicitor cannot give an independent creator a definitive answer about a particular video.

A solicitor can interpret the legislation, assess the risks and offer advice. But they cannot guarantee how the police, the Crown Prosecution Service or a court will interpret a borderline depiction.

And when getting that interpretation wrong could potentially lead to criminal prosecution, uncertainty matters enormously.

I've spent more than 25 years working professionally within the adult industry. I've already stopped producing the content affected by these changes, and I'm preparing to remove any remaining material from my online archives that falls within the restrictions before 6 November. I'd already scaled back much of my filming and video production to concentrate on my writing.

I'm genuinely trying to comply. Yet I'm still left questioning where the boundary lies for a particular facesitting scene.

And I have to say, it's pretty soul-destroying having to delete hours and hours of hard work, creativity and, quite frankly, fun. Not to mention the financial investment involved in producing that content. These aren't just videos to me. They're years of work, memories and a part of the history of a community that has existed long before these legislative changes. Having to erase that history, particularly when it was created consensually and lawfully, is incredibly disheartening.

Now imagine a small independent creator who cannot afford specialist legal advice. Or somebody who bought a video five years ago, entirely lawfully, and doesn't know whether keeping it could now be a criminal offence.

How can ordinary people confidently comply with a law when its boundaries are so difficult to determine?

There is an important principle here: legal certainty. Criminal law should be sufficiently clear that people can reasonably understand what is prohibited. Of course, laws often require interpretation, and no legislation can anticipate every possible example. But that doesn't make uncertainty inconsequential.

Do we really want the justice system spending its time debating whether somebody's bottom completely obstructed another person's airways, whether suffocation was merely implied, or whether a few seconds of footage satisfy one interpretation of the criteria rather than another?

Surely we have more pressing legal problems to address.

And surely people who are genuinely trying to comply with the law deserve guidance that makes compliance realistically possible.

Protecting Women Should Include Listening to Women

Another aspect of this legislation that interests me is the government's emphasis on violence against women and girls.

I support efforts to tackle violence against women.

I've experienced enough inappropriate behaviour, both personally and professionally, to understand why these protections matter.

But I also believe there is a contradiction worth exploring when legislation intended to protect women may affect women who have independently chosen to work within the adult industry.

For many years, women working in adult entertainment often depended heavily on studios, producers, agencies and other intermediaries to access customers and earn an income.

Digital platforms have changed some of those relationships.

They have allowed many independent creators to manage their own businesses, decide what content they produce, establish their boundaries and retain a greater share of their earnings.

That doesn't mean exploitation has disappeared.

But it does mean some women have gained forms of financial independence and professional control that were previously much harder to achieve.

And I think their voices matter.

If the government is introducing restrictions that affect their livelihoods, their creative work and the legal responsibilities attached to their businesses, surely those women deserve meaningful involvement in the discussion?

Not simply as people who need protecting.

But as professionals with knowledge, experience and informed perspectives of their own.

I would like to know how extensively independent adult creators, experienced BDSM practitioners and relevant professional organisations were consulted about the practical implications of these particular restrictions.

I would also like to understand how their evidence was weighed against the concerns raised by campaigners, researchers and safeguarding organisations.

Because good policy should be informed by more than one perspective.

Especially when the people affected are already working within a heavily stigmatised industry.

The Economic Consequences for Independent Women

There is also an economic consequence I don't think we should overlook.

When a woman can no longer lawfully produce or sell a particular kind of content, that may mean losing a source of income. For some, that loss may be manageable. For others, especially independent creators already dealing with rising costs of living, it could mean real financial distress.

And what happens if a woman who has built a lawful business suddenly struggles to pay her bills? Could that pressure affect her mental wellbeing, push her towards less secure work or leave her more vulnerable to people willing to exploit her circumstances?

There are wider questions too. What happens to the tax revenue generated by lawful businesses when parts of their work are restricted? Has the potential impact on public finances, including any increased need for support, been considered?

I don't know the scale of those effects, and I wouldn't pretend every woman working in adult entertainment has the same circumstances. But the assumption that all women in this industry are victims who need rescuing is itself something that is simply untrue. 

I've experienced no sexual harassment from professionals within this industry. In comparison, my experiences of harassment outside the industry have been considerably greater! Why? Because the industry is a community, and in my experience, a protective one. We take safety seriously.

