Building	better	sex	robots:	Lessons	from	Feminist	Pornography By	John	Danaher (Penultimate	Draft	of	a	paper	due	to	appear	in	AI	Love	YouDevelopments	on Human-Robot	Intimate	Relations,	edited	by	Yuefang	Zhou	and	Martin	Fischer	to	be published	by	Springer) Abstract:	How	should	we	react	to	the	development	of	sexbot	technology?	Taking their	cue	from	anti-porn	feminism,	several	academic	critics	lament	the	development of	sexbot	technology,	arguing	that	it	objectifies	and	subordinates	women,	is	likely	to promote	misogynistic	attitudes	toward	sex,	and	may	need	to	be	banned	or restricted.	In	this	chapter	I	argue	for	an	alternative	response.	Taking	my	cue	from	the sex	positive	'feminist	porn'	movement,	I	argue	that	the	best	response	to	the development	of	'bad'	sexbots	is	to	make	better	ones.	This	will	require	changes	to	the content,	process	and	context	of	sexbot	development.	Doing	so	will	acknowledge	the valuable	role	that	technology	can	play	in	human	sexuality,	and	allow	us	to	challenge gendered	norms	and	assumptions	about	male	and	female	sexual	desire.	This	will	not be	a	panacea	to	the	social	problems	that	could	arise	from	sexbot	development,	but	it offers	a	more	realistic	and	hopeful	vision	for	the	future	of	this	technology	in	a pluralistic	and	progressive	society. Key	words:	Feminism;	pornography;	sexbots;	objectification;	commodification; subordination;	anti-porn;	sex	positive	feminism The	idea	of	the	sexbot	has	captured	our	collective	cultural	imagination.	In	the past	few	years,	a	spate	of	films,	TV	shows,	documentaries	and	newspaper	articles have	touted	the	technological	possibilities	and	debated	the	societal	consequences	of the	rise	of	the	sexbot.	Some	of	this	debate	has	been	quite	heated.	Indeed,	there	are signs	that	the	sexbot	could	be	the	new	battleground	in	our	ongoing	culture	wars around	sex	and	sexuality	(Reiss	2006).1	For	example,	in	November	2015,	the	2nd International	Congress	on	Love	and	Sex	with	Robots,	which	was	due	to	take	place	in Iskander	Malaysia,	was	abruptly	cancelled	by	its	organisers.	Islam	is	the	official	state 1	Note	I	use	the	term	'culture	war'	to	refer	to	a	set	of	debates	that	are	located around	common	themes	concerning	restrictive	vs	pluralistic	views	of	sex	and sexuality.	For	more	on	this	phenomenon	see	Reiss	2006. religion	in	Malaysia	and	the	authorities	there	expressed	opposition	to	the conference.	The	Inspector	General	of	Police	Khalid	Abu	Bakar	said	that	there	was nothing	'scientific'	about	the	topic	and	that	sex	between	humans	and	robots	was 'illegal	in	Malaysia'	(Reese	2015).	This	did	not	deter	the	organisers,	who	decided	to host	the	congress	at	Goldsmith's	University	London	instead.	Buoyed	by	its	success, they	decided	to	host	a	third	Congress	in	Goldsmith's	in	December	of	2017.	But	the venue	had	to	be	changed	due	to	'credible	threats...by	Muslim	extremists'	(Hill	2017). It's	not	just	religious	extremists	who	find	the	idea	of	sex	between	humans	and robots	problematic.	Certain	strands	of	feminism	find	it	problematic	too.	The	most vocal	exemplar	of	this	is	Kathleen	Richardson,	a	Professor	of	the	Ethics	and	Culture of	AI	at	De	Montfort	University,	Leicester.	In	September	of	2015,	she	launched	the Campaign	Against	Sex	Robots,2	arguing	that	we	ought	to	oppose	the	development	of this	technology	because	it	will	encourage	humans	(specifically	men)	to	treat	other humans	(specifically	women)	in	an	objectified	and	commodified	way. This	is	not	the	first	time	that	religious	extremists	and	(certain)	feminists	have found	common	cause	on	the	matter	of	sexual	propriety.	We've	been	here	before.	In the	1980s	and	early	1990s,	the	radical	feminists	Catharine	MacKinnon	and	Andrea Dworkin	waged	war	against	pornography,	and	in	the	mid-2000s	a	new	cohort	of	antiporn	feminists	came	to	prominence	decrying	the	particular	harms	caused	by	the abundance	of	pornography	available	via	the	internet.	These	anti-porn	feminists	have forged	uneasy	alliances	with	conservative	religious	groups	in	the	past,	adopting many	of	their	tropes	and	tactics	in	an	attempt	to	rescue	people	from	a	pornified culture	(Smith	and	Atwood	2012). But	these	thinkers	and	activists	have	always	been resisted	from	within	feminism	itself,	with	many	arguing	that	there	is	a	space	for	sexpositive,	female-friendly	pornography	that	does	not	stereotype	or	restrict	female sexual	pleasure	(Taormino	et	al	2012;	Davies	2017;	Moreland	2015). Is	there	anything	to	be	learned	from	the	history	of	the	porn	wars	for	the emerging	sexbot	wars?	In	particular,	is	there	a	way	for	feminists	to	embrace	the creation	of	sexbots	just	as	(some)	have	embraced	the	creation	of	pornography	in	the past?	I	think	there	is.	I	will	make	this	case	by	first	considering	the	ways	in	which	antisexbot	feminism	is	influenced	by	the	arguments	of	anti-porn	feminism,	and	then	by showing	how	it	could	be	influenced	by	the	arguments	of	sex	positive	feminism. 1.	The	Arguments	of	Anti-Porn	Feminism 2	See	https://campaignagainstsexrobots.org	(accessed	30/6/2018) Those	who	have	watched	mainstream	heterosexual	pornography	cannot	help but	notice	its	repetitive	content	and	style.	It	is	filmed	from	the	'male	gaze'.	