Saving Me: Consent in a Digital Age
“The internet has given us the assumption that if you take it, they will take it from you.”
I’m writing about an incident that happened over a year ago. I was hooking up with one of my best friends during the pandemic, which was not a good idea in the long term, but at the time it was so nice to have a best friend that I could cuddle and wake up to. The pandemic was not as cold when I was at your house, dearest friend, and even when we were watching movies alone, in our respective apartments, it felt like you were with me. Thank you for that.
I learned a lot from that relationship, and yet not enough. It ended explosively, like many of my relationships do. I didn’t stand up for myself when I felt uncomfortable, or I made compromises I wasn’t happy with. It came to a head, as things often do for me; during a work trip. When I have a lot on my plate professionally, one of my ways to cope is to absolutely sabotage my personal relationships, which is something else I’m working on. But I said goodbye in all the wrong ways, and while we are cordial, I know we will never go back to the times when we watched movies together.
What I think about a lot in that relationship is the creativity and sensuality of it. You lived two states over, and so we communicated over messenger a lot, via voice memos or long calls, and of course, with sexy photos. With a background in sex work and someone who loves to dabble in erotic art, I love a good nude selfie. I sent you loads because I loved you in so many ways, and to my delight, you spent an equal amount of time sending back creative sexy photos of your own, always including some sort of detail or another that you knew I would devour. It was a delicious game, and an innocent appreciation of each other’s bodies, communicated mostly through our pure appreciation of each other. What I loved most about it though, was that every time I sent you a nude, you’d always ask for permission to save it on your phone. It was a question I had never been asked before, me, the girl who has sent hundreds, if not thousands, of nudes.
Can I save this on my phone?
The internet has given us the assumption that if you take it, they will take it from you. If you shoot a sex tape for personal enjoyment, people feel entitled to that footage and will even share it without your permission, because it already exists right? Your consent to making the film is an assumed consent that you’re okay with anyone whatsoever watching it. Pamela Anderson, Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian are just the famous ones, but everyday thousands of women are victims of revenge porn and unwanted exposure of their naked bodies to the Internet, at the hands of malicious lovers, exes, or hackers. It’s so assumed that photos will be saved and shared that the idea that someone wouldn’t do that is shocking to me. It’s the only time I’ve ever been asked by a man for permission to save a photo, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the last time.
The digital age has conditioned us to believe that our bodies are no longer ours. Famously, even Emily Ratajowski (SP) had to buy back the rights to her own photo. Her image didn’t belong to her, it belonged to men who assumed they could have access and control of her body because she was beautiful. OTHER AUTHOR This is contrasted with the women of bygone years, who only found safety in assuming a male name when they penned anything, because exposure would’ve only brought embarrassment and shame.
To be given the agency over your work, over your body, even when it’s been given freely away, is powerful. To be asked for permission to save a photo, to cherish it and look at it in quiet moments, is an honor. While we are no longer close friends, I will always love you as a person, for the way you made me feel beautiful and honored, both in person and in selfie mode.
