The Sociology of “Dirty Research”: Interresearcher Positionality,Marginalization,and Stigma Management

Abstract

Although social science research has thoroughly reflected on researchers’ positionality vs. their field and informants, interresearcher positionality has been less rigorously explored. The author examines stigma management and positionality surrounding “dirty research.” He develops a theory of “dirty research” that expands the definition of this concept, identifies its core tenets, and reflects on its consequences and perils for a wide range of scholars. This theory examines the fluidity of “dirty work” and, by extension, “dirty research,” suggesting that the latter should also extend to the study of “dirty people” and “dirty activities.” The author also assesses the academic and personal consequences and perils potentially associated with conducting “dirty research” and the ways in which these consequences vary by researchers’ intersecting identities and demographics. The author then reflects on his own positionality and experiences in conducting “dirty research,” noting both his privileged position and the challenges that nevertheless persist. The author ends with thoughts about future directions for scholars who engage in “dirty research” given the serious challenges of stigmatization and marginalization.

Researchers in academic disciplines such as sociology and anthropology often engage in thoughtful reflections about their positionality vis-à-vis their field of research, the people they study, and their informants. However, the sociological and anthropological literature has paid considerably less attention to the positionality of some researchers relative to others who engage in similar work, particularly work that may involve personal discomfort, risk, and stigma, as well as produce professional and academic disadvantages. In the current article, I examine how these issues play out for scholars who engage in “dirty research”—research on work, people, and activities that society often views as distasteful, disgusting, or demeaning.

I develop a sociological theory of “dirty research,” which contributes to both the sociology of work and the sociology of knowledge through expanding the definition of this concept, identifying its core tenets, and reflecting on its consequences and perils for a wide range of scholars. I start by identifying the fluidity of “dirty work” and, by extension, “dirty research,” suggesting that these concepts may actually apply to a much wider set of professional activities and research endeavors than what conventional wisdom may suggest. Furthermore, I suggest that although previous thinking on “dirty research” has mostly focused on the study of “dirty work,” this scope is too narrow. Instead, I argue that the definition of “dirty research” must also extend to the study of “dirty people” and “dirty activities.” The former may be “dirty workers,” but they may also refer to other “problematized” or “unloved” groups, such as the unhoused, the mentally ill, criminals, or members of religious and ethnic minorities. The latter are “problematized” activities, such as illegal drug consumption, eating disorders, or unconventional sexual practices.

I then examine both the academic and personal consequences and perils potentially involved in conducting “dirty research.” The treatment of scholars and studies of “dirty work” and “dirty people” as “not serious” or “not important enough” can have tangible effects on academic careers, particularly in their early stages. Personal hazards include both potential physical dangers (risks for one’s safety) and social marginalization and stigmatization. I further argue that these consequences often vary by researchers’ identities and demographics, particularly the intersection of gender, race, and age. Focusing on the case study of research on sexuality and “dirty sex,” I assert that the intersection of these elements, among others, affects and further complicates the academic and personal perils of “dirty research.”

Next, I reflect on my own positionality and experiences in managing the stigma associated with conducting “dirty research,” comparing my experiences to those of other scholars in the field. I end the article with thoughts about future directions for scholars conducting “dirty research.” I argue that social scientists must continue to fight and advocate for the de-marginalization and destigmatization of both “dirty work” (and “dirty people/activities”) and “dirty research.” Scholars, particularly those holding advantageous academic and social positions, should consider “coming out of the closet” and “owning” their interest in their subject areas to reduce stigma and marginalization. At the same time, we also need structural disciplinary changes, including greater appreciation and recognition for personally embodied experiences related to gender, sexuality, and race and collective action by scholarly associations to produce stronger coalitions and allies for scholars who conduct “dirty research.”

What Is “Dirty Research”?

I define “dirty research” as the study of work, people, or activities that a given society at a given time views as distasteful, disagreeable, problematic, or demeaning. This definition includes two important elements. First, building on the work of scholars such as Irvine (2014), it moves beyond the tendency in much of the existing literature to focus on “dirty work,” expanding the scope of “dirty research” to also include the study of “dirty people” and “dirty activities.” Second, it recognizes that the very definition of “dirty research” is fluid, as it necessarily depends on normative definitions and perceptions of work, people and activities, which often vary according to social context and cultural norms, as well as throughout time. I expand on these elements of the definition in the following discussion.

Existing literature on “dirty research” has mostly focused on the study of “dirty work” (Hughes 1958): types of work that, despite their public need, are viewed by society as distasteful, disgusting, or demeaning. Building on the work of scholars such as Ashforth et al. (2007) and McMurray and Ward (2014), I identify four major types of “dirt” or “taint” associated with “dirty work” (and, by extension, “dirty research”): physical, social, moral, and emotional. “Physical taint” may refer to jobs that are either physically dirty (e.g., refuse collectors, plumbers, or custodians) or dangerous (e.g., police officers; firefighters, or construction workers). “Social taint” involves work linked to stigmatized populations, such as the work of prison guards, lawyers, psychiatrists, social workers, or program developers at a shelter for the unhoused. “Moral taint” involves work that a given society views as morally problematic and compromising, such as drug dealers, casino workers, loan sharks, genetic termination nurses, and political lobbyists. Finally, “emotional taint” involves work demanding emotional displays that some would view as objectionable, inappropriate, unfeeling, or excessive. Examples include hospice workers, coroners, veterinary technicians, and immigration patrol agents.

Of note, various jobs may include multiple elements of taint. Perhaps the clearest example is sex work, which often includes physical taint (having sex in unsanitized locations; the risk of contracting sexually transmitted diseases), social taint (associating with pimps, sex work customers, and other sex workers), moral taint (judgements of sex workers as breaching norms of sexual morality that preclude having paid sex), and emotional taint (faking pleasure or failing to show sufficient emotions in a sexual encounter). As such, it is more useful to think of “dirty work”—and, by association, “dirty research”—as existing on a continuum, ranging from highly “clean” to highly “dirty,” rather than as a binary typology of jobs and research activities.

