Abstract
As sexting has become more common, so has the sharing of nude and semi-nude images of others. While women and men may both engage in this practice, when they do so they often participate in distinct gendered rituals. Drawing on 55 in-depth interviews with college students, I examine how the symbolic meanings attached to men and women’s nude images in the context of intimate heterosexual interactions shape collective rituals of sexual pursuit and sexual rejection. I find that men share images of women with their peers to demonstrate sexual prowess and receive praise, whereas women share images of men with their peers to cope with unwelcome sexual advances and receive support. These gendered rituals are linked to the perceived desirability of men’s and women’s nude images. While rituals of domination appear among men and reproduce unequal gender relations, rituals of commiseration appear among women to resist unequal gender relations.
Digital interactions are an increasingly prominent part of people’s romantic lives. They may provide new opportunities for intimacy and perpetuate long-standing gender inequalities (Burkett 2015). Conversations about digital intimacy often focus on sharing electronic images of others without the subject’s consent, especially situations where heterosexual men share images of women to show off or to humiliate the subject (Ringrose et al. 2013; Walker, Sanci, and Temple-Smith 2013).
What is missing from previous discussions is an understanding of the purpose and meaning behind sharing nude images of others. What collective rituals do young adults develop for sharing nude images with their peers? Are these collective rituals gendered? The broader literature on heterosexual masculinity has documented the collective nature of men’s sexual pursuit and harassment of women as a method of asserting dominance over their peers and over women (Grazian 2007; Quinn 2002). Scholars have also found that women strategically reject men’s advances in face-to-face interactions, although few have examined the collective nature of women’s rejection strategies or how women pursue men (Ronen 2010). What happens when technology allows widespread sharing of intimate images? Whereas participants may use common sexual scripts to guide their interactions (Gagnon and Simon 1973), I employ interaction ritual theory (Collins 2005) to analyze the processes through which these interactions take place, the role of the nude image as a symbolic object, and the outcomes of these interactions. Understanding the collective rituals that women and men develop to share intimate online interactions with their peers will advance interaction ritual theory and scholars’ understanding of how digital intimacy influences gender relations.
Drawing from 55 in-depth interviews with college students, I examine how men and women engage in the “same” practice but often participate in different gendered rituals. While the phases of these collective rituals are the same (the intended recipient receives the image, they share it with their friends, and their friends respond), the images have distinct and gendered meanings. I find that men are more likely than women to participate in collective rituals of sexual pursuit in which images of women are saved as trophies and shared to demonstrate sexual prowess to other men. Women are more likely to engage in collective rituals of sexual rejection by sharing nude images of men to cope with unwelcome sexual advances and to commiserate with other women. This analysis contributes to scholars’ understanding of how the meanings attached to symbolic objects, including digital objects, shape rituals and how rituals of domination and commiseration among same-gender peers may uphold and resist unequal gender relations respectively.
Theorizing Rituals
Sociologists define rituals as interactions that generate social solidarity through coordinated or synchronized actions (Durkheim 2001 [1912]). While symmetrical performances such as marching or choral singing are the most commonly studied form of rituals, individuals may also engage in asymmetrical performances such as conversing or dancing (Goffman 1967; McFarland, Jurafsky, and Rawlings 2013). Often, an effective ritual charges a totem or symbolic object with significance that is then passed on to participants.
In this article, I conceptualize sharing nude images of others as a collective ritual involving asymmetrical actions. It is a collective ritual because sharing images of others with one’s peers transforms interactions between individuals (e.g., courtship rituals) into cooperative group activities (Grazian 2007). It is asymmetrical because the image sharer and their audience perform complementary and distinct actions (Alexander 2004). The symbolic object is the nude image at the center of the interaction. While sharing nude images of others may seem like one specific ritual, participants can attach a variety of different meanings to these images, and these meanings shape the nature of the ritual (Goffman 1967; Tavory and Swidler 2009).
Collins’ (2005) interaction ritual theory posits that there are four conditions necessary for a successful ritual to occur: physical co-presence, mutual focus, shared mood, and boundaries to outsiders. When participants meet these conditions and strengthen them by synchronizing their actions, they generate group solidarity. I argue that developing a shared mood depends on the meaning(s) participants attach to the symbolic object at the center of the ritual. If participants attach the same or complimentary meanings to the object, it is likely that they will experience a shared mood and group solidarity. If they attach conflicting meanings to the object, it is likely that they will experience dissimilar moods and little or no solidarity. Finally, meanings can also vary across groups and produce distinct moods, actions, and rituals across different types of people. Sharing nude images of others is a valuable case for examining how the meanings individuals attach to objects shape the rituals in which they engage. It captures the distinct meanings that women and men attach to nude bodies, how they vary within and across gender, and how they relate to modern conceptions of masculinity and femininity.
This study also advances prior researches on sexual interaction rituals which often focused on intimate courtship rituals, rather than collective group activities that may accompany romantic intimacy, and failed to account for complex gender dynamics. For instance, Collins (2005) devises the “selfish penis model” to explain lack of synchronization during unsuccessful sexual interaction rituals, whereas Goffman’s (1967, 209–10) analysis of courtship action examines the “cult of masculinity” and sexist stereotypes that portray women as “fields of play.” These theories are male-centric and lack a nuanced understanding of how women may develop their own rituals of sexual pursuit and rejection inside and outside of intimate courtship rituals.
