RapeLay and the Return of the Sex Wars in Japan

Porn Studies ISSN: 2326-8743 (Print) 2326-8751 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rprn20 RapeLay and the return of the sex wars in Japan Patrick W. Galbraith To cite this article: Patrick W. Galbraith (2017): RapeLay and the return of the sex wars in Japan, Porn Studies, DOI: 10.1080/23268743.2016.1252159 To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/23268743.2016.1252159 Published online: 24 Jan 2017. Submit your article to this journal View related articles View Crossmark data Full Terms & Conditions of access and use can be found at http://www.tandfonline.com/action/journalInformation?journalCode=rprn20 Download by: [Patrick Galbraith] Date: 24 January 2017, At: 05:31 PORN STUDIES, 2017 http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/23268743.2016.1252159 RapeLay and the return of the sex wars in Japan Patrick W. Galbraith Department of Cultural Anthropology, Duke University, Durham, NC, USA ABSTRACT ARTICLE HISTORY This article considers responses to RapeLay (2006), an adult computer Received 10 January 2016 game that allows the player to rape virtual women. RapeLay sparked Accepted 20 October 2016 controversy when it circulated globally and this filtered back into KEYWORDS debates in Japan, which at times explicitly retrod the ground of Japan; adult computer feminist critiques of pornography in North America from the late games; sexual violence; 1970s into the 1980s. The return of ‘the sex wars’ in Japan in the media effects; sex wars; new millennium confronts us with a fundamental question that sexual politics; non-western those battles left unresolved: is fantasy itself a problem? To put it perspectives; media literacy; another way, are adult computer games, which involve humans in feminism; rape fantasy the production and reception of virtual sex acts but not in the depicted sex acts, a problem? Is it all right to fantasize about sexual violence or, as some critics argue, does such fantasy normalize sexual violence against women? Critical and cultural approaches to sexual fantasy, play and harm in Japan are considered. Introduction RapeLay (Reipurei, 2006) is an adult computer game. Produced by the Japanese company Illusion for distribution on the Japanese market, RapeLay features computer-generated polygon graphics, which is rare for adult computer games in Japan, but maintains the aes- thetic of Japanese comics and cartoons, which is characteristic of adult computer games in Japan more generally. The cartoony visuals contrast with the content: RapeLay is a game about rape. Indeed, the title is a portmanteau combining the words ‘rape’ and ‘play’. In RapeLay, the player assumes the role of a man who stalks and subsequently rapes three female members of a family. The player controls the action by making movements with the mouse. The game begins with the player using the mouse to grope and undress victims on a crowded train. Later, the player forces intercourse with all three at his leisure; choices are given for a variety of sexual positions. RapeLay also includes an internal ejaculation counter, which notes when the victims are in danger of becoming pregnant. The victims, some of high school age and dressed in school uniforms, seem to enjoy the sex, even when forced. One possible ending, however, depending on the player’s choices and actions, is a victim stabbing the player’s character to death. Part of a niche market of games that can only be purchased by players over the age of 18, where most titles sell only about 1000–2000 copies (Kagami 2010, 136), RapeLay quickly disappeared from shelves and was forgotten in Japan.1 The story might have ended there, but instead CONTACT Patrick W. Galbraith pwg2@duke.edu Department of Cultural Anthropology, Duke University, Durham, NC, USA © 2017 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group 2 P. W. GALBRAITH copies appeared, without the consent of the Japanese producers, from a seller listing on Amazon.com in 2009, which sparked worldwide debate about sexual violence in gaming and its effects. This article considers debates about Japanese adult computer games normalizing sexual violence, debates that at times explicitly retread the ground of feminist critiques of pornography that swept North America from the late 1970s into the 1980s. These cri- tiques divided feminists and pitted them against one another in what came to be known as ‘the sex wars’. For feminists advocating against pornography, such media was part of a culture of sexual violence that subjugated women. Pornography was treated as hate speech, and advocacy against it led to attempts at regulation through ordinances in Minnesota, Indiana and Washington; connections were made with the Attorney Gener- al’s Commission on Pornography, or the so-called Meese Commission (Harvey 2001, 89– 90). While Japan did not experience as robust – or successful, in that feminists, led by lawyer Catharine MacKinnon, got ordinances passed – an anti-pornography movement as North America, the ideas of key thinkers have been translated and circulated since the mid-1980s (Norma 2015, 80–81). It was translators of MacKinnon, whose work began to appear in Japanese in 1993, and members of the Anti-Pornography and Prostitu- tion Research Group, founded in 1999, who led the critique of RapeLay in Japan in 2009. While few in number (Norma 2015, 81), anti-pornography advocates in Japan were able to mobilize global outrage and forge alliances with international organizations such as Equal- ity Now to draw attention to the problem of RapeLay, which seemed like the perfect example of men objectifying and abusing women for sexual pleasure. In a sense, this episode in Japan speaks to a broader revival of feminist critique; for example, in the debates surrounding sexual violence in computer/console games and the culture of gaming in North America (Valenti 2015). Indeed, a recent article in The New York Times, which prominently features MacKinnon in a discussion of rape on North American college campuses, is titled ‘The Return of the Sex Wars’ (Bazelon 2015). However, the return of the sex wars in Japan, a nation with its own history of debates about pornography, raises questions. Article 21 of the Constitution of Japan, promulgated in 1946, states that ‘No censorship shall be maintained.’ This strong stance on freedom of expression, a response to so-called ‘thought policing’ by the Japanese state in the lead up to the Second World War, is in practice moderated by Article 175 of the Criminal Code of Japan, which concerns obscenity. While the definition of obscenity is vague, rulings by Japanese courts have located it in exposed genitals (Allison 2000, 160–164; also Cather 2012). To avoid trouble with the authorities, all pornography in Japan bears the conspic- uous mark of censorship in the form of pixellation over genitals. Struggles continue in Japan over the use of Article 175 to police sexual expression (McLelland 2015a), which impacts art, both high and low, by and for both men and women. That said, insofar as gen- itals are pixellated and no crime is committed in the production of the images, a wide range of sexual expression is tolerated in Japan. The context-independent approach to obscenity narrowly defined allows for sexual expression in Japan that might be deemed obscene elsewhere. Further, because no crime is committed in the production of the images of comics, cartoons and computer/console games, the sexual expression in such media can be extreme, which has led to decades of debate (Kinsella 2000, 139). A recent high-profile clash between advocates of increased regulation and advocates of freedom of expression concerned the 2010 revision of an ordinance in Tokyo to designate  PORN STUDIES 3 certain comics, cartoons and computer/console games as ‘harmful’ and zone them out of regular stores to maintain a ‘healthy environment’ for young people. While the outright banning of certain material, for example depictions of sex with and between underage characters, has proceeded without much resistance in other parts of the world (Johnson 2006, 392), the mere zoning of material depicting that and more was fiercely debated in Japan (McLelland 2011, 351). Indeed, when lawmakers in Japan, where the production and sale of child pornography has been illegal since 1999, made possession illegal in 2014, they notably did not follow the global trend to expand the definition of child pornography to include virtual forms (McLelland 2005; Eiland 2009; Thompson 2012).2 Insofar as genitals are pixellated, the content is properly labelled and zoned and sale is limited to adults, Japan tolerates comics, cartoons and computer/console games such as RapeLay, which depict explicit sexual violence against underage characters. The activist response to RapeLay draws attention to a core aspect of anti-pornography advocacy, which is the notion of harm. Where MacKinnon and her contemporaries focused on the use and abuse of women in the production of pornography, no such argument can be made about RapeLay, an adult computer game depicting explicit sexual violence against cartoon characters.3 The argument thus shifts to the more controversial claim that depictions of sexual violence normalize sexual