At the 2005 IASSAC conference, Irvine commented that if she were to write this book today she would approach her study of sex and gender in modern American sexology quite differently. Of course, few would write the same book twice, but Irvine was speaking directly to the shared sense of panic and despair U.S. scholars and activists expressed as they watched precious gains made in the 1970s and 1980s disappear faster than forces can be mobilized against the current assault on sexual rights and freedoms. As she remarks in the Afterword, critiques from the left were drowned out by the tidal wave of criticism from the right. Irvine’s comments were an apt reminder that whether we are constructing it, treating it, or writing about it, sex is politically charged territory where everyone has a position. Fortunately, the publisher recognizes that this volume’s sociohistorical analysis of modern American sexology is as relevant to readers today as it was when first released in 1990 (see Turner, 1992). Reissued in expanded form, the returning reader is offered additional material in the form of a short preface, Chapter 7 (which first appeared as an article in a 1993 issue of Social Text), and an Afterword that brings the book, and some of its arguments, up-to-date. Aside from minor editing for clarity, the original contents remain unchanged. Irvine’s approach refuses to assess the success—or failure—of any one technique, approach or theory. Like other historians of sexuality, she focuses on unpacking the cultural, ideological, and commercial foundations sexology rests upon. Influenced by social control and social construction theories, Irvine regards 20th century American sexologists as ‘‘agents for the medicalization of sex’’ (p. 243). A central theme that runs throughout the text is that sexology faces a double bind: on the one hand, because it relies on scientific rationality to stake a claim for cultural and political authority and legitimacy, sexology is doomed to fail since it refuses to engage with broader social and political theories of power and oppression. However, if it were to incorporate the critical insights of the feminist and gay activist left into their research and treatment approaches, sexology would have a tough time transforming their services and treatments into a viable product for the consumer marketplace. Social change will not occur when sex ‘‘problems’’ (many of which are constructed and defined by sexologists themselves) are treated as individual problems; neither can it be bought or sold in pharmaceutical or latex form. As she puts it, addressing social issues was ‘‘anathema to Masters, Johnson, and many other sexologists. In sex therapy, the ‘cure’ is orgasm, not social change. And this was vital, because orgasms can be marketed in a profit-making system, while social change cannot’’ (p. 149). Irvine’s broad thesis remains unchanged in the 2005 edition, except that now she regards bioscience and ‘‘Big Pharma’’ as the major challenge facing the future survival of sexology. To introduce this book to a new generation of scholars (and as a refresher for the rest of us), a brief recap is in order. Rather than focus on the ways that sexual ‘‘progressives’’ opened new discursive sites for the articulation of sexual politics outside of the moral paradigm that prevailed, section one focuses on the conservative leanings of ‘‘scientific sexologists.’’ Irvine argues that unlike European sexologists whose professional origins were grounded in the fight for social equality and against discrimination, U.S. experts ultimately helped to create and police sociosexual boundaries by providing a pseudoscientific basis for gender and heteronormativity (p. 7). Sex researchers like Kinsey and Masters and Johnson gained a successful foothold in the culturally conservative 1950s and 1960s by claiming an ability to solve complex social problems E. R. Chenier (&) Department of History, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC, Canada V5A 1S6 e-mail: echenier@sfu.ca
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