This nonbinary logic also extends to the unsteady and fluid nature of at least some dirty work. Kreiner, Ashforth, and Sluss (2006) suggested that almost all jobs may involve some component of stigma at some point, arguing that many jobs that are not seen by the general public as tainted may in fact include some “dirty” elements or tasks that need to be negotiated by employees. The reactions that such tasks evoke in individuals is what determines whether they may be considered as “dirty work,” and such reactions are culturally dependent and may vary in different societies. Furthermore, as Grandy, Mavin, and Simpson (2014) observe, perceptions of dirt and disorder depend in part on those who are seen to embody such work, as norms of acceptability may vary by gender, ethnicity and other aspects of status. For example, physically tainted work is often seen as suitable for working class men, while cleaning and private domestic work is often associated with black and migrant women. Similarly, tasks and roles that may be rejected by indigenous workers as dirty, may be taken up and normalized by migrant workers. Finally, like all perceptions of normality and deviance, the perception of some jobs or tasks as constituting “dirty work” may change with time. For example, the taint attributed to investment bankers did not predate their entry into the industry. Instead, it emerged and intensified during the 2008 financial crisis (Stanley, MacKenzie Davey, and Symon 2014).

In addition to recognizing this definitional fluidity, I also argue that the concept of “dirty research” should be expanded beyond a narrow focus on “dirty work” and “dirty workers,” which characterizes most of the existing literature. Instead, following the ideas of Irvine (2014) and Grandy et al. (2014), I contend that the conceptualization of “dirty research” must also include “dirty people” and “dirty activities.” Indeed, without addressing and theorizing research endeavors that include these people and activities, it is hard to fully understand the scope of “dirty research” and the actual number of scholars who may be potentially affected by the stigma associated with such research.

“Dirty people” may of course be workers who carry on “dirty work” and “dirty tasks.” However, they may also belong to other “problematized” or “unloved” groups, such as the unhoused, the mentally ill, criminals, or members of religious and ethnic minorities. Although most social scientists see their work as dedicated to increasing social equality and pursuing social justice, the need to establish intimacy and rapport with an “unloved” group (as is often required when conducting an ethnography of a social group) can become both personally taxing and professionally risky. For example, Sanders-McDonagh (2014) recounts her experiences when studying a well-known racist far-right-wing group in the United Kingdom. Her “clean” reputation as a researcher was blemished when her name became publicly affiliated online with the group, making it look as if she was a legitimate member of that group. This false affiliation, which took nearly a year to rectify, put her in a very compromising position, as she saw herself as tainted and stigmatized and had to exert considerable efforts to maintain her “clean” image in the eyes of colleagues, students, and the larger institution.

Researchers who study other “unloved” or “problematic” groups may similarly find themselves in compromising situations, either because they are a priori assumed to be part of these groups, their experiences, and their ideologies (e.g., young women studying sex work), or because they fail to sufficiently distance themselves from these “problematic” groups. As such, scholars studying gender nonbinary or transexual individuals may themselves be assumed to be nonbinary, those who study individuals with eating disorders may be associated with the disorder, and those who research victims of domestic violence or sexual assault may be assumed to have some personal history with these practices.

Similarly, when scholars conduct research on people with unconventional sexual orientations and identities—such as those attracted to BDSM practices, to underaged individuals (pedophilic tendencies), or to close blood relatives (incestuous tendencies)—these scholars may themselves be assumed to be interested in such practices. Such associations become particularly complicated and potentially stigmatizing and compromising when scholars actually have a shared background with the group they study, such as in the case of Mac and Smith (2018), who wrote about sex workers while sharing a background in sex work (see also Southgate and Shying 2014).

Finally, scholars who study “dirty activities” or “dirty behaviors” may face personal and professional risks, unwanted attention, and stigmatization, similar to the experiences of those who study “dirty work” and “dirty people.” A researcher who explores illegal drug consumption may be associated with the activity (Southgate and Shying 2014); another studying unconventional sexual practices (e.g., engaging in sadomasochistic roleplaying or nonmonogamy) may be assumed to be personally interested in these activities; and a scholar writing on the consumption patterns of sex work or pornography may be associated with these behaviors. Of note, although “dirty activities” can be (and often are) studied as part of the context of research on “dirty work” (e.g., sex work) or “dirty people” (e.g., sex workers), they can also be independent of these contexts. For example, a scholar writing a theoretical paper on terrorism, far right ideologies, drug consumption, or pedophilic orientations, can still be tainted and stigmatized by association, especially when they fail to make a concerted effort to distance themselves from these practices and unequivocally denounce them.

The Perils of Conducting “Dirty Research”

“Dirty research” has yielded precious insights about often less-studied groups and phenomena, expanding and enriching the sociological, psychological, and anthropological literatures. It has helped in shedding light on people and activities that are often left in the shadows, giving them a voice and crucial visibility. Yet, similar to “dirty work” itself, and despite its great social and academic importance, “dirty research” is often costly for scholars who choose to engage in it. These scholars may pay both professional and personal prices and the extent of these prices often depends on their social and academic positionality, as well as on their demographic characteristics. In what follows, I outline some of the major risks and hazards for scholars who engage in “dirty research.”

First, conducting “dirty research” is often academically unrewarding. The taint of “dirty” work, people, and behaviors can easily transfer from the subjects of the research to researchers themselves, with the knowledge produced often being considered “shameful” (Irvine 2018). Just as selling and consuming sex or drugs is often seen as dishonorable and immoral ways to earn a living or engage in leisure activities, research into these professions and behaviors is also held in less regard. Sanders-McDonagh (2014), discussed earlier, demonstrated how studying “unloved” groups (right-wing extremists in her case) quickly jeopardized her “clean” reputation as a researcher in the eyes of colleagues, students, and the larger institution. Similarly, in my own research on online groups of involuntary celibates (incels), I often felt the need to clearly distance myself from the community and its ideologies (e.g., O’Donnell and Shor 2022; 2026; Becket and Shor 2025). As Smyth and Mitchell (2008) argue, research on such “unloved” groups often leaves the researcher feeling vulnerable to being perceived as either in sympathy with the views of the group or as too prejudiced against them to be capable of understanding them.