Women are	presented	as	sexual	objects	-	playthings	to	be	subordinated	for	male	pleasure. They	are	penetrated	from	all	angles,	beaten,	choked	and	ejaculated	upon.	Even	if viewers	are	sexually	stimulated	by	this	content,	they	may	worry	about	the	moral propriety	of	this	stimulation.	What	does	it	say	about	their	sexual	psyches?	If	they	are particularly	conscientious,	they	may	even	worry	about	the	lives	and	experiences	of the	performers.	Did	they	really	consent	to	being	depicted	in	this	way?	Do	they	need to	be	'saved'	from	the	industry? Anti-porn	feminism	is	grounded	in	concerns	of	this	sort.	Starting	in	1970s	and 1980s,	and	continuing	through	the	present	day,	a	vocal	strand	of	feminist	thought has	always	maintained	a	steadfast	opposition	to	the	depictions	of	women	in pornography.	The	most	well-known	proponents	of	this	view	were	Catharine MacKinnon	and	Andrea	Dworkin	(MacKinnon	1996).	MacKinnon	was	(and	still	is)	a prominent	feminist	legal	scholar,	responsible	for	a	number	of	significant interventions	in	the	areas	of	sexual	harassment	and	rape.	Dworkin	was	a	feminist author	and	campaigner.	Sharing	a	common	concern	about	the	misogynistic	content of	mainstream	pornography,	MacKinnon	and	Dworkin	sought	practical	legal	reforms that	could	address	the	problem	in	a	way	that	empowered	ordinary	women.	This meant	avoiding	the	classic	legal	solution	to	the	problem	of	pornography:	state censorship.	The	state,	after	all,	was	a	manifestation	of	the	patriarchy.	So	they	tried something	else.	They	drafted	a	civil	rights	ordinance	that	would	enable	women	to sue	for	the	harm	caused	to	them	-	as	a	collective	-	by	the	production	and distribution	of	pornography.	They	travelled	throughout	the	United	States	trying	to get	these	ordinances	on	the	statute	books. MacKinnon	and	Dworkin	generated	much	heat,	but	little	light	through	their efforts.	More	mainstream,	liberal	scholars	argued	that	pornography	fell	under	free speech	protections	and	MacKinnon's	civil	rights	ordinances	were	never	upheld	in court.	This	did	not	end	the	opposition	to	pornography.	Other	scholars	took	up MacKinnon's	baton,	trying	to	craft	more	philosophically	sophisticated	and	rigorous defences	of	her	views,	and	integrating	them	into	liberal	strands	of	feminist	thought. Furthermore,	in	the	early	2000s,	once	the	pornographic	potential	of	the	internet became	more	apparent,	a	new	movement	of	anti-porn	feminism	arose.	Spearheaded by	the	likes	of	Gail	Dines	(2010)	and	Melissa	Tankard	Reist	(2011),	this	movement drew	distinctions	between	the	'old'	and	'new'	worlds	of	pornography.	Indeed,	some of	its	leaders	have	an	almost	nostalgic	view	of	pornography	from	the	1950s	and 1960s.	Dines,	for	instance,	has	argued	that	internet-based	porn	is	'not	your	father's Playboy'	and	that	there	is	something	far	more	disturbing	about	it	in	terms	of	its accessibility	and	extremeness	(Smith	and	Attwood	2012).	This	new	wave	of	anti-porn feminism	has	continued	to	the	present	day,	with	several	prominent	male conservatives	also	trying	to	highlight	the	harms	of	internet-based	porn	(Shapiro 2013). What	is	the	intellectual	basis	for	anti-porn	feminism?	It	is	difficult	to	distill	30plus	years	of	scholarship	into	a	handful	of	simply	formulated	arguments	- particularly	since	these	arguments	have	been	refined	and	elaborated	in	response	to criticism	over	the	years.	Nevertheless,	some	simplification	is	possible.	All	anti-porn feminists	think	that	porn	is	harmful	to	women	and	contrary	to	the	goal	of	gender equality.	Some	are	particularly	concerned	about	what	happens	to	the	women	who appear	in	pornographic	material.	Famously,	Linda	Lovelace,	the	star	of	the	infamous Deep	Throat	film	brought	allegations	of	abuse	and	rape	against	the	film's	producer (her	husband	at	the	time)	years	after	its	release	(Lovelace	and	McGrady	1980).	She	is not	alone.	Allegations	of	this	sort	are	not	uncommon	in	the	porn-world	(or,	as	we are	now	learning	in	the	wake	of	the	Harvey	Weinstein	scandal,	in	mainstream Hollywood). Notwithstanding	the	importance	of	this	issue,	most	anti-porn	feminists	focus their	opposition	on	the	harm	to	women	who	are	not	directly	involved	in	the production	of	pornography.	They	differ	in	how	they	characterise	and	understand that	harm.	Most	view	the	harm	in	collective	terms,	i.e.	as	something	that	accrues	to all	women	as	a	social	class	not	just	(or	necessarily)	to	individual	women.	Some	view the	harm	as	intrinsic	to	the	production	and	distribution	of	porn,	i.e.	they	think	that pornography,	in	and	of	itself,	constitutes	a	kind	of	harm	to	women.	Some	view	the harm	in	more	instrumental	or	causal	terms,	i.e.	they	think	that	pornography	causes harm	to	women	due	to	the	effects	of	repeated	exposure. Those	who	favour	the	instrumental	view	find	themselves	embroiled	in	the 'effects'	debate.	This	is	the	ongoing	empirical	debate	about	the	effects	of	exposure to	pornography	on	'real	world'	behaviour.	The	standard	anti-porn	claim	is	that exposure	to	hardcore	pornography	normalises	misogynistic	attitudes	among	its consumers	and	encourages	them	to	act	in	sexually	violent	ways.	This	claim	is	hotly contested.	