violence. In the oft-cited formulation, ‘Pornography is the theory, and rape the practice’ (Robin Morgan as quoted in Williams 1989, 16). Pornography is said to be part of rape culture, or a culture where sexual violence is normalized. This is called into question in Japan, however, given that pornography fea- turing depictions of sexual violence is not at all uncommon in the country, but statistics do not support that it has a higher rate of sexual violence than other parts of the world; if any- thing, the opposite appears to be true (Schodt 1996, 50–53; Diamond and Uchiyama 1999, 11; Ishikawa, Sasagawa, and Essau 2012, 308). In advocating against content such as RapeLay, anti-pornography activists face a serious question: are adult computer games which involve humans at the level of imagining sex acts, but not in the sex acts them- selves, harmful? In the return of the sex wars in Japan, the critique of rape culture becomes a critique of rape fantasy. To explore questions raised by the return of the sex wars in Japan, this article introduces an activist position that explicitly draws on anti-pornography feminism to make an argu- ment that adult computer games such as RapeLay should be banned by law. It then con- siders Gayle Rubin’s critique of anti-pornography feminism and articulation of a politics of sex in response to it. Building on Rubin, the article suggests the ‘becoming virtual’ of sex crime. From there, drawing on interviews and participant observation conducted in Tokyo from spring 2014 to fall 2015,4 the article moves to discuss Japanese feminist approaches to rape fantasy and play, which diverge from established anti-pornography positions and challenge us to think about distinctions between fantasy and reality. Against the backdrop of increased regulation of adult comics, cartoons and computer/console games, alliances between men and women – feminist and not – are emerging in contemporary Japan, but potentially objectionable works by and for men are rarely discussed at length. This is pro- blematic, because it is pornography targeting men and featuring young female characters that is most linked to the threat of sexual violence and central to calls for increased regu- lation. To introduce objectionable content and muted voices, the article turns to Kagami Hiroyuki, a man who writes scenarios for adult computer games, and who started his career at Illusion (the production company behind RapeLay), and discusses male sexual 4 P. W. GALBRAITH fantasies at their most confronting. At times Kagami’s position resonates with those of feminist thinkers in Japan, which raises the possibility of a feminist defence of RapeLay. Overall, the return of the sex wars in Japan challenges us to reconsider sexual fantasy and its harm, as well as the existence of alternative critical and cultural approaches to rape fantasy and play. ‘The RapeLay controversy’ What has come to be known as ‘the RapeLay controversy’ [Reipurei mondai] began with an article published in The Belfast Telegraph on 12 February 2009, which reported that the game was for sale with the online retailer Amazon.com (Fennelly 2009). The article featured comments from Keith Vaz, a politician in the British Parliament and strong advocate of increased regulation of computer/console games, who vowed to pursue the issue. Vaz brought RapeLay up with Siôn Simon, a member of the European Parliament, who suggested that pan-European steps against such content would be ‘the building block to moving towards a global regulatory future’ (as quoted in In Parliament 2009). In May 2009, the New York-based human rights group Equality Now launched a campaign under the banner ‘Japan: Rape-Simulator Games and the Normalization of Sexual Violence’, which urged its 30,000 members in 160 countries to write letters of protest to the Japanese government (Japan 2009). ‘These sorts of games that normalize extreme sexual violence against women and girls really have no place in our commu- nities’, Taina Bien-Aime, Executive Director of Equality Now, told CNN: ‘What we are calling for is that the Japanese government ban all games that promote and simulate sexual violence, sexual torture, stalking and rape against women and girls. And there are plenty of games like that’ (Lah 2010). Following a campaign by Women’s Forum Aus- tralia, the distribution of RapeLay was banned in that country; Minister for Broadband Stephen Conroy urged Google Australia to censor search results for downloads of the game. RapeLay was also banned in Argentina. In Japan, the RapeLay controversy led to the Komeito Party, part of the ruling coalition with the Liberal Democratic Party, and the Women’s Committee of the Liberal Democratic Party to have meetings to discuss increased regulation of games that simulate rape. In June 2009, the Japan Ethics Organization of Computer Software, an industry group for producers of adult computer games, self-imposed a ban on games that simulate rape and limited the sale of adult computer games to Japan (Sei bōryoku gēmu 2009). Although this was the strongest possible action that the organization could take, it was not enough for some. RapeLay as ‘harmful to society’ In 2009, Nakasatomi Hiroshi, professor of law at Tokushima University and co-founder of the Anti-Pornography and Prostitution Research Group, published an article titled ‘The Par- ticulars of the RapeLay Controversy and the Task of Legal Reform’ [Reipurei mondai no kei’i to hō kaisei no kadai]. At the time, Nakasatomi was between writing a book, Pornography and Sexual Violence: Toward New Legal Regulation [Porunogurafi to sei bōryoku: Arata na hō kisei wo motomete 2007], which draws on MacKinnon’s feminist framework of jurispru- dence, and translating MacKinnon’s Women’s Lives/Men’s Laws into Japanese (completed  PORN STUDIES 5 in 2011) (Norma 2015, 80–81). Broadly speaking, Nakasatomi advances three critiques of RapeLay: the content constitutes a form of discrimination against women; it is also a form of child pornography; and such adult computer games create a culture of sexual vio- lence that puts women and children at risk. For these reasons, Nakasatomi argues for gov- ernment action to stop the production of such content. Nakasatomi is not satisfied with the response of the Japan Ethics Organization of Computer Software, because it is com- prised of industry insiders, affiliation is voluntary and not all production companies are compelled to abide by its decisions. As Nakasatomi sees it, the ban on games that simulate rape was reactionary and served to keep the government from imposing legal restrictions on the industry as a whole, which would be necessary to close loopholes (Nakasatomi [2009] 2013, 3–5 and 7). For Nakasatomi, adult computer games such as RapeLay are ‘harmful to society’ ([2009] 2013, 5). Discourse about harm was a prominent feature of campaigns against comics – both for adults and children – in Japan in the 1990s (Schodt 1996, 49–59), which resonated with the concerns of some feminists at the time (Nagaoka 2010, 154).5 Building on this his- torical base, Nakasatomi argues that RapeLay not only perpetuates ‘male dominant ideals’ but also ‘brutally misogynistic attitudes towards women’, which ‘naturalizes the sexual enslavement of women and girls’ (Nakasatomi [2009] 2013, 5). It also, he continues, natur- alizes sexual violence. To make this point, Nakasatomi draws on research about pornogra- phy and underscores a ‘clear correlation’ between men consuming pornography and committing rape ([2009] 2013, 7). Specifically, Nakasatomi draws on meta-analyses of studies conducted in North America from the 1970s to the 1980s, which is to say the height of feminist concern about pornography as the theory of sexual domination and rape as its practice. One of the most disturbing implications of the studies is that the theory and practice are widespread. As Nakasatomi puts it, ‘a considerable proportion of men with psychological characteristics similar to that of sex offenders are present among the general population’. Indeed, sexual violence, Nakasatomi argues, is an issue concerning ‘most men’ ([2009] 2013, 7). Here Nakasatomi introduces feminist thinker Diana Russell and her ‘causal model’ of pornography and rape. The important contribution of the causal model is to suggest that a man must not only be predisposed to commit rape, but also have their internal inhi- bitions – which Nakasatomi ties to ethics and respect for human rights ([2009] 2013, 10) – and social inhibitions undermined. According to Russell, as cited in Nakasatomi, internal inhibitions can be undermined by viewing pornography, which leads to: [O]bjectifying women (considering women as sexual objects); rape myths; acceptance of inter- personal violence; trivializing rape; sex-callous attitudes; acceptance of male dominance in intimate relationships and; desensitizing males to rape. (Nakasatomi [2009] 2013, 10) Social inhibitions are undermined by viewing pornographic sexual violence, because: [V]iewers’ estimates of the percentage of men who have raped women would likely increase; viewers would be likely to consider rape a much easier crime to commit than they had pre- viously believed; viewers would be less likely to believe that rape victims would report their rapes to the police; viewers would be more likely to expect that rapists would avoid arrest, prosecution, and conviction in those cases that are reported; viewers would become less dis- approving of rapists, and less likely to expect disapproval from others if they decide to rape. (Nakasatomi [2009] 2013, 10–11) 6 P. W. GALBRAITH Pornography ‘puts one at risk of developing sexually deviant tendencies, committing sexual offenses, experiencing difficulties in one’s intimate relationships, and accepting rape myths’ (Nakasatomi [2009] 2013, 8). Nakasatomi thus takes the position that porno- graphy is part of rape culture and that the men who watch it are primed to rape women and children ([2009] 2013, 5). All of this can and has been said of pornography generally, but Nakasatomi takes issue with adult computer games specifically. Of RapeLay, Nakasatomi writes: In the past, the concern of the majority of critics of pornography was that men who watch rape scenes in pornography will tend to emulate the experience as if it were a game and perpetrate rape in real life. Ironically, RapeLay has made rape in an actual ‘game.’ In fact, RapeLay stands for ‘rape play.’ RapeLay has made rape a recreational activity. RapeLay’s aim is to make women sexual slaves by taming them through sexual assault. RapeLay tries to portray the male player as a tamer who is in a position of power and control over women. It is also important to note that inflicting rape and controlling the women in the game gives a sense of pleasure and entertainment to the male player and instills a rapist mind-set in him. ([2009] 2013, 5) For Nakasatomi, ‘graphically animated violent pornography’ is ‘particularly harmful’ and ‘potentially has a far deeper impact than other forms of pornography’ ([2009] 2013, 11). That is, ‘virtual pornography is likely to cause more harm than other forms of pornography’ ([2009] 2013, 12). Nakasatomi explains why: ‘Despite the absence of live characters, graphi- cally animated pornography can distort the sexual desires of the user to a more extreme and inflated level’ ([2009] 2013, 11). Japanese adult computer games not only distort and pervert sexual desires in cartoon form, but also have the player participate in sexual crimes ([2009] 2013, 6). In RapeLay specifically, the game mechanics are such that ‘the player uses his hands (through the console) to move the on-screen victim in any direction he wants. […] They become objects for his sexual gratification, and something he can play around with’ ([2009] 2013, 11).6 ‘Even though the characters in the game are not real live women and children’, Nakasatomi concludes, ‘and in spite of the fact that violence is regularly depicted in the virtual world, the existence of rape simulation computer games cannot be justified’ ([2009] 2013, 3). In this way, despite the absence of victims in the production of adult computer games, virtual sexual violence becomes as problematic as actual sexual violence, if not more so. In a critique that has come to resonate globally, Nakasatomi is concerned that sexual violence in comics, cartoons and computer/console games is not adequately regulated in Japan. Child pornography is illegal to produce, sell and possess, but Japan differentiates between virtual and actual forms and bans only the latter (McLelland 2005, 63–64; 2011, 350–351). The reasoning is that there is no crime in the production of the images and there is insufficient evidence to support the position that consumption of representations of sexual violence leads to sexual violence and crime. Nakasatomi disagrees, and is outraged that ‘children are endlessly subjected to abuse, torture, and exploitation in a sexually expli- cit way in the virtual world’ ([2009] 2013, 6). While it is debatable whether or not there are any children in RapeLay, Nakasatomi describes the game as child pornography and argues that this type of material does harm ([2009] 2013, 6–7 and 12–13). In a move familiar from MacKinnon and her work with Andrea Dworkin, Nakasatomi appeals to harrowing cases of sexual abuse of children and emphasizes the role of pornography in priming criminals and grooming victims ([2009] 2013, 9–10). The cases offer Nakasatomi ‘concrete evidence’ ([2009] 2013, 9), which shocks and mobilizes the reader against RapeLay and the culture  PORN STUDIES 7 that it represents. Nakasatomi concludes that the Japanese government should not only legally ban adult computer games such as RapeLay, but should also amend child porno- graphy laws to include virtual forms and amend obscenity laws to ban the subordination of women through pornography ([2009] 2013, 12–13). A response to the sex wars Anthropologist Gayle Rubin is infamous for her encounters with anti-pornography femin- ists in North America in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Because she was a practitioner of BDSM (Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, Submission, Sadism and Masochism), which was thought to celebrate sexual violence, Rubin was targeted as an enemy of feminists seeking to end the culture of sexual violence. Rubin traces her battles back to Women Against Vio- lence in Pornography and Media (WAVPM), the first feminist anti-pornography organiz- ation, founded in San Francisco in 1976 and responsible for the first national feminist conference on pornography in 1978 (Rubin 2011, 206–207). In slideshows and publi- cations, WAVPM connected pornography and sexual violence, and this would come to be central to anti-pornography advocacy. In this context, a familiar name appears: Diana Russell, one of the founders of WAVPM, articulated these fusions (and confusions) in a 1977 article in the feminist journal Chrysalis. Russell rarely gets the credit she clearly deserves for her contributions to the antiporn movement, which is often attributed instead to Catharine MacKinnon. […] Yet Russell provided the early movement with most of its intellectual leader- ship, analytical language, and ideological coherence. (Rubin 2011, 207) It was Russell who defined pornography as inherently degrading to women, misogynistic and anti-woman propaganda. This intellectual leadership, analytical language and ideo- logical coherence is precisely what Nakasatomi Hiroshi draws on in his critique of RapeLay in Japan, and it is what Rubin – a member of Samois, the first lesbian BDSM organ- ization, founded in 1978 in San Francisco with close proximity to WAVPM – has challenged for decades. To begin, Rubin identifies a number of rhetorical patterns in anti-pornography slide- shows and publications. The first is to start with something clearly horrible such as rape and then mix it with ‘things that might ordinarily be more difficult to get people upset about, for example, a woman finding pleasure in heterosexual intercourse’ (Rubin 2011, 208). Rubin refers to this technique as the ‘mobilization of disgust’, and its target is a com- posite of ‘porn, S/M, violence against women, and female subordination’ (2011, 210). Second, Rubin notes a tendency to confuse the content of images with issues of pro- duction, whereby representations of sexual violence are records of acts of sexual violence (2011, 208–209). Third, disgust and outrage mobilize people to response and action despite a lack of evidence of harm (2011, 208). Fourth, assertions made often, loudly enough and with conviction become convincing (2011, 256). Finally, there is moral auth- ority in a stance against oppression and abuse and men as oppressors and abusers (2011, 208). Calling the pornography problem a false one, Rubin draws attention to the persistent conflation of pornography and sexual violence, an implicit theory of causality which charges that pornography creates and maintains women’s subordination, and appeals to research results that do not support the case (Rubin 2011, 265; see also Attwood and Smith 2010, 177). 8 P. W. GALBRAITH Not only is anti-pornography advocacy ‘misguided and wrong’, not only does it distract feminists from more fundamental issues, but, Rubin argues, it is also dangerous. More specifically, as Rubin (2011, 274) sees it, ‘Antiporn feminists are playing into the hands of the right wing and its reactionary agenda’. Among many examples is the Meese Com- mission, which was packed with conservatives and concluded in 1986 ‘that pornography is harmful and a social menace’ (2011, 183). Importantly, Rubin draws attention to the becoming virtual of sex crimes in the Meese Commission’s report, which ‘included 55 rec- ommendations to control child pornography in spite of the fact that by 1986 there was no commercial child pornography in the United States’ (2011, 184). Where there is ‘virtually no child pornography’ (2011, 185), one focuses on virtual child pornography. Further, in the campaign to protect children as a vulnerable population, ‘police, media, and public hys- teria have targeted strangers and weirdos […] real and imagined’ (2011, 184–185). The strangers and weirdos producing and consuming objectionable material are imagined criminals, potential criminals or people who entertain dangerous sexual imaginings that might be realized in sex crimes. The response to virtual sex crimes and imaginary sexual threats is expanded surveillance and police authority to manage and reduce risk. In this context, one cannot help but appreciate the prescience of Rubin’s point that campaigns against pornography will create ‘new problems’ and ‘new forms of legal and social abuse’ (2011, 273). As Rubin predicted, concern about the safety of children has been at the forefront of mutations of the law and expansions of surveillance and authority over sex (2011, 218; also Furedi 2015, 8–12). This is true even when the sex involves ‘fantasy alone’ (McLelland 2005, 75; original emphasis). For example, in 2001, in an attempt to reduce the risk of child abuse and wipe out child pornography in all of its forms, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled that ‘“person” includes both actual and imagin- ary human beings’ (as quoted in McLelland 2013). In other words, abuse of imaginary human beings is actual abuse and can be a crime. While cultural critic Laura Kipnis once rhetorically asked ‘What kind of a society sends its citizens to prison for their fanta- sies?’ (1996, 3), the answer today is that many societies do. For example, possession of certain Japanese comics, cartoons and computer/console games can result in imprison- ment in Canada, Australia, the United Kingdom and beyond (McLelland 2005; Eiland 2009; Attwood and Smith 2010; Byberg 2012; Thompson 2012). During the sex wars, Rubin developed a theory of sexual politics that would be indepen- dent of dominant forms of feminism and their binary and totalizing formula of men versus women (2011, 180). While one’s gender and assigned sex can and do impact sexual poli- tics, a feminist critique of men dominating women cannot adequately explain legal and social oppression of sexual minorities. In Rubin’s theory, sex is ‘organized into systems of power, which reward and encourage some individuals and activities, while punishing and suppressing others’ (2011, 180). Sex can be ‘good’ or ‘bad’, and the ‘bad’ is policed (2011, 146–154). There need not be any real threat posed by ‘bad’ sex, because the line between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ sex, and the threat posed by ‘bad’ sex, are ‘imaginary’ (2011, 151). While pornography may represent ‘bad’ sex, Rubin argues that ‘The content of the image produced, whether or not it is sexual, and whether or not it is violent or distasteful to the viewer, is irrelevant’ (2011, 268). For Rubin, the only concern is whether someone is coerced, abused or harmed in the production of the images in question. If we follow Rubin’s lead, RapeLay – however distasteful the content – should not be a concern, because no one was harmed in the production of the cartoon images used in this  PORN STUDIES 9 adult computer game. Someone might act on a rape fantasy, which points us towards the imaginary or virtual sex crime, and targeting such crime impacts not only freedom of expression, but also freedom of imagination. Faced with RapeLay, critics must ask whether certain forms of sexual fantasy are not only objectionable, but also harmful, and so should not be allowed. Is the fantasy of sexual violence against girls and women not only objectionable, but also dangerous enough to be criminal? When thought through with Rubin, a series of questions emerge about the RapeLay controversy: should we, and can we, insist on and maintain the distinction between fantasy and reality, image and act (2011, 256)? Is there a distinction between ‘harmless fantasy and criminal assault’ (2011, 256)? Are the fantasies of an adult computer game such as RapeLay ‘harmless’ (2011, 256) or ‘harmful’ (Nakasatomi [2009] 2013, 5)? The return of the sex wars in Japan provides an opportunity to consider some answers to these questions. Rape fantasy and play in Japan Similar to the situation in North America in the 1980s that Rubin critiques, the RapeLay controversy demonstrates a confluence of anti-pornography advocacy and conservative agendas in Japan in the 2000s. For example, in May 2009 the two government groups that held high-profile meetings on adult computer games that simulate rape were the Komeito Party, which has deep ties to the religious group Sōka Gakkai, and the Women’s Committee of the Liberal Democratic Party, which was led by Yamatani Eriko, who is described as an ‘anti-feminist’ (Nakasatomi [2009] 2013, 3). Indeed, rather than standing against RapeLay and adult comics, cartoons and computer/console games like it, which can be disturbingly violent, a number of Japanese feminists defend such content on the grounds of freedom of expression and imagination. These feminists are reluctant to align themselves with sexual regulation, and perceive in moves towards increased regulation a power grab by Japanese authorities, who want to promote ‘good’ sex – heterosexual, coupled, reproductive – at a time when marriage and birth rates are declining and the Japanese population is shrinking. Although not necessarily in dialogue with one another or addressing the RapeLay controversy, these feminist thin- kers speak about rape fantasy and play in comics by and for women in ways that align them with defenders of RapeLay. Among these feminist thinkers, Fujimoto Yukari is particularly influential. After studying at the prestigious University of Tokyo, Fujimoto worked as a professional editor for 25 years and was involved in the Japanese translation of Men on Rape: What They Have to Say About Sexual Violence (released in Japan in 1988). Today she sits sipping coffee at Hilltop House during a break from a seminar at Meiji University, where she lectures on comics and gender representation. ‘My specialty is shōjo manga, or comics for girls’ explains Fujimoto, who wrote the celebrated Where Do I Belong? The Shape of the Heart Reflected in Comics for Girls [Watashi no ibasho wa doko ni aru no? Shōjo manga ga utsusu kokoro no katachi 1998]: As a result of dividing up the market by gender and age, comics by and for girls and women deal with issues that are important to them. The market is massive and supported by girls and women, who are the primary producers and readers. These works have contained depictions of sexual violence since the 1970s.7 10 P. W. GALBRAITH Examples include works by Hagio Moto and Takemiya Keiko (Welker 2006, 849), who revo- lutionized the genre of comics for girls, but depictions of sexual violence spread rapidly in fan fiction by and for girls and women (Orbaugh 2010, 180) and ‘ladies comics’ for older audiences in the 1980s (Shamoon 2004, 79) before making their way into the mainstream in the 1990s. It was not long before conservative politicians began to point out the preva- lence of sex in comics for girls and women, which was understood to be ‘harmful’ (Nagaoka 2010, 233–238). ‘First of all, I’m not convinced by the idea that comics are harmful’, Fujimoto counters: Basically, my position is that media alone cannot have a negative effect. Humans are not that stupid. And you could make exactly the same argument about effects the other way around. So the reason why there is so little crime in Japan compared to the United States is because of the prevalence of comics. Any argument that makes comics solely responsible for crime rates is ultimately suspect. Not only does Fujimoto think that sexuality in comics, violent or otherwise, is not a problem; but she also believes that it can be a benefit. Put simply, Fujimoto argues that comics provide a safe space for thinking about sex. She approaches comics as ‘simulation’ [shimyurēshon] and ‘pseudo experience’ [giji taiken], which she explains as follows: Comics are basically simulation. What happens there is not what happens in reality, but it simulates it. For example, if someone turns to violence, what will happen? What might you do in this situation, and what might be the consequences? It isn’t you who does this, but, based on a pseudo experience, you learn and grow. It’s a pseudo experience, but it is still part of the process of building experience. That’s the role that comics fulfill. They let you know the diversity of people and ways of thinking in the world. They can provide good and bad examples, things that you would and would not want to do, people that you might or might not want to become. In her publications, Fujimoto highlights the phenomenon of ‘playing sex(uality)’ [sei wo asobu] (2015, 79), which leads to exploration and understanding of sex(uality). In this framework, Fujimoto defends rape fantasy. To begin, she draws attention to rape in Harlequin novels, which is a ‘trope in telling stories about uncontrollable desire’.8 Calling this ‘Harlequin rape’, Fujimoto argues that it does not reflect or impact a desire to rape or be raped, but rather is part of the characteristic fantasy of these novels. Fujimoto explains the implications: In the same way that BDSM is a form of play – sexual violence is not BDSM, right? – rape fan- tasies are fantasy. They are something cut off from reality. There are many people, men and women, who have rape fantasies, but that does not mean that they want to rape or be raped in real life. To have a sexual idea in one’s head, thinking about sex, the direction of desire in one’s mind, is not the same as actualizing it, as a sex act. I think that it’s absolutely separate. For me, it’s so strange that people from North America don’t make that distinction. Why? The things that you are