Getting off on sex research: A methodological commentary on the sexual desires of sex researchers

Abstract

In this commentary, we show how self-disclosure can help elucidate the ways that the sexual desires of sex researchers can and do affect their research. We demonstrate this self-disclosure by exploring how our own sexual desires have affected some of our past research through influencing research project choices, methodological choices, methodological interactions, and research findings and conclusions. We propose that sex research of all kinds would benefit if sex researchers would be more willing to disclose their sexual desires and to consider and discuss how their sexual desires have affected their research.

Keywords

Reflexivity research methods research process self-disclosure sexual desires

Introduction

In The History of Sexuality, Volume 1, Foucault (1990) traces the development of a science of sexuality that has taken over the regulatory duties that were previously exercised through the religious control of the body. As part of this, Foucault proposes that one of the primary mechanisms of this religious control—the confessional—has, under the science of sexuality, largely been replaced by the gaze and questioning of the modern sex researcher. Provocatively, Foucault suggests that just as priests were undoubtedly encouraged in their inquisitive roles by the voyeurism and pleasures of their detailed sexual questioning, so too modern sex researchers are likewise motivated by equally salacious desires. Along these lines, Foucault writes of ‘The pleasure that comes of exercising a power that questions, monitors, watches, spies, searches out, palpates, [and] brings to light’ (1990: 45). Indeed, Foucault further suggests that instead of reducing the voyeuristic proclivities of the religious regulation of sexuality, if anything, ‘the scientific model [has] multiplied, intensified, and even created its own intrinsic pleasures’ (1990: 71).

Yet, in spite of the fact that contemporary sex researchers have regularly looked to Foucault for inspiration and direction (Boyarin and Castelli, 2001; Toulalan and Fisher, 2013), the idea that a sex researcher’s sexual desires may be pertinent to the research process has largely been overlooked—or perhaps just intentionally ignored. Clearly, part of the reason for this is that many sex researchers have had their motivations and intentions impugned with assumptions of lechery and prurience (Irvine, 2003; Troiden, 1987). Whether such assumptions have risen to the level of the pedophilic accusations brought against Kinsey (e.g., Reisman, 1998; Reisman and Eichel, 1990; see Bancroft, 2004) or only to the relatively mild level of the claims of voyeurism made against Masters and Johnson (Babbie, 2004; Maier, 2009)—what is undeniable is that in addition to the stigma that has often surrounded their research topics, sex researchers have frequently found that their sexual desires have also been the subject of significant suspicion (Attwood, 2010; Hammond and Kingston, 2014).

It seems, then, that what often happens in response to this suspicion is that many sex researchers tend to fall back on a position of quasi-neutrality where they claim that their scientific objectivity and their positivist methodologies supersede and make irrelevant or at least incidental their own sexual desires. For such researchers, there appears to be a degree of safety in keeping the personal and professional separate. Thus, we see examples such as Humphreys’ discussion of his role as a ‘watchqueen’ in his well-known ethnography Tearoom Trade (1975). Even though Humphreys had been watching men give blow jobs to one another, and even though he himself later came out as gay, nonetheless, he argued that while he was ‘indeed a “voyeur”’, it was only in ‘the sociological and not the sexual sense’ (1975: 170–171). Likewise, when Masters and Johnson were questioned about how they felt after having watched hundreds of couples have sex in front of them, Masters replied, ‘There’s an old secret to this work: You have to achieve as much objectivity as you can and then maintain it. It has never been a problem for us. But there are many people who shouldn’t work in this field simply because they cannot separate personal and professional requirements’ (Petersen, 1979: 88; emphasis original). Or, to take a more contemporary example, consider Newmahr’s (2011) recent participant observation study of an SM community. Toward the end of her book, she comments that although a colleague once asked her whether she enjoyed her SM experiences and found them erotic, she refused to answer, claiming in part that such details were not relevant and would only serve to sensationalize her work.

A growing academic interest in self-disclosure

In many ways, the hesitancy that these examples reveal about sex researchers’ willingness to consider and discuss their sexual desires is completely understandable, especially given the constraining institutional contexts that sex researchers frequently find themselves in. Yet, at the same time, we suggest that this hesitancy is increasingly at odds with a growing academic interest in self-disclosure. While the literature on self-disclosure has regularly discussed risks and pitfalls such as narcissism (e.g., Atkinson, 1997; Coffey, 1999), self-indulgence (e.g., Behar, 1996; Madison, 2006), and the reduction of personal-professional distance (e.g., Alvesson, 2003; Gans, 1999), nonetheless, over the last several decades there has clearly been a movement toward greater acceptance of such disclosure (Anderson, 2006; Ellis et al., 2011).