There	is	no	shortage	of	studies	done	on	the	effects	of	pornography,	but there	are	conflicting	results	and	considerable	controversy	about	the	direction	and strength	of	the	causal	link	(for	reviews	of	the	empirical	literature	see	Danaher	2017a and	2017b).	The	existence	of	such	controversy	has	led	many	anti-porn	feminists	to develop	alternative,	more	'sophisticated'	theories	concerning	the	causal	link between	pornography	and	real-world	behaviour	(Eaton	2007),	or	to	simply	sidestep the	debate	altogether. That's	effectively	what	MacKinnon	and	Dworkin	did	in	their	campaign. MacKinnon	(1996),	in	particular,	articulated	one	of	the	most	influential	critiques	of the	intrinsic	harm	of	pornography.	She	argued	that	pornography	constituted,	and	not merely	caused,	harm	to	women.	Specifically,	she	argued	that	pornography	silenced and	subordinated	women	as	a	class.	Pornography	depicted	women	in	objectified, commodified	and	dehumanised	forms.	It	thus	communicated	the	view	that	women's consent,	autonomy	and	pleasure	are	not	to	be	taken	seriously	in	sexual	interactions. This	communicated	content	was	what	silenced	and	subordinated	women.	The	more recent	anti-porn	feminists	have	argued	that	the	objectification,	commodification	and dehumanisation	of	women	through	pornography	has	been	exacerbated	by	the internet	(Smith	and	Attwood	2012).	On	porn	websites,	pornographic	scenes	are edited	and	remixed	into	short	clips	and	compilations	of	particular	sexual	acts.	This 'unbundling'	of	pornographic	content	from	any	pretense	of	narrative	or	moviemaking,	speeds	up	the	commodification	process. Of	course,	it	is	a	little	difficult	to	see	how	the	MacKinnon-style	claim	differs	from the	'effects'-claim.	Surely	what	MacKinnon	was	arguing	was	that	pornography	has the	effect	of	silencing	and	subordinating	women,	not	that	it	amounts	to	the	silencing and	subordination	of	women?	But	no,	this	was	not	what	she	was	trying	to	argue. Other	feminist	scholars	such	as	Rae	Langton	(1993)	and	Mary	Kate	McGowan	(2004) have	tried	to	make	sense	of	MacKinnon's	arguments	by	relying	on	the	tools	of speech	act	theory.	First	defended	by	the	philosopher	JL	Austin,	speech	act	theory starts	from	the	simple	observation	that	speech	(defined	broadly	to	include	words and	images)	doesn't	merely	report	on	how	the	world	is;	it	also	does	things	to	the world,	particularly	the	social	world.	When	a	judge	declares	that	someone	is	guilty, she	is	not	simply	reporting	a	fact;	she	is	saying	something	that	alters	the	legal	status of	that	person.	The	position	defended	by	Langton	and	McGowan	is	that	pornography is	not	merely	a	depiction	of	women;	it	is	doing	something	to	women	through	its depictions.	Their	arguments	are	complex,	and	McGowan	in	particular	is	cagey	about their	ultimate	persuasiveness,	but	in	essence	they	both	argue	that	pornography	has a	kind	of	social	authority	(similar	to	that	of	the	judge)	that	allows	it	to	establish	the norms	for	sexual	engagement.	Due	to	the	content	of	pornography,	the	norms	it establishes	are	ones	that	serve	to	silence	and	subordinate	women. This	may	be	a	little	difficult	to	wrap	your	head	around.	Does	pornography	really have	that	kind	of	social	authority?	Should	we	think	of	pornography	as	a	kind	of speech?	Some	anti-porn	feminists	lament	the	equation	of	pornography	with	speech. For	example,	Joan	Mason-Grant	(2008)	argues	that	we	should	view	porn	as	an 'embodied	practice',	something	that	is	produced	and	consumed	through	'embodied enactments'	and	that	habituates	us	to	a	particular	style	of	behaviour.	This	may	be	a more	plausible	view,	but	MacKinnon's	use	of	the	'speech'	paradigm	was	deliberate and	strategic.	She	was	fully	aware	that	defenders	of	pornography	would	try	to	use free	speech	principles	to	protect	what	they	were	doing.	She	was	trying	to	undercut them	by	arguing	that	pornography	was	not	ordinary	speech.	It	was	a	harmful	speech act. The	nuances	of	these	arguments	are	fascinating	in	their	own	right,	but	we	would be	detained	excessively	by	considering	them.	The	question	before	us	is	whether these	anti-porn	arguments	carry	over	into	the	debate	about	sex	robots.	Do	we	see similar	arguments	and	ideas	being	adopted?	Indeed	we	do. 2.	The	Arguments	of	Anti-Sexbot	Feminism Although	sex	robots	have	long	been	an	object	of	literary	and	cultural imagination,	their	technical	feasibility	has	only	become	apparent	in	recent	years.	Sex dolls,	of	course,	have	been	with	us	for	some	time.	The	classic	origin	story	tells	us	that they	were	invented	by	Dutch	sailors	in	the	1700s	(hence	the	still	common	name	for sex	dolls	of	'Dutch	Wives'	in	certain	parts	of	the	world).	But	sex	dolls	are	just inanimate,	unintelligent	mannequins	that	can	be	manipulated	by	their	users	for sexual	pleasure.	The	possibility	of	a	sex	robot,	one	that	can	move	and	react intelligently	to	its	user,	is	only	now	becoming	a	reality.	A	handful	of	companies	are racing	to	create	the	world's	first	fully	functional	sexbot	-	something	that	will provide	a	realistic	facsimile	of	human-to-human	sexual	contact (Owsianik	2017). Given	other	advances	in	robotics	and	artificial	intelligence,	it	is	only	a	matter	of	time before	these	sophisticated	and	fully	functional	sexbots	become	more	widely available. This	has	provoked	a	handful	of	scholars	to	wonder	about	the	social	and	ethical consequences	of	this	development.	