The UK Pornography Review: Strengths, gaps and a new way forward

by Emily Setty and Jonny Hunt | Mar 10, 2025 | blog, news

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Please use the citation: Setty, E & Hunt, J. (2025). The UK Pornography Review: Strengths, gaps and a new way forward. Available at: www.re-imagining-rse.org

In February 2025, the UK government released an independent review of pornography led by Baroness Bertin, aiming to assess how online porn is regulated and its impacts on society. The report, “Creating a Safer World – the Challenge of Regulating Online Pornography”, comes at a time of growing concern about what children and young people encounter on the internet. It offers a slate of recommendations intended to curb harmful content and protect both consumers and those working in the adult industry. It makes some valuable and forward-thinking contributions, including the focus on safeguarding performers and tackling abusive practices within the industry and financial services. Yet, like many of the studies it cites, it ultimately falls short by framing pornography in a reductionist, one-dimensional way, largely reinforcing received wisdom or common-sense belief that pornography is a direct source of harm.

In this extended piece, we explore how the recommendations position porn education narrowly as harm prevention, and contrast this with a broader, more comprehensive Relationships and Sex Education (RSE) approach. We consider alternative ways to engage young people in meaningful conversations about sexuality, intimacy and digital literacy, drawing on our experience of delivering a porn literacy pilot programme, which led to our Reimagining RSE initiative and the underpinning Safe Uncertainty framework, to suggest practical steps for educators, youth practitioners and policymakers.

Before we begin, it’s important to clarify that we are not pro-porn or suggesting that pornography is inherently beneficial for society, nor do we see it as an ideal resource for young people to learn about sex and relationships (pun somewhat intended!). Pornography can be deeply problematic, but at Reimagining RSE, our goal is to provide evidence-based relationships and sex education. This means having open and honest conversations about the key issues affecting young people’s sexual development. Engaging with challenging topics requires a commitment to nuance—acknowledging complexity, questioning assumptions and ensuring that our claims are grounded in evidence rather than personal discomfort.

Strengths of the review: Safeguarding performers and industry accountability

The Independent Pornography Review makes several important contributions that deserve recognition. Notably, it highlights worker safety and abuses within the broader porn industry—issues that are often overlooked. While discussions of exploitation and trafficking are frequently led by porn abolitionists, the report takes a more balanced approach, acknowledging these risks without positioning itself as anti-porn. Instead, it cites case studies of good practice within the industry alongside recommendations for stronger protections. For example, it calls for clear safeguards to verify that all performers are consenting adults, not underage or coerced, and to ensure they can work in safer conditions.

It also highlights how stigma can prevent adult performers from reporting mistreatment and how some platforms fail to respond when performers ask to have content removed. In response, the review advocates giving performers greater control, allowing them to withdraw consent after filming and request the removal of their videos if they no longer agree to their distribution. This is a welcome recommendation and demonstrates that the review has engaged with those who work within the industry and genuinely seeks to make a positive difference. It also urges porn sites to proactively remove stolen content—such as leaked videos or clips uploaded without a creator’s permission—and to track such material across the web. A stronger commitment to this principle could be reinforced by platforms adopting a clear and public stance, such as signing up to a statement that simply reads: non-consent is not porn; it is abuse. This could serve as a powerful industry-wide standard.

If implemented, these recommendations would help tackle abusive industry practices by shifting accountability onto platforms and producers rather than onto vulnerable individuals. The report’s emphasis on worker welfare is a valuable contribution, recognising performers not as disposable content creators but as individuals with rights and dignity. This approach moves beyond the reductive argument that the porn industry is inherently exploitative and instead acknowledges that good practice and models of support are possible—provided we move past the stigma surrounding sex work. This is further reinforced by the report’s call for financial services to stop discriminating against or de-banking sex workers, a practice that isolates them from society and can prevent vulnerable women from accessing support or leaving the industry.

For those working in education or youth support, this emphasis highlights the importance of including ethical production and respect for performers in discussions about pornography. This could be integrated into classroom conversations by exploring, for example, the realities behind certain types of content, the ways in which consent applies not just to sex but to the sharing of images, and the broader implications of stigmatising sex work.

Another strength of the report is its recognition of extreme or violent content that goes unchecked online. It highlights how certain graphic sexual acts, for example, depictions of strangulation or other forms of sexual violence, remain easily accessible on both mainstream sites and social media platforms despite being illegal in offline media regulation. By drawing attention to content like ‘choking’ videos, the review identifies gaps in enforcement: what the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC) would refuse to classify in physical media is freely available online.

The review discusses concerns that certain sexual practices, including choking, have reportedly become more prevalent in young people’s sexual encounters and school discussions. However, while this correlation raises important questions, the mechanisms of influence remain complex and contested. It is unclear— as is often the case—whether this trend is influenced by pornography or whether pornography is merely reflecting broader cultural shifts. Choking has featured in high-profile celebrity cases covered widely in the media and is a recurring trope in advertising, mainstream media and erotic fiction aimed at and written by women.

Moreover, ‘breath play’ is not a new phenomenon. The rise of online spaces, including chatrooms and kink-oriented websites (which are not necessarily pornography platforms), has facilitated the mainstreaming of practices once considered niche. Rather than assuming a straightforward cause-and-effect relationship, it is crucial to consider how multiple social, cultural and interpersonal factors shape the sexual norms and behaviours of both young people and adults.

Acknowledging these complexities, educators and youth practitioners can use the review’s findings in a constructive way, for example, by facilitating critical discussions with teens about the media they encounter, exploring how sexual behaviours are depicted in different contexts, and examining how social norms, peer dynamics and gendered expectations contribute to emerging sexual scripts. Rather than positioning pornography as a singular driver of behaviour, these discussions can help young people develop a critical understanding of fantasy, consent, safety, and respectful sexual relationships.