Research on sex work and pornography provides another important example for these academic risks. Hammond and Kingston (2014) described their experiences studying prostitution, where they often felt that colleagues treated their research as a “joke,” unworthy of academic research, and not serious enough to merit consideration for funding or publishing in respected academic journals. Keene (2021) described similar experiences of stigma as a young woman writing her doctoral dissertation on pornography. Like Hammond and Kingston, Keene struggled to find a “home” within her discipline (criminology), as despite common expectations, she did not firmly align herself with either an antipornography or a propornography position. She also felt that researching pornography was nearly as stigmatized as the practice of it and that her work was regarded as morally questionable, academically unsound, and tainted by the pleasure supposedly inherent in its object (see also Gabriel 2017; Robinson 2022). She experienced the common assumption that research on sex inherently brings the researcher more enjoyment than research in other areas, an assumption that is then “consistently counterbalanced with trivializations, mockeries, and downgrading of the seriousness of the work that occurs both within and outside of academia” (Fahs, Plante, and McClelland 2018, 506). As such, after presenting her findings on male masturbation in pornography at a conference, she was asked half-jokingly whom she had to sleep with to get funding for such a project.

This common treatment of scholars and studies on “dirty work” and “dirty people” as not serious or not important enough carries important academic consequences. The experience of being marginalized and stigmatized by one’s own discipline (colleagues, journal editors and reviewers, and sometimes even students) is of course itself demoralizing. However, particularly in the early stages of one’s academic career, it can also have tangible effects on the career itself. It can hinder the chances of securing an academic position, receiving tenure, or achieving promotions, as well as receiving research support from various funding agencies. Graduate students, independent researchers, or those on tenuous contracts may face even greater difficulties in securing support from colleagues and institutions and thus become more hesitant to conduct such research.

Although these academic perils should not be diminished, they sometimes pale in comparison with the personal hazards and sacrifices associated with at least some types of “dirty research.” These dangers are sometimes related to the ethnographic and participatory nature of many “dirty research” studies. For example, an ethnographer who studies firefighters through participatory methods could be exposed to physical dangers (Desmond 2008), as are those who study criminal groups (Goffman 2014), drug dealers (Venkatesh 2008), police officers (Rubinstein 1973), and other types of risky physical “dirty work.”

Such dangers may be further augmented when conducting research in low- and middle-income countries, where “dirty work” and “dirty behaviors” are often particularly unsafe, and where “dirty people” are sometimes specifically targeted by governments and law enforcements agencies. The research conducted by Sehgal (2009) with extreme Hindu nationalists demonstrates some of these risks. Sehgal felt compelled to fake a persona that allowed her to present a more palatable identity for the Hindu leaders and activists she was trying to research. She also structured her research questions in ways that allowed her to avoid direct examination about activists’ ideological positions. She felt that such cautionary measures were necessary, noting that “if I had been fully open about myself and my research to camp participants, this would have posed great physical danger to myself, my family, and my friends in India” (p. 347).

My own experiences when supervising graduate students (all women) who conducted or plan to conduct research on “dirty people” in low- and middle-income countries and countries with less democratic regimes further highlight these risks. One of these students conducts her PhD research on gender-based violence in India. When planning the itinerary for her ethnographic work, we had to think carefully about potential dangers in the field, resulting in the decision to avoid certain geographic locations and research sites, as well as questioning certain authorities. Another student, who studies Chinese diaspora activists, has been hesitant because of the apprehension of raising the ire of the Chinese authorities and hurting her future ability to visit family members who still reside in the country. Yet another former student sought to study the lives and experiences of transgender individuals in Iran. Following long deliberations, we came together to the conclusion that despite the academic and social importance of this research endeavor, it would be too risky for both the potential participants and the student herself, and she consequently shifted to study sexual minorities in a much safer location.

Beyond the potential physical dangers associated with “dirty research,” this type of research is also often associated with social marginalization and stigmatization. Family members, friends, acquaintances, and even strangers often make assumptions about researchers’ personal lives, habits, and ideological affiliations based on the subjects they choose to study. Although these assumptions may extend to issues such as fringe political groups or drug use, they are especially salient for those conducting research on sexuality, particularly “deviant” and stigmatized sexuality. Hammond and Kingston (2014), who studied sex work, described how people around them, including some of their informants, made assumptions that they were sexually liberal and would likely consent to casual sex, including with strangers and with many partners. Others insinuated that their interest in the research originated from previous involvement in selling sex.

Keene (2021) similarly described how nonacademic job recruiters encouraged her to remove all references to sex and pornography from her curriculum vitae and job applications, to avoid appearing “deviant” or, worse, be presumed to be associated with the sex industry. Her acquaintances made assumptions about her choice to pursue this line of research, with many of them intent on knowing whether “it” had happened to her. When speaking about pornography’s pleasures, she was often assumed to be a “dirty girl” or the type of girl that would be “up for anything.” Friends would introduce her to others as the “Porn Queen,” inviting a flurry of sex-related questions. To manage the stigma, she began to engage in “closeting practices” (Irvine 2018), becoming reluctant to share or disclose the nature of her research to others and diverting conversations from the topic.

These accounts suggest that not all “dirty research” is made the same. Rather, the stigma and marginalization associated with “dirty research” may be particularly pernicious for some individuals, depending on their social identities and demographics. In the next section, I theorize the impact of gender, age and seniority, and race, as well as the intersections among these three status categories on scholars who write and conduct research on sexuality, with a particular focus on those who study “deviant” sexuality.

The Intersection of Gender, Age, and Race When Conducting “Dirty Research”

Previous scholarly work has reflected on the ways in which “dirty work” is gendered and racialized (Grandy et al. 2014). However, much less attention has been given to the role of researchers’ social identities and demographic characteristics, including gender, race, and age, in shaping the experiences and consequences of “dirty research.” Conceptualizing “dirty research” as a practice that itself involves “dirty work” (Sanders-McDonagh 2014), I reflect on the ways in which the intersection of these elements affects and further complicates the academic and personal perils discussed in the previous section.

The experiences of Sanders-McDonagh (2014), Hammond and Kingston (2014), Keene (2021), Gabriel (2017), Robinson (2022), and others suggest that the extent to which one pays a personal and professional price when conducting “dirty research” often depends on social identities and demographic characteristics. More specifically, I argue that belonging to at least two intersecting marginalized demographic categories may lead researchers to pay a greater price when studying dirty work, people, and activities. In what follows I examine how gender, age and seniority, and race may play a significant role in producing and magnifying stigma and stereotypes. I further suggest that the intersection of gender, age and seniority, and race may complicate both the personal and professional lives of scholars who conduct “dirty research.” To demonstrate these claims, I focus on the study of sexuality and more specifically “dirty sexualities” and sex work. As I have argued earlier, sex work combines the various dimensions of taint (physical, social, moral, and emotional) and therefore produces some of the highest levels of stigma and marginalization.