A	burgeoning	literature	is	now	emerging,	with numerous	peer-reviewed	articles	on	the	topic,	and	several	books	published	or	due	to be	published	(Devlin	2018;	Richardson	2018;	Danaher	and	McArthur	2017;	Cheok and	Levy	2018;	and	Cheok,	Devlin	and	Levy	2017).	Within	this	literature	there	is	a small	but	noticeable	strand	of	anti-sexbot	feminism	that	follows	the	anti-porn playbook.	This	anti-sexbot	feminism	starts	from	the	observation	that	the	current projects	aimed	at	developing	sexbots	are,	in	the	main,	trying	to	create	sexbots	that look	like	women	and	cater	to	a	largely	male	customer	base.	This	is	undoubtedly	true. Although	companies	like	TrueCompanion	and	Abyss	Creations	do	create	male sexbots,	this	is	clearly	a	secondary	market.	For	example	TrueCompanion	–	who	may or	may	not	have	ever	sold	or	produced	a	functional	sex	robot3	–	don't	provide images	of	their	male	model	on	their	website,	but	have	demoed	a	physical	version	of their	female	model.	And	Abyss	Creations	makers	of	the	world's	most	realistic	sex dolls	(Real	Dolls),	and	now	creating	sex	robots	(RealBotix)	focus	predominantly	on female	models,	even	though	they	have	now	created	a	male	model.	Furthermore, Abyss	Creations	make	dolls/robots	of	a	very	particular	body-shape	and	type.	They typically	make	dolls	that	recreate	the	'porn-star'	look,	i.e.	large-breasted	and	thinwaisted.	Matt	McMullen,	founder	of	Abyss	Creations,	does	make	custom	dolls	that appeal	to	a	more	diverse	set	of	tastes,	but	these	are	in	the	minority	(and	customers pay	a	premium	price	for	the	bespoke	service).	Furthermore,	the	conversational	style of	the	available	sex	robots	-	based	on	YouTube	videos	uploaded	by	their	creators4 -	seems	to	follow	a	typical	'porn-type'	script	and	make	assumptions	about	the	type of	behaviour	that	men	desire	in	women.5 Starting	from	these	observations,	anti-sexbot	feminists	then	develop	their arguments	on	a	common	template.	On	previous	occasions,	I	have	referred	to	this	as the	'symbolic-consequences'	template	because	it	works	from	the	claim	that	there	is something	symbolically	harmful	about	the	production,	design	and	behaviour	of sexbots,	to	the	claim	that	this	will	have	harmful	consequences	for	society	(Danaher 2017b).	In	other	words,	the	arguments	of	anti-sexbot	feminists	typically	blend together	the	intrinsic	and	instrumental	arguments	of	anti-porn	feminists. The	aforementioned	Kathleen	Richardson	is	undoubtedly	the	strongest proponent	of	anti-sexbot	feminism	-	the	Catharine	MacKinnon	of	the	robot	age. Along	with	her	colleague	Erik	Brilling,	she	launched	the	Campaign	Against	Sex	Robots in	September	2015.	She	set	out	the	campaign's	main	arguments	in	a	position	paper, which	she	has	expanded	in	a	series	of	talks	and	debates,	and	is	currently	developing 3	The	status	of	TrueCompanion's	robot	is	doubted	by	some.	David	Levy	(2013) has	expressed	significant	doubts.	For	an	overview	of	the	controversy,	see	Gray (2015) 4	For	an	example,	see	the	conversation	depicted	in	the	promotional	video	for Synthea	Amatus's	sex	robot	Samantha,	available	at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0FHzg3T3yrw	(accessed	30/6/2018).	It should	be	noted,	however,	that	the	maker	of	Samantha	(Dr.	Sergio	Santos)	is aware	of	some	of	the	feminist	critiques	and	intends	to	add	features	–	such	as	the capacity	of	Samantha	to	say	„no'	to	sex	–	in	order	to	address	these	concerns.	For more	on	this	see	Santos	and	Vasquez	2017. 5	For	more	on	the	importance	of	this,	see	Bendel	2017 into	book-length	treatment	(Richardson	2015	&	2018).	The	essence	of	her	view	is very	straightforward.	She	worries	about	the	modern	tendency	to	objectify	and commodify	the	human	body.	She	thinks	it	is	ethically	problematic	to	view	one's	own body	and	the	bodies	of	others	as	'things'	that	can	be	alienated	from	the	self	and bought	and	sold	on	a	market.	She	sees	a	general	trend	towards	such commodification	in	neo-liberal,	capitalistic	societies,	and	views	it	as	particular problem	for	women	who	are	bought	and	sold	on	sex	markets.	She	thinks	that	the development	of	sexbots	exacerbates	and	speeds	up	this	trend. In	fact,	she	argues that	the	sexbot	represents	the	ultimate	objectification	and	commodification	of	the female	body.	The	goal	of	sexbot	advocates	like	David	Levy	-	author	of	one	the ground-breaking	works	on	the	topic	Love	and	Sex	with	Robots	(2007)	-	is	to recreate	a	prostitute-john	style	relationship	in	robot	form.	Richardson	thinks	this	will normalise	the	view	of	women's	bodies	as	'things'	to	be	manipulated	and	sold	for sexual	pleasure: '...by	drawing	on	prostitution	as	the	model	for	human-robot	sexual	relations,	Levy shows	that	the	sellers	of	sex	are	seen	by	the	buyers	of	sex	as	things	and	not recognised	as	human	subjects.	This	legitimates	a	dangerous	mode	of	existence where	humans	can	move	about	in	relations	with	other	humans	but	not	recognise them	as	human	subjects	in	their	own	right.' (Richardson	2015,	290) Richardson	makes	strong	claims	about	the	causal	effects	of	interacting	with sexbots.	