In sum, the review’s strengths lie in its emphasis on making online platforms more accountable for preventing harm, ensuring law enforcement pursues illegal pornography, and encouraging a culture that values the safety of both consumers and content creators. These are worthy goals that any policy or educational programme on pornography should incorporate. However, as we examine next, the way the review frames the problem of pornography is somewhat one-note, rooted in moral assumptions that deserve to be questioned.

It is also important to note at this point that while the review makes important recommendations regarding image-based sexual abuse, such as deepfakes, revenge porn, sexual trafficking and exploitation, it is crucial to distinguish these issues from pornography itself. By definition, we would argue that these forms of abuse are not actually pornography. The review defines pornography as:

“Printed or visual material containing the explicit description or display of sexual organs or activity, intended to stimulate sexual excitement.”

However, this definition does not go far enough. If we want to have a meaningful, evidence-based conversation about pornography, we must be precise in our language rather than conflating distinct issues. For example, in a review of agricultural practices or food standards, the focus would remain on production and safety standards, not on modern slavery and exploitation, even though both are prevalent in the industry. Likewise, discussions about pornography should focus on its regulation, ethics and impact, rather than being overshadowed by broader concerns about abuse and exploitation, which require their own targeted policy responses.

A useful working definition of pornography is that put forward by Rebecca Sullivan and Alan McKee (2015)[i], which outlines three key criteria:

Sexually explicit – Pornography features highly graphic depictions of genitals and/or explicit sexual acts (a characteristic the review acknowledges).
Publicly mediated – Pornography is produced with the intention of being made available for public consumption, with a clear separation between the act and the audience. Crucially, this means consent is central to its production—all parties involved knowingly participate and agree to distribution.
Sexual pleasure – Pornography is created with the explicit purpose of inciting sexual arousal.

Under this definition, non-consensual images are abuse, not pornography. Indecent images of children, revenge porn, image-based sexual abuse, trafficking and exploitation do not meet these criteria. While better policy, policing and support for victims are essential, conflating these crimes with pornography muddies the conversation and risks distracting from the more complex discussions we need to have about the ethics and regulation of consensual sexual media.

Reinforcing received wisdom instead of nuance

While the report is presented as independent, it is important to consider the framing and terms of reference that shaped its development. As Baroness Bertin herself acknowledges, she was appointed to lead the review because of her experience working on violence against women and girls (VAWG) and her previous involvement in drafting the Domestic Abuse Bill. Whether intentional or not, this background clearly influences the report’s focus and conclusions.

In the foreword, Baroness Bertin calls for a “grown-up conversation, bringing pornography and the industry out of the shadows…”—a sentiment we fully support. However, open and honest discussions become inherently difficult when the starting position is already fixed. Bertin states unequivocally: “Nobody will convince me that online pornography was not an influencing factor…” in both the horrific Pelicot case in France and the murder of Sarah Everard. This is not the foundation for a truly open or grown-up conversation. The report’s framing is further reflected in the selective inclusion of evidence, with accounts that support this pre-existing position given significant weight while counterarguments and alternative perspectives receive far less attention.

Despite its good intentions, the pornography review largely frames porn as a monolithic source of harm, echoing received wisdom or conventional thinking. Throughout the report, there is an underlying assumption that pornography = harm, with little acknowledgement of complexity or counterevidence. For instance, the review’s Chapter 2 is literally titled “The Harms of Online Pornography” and the text asserts that just coming across pornography (even inadvertently) is “having an unquestionably damaging effect on our children,” allegedly contributing to rising youth sex offences and a “normalisation of misogyny and sexual violence”.

This unequivocal language – “unquestionably damaging” – illustrates the report’s one-dimensional perspective. It suggests that pornography is a direct driver of societal ills like violence against women and girls, tying in with a broader government goal of reducing such violence.

While it is certainly true that certain types of (not)porn (e.g. violent, non-consensual content) are clearly harmful and abhorrent, the review paints the entire landscape of pornography with the same broad brush. This reductionist framing risks oversimplifying a complex issue.

The review relies heavily on a seminal paper by Vera-Grey et al. (2021)[ii], Sexual Violence as a Sexual Script in Mainstream Online Pornography, to support the claim that pornography is becoming more violent. The paper states that one in eight films “positions sexual violence as a normative sexual script.” However, it is crucial to examine how this figure was derived. While the study analysed around 150,000 titles across three of the most visited tube sites, it is important to note that none of the actual footage was watched. Instead, researchers assessed the level of violence based on the titles assigned by users when uploading the films.

This raises a fundamental question: how accurately do titles reflect content? The titles quoted in the study were indeed disturbing, and there is certainly a valid discussion to be had about the language and discourse used by mainstream porn platforms (and their users) to frame sexual intimacy, power relations and especially the representation of women. However, this linguistic analysis tells us little about the actual sexual scripts depicted in the films themselves. Notably, the most common form of “violence” coded in the study was any title that included the prefix step- (as in step-brother/sister, step-mother), which accounted for over half of the so-called violent content[1].

Beyond this, the review fails to meaningfully engage with the complex and often uncomfortable discussions around sexual fantasy. In 1973, Nancy Friday’s groundbreaking book My Secret Garden compiled women’s sexual fantasies through letters, tapes and interviews, challenging previously accepted notions of female sexuality. The vast majority of the fantasies explored in the book dealt with taboos—including inappropriate partners, group sex, bestiality, power dynamics and non-consent. If subjected to the same coding criteria as the Vera-Grey et al. study, these fantasies would have undoubtedly caused alarm.