thinking are not the same as the things that you want to do. Shouldn’t that be clear? As Fujimoto sees it, sexual fantasy is ‘not always about the representations of objects of desire that exist in reality, [and] not about compelling parties to realize their desires in reality’ (as quoted in McLelland 2011, 358–359). She remains opposed to the idea that por- nography, even when depicting explicit sexual violence and women seeming to enjoy it, is the theory and rape is the practice. In fact, when called as an expert witness in a high-  PORN STUDIES 11 profile obscenity case against an adult comic by and for men, which depicted explicit sexual violence against female characters – some underage, although, in line with the Japanese approach to obscenity, this was not as germane to the case as genital exposure – Fujimoto spoke in defence of the content (Cather 2012, 227–229). While she finds such depictions offensive, Fujimoto is not convinced that they contrib- ute to sexual violence or desire for underage girls. She points out that character images in comics, cartoons and computer/console games in Japan tend to diverge from realistic depictions and refer to other images rather than reality. On the difficult topic of sexualized depictions of characters that appear to be children, Fujimoto explains: There is no child behind the image, which only refers to other images. The desire is for the image of the child, the fictional character, which is something that we need to recognize. The desire is not for a child, but for the image itself. For almost everyone brought up in this culture of drawing and fantasy, there is absolutely no connection to reality. If you ask fans of comics, ‘Which do you want, the child or the drawing?’ they will say, ‘The drawing, please.’ There is a tendency to misunderstand this in moral outrage over the content of the image. By saying that the image refers to other images, Fujimoto positions herself in an estab- lished discourse in Japan that comics, cartoons and computer/console games diverge from ‘reality’ and are ‘real’ on their own terms.9 That is, the cartoon character does not rep- resent or refer to a human body, but rather to a cartoon body. Highlighting the economy of desire for images, Fujimoto discusses ‘lines of desire’ [rain no yokubō] and ‘desire for lines’ [sen ni tai suru yokubō]. ‘This is not reality’, she explains: ‘In fact, this line can only exist because it is not reality.’ For Fujimoto, the ability to distinguish between fantasy and reality is a literacy that critics and regulators of comics seem to lack. It is a literacy that comes from growing up in the culture of comics, cartoons and computer/console games, which are part of everyday life in contemporary Japan (Galbraith 2014, 123–125, 163–164 and 180–181). Although Fujimoto senses something ‘nasty’ in some adult comics, cartoons and com- puter/console games by and for men, she nevertheless does not want to see increased regulation. Rather than regulating objectionable material – which, she argues, resulted in the death of not only sexual expression in mainstream comics, but also comics for girls and women in North America in the 1950s (Cather 2012, 243–244) – Fujimoto suggests discussing nasty desires, producing alternative material and understanding that sexist representations are a symptom rather than cause of sexism. To regulate the content out of sight and mind would reduce chances for discussion, limit the range of material and deal with the symptoms rather than causes of sexism. Furthermore, Fujimoto opposes increased regulation because, as she puts it, ‘There is a tendency for adult men to want to control the sexuality of women and children, which is a big part of the regulatory movement.’ Historically, concern about adult comics by and for men, which led to new regulations in Japan in the 1990s, dovetailed with critiques of adult comics by and for women, sexuality in comics for girls and access to comics that might ‘pervert’ the minds of young people (Nagaoka 2010, 233–238; McLelland 2011, 358–359; 2015b, 257– 260 and 263–267). Put simply, once the door was opened by the campaign against harmful comics, all comics supposedly reflecting or influencing desires that critics and con- cerned citizens found ‘nasty’ became targets of regulation. 12 P. W. GALBRAITH Such is the history outlined by comics and sexuality scholar Hori Akiko in a paper titled ‘History of the Relationship Between Feminism and the Regulation of Sexual Expression’ [Feminizumu to sei hyōgen kisei no kankei shi], which was presented to a feminist study group in Tokyo on 1 March 2015. Beginning with the sex wars in North America and working her way to the present moment in Japan, Hori advocated critical assessment of alliances between feminists and conservative politicians, which could result in men and women, young and old, losing access to safe spaces of virtual sex in comics, cartoons and computer/console games. In her presentation, Hori focused on protecting sexual expression in comics by and for girls and women, as opposed to media by and for boys and men. This made sense, because Hori addressed a room of primarily women, but among them were also four men, namely cultural critics and activists against increased regulation. One of these men was well known for his writing on adult comics by and for men, including rape fantasy, which he seemed to celebrate. In the room, Hori found herself in a strange alliance with this man, who she nevertheless criticized for having violent desires and hiding behind a discourse of male readers of adult comics as a sexual minority. Such men are, she charged, ‘a minority of convenience’. ‘You need to be more honest about how you experience these works subjectively’, Hori told the man. ‘If any of this is not normative masculinity, then please explain how’. The man lis- tened intently to the critique and participated actively in the discussion. The two went out together with the group for drinks afterwards. The tense and necessary confrontation at the feminist study group led to communication and, one hopes, better understanding. Rather than increased regulation, Hori advocated self-critique, open dialogue and con- sideration for others, which was modelled by the study group itself. Another voice speaking on sexual expression in Japanese comics is feminist psychoana- lytic thinker Setsu Shigematsu. Author of Scream from the Shadows: The Women’s Liberation Movement in Japan (2012), the first monograph in English on Japanese feminism in the 1970s, Shigematsu positions herself against anti-pornography advocacy and its approach to representations and acts. She explains: ‘I reject a reflection or influence theory – that mass culture is a direct reflection of the minds and desires of the masses or that it is simply assimilated without mediation in the process of consumption’ (1999, 128). Shige- matsu reminds us that Japanese feminists such as Fujimoto, whose work she builds on, contest the assumption that depictions of violence necessarily equate to violence against women (1999, 141). By her estimation, distaste with sexual content should not be conflated with issues of sexual violence in the production of pornography or with sexual violence itself. Rather, for Shigematsu, comics, cartoons and computer/console games that diverge from reality open up ‘alternative sites and different dimensions of what is typically conceived of as sex and sexuality’ (1999, 128). Such media offer opportu- nities to think about sex and, perhaps, think about sex differently. Speaking specifically of rape fantasy, Shigematsu draws attention to adult comics drawn by and for women, or ladies comics, which offer ‘new texts and contexts to the current feminist/sex/pornography/censorship debates’ (1999, 142). Noting the prevalence of rape fantasy in ladies comics, Shigematsu highlights how scenarios, patterns and drama contribute to ‘an elaborate erotic theater’ (1999, 143). Rather than call this ‘Harlequin rape’, Shigematsu proposes and works with the term ‘rape/play’ (1999, 143). As Shigematsu explains, the term ‘emphasizes the essential playful aspect of these so-called rape/play scenes, as well as suggesting the scripted, fictional and staged drama of these sexual  PORN STUDIES 13 encounters’ (1999, 143). It is important to underscore here that not all rape in adult comics, cartoons and computer/console games in Japan is ‘playful’ – the sexual violence in RapeLay, for example, is not – but it occurs as part of the scripted, fictional and staged drama of sexual encounter. Sexual encounters are ‘role-plays’ and ‘power games’, which Shigematsu links to BDSM and makes distinct from sexual violence (1999, 145). Given the existence of ladies comics with titles such as Rape-Play, the participation of women in the production of adult comics and the multiple ways that women can experi- ence sex with, through and as characters (Shigematsu 1999, 129–131 and 146), Shige- matsu concludes that total rejection of rape fantasy and play is unwise. Not only do comics, cartoons and computer/console games do no harm, but they also can be ben- eficial in providing a creative outlet for producers and material for consumers to work through, if not also generating public discussion. ‘To deploy an image