I extend interaction ritual theory by examining how men and women perceive nude images of others and how the meanings they attach to these images shape distinct and gendered rituals. Examining interaction rituals using a gender lens will expose how these interactions may influence (and be influenced by) gender relations among peers, intimate partners, and viewers and subjects (Berger 1991). In the following sections, I outline previous research that provides insights into why men and women may share images of others.
Collective Sexual Pursuit
There is a large and growing literature on the social and collective construction of masculinity (Korobov 2005). Scholars have found that the enactment of masculinity is neither innate nor natural, but rather involves displaying learned behaviors and characteristics (e.g., physical strength, confidence, and sexual aptitude) to signal one’s manhood (Connell and Messerschmidt 2005; Messner 2002; Schrock and Schwalbe 2009; West and Zimmerman 1987). Although there are many different forms of masculinity and strategies for demonstrating them, hegemonic masculinity is the culturally dominant version in a given historical context that preserves men’s dominant social position and legitimates unequal gender relations (Connell 1995; Messerschmidt 2019). To prevent losing social advantages attached to men’s dominant social position, masculinity requires continual validation (Duckworth and Trautner 2019; Mize and Manago 2018; Pascoe 2012).
Numerous studies have documented the strategies men use to demonstrate and reaffirm their masculinity within their peer groups (e.g., Martin 2016; O’Neill 2018). For heterosexual men, these strategies often involve the sexual pursuit and objectification of women which reaffirms their heterosexuality and dominance (Cosma and Gurevich 2020; Flood 2008). In addition to demonstrating and validating one’s own masculinity, these rituals enable heterosexual men to build group cohesion while reducing feelings of empathy for the women they pursue (Bird 1996).
As digital technology has become more embedded in everyday life, sexual pursuit is increasingly digitally mediated. Today, sexual relationships often involve online interactions through dating applications and social media. While online interactions may appear to provide little space for collective rituals, scholars have found that some heterosexual men share nude images they receive from current or potential sexual partners with their male friends, as evidence of a successful “pursuit” (Salter 2016). As Grazian (2007) points out in his study on “girl hunting,” for heterosexual men sexual pursuit is not just about getting the girl, it is also about the enactment of masculinity in front of one’s peers. Sharing images of women is a way for men to boast about their sexual exploits and prove that they can access women’s bodies to increase their status (Burkett 2015; Ringrose et al. 2013).
In addition to sharing images of women to gain status within male peer groups, heterosexual men may also share these images to subordinate female subjects and perpetuate the patriarchal dominant–subordinate relationship between men and women (Moloney and Love 2017; Schwalbe et al. 2000). This behavior aligns with the sexual harassment literature which demonstrates how harassment reduces women to sexual objects (Quinn 2002). By objectifying women, men perpetuate ideas that promote men’s dominance and sexual entitlement (McLaughlin, Uggen, and Blackstone 2012). Although few heterosexual men may perform hegemonic masculinity by sharing images of their sexual conquests with other men, the silent majority benefits from the subordination of women in a “context of normative complicity,” which contributes to the reproduction of inequalities among men and between men and women (Connell 1995).
Although it is evident that heterosexual men use the sexual pursuit of women to demonstrate dominance over women and their male peers, few have analyzed the role of digital interactions in this process. Additionally, research on how heterosexual women collectively pursue men is largely absent from sociological research. Below, I outline previous research on women’s rejection of men to provide a framework for how women may develop their own collective rituals of sexual pursuit or rejection.
Collective Sexual Rejection
Several avenues of research examine how women use individual, rather than collective, strategies to reject men’s sexual advances—partly because much of the early literature focused on workplace harassment in contexts where women had little opportunity for organized resistance (Collinson and Collinson 1996; Kanter 1993). Similarly, research on how women reject sexual advances within intimate relationships focuses on contexts in which other actors are not present or able to intervene (Wright, Norton, and Matusek 2010).
However, there is a long-standing literature on women’s strategies for saving face while rejecting men in public spaces. Scholars have used Goffman’s (1952) concept of “cooling out” to describe a variety of strategies women use to fend off men’s advances while saving face at singles’ dances (Berk 1977), singles’ bars (Snow, Robinson, and McCall 1991), and college parties (Ronen 2010). Although many of these strategies are based on interactions between individuals, Ronen (2010), in her study of grinding at university parties, documented collective strategies that women use to discourage or reject men’s unwanted advances. She finds that women may rely on their friends to help them reject men who try to dance with them by using their friends to create physical distance between themselves and the advancing man.
As sexting has become an increasingly common part of modern dating practices, women have adjusted their sexual rejection strategies to navigate new online interactions. For instance, some men send nude images of themselves to potential romantic partners to demonstrate sexual interest (Ringrose et al. 2013). They may send nude images to individuals they meet online or through school or work, with or without asking for the recipient’s consent. Men who engage in this practice often expose their naked genitals in what are colloquially known as “dick pics” (Paasonen, Light, and Jarrett 2019).