Yet crucially, Friday’s work made one thing clear: fantasy is not the same as desire for real-life experience. Many of the women who submitted their fantasies had no intention of acting on them; rather, they highlighted the contradictory, uncomfortable and often shame-inducing nature of what turns people on. If we are to have a genuinely honest conversation about pornography, we must also engage in conversations about fantasy and desire—conversations that move beyond conservative framings of sex and intimacy. Ignoring this reality not only limits our understanding of pornography’s role in sexual culture but also reinforces shame around desires that are a fundamental part of human sexuality.

The problem with reinforcing received wisdom is that it does not fully align with what research tells us about pornography’s impacts. Decades of studies on pornography’s effects have yielded mixed results, rather than a clear-cut verdict of widespread harm. A recent comprehensive review of the scientific literature concluded that “the results are mixed” and that “causal relationships are not established” between pornography use and negative outcomes[iii].

In other words, while some studies do find correlations between heavy porn consumption and aggressive attitudes or risky sexual behaviour, there is little causal evidence to suggest that pornography directly causes these problems. Often, other factors are at play. For example, young people who are predisposed to violence or lack comprehensive sex education may both watch more extreme pornography and engage in harmful behaviour, but porn itself is only one piece of a much larger puzzle.

Furthermore, the review fails to engage with research on gendered patterns of pornography use. Typically, men consume pornography to compensate for a lack of intimacy, to manage stress or to cope with loneliness, whereas women are more likely to use pornography to enhance their existing relationships. Ironically, despite being a male-dominated industry targeting a male-dominated audience, research suggests that pornography use is associated with a decline in the quality of men’s sex lives, while at the same time contributing to improvements in women’s sexual satisfaction[iv].

Yet, in the review, the impact of pornography on women is framed solely through the lens of men’s behaviour, focusing on how men’s porn use influences their treatment of women rather than considering women’s own engagement with pornography. This narrow framing overlooks the complexities of how different genders experience and use sexual media, reinforcing outdated assumptions rather than offering a nuanced, evidence-based discussion.

Instead of exploring why or when pornography might lead to harm—and conversely, when it might not—the review treats pornography in general as a public health menace. This approach reflects long-standing cultural anxieties about porn, resembling a modern moral panic that assumes any young person who watches porn will inevitably be damaged by it.

For example, consider the review’s focus on “pornography’s impact on sexual scripts and behaviours.” The report cites anecdotal evidence, such as teachers reporting students asking “how to choke girls during sex”, implying that pornography directly implants dangerous ideas in young minds. Having spent the last 20 years working in schools and speaking with young people about sex and relationships, we do not doubt that such questions are asked. However, these moments lack context. Young people often ask provocative or ‘inappropriate’ questions to show off, test boundaries or derail conversations—often as a defensive mechanism to shut down discussions that feel uncomfortable. Yet, just as easily, this same question could be framed as an attempt at harm reduction—a young person genuinely trying to understand what is safe and appropriate in a sexual situation.

While reports like these may be shocking, the leap from anecdote to general rule is deeply problematic. By emphasising extreme cases, the review reinforces the assumption that exposure to pornography directly translates into real-life abusive behaviour—a monkey-see-monkey-do logic that completely erases young people’s agency and capacity for critical thinking.

What’s missing is context:

How do family attitudes, peer influence or lack of sex education shape young people’s responses to pornography?
Are young people simply mimicking what they see in porn, or are they already curious and influenced by broader cultural messages about dominance, submission and power in relationships?

The review fails to explore these crucial questions, nor does it engage with evidence highlighting the positive experiences that some young people (and adults) report in relation to their pornography use.

Multiple studies have found that discussions about pornography routinely exclude the perspectives of young people, particularly LGBTQ+ youth, who often feel marginalised by school-based RSE[v]. These studies suggest that much school-based RSE remains heteronormative, fixated on sex for reproduction—primarily penis-in-vagina (PIV) intercourse—rather than discussing sex in its broadest terms (including manual, oral, anal, sensuality, and pleasure) While young people do model some of the sexual scripts and behaviours they encounter in pornography, many report sex-positive experiences—with pornography filling gaps left by inadequate RSE.

The Problem of self-confirming evidence: Are we really listening to young people?

We must also question how the research that informs the review’s claims is constructed and interpreted. A key limitation of the review is its reliance on research that often appears designed to generate a foregone conclusion: that pornography is inherently harmful, desensitising, and linked to violence and abuse. While it cites studies and testimonies that suggest young people themselves see porn as problematic, it rarely interrogates how those perspectives are shaped by dominant discourses.

Many young people grow up hearing repeated messages from educators, the media and policymakers that pornography is addictive, corrupting and a danger to their development. These narratives do not necessarily emerge from young people’s own reflections but instead frame the way they are invited to discuss pornography in research settings. As a result, when studies ask young people about pornography’s effects, they often repeat the dominant narratives they have been exposed to—not necessarily because these reflect their true experiences, but because they are aware of the ‘correct’ answers expected of them. Young people are savvy; they know what adults want to hear. In this way, research risks reinforcing rather than critically examining received wisdom.

Yet instead of recognising these responses as products of broader cultural discourse, they are often taken as validation of the very effects they were assumed to confirm in the first place. This self-reinforcing cycle limits our ability to engage in a more open, evidence-based conversation about young people’s actual experiences with pornography.

This self-reinforcing cycle raises serious questions about how research on young people and pornography is conducted and interpreted. Are we genuinely capturing their experiences and meaning-making processes, or are we eliciting rehearsed moral scripts that reflect societal anxieties rather than lived realities? A more reflexive research approach would ask not just what young people say about pornography, but how they have come to hold those views and whether alternative framings could allow for a more complex, less scripted conversation.