that can arouse the viewer is not the same as advocating the same behavior’, Shigematsu argues: ‘Various kinds of violence against women are part of social reality, and to censor its rep- resentation’ in pornography and elsewhere is not to ‘reduce real violence against women’ (1999, 147; original emphases). In fact, such censorship might simply make sexual violence invisible, unspeakable and unthinkable.10 Among the more unique aspects of her work, Shigematsu not only discusses and defends adult comics by and for women, but also thinks about them beside adult comics by and for men. In fact, Shigematsu defends seemingly indefensible material cate- gorized as lolicon, or ‘Lolita complex’, which features young female characters engaged in sex that is often explicit and sometimes violent: How individuals consume, appropriate, and transform rorikon manga [lolicon comics] (or other media) and how they act thereafter cannot be controlled or determined in advance. The use and potential abuse of girls in the production of pornography and their sexual molestation is a serious problem that must not be displaced onto or reduced to an issue of ‘pornographic content’. (Shigematsu 1999, 138, original emphasis)11 As Shigematsu sees it, lolicon comics should not be confused with ‘girl-child pornography’ or ‘collapsed with or blamed as the cause of the sexualization of actual young girls or their molestation’ (1999, 138; original emphasis). Indeed, historically, the perceived perversion of lolicon in Japan was of men attracted not to little girls, but rather cartoon characters, which was thought to represent ‘a lack of desire for the “real thing” – a lack of desire that young men are “naturally” supposed to possess’ (1999, 131–132). Shigematsu devel- ops her understanding of lolicon through a close reading of the work of Akagi Akira, a male comics editor and critic, and in so doing begins to address Hori Akiko’s critique of a lack of self-reflexive discussion coming from the men producing and consuming adult comics, cartoons and computer/console games in Japan. Such a discussion is necessary if there is to be a feminist alliance against increased regulation of sexual expression, which might include a defence of objectionable material such as RapeLay. It is to this discussion that the article now turns. RapeLay reconsidered A writer of scenarios for adult computer games, Kagami Hiroyuki began his career in 1995 at Illusion, the production company behind RapeLay. Well known and respected in his 14 P. W. GALBRAITH field, Kagami is the author of The Adult Computer Game Scenario Bible [Bishōjo gēmu shi- nario baiburu, 2009] and has worked on hundreds of adult computer games in various capacities. The RapeLay controversy in 2009, and reform of a Tokyo ordinance targeting ‘unhealthy’ representations of sex in 2010, prompted Kagami to become more reflexive about his work and its perceived harm. Although he does not spend much time in feminist study groups, Kagami shares a number of ideas with feminist thinkers such as Fujimoto Yukari and Setsu Shigematsu, as outlined in his book On Non-Existent Youth [Hijitsuzai seishōnen ron] (Kagami 2010).12 Positioning himself against anti-pornography feminism, Kagami states that ‘The criticism of adult computer games as violating the rights of women is misguided’ (2010, 121).13 In Kagami’s view, increased regulation risks robbing people of a space to think about and share sex (2010, 19–20). He worries that slogans such as ‘think of the children’ will end up harming sexual expression for all (2010, 294– 295). As Kagami sees it, discourse about protecting children is being used to legitimize a massive expansion of authority over the sex lives – the fantasy sex lives – of others. This argument is by now a familiar one (Kipnis 1996; Rubin 2011; Furedi 2015), but Kagami goes further in highlighting parallels between the current moment and the rise of fascist ‘thought policing’ in Japan in the lead up to the Second World War (Kagami 2010, 21, 221 and 330; also McLelland 2011). He advocates protecting freedom of expression and imagination, including even the most objectionable of sexual expression and imagination, because this is in the best interests of men and women, the young, society and democracy. Angered by what he considers to be unfair attacks by groups such as Equality Now and news outlets such as CNN, which embolden conservatives in Japan, Kagami turns questions about RapeLay back on those who pose them. ‘The players of adult computer games are being treated like terrorists’, Kagami tells me over coffee in Ikebukuro: ‘What have they done wrong? Play through bad scenarios? Are my scenarios bad? Who decides?’14 Kagami questions the power that organizes sex into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ forms. Moreover, he specifically questions to what extent sexual fantasy and play are ‘bad’. Like Fujimoto and others, Kagami approaches ‘sexual fantasy’ [sei-teki mōsō] as a form of ‘play’ [asobi] (2010, 42–43). If this is true of pornography, then it is even truer of adult computer games, where sexual fantasy and play merge. ‘The players know that this isn’t reality’, Kagami explains: ‘They understand that it is play. Sexual fantasy is, to the end, play.’ On this point he is adamant: ‘Sexual fantasy takes place in imaginary space. There are rules. In other words, in reality, it is not put into practice’ (2010, 94). Not only do games have rules that set them apart from everyday activity, but games are also set apart from reality by rule. Kagami argues that the men who produce and play adult computer games in Japan intentionally and explicitly keep fantasy and reality separate. (For more on this position, which is shared by a number of prominent Japa- nese thinkers, see Galbraith 2014.) The original Japanese release of RapeLay, for example, came packaged with the following warning: The content of this software is, to the end, a constructed work of fiction and a game. Conduct- ing the acts depicted in the game in reality will result in punishment by law. The content of the game is a bit of theater and fiction. Absolutely do not mimic these acts or be influenced by them. (Kagami 2010, 219–220) The rule of adult computer games is that fantasy should not be conflated or confused with reality or forced into reality. Even as ‘sexual fantasy is, to the end, play’, so too is sexual fantasy, to the end, fantasy. Maintaining this intentional and explicit distinction takes  PORN STUDIES 15 practice and struggle, but it is a significant distinction. It is only to the extent that RapeLay is not sexual violence in reality that it is rape fantasy and play. From another angle, the rule is that the characters must be kept separate and made distinct from women and children. Understanding that one of the biggest critiques of RapeLay outside Japan is that the content is child pornography, and that it reveals the problem of widespread sexualization of children in Japan, Kagami endeavours to explain why such critique misses the mark. He starts by highlighting the linguistic distinc- tion in Japanese between sexual fantasy involving underage female characters, called lolicon, and paedophilia, which is yōji-zuki, pedofiria or, more clinically, shōniseiai or jidō- seiai. Associated with comics, cartoons and computer/console games, lolicon is distinct from child pornography, or jidō poruno in Japanese. ‘Lolicon games are not child pornogra- phy’, Kagami tells me, firmly: ‘Calling them that is a misunderstanding, and a tactic of the pro-regulation camp, which tends to shut down rather than encourage discussion. If these games are child pornography, then they are bad, enough said, but that is not the case’. Kagami is not alone in making a distinction between lolicon and paedophilia; it was a dis- tinction that I encountered often in the field. Understanding that the meaning of lolicon is contested, some went further to underscore their orientation of desire. One man, for example, identified not only as a lolicon, or someone with a Lolita complex, but also as a ‘two-dimensional lolicon’ [nijigen rorikon], or someone with an orientation of desire toward the underage female characters appearing in Japanese comics, cartoons and com- puter/console games, which are media known for an aesthetic flatness that is colloquially referred to in Japan as ‘two-dimensional’. For Kagami and many others, it is not altogether surprising that some people become attracted to characters in Japan, where comics and cartoons are mass media and attractive characters an inescapable part of everyday life (Kagami 2010, 91–92; Saitō 2011, 88–89; Galbraith 2014, 123–125 and 181; Nagayama 2014, 83–87). As part of the robust media market, there are works that target adults, and even pornographic works featuring ‘two-dimensional’ or cartoony characters who are objects of desire that are known fictions. Indeed, the characters of adult computer games in Japan are aligned with Japanese comics and cartoons and are visually distinct from the photo-realism of many computer/console games in North America. For Kagami, lolicon refers to attraction to and affection for small, round and cute characters, which has nothing to do with children (2010, 89; see also Akagi 1993, 230; Saitō 2011, 29–31; Nagayama 