Many of the first scholars who studied and wrote about sex and sexuality were men such as Kaan ([1844] 2016), Freud ([1905] 2011), Kinsey (Kinsey, Pomeroy, and Martin 1948), and Foucault (1976). However, over the last few decades, the share of women and nonbinary individuals in conducting research and writing about sexuality has been steadily growing, coinciding with the more general growth in the rate of noncisgender men in the social sciences, particularly in disciplines such as psychology, sociology and anthropology (Hur et al. 2017). In addition, academic research on gender and feminism, historically led by women, has often been institutionally combined with research on sexuality, with leading universities establishing research centers and institutes that focus on the intersecting study of gender and sexuality.

In some subfields of sexuality research, such as research on sex work, the contributions of women and nonbinary scholars have been particularly salient. As such, it is important to examine the unique positionality of scholars who conduct such research and reflect on the intersection of gender and age for those who engage in “dirty research.” The problematization of women’s sexuality has a long history, including by some of the men who have studied the field (Burman 2005; Faxhall 2016). This problematization has been used to control women, belittle them, and keep them away from engaging in public spheres (Brownmiller 1975; Garton 2013; Rich 1980). When women and nonbinary individuals were finally able to break into these public spheres, including academia, gendered and sexual stereotypes have been used to belittle, depreciate, marginalize, and sometimes even silence their voices and research contributions (Aiston and Fo 2021; Berkovitch, Waldman, and Yanay 2012; Haynes 2024). The intersection of belittling women’s research and the more general marginalization of research on sexuality, which persists despite notable gains (Littlejohn and Stone 2025; Schnabel 2018), poses a unique challenge for women and nonbinary scholars who wish to study sexuality, particularly when they study the most marginalized and stigmatized aspects of sexual life, as is the case when conducting “dirty research.”

As demonstrated in the accounts of scholars such as Mattley (1997), Zurbriggen (2002), Hammond, Kingston (Hammond and Kingston 2014), Gabriel (2017), Keene (2021), and Robinson (2022), marginalization and stigmatization may be especially salient among scholars who are younger and noncisgender men when they conduct research on sexuality, particularly sexuality that is considered “problematic” or “deviant.” Younger women, as well as nonbinary scholars, might face two major challenges when doing “dirty research.” First, their younger age often affects the assumptions of colleagues and acquaintances about their sexuality. Their research agendas produce stigma by association (Goffman 1968), where they are particularly likely to be thought of as having experience in sex work or pornography or otherwise being sexually liberal or “easy.” Traits that are commonly associated with sex workers, such as the expectation that they would always consent to sex, have sex with strangers, and be interested in having sex with many partners, are likely to be transposed onto young women and nonbinary scholars who research sex work.

These assumptions may interfere with the research process itself, especially when respondents and others in the field make unwanted suggestions. Indeed, experiences of sexual objectification, unwanted sexual attention, harassment, and even sexual violence have been well documented for many women who conduct ethnographic field research (Hanson and Richards 2019; Kloß 2017), as well as for nonbinary researchers (Robinson 2025). These practices also pervade the researchers’ private lives. Colleagues, friends, employers, and other acquaintances may subscribe to these assumptions, often unconsciously, treating the researchers with less respect, engaging in derisive bantering, asking uncomfortable questions, or even making undesired sexual advances.

Of note, most younger researchers, regardless of gender, experience greater academic precarity and instability. Younger scholars are more likely to be in the earlier stages of their academic careers (e.g., graduate students, adjunct professors, or assistant professors without tenure) and less well established and recognized in their discipline. These traits, in turn, make them more susceptible to the discrediting and marginalization that often accompany “dirty research” in academic circles. The tendency of editors and reviewers of academic journals, colleagues, and other scholars in one’s discipline to consider “dirty research” as less serious and important could have substantial career repercussions. It may compromise young researchers’ ability to be hired by both academic and nonacademic institutions (Keene 2021) and to secure an academic tenured position after being hired. The choice to pursue a “dirty research” agenda may thus be considered as a risky and perilous career choice, particularly for those working in relatively less prestigious academic institutions (e.g., community colleges), where job precarity is greater. Conducting “dirty research” could also be especially risky for scholars in universities and colleges located in more conservative countries or states, where institutional tolerance toward such research is low and budgets may be denied based on accusations of immoral research (see Irvine 2014).

I further argue that gendered inequalities pervade even research on sex work and pornography itself, showcasing the gradients of “dirty research.” Work that focuses on the negative aspects of these industries, often using quantitative research designs, tends to receive greater recognition and respect from various academic audiences. These distinctions partly originate from the tendency of (social) scientists to assign greater value to quantitative research and to focus on the negative aspects of sexuality, treating sex as a problem (Jones 2019; Regan 2024; Shuster and Westbrook 2024). In research on pornography, this tendency has been termed “the negative effects paradigm” (Daskalopoulou and Zanette 2020; McCormack and Wignall 2017), denoting the traditional focus of pornography scholars on issues such as aggression, abuse, degradation, and humiliation. However, I argue that these distinctions are also partly grounded in gendered dynamics. Men who study pornography are more likely to quantitatively assess the relationship between pornography use (with or without aggression) and real-life aggressive attitudes and behaviors. Leading pornography scholars such as Hald (Hald and Malamuth 2008; Hald, Malamuth, and Lange 2013), Malamuth (Malamuth, Hald, and Koss 2012), Peter (Peter and Valkenburg 2009, 2016), Wright (2013, 2021; Wright, Tokunaga, and Kraus 2016), Tokunaga (Tokunaga, Wright, and Roskos 2019), Kingston (2008), and others, have all conducted multiple studies that explore these relationships. Their research has been regularly published in journals with higher Impact Factors, which are often considered more prestigious or “serious” in fields such as psychology, sexuality studies, and communication research, including the Journal of Sex Research, Archives of Sexual Behavior, Annual Review of Sexual Behavior, Journal of Communication, Communication Research, and Aggressive Behavior.