This has direct implications for education and policy. If we continue to base interventions on research that reflects moral socialisation rather than critical engagement, we risk entrenching narrow harm-based narratives that fail to equip young people with the tools they need to navigate sexual content critically. Instead, we should be asking questions that allow for more open-ended and self-reflective discussions: Where do we get our ideas about sex and relationships from? What are good/problematic sources? Why do some people watch pornography? Is porn different from other media? What influences how you think about pornography? Are there aspects of pornography that are troubling, but also things people might find useful or interesting? How do you make sense of conflicting messages about porn in society? These kinds of questions, rather than simply reinforcing dominant discourses, would allow young people to explore their perspectives in a more meaningful and autonomous way.

Incorporating critical reflexivity into research and education would shift the conversation from exposure → harm to engagement → meaning-making. This shift would offer a far richer understanding of how young people navigate sexual media and, crucially, would challenge the assumption that their concerns are always intrinsic rather than socially produced. Without this, we risk treating young people not as active agents in shaping their perspectives, but as passive recipients of harm narratives that we, as adults, have constructed for them.

From our own conversations with young people, as discussed elsewhere[vi], it is evident that when they are given the space to ask questions without fear of judgment, they actively engage in critical discussions about pornography, media and the messages they receive about sex. When trusted with honest, open dialogue, young people do not simply absorb dominant narratives—they interrogate, challenge and contribute to them.

For a truly evidence-based conversation, we would also consider research that complicates the picture. For example, some studies indicate that young people’s responses to porn vary widely; many critique or dismiss unrealistic content, and some even find positive aspects such as learning about their own preferences or feeling validated in their sexuality[vii]. By ignoring these perspectives, the review misses an opportunity to move beyond ‘porn is bad’ tropes and towards a richer understanding.

Crucially, treating pornography as a singular, pernicious evil can alienate young people and those who consume porn without experiencing obvious ill effects. When official reports or authority figures insist that pornography is dangerously warping young minds, teenagers who have watched porn may feel misunderstood or unfairly judged. The review’s harm-focused framing risks shutting down dialogue—if pornography is only discussed in terms of danger and shame, young people may feel unable to express their thoughts, feelings, or questions about it.

Ironically, this not only makes it harder to educate and support them, but may actually cause further harm. Multiple studies have found little correlation between how often someone watches porn and whether they perceive their use as problematic. However, there is a strong relationship between holding religious or conservative moral beliefs about pornography and experiencing distress over its use[viii]. This moral incongruence—where personal values conflict with one’s behaviour—is crucial to acknowledge. It highlights the need for non-shaming approaches when discussing young people’s sexual behaviours and identities, ensuring that conversations about pornography are constructive rather than punitive.

Finally, it’s worth noting that even when the report touches on the idea of “porn addiction”, it admits the evidence is not robust enough to classify compulsive porn use as a clinical addiction. Yet, the overall framing remains that any engagement with porn is problematic. As one academic analysis put it, much current discourse “centres the view that pornography is an inherently problematic genre that young people should be inoculated against”[ix].

An inoculation mindset – treating porn like a disease we must vaccinate kids against – might feel intuitively right to many adults, but it often overlooks the reality of young people’s lives and the complexity of their experiences with sexual media.

This mindset influences the review’s recommendations on education, which, we argue, creates a missed opportunity.

A narrow lens of porn education as harm prevention

One of the review’s key recommendations is to improve pornography education for young people, which, on the surface, is a welcome idea and aligns with a key aim of our Reimagining RSE project. However, the way the report envisions this education is far from neutral. Rather than encouraging young people to critically evaluate where their ideas about sex and relationships come from, it is primarily framed as harm prevention or damage control. As the report itself states, pornography education is positioned “as an important preventative measure in combatting these issues”—the issues being pornography’s alleged harmful impacts.

Essentially, the recommended porn education functions like a safety briefing: warn young people about the dangers of porn so they develop “healthy attitudes toward sex and relationships” rather than being led astray. But this raises an important question: who gets to decide what is and isn’t “healthy”?

Of course, there is value in discussing potential risks—porn literacy should include conversations about unrealistic expectations, negative body image and confusing messages around consent. However, the real issue is what’s missing: a broader, sex-positive and reality-based discussion of pornography as part of the landscape of sexuality and relationships. By focusing almost exclusively on preventing harm, the review fails to integrate porn education into the wider ecology of RSE—one that includes pleasure, desire and fantasy as essential components of how young people navigate their sexual and relational worlds.

Currently in the UK, RSE often glosses over pornography or tacks it on as a cautionary tale. The review rightly notes that teaching on pornography in schools is “inconsistent” and often not up to date with what children are actually encountering online. Many teachers feel ill-equipped to handle the topic, and there’s a dearth of clear guidance for them. The review intends to address these gaps, which is positive. However, by framing the goal as raising “public awareness on how much harmful pornography is available” and ensuring adults can have informed discussions about “the impacts of pornography”, the emphasis is still on porn-as-impact, porn-as-danger. This perpetuates the idea that porn is something outside normal life that harms normal life, rather than something that many people (including young people) experience as part of their normal life, for better or worse. In practical terms, this means porn gets talked about in classrooms primarily in terms of don’ts and dangers. Such an approach can easily slide into scare tactics or moral lecturing, which young people typically find off-putting or irrelevant.

What’s missing from the review is an acknowledgment of why young people may choose to watch pornography—or, as is often the case, use pornography. If we fail to recognise that many young people engage with porn as stimulation for masturbation, we are ignoring an essential part of the conversation about fantasy and pleasure.