Many of us chose this work for our own reasons. We enjoy it. We value the independence, creativity and control it can offer. That doesn't erase the experiences of women who have been exploited. It simply means their experiences are not the only ones that exist. And you only ever hear the bad stories. 

In my experience, the adult industry has changed considerably over the past 25 years. The growth of online platforms has given independent professionals greater control over how, where and with whom they work. There are more opportunities to manage our own boundaries and physical safety without relying on traditional working environments. That doesn't mean exploitation or danger no longer exists, but these changes have made a significant difference to how many of us can work.

I absolutely believe that sensible regulation can make it safer still. But regulation needs to be developed with consideration, understanding and a genuine appreciation of how the industry operates. That means listening to and consulting with experienced professionals from across the different areas of the adult industry, including the people whose livelihoods and working practices will be directly affected by these decisions.

When Disapproval Becomes a Judgement of Character

There is a difference between disliking something and believing nobody else should be allowed to choose it.

We all encounter behaviour, art, relationships and lifestyles we wouldn't personally choose. That doesn't automatically make those choices harmful, nor does it mean we have to approve of them.

I believe in personal responsibility. Adults should be able to make informed decisions about their own lives, while accepting the responsibility not to harm others. Of course, where genuine harm or exploitation is involved, safeguards matter. But personal discomfort is not, on its own, a reliable test for what should become a criminal offence.

And I worry about a future in which what is permitted changes every few years according to which group is most offended or which government happens to be in power.

That isn't an argument against law. It's an argument for laws grounded in evidence, proportionality and a clear understanding of the people they affect.

What About the Men?

There is another group of people I think deserves consideration.

The men who consume this content.

Over the years, I've spoken with countless men about their private sexual interests, relationships, fantasies and experiences.

Some are perfectly comfortable with their sexuality.

Others have spent years feeling confused, embarrassed or ashamed of desires they struggle to explain.

For some,  in the early days of the internet, discovering that other people share their interests can be an enormous relief.

They begin to realise that having an unusual fantasy does not automatically make them a bad person.

And that distinction can be incredibly important.

I often wonder how much unnecessary shame people carry simply because their private desires don't fit conventional expectations.

This is particularly relevant to men who are drawn to female domination.

Many are perfectly ordinary, law-abiding individuals with careers, families, friendships and responsibilities.

Their sexual interests may be only a small part of their identity.

Yet that small part can carry considerable emotional significance.

What happens when the material associated with a particular fetish becomes subject to criminal restrictions?

Could some men interpret that as a judgement about themselves rather than a restriction on particular depictions?

Could it reinforce feelings of shame or isolation?

Could it discourage open conversations about sexuality and safety?

I don't think we should assume these consequences will affect everyone, but I have little doubt that some people, perhaps many, will experience negative effects. Particularly those whose only outlet has been watching facesitting videos or content created by consenting adults in safe, professional environments. And then there's the additional impact of feeling stigmatised for having those interests in the first place.

Healthy sexual outlets can contribute positively to our wellbeing when they're part of a balanced life. Losing access to those outlets can have consequences for some people's emotional and psychological wellbeing, too.

And it's not as simple as telling someone to pay for professional services or find a girlfriend. Not every man can afford professional services. Not every man has a partner, let alone one who shares or understands his particular interests. And not everyone wants a relationship or an in-person experience. Some people are perfectly happy exploring their interests through online content, and for some, it's the only realistic opportunity they have to explore that part of themselves. I don't see why that choice should automatically be considered less valid.

These are real people, with different circumstances, preferences and needs. And I think the potential consequences for their wellbeing deserve to be taken seriously, rather than dismissed simply because their interests fall outside what society considers conventional.

Mental wellbeing should be considered when evaluating the wider consequences of sexual-content regulation, just as physical safety should.

And I would be interested in seeing research that examines these potential effects rather than simply dismissing them.

Because protecting people should involve understanding the full range of consequences a policy might create.

Because protecting people should involve understanding the full range of consequences a policy might create.

And from the conversations I've had over the years, I know it isn't always simply about sexual gratification.

For some men, fantasy provides satisfaction, release and an opportunity to switch off from the pressures of everyday life. It can offer a sense of comfort and emotional regulation, particularly for those who spend so much of their time carrying responsibilities or feeling isolated.