2014, 129–130 and 158). By Kagami’s estimation, to be attracted to a ‘loli character’ [rori kyara] is to be attracted to a fictional construct, which is independent of reality and does not refer to a human body. This is not confusion of fiction and reality, but rather orientation of desire toward fiction as such. Fans of comics, cartoons and computer/console games in Japan have developed a voca- bulary to discuss their orientation of desire and relation to fiction, most notably moe, which refers to an affective response to fictional characters. (For an overview of moe, see Galbraith 2014.) Characters such as those appearing in adult computer games are ‘moe characters’ [moe kyara], or characters designed to trigger an affective response in the players interacting with them. The size and shape of eyes, colour-coding, hairstyle, dress and voice are examples of what have been called ‘moe elements’ [moe yōso], but the list goes on and on as fans read comics, watch cartoons and play computer/console games with increased reflexivity and awareness. Indeed, almost any character can be seen as a construction of discrete elements of design and scenario (Azuma 2009). In reference to the culture of reading and responding 16 P. W. GALBRAITH affectively to fictional characters, Kagami coins the provocative phrase ‘moe image literacy’ [moe’e riterashī] (2010, 131). This literacy begins by approaching characters as fiction, which is separate and distinct from reality and real on its own terms. Others have used the voca- bulary of an affective response to fictional characters to suggest that fans of comics, cartoons and computer/console games in Japan have developed an ‘ethics of moe’ [moe no rinri] (Harata 2006, 115), which is the practice and struggle of observing and maintaining the dis- tinction between ‘fiction’ and ‘reality’. One can recognize this ethics in Kagami’s suggestion of rules that intentionally and explicitly orient players of adult computer games towards fiction and fantasy. Although this is even clearer in adult computer games, which are completely con- structed as opposed to live-action film and photography, Kagami submits that pornogra- phy in general does not represent ‘reality’ (2010, 111). Echoing others on the topic, Kagami explains that sex in pornography occurs as part of scenes that are performed – or, to borrow a theatre term, played – by performers. Recognizing that what one sees on- screen is a sex scene played by performers means reading pornography as constructed media fiction. Just as he suggests that those who read comics, watch cartoons and play computer/console games develop ‘moe image literacy’, Kagami argues that those who watch pornography develop ‘porn literacy’ [poruno riterashī] (2010, 117). If a person has not developed such literacies, and conflates and confuses fiction and reality, then that person needs help and guidance. Perhaps thinking that I am such a person, Kagami, like Fujimoto, patiently explains to me that ‘Sexual fantasy and sexual activity are different’. In pornography, others engage in sex acts that are recorded and played back by the viewer, who watches, indulges in sexual fantasy and masturbates. Numerous sex acts are involved, including, but not limited to, the sex acts that are recorded, sex acts that occur as part of one’s fantasy and the act of masturbation. With a game such as RapeLay, sex acts are imagined and produced by creators and players, but no one, and no body, is engaged in sex acts that are recorded as part of the pornographic work. The sex, however violent, is not a record of violent sex acts. Adult computer games are completely constructed representations of sex acts. Rather than harmful effects of pornography, comics or adult computer games such as RapeLay, Kagami instead tells me about their ‘healing effects’ [hīru kōka]. For Kagami, por- nography generally – and RapeLay specifically – does not contribute to male privilege and discrimination against women, but rather performs reparative work on ‘injured masculi- nity’ (2010, 118 and 183–184). Again taking on the controversial topic of lolicon, Kagami suggests that loli characters – small, round, cute – appeal to men who are uncomfortable with their own sexuality and threatened by the sexuality of others (2010, 89). Comics, car- toons and computer/console games provide space – fantasy space, play space, safe space – to work through sexuality, which is necessary for these men (just as Fujimoto would argue that it is necessary for some women). From his experience working in the industry for 20 years, Kagami has come to see adult computer games as ‘healing programs’ [hīringu puroguramu], which contribute to the well-being and stability of players. In stunning pas- sages in On Non-Existent Youth, Kagami takes this thinking further to suggest that games such as RapeLay contribute to the well-being and stability of Japanese society: There is no other country where pornography is as developed as Japan. In the entire world, Japan is where eroticism developed most. Following from this, I think that this country has  PORN STUDIES 17 developed mechanisms to curb social unrest and stabilize society. […] I surmise that the low rate of rape in Japan is due to Japan’s rich culture of pornography. People who do not like pornography will say ‘an inundation of porn’ rather than a ‘rich culture of pornography,’ but nations that have strict regulations concerning sexual expression and child pornography have higher rates of rape. (2010, 182 and 319) In this polemical reversal of anti-pornography advocacy, the relatively low rate of sexual violence in Japan is secured by its rich culture of pornography. (To repeat, this is polemical. Recalling Fujimoto’s words about the discourse of harm, we must keep in mind that any argument connecting the existence of media with crime rates is partial and should be assessed critically.) Rather than contributing to a rape culture, or a culture where sexual violence is normalized, Kagami sees pornography as contributing to the development of a culture of sexual fantasy and play. This culture does not, he argues, lead to sexual vio- lence, but rather to exploration, awareness and sharing of sexual fantasy, which is good for individuals and society. This is not the first time that this sort of argument has been made (see, for example, Schodt 1996; Diamond and Uchiyama 1999), but few make it in defence of content as offensive and objectionable as RapeLay, which has been called hate speech against women and child pornography. Although Kagami is no doubt positioning Japan as a model that he thinks the rest of the world can learn from (his pride at times borders on porno-nationalism), he respects that RapeLay is not for everyone. Kagami is part of an industry that controls the circulation of the adult computer games that it produces. In addition to its warning that the content is fiction and fantasy, the packaging of the original Japanese release of RapeLay advised stores that the game is for people aged 18 and older and should not be sold to anyone younger or displayed where they might be exposed to it. Further, the packaging stated, in English, ‘JAPAN SALES ONLY’ (Kagami 2010, 220). Kagami suggests that these warnings highlight the ‘ethical considerations of adult computer games’, which clearly set boundaries. Illusion, the production company behind RapeLay, did not intend for the game to be sold outside Japan; the content was distributed against explicitly stated rules, which triggered the RapeLay controversy. However, instead of punishing the overseas distributors, Illusion, the adult computer gaming industry and Japan became targets of criticism for producing and allowing the production of such a game in the first place. For his part, Kagami feels that people around the world are forcing their morals on Japan (2010, 246). Such moralizing ignores the existence of alternative ethics and rules in Japan. Kagami argues that Japan does not have a problem, but rather is being forced to accept problems from elsewhere projected onto Japan. Put somewhat differently, Japan is being forced to take sides in a war against representations of sexual violence, a war with deep roots in feminist critiques of pornogra- phy generated in North America in the 1970s and 1980s, which ignores the range of pos- itions that developed on a different terrain of struggle in Japan. In confronting us with positions such as Kagami’s, the return of the sex wars in Japan challenges us to reconsider lingering assumptions about sexual fantasy, play and harm. Conclusion During the RapeLay controversy in 2009, a North American critic suggested that the game draws attention to the ‘perversion’ and ‘illness that’s embedded in Japanese society’ (Alex- ander [2009] 2012, 109). Condemnation of Japan for sexual deviance is not at all 18 P. W. GALBRAITH uncommon; in fact, there is a cottage industry of popular writing on the subject. Republ- ishing this critique of RapeLay a few years later in her co-edited volume Violation: Rape in Gaming, feminist thinker Clarisse Thorn pushed back by suggesting that we ought to be cautious about diagnosing ‘perversion’ and ‘illness’ in ‘Japan’ (Thorn 2012, 16). After all, ‘rape simulators’ were produced in the North American