Masturbation is not on the RSE curriculum, and discussions of sex beyond reproduction are notably absent. Most RSE focuses almost exclusively on penis-in-vagina sex for reproductive purposes, with little to no discussion of desire, foreplay, manual sex, oral sex, vulvas, the clitoris, orgasm or any aspect of sex beyond biology. If we refuse to fill in these gaps, where else are young people expected to look for information? Research has consistently shown that young people often have negative views of sex education designed purely to “safeguard them from harm”, feeling that it fails to engage them or prepare them for real-life situations[x].

If pornography is only discussed as a threat to be shielded from, young people are likely to tune out—especially if this message contradicts their own experiences. If they have watched porn and nothing terrible happened to them, they may begin to doubt everything else they are being told about relationships and sex. Worse still, this approach introduces more issues of shame—which, as discussed earlier, can actually make pornography more harmful by reinforcing guilt, secrecy, and moral distress.

What’s missing from the review’s recommendations is the idea of porn education as part of a holistic conversation about sex, media, and relationships. Imagine if we taught driving solely by terrifying teens with crash statistics but never taught them how to drive safely or appreciate the independence it brings. They would likely either dismiss the warnings entirely or become fearful rather than confident and capable. Similarly, an approach to porn that focuses only on harm prevention is incomplete. It must be complemented with discussions that place porn in context—exploring why people are drawn to sexual content, what needs or curiosities it may fulfill, and how to navigate it critically and thoughtfully.

Effective RSE should help young people understand both the appeal and the pitfalls of pornography. A nuanced curriculum might explore how porn is a performance, addressing staging, editing and acting to help young people recogniae it as a media product rather than an instruction manual for sex. Referring to porn stars as sexual stunt performers is a useful analogy, just as explaining the work and production behind a fight scene in an action film helps audiences distinguish between choreographed spectacle and real violence.

A well-rounded approach would also address the fantasy versus reality gap—highlighting that porn often skips crucial elements like communication, consent and contraception, which are essential in real relationships. We can emphasise these differences without shaming the existence of sexual fantasy. This issue extends beyond pornography—Hollywood and Netflix productions also depict highly stylised, often unrealistic sex scenes. However, it is worth noting that the introduction of intimacy coordinators has led to improvements in mainstream media, offering another valuable discussion point. Porn literacy should equip young people with critical media analysis skills—not just for explicit content, but for all media that shapes their understanding of sex and relationships.

Furthermore, situating porn education within RSE means integrating related discussions: body image, gender stereotypes, sexual scripts, power, consent, pleasure and respect. When pornography is taught in isolation—framed only as “here’s how it can harm you”—these broader connections are often lost.

The review does acknowledge the need to include boys in these conversations, which is important, given that historically, RSE has focused on protecting girls while positioning boys as the problem. Pornography can shape boys’ attitudes, and boys themselves can experience negative effects, such as feeling pressured to perform in certain ways. However, a truly inclusive approach requires moving beyond a risk-based framework. We should be asking: What do all young people actually want and need to discuss about porn, sexual content and sex media more broadly? When one of the top trends on #BookTok is erotic fantasy fiction, we need to expand the conversation beyond traditional media.

Studies suggest that young people value honest, non-judgmental dialogue. Many report that current sex education fails to acknowledge that some of them are already sexually active or curious, while topics like online porn or sexting are either ignored or presented in a negative, outdated and out-of-touch way.

If we frame porn education solely as harm prevention, we inadvertently send the message that all sexual exploration via media is bad, which can make young people feel guilty or abnormal for their curiosity. Instead, we should normalise the conversation: Porn exists, many people watch it, it can influence how we think about sex—so let’s talk about it in a balanced, open way. This approach is very different from treating porn as a contaminant that must be quarantined from young minds.

Reimagining RSE: A ‘safe uncertainty’ approach to porn

How might we approach pornography education in a more open, effective way? This is where our framework for Reimagining RSE through the lens of ‘safe uncertainty’ comes in. Reimagining RSE is about transforming how we teach relationships and sex education in the digital age, moving beyond outdated models and embracing a curriculum that is relevant, inclusive and responsive to young people’s need and realities. A core principle of this reimagined approach is creating an environment of ‘safe uncertainty.’ Originally coined by psychologist Barry Mason in a therapeutic context[xi], safe uncertainty means striking a balance between safety and the unknown. In plain terms, it encourages educators (and learners) to keep an open mind, acknowledging that we may not have all the answers or absolute certainties about a topic as complex as sexuality, but we can still explore it together in a safe, respectful space.

Applying safe uncertainty to sex education, and porn literacy specifically, means not coming into the classroom with a rigid agenda like “I must convince them porn is harmful” (safe certainty) or, conversely, throwing up our hands and saying, “why bother they’re going to watch it anyway… Figure it out yourself” (unsafe uncertainty). Instead, it means inviting curiosity and dialogue while providing guidance.

In practice, a safe uncertainty framework encourages educators to facilitate conversations rather than lecture. For example, instead of opening a session with a definitive statement like “Porn will give you unrealistic expectations and damage your relationships”, a teacher might begin with a neutral, open-ended question: “Where do we get our ideas about sex and relationships from?” This broadens the discussion, gently leading young people toward the topic without framing it as inherently harmful.

Unfortunately, we are working in an environment where young people already have a strong sense of what the ‘correct’ answers are. If we ask the question in this way, they will inevitably mention the internet—and, when pushed, pornography. However, by allowing young people to introduce the topic themselves—alongside other sources such as school, parents, friends, films, social media or adverts—we can prompt further discussion:

Which of these are positive sources?
Is it easy to talk to parents about sex?
Do our friends always have the best answers?
Is sex in movies realistic?
What about porn?