In contrast, studies on other aspects of pornography, including those related to pleasure and satisfaction or to the experiences of racial and sexual minorities in the industry, are more often conducted by women and by nonbinary scholars. Some recent examples include work on pleasure and orgasm by scholars such as Jones (2016, 2019, 2020), Regan (2024), Fritz et al. (2020), Lebedíková (2022), Frith (2015), Paasonen (2011, 2014), Cunningham (2025), Chowkhani (2016), and de Kloe (2023). Other examples come from work on the experiences of minority pornography performers by scholars such as Nash (2014, 2017), Dines (2010), Jones (2020), Musser (2014), Miller-Young (2014), and Cruz (2016). These important theoretical and empirical contributions are more often published as books, book chapters, or in journals such as Porn Studies, Sexualities, Signs, and the Journal of Gender Studies, which often do not carry as much academic prestige and esteem as the journals mentioned in the previous paragraph (see also Jones 2019).

Gender and age also intersect with race in ways that may increase stigma for those who conduct “dirty research.” Black men in North America and in other cultures have historically been portrayed as irresponsible, lazy, violent, and criminal (Chiricos, Welch, and Gertz 2004; Hughey and Hernandez 2013; Tukachinsky, Mastro, and Tarchi 2015). Sexual stereotypes often depict them as sexual predators, rapists, and/or pimps who engage in abnormal and dirty sexual practices (Dines 2006; Welch 2007). Scholars have traced the roots of these perceptions to slavery and the historical construction of Black men as sexual beasts; hypersexual and crazy savages with an uncontrollable sexual desire for White women (Cowan and Campbell 1994; Dines 2003; Gardner 1980; Williams 2010). These stereotypical perceptions have been particularly blatant and unapologetic in pornographic depictions (Dines 2006). Hill Collins (2004) further argues that Black masculinity is a fluid category, in that any man of color can become marked as Black when failing to conform to the disciplinary practices of White masculinity. As such, stereotypes and media images of Hispanic/Latin men also tend to emphasize their potential for violence, criminality (Vasquez 2010) and hypersexuality (Tukachinsky et al. 2015).

Race scholars have also demonstrated a long tradition of problematizing Black women’s sexuality and femininity. Studies on the images and representations of Black women have highlighted stereotypes that focus on sexuality, including hypersexualization and sexual deviance (Hill Collins 2000, 2004; hooks 1992, 1994; West 1995). These stereotypes problematize Black women’s appearance, desires, and sexual expressions, painting them as excessive, animalistic, and nonfeminine (Bernardi 2006; Cowan and Campbell 1994; Dines 2003; Hudson 1998; Jensen 2007). As with Black men, such stereotypes are not limited to Black women and are often extended to other racial and ethnic minorities. Stereotypes regarding Latina women often resemble those applied of Black women, as they are often portrayed in various media as exotic seductresses and animalistic hypersexualized spitfires (Gomez 2008; Holtzman 2014; Molina Guzman and Valdivia 2004).

Against this background, racialized men and women, as well as nonbinary racial minorities, may find it challenging to conduct research on sexuality and more specifically on sex work and pornography. Studies have suggested that work by minority scholars has traditionally been marginalized in academic institutions and in other public forums (Baffoe, Asimeng-Boahene, and Buster 2014; Constantine et al. 2008; Dotson 2011). This epistemic marginalization occurs both through formal hierarchies that determine how scholarship is valued, and through informal processes that convey to minority scholars that they and their scholarship are devalued (Settles et al. 2021). Common stereotypes, which see Black, Latin, and Native American individuals as unintelligent, lazy, and receiving unearned advantages (Ghavami and Peplau 2013), also contribute to this devaluation of racial minorities’ academic contributions. Minority women and nonbinary scholars are particularly susceptible to the devaluation of their ideas and research because of the intersection of gendered and racial biases (Gonzales 2018; Kim et al. 2014).

Moreover, racial minority scholars who conduct research on sex work may pay an even greater personal price. This is because the stereotypes regarding their sexuality, discussed earlier, may lead to an even greater inclination to associate with their research and make assumptions about their motivations for conducting this research, their personal involvement in the topics they study, and their overall sexuality. A Black man, who is already tied in public imagination to sexual violence, may find it particularly challenging to study the dynamics of sexual violence or to explore an issue such as the intersection of pleasure and pain in sexuality. Similarly, a Latina woman who wishes to study sexuality has to contend not only with the challenges of being a woman who studies sexuality, but also with stigmas suggesting that Latina women are hypersexual, lustful, and promiscuous. As such, racial minority scholars are even more likely to be the victims of stigma by association, with research participants, colleagues, and casual acquaintances quick to deduce that they are personally tied to their research.

These challenges are likely to be further amplified for minority women and nonbinary scholars, as well as for younger minority researchers, both because the stereotypes about their hypersexuality and promiscuity are likely to play an even greater role and because of their employment precarity. Thus, a young Black doctoral student who conducts an ethnography of sex workers could find it particularly hard to secure academic employment and, consequently, achieve tenure and promotion, while concurrently being likely to pay a greater personal price for this research focus.

Personal Reflections on Conducting “Dirty Research”: Positionality and Stigma Management

My own positionality in researching pornography is significantly different and, in many respects, more advantageous than that described by Hammond, Kingston, Keene, Jones, Robinson, and other researchers of sexuality, sex work and pornography. I am a well-established researcher in my early 50s and a full professor at a prestigious research university. My research agenda has been diverse and includes decades of research on issues commonly identified as part of the core of my discipline (sociology), including political violence, health inequalities, and racial inequalities. Although the study of sexuality has always been part of my research agenda, my earlier work on theories of sexual attraction and aversion was published in one of sociology’s flagship journals (Shor 2015; Shor and Simchai 2009; Shor and Simchai 2012), providing it (and me) with an aura of respectability and importance.

I further identify as a straight cisgender man, and although I am of Middle Eastern origin and my accent in both English and French clearly reveals that I am not a local, I am still able to “pass” as White in many circles. As such, I manage to circumvent some of the toughest challenges reported by younger noncisgender men scholars and by racial minorities, whose research is more often devaluated and questioned. I no longer need to worry about my prospects of obtaining an academic position, receiving tenure, or securing a promotion being affected by the assessment of the seriousness of my research, its importance, or its degree of controversiality. I also never felt sexually objectified and never had to contend with assumptions about my supposed promiscuity or speculations that I had previously worked in the sex industry.