Corresponding to this, a range of disciplines have increasingly emphasized the importance of standpoint (e.g., Harding, 2004; Hartsock, 1998), positionality (e.g., Merriam et al., 2001; Rose, 1997), and reflexivity (e.g., Ellis and Bochner, 2000; Finlay, 2002), and in turn, have called attention to the intrinsically blurry boundaries between researchers’ personal and professional selves (Bochner, 1997; Ellis and Berger, 2003). Along these lines, identities such as a researcher’s race (e.g., Rhodes, 1994), class (e.g., Reay, 1996), gender (e.g., Williams and Heikes, 1993), sexual orientation (e.g., Perry et al., 2004), and religion (e.g., Flanagan, 2001) have increasingly been acknowledged as pertinent to the research process. Additionally, it has become more or less standard practice for researchers to disclose information about their funding sources and other potential conflicts of interest (Schwartz et al., 2008; Fontanarosa et al., 2005).

While there thus seems to be a growing academic awareness that the personal characteristics, relationships, and contexts of researchers can and do affect their research, surprisingly, such awareness has provided comparatively little impetus for self-disclosures regarding the ways that the sexual desires of sex researchers can and do affect their research. Yet, we note that there have been a few researchers who have advocated for increased reflexivity and disclosure along these lines. In particular, two important books have called attention to these dynamics and helped inform our thinking. First, in Telling Sexual Stories: Power, Change, and Social Worlds, Plummer (1995) envisions sex research in terms of the construction of sexual narratives, wherein researchers along with their research subjects create stories together, stories that inevitably reflect the sexual desires of both parties. Second, in Taboo: Sex, Identity, and Erotic Subjectivity in Anthropological Fieldwork, editors Kulick and Willson (1995) address how researchers’ sexual desires necessarily contribute to and transform the production of research knowledge. There have also been a handful of recent studies in which sex researchers have, in fact, disclosed their sexual desires and have reflected on how their desires have affected their research. These include Wagner (2009), who discusses her voyeuristic interests related to her research on swinging, Prior (2013), who investigates BDSM from an insider perspective, and Blinne (2012), whose provocative ‘Auto(erotic)ethnography’ on the delights of masturbation has actually served as a significant inspiration for our writing of this commentary.

Purpose of this commentary

Despite these recent counterexamples, we propose that more disclosure is needed and that sex research of all kinds would benefit if sex researchers would be more willing to consider and discuss their sexual desires. We note here that while definitions of sexual desire vary (Levine, 2003), we are especially thinking of sexual desires as they reflect a ‘need, drive, or motivation to engage in sexual activities’ (Impett et al., 2008: 808) and—as suggested by the title of this commentary—especially as such desires relate to arousal and release (i.e., ‘getting off’).

Our purpose, then, in this commentary is to show how self-disclosure can help elucidate the ways that the sexual desires of sex researchers can and do affect their research. We demonstrate this self-disclosure by exploring how our own sexual desires have affected some of our past research and are likely affecting this very commentary that we are writing now. In doing so, we not only illustrate the mechanics of self-disclosure, but we also call attention to the risks and benefits of such disclosure. We proceed by providing several personal excerpts, after which we offer both recommendations and conclusions.

The sexual desires of sex researchers

So, how do the sexual desires of sex researchers affect their research? We suggest four ways. First, the sexual desires of sex researchers can affect their research through influencing research project choices; second, through influencing methodological choices; third, through influencing methodological interactions; and fourth, through influencing research findings and conclusions. In addition, and although not the primary focus of this commentary, we also briefly consider the ways that sex research may have a reciprocal effect on the sexual desires of sex researchers, potentially leading to changing sexual desires.

Research project choices

Perhaps the most obvious way that the sexual desires of sex researchers can affect their research is through influencing the choice of research projects that a researcher decides to undertake. Drawing on some of our own experiences, we can certainly attest that this is the case. For example, consider the reflections of the first author:

As a sex researcher with a particular interest in sexual bodies, I have little doubt that my choice of research projects significantly reflects my sexual desires. While there are, of course, all kinds of reasons that might explain why I end up pursuing one project over another—for instance, theoretical pertinence, quality and availability of data, interests of funding agencies, etc.—it is nonetheless clear to me that I am far more likely to pursue topics and questions that I find sexy, erotic, and even arousing. To put this into context, I note that as a heterosexual man, I, like many other such men, frequently find women and especially women’s bodies to be quite sexually arousing. This definitely comes into play, then, if given the option between studying men’s sexual bodies and women’s sexual bodies. All other things being equal, I would definitely choose the latter.