By positioning pornography as part of a broader social ecology rather than isolating it as something uniquely harmful or taboo, we create a more balanced and productive discussion. Most importantly, this approach allows young people to lead the conversation, rather than having educators impose a fixed position from the outset.

For instance, when young people assert that porn is unrealistic (one of those ‘expected’ answers), we can challenge them in the same way we’ve challenged other sources:

Is the sex in mainstream Hollywood movies any more accurate?
What messages does porn try to send about sex or gender roles?
Are these messages better or worse than those in mainstream media?

This comparison-based approach gives both educators and young people a safer space to discuss these topics, making it easier to bring up specific examples without stigma or embarrassment. It also allows young people to voice their own perceptions and share ideas they’ve heard, creating an opportunity for genuine dialogue rather than a one-sided moral lesson.

The educator can then gently challenge misconceptions or problematic ideas, while also validating legitimate questions and concerns. This approach requires comfort with uncertainty, allowing the adult to say: “That’s a great question—we don’t fully know the answer, but here are some things to think about.” It acknowledges that sexuality, and the way porn and media influence it, is complex—there is no single narrative that explains everyone’s experiences.

By maintaining this open and inquisitive stance, we respect young people’s intelligence and agency. We’re not talking down to them—we’re talking with them.

Our Reimagining RSE approach emphasises that pornography should be discussed as part of young people’s broader sexual learning, not as a taboo. This means linking online porn to wider discussions about relationships, intimacy and consent, rather than isolating it as something separate or uniquely dangerous. For instance, an educator might integrate a scenario about encountering porn into a broader lesson on consent: “If something you saw in a video makes you curious to try it with someone, how would you talk about it with that person? How can you both ensure it’s safe and consensual?”

By framing it this way, pornography becomes just one of many sources of sexual and relational information—some helpful, some misleading, some entirely unrealistic. This allows young people to critique porn in the same way they critique unrealistic Hollywood romance films or reality dating shows.

Understanding that fantasy and reality are not the same is a crucial component of media literacy. What turns us on—or the fantasies we engage with—can sometimes be confusing, complex and even contradictory. Just because something excites us in theory doesn’t mean we would enjoy it or want to experience it in real life. Movies are fantasy, whether we’re talking about superhero films, sci-fi, romantic comedies or porn—they are not real life. Just as serenading your ex in front of the entire school won’t win them back, a repairman showing up at your house won’t lead to a threesome—no matter how big his… toolbox.

Porn literacy is essentially media literacy applied to sexual content. A Reimagining RSE approach would equip young people with the tools to analyse what they see critically:

Who made this video and why?
What might have been going on behind the scenes?
Is everyone depicted respectfully?
How does this content make me feel about myself or others?

By framing the discussion this way, we help young people build critical thinking skills without simply demonising the content.

Importantly, this approach does not mean telling young people that all porn is fine, nor does it ignore risks. Instead, it acknowledges complexity. We should explore what we mean by ‘porn’—some content is exploitative or reinforces harmful stereotypes, and young people should be able to recognise and critically assess that. But some porn is consensually made and can be a source of arousal or even education for adults. If we fail to mention that, we risk reinforcing the idea that all porn is inherently harmful.

For example, educators might frame the discussion like this:

“There are many types of pornography out there. Some are violent or degrading—those can be harmful and even illegal. Others are created by people who aim to depict respectful, realistic sex (sometimes called ethical or feminist porn). How might these different types affect viewers differently? Why is it important to be aware of what you’re watching?”

This invites nuance, rather than moral judgment. The role of an educator is not to be a preacher of morality, but a guide helping young people navigate a complex landscape.

Safe uncertainty means being willing to explore these nuances openly, while still keeping discussions grounded in safety and respect. Educators don’t need to have all the answers—and that’s okay. The key is creating an environment where young people feel able to ask questions and critically engage.

A sign of success isn’t that young people walk away with a definitive set of rules—it’s that they leave the discussion with more questions than they came in with. This means they are thinking, reflecting and engaging critically, rather than passively accepting adult-imposed narratives.

By reimagining RSE, we treat young people as active participants in their learning about sex and relationships. We can still achieve prevention goals, such as reducing sexual violence and promoting healthy relationships, but through an approach that is engaging, thought-provoking and realistic. Most importantly, we leave the door open for young people to continue these conversations, to ask for help when they need it, and to feel respected rather than shamed.

In fact, research supports the idea that comprehensive sexuality education—including open discussions about pornography—can contribute to violence prevention as much as, if not more than, fear-based approaches.

One programme, for example, found that educating school staff and students about pornography and sexualised media in a thoughtful way reduced harmful attitudes and improved responses to sexual harassment[xii]. Another study suggested that small group discussions about pornography were more effective in developing ethical approaches to sexuality than traditional, rule-based lessons[xiii]..

These findings align with the Reimagining RSE philosophy:

When you give young people the space to talk, think critically, and connect ideas to their own lives, the learning is deeper, more meaningful, and more likely to stick than if we simply issue warnings.

Engaging young people: From findings to practice

How can educators, youth practitioners and policy makers put these ideas into action? Below are some practical approaches to translate the review’s findings and our critique into effective work with young people:

Embed porn literacy into comprehensive RSE: Instead of standalone ‘porn talks’ focused on negative messaging and scare tactics, weave discussions of pornography into the regular RSE curriculum. For example, when covering consent or healthy relationships, bring up how porn might depict these (or fail to) and ask students to critique those portrayals.

By providing “detailed and practical information about sex, sexual ethics, and relationships”[xiv] alongside porn literacy, we give young people a context to contrast the exaggerated or unhealthy messages they might see on screen.