Previous researche suggests that most women do not enjoy receiving unsolicited nude images from men (Mandau 2020) but has offered mixed evidence as to whether or not women share these images with others (Amundsen 2021; Bindesbøl Holm Johansen, Pedersen, and Tjørnhøj-Thomsen 2019). However, researchers have observed women’s collective use of technology to resist men’s online advances and harassment by posting screen-grabbed images of unsolicited dick pics on Instagram accounts like “Bye Felipe” or “Tinder Nightmares” (Thompson 2018). Some scholars suggest that women use these social media accounts to “counter-discipline” expressions of toxic masculinity they encounter online (Hess and Flores 2018). By viewing and mocking the content together, they use humor to undermine the threatening nature of unsolicited nude images and reject the traditional sexual script of women being passive sexual actors (Ringrose and Lawrence 2018; Vitis and Gilmour 2017).
While some women clearly have developed collective digital strategies for dealing with unwanted online sexual attention, the majority of this research has focused on women’s engagement in public online spaces and why men send unsolicited images rather than why women engage in collective resistance strategies (Oswald et al. 2020). Little research has explored the processes through which women reject men’s digital pursuits (Adorjan and Ricciardelli 2019; Amundsen 2021).
In this study, I examine the collective rituals young adults develop for sharing nude images with others and how these rituals are gendered. In doing so, I expose how men and women who engage in the “same” practice—sharing images of others with same-gender peers—often participate in very different rituals. This analysis contributes to scholars’ understanding of how the gendered meanings that participants attach to symbolic objects produce distinct rituals that reproduce or resist unequal gender relations.
Data and Methods
I use data from 55 in-depth interviews conducted between September 2018 and May 2019. Interviews generally lasted 60–90 minutes, documented interviewees’ sexting experiences chronologically, and revealed how their sexting practices evolved over time. I drew interviewees from a sampling frame of 1,922 respondents to an online survey of undergraduates from seven universities across the United States. I contacted instructors (primarily from sociology departments) via email to ask if they could offer a survey on sexting for course credit. Instructors, who agreed to participate, distributed links to the survey and an alternative activity to their students. I distributed the survey at four public research universities and three private universities. There was a 63 percent response rate across the 70 classes that distributed my survey.
The survey collects data on respondents’ engagement in four types of sexting (sending images of the self, receiving images from someone else, sending images of others, and receiving images of others) and asks detailed questions about the last time respondents engaged in each type. Among survey respondents, 56 percent reported sending images of themselves and 74 percent reported receiving images from someone else. When asked about sharing images of others, 7 percent of respondents (6 percent of women and 11 percent of men) reported sharing images of others, and 34 percent (31 percent of women and 42 percent of men) reported receiving images of others. For those who reported having their images shared with others, 84 percent of respondents (97 percent of women and 50 percent of men) reported feeling angry, worried, and/or humiliated. The survey results align with the interview data: Sending images of others was less common than receiving, and having one’s image shared was a negative experience.
The last question on the survey asked respondents if they were interested in participating in a follow-up interview. I emailed respondents who answered “yes” from two universities in a mid-size city in the South to arrange in-person interviews. I strategically selected interviewees so that my sample was approximately 50 percent women and 50 percent men and included interviewees from diverse racial and ethnic backgrounds. No participants identified as transgender or nonbinary. I interviewed 101 students, and 55 of them reported sharing and/or receiving images of others. In this article, I analyze the collective rituals of sexual pursuit and rejection described in these 55 interviews.
Most of my interviewees (n = 53) attended a private religious university with less than 5,000 undergraduate students. Although the university has a religious affiliation and all students take two classes that involve the academic study of religion (one on Christian religion and one on world religion), there are no mandatory religious services, and the student body is diverse. Students identify with many different religious affiliations and levels of religiosity.
Additionally, I met with two interviewees (n = 2) from a private research university with 5,000–10,000 undergraduate students. I intended to interview more students from this university, but I could only distribute my survey for course credit in two classes, which limited my pool of potential interviewees.
Interviewees’ demographic characteristics appear in Table 1, which shows that my sample is diverse in terms of racial ethnic background, sexual orientation, and religious affiliation. All interviewees were between 18 and 25 years old, with a mean age of 19.7. The most popular majors included psychology (n = 12), music (n = 10), and criminology (n = 10). None of my interviewees were sociology majors. Most of my interviewees had engaged in sexting: 40 (72.7 percent) had shared images of themselves, and 51 (92.7 percent) had received images from someone else.
Interviewee Demographic Characteristics (n = 55)
Interviewing college students about their sexting practices provides valuable insights into how digital technology influences the development of young adult relationships. Digital technology became widely available during my interviewees’ adolescence, a period when young people may develop important platonic and romantic relationships (Twenge, Martin, and Spitzberg 2019). As a result, their experiences are distinct from those of previous age cohorts who built their early relationships offline as well as younger generations who will have their own unique relationship with digital technology. It is also beneficial to study college students because they can reflect on their high school and college experiences. Because I interviewed only undergraduate students in the South, the results may not be generalizable to all college students in the United States. Although my interviewees come from 21 states and 4 countries, living in the South may influence their views on gender and sexuality. Young people in this region may hold more conservative views regarding gender and sexuality and be less knowledgeable about best practices for safe physical and digital intimacy (Jozkowski and Crawford 2016).