In like manner, a particular educational incident stands out to the second author:

While doing postdoctoral training in leisure science, I was in a casual meeting that one of my professors regularly held with her graduate students. At the start of this particular meeting, my professor began with some excellent advice: ‘If you’re going to be an academic researcher, you should really study topics that you are curious about and that are fascinating to you.’ In that moment, my budding research interests were confirmed: The concept of deviant leisure had long fascinated me and so too had unconventional erotic practices, especially BDSM. Did I find these practices to be sexually arousing? Absolutely! Was my interest in researching these practices motivated solely by my own sexual desires? Of course not. But while many factors did play a role, sexual desire was clearly among them.

Methodological choices

More important, though, than just the selection of research projects, the sexual desires of sex researchers can also have a substantial influence on their methodological choices. This can play out both in terms of a researcher’s overall methodological approach as well as through specific methodological interactions that may occur during the research process itself. As an example of the former, consider the first author’s experience:

I would much rather do qualitative research as opposed to quantitative. While statistical analysis is obviously helpful in many situations, I personally want to spend my time hearing from and interacting with real-life persons. Whether that’s reading their stories, interviewing them over the phone, or seeing them perform at a strip club—I am very cognizant of a strong desire to thoroughly and specifically explore other persons’ sexualities. Not unlike Foucault suggests, then, it is clear to me that my interest in these types of methodologies undoubtedly reflects a certain level of voyeuristic desire. That is, I enjoy the explicit details of someone’s sexual history; I appreciate the erotic interplay of the interview format; and I am surely aware of my arousal as I watch a woman take off her clothes in front of me. In other words, I prefer to use research methods that get me close to the action. Is that voyeuristic? Certainly. But, in my mind, that’s why I’m a sex researcher: I like to watch.

Similar to the experience of the first author, there have also been many times when the second author’s sexual curiosities have clearly influenced his methodological approach:

As a postdoc, I began to wonder how I might use narrative and autoethnographic methods to develop new knowledge about BDSM. At the time, much of the research on BDSM used quantitative methods and, as valuable as such methods are, they necessarily privilege broad generalizations. In contrast, I wondered, what kinds of knowledge might be gained from nontraditional, ‘experience-near’ methods? Is it even possible, I asked, to understand a complicated topic like BDSM without applying methods that can illuminate the details of such experiences? Recognizing then that the role of researcher-participant had long been used to explore nonsexual topics, I began to entertain the idea of scheduling a session with a dominatrix as part of a new research project. In this project, I would be both the researcher and the research subject. The thought of such a project was incredibly arousing! Indeed, a part of me is obviously an exhibitionist: I definitely like to be watched. Yet, while many leisure scholars have not uncommonly connected their personal interests with their scholarship, I had to ask myself, could I really do this with BDSM? Would participating in BDSM truly be legitimate research, or would I simply be expressing my own sexuality and getting off? In retrospect, I suspect it was quite a lot of both. And when I later told my supervisor that I had indeed done a session with a dominatrix and had learned a tremendous amount about BDSM—and also personally had a wonderful time—he nearly fell out of his chair!

Methodological interactions

In addition to the ways that a sex researcher’s sexual desires can play out in terms of a researcher’s overall methodological approach, such desires can also influence specific methodological interactions that may occur during the research process itself. For instance, some interesting questions around roles and relationships emerged during the second author’s initial session with the dominatrix:

Meeting the dominatrix for the first time engaged multiple identities related to both my personal and professional selves. Although initially I perceived Mistress Kitten as an ‘other’ with whom I had little in common, very quickly more complicated interactions began to emerge. To start, I found her very sexually attractive, which in retrospect is not surprising given that my heterosexual orientation and erotic preferences had directly influenced my selection of her. Before the session, then, my mind ran wild with erotic fantasies—a few of which I knew we were going to enact. I explained to Mistress Kitten that I was a researcher and a former psychotherapist who wanted to learn more about BDSM and that I also had a personal sexual interest in experiencing some new BDSM activities. She was warm and empathetic and listened closely. She asked questions about my family history, employment, use of alcohol and drugs, and sexual and relationship experiences. I was surprised that her questions closely resembled a common psychosocial history, and it seemed clear to me that she wanted me to have a positive and safe experience with her. In addition, I was intrigued to find out that just as I often attended conferences and trainings to keep up on my knowledge within my specific field, Mistress Kitten also regularly attended workshops on BDSM in order to keep her skills polished and sharp. It thus occurred to me that a dominatrix is perhaps a therapist of sorts, having much in common with other more-established helping professions. One of the consequences of all this is that being in Mistress Kitten’s dungeon produced a significant blurring of my personal and professional identities. It also complicated my understanding of her and her role in relationship to me. While Mistress Kitten was not directly a research participant, she clearly became a key actor in the scholarly stories that I would later tell.