Drawing	on	analogies	with	prostitution,	pornography	and	sex	toys,	she argues	that	there	is	no	reason	to	think	that	the	widespread	availability	of	sexbots	will somehow	sate	the	desire	for	objectified	sexual	relations	(and	thereby	reduce	harm to	'real	world'	women).	On	the	contrary,	she	argues	that	there	is	reason	to	suspect that	it	will	heighten	such	desire. A	similar,	though	more	moderate,	set	of	anti-sexbot	arguments	can	be	found	in	a paper	written	by	the	Canadian-lawyer	Sinziana	Gutiu.	Titled	'The	Roboticization	of Consent',	and	clearly	influenced	by	the	work	of	anti-porn	feminism,	the	paper	argues that	there	is	something	deeply	disturbing	about	the	representational	properties	of sexbots.	They	recreate	women	as	passive,	ever-consenting	sexual	tools,	which	will contribute	to	their	silencing	and	subordination,	and	will	normalise	a	'rape	culture': To	the	user,	the	sex	robot	looks	and	feels	like	a	real	woman	who	is	programmed into	submission	and	which	functions	as	a	tool	for	sexual	purposes.	The	sex	robot is	an	ever-consenting	sexual	partner	and	the	user	has	full	control	of	the	robot	and the	sexual	interaction.	By	circumventing	any	need	for	consent,	sex	robots eliminate	the	need	for	communication,	mutual	respect,	and	compromise	in	the sexual	relationship.	The	use	of	sex	robots	results	in	the	dehumanization	of	sex and	intimacy	by	allowing	users	to	physically	act	out	rape	fantasies	and	confirm rape	myths. (Gutiu	2012,	2) The	argumentative	style	here	is	very	similar	to	that	of	MacKinnon,	and	Gutiu even	proposes	a	similar	legal	solution	to	the	problem	of	sexbots.	She	is	not comfortable	with	the	idea	of	a	total	ban	on	sexbots	because	she	thinks	there	are competing	values	at	play	(freedom	of	expression;	the	need	to	encourage	innovation; and	the	need	for	empirical	research	on	human	sexuality)	that	ought	to	be	balanced against	the	good	of	limiting	sex	robots.	Nevertheless,	she	thinks	that	private	legal remedies	should	be	made	available	to	women	who	are	harmed	as	a	result	of	their proliferation. Both	Richardson	and	Gutiu	are	much	stronger	on	the	likely	effects	of	sexbot usage	than	many	contributors	to	the	anti-porn	literature.	But	there	are	some	antisexbot	arguments	that	focus	purely	on	the	intrinsic/symbolic	harms	of	sexbots. Robert	Sparrow	has	developed	one	such	argument	in	a	paper	entitled	'Robots,	Rape and	Representation'	(Sparrow	2017).	His	argument	focuses	on	robots	that	facilitate rape	fantasies	by	communicating	a	refusal	to	consent.	Though	Sparrow	confesses	to being	a	fan	of	the	claim	that	sexbots	will	cause	users	to	act	out	in	problematic	ways, he	concedes	that	this	may	be	difficult	to	prove.	So	he	focuses	instead	on	the expressive	and	representational	harms	involved	in	designing	robots	that	facilitate rape	fantasies.	He	says	that	the	use	of	such	robots	would	be	problematic	because	it (a)	would	express	disrespect	for	women	(a	speech	act	style	argument)	and	(b) demonstrate	a	significant	character	defect	on	the	part	of	the	user. These	anti-sexbot	arguments	can	certainly	be	criticised.	Although	I	have	myself defended	something	similar	to	Sparrow's	argument	in	relation	to	child	sexbots	and rape-bots	(Danaher	2017a),	I	am	nonetheless	very	wary	of	arguments	that	make robust	claims	about	the	likely	effects	of	sexbots	on	behaviour	due	to	the	great empirical	controversies	in	other	'effects'	debates;	furthermore,	I	think	that	the symbolic	meaning	and	character	of	sexbots	is	more	contingent	and	reformable	than critics	suppose	and	that	trying	to	ban	or	limit	the	production	of	sexbots	is	unlikely	to be	effective	(Danaher	2017b).	I	think	a	better	strategy	is	to	change	how	we	think about	and	ultimately	create	the	technology.	This	is	where	the	history	of	sex	positive feminism	can	prove	instructive. 3.	The	Case	for	Feminist	Pornography Anti-porn	feminism	has	always	been	resisted	from	within	feminism	itself.	As	soon as	MacKinnon	and	Dworkin	started	to	market	their	anti-porn	wares,	a	cohort	of	sex positive	feminists	were	quick	to	respond.	These	sex	positive	feminists	argued	that anti-porn	feminism,	in	its	desire	to	rid	the	world	of	misogynistic	content,	overlooked the	positive	role	that	pornography	can	play	in	female	sexuality.	To	state	the	obvious: sex	is	a	human	good,	and	women	can	and	do	enjoy	sex	as	much	(if	not	more)	than men.	Women	like	to	explore	the	boundaries	of	their	sexuality;	many	women	find that	pornographic	content	enables	them	to	do	this;	and	at	least	some	women	find that	producing,	distributing	and	participating	in	porn	has	a	positive	role	in	their	lives. You	don't	have	to	go	far	to	find	evidence	of	this.	Books	such	as	The	Feminist	Porn Book	(Taormino	et	al	2013),	Coming	Out	Like	a	Porn	Star	(Lee	2015)	,	and Pornography	Feminism:	As	Powerful	as	She	Wants	to	Be	(Moreland	2015),	are	filled with	testimony	from	female	(and	male,	transgender	and	genderqueer)	pornstars who	feel	empowered	by	their	participation	in	pornography.	Consider	the	testimony of	Dylan	Ryan: My	initial	ideals	about	my	role	in	porn	slowly	transformed	into	what	I	actually	did in	porn.	Porn	has	been	a	positive	choice	for	me.	