So where does this leave them?

What happens when content they legally purchased or downloaded, perhaps years ago, is suddenly something they may no longer be permitted to possess?

What happens when an outlet that has quietly formed part of their private lives is taken away, particularly when they have no partner or realistic alternative through which to explore those interests?

Hell, even Banksy depicted Queen Victoria facesitting another woman in Queen Vic! Are we going to start questioning that too?

We're already having increasingly important conversations about male loneliness and mental health. I worry that removing access to something some men find genuinely comforting could deepen feelings of isolation, shame or frustration, and over time affect their wellbeing and quality of life.

I can't claim that every man will experience those consequences, or that the impact is already established by research. But I believe the possibility deserves serious consideration.

Because having a fantasy is not the same thing as wanting to harm another human being. And I think this is where we're beginning to lose sight of some very important distinctions. Fantasy, acting and roleplay are not insignificant details. They're fundamental to understanding the difference between what someone imagines, what someone performs and what someone actually intends to do.

And don't even get me started on banks and banning certain words. I'll save that particular conversation for another day!

What Happens When We Suppress Rather Than Understand?

There's something else I want to add from more than 25 years of conversations with men about their private lives.

I've spoken with thousands of men in a professional setting, and some have described carrying shame about their fantasies since childhood or adolescence. Some have told me about religious environments in which ordinary sexual feelings were treated as wrong, or about experiences of punishment, secrecy and guilt that they believe contributed to the development of their particular fetishes.

I'm not claiming that every fetish develops in the same way, or that childhood experiences explain everybody's sexuality. But I am saying that these are accounts I've heard directly from the people living with those experiences. Their own understanding of their histories deserves to be listened to, rather than dismissed.

For some of those men, being able to speak openly about their interests for the first time was itself a relief. The problem wasn't necessarily the fantasy. It was the years they had spent believing that having it made them unacceptable.

So when we talk about restricting access to particular material, I think we also need to ask what happens psychologically when people feel that another part of themselves must be hidden.

Suppressing a conversation doesn't necessarily remove the feelings behind it. Sometimes it simply makes those feelings harder to understand.

There's also a considerable body of psychological research suggesting that consistently suppressing our feelings and emotions can have negative consequences for our mental wellbeing. And I think that raises another important question. If suppressing feelings doesn't necessarily make them disappear, are we helping people by encouraging greater understanding, or simply making them feel they have even more reason to hide parts of themselves?

Could This Actually Make Women Less Safe?

Perhaps my greatest concern about these changes is something that might seem contradictory at first.

What if, in trying to protect women, we inadvertently make some women less safe?

I understand the government's intention to address violence and exploitation. And I absolutely support protecting people from harm.

But I question whether criminalising the possession and publication of certain pornographic depictions, including those created through consensual adult performances, will achieve what it's intended to achieve. 

Because people aren't suddenly going to stop having particular interests or fantasies simply because the content depicting them has been prohibited.

Those interests will still exist.

And so will the demand.

Fetishes and fantasies existed long before the internet in people's imaginations.

My fear is that when legitimate creators are prevented from producing certain forms of consensual adult content, demand doesn't necessarily disappear.

It may simply move elsewhere.

And if that happens, who fills the gap?

Could we find ourselves creating a market in which people willing to disregard the law, ignore boundaries and exploit vulnerable women have an even greater financial incentive to produce the very material the legislation is intended to eliminate?

Could women become more vulnerable to exploitation because production moves away from established professionals and into less visible, less accountable environments?

Could criminalisation make illegal content more lucrative for people who have little interest in the wellbeing of those appearing in it?

I don't claim to know that this will happen.

But I think it's a serious enough possibility that we should be asking the question before assuming prohibition automatically creates safety because there’s always untoward individuals waiting to exploit vulnerable people and situations for personal gain.

There is another concern, too.

People who are curious about particular practices may attempt to recreate scenes themselves, without the knowledge, preparation or understanding of the risks involved.

And when we make subjects difficult to discuss openly, where do those people go to learn?

Of course, watching pornography is not the same as receiving reliable safety education. In fact, some scenes can create dangerously misleading impressions of what is physically safe.

But that makes access to accurate information and honest discussion even more important.

