Plus: SZA Bug, reality shifting and our loosening grip on reality …
I’ve been writing about sex in some form for most of my adult life. Back in the early aughts I co-founded an NSFW PDF zine that Coolhunting called “the thinking person’s softcore porn.” When I moved to the Bay some years later, I landed a gig writing dialogue and box cover copy for the pioneering porn studio, AMG. That job led to connections at fag rags like BUTT, where I wrote about historical sluts like Denham Fouts and my good friend, David Hurles.
By the time I stumbled my way into corporate media in the 2010s, the adult studio system had fallen to tube sites like Pornhub and XHamster, interactive camming was gaining in popularity, and AI-panic was on the rise. At Engadget, I focused my attention on human-machine intimacy, launching a wildly popular web series about the future of doing it. Computer Love would lead to failed conversations with major publishers and streaming services, an awkward appearance on Dr. Oz, and a couple guest spots on New York Magazine’s Sex Lives podcast.
Computer Love was a hit with viewers–not so much with my corporate overlords. Following an emotional departure as the site’s EiC in 2018, I traded in writing about sex robots and teledildonics for building brands and products in an equally taboo space: adult-use cannabis. In my 20-plus years writing about NATURAL FUCKING ACTS* I’ve been censored and criticized by employers, peers, professors, editors, directors, advertisers, moderators, trolls, and at least one technology trade organization.
But no censor has proven as unrelenting and unpredictable as the algorithm, that ghostly figure that toils in the shadows, silently flagging, banning, and otherwise punishing users seemingly at random. Those of us who exist on the fringes of acceptability, who center taboo topics, have come to know the algorithm as a malevolent and mysterious nemesis that can instantaneously silence your voice with no explanation.
A period of eerie silence follows, and the vicious cycle begins again. Each time, a smarter, more agile adversary emerges.
We hide behind produce emoji, intentional misspellings, and nonsensical homophones (hello seggs) to avoid detection, knowing that even the smallest misstep might summon the beast. The censorship comes in waves. Content raids, unleashed in app updates, trigger surges of post-deletions and warnings. A period of eerie silence follows, and the vicious cycle begins again. Each time, a smarter, more agile adversary emerges.
A couple of weeks back my Instagram engagement took a dip, so I did what I’d done so many times before. I dug deep into the belly of the settings menu and clicked “Account Status.” As I’d suspected, the screen was riddled with orange exclamation marks. Were my ass shots finally deemed too hot for the gram? Had I forgotten to blur the nudes on my office wall? As it turned out, I’d summoned the beast with three simple letters.
Meta had trained its censorship foot soldiers to sniff out “sex” in disguise. My bio, which once read “s🍒x, love and pop culture in the age of AI” was apparently a no-no, as was my logo in all of its altered forms. Strikethroughs, redacted letters, and creative use of emoji all failed to fool the enemy. The algorithm was wise to my tricks.
“Our technology found your content doesn’t follow our guidelines. As a result our technology took action.”
Meta’s nameless “technology” would limit my reach until I edited my profile and deleted multiple posts featuring the Sex and the Cyborg logo. Of course, I could always take it up with management. A big blue button at the bottom of the page encouraged me to appeal the decision. I stared at it with curiosity before going about the business of self-censorship.
I skipped the appeal out of suspicion that it might trigger a deeper audit (not that I necessarily have anything to hide), but I did wonder who or what was on the other side of that request. If I’d clicked, would a level-headed human have stepped in to say, “You know what? ‘Sex’ is okay”? Or would I have gotten caught in an endless acceptability spiral? Just me and the machine chasing each other down a ToS rabbit hole?
According to Instagram’s Help Center it’s a crap shoot:
“Certain appeals may be prioritized for human review, which can limit the amount of requests we're able to look at. Note: Because of this, it may take up to 90 days to hear back from us about our decision, but your request may be closed before we can review it.”
Heavy handed algorithms are just a small part of big tech’s greater push to reign in user generated content. After years of hands-off moderation, increased government scrutiny and legislation backed by anti-trafficking groups have put a chill on previously acceptable forms of expression. Gone are the days of alt.sex, NSFW Tumblr, and Craigslist personals. We’ve reached a point where the mere mention of sex is an offense worthy of punishment.
For decades futurists predicted that technology would bring about a second sexual revolution. Virtual reality, AI, and connected sex toys would enable a world-wide pleasure network where people and machines would unite in unfathomable combinations. Instead, here we are, with the technology at our disposal, backsliding on the promise of an open internet, and losing touch with what makes us human.
*Editor’s Note: Capitalized text should be screamed aloud in a public space for maximum impact.
Reality shifting: why zoomers are choosing to tap out of material reality, Dazed
This one gen-z rebrand I didn’t see coming. The once spiritual practice of astral travel has taken a decidedly 21st century turn. Reality shifting, the “new” TikTok phenomenon, is essentially transcendental meditation for disaffected youth. Where older generations sought enlightenment on another plane these kids are constructing whole fan-fic universes as an escape from the chaos of life in the 2020s.
SZA Bugs Out While Eating Spicy Wings, Hot Ones
“Is it me? I’m tired of being me.” So begins SZA’s existential journey on Hot Ones. The Grammy-award winner showed up on the extreme-eating interview show a few weeks ago in ant prosthetics, and the result was strangely moving. Between bites of increasingly spicy hot wings SZA waded into existential waters, her giant, orb-like eyes reflecting the vastness of the universe. As she talked about the pains of being human, of making music, and public scrutiny, I found myself welling up with tears before pausing to laugh at the absurdity of existence, with its shifting realities and fluid identities. SZA bug captured my heart.
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