It	is	no	longer	something	I	think will	be	good	for	me,	it	is	something	I	can	say	has	been	empowering	and strengthening	rather	than	oppressive	and	denigrating. (Taormino	et	al	2013,	128) Or	Lorelei	Lee: What	I	can	tell	you	is	that	as	I	continued	to	do	this	work	-	as	I	came	up	against my	own	ideas	about	femininity,	power	and	sex	-	I	found	strength	in	the	part	of my	identity	that	developed	out	of	my	experiences	as	a	sex	worker.	I	found	a manifesto	of	my	own	ethics,	and	I	found	that,	to	my	surprise,	I	believe	deeply	in the	positive	power	of	sexually	explicit	imagery. (Taormino	et	al	2013,	200) Or	Nina	Hartley: [B]eyond	providing	a	perfect	playground	for	my	hedonistic	indulgences,	I	saw	and continue	to	see	porn	as	a	means	by	which	to	share	my	deeply	held	ideas	and opinions	about	sex,	pleasure,	love,	and	intimacy	with	other	like-minded	folks. (Taormino	et	al	2013,	230) It	is	hard	to	argue	that	these	women	are	participating	in	their	own	silencing	and subordination,	Indeed,	it	seems	like	they	are	doing	the	exact	opposite	(at	least	by their	own	lights).	As	Alex	Davies	notes,	the	existence	of	such	female	pornographers poses	a	dilemma	for	anti-porn	feminists	(Davies	2017).	The	typical	response	from	the anti-porn	feminists	is	to	completely	ignore	them	or	suggest	that	they	are	victims	of false	consciousness	(i.e.	that	their	expressions	of	their	own	sexual	desires	and preferences	are	not	truly	authentic	or	genuine).	But	this	is	a	difficult	case	to	make. It's	hard	to	read	the	testimony	of	someone	like	Nina	Hartley	and	think	that	she	is	not expressing	her	authentic	self.	What's	more,	you	get	the	sneaking	suspicion	that	no expression	of	female	sexual	desire	could	ever	be	authentic	enough	to	please	the anti-porn	school	of	thought.	For	example,	Jane	Ward,	professor	of	Women's	Studies at	UC	Riverside,	recounts	the	time	she	attended	a	talk	by	Ariel	Levy,	author	of	the book	Female	Chauvinist	Pigs	(Levy	2005).	In	the	book,	Levy	criticises	'raunch	culture' and	argues	that	women	who	enthusiastically	participate	in	it	are	not	sexually liberated	or	providing	an	authentic	expression	of	their	sexuality.	Ward	wondered what	an	authentic	expression	of	female	sexuality	should	look	like	and	asked	Levy about	this	after	her	talk: At	this	point,	I	asked	her	pointedly,	"what	do	you	want	women	to	find	sexy?"	She laughed	and	responded	that	it	wasn't	for	her	to	say.	"But	isn't	that	what's	at stake	here?"	I	asked. (Taormino	et	al	2013,	p	134) According	to	sex	positive	feminism,	it	is,	indeed,	what	is	at	stake.	Unless	we completely	suppress	or	deny	female	sexuality,	women	can	and	will	find	things	sexy, and	pornography	can	and	will	play	a	role	in	helping	them	to	figure	this	out.	This	is not	to	say	that	sex	positive	feminists	think	that	there	are	no	problems	with	the depiction	of	women	in	mainstream	pornography,	or	that	it	always	has	a	positive influence	on	their	lives.	It	is,	rather,	to	say	that	they	think	the	solution	to	bad	porn	is simply	to	make	better	porn	-	in	short:	to	make	'feminist	pornography'. What	does	this	entail?	According	to	the	Toronto-based	feminist	sex	shop	Good for	Her,	in	order	for	a	pornographic	work	to	count	for	the	purposes	of	the	Feminist Porn	Awards: "a	woman	must	have	been	involved	in	the	production,	writing	or	direction	of	the work;	or	the	work	must	convey	genuine	female	pleasure;	or	the	piece	must expand	the	boundaries	of	sexual	representation	and	challenge	mainstream	porn stereotypes." (Weber	2013) This	corresponds,	roughly,	to	how	feminist	pornography	has	been	pursued	in academic	and	practical	circles.	There	are,	in	essence,	three	schools	of	thought	on how	to	create	truly	feminist	pornography:	(i)	the	content	school;	(ii)	the	procedural school;	and	(iii)	the	contextual	school. The	content	school	focuses	on	the	actual	representations	and	depictions	of women	in	pornography.	It	believes	that	in	order	to	make	truly	feminist	pornography you	have	to	change	the	content	of	porn:	provide	more	realistic	depictions	of	female sexuality	and	make	it	appeal	more	to	women.	One	of	the	pioneers	in	this	field	was Candida	Royalle	(2013).	She	was	one	of	the	first	women	to	direct	and	produce pornographic	films.	With	her	business	partner,	Lauren	Neimi,	she	founded	a production	company	called	Femme	Productions	that	focused	on	making	porn	that bucked	the	conventions	of	mainstream	porn.	They	depicted	explicit	sex	scenes	that weren't	overly	focused	on	genital	closeups,	that	didn't	end	in	'money	shots'	(i.e.	with the	male	performer	ejaculating	on	the	face	of	the	female	performer),	that	had	closeups	of	people's	faces	while	climaxing,	and	that	focused,	generally,	on	tenderness, connectedness	and	sensuality.	They	also	tried	to	depict	women	of	all	ages	and	types, and	to	shoot	their	films	in	a	cinema	vérité	style.	In	short,	the	guiding	ethos	of	their approach	was	to	avoid	the	objectification,	domination	and	subordination	of	women that	is	common	in	mainstream	pornography. This	remains	a	popular	way	in	which	to	create	feminist	porn.	But	it	has	its	critics. Some	women	claim	to	be	attracted	to	more	objectifying	forms	of	pornography,	and enjoy	playing	with	fantasies	of	subordination	and	domination	in	their	sex	lives (Davies	2017).	