computer/console gaming market as early as 1982 (Thorn 2012, 16). Around the same time, qualitative research on players of Dungeons & Dragons, who sit together at a table and collaboratively talk through adventures in imaginary worlds, found that non-player female characters were ‘raped for sport’ (Fine 1983, 44, 56 and 69–70). Offensive as all this may be, Thorn, a prac- titioner of BDSM, takes for granted that rape fantasy and play are not the same as sexual violence. However, Thorn also understands that raping a character played by another person can cause significant trauma, which is cause for concern (2012, 4–5). In contrast, for Thorn, RapeLay, ‘a rape story against a piece of software’ (2012, 12), is not necessarily an issue: I’m not convinced it’s important to condemn those games. Basically, if I want to keep my S/M fantasies (and I do!), then I don’t feel that I can condemn others’ violent fantasies. The com- plicated part is the implementation – and whether the people involved actually believe that their rape fantasy is realistic. (2012, 16–17) Although it is set in the realistic world of contemporary Japan and deals with rape, which is a very real problem, in its cartoony visuals and warnings to players RapeLay clarifies its status as ‘fantasy rather than reality’ (Thorn 2012, 14). Despite passionate appeals by international groups such as Equality Now and the Anti- Pornography and Prostitution Research Group in Japan to ban ‘games that normalize extreme sexual violence against women and girls’ and ‘games that promote and simulate sexual violence’ (Lah 2010; Nakasatomi [2009] 2013), Thorn (2012, 16) remains uncon- vinced that games such as RapeLay normalize sexual violence. Japanese feminists such as Fujimoto Yukari and Setsu Shigematsu are also unconvinced, and for many of the same reasons about the distinction, which is observed and maintained through practice and struggle, between fantasy and reality. Further, as Fujimoto states most strongly, to simulate sexual violence is not to promote it; rather, simulation can lead to better under- standing of sexual violence and a stance against it. In this way, Japanese feminists find themselves in alliance with men such as Kagami Hiroyuki in opposing increased regulation of sexual expression in comics, cartoons and computer/console games. In defending the practice of playing sex(uality) and the simulation of sexual violence, they find themselves in the position of defending RapeLay. If, like Thorn, Kagami and others, we advocate increased education rather than increased regulation, then this begins by allowing for sexual fantasy and play, which lead to discussion and the development of literacies. Those who write in defence of ‘dangerous games’, even when they stop short of rape fantasy and play, highlight studies suggesting that people who fantasize are generally more aware of the implications of violence and less likely to act violently (Laycock 2015, 193). If sexual violence is taboo even in the context of fantasy and play, then people will be unable to make sense of it (Laycock 2015, 190). In the return of the sex wars in Japan sparked by the RapeLay controversy, we find sug- gestions of new answers to old questions about sexual fantasy, play and harm, for example Fujimoto’s idea of safe spaces to play sex(uality), Shigematsu’s idea of comics opening up  PORN STUDIES 19 alternative sites and different dimensions to explore sex and sexuality, and Kagami’s idea of developing literacies in response to moving images and in relation to others moved by images.15 Japan – where comics, cartoons and computer/console games have become part of everyday life – offers a concrete example of how, as studies suggest, sustained engagement with fantasy helps people learn to distinguish between fantasy and reality (Laycock 2015, 289–290; for comparison, see Schodt 1983, 132–137; 1996, 51). The case of Japan demonstrates that the existence of representations of sexual violence does not always and necessarily point to the existence of rape culture. Instead, it appears that there are different cultural approaches to rape fantasy and play, which do not always and necessarily normalize sexual violence. Sexual fantasy and play, even when the sex is violent, do not always and necessarily undermine internal and social inhibitions towards sexual violence, as the causal model of pornography and rape suggests (Nakasa- tomi [2009] 2013, 10–11). Rather than undermining ethics and rules, RapeLay points toward the existence of alternative ethics and rules (Kagami 2010, 94 and 220). In the sug- gestion of an intentional and explicit separation of fantasy and reality among fans of adult comics, cartoons and computer/console games in Japan, a separation that is maintained through practice and struggle, we see the contours of an ‘ethics of imaginary violence’ (Bastow 2015; also Harata 2006). Notes 1. It is worth keeping in mind that RapeLay is not representative of all adult computer games in Japan. Industry insiders suggest that games like RapeLay account for only about 10–20% of the market (Kagami 2010, 128). Since 1992 there has been a steady movement away from hard- core sex games to games about human relationships, or what has been described as a move- ment ‘from eroticism to pseudo romance’ (Kagami 2010, 136–138). 2. Legal scholars around the world are beginning to question the trend of collapsing together virtual and actual forms in regulating child pornography (see, for example, Byberg 2012). 3. Although MacKinnon’s primary concern is women used and abused in the production of por- nography and put at risk in relation to the men who consume pornography, she more gener- ally takes issue with the reduction of women to sexual objects. For MacKinnon, pornography is sex between subjects and objects, people and things, real men and unreal women (MacKin- non 1993, 103). In line with this broad critique, MacKinnon would no doubt also advocate against pornographic comics, cartoons and computer/console games, where women are unreal sex objects to be used and abused by men, who are real sexual subjects. 4. This research was conducted with approval of the Institutional Review Board of Duke Univer- sity (Protocol C0044). 5. Analysts highlight the ‘great influence’ at the time of ‘Japanese radical feminists who were influenced by Catharine MacKinnon and Andrea Dworkin’ (Akagawa 2015, 66). 6. A similar argument was made by global critics of RapeLay such as Keith Vaz and Equality Now, whom Nakasatomi references (Nakasatomi [2009] 2013, 6). 7. Unless otherwise indicated, all quotes are from a personal interview (16 February 2015). 8. This has also been noted in North American scholarship: ‘The threat of rape is a fundamental component of the eroticism that underpins the majority of Gothic novels/Harlequin romances; it is the threat of having her bodice ripped open by the male protagonist that makes the her- oine’s breast heave with such passion (and erotic excitement)’ (Orbaugh 2010, 179). 9. As translator and critic Frederik L. Schodt puts it, manga, or Japanese comics, ‘depict a fantasy world outside of the rigid conventions, where the truly impossible is possible. While comics can convey a message about reality, very few of them depict it realistically. And Japanese comic readers, who are very much at home in their medium, rarely confuse the two worlds’ 20 P. W. GALBRAITH (1983, 132). Highlighting ‘the Japanese tolerance of fantasy’ (1983, 137), Schodt argues that ‘The gap between fantasy and reality in Japan is enormous, and for that very reason readers of manga may actually be better at making a distinction between the two than readers in other nations’ (1996, 51). 10. During our interview (16 February 2015), Fujimoto said something similar: ‘The problem with regulating comics is that we lose the chance to think, or it is taken from us. We need to be able to think freely, to freely express opinions, to be free to criticize and think about things.’ 11. Rubin makes a similar point about issues of production being displaced onto critiques of por- nographic content (2011, 268–269). 12. The book is in explicit dialogue with feminist thinker Mori Naoko’s A Woman Reads Porn [Onna wa poruno wo yomu 2010]. 13. According to Kagami, the ideas of anti-pornography feminists such as MacKinnon and Dworkin are being invoked by advocates for increased regulation of adult computer games in Japan (Kagami 2010, 295). Like Rubin (2011), who also considers anti-pornography feminism misguided, Kagami outlines the characteristic rhetorical strategies of advocates of increased regulation, which include: taking an example of objectionable content and claiming that it represents more than it does, whereby one example of objectionable content leads to claims that all content is objectionable; presenting things that are already regulated as unre- gulated and running wild; confusing and conflating fictional violence with violence in reality; and ignoring statistics and the probability of harm, and focusing instead on horrific cases that unite people in shared anger and demand for action (2010, 238–246 and 320–321). 14. Unless otherwise indicated, all quotes are from a personal interview (9 February 2015). 15. 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