As a white woman whom interviewees may perceive as nonthreatening and similar to them in age, I found interviewees to be comfortable recounting their sexting experiences with me. Interviewees recalled many different experiences, some of which upset them and/or they regretted. In each situation, I attempted to match their emotional state and encouraged them to provide as many or as few details about these experiences as they wanted. I gave each interviewee a link to resources for sexual assault survivors and their loved ones in case the interview brought up difficult memories. Interviewees seemed to provide honest responses and to appreciate having an impartial space in which they could talk openly about sexting, a “taboo” topic. Many interviewees concluded that the interview was “fun.” It is possible that interviewees underreported sharing images of others and displayed socially desirable feelings of regret and guilt because this type of sharing is often done without the subject’s consent. This may be especially likely among young men who shared images of girls and women, because a young female interviewer may be more likely to empathize with the female image subject than the male interviewee.
While the main goal of the interviews was to discuss interviewees’ sexting experiences, I also asked each interviewee about their personal life, college experiences, and plans for the future. To better understand interviewees’ experiences sharing images of others, the interview guide included questions such as “How did you share the image?” “What motivated you to share it?” “Who did you share it with?” and “How did they react when you shared it with them?” To preserve confidentiality, I use pseudonyms for all respondents.
Within 24 hours after each interview, I wrote a memo to capture my initial observations about the interviewee and their sexting experiences. After a professional transcription service transcribed the interviews, I coded them using Atlas.ti. During my initial rounds of coding, I used open coding to generate deductive codes, based on previous sexting research and symbolic interaction theory (Burkett 2015; Goffman 1967), and inductive codes with a wide focus to capture themes that emerged organically from the data.
During additional rounds of coding, I used more directed coding strategies to carefully recode all the interviews, focusing on interactions that involved sending and/or receiving nude or semi-nude images of others. This type of sharing differs from exposing images publicly online or to large groups of people such as an entire high school. I coded the latter phenomenon, which appeared frequently, as “exposed images” and analyzed it as a distinct sexting practice.
In addition to developing a typology of sharing images of others and documenting the number of times each type appeared, I coded qualitative patterns that appeared when interviewees discussed this practice. During these rounds of coding, I identified senders’ motivations for sharing images, recipients’ responses, characteristics that made images desirable or undesirable, meanings attached to them, and emotions these interactions stimulated. In the end, I identified two distinct types of image sharing.
Findings
In line with previous literature, I found that men were more likely than women to participate in collective rituals of sexual pursuit, whereas women were more likely than men to participate in collective rituals of sexual rejection. Table 2 presents these patterns by gender. To prevent reification of men as sexual pursuers and women as sexual gatekeepers, I also analyze the accounts of women who engage in collective rituals of sexual pursuit and men who engage in collective rituals of sexual rejection.
Engagement in Collective Rituals of Sexual Pursuit and Rejection by Gender (n = 55)
To understand the collective rituals young men and women develop to share intimate heterosexual online interactions with their peers, I separate this practice into three phases (the intended recipient receives the image, they share it with their friends, and their friends respond) and analyze them chronologically. While the phases are the same for men and women in my sample, most men perceived images of women as desirable, and most women perceived images of men as undesirable. There is no singular feature such as image quality, identifiability, solicitation, or relationship type that explains this difference. Although there is variation in how women and men typically produce images, which I address in the sections that follow, the gendered meanings that young men and women attach to nude images greatly influence their desirability. As a result, men’s rituals of pursuit and domination reproduce unequal gender relations, and women’s rituals of rejection and commiseration resist unequal gender relations.
Transforming Online Sexual Pursuit into an Offline Collective Ritual
I interviewed 25 men who shared nude images of women with male friends. Five of these men reported sharing images, and 20 discussed their experiences as audience members. I use their accounts to elaborate collective rituals of pursuit below.
Phase 1: Receiving the Symbolic Trophy
The ritual begins online when the intended recipient receives the image from the subject. The subject may be a female stranger, classmate, potential romantic partner, or casual sexual partner. Although men also received images from serious romantic partners, they usually considered these images to be private and not for sharing with friends.
These images were often unidentifiable and depicted the subject exposing her breasts and torso, posing in underwear, or strategically displaying her nude body. Interviewees generally agreed that women often put more care and attention into their nudes than men. Female subjects may share images for many different reasons, including dispelling feminine stereotypes, expressing their sexual desires, and prompting erotic online interactions. The vast majority of male interviewees enjoyed receiving images from women and used words such as “elated,” “very happy,” and even “more masculine” to describe how they felt when this occurred (Jordan, 18 years old). In addition to finding the content sexually stimulating, heterosexual men often said that receiving images boosted their confidence. Chris (19 years) describes receiving images from a high school girlfriend: It was somebody exposing themselves to me, basically. And it was like, they trust me with this, or they think I’m worthy of this. It definitely boosted my self-confidence. And of course I wasn’t like, “Oh, don’t send those to me.” I was like, “I like those.”
