It is not enough for a handful of experts to attempt the solution of

a problem, to solve it and then to apply it. The restriction of

knowledge to an elite group destroys the spirit of society and

leads to its intellectual impoverishment.-- Albert EinsteinThe collective matrix of a science at a given time is determined

by a kind of establishment, which includes universities, learned

societies, and, more recently, the editorial offices of technical

journals. Like other establishments, they are consciously or

unconsciously bent on preserving the status quo -- partly

because unorthodox innovations are a threat to their authority,

but also because of the deeper fear that their laboriously erected

intellectual edifice might collapse under the impact.-- Arthur Koestler

As I set out in the introduction of this thesis, the aims of this research project have been 1) to better

understand this concept we call 'sexual orientation' by understanding how (some) people live in relation to it

and 2) what these understandings can tell us about possibilities for political activism. I decided to focus on the

experiences of people in 'mixed sexual orientation identity relationships' (hereafter referred to as mixed

relationships) for a number of reasons. I left it up to people to define for themselves whether their

relationships were 'mixed'. Here is the text from the web site I used for recruiting participants

(sexualorientation.info):

I am interested in the diversity of people's experiences, so my definition is broad. You

would qualify for inclusion in this research project if you are in an ongoing romantic

and/or sexual relationship where the way in which you identify your sexual orientation,

either now or in the past, is different from that of a current partner. Sexual

orientation identities do not have to to be limited to traditional categories like bisexual,

gay/lesbian and heterosexual. They can be much more diverse.

As the historical debates I described earlier highlight, difference is a crucial issue in the politics of sexuality.

'Mixed' relationships struck me as a particularly interesting place to explore issues of difference. Most

obviously, these relationships cross borders of 'sexual orientation'. Difference is an important issue in these

relationships. Second, this criterion allows for the inclusion of a diverse range of relationships with 'sexual

orientation' identity. I was not interested in looking at heterosexuality, homosexuality or bisexuality, as much

previous research has done, but at 'sexual orientation' more generally. These explorations of difference, I

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expected, would be useful for addressing the three aims of this research project. For many people, 'sexual

orientation' is taken for granted as a natural truth. Although I suspect that no one's life really fits entirely in

these boxes, the lack of open discussion and questioning of this is the effect of the ubiquity of the

hetero/homo division within 'Western' social organisation. Of course, these effects are not determinist, and

many people, in many situations, question the reality of 'sexual orientation'. I expected that 'mixed'

relationships would be one situation that would encourage both questioning and the capacity to openly discuss

this question with a stranger (me). Such perspectives, I thought, would be useful for understanding how

sexual orientation is produced, how people experience it, and how the resulting oppression can be addressed

politically.

I was inspired by other work on relationships that cross the borders of loaded social categories. One

research project on white birthmothers of African descent children in Britain (Winddance Twine, 1999),

found that these women became very active anti-racist educators because of their relationship with their

children. Indeed, their capacity for anti-racism challenges the assumptions of members of the black

community who assumed that understanding of racism depended upon a particular racial experience. These

white women lacked such experience and thus were expected to be incapable of preparing children to deal

with racism. However, according to the researcher, these women were very effective in their efforts.

Similarly, Kandiyoti (1994, cited in New, 2001) suggests that Muslim men who support anti-purdah

arguments do so because of the importance of their relationships with their mothers. Finally, Nestle (1983), a

lesbian and feminist identified woman wrote a passionate defence of women's rights to enjoy sex with men.

Her challenge to the arguments of lesbian feminists, such as Andrea Dworkin, are based on the mutual

understanding she developed with her mother around issues of sexuality. Although at one point she hoped her

mother would abandon the men who often abused her and choose lesbianism, Nestle came to accept her

mother's decisions. 'We faced each other as two women for whom sex was important and after initial

skirmishes, she accepted my world of adventure as I did hers' (p 470). She concludes her essay with an image

of her mother responding to Andrea Dworkin: 'Don't scream penis at me but help to change the world so no

woman feels shame or fear because she likes to fuck' (ibid). Close personal relationships appear to highlight

the possibility of escaping politics defined by 'identity' or 'experience'.

I was also interested in talking to people about 'mixed' relationships because so many of my own

relationships and those of many of my friends have crossed these borders. I talk about my own experience a

bit later on. First, I think this fact in itself says something interesting about social change. Historically, I

imagine that the majority of 'mixed' relationships of this nature were marriages involving individuals not open

with their partners about their same-sex desires. Further research would of course be necessary to address the

viability of this assumption. However, I believe it is fair to say that it would be difficult to imagine a research

project like this one taking place twenty years ago. Popular understanding of sexual desire certainly has

changed, perhaps in part due to the cultural shift described by Roseneil (2002). Films such as Chasing Amy

and the occasional television programme (e.g. Channel Four's Bob & Rose) acknowledge the possibility of

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mixed relationships, between a heterosexual-identified man and a lesbian-identified woman, and between a

gay-identified man and a heterosexual-identified woman, respectively. Both Chasing Amy and Bob & Rose

also demonstrated the risks attached, including being labelled a 'sexual orientation traitor'.