Academic	critics	also	worry	that	the	content	approach	pigeonholes and	stereotypes	female	sexual	desire.	The	danger	with	the	content	school	is	that	it assumes	that	there	is	a	certain	type	of	porn	that	interests	women	and	another	type that	interests	men.	For	those	feminists	who	wish	to	challenge	the	gender	binary,	this does	not	sit	well	(Devlin	2015). This	is	one	reason	why	the	procedural	and	contextual	schools	of	thought	have arisen.	Instead	of	focusing	specifically	on	the	content,	proponents	of	these approaches	think	that	we	should	focus	on	the	procedures	through	which pornography	is	produced	and	the	contexts	in	which	it	is	consumed.	Tristan	Taormino (2013)	is	a	proponent	of	the	procedural	approach	and	adopts	an	ethical	charter	for the	creation	of	her	own	pornographic	films.	She	has	long	discussions	with	the performers	about	their	sexual	preferences	and	desires	(often	forming	part	of	the films	themselves);	and	she	includes	them	in	all	decisions	about	what	is	going	to	be shot	and	who	they	will	be	performing	with.	She	wants	the	performers	to	create	their own	preferred	representations,	and	not	necessarily	conform	to	some	predefined script	or	ideal,	though	there	is	a	balance	to	be	struck	here	and	she	does	also	care about	representing	female	desires	and	preferences.	Academics	like	Lynn	Comella (2017)	and	Matt	Drabek	(2016)	are	proponents	of	the	contextual	approach,	arguing that	what	ultimately	matters	are	the	contexts	in	which	porn	are	distributed	and consumed.	Provided	this	is	done	in	the	right	social	environment,	in	a	thoughtful manner	that	includes	women's	voices	and	perspectives,	and	takes	seriously	broader concerns	about	gender	equality,	it	is	possible	for	even	extremely	objectifying pornography	to	count	as	feminist. To	be	clear,	although	the	feminist	approach	to	pornography	tries	to	ensure	that the	female	perspective	and	voice	is	included	in	porn,	it	is	not	simply	about	appealing to	female	consumers.	The	goal	is	also	to	produce	porn	that	will	appeal	to	men	and challenge	stereotyped	conceptions	about	the	distinction	between	male	and	female sexual	desire.	Thus,	men	can	and	should	be	involved	in	the	feminist	porn	project. 4.	The	Possibility	of	Feminist	Sex	Robots I	think	the	insights	of	the	feminist	porn	movement	provide	the	basis	for	a positive	reframing	of	the	sex	robot	debate,	and	reimagining	of	the	project	to	create sex	robots.	While	anti-sexbot	arguments	raise	some	important	concerns	about	how women	(in	particular)	are	being	represented	in	robotic	form,	the	response	to	this should	not	be	to	ban	or	limit	the	creation	of	sexbots,	but	simply	to	make	better sexbots	-	i.e.	to	make	'feminist	sexbots'.	The	label	may	not	appeal	to	everyone	but the	project	itself	has	much	to	recommend	it.	It	can	help	us	to	reimagine	what	it means	to	create	a	sexbot,	to	think	about	how	such	robots	could	help	men	and women	explore	the	boundaries	of	their	sexuality,	and	to	consider	how	such	robots could	complement	and	enhance	(rather	than	replace)	human-to-human relationships.	We	don't	need	to	deny	or	repress	this	new	development	in	human sexual	expression;	we	can	simply	try	to	make	it	more	sex	positive. The	project	can	take	its	cue	from	the	three	main	schools	of	thought	in	feminist pornography.	We	can	work	to	ensure	better	content	(i.e.	depictions	or representations	of	female	(and	male)	sexuality	in	robotic	form);	better	processes (i.e.	more	female	voices	included	in	the	production	and	distribution	of	sexbots);	and better	contexts	(i.e.	social	environments	and	conversations	surrounding	the consumption	and	use	of	sexbots). In	terms	of	content,	there	is	clearly	work	to	be	done.	There	is	a	need	for	greater diversity	in	the	forms	that	sexbots	take,	and	the	behavioural	scripts	(be	they	learned or	not)	that	they	follow.	To	insist	on	creating	sexbots	that	adopt	the	'porn-star'	look, and	that	use	unsophisticated	ways	of	expressing	sexual	desire	and	interest,	shows	a lack	of	imagination	when	it	comes	to	the	possibilities	inherent	in	this	technology. Creating	robots	that	are	more	realistic	in	their	representations	(both	physical	and behavioural)	of	women,	that	represent	men,	and	that	perhaps	challenge	the	gender binary	could	be	a	valuable	part	of	the	feminist	project	around	sex	and	sexuality. Indeed,	Kate	Devlin,	one	of	the	clearest	voices	on	this	topic,	has	argued	that	we should	move	beyond	'human-likeness'	as	the	gold-standard	when	it	comes	to	the design	and	function	of	a	sexbot.	She	argues	that	there	could	be	new	forms	and modalities	of	sexual	experience	to	be	discovered	if	we	let	our	imaginations	roam	free (Devlin	2015). But	we	must	also	recall	the	lessons	of	the	feminist	porn	movement	and	realise that	it	is	not	all	about	content	and	form.	Ensuring	better	processes	of	production	and contexts	of	consumption	is	probably	even	more	important.	This	means	making	sure that	the	female	perspective	and	voice	is	not	overlooked	or	ignored,	but	is	rather included	and	incorporated	into	the	design	and	distribution	of	sexbots.	This	can	help ensure	a	more	positive	set	of	representations,	and	a	more	positive	role	for	sexbots	in exploring	the	boundaries	of	human	sexuality.	