This integrated approach helps them develop a more grounded view of sex and counteracts problematic messages from porn and from wider society.

Establish classroom environments that enable respectful, judgment-free conversations. One effective technique is using anonymous question boxes, allowing students to submit questions or concerns about porn and sexuality without fear of embarrassment[2]. This can help surface the real curiosities and misconceptions they hold.

When addressing these questions, practice safe uncertainty—acknowledge when something is complex or open to debate. For instance, if asked: “Is watching porn bad for you?”, avoid a simplistic yes/no answer.

A useful analogy is comparing porn to eating burgers:

Having one every now and then might be enjoyable (and maybe even a little indulgent!)
Sometimes, you might feel bad afterward—so it’s worth reflecting on whether that feeling is justified.
For most people, eating the occasional burger isn’t harmful—but if it’s the only thing we consume, it’s probably not great for our health.
And if our only idea of dining out came from watching burger commercials, we’d have a pretty unrealistic idea of restaurants…

Use real-life scenarios and examples helps young people engage more, because learning feels relevant. Consider incorporating case studies or role-play scenarios. For example, present a scenario: “Alex, 15, has been watching porn and now worries if their expectations are unrealistic,” and ask the class how Alex might sort out fiction from reality. Or “Jordan feels uncomfortable about something they saw in a video their friend showed them”, and discuss what Jordan could do (talk to a trusted adult, remember they don’t have to replicate anything they see, etc.). Ask young people, did you assume that Jordan and Alex were boys? Let’s discuss and reflect on our assumptions. These concrete examples allow students to apply concepts like consent, communication and media literacy in a safe hypothetical setting. It moves the discussion from abstract “porn is harmful” to practical skills like decision-making and empathy.

Address risks and rewards of digital sexuality: Acknowledge that the digital world isn’t all doom and gloom. Yes, talk about risks, e.g. how excessive porn use might affect someone’s body image or how stumbling on violent content can be distressing. But also discuss healthy ways young people seek sexual information or expression online (maybe they follow a positive sexuality influencer or read legitimate health information[xv]). By doing so, you’re recognising their reality and guiding them to safer online behaviours (like using reputable sources, or understanding privacy settings if they share images). This balanced view prevents the ‘forbidden fruit’ effect; if we only say “never look at anything sexual online”, that’s neither realistic nor helpful. Instead, we equip them with digital literacy to navigate what they will likely encounter.
Involve young people in developing the curriculum: The best way to ensure porn education is hitting the mark is to involve young people in creating it. This could mean having a youth advisory group to your RSE program or simply getting feedback after lessons. Ask students what topics they wish had been covered or what felt was useful vs. preachy. Young people are experts in their own media habits to a large extent; by co-designing parts of the curriculum with them, we not only make the content more relevant but also empower them. This echoes the co-design approach used in some research, where vulnerable young people helped create a porn literacy resource that truly met their needs[xvi]. When students have a say, they’re more likely to be invested in the conversation and less likely to see it as just another top-down lecture.

By implementing these strategies, those working with young people can transform the valid concerns highlighted by the pornography review into educational practices that resonate. For example, the review worries about porn normalising violence like choking. In a classroom, instead of simply saying “porn might make boys think choking is OK – it’s not”, an educator could use a safe uncertainty approach: “I’ve heard some of you mention choking as something people do during sex – what do you think about that?” Without making assumptions, they can ask, “Where has that idea come from?” “Why might it be dangerous in real life even if it looks ‘normal’ in a video?” This invites students to engage critically. One might say, “Because the actors are professionals or the scene is staged.” Another might admit, “I’m not sure why it’s dangerous.” The teacher can then provide facts (like the medical risks and the need for clear consent and safety if anyone ever were to consider it) and facilitate a discussion on boundaries and mutual respect. In doing so, the educator addresses the harm without framing every viewer as an inevitable perpetrator or victim, a far more nuanced and effective lesson.

Conclusion

The UK government’s independent review into pornography has brought much-needed attention to the risks and limitations in the current online porn landscape, from the lack of platform accountability to the exploitation of performers. These are serious issues that demand action, and the review’s strengths lie in pushing them onto the policy agenda. However, as we have argued, the review also takes a somewhat one-sided view that limits its usefulness. By treating pornography predominantly as a direct source of harm and focusing on education as a means of inoculating young people, the report reinforces a narrative that is too simplistic. Our critique doesn’t deny some of the potential harms of pornography; rather, it calls for a more evidence-informed, multifaceted conversation about it. Young people deserve an approach to porn education – and sex education more broadly – that respects their realities and equips them with skills to navigate a world where sexual content is just a click away.

Adopting a Reimagining RSE framework grounded in safe uncertainty can help move us beyond moral panic and towards meaningful engagement. It reminds us that our role is not to decree one ‘truth’ about pornography, but to guide young people in understanding context, asking questions and making healthy choices. As educators, youth practitioners or policymakers, leaning into this approach means we embrace a bit of uncertainty ourselves. We acknowledge there isn’t a neat script for dealing with porn in the digital age, and that’s okay. What we offer instead is a safe space to grapple with tough questions, supported by facts, empathy and open-minded discussion. In doing so, we can address the concerns raised by the pornography review – like preventing abuse and protecting wellbeing – without losing sight of the bigger picture of sexuality and relationships. This balanced, youth-centered strategy will not only mitigate harms but also empower young people to develop into sexually healthy, knowledgeable adults in a world where, like it or not, pornography exists. The conversation is challenging, yes, but by shifting our framing and methods, it can become not a fearful lecture about harm, but a constructive dialogue about responsibility, respect and reality in the sexual lives of young people.