Silence doesn't necessarily prevent curiosity.

Sometimes it simply removes the opportunity to ask questions.

For me, the answer has always involved more education, more open conversation and a greater understanding of why people are drawn to particular experiences.

We should be able to discuss sexuality, fantasy, boundaries and risk without automatically attaching shame or judgement to the conversation.

That doesn't mean endorsing every practice.

It means recognising that understanding something is often a far more useful starting point than simply condemning it.

If the objective is genuinely to protect women, then surely we should be asking whether these measures will make women safer in practice.

Not simply whether they make us feel that something has been done.

What Are We Choosing Not to See?

I also find the contrast with other kinds of material online difficult to ignore. I've encountered graphic footage of real-world violence and death on social media, sometimes without any warning, when I wasn't looking for anything of the sort.

I don't want that appearing on my screen while I'm having breakfast. Nor do I want explicit sexual material appearing without my choosing to see it. But I find footage of actual suffering far more disturbing than a consensual performance between adults.

That makes me ask how we decide which forms of content deserve the most urgent attention, and whether our enforcement priorities reflect the harm involved or society's discomfort with sex.

There is a broader issue here, too. People seek escape for all sorts of reasons: pressure, stress, loneliness, curiosity or the desire to switch off for a while. Prohibition may change where people look, but it doesn't necessarily tell us why they were looking in the first place.

I keep coming back to that distinction between visible behaviour and the deeper circumstances behind it. Are we examining the causes, or simply reacting to the symptoms?

I remember something from my own childhood that feels particularly relevant to this conversation.

When I was around 12 or 13, I remember other children getting hold of pornographic magazines and videos and passing them around. There were several occasions when explicit material circulated among children at school.

And this was long before the internet became part of our everyday lives.

There were age restrictions on purchasing this kind of material, it was considerably harder to access, and yet somehow it still found its way into the hands of children.

Why? Well, I think human curiosity has a great deal to do with it. Particularly during adolescence, when we're beginning to develop an awareness of our sexuality and naturally become curious about things we don't yet understand.

I'm certainly not suggesting that children should have unrestricted access to pornography. Quite the opposite. But I do think it's worth remembering that restricting access and eliminating curiosity are two very different things.

And there's another part of that experience that I think matters even more.

Attitudes towards sex were considerably more prudish when I was growing up. I wouldn't have dared tell an adult that I'd seen pornographic material, let alone ask questions about it. The fear of embarrassment, judgement or getting into trouble would have been enough to keep me quiet.

Fortunately, nothing particularly serious came of those experiences for me. But what if something had? What if I'd encountered something genuinely disturbing, or somebody had behaved inappropriately towards me?

Would I have felt comfortable telling an adult?

I genuinely don't think I would have.

And that, to me, is where shame and stigma can become particularly dangerous.

We can have age restrictions, safeguarding measures and appropriate boundaries without making conversations about sexuality something children and young people feel frightened or ashamed to have.

Because protecting children isn't simply about trying to prevent them from encountering things we don't want them to see. It's also about making sure they feel safe enough to ask questions, express concerns and tell someone when something isn't right.

Surely those two things should go hand in hand?

And I want to make something else clear.

I don't believe the people responsible for introducing these changes are necessarily bad people, or that their concerns about violence and exploitation are insincere.

Quite the opposite. I welcome the intention to make people safer.

What I'm questioning is whether the decisions being made are informed by a sufficiently broad understanding of the people, practices and industries they affect.

Have all the relevant voices been heard?

Have the potential unintended consequences been properly examined?

And are we considering solutions that protect people without unnecessarily restricting the freedoms of consenting adults?

Because good intentions matter.

But so do the consequences of the decisions we make.

The Conversation Doesn't End Here

This is Part One of a three-part series exploring the UK's new pornography legislation, the people it affects and the wider questions we should be asking.

Parts Two and Three will be published very shortly.

If you value thoughtful, independent writing that explores the questions behind the headlines, I invite you to join my newsletter for future articles, updates and reflections.

I'm also taking this conversation beyond the page.

Follow my campaign and parliamentary petition on X @beckyspeeduk, where I'll be sharing developments, evidence and opportunities to support meaningful, constructive change.

Because raising awareness matters. But turning that awareness into meaningful action matters even more.

Stay curious.