For many heterosexual men, receiving nude images from women to whom they were sexually attracted gave them a sense of achievement. Because sexual pursuit is a key element of contemporary masculinity, men often viewed nude images as evidence of sexual conquest. Even when men were not actively pursuing female subjects, receiving images made them feel more masculine, as Jordan notes above, and oftentimes sexually aroused. Men’s desire to view nude women’s bodies made these images highly desirable. As a result, men may save these images as trophies they can revisit and/or show off to their friends.
Phase 2: Sharing Trophies with Friends
After the original recipient stores the image, they may share it with their friends to brag about their sexual exploits. This interaction generally occurs offline, transforming their individual online interaction into a collective offline ritual. When discussing why he shared images of women with his friends, Paul (18 years) explained that it was a “pride thing. Like, look what I got!” Interestingly, men also cited “super high testosterone” (Ramon, 20 years old) as an explanation for this behavior. Nate (22 years) describes why one of his friends frequently shared images of female classmates with him: He was a stud I guess. So, he had arsenals of photos. . . . I guess he found passion in collecting. It was like trophies from his exploits . . . [Why do you think he shared them with you?] To brag. . . . It’s important to who he is as a person or who he thinks he is, and the persona he needs to maintain. Probably not at this point, because now he’s been dating a girl for three years or so. So, now, I don’t even know if he would have the photos anymore. Maybe on a hard drive or somewhere.
Nate’s language highlights the symbolic meanings that men attach to women’s images, an association that many male interviewees echoed. In addition to being “trophies” that celebrate one’s sexual aptitude, men may have “arsenals of photos,” which suggests that images can also be weaponized against other men or female subjects. In addition to generating excitement to view young women’s nude bodies, these images symbolized power, which contributed to their desirability. Even if they did not intend to publicly expose these images, men were aware that they had an object that other men wanted to see and women wanted to keep private. Nate’s observations highlight how some men use images of women as symbols of dominance and heterosexual masculinity, which aligns with previous research on men’s homosocial bonding (Bird 1996; Flood 2008).
Phase 3: The Audience Responds with Admiration (Usually)
The final phase of this ritual involves the audience’s response. I find that male viewers generally respond in one of two ways. Many male interviewees enjoy viewing nude images of women, which generates a shared mood of excitement. The participants’ actions synchronize as the trophy holder receives praise, attention, and congratulations from his audience. For instance, Eric (21 years) describes the first time one of his friends showed him a nude image he received from a female classmate: I was either in 9th or 10th grade in high school. I remember me and my friends had just found alcohol. We were drinking and one of our buddies was like, “look at what this girl sent me” and we were just going through the photos [saying] “Oh my god!” . . . There was a woman out there that wanted him to see her naked, it was just like, “Look at me guys, look at what I’m doing!” . . . I was just stunned because I had never gotten a picture like that before.
Like many other heterosexual male interviewees who found themselves in similar situations, Eric highlights how seeing these images was exciting. Audience members are especially impressed or “stunned,” as Eric puts it, if they have never received nude images. They respond with praise like, “Wow! She’s really attractive! She’s really hot!” (Anthony, 25 years old). Shared feelings of excitement contribute to a sense of solidarity among participants.
Several interviewees disapproved of this behavior and provided muted responses. Instead of developing a shared mood, there was an emotional disconnect between proud image recipients and disinterested audience members. Men often developed concerns about this ritual after they entered into serious romantic relationships. For instance, Brad (20 years) describes his first experience viewing images of young women and why sharing images bothered him later on: It was my friend’s older brother who had a girlfriend at the time and he was a sophomore. And when you’re a sophomore in high school, it’s kind of like, “Ah nice! My girlfriend sent me a picture of her boobs! Sick!” He just showed the picture to me when we were outside playing basketball. This is so dumb, but this is something I remember so vividly. Because I was like, “Awesome! Boobies!” 14-year-old me. That’s the first time that happened. I didn’t quite feel like, “why are you betraying her trust like that?” At that time, I was just kind of like, “Oh cool!” Because it was a good picture, it was a nice pair of boobs. But I didn’t quite feel that way yet because I didn’t really understand how those types of exchanges go down yet. Because I hadn’t done anything like that.
Brad highlights how his 14-year-old self was impressed by the image and responded without thinking about how the subject had not consented to having her image shared with others. He attributes his change in attitude to the fact that he “didn’t understand how those types of exchanges go down yet.” Like several other men who found themselves rethinking this ritual, once he viewed nude images as symbols of trust and intimacy, Brad was bothered when friends shared images of women with him.
However, even when boys or men did not agree with their friend’s behavior, they rarely confronted the original recipient. One of the few interviewees who did, Sid (19 years) only did so after a friend showed him a video of an explicit sex act, asking “Why would you take a video of that and show it around everywhere? If that’s your thing, it’s cool. But I don’t really care about that. I’m not really into that stuff.” Although Sid had enjoyed seeing nude photos of women in the past, this video crossed a line. The interaction ended with his friend apologizing, an unusual occurrence. Most men just responded less enthusiastically when they found themselves in uncomfortable situations. For instance, even after Brad determined that sharing images of others without their consent was wrong, he still complimented image sharers: I’m just kind of like, “Oh nice,” but then it always kind of feels shitty to me. Like a couple of times, that person doesn’t even know. You are really breaching their trust showing me that, but it’s like, whatever. I’m not going to be upset that you showed me that picture of a naked woman or anything. But it doesn’t quite sit right with me that I’m being shown it.