Yet despite these important privileges, I still find myself on multiple occasions facing and having to manage the stigma associated with studying “dirty work.” Academically, although most of my colleagues (other sociologists) appear respectful of my work on pornography, it clearly does not receive the same level of professional esteem as my other areas of research. This research spans a diverse range of fields, including human rights and political violence (e.g., Filkobski and Shor 2024; 2026; Shor 2016; 2017; Shor et al. 2016); gender-based violence (e.g., O’Donnell and Shor 2022; 2026; Shier and Shor 2016; Shor and Filkobski 2024); gender, racial, and status inequalities (e.g., McMahan and Shor 2024; 2026; Shor and Van de Rijt 2020; 2024; 2025; Shor, van de Rijt and Miltsov 2019; Shor et al. 2015; van de Rijt et al. 2013); and the social determinants of health (e.g., Shor and Roelfs 2012; 2013; 2015; 2020; 2021; 2024). This sociological and interdisciplinary research has often been published in leading generalist sociology journals, such as the American Sociological Review, the American Journal of Sociology, Social Forces, Social Problems, Sociological Science, and Demography. However, most of these journals do not view my work on pornography as interesting or important enough for a general sociological audience, regardless of the theoretical depth or methodological rigor of the work. This form of epistemological elitism has been quite clearly communicated to me in the few instances in which I attempted to submit my work to such journals and received desk rejections.

Reflecting on my choices when applying for funding or presenting my research to various academic audiences, it is clear that I internalized the view that my research on sexuality would not be treated with the same degree of esteem as my other research. When applying for research funding from the Canadian federal agency, I deliberately chose to write grant applications involving other research interests, foreseeing objections to the importance of the work. Similarly, when I was invited to deliver talks at leading universities in Canada, in the United States, and in East Asia, I “played it safe” and chose to present the findings of my other “more respectable” research projects. Furthermore, when asked by other sociologists about my recent research, I often engage in “closeting practices” (Irvine 2018), choosing to speak about other less contentious projects and research findings, attempting to maintain my image as a serious sociologist.

To be sure, some of these decisions may simply be the result of self-censoring, trying to manage my image as a serious scholar. Yet, reflecting on these choices, I find that they are also grounded in multiple cues about the relative sociological and social importance and respectability of my research on pornography and the personal stigma that may be associated with studying this field. On one occasion, when I was invited to give a talk at a prestigious East Asian university, the colleague who extended the invitation (a fellow sociologist) clarified that a talk on pornography would not be a good idea given the audience and asked if I can speak about a different topic. Yet in most cases, cues are more subtle and implicit. These cues clarify that although other sociologists may not overtly belittle the importance of my research, they are less likely to recommend research funding, acceptance to leading generalist journals, and other professional rewards. Again, it is important to acknowledge that my positionality as a “White” man and an established scholar with diverse research interests and projects allows me a degree of malleability and freedom to “play” with my academic identity. Clearly, scholars whose main research focus is solely on sexuality and, more particularly, on sex work, may not enjoy such flexibility. Yet I find this flexibility to be somewhat of a double-edged sword, as it has often led me to be complicit in the continued marginalization of the field.

My experiences with academic audiences and journals have also reflected the distinctions I suggested in the previous section of the article between, on the one hand, critical research that focuses on the negative aspects of sexuality and, on the other hand, research that looks at issues such as the experiences, preferences, and emotions of sex workers and consumers. Much of my earlier work on pornography has focused on the role of aggression in the industry (e.g., Shor and Seida 2021). This work has found greater legitimacy among colleagues and during the process of academic journal reviewing when compared with my work on the phenomenology of sex workers and pornography performers (Shor and Leblanc forthcoming) or on viewers’ perceptions and preferences regarding sexual pleasure and climax (Flory and Shor 2025; Shor 2023; 2024; 2025a; 2025b; 2026; Shor and Chen 2025). When submitting work on aggression to top-ranked journals in psychology, sociology, gender studies, and sexuality research (e.g., the Journal of Sex Research), responses were mostly positive. I was not required to explain the importance of the work and requests for revision mostly focused on the more technical aspects of the research.

In contrast, when submitting a manuscript that engaged with climax preferences to the same journals, it was received with much more skepticism, with several reviewers and editors explicitly questioning why such work is important and should be published in a high-status generalist journal. I gradually found out that to publish this kind work in generalist sociology journals, I had to downplay its contributions to the sociology of sexuality and instead emphasize its contributions to other fields, such as the sociology of health, work, organizations, and emotions. These experiences are similar to those described by other scholars, particularly ones who study queer sexuality, when engaging with elite and generalist disciplinary journals (e.g., Robinson 2025; Schilt 2018).

In recent years, I have also been supervising graduate students, most of them young women, who have come to work with me on research related to sexuality, including a growing number of students have been interested in researching various forms of pornography. These supervision and mentoring experiences have been very enriching and gratifying, as many of these bright students share my passion for the study of sexuality and our discussions and interactions have been fruitful and productive. We have also successfully collaborated on multiple projects, including some where students have taken key roles as lead or co-authors on peer reviewed articles and books (e.g., Flory and Shor 2025; Seida and Shor 2021; Shor and Golriz 2019; Shor and Leblanc forthcoming; Shor and Liu 2026; Shor and Seida 2021).

Yet even here I have noticed on occasion some reserve and hesitation by several students, which are potentially related to fears of stigmatization. I habitually offer students the opportunity to collaborate on ongoing projects, including sometimes at later stages, where the research is already well formed and their contributions are relatively more minor. Like other colleagues, I see this as an important opportunity for students to learn the various stages involved in planning, conducting, writing, and publishing research, as well as a chance to build and expand their publication record in preparation for the job market. Over the years, students have typically replied to these offers for collaboration with enthusiasm and gratitude. However, on a few recent occasions, all of them related to research on pornography, several students, all young women, have chosen to decline these offers. Although I did not force the issue, I suspect that at least for some of them, the idea that one of their first publications would be associated with pornography may seem daunting, academically, personally, or both (indeed, one of them has explicitly expressed such apprehensions). Unfortunately, given the very real prices that young women such as Hammond, Kingston, and Keene have paid for being involved in “dirty research,” such apprehensions and unease seem rather sensible.

