V - "smut", censorship & why we must defend the freedom to read

Every era polices its stories. Today, the battleground is digital: TikTok, Twitter, and Tumblr simmer with moral panics over “problematic” fiction. At the heart of this debate lies a paradox: in an age that champions individuality and free expression, why are readers—particularly women and queer communities—increasingly shamed for enjoying narratives labeled “dark romance,” “smut,” or “spicy”? These terms, weaponized as shorthand for “morally bankrupt,” obscure a deeper cultural anxiety: the fear of stories that center taboo desires, power dynamics, or unapologetic female agency. What begins as criticism of tropes often escalates into demands for censorship, blurring the line between discourse and dogma. The stakes here transcend genre—this is about who gets to control narratives, and why.

Censorship has always targeted the marginalized. In the 19th century, novels like Madame Bovary and Lady Chatterley’s Lover were deemed “obscene” for depicting female desire outside patriarchal norms. By the mid-20th century, paperback romances adorned with shirtless heroes (think Fabio rescuing a swooning heroine) dominated bookstore racks. These novels were dismissed as frivolous “chick lit,” relegated to the realm of harmless escapism. Yet they sold millions, offering women a rare space to claim ownership of their fantasies.

Fast-forward to today. Their spiritual successors—stories exploring BDSM, morally gray relationships, or trauma—face a more insidious suppression: algorithmic shadow-banning, deplatforming, and viral callout campaigns that frame readers as complicit in harm. The shift from physical book burnings to digital erasure reflects a new puritanism, one couched in progressive language but rooted in the same paternalism: “These ideas are too dangerous for you.” Platforms like TikTok, which amplify outrage for engagement, reduce complex narratives to soundbite controversies. A single trope—a mafia romance’s nonconventional relationship, a bully romance’s power imbalance—is stripped of context, becoming fodder for hashtag activism. Lost in this frenzy is the distinction between depiction and endorsement, between art and advocacy.

Critics of dark romance often argue, “These stories normalize abuse!” Yet this concern is selectively applied. 

Consider:

• Male-Centric Media: Films like Fight Club (domestic terrorism, toxic masculinity) and The Sopranos (misogyny, murder) are analyzed as “complex art.” Video games like Grand Theft Auto let players enact mass violence, yet their audiences aren’t accused of glorifying crime.
• Queer and Feminist Narratives: Stories by marginalized authors—e.g., Carmilla (lesbian vampirism) or Tampa (female predator tropes)—face disproportionate scrutiny. Their themes are pathologized, their audiences interrogated.

This double standard reveals a cultural discomfort with women and queer people claiming narrative autonomy. Dark romance, often written by and for women, subverts the “pure heroine” archetype, allowing characters—and readers—to explore rage, desire, and imperfection. To dismiss these stories as “toxic” is to deny women the right to messy, multifaceted representation.

Fiction is a laboratory for the human experience. Psychologists argue that dark themes in art serve as simulations, letting readers safely confront fears, taboos, or repressed emotions. A 2019 study in Psychology of Aesthetics found that readers of transgressive fiction often engage in more ethical reasoning, not less, as they analyze characters’ choices.

Consider the appeal of dark romance:

• Agency in Restriction: Heroines navigating oppressive worlds (e.g., mafia romances) often reclaim power within constraints, mirroring real struggles against systemic misogyny.
• Catharsis Through Hyperbole: Exaggerated tropes (obsessive love, revenge plots) externalize internalized emotions, offering emotional release.

Censoring such works doesn’t protect readers—it infantilizes them, implying they can’t separate fiction from reality.

History shows that censorship rarely stops at “protecting” audiences. Once normalized, it expands to suppress dissent:

• 1980s “Satanic Panic”: Moral crusades against Dungeons & Dragons and heavy metal music targeted countercultural communities.
• 2020s Book Bans: U.S. schools have banned texts like Gender Queer and The Hate U Give, conflating LGBTQ+ and anti-racist narratives with “obscenity.”

Calls to censor smut follow the same playbook: frame subjective discomfort as objective harm, then demand removal “for the greater good.” But who decides what’s “harmful”? Algorithms? Politicians? Corporations? Amazon’s arbitrary delisting of LGBTQ+ romance novels in 2021 (“content violations”) proves corporate censorship is already here—and it’s arbitrary.

To censor “smut” is to endorse a world where stories are policed by the timid, the authoritarian, or the algorithm. It undermines foundational principles:

Freedom of Literature: Art is not a public service announcement. It must be free to provoke, unsettle, and challenge.

Reader Autonomy: Trust adults to choose their media. Advocacy for content warnings and nuanced critique is valid; eradication is not.

Media Pluralism: A free society requires diverse narratives—including those deemed uncomfortable, “immoral,” or politically inconvenient.

The fight against censorship isn’t about defending specific tropes; it’s about resisting the idea that any story is “too dangerous” to exist. As Salman Rushdie wrote, “What is freedom of expression? Without the freedom to offend, it ceases to exist.” Let readers revel in their smut, their Shakespeare, their sapphic space operas. Let them dissect, debate, or devour stories without shame.

The alternative—a sanitized, homogeneous cultural landscape—is a far darker tale.

Defend the right to read. Defend the freedom to imagine. And never apologize for the stories that make us human.