Even when interviewees view the sharing of images as “shitty” and a “breach of trust,” they rarely share their concerns with their friends or even allow themselves to be upset. The way Brad dismisses this concern is a sign of privilege and aligns with previous research that suggests that men’s bonding rituals desensitize viewers to problematic content (Bird 1996). The fact that Brad specifies that he is not going to be upset by a photo of a naked woman also supports research on heteronormative masculinity and expectations related to how men “should” feel and respond to images of women (Eck 2003). While their behaviors may appear synchronized, conflicting moods reduce feelings of solidarity among men in these situations. However, this behavior persists if the “silent majority” rarely challenges it (Connell 1995; Grazian 2007).
Women’s Collective Ritual of Sexual Pursuit
Although the data suggest that men are more likely than women to participate in collective rituals of sexual pursuit, some women also shared images of men whom they were pursuing sexually. However, their engagement was distinct and less frequent. Only nine women reported engaging in collective rituals of sexual pursuit with their friends: three reported sharing images and six described their experience as audience members.
Women typically shared images of potential or casual romantic partners that depicted men’s nude torsos and/or genitals. Flora (21 years) shared a photo of a casual romantic partner with her friends to say “look at this!” because she was “kind of bragging. . . [And] honestly, just excited to show him off.” While there is overlap between men and women, female audiences were less likely to view men’s images as exciting symbols of power or offer enthusiastic responses. When asked why her friends shared men’s images with her and how she responds, Mia (19 years) commented: I guess they wanted to show me what they’re working with. I never really understood that. I guess, to just be proud or kind of show it off. That’s pretty much the only thing I can think of . . . Most of the time I would be like, “Okay, I didn’t really want to see a penis in the middle of lunch, but thanks.” Normally I was just like, “Wow. Good for you. That’s exciting. I’m happy for you.”
Whereas men often enjoyed viewing women’s images, Mia, like other women who found themselves in this situation, was not particularly interested in viewing nude images of men, especially when they involved genitals. While she would offer friends a half-hearted compliment, other women had no interest in participating. For instance, Charlotte (18 years) explained that when her friends showed her nude images of men she would ask “What are you looking at? [and] Why do you choose to look at that?” because she felt that sharing images was “disrespectful.” Although women may synchronize their behaviors by complimenting the proud image recipient, audience members were often disinterested. As a result, these rituals rarely generated a shared mood of sexual excitement or a sense of solidarity among female friends. Although only a few women in my sample reported sexting with other women romantically, no women reported sharing images of women with others, likely because there was a mutual understanding that these images were private.
These gendered accounts of collective rituals of sexual pursuit reinforce the idea that images of women are sexual objects that symbolize excitement and power for heterosexual men—and that women lack access to equal power by objectifying men (or other women). Collective rituals of sexual pursuit among men contribute to the continued sexual objectification of women and unequal gender relations between men, their intimate partners, and female subjects. Although there are too few gay men in my sample to make definitive claims about their engagement in collective rituals of sexual pursuit, the literature on masculinities suggests that gay men may engage in similar behavior because the power to define and control others as sexual objects comes from being a man. In contrast, cultural ideals of femininity are less explicitly sexual and more relationship oriented. As a result, explicit sexual images are an affront to femininity, which relates to women’s development of collective rituals of sexual rejection.
Transforming Online Sexual Rejection into an Offline Collective Ritual
I interviewed 24 women who shared nude images of men with female friends: 15 shared images and nine described their experiences as audience members. I use their accounts to elaborate collective rituals of rejection.
Phase 1: Receiving the Symbolic Insult
The ritual begins online when the intended recipient receives the image from the subject. The subject may be a male stranger, classmate, potential romantic partner, or casual sexual partner. As with male interviewees, there was a general consensus that images sent by serious romantic partners were private and not shared with friends.
The images that women shared with their friends usually showed the subject’s exposed genitals. Interviewees agreed that men often put little effort into their photos which were frequently poorly lit, blurry, and featured an imposing and disembodied penis. Unlike male interviewees who enjoyed receiving images from women (in fact, no man reported being upset by any of the images he received, even when unsolicited), women frequently described receiving images from men as a negative experience, although some did report receiving images as positive and sexually arousing.
Women often described receiving images with words such as “disrespectful” (Rachael, 20 years old) and “uncomfortable” (Charlotte, 18 years old). Many echoed Marina’s (19 years) complaint that unsolicited photos of men were “gross” and a “breach of comfort” because “It isn’t something that I wanted in my space . . . It made everything feel dirty, even though I didn’t participate.” Whereas men perceived women’s nude images as highly desirable symbols of power and status, women perceived men’s nude images as highly undesirable symbols of masculine vulgarity, dominance, and sexual entitlement (Armstrong, England, and Fogarty 2012; Mandau 2020; Mears 2015). In response, women may engage in multiple types of resistance. They may respond to unwanted images with a curt refusal, a critique of the image, or a photo of a small penis. They may simply ignore or deny the message and block the user. They may also reach out to their friends for support.