While narrative and autoethnographic methods thus often purposefully blur the boundaries between the personal and professional, some interesting personal and professional blurring also occurred for the first author, even though he was conducting a more traditional type of qualitative research:

Recently, I was coding texts in which women with genital piercings were discussing how their piercings had contributed to their sexual pleasure. It was late at night, and I was at home in my downstairs office while my partner was asleep upstairs. As the night wore on, I came to a rather explicit narrative in which the writer was recalling how shortly after she had gotten her clitoral hood pierced, her partner had been performing oral sex on her and had been licking and later sucking and then chewing around her new piercing. As the writer explained it, she had begun to bleed a bit and was wondering whether this was a wise activity for her partner to be doing so recently after her piercing—probably not—but as she defended it, her partner had truly been enjoying the taste of her blood. So, then, in the midst of coding this rather explicit narrative, I suddenly realized that I was very aroused. In fact, extremely aroused. While I briefly considered going upstairs and waking my partner—who incidentally has her own genital piercing—I quickly decided that this would not be a good idea. Instead, I simply masturbated to orgasm. The interesting thing, however, is that afterwards, I returned to my coding, and I began to ask myself, what does this mean? Should I somehow code for researcher masturbation? Should I code for sexual arousal? Or, perhaps just for explicit or erotic writing? What became clear to me in that post-orgasmic moment, though, is that I was no longer a neutral, objective, or disinterested researcher. Instead, my arousal and sexual desire had surely implicated me as a participant. While I could pretend to ignore this or at least choose not to report it, I knew in that moment that I was deeply involved. There was no getting around the fact that my sexuality and that of my research subject had somehow become significantly intertwined.

Another experience of the first author illustrates similar themes:

In this case, I was conducting an anonymous phone interview with a supposedly-heterosexual husband regarding his perceptions about how his regular pornography viewing had affected his marriage. I had been asking him a series of open-ended questions, and for the most part, he had been answering pretty much on topic. In response, however, to a question about what his wife thought about his pornography viewing, he began to tell me about how they enjoyed fucking while watching porn together. And then without any further request on my part, he began to provide me with a detailed description of one such experience. He started to explain to me how he was recently fucking his wife in the ass while pinching her tits, all as they were attempting to replicate what they were seeing on the screen in front of them. As he was telling me this, several thoughts began to occur to me. First, I wondered, is this guy just having fun with me? Is he trying to fuck with me as the researcher? Or is he intentionally trying to get me aroused? But then my thoughts began to shift. I recognized that regardless of the veracity of his story or the nature of his motivation, the fact was that I was indeed getting aroused! And all the time that I was thinking this, he, of course, was continuing to graphically narrate their sexual encounter. At some point, though, I thought, I should probably move this interview on to the next question. It’s probably not ethical of me to let this devolve into phone sex with my research subject. And so I did. I moved on to the next question. But I admit that I did so rather reluctantly.

Research findings and conclusions

Beyond these kinds of interactions and beyond the varieties of research choices that any researcher must make, it seems to us that the most critical way that the sexual desires of sex researchers can affect their research is through influencing the findings and conclusions coming out of a particular research project. As an example, consider the always controversial topic of pornography. We think it is reasonable to assume that the sexual desires of most pornography researchers not only affect the kinds of research that they do and the kinds of methods that they use, but also the kinds of findings and conclusions that they produce. For instance, if a given pornography researcher despises pornography and finds it personally disgusting, it surely would not be unexpected if this particular researcher produces findings and conclusions that problematize pornography. Indeed, this might be especially the case with so-called ‘violent’ or ‘extreme’ pornography such as that which depicts certain types of BDSM activities. One can imagine that some pornography researchers would likely have extremely negative reactions to viewing this type of pornography and, in turn, would likely strive to make arguments about how this type of pornography is misogynistic, exploitive, and nonconsensual. Yet, alternatively, consider the perspective of the first author:

