Is It Revenge Porn If They Sent It First?
Revenge Porn Or Resistance? What Azealia Banks’ Conor McGregor Nude Post Says About Boundaries, Power And The New Rules Of Digital Consent [Op-Ed]
It happens more often than it should. A nude appears in your DMs. You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t consent. You didn’t even see it coming. Yet, you’re now holding the evidence of someone else’s boundary violation, along with the decision of what to do with it.
Do you delete it, share it privately for emotional backup, or do you go public and expose the person who thought their entitlement wouldn’t carry consequences?
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The line between accountability and revenge is blurrier than many want to admit, especially in the digital age. As image-based abuse becomes more visible—and more legislated—the stakes are shifting, particularly for those most often left to defend themselves online: women, and especially Black women.
We All Have a Story
In 2025, it feels like being the recipient of unsolicited nudes is a weird milestone in adulthood. In a U.S. sample of 2,045 women of all sexual identities and 298 gay/bisexual men, among those who had ever received a nude from a man, nearly all (91%) had received an unsolicited “d–k pic.”
A few years ago, someone I’d known since childhood slid into my DMs. He’d always had a playful crush on me, and when he heard I was newly single, he reached out. I kept it light, but he escalated. When I stopped responding, he sent a full-frontal video, with his face visible. There was no warning or conversation to warrant it. It wasn’t even filmed for me. Based on the metadata, it was just a recycled clip pulled from his phone’s archives.
I was stunned. I laughed—mostly out of disbelief. Then I sent the video privately to two close friends who also knew him. It helped me process what had just happened. Later, I let him know the video wasn’t received the way he thought it would be. He blocked me on Facebook and Instagram immediately—disappeared like he knew he’d crossed a line and feared I might take it public. When you’ve known someone for nearly three decades, you rack up a lot of mutuals, which could create a sure scandal.
He wasn’t wrong to worry, but I didn’t post it. I didn’t even threaten to. Still, the fact that he preemptively vanished speaks volumes about how these exchanges are framed—even by the men who send them.
When Posting Feels Like Protection
Recently, rapper Azealia Banks posted what she said were unsolicited nude photos and threatening messages from UFC fighter Conor McGregor. The images—screenshots of messages and explicit photos—were shared on McGregor’s birthday, in the middle of his Irish presidential campaign.
Banks, who has a long and complicated relationship with the public, didn’t mince words. “How you gonna send a bitch some crooked d—k pics then threaten her not to tell?” she wrote in one post. In another, she called the incident “HARAM,” referencing the Islamic concept of something being forbidden or sinful.
The posts were removed shortly after, and Banks was temporarily suspended from the platform. McGregor did not confirm or deny the authenticity of the messages but publicly addressed the situation as a “distraction” from his campaign.
Public opinion, predictably, was split. Some saw Banks’s decision to publish the images as a bold stand against digital harassment. Others accused her of engaging in revenge porn. While the facts are still being sorted, one thing is clear: under new federal law, her actions sit in legally risky territory—even if her motivations came from a place of protest.
A New Federal Law Changes the Rules
Earlier this year, President Trump signed the Take It Down Act, the first federal law of its kind to criminalize the public sharing of intimate images without consent, including AI-generated deepfakes and altered visuals.
The law doesn’t care whether the image was solicited or not. It doesn’t care if the sender is widely known, if they have a reputation, or even if the image was a repeat offense. If you post someone’s intimate image publicly without their consent—and the person is identifiable—you could be held criminally responsible.
Platforms are now required to remove flagged content within 48 hours. Individuals found guilty of violating the law can face up to two years in prison, or three if the image involves a minor.
What used to be handled as a patchwork of state laws is now a federal matter. While that might offer new protections for victims of image-based abuse, it also means those who respond publicly to unsolicited content—especially in the heat of the moment—could face consequences, too.
Power, Intent, and the Price of Going Public
For many people who’ve received explicit content they didn’t ask for, the impulse to post it isn’t about revenge. It’s about making visible what someone thought they could do in private without consequence. It’s about saying, “You did this to me, and I want people to see what that looks like.” However, posting an unsolicited nude, even in protest, transforms a private violation into a public one. In doing so, the person who was harmed can become the person who causes harm, at least in the eyes of the law.
That tension is at the heart of the Azealia Banks situation. Whatever your opinion of her—and plenty of us have strong ones—there’s something undeniably familiar in the way a woman’s rage was immediately put on trial, even though she says she was harassed first.
When that woman is a Black woman, the scrutiny is even sharper. The grace is thinner. The assumption of innocence is often off the table.
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Black feminist scholars have long examined the complexities of how Black women pursue justice in systems that often fail to protect them. In The Crime Scene of Black Suffering, historian Dr. Kali Gross challenges the notion that liberation must always look respectable or state-approved. Responding to how Black women are expected to suffer quietly or wait for legal remedy, Gross writes, “For some women, justice will be had by any and every means.” Her words speak to a broader truth: when formal channels fail—or have historically ignored your pain—taking matters into your own hands isn’t always about revenge. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s protest. In that context, posting an unsolicited nude becomes less about spectacle and more about saying, “You will not violate me in silence.”
You Don’t Owe Protection—But You Do Own the Outcome
There’s no clean answer here. If someone sends you an explicit image without your consent, you have every right to be angry. You have every right to feel disgusted, disrespected, and ready to fight back. However, that fight needs to be chosen with possible consequences you can live with. Even if you didn’t start it, once you go public, you are no longer just the recipient—you’re also the distributor. That shift might not feel fair, but it is real. In the eyes of the law, that’s what will matter most.
For Those Who Need It: Resources
If you’ve experienced image-based abuse (or simply want to understand your rights) these resources can help:
StopNCII.org
A global tool to help prevent the non-consensual sharing of intimate images.
Cyber Civil Rights Initiative
Offers legal support, advocacy, and a crisis helpline.
RAINN
The nation’s largest anti-sexual violence organization, offering confidential support.
Even when the law is slow to catch up, even when people judge the tone instead of the truth, your story—and how you tell it—is still yours. Just make sure you can live with what comes next.
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