Phase 2: Sharing Sexual Insults with Friends
After they receive an unwanted nude image, some women share it with their friends as a way to cope with the unwelcome intrusion. By doing this, women transform the individual online interaction into a collective offline ritual. Unlike how men use images of women to demonstrate their sexual dominance, women share these images to resist the image sender’s assertion of dominance and sexual entitlement. Alexa (19 years) articulates this motivation when describing why she shared images she received from men with her friends: It’s just to get a laugh out of it, to be honest, because in that sense it’s already putting you in an awkward and difficult position in dealing with that. So, I guess to restore some form of balance or some form of control. I need to laugh it off because that’s gross and that’s not okay. But I have to laugh it off and some of them are just really funny, to be honest.
Instead of sharing images as a way to brag about her sexual prowess, Alexa highlights how receiving images puts her in a difficult position and sharing them with friends enables her to “restore some form of balance” to the situation. Many female interviewees who received unsolicited nude images shared this sentiment. Rather than accepting feelings of discomfort or feeling pressured to comply with the sender’s demands, women challenged the assertion of dominance that men’s images symbolized by sharing these images with their friends to “laugh it off.” These women develop an idiosyncratic repertoire of resistance that draws on humor as one of the resources they can access. While sharing images may be an act of “shallow resistance” because it is individualized rather than structural, it aligns with research on the formation of strategic acts of resistance in contexts constrained by structural inequalities (Adorjan and Ricciardelli 2019; Scott 1985).
Phase 3: The Audience Commiserates
After the intended recipient shares the image with her friends, they must respond. Unlike impressed and curious male onlookers, female viewers often experienced feelings of disgust. Instead of viewing the images for their own pleasure, they view them, however briefly, to support the image recipient and confirm that the image is inappropriate. Because there is a shared mood of disgust, their actions synchronize and generate a sense of group solidarity.
Although audience members may respond in several different ways, their responses complement the image recipient’s desire to regain control of the situation. They may use laughter to transform feelings of discomfort into feelings of absurdity. Female interviewees often describe how their friends will “laugh it off with me, we just make fun of it” (Alexa, 18 years) or “just laugh about it, we find the humor in it” (Paula, 19 years old). They may also respond with outrage to confirm that the recipient’s discomfort is justified. Danielle (20 years) recollects how her friends exclaimed “‘Oh My God! Oh My God!’ . . . It was just, ‘Oh My God! Why did he?! This is weird!’” They may commiserate by sharing their own stories which often conclude with “You know, why do they do that? It’s not attractive at all. It’s not!” (Paula). Finally, they may also engage in counter-hegemonic gender objectification by criticizing the subject’s body, making such comments as “It wasn’t very big, so my friends and I laughed at it” (Britney, 20 years old). Audience members’ ability to commiserate with the image recipient helped them disarm the image, transforming it from an unsettling act of domination to an outrageous display of foolishness.
Although women may feel disempowered when they receive nude images from men, through this collective ritual of rejection, they regain a sense of power over the situation by reframing the event as humorous and outrageous. Charlene (19 years) describes how her friends respond to the images she receives and why their comments make her feel better: They will usually be like, “Oh my God!” They’ll be shocked. Some will laugh at it. They will criticize it, they will be like “That’s ugly,” “Terrible lighting,” “Bad photo,” depending on what they know about photography. They’ll just do whatever they can to say mean things about it, if they’re not too shocked by the fact I got an unsolicited dick pic when I was in public. . . . I feel great when people comment mean things about dick pics. I feel fantastic . . . Because that guy is messing with me or like that’s a bad thing that they’re doing to me. But I’m kind of turning it back on them. I’m like, “You can’t, and I played you.” They are not getting me, I’m getting them.
Like other female interviewees, Charlene’s friends may respond in a variety of different ways including outrage, laughter, and insults. What connects these responses is that they transform the image from a symbol of male domination to the butt of the joke, which is powerless. This joint effort generates a sense of group solidarity. By identifying the diverse ways female audience members respond to men’s images and their motivation for doing so, this finding extends previous literature on women’s collective resistance in public online spaces to rejection rituals in private offline spaces (Hess and Flores 2018; Ringrose and Lawrence 2018; Vitis and Gilmour 2017).
The Deviant Case: Men’s Failed Rituals of Sexual Rejection
Although I focus here on women’s collective rejection rituals, men may also share images of women whom they want to reject. However, this is rare. In my sample, only one man reported sharing an image of a woman whom he wanted to reject, not pursue. His account suggests that men are less likely than women to view nude images as problematic or commiserate with aggravated image recipients. In fact, they may encourage the recipient to take advantage of the situation. Ricardo (19 years) explains: With some of the [images] from that girl who had been crushing on me in high school, she would send flirtatious pics a lot. So if it was ever in the moment with one of my friends, I would just be like, “Oh, it happened again.” And show my friend who was with me, but it was never, “Oh check it out guys!” . . . [How did they react?] A lot of people would tell me, “Dude, you should just do it. You should just hook up with her” just because she’s attractive . . . And there were times where I considered it, but I would always come to that same conclusion. I was just like “no, I really do not like this person at all.” I know that I’d feel bad after doing this, but especially giving her any false sense of hope. That would just make the situation worse.