In terms of interpersonal interactions, it is important to note again that I have not experienced anything remotely similar to the highly unpleasant encounters, interactions, and judgements reported by younger women and nonbinary scholars such as Hammond, Kingston, Keene, and Robinson, or by racial minority scholars such as Jones. Yet I often find myself avoiding or steering away from conversations about pornography. I mostly present myself as a sociologist studying political violence or gender and ethnic inequalities, and when asked by friends and acquaintances about my latest research projects, I mostly speak about these research areas. Furthermore, even when I do speak about my research on pornography, I often choose to highlight my research on aggression (e.g., Shor 2019; Shor 2022; Shor and Golriz 2019; Shor and Liu 2026; Shor and Seida 2019; Shor and Seida 2021). I am aware that this topic is both connected to my larger research agenda (thus appearing more “legitimate”) and considered more socially important and meaningful because of its potential educational aspects and its possible effects on viewers’ attitudes and behaviors. Although this freedom to manage my professional identity and others’ impressions of me is clearly a privilege not enjoyed by some scholars of sexuality, it is also testimony to the ways in which we internalize the stigma and often cooperate with it.

When reflecting on my compliance with the academic and social marginalization of sexuality research, I can recall several seemingly minor interactions, which nevertheless have been important in shaping my reticence. These included a conversation with a family member, who blatantly questioned why such research is even important and why it should receive funding. They also included more subtle interactions with friends and colleagues who good-naturedly joked about my research agenda. On one occasion, a colleague bantered me about my “willingness” (read “eagerness”) to spend hours watching pornographic materials and the “sacrifices” involved in such a research activity. At another, during a casual lunch meeting, another colleague introduced me to other acquaintances as “the porn expert,” with the whole party then taking friendly jabs at my presumed “sacrifices” in studying such a topic.

On another occasion, I spent an evening with a couple of nonacademic friends, whom I have known for many years. Aware of their somewhat conservative political inclinations, I made an effort to withdraw (Goffman 1968) and tried to avoid speaking about my research on pornography. However, the two insisted that they were very interested to hear about this research and kept asking about my political and ideological stance on the industry. Finally, I relented. However, when I tried to present a nuanced view of both sex work and pornography, sharing findings regarding gendered preferences and desires that some may find surprising, the conversation quickly turned sour. The couple, visibly upset by the findings I shared and by my lack of willingness to simply vilify the entire sex work industry, asked that we move on to another topic, and the otherwise pleasant atmosphere was tainted.

This encounter reflects a more general experience, where researchers of sex work and pornography are expected to “pick a side”: anti- or pro–sex work (Hammond and Kingston 2014). Nuanced accounts or political stands, which address both positive and negative elements of the industry and the experiences of those who participate and consume it, are often viewed as evasive or even immoral, leading to uncomfortable and acrimonious social interactions. Trying to distance myself from the stigma of “a dirty old man,” who “just wants to sit in his office and have fun watching pornography all day,” I often resort to various strategies of identity work (Grandy 2008), including feigning personal disinterest in pornographic materials. When speaking about my research with family members, friends, and colleagues, I mostly portray my interest in pornography as stemming from a sterile anthropo-scientific curiosity about the experiences of performers or the preferences of viewers, as if I myself have nothing to do with these viewers. Such distancing practices echo a clear code of silence around watching pornography, apparent in the conversations of both professional colleagues and intimate friends. We gladly share impressions from a recent movie we watched or a book we read, discuss travel experiences, or, when better acquainted, talk about our romantic relationships. We also readily reveal the personal passions that led us to develop our academic interests and study certain subjects or groups. However, our pornography consumption is never brought up, as if we have all agreed to pretend that none of us is personally interested in such a sordid affair. Studying pornography therefore seemingly reflects mere academic curiosity, not unlike that of a marine zoologist studying the sex lives of dolphins.

This concealment of personal interest is in line with De Craene’s (2017, 2024) observations about the dichotomy within research on sexuality between the desiring body of the informant on the one hand and the nondesiring body of the researcher on the other. Researchers are expected to take on a desexualized role and those who defy this expectation are often deeply stigmatized (Robinson 2022). Thus, sexualized methodological dilemmas and personal experiences become an “awkward surplus”: something that sexuality researchers almost never mention and reflect on in their research reports (Hanson and Richards 2019).

Interestingly, age plays a unique and nonobvious role in this concealment of researchers’ desiring body. Social expectations determine that as they age, older individuals should become progressively less interested in sex and less desiring than their younger counterparts. Indeed, as we age, explicit expressions of attraction and sexual desire are increasingly problematized and even ridiculed, particularly when the objects of desire are younger (as are nearly all pornography performers). Although the phrase “dirty old man” is frequently applied to older men with lewd or obscene sexual preoccupations, it is also often extended to any older man who expresses or admits to still having a strong sexual libido, especially if the objects of attraction are younger than him. This extension is evident in the pornography industry itself, with video titles and tags that refer to older men who have sex with younger partners as “sugar daddies,” “dirty old men,” “creepy old men,” and “old perverts.” Similarly, older women’s sexual desires are also often problematized, with older women pursuing romantic and/or sexual relationships with younger partners often described as “cougars” (i.e., predators) and in pornography as MILFs. This latter label suggests that these are women who transgress their traditional role as mothers and dare to remain sexually active even after having children.

Concluding Thoughts

In this article I developed a sociological theory of “dirty research,” expanding the definition of this concept, identifying its core tenets, and reflecting on its consequences and perils for a wide range of scholars. I examined the fluidity of the concept of “dirty work” and, by extension, “dirty research,” also suggesting that the latter should extend to the study of “dirty people” and “dirty activities.” I then moved to examine both the academic and personal consequences and perils potentially involved in conducting “dirty research.” I argued that these consequences often vary by researchers’ identities and demographic characteristics. Although this discussion focused on the intersection of gender, race, and age, other factors, such as sexual identity, university prestige, or the location of one’s university (e.g., in more conservative states) may intersect with researchers’ gender, ethnicity, and seniority to pose further challenges for engaging in “dirty research.” Furthermore, although my discussion of these intersections was focused mostly on the study of sexuality and “dirty sex,” the insights coming from this study are also important for those conducting “dirty research” in other fields. For example, a young Black man studying Black gang members who sell illegal drugs may be assumed to have a background with these types of practices. His academic accounts may be devalued as tainted, nonobjective, unethical, or atheoretical, while colleagues, friends and acquaintances may also make various assumptions about his personal life experiences and preferences.