Fortunately,	there	are	indications	to suggest	that	this	is	already	happening,	particularly	if	we	move	beyond	sexbots	per	se and	consider	the	broader	sextech	industry.	Although	still	dominated	by	men,	and often	facing	severe	limitations	on	how	it	can	be	funded,	the	sextech	industry	is	home to	a	number	of	prominent	and	progressive	female	voices	(Bevan	2016).	Cindy	Gallup and	Stephanie	Alys	are	two	such	voices.	Gallup	is	the	founder	of	the	website 'makelovenotporn',	which	provides	alternative	pornographic	content	and	has recently	created	a	fund	for	female-led	sextech	(Evans	2017).	Alys	is	the	founder	of the	company	MysteryVibe,	whose	flagship	product	is	a	flexible,	'smart',	vibrator.	She has	spoken	frequently	about	the	proper	role	for	the	sextech	industry.	She	argues that	it	should	not	try	to	market	tech	as	a	'solution'	to	some	sexual	problem	the	user may	be	having,	but	rather	as	something	that	can	enhance	subjective	pleasure, facilitate	connection,	and	aid	sexual	discovery	(Alys	2016).	She	sees	the	cultural fascination	around	sexbots	in	a	positive	light	because	when	confronted	with	such objects	most	people	do	not	ask	questions	about	their	features	and	functionality. Instead,	they	ask	deeper	philosophical	questions	about	how	these	robots	relate	to	us (and	how	they	make	us	feel),	and	can	prompt	research	and	development	that furthers	our	understanding	of	relatedness	and	sexuality.	This	can	help	reorient	the conversation	around	technology	and	sex. There	are	also	voices	within	academia	that	provide	a	more	positive	context	for the	design	and	distribution	of	sex	robots.	Julie	Carpenter	(2017)	and	Kate	Devlin (2015	&	2018)	are	pioneers	in	this	regard.	Carpenter	is	a	psychologist/anthropologist who	has	done	extensive	work	on	human-machine	interactions,	and	written	about the	new	forms	of	intimacy	and	sexuality	that	may	be	possible	with	robots.	Devlin	is	a computer	scientist	at	Goldsmith's	University	and	founder	of	the	annual	UK	Sextech Hackathon.	Writing	in	response	to	Kathleen	Richardson's	Campaign	Against	Sex Robots,	Devlin	has	acknowledged	problems	with	the	gendered	stereotypes	inherent in	the	current	crop	of	sexbots,	but	argues	that	our	response	to	this	should	not	be	to 'import	established	prudishness'	into	the	development	of	this	technology.	Instead, we	should	see	sex	robotics	as	something	that	'allows	us	to	explore	issues	without the	restrictions	of	being	human',	and	we	should	look	upon	the	machine	as	a	'blank slate	that	offers	us	the	chance	to	reframe	our	ideas'	(Devlin	2015). These	voices	provide	a	seedbed	from	which	an	appropriate	context	for	a	feminist sexbot	project	can	emerge,	but	they	are	only	the	beginning.	Much	more	is	needed	in this	regard,	including	contributions	from	empirical	researchers	on	how	to	optimize the	positive	impact	of	this	technology.	Some	may	be	skeptical	and	argue	that advocating	for	such	a	project,	however	well-intentioned,	is	naïve	given	that	there may	be	no	market	for	this	kind	of	technology.	People	may	want	the	stereotyped, misogynistic	models.	Indeed,	isn't	that	the	real	lesson	from	the	world	of pornography?	Feminist	porn	has	grown	over	the	years	but	it	has	not	succeeded	in radically	reforming	mainstream	pornography.	It	exists	alongside	it	and	appeals	to	a niche	audience. I	agree	that	we	should	not	be	naïve	about	the	prospects	for	success.	Still,	the	fact that	feminist	porn	has	emerged	and	continues	to	develop	and	thrive	should	provide some	grounds	for	optimism	(along	with	other	positive	developments	in	society around	gender	equality	and	the	awareness	of	misogyny	and	sexual	harassment). Furthermore,	there	may	be	some	grounds	for	greater	optimism	with	regard	to sexbots.	Feminist	porn	arose	as	a	response	to	an	already	well-established	field	of mainstream	hardcore	porn.	When	it	comes	to	sexbots,	the	cultural	conversation	is well	ahead	of	the	technology.	There	is,	consequently,	an	opportunity	to	incorporate the	female	perspective	into	the	technological	project	before	it	becomes	wellestablished. 5.	Conclusion To	use	the	now	clichéd	phrase:	sexbots	are	coming.	If	the	anti-sexbot	feminists are	right,	this	is	something	to	lament	and	oppose.	They	will	distort	our	sexual psyches	and	exacerbate	misogyny	and	subordination.	There	is	reason	to	doubt	that this	will	be	the	case,	but	even	if	it	is	correct,	it's	not	clear	that	the	best	response	is	to simply	ban	or	limit	their	creation.	We	should	learn	from	the	history	of	the	feminist porn	wars	and	from	the	arguments	of	feminist	pornographers.	There	could	be	a	sex positive,	feminist-friendly	role,	for	sexbots	if	we	can	ensure	the	right	content, process	and	context	for	their	creation.	This	is	not	going	to	be	a	panacea.	It	will	not necessarily	resolve	the	deep-seated	origins	of	the	culture	wars	around	sex	and sexuality.	Those	wars	are	rooted	in	fundamental	views	about	societal	values	and norms	(Reiss	2006).	Those	who	favour	traditional,	conservative	and	restrictive	social norms	will	remain	suspicious	of	and	resistant	to	the	technology	of	sex;	and	reversing centuries	(millennia)	of	gender	inequality	and	sexism	is	going	to	take	more	than	a positive	sex	robot	project.	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