Unlike female friends who help the image recipient reject the subject, Ricardo’s male friends viewed the image as desirable and encouraged him to pursue a physical relationship even though he was not romantically interested. Because Ricardo and his friends attached conflicting meanings to the image, their behavior was unsynchronized and failed to generate feelings of support or solidarity. His friends’ reactions highlight the persistent connections among masculinity, heterosexuality, and the meanings men attach to images of women (Eck 2003).
Although sharing lewd images may appear to align more with raunch culture than with traditional femininity, public disgust of masculine lasciviousness is related to the cultural ideals of femininity. These findings build upon previous literature (Thompson 2018) in several ways: They illuminate how women’s perception of men’s nude images as symbols of domination shape rituals of sexual rejection. They also expose how women’s collective resistance strategies generate social solidarity in contexts constrained by gender inequalities.
Discussion and Conclusions
While a large body of literature has documented heterosexual men’s collective sexual pursuit and harassment of women offline (e.g., Grazian 2007; Quinn 2002), few studies have examined how men and women transform intimate online interactions into collective offline rituals (Salter 2016; Thompson 2018). Examining the sharing of nude images of others exposes how this transformation takes place and how men and women engage in two distinct rituals. This work contributes to interaction ritual theory by exposing how meaning shapes rituals through the successful or unsuccessful development of shared mood—a key ingredient for generating group solidarity. Variation in meanings and moods appears within and across groups, highlighting how persistent beliefs related to masculinity and femininity shape the purpose and outcomes of bonding rituals.
Most heterosexual men perceive nude images of women as desirable symbols of power they can display as trophies to increase their dominance over female subjects and male peers who praise these images (Ringrose et al. 2013). In many instances, this ritual of sexual pursuit stimulates a shared sense of excitement and solidarity among participants. Interestingly, when men attach conflicting meanings to nude images, such as trust, they may criticize this ritual but rarely confront image sharers. Instead, they express feelings of indifference and “normative complicity,” perpetuating the objectification and subordination of women (Connell 1995).
In contrast, most women perceive nude images of men as undesirable symbols of male dominance that they share with friends who use humor and outrage to disarm them. This ritual of sexual rejection consistently generates solidarity among women because they attach complementary meanings to these images. The unsynchronized and rare cases when women show off images and men reject images highlight how shared feelings of admiration and commiseration are gender specific and greatly influence the outcomes of these rituals.
Given these findings, future studies should pursue several questions. First, how does sexual orientation influence collective rituals of sexual pursuit and rejection? There are too few instances of same-sex sexting encounters in these interview data to definitively conclude whether or how women and men in same-sex relationships engage in these rituals. Provisional evidence suggests that men in same-sex relationships are more likely to engage in collective rituals of sexual pursuit and rejection than women. Like heterosexual men, gay and bisexual men appear to objectify image subjects for their personal pleasure and share these images with friends. While women generally enjoyed sharing nude images in same-sex relationships, none reported sharing these images with others.
Second, how will these rituals evolve as young adults move through the life course and technologies advance? While conventional wisdom suggests that young people will share sexual images less as they age, future research should monitor how sexting rituals evolve. Individuals may continue to sext and potentially share images with others if they engage in long-distance relationships or digital intimacy to “spice things up.” Additionally, conflicting technological advances may influence online interactions as tech companies strive to improve online security and create new threats such as AI-generated nudes (Clahane 2020).
Third, how do the meanings individuals attach to other objects influence the rituals in which they are involved? Exploring how conflicting meanings are attached to physical and digital objects has significant theoretical and practical value. For instance, scholars interested in health inequalities may find that the gendered meanings individuals attach to wearing protective face masks play an important role in how they use (or do not use) them. Scholars interested in studying digital objects such as memes may analyze how the same content simultaneously inspires rituals that encourage and challenge social inequalities. This work will extend interaction ritual theory in physical and digital spaces.
This analysis exposes how modern conceptions of masculinity and femininity shape men and women’s bonding rituals. It advances interaction ritual theory by revealing how the meaning individuals attach to objects shapes their moods and rituals and the powerful role that gender plays in the development of romantic and platonic bonds. It also opens the door for future research to explore the intersection of offline and online interaction rituals and how they may threaten or embolden alternative interactional contexts. This study lays the foundation for adapting sociological theory to capture how social actors strategically navigate digital interactions that may uphold and challenge persistent gender inequalities.
Footnotes
Author’s note:
I would like to thank Louise Roth, Jennifer Carlson, Lisa Wade, Simone Rambotti, Gender & Society Editor Risman, and the three anonymous reviewers who read and offered comments on earlier drafts of this paper. This research has been supported by grants from the Graduate and Professional Student Council, College of Social and Behavioral Sciences, and Social and Behavioral Sciences Research Institute at the University of Arizona.
Morgan Johnstonbaugh is a doctoral candidate in Sociology at the University of Arizona. Her research focuses on digital spaces and interactions, exploring how people use technology to achieve their goals (broadly defined), and how social inequalities impact their experiences.