The study of “dirty research” and the insights coming from this research offer important directions for further exploration for scholars in various sociological subfields. Notably, I highlighted in this article the contributions of this framework to the sociology of sexuality, in line with former sociological work on “dirty work” and “dirty research” (Hammond and Kingston 2014; Irvine 2014; Robinson 2022; Sanders-McDonagh 2014). However, the insights of this study are also valuable to scholars who work in other subfields. These include, for example, scholars of deviance and social control, particularly those who study stigma and marginalization, in the tradition of Ervin Goffman and those who explore the cultural and historical relativity of deviance. Scholars of work, both “dirty” work and more “conventional” work, may also profit from thinking outside these dichotomies, identifying “dirty” elements in “clean” jobs (including academic research) and vice versa. Finally, sociologists of culture and knowledge may further engage with the insights of this study on academic positionality and the challenges of knowledge production and the role of intersecting marginalized demographics and identities in limiting the production, distribution, and influence of academic knowledge.

In this concluding section, I try to point out potential directions for the future of “dirty research,” while also recognizing the challenges of stigmatization and marginalization faced by those who conduct such research. I argue that despite the serious academic and personal prices potentially paid by younger women and nonbinary people of color, the solution should clearly not be to limit “dirty research” to older, White, and academically established cismen, even if we are the ones least likely to be professionally and personally penalized by conducting such research. Such a “solution” would stifle some of the most important theoretical and empirical contributions and perspectives from researchers who often are also able to achieve greater rapport with marginalized populations. In addition, as I have shown earlier, even White men with seniority and an established research agenda face a stigma and may have relatively little to gain professionally when conducting “dirty research.” It is therefore unlikely that many of them would embark on such explorations later in their academic careers, leaving these fields understudied and fortifying the stigma surrounding those researchers who are willing to study them despite the challenges.

Instead, I argue that sociologists and other social scientists should continue to fight and advocate for the de-marginalization and destigmatization of both “dirty work/people/activities” and “dirty research.” Naturally, this is more easily said than done. While writing this article, I became aware of my own unintentional complicity in this ongoing marginalization. As I noted earlier, the challenges I face in conducting “dirty research” and in presenting and publishing my research findings pale in comparison with those faced by women, nonbinary scholars, younger scholars, and racial minorities, or any combination of these categories. Yet for years, I have made strategic choices that included avoiding presenting this branch of my research in invited talks and academic conferences, pursuing funding opportunities with “more respectable” research agendas, and submitting my written work on pornography only to journals that specialize in sexuality. As such, I unwillingly contributed to the notion that such research does not offer any important contributions to the wider sociological literature and should continue to be compartmentalized and marginalized. Indeed, when even established scholars, with much less to lose, remain worried about the stigma they might encounter and therefore self-censore, they implicitly become part of that stigma and the marginalization of the field.

With these realizations in mind, and recognizing my relatively privileged position in the field, I have recently taken several deliberate steps designed to actively push back against the marginalization of “dirty research.” First, I began submitting research on pornography to generalist sociology journals, rather than just to journals that specialize in the study of sexuality. I have also recently submitted a book manuscript on pornography to a prestigious publisher. This submitted work includes research on some of the more positive aspects of the industry, such as displays of pleasure and affection (in contrast with research on aggression or other negative aspects of the industry). Such research has often been marginalized even by journals that focus on sexuality (Jones 2019). The review process for “positive” research on sex work and pornography in generalist sociology journals has certainly been challenging, with reviewers often questioning the relevance and importance of such research to wider sociological audiences. Nevertheless, I continue to pursue these venues, seeking to convince reviewers and editors about the important contributions of this work to the wider discipline and to various other sociological subfields.

I also recently submitted a research funding proposal that focuses on the study of pornography, although I recognize that research proposals on other research topics that I study may be more likely to receive funding. In addition, I have begun to present more often the results of my research on pleasure, affection, and authenticity in conferences and invited talks, trying to overcome my apprehension of being perceived as a less serious scholar or becoming personally stigmatized. Fortunately, in recent years, other sociologists have also dared to break out of the confines of gender and sexuality journals, publishing work on sexual pleasure and critiques of the negative effects paradigm in leading generalist sociology journals (e.g., Burke and MillerMacPhee 2021; Daskalopoulou and Zanette 2020; McCormack and Wignall 2017; Regan 2024; Shuster and Westbrook 2024). Such work will hopefully help in bringing this type of research out of the shadows and reducing the stigma involved in conducting this research.

Finally, I argue that researchers at different stages of their academic careers, but particularly more established ones with less at stake, should “own” their personal interest in “dirty” work, people, and activities. Such conscious recognitions of interest could be instrumental in reducing the stigma around “deviant” issues and people. Rather than feigning personal disinterest, pretending that we are merely dispassionate and objective observers and recorders of curious scientific phenomena, we should openly declare and discuss our own interests in these fields, following the example of scholars such as Taormino (2008), Anderson (2009), Jones (2016, 2018, 2020), De Craene (2017, 2024), Mac and Smith (2018), Robinson (2022), and others. Such open declarations, en masse, can help in reducing stigma while also dismantling the dichotomy between the desiring body of our informants and subjects of study and our own seemingly nondesiring body. Reflexivity and candor of this sort could help in reducing stigma by normalizing and personifying interests, desires, and practices rather than pretending that they are the sole property of anonymous “dirty” and “deviant” research participants.

At the same time, we must recognize that such decisions to openly declare and discuss our personal interests and experiences in the fields we study are made within larger disciplinary structures. Given the already marginalized positions of many “dirty researchers,” it is perhaps naive to expect them to open up about personal desires and experiences that may be perceived as compromising their academic professionalism, cast doubt on their research ethics, and/or further stigmatize them (Robinson 2022). As such, I join recent calls by scholars such as Hanson and Richards (2019) and Robinson (2022) for wider structural changes within our discipline, where personally embodied experiences related to gender, sexuality, and race are valued and considered as an integral part of research reports. In addition, collective action by scholars of marginalized research fields—for example, through scholarly associations and sections (e.g., the American Sociological Association section on sexuality), cross-departmental initiatives, or joint declarations and commitments to greater diversity and inclusion by leading disciplinary journals—may alleviate the personal burden of exposure, produce stronger coalitions and allies, and generate safer spaces for such exposures.