Like many persons, I regularly view pornography and thoroughly enjoy doing so. While I find a wide variety of porn sexually arousing, I especially like BDSM porn, especially when it contains blood. Blood from a heavy caning; blood from a piercing or a cutting; even blood from menstruation—the fact is, I find blood to be very sexually arousing. Now, how do you think that figures into my academic assessment of anti-porn arguments that problematize the very onscreen presentations that I find most arousing? What do you think? Am I biased? Of course, I’m biased. But at least I’m willing to say so. The point here is to recognize and call attention to the fact that our sexual desires not only influence the selection of our projects and methods but also the findings and conclusions that we produce.

Another example of how the sexual desires of sex researchers can influence their findings and conclusions is through shaping their attitudes toward particular sexual minorities, perhaps especially those that have often been pathologized and marginalized. For instance, this has potentially been the case when the presumedly-heterosexual desires of many sex researchers likely led these researchers to produce findings and conclusions about gay men and lesbians that ultimately served to further pathologize and marginalize these persons (Herek et al., 1991; Morin, 1977). Yet, the sexual desires of sex researchers have also led some sex researchers to appreciate particular sexual minorities in ways that other researchers have not. In fact, a sex researcher’s sexual desires could potentially lead to findings and conclusions that actually serve to depathologize and demarginalize these persons. Along these lines, the second author explains here how his longtime sexual interest in fantasy vampires has influenced his academic interpretation of the sexual activities of real vampires:

As a young child, I remember being fascinated by vampires. Although vampire myths involve the most frightening topic of all—death—there was something about vampires that brought an intense personal excitement to my life. For me, vampires were the most powerful and complex beings imaginable. It was only a bit later, when I started to become more aware of my own sexuality, that I realized that the vampires that I knew about through movies and books were also extremely sexual. Indeed, I found the vampiric fusion of power and sexuality that deliberately fucks with the inevitability of death to be very highly arousing. Thus, it should not be surprising that much later while conducting a research project, I would become sexually aroused while observing a self-identified vampire drink blood from her donor-partner during an extremely intimate sex scene. And while this observation was truly sexually exciting, it was also one of the most spiritual experiences that I have ever witnessed. One wonders, then, whether other researchers with different life experiences would have different academic interpretations of such a vampire sex scene? Almost certainly.

Changing sexual desires

In addition to the ways that the sexual desires of sex researchers can affect their research, we think it is also worth briefly considering the ways that sex research may have a reciprocal effect on the sexual desires of sex researchers, potentially leading to changing sexual desires. Indeed, we recognize that this has occurred for both of us. The second author reflects:

There is no question that my scholarship pertaining to sexuality has benefitted me personally in numerous ways. For one, my work has contributed to shifts in my unique sexuality and understanding of myself as an embodied individual. In the early part of my career, I discovered and began to explore a broad range of sexual practices along with the diverse motivations and personal meanings associated with these practices. I have now become far more aware of the social and cultural forces that have shaped my sexual self, and I have pushed more limits and taken more calculated risks, both personally and professionally. Undoubtedly, then, my personal sexuality is inseparable from my other identities. Although I may seem unconventional to some with my visible tattoos and scarifications, I have come to enjoy and respect the person I am now. Perhaps most importantly, I have gained an appreciation and empathy for other people, not only generally, but especially for those who are unfairly judged and marginalized.

Similarly, the first author reminisces:

Having grown up in a conservative religious home and having slowly transitioned into my current identity as a secular sex researcher, I very much recognize that my research has changed my sexual desires. First, my research has made me much more aware of the diversity of human sexuality. For instance, I have come to know and appreciate a wide range of fetish practices, a number of which I now incorporate into my regular sexual activities. Second, I also recognize that my interpretation of many activities has changed. In particular, I think of my growing cognizance of power and the implicit and explicit eroticism with which power is frequently imbued. Instead then of interpreting my sexual desires as just random subconscious impulses, I have come to increasingly interpret my desires as a type of rationally inspired play, a sort of satire on the human condition. Going forward, I anticipate that my sexual desires will continue to change in the years ahead. If anything, researching sex seems to have made my sexual desires increasingly fluid and malleable. Indeed, who knows what will get me off tomorrow? I remain confident, though, that something surely will.

Recommendations

As we have demonstrated, we think that self-disclosure can help elucidate the ways that the sexual desires of sex researchers can and do affect their research. In our conclusions below, we discuss some of the risks associated with such disclosure, but first we offer four simple recommendations that—even if implemented only in part—we think would provide significant benefit to sex research of all kinds.