[1] The study was conducted before Pornhub revised its terms of service and removed nearly a third of its content in response to allegations of hosting videos involving exploitation or non-consensual sharing. At that time, it was common for users to upload or re-upload videos pirated from other sites, often stripping them of their original context. For instance, content from so-called ethical or feminist porn sites may have been clipped from a full 20-minute film into a 6-minute segment, focusing solely on the sex while omitting the scene setup, before-and-after care and moments of intimacy. This practice significantly alters how a video is perceived, removing elements that may have framed the sexual encounter in a different light. Additionally, titles often reflect trends rather than the actual content of the film. A video originally uploaded under one name may be re-labeled using popular search tags to increase visibility, meaning the same scene could appear under multiple, often misleading, titles. This further complicates the assumption that a title alone is an accurate indicator of the film’s themes or depictions.

[2] While we should aim to create spaces where young people feel confident asking questions openly, we recognise that this isn’t always possible. If you choose to use anonymous question boxes, it’s essential to set clear boundaries around how they will work. For instance, if you tell students the box is completely anonymous and they can ask anything, then it’s crucial to ensure that no one faces consequences for a ‘silly’ question or gets challenged afterward if their handwriting is recognised. Similarly, if you commit to engaging with every question, then you need to follow through. You can combine similar questions or dedicate a session to recurring themes (for example, if several students ask confused questions about abortion, you might plan a focused discussion). However, if you promise to answer every question but then refuse to address one that makes you uncomfortable, the message you send is powerful—that what they’ve asked is too awful, shameful or bad to even discuss. In that moment, they trusted you with something they were curious or worried about. If you shut it down, where do they turn next?

[i] Sullivan, R., & McKee, A. (2015). Pornography: Structures, agency and performance. John Wiley & Sons.

[ii] Vera-Gray, F., McGlynn, C., Kureshi, I., & Butterby, K. (2021). Sexual violence as a sexual script in mainstream online pornography. The British Journal of Criminology, 61(5), 1243-1260.

[iii] Bordoloi, M., Durkin, I., & Aggarwal, A. (2024). Effects of Pornography on Youth: A Review. Missouri Medicine, 121(3), 195.

[iv] Sommet N, Berent J (2023). Porn use and men’s and women’s sexual performance: evidence from a large longitudinal sample. Psychological Medicine 53, 3105–3114

[v] Byron, P., McKee, A., Watson, A., Litsou, K., & Ingham. R., (2021). ‘Reading for Realness: Porn Literacies, Digital Media, and Young People.’ Sexuality & Culture 25 (3): 786–805; Dawson, K., Nic Gabhainn, S., & MacNeela, P. (2019). Dissatisfaction with school sex education is not associated with using pornography for sexual information. Porn Studies, 6(2), 245-257. Litsou, K., Byron, P., McKee, A. & Ingham, R. (2020). Learning from pornography: results of a mixed methods systematic review. Sex Education, 21, 236-252; Vandenbosch, L. and van Oosten, J., (2018). ‘Explaining the Relationship Between Sexually Explicit Internet Material and Casual Sex: A Two-Step Mediation Model.’ Archives of Sexual Behavior 47 (5): 1465–1480.

[vi] Hunt, J (2024). Pornography is not the answer (it isn’t even the right question…)

Reflections from practice in tackling sexual harassment and Harmful Sexualised Behaviours in response to Everyone’s Invited and the Online Safety Bill. In Children, Young People and Online Harms, Ed. Setty, Gordon & Nottingham, Palgrave MacMillan

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[viii] Štulhofer, A., Wiessner, C., Koletić, G., Pietras, L., & Briken, P., (2022). Religiosity, Perceived Effects of Pornography Use on Personal Sex Life, and Moral Incongruence: Insights from the German Health and Sexuality Survey (GeSiD), The Journal of Sex Research, 59:6, 720-730; Zimmer, F., Imhoff, R. (2020). Abstinence from Masturbation and Hypersexuality. Arch Sex Behav, 49, 1333–1343 https://doi.org/10.1007/s10508-019-01623-8; Grubbs, J.B., Perry, S.L., Wilt, J.A. et al. (2019). Pornography Problems Due to Moral Incongruence: An Integrative Model with a Systematic Review and Meta-Analysis. Arch Sex Behav 48, 397–415.

[ix] Goldstein, A. (2020). Beyond porn literacy: Drawing on young people’s pornography narratives to expand sex education pedagogies. Sex Education, 20(1), 59-74.

[x] Pound, P., Langford, R., & Campbell, R. (2016). What do young people think about their school-based sex and relationship education? A qualitative synthesis of young people’s views and experiences. BMJ open, 6(9), e011329.

[xi] Mason, B. (1993). Towards positions of Safe Uncertainty. Human Systems 4: 189–200.

[xii] Maas, M. K., Gal, T., Cary, K. M., & Greer, K. (2022). Popular culture and pornography education to improve the efficacy of secondary school staff response to student sexual harassment. American Journal of Sexuality Education, 17(4), 435-457.

[xiii] Goldstein, A. (2020). Beyond porn literacy: Drawing on young people’s pornography narratives to expand sex education pedagogies. Sex Education, 20(1), 59-74.

[xiv] Davis, A. C., Wright, C. J., Murphy, S., Dietze, P., Temple-Smith, M. J., Hellard, M. E., & Lim, M. S. (2020). A digital pornography literacy resource co-designed with vulnerable young people: Development of” the gist”. Journal of Medical Internet Research, 22(6), e15964.

[xv] Döring, N. (2024). Social media and sex education. In The Palgrave Encyclopedia of Sexuality Education (pp. 1-9). Cham: Springer International Publishing.

[xvi] Davis et al., 2020 (ibid)