Why Are People Afraid of Nudity, But Comfortable With Violence?

Turn on the television on any given evening and you are likely to find crime dramas filled with murder investigations, action films centred on explosions and gunfire, or news cycles saturated with scandal. Yet a glimpse of non-sexual nudity—particularly in a public, everyday context—still provokes discomfort, outrage, or regulatory concern.

Why is a naked body more troubling than a violent act?

This cultural contradiction is explored powerfully by the poet Hollie McNish in her poem “Willies Are More Dangerous Than Guns.” In it, she highlights the absurdity of a society that shields children from seeing a penis on screen while routinely broadcasting scenes of shootings, war, and brutality. The poem is satirical, but its question is serious: what are we teaching ourselves to fear?

The Body as “Indecent”

In many Western societies, including the UK, the naked body has long been framed as something inherently sexual, shameful, or “indecent” outside tightly controlled contexts. From Victorian morality to modern broadcasting standards, nudity is often categorised as adult content—even when it is non-sexual.

Naturism challenges that narrative. At its core, naturism is the philosophy of non-sexual social nudity, rooted in body acceptance, equality, and connection to nature. Yet public reaction often conflates nudity with sexuality, exhibitionism, or impropriety.

This fear does not usually stem from the body itself. After all, every human has one. Instead, it stems from learned associations: nudity equals sex; sex equals danger; therefore nudity equals danger, but that equation collapses under scrutiny.

Violence as “Entertainment”

Contrast this with how violence is treated. Violent imagery is frequently normalised, stylised, and even glamorised in mainstream media. Crime dramas, superhero franchises, and action thrillers are marketed as family entertainment (within age ratings), and violent storylines dominate headlines.

Repeated exposure desensitises audiences. Violence becomes narrative tension, spectacle, or background noise. Nudity, by comparison, remains taboo—rarely contextualised as neutral or ordinary.

McNish’s poem cleverly exposes this imbalance. The suggestion that a penis is “more dangerous” than a gun is obviously ironic, yet it reveals a deeper cultural distortion: we react more strongly to anatomy than to aggression.

Control, Shame, and Social Conditioning:

Fear of nudity is often rooted in three interconnected forces:

1. Sexualisation of the body – When all nudity is framed as sexual, it cannot be neutral.

2. Religious and historical morality codes – Many cultural traditions equated modesty with virtue and nakedness with sin.

3. Commercial interests – Industries built on beauty standards and body insecurity thrive when people feel ashamed of their natural form.

Violence, on the other hand, does not threaten the same structures. It can be monetised through entertainment without challenging social norms about modesty, morality, or control.

Naturism disrupts this dynamic by presenting the body as ordinary, diverse, and unedited. It removes the airbrushing, the performance, and the hierarchy of “acceptable” bodies. For some, that is liberating. For others, it is unsettling—because it dismantles deeply ingrained narratives.

What Are We Protecting Ourselves From?

When society censors nudity more strictly than violence, it sends a subtle message: the human body is dangerous; physical harm is tolerable entertainment.

Yet research in psychology suggests that normalised, non-sexual nudity—particularly in family or community naturist settings—can reduce body shame, improve self-esteem, and foster healthier attitudes towards physical diversity. There is little evidence that simply seeing a naked body causes harm. There is abundant evidence that exposure to violence can desensitise viewers and shape attitudes toward aggression.

So perhaps the real question is not why nudity frightens us, but why violence does not.

Reframing the Narrative

McNish’s poem is provocative because it invites us to reconsider our reflexes. Why do we rush to cover the body but rarely question the ubiquity of brutality on screen? Why is flesh scandalous but blood cinematic?

Naturism offers one possible answer: the body is not the problem. Our conditioning is.

If we can learn to see the naked human form as natural rather than threatening, we may begin to dismantle unnecessary shame. And if we can question why violence is normalised in our media diet, we might also reconsider what we choose to tolerate as entertainment.

In the end, the poem’s irony lingers: willies are not more dangerous than guns. But the fear of our own bodies—if left unexamined—may be more powerful than either.