First, we recommend that sex researchers recognize the inevitable and unavoidable character of their sexual desires. Further, sex researchers should also recognize that their sexual desires are likely to be pertinent to the kinds of research topics that they study and the kinds of research projects that they undertake. Accordingly, they should stop pretending that their sexual desires are irrelevant or incidental to the research process. Instead, they should recognize that their sexual desires can and do affect their research.

Second, given the inevitability of sexual desires and the unavoidable effect that such desires can have on the research process, we recommend that sex researchers be more willing to disclose their sexual desires. As to how much researchers should disclose, we recommend that they specifically focus on disclosing those sexual desires that they think may have affected the research process. We note here that this kind of disclosure requires not only the willingness of individual researchers and groups of researchers, but also the willingness of journal editors and reviewers, especially those associated with sexuality-focused journals—who, we suggest, are in a unique position to support and implement these recommendations.

Third, we recommend that sex researchers be more willing to consider and discuss how their sexual desires have affected their research. In some cases, this may lead them to discuss how they have made changes to their research projects in order to account for their sexual desires. In other cases, this may lead them to discuss how their sexual desires have not only been inevitable and unavoidable, but actually a desirable part of the research process. We note here that the inclusion of these types of discussions does not necessarily mean that readers should accept such discussions at face value or without question, but rather that readers should interpret such discussions as additional methodological information, which can be critiqued and validated.

Fourth, as increased self-disclosure and reflexivity begin to provide sex researchers with a broader sense of how their sexual desires are affecting sex research at a disciplinary level, we recommend that they advocate and strive for an approach to research that values the perspectives and contributions of researchers with a diversity of desires. In other words, just as in many academic fields there is recognition of the value of both insider and outsider perspectives, so too, the topics studied by sex researchers deserve to be investigated by researchers representing a range of sexual desires.

Conclusions

If implemented—even if only in part—we think that these recommendations would provide significant benefit to sex research of all kinds and would ultimately lead to a more robust and thorough understanding of human sexuality. At the same time, we recognize that the kind of self-disclosure that we are calling for is not without risk. Even if one does not participate in disclosure in the explicit manner that we have demonstrated above, we are well aware that even minor disclosures of sexual desires can come at a high cost. Without a doubt, personal and professional stigma is real (Attwood, 2010; Hammond and Kingston, 2014); promotion and tenure concerns are worrisome (Bullough, 1994; Troiden, 1987); and grant limitations and funding scrutiny should certainly be expected (Grov, 2012; Weitzer, 2010). Given these risks, we thus offer a caveat to our recommendations by acknowledging that sex researchers must choose for themselves regarding the appropriate level of self-disclosure that is prudent and wise. Clearly, some researchers’ situations and contexts allow them very little room for disclosure. Others, however, are more able to accept the risks associated with disclosure, and we urge them to do so.

To conclude, then, we return to Foucault (1990) by observing that although we as sex researchers are clearly agents of what Foucault calls the ‘the incitement to discourse’, it seems to us that this discourse has yet to extend very far into the investigation of our own sexual desires. Indeed, while some scholars have talked about a ‘missing discourse of desire’ with regard to certain research subjects (e.g., Fine, 1988; Fine and McClelland, 2006; Tolman, 1994), we wonder whether the more critical ‘missing discourse of desire’ applies to sex researchers themselves. Hence, while we have mainly framed the value of the self-disclosure of our sexual desires in terms of elucidating the research process, we suggest that investigating our sexual desires is also an important way for us to turn the research gaze back upon ourselves. In doing so, we call attention to the fact that sex researchers are sexual persons just like everyone else. If this is a problem—and for some it likely will be—the solution lies not in obscuring the undeniable, but in illuminating the obvious. We suggest that it is time for sex researchers to ‘come out of the closet’—not just with regard to sexual orientation, and not just with regard to sexual identity, but with regard to sexual desire itself.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

The authors would like to thank Laura Thomas, Feona Attwood, and two anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments and suggestions.

Jeremy N Thomas is the Director of Gender and Sexuality Studies and Assistant Professor of Sociology at Idaho State University. His work focuses on sexuality, religion, deviance, and the body.

D J Williams is the Director of Social Work at Idaho State University and the Director of Research at the Center for Positive Sexuality (Los Angeles). His work focuses on positive sexuality, deviant leisure, and critical criminology.

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