These issues are also discussed in the popular media. The cover story of one issue of Marie Claire

(UK edition) is advertised as 'I was gay, but now I'm married with a kid' One woman's story. The story in fact

addresses a mixed relationship (bi-woman, straight-man) and other stories of changes in peoples sexual

desires and identities (Maguire 2001). Finally, in a Guardian Weekend magazine article entitled 'My Crime

against the Lesbian State', comedian Jackie Clune wrote about becoming lesbian and how she 'achieved

gayness for 12 years, and [how] most of the time it was wonderful' (p 26). At the same time, she had real

problems with 'Lesbian Police' promoting a very particular idea of lesbianism. When she decided to go

straight again, this policing (representation) intensified, including being labelled 'Most Disappointing Lesbian

of the Year' in a lesbian magazine (p 29). The question of the relationship between current developments in

capitalism and the so-called 'transformation of intimacy' have already been addressed in the previous chapter.

Setting this aside for the moment, the presentation of such relationships in the media is interesting. If nothing

else, it has been significant in the development of this research project and analysis.

Finally, the focus on mixed identity relationships is part of a long sociological tradition of examining

the 'unusual' in order to better understand the 'usual'. As I mentioned above, I expected these individuals to be

likely to question the truth regime of sexual orientation. Although I did not make the connection when I first

chose to focus on mixed identity relationships, the experience of questioning truth regimes and producing

one's own understandings of reality, one's own values within relationships, is very much like the experience of

anarchism. On the nonhierarchically organised women's peace camp at Greenham Common, Sasha Roseneil

wrote,

There was no ethical framework readily available to tell them how they should live

together and how they should confront the threat of nuclear war. [...] Women at Greenham

had to invent their own set of values to guide their actions. [...] Greenham was a liminal

space, a created world where many of the rules and values of the rest of society were

consciously questioned, reworked, transformed or discarded in favour of a new set of

beliefs (2000: 114-115).

Roseneil suggested that the Greenham experience was in many ways part of living in an 'uncertain

postmodern world, where tradition has less and less hold over us, [and] we are increasingly forced to create

our own codes for living' (p 114). According to this, then, one might also suggest that mixed relationships are

a very postmodern phenomena. Indeed, the recent rise in cultural representation of mixed relationships might

support this argument. However, I am sceptical of arguments that suggest that tradition is a thing of the past

and that now we can create our own values (see Chapter Two). Rather, the argument of the previous chapter is

that we all make it up as we go along, regardless of time or space. Some just have the 'benefit' of imagining

that they are not -- that they are following essential truths or unquestionable traditions. Like the women at

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Greenham Common, people in mixed relationships do not have that 'benefit'. They may experience a degree of

freedom that is exceptional in the contemporary world rather than definitive of postmodernity. But, is not the

existence of mixed relationships proof of the decreasing hold of that tradition? Graeber makes a similar

comparison to race and class in challenging the division between a (post)modern world and a premodern

societies.

One might object that there is a lot of interracial marriage going on, and even more

interracial sex, but then, this is only what we should expect. Statistical studies always

reveal that, even in 'traditional' societies like the Nambikwara or Arapesh, at least 5-10%

of young people marry someone they're not supposed to. Statistically, the phenomena are

of about equal significance. Social class is slightly more complicated, since the groups are

less clearly bounded. Still, the difference between a ruling class and a collection of people

who happen to have done well is, precisely, kinship: the ability to marry one's children off

appropriately and pass one's advantages on to one's descendants. People marry across class

lines too, but rarely very far (Graeber, 2004:52).

If the increasing visibility of mixed relationships is not support for the existence of a postmodern reality for

those of us in the overdeveloped world, in what way does this study of the 'unusual' tell us about the 'usual'?

Like Greenham Common and other anarchic spaces, the experiences of people in mixed identity

relationships highlights how carefully controlled, how traditional, everyday life is. Their 'unusual' experiences

of negotiating the borders of sexual orientation highlight the extent of representation that everyone undergoes,

demonstrating the brutality of policing around sexual orientation. At the same time, participants' diverse

practices of resistance to sexual orientation may be more active, more coherent, more open and more

comfortable than those practised by many other people, but as no one is entirely capable of constantly living

up to the gendered and sexualised standards of sexual orientation, resistance must also be ubiquitous. Finally,

the factors that support and enable these individuals to resist orientation should be applicable in broad terms

to other people's lives. The validity of these assumptions has been tested throughout the process in my own

practices of sexual health education and political activism (see below).

Recruitment & Diversity

Despite this media attention, mixed relationships are not highly visible in Britain. There are no mixed

relationship bars, clubs, saunas, magazines and few networks, which provide the recruitment arenas for

research on same-sex relationships. Likewise, such relationships do not have the ubiquity of heterosexuality,

which is increasingly being studied in a wide variety of contexts. In order to recruit participants, I relied in

part upon personal contacts and snowballing. The internet was also a valuable recruiting tool. I developed a

web site to provide information about the research project to prospective participants (sexualorientation.info).

I then advertised this site in gay and lesbian magazines, bisexual newsletters and email lists focused on a

variety of identities, desires and experiences (e.g., married bisexual men, LGBT spirituality and religion,

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ethnic identities, straight spouses of LGBT people, bi women in relationships with men, SM, polyamoury,

radical queers, bi, etc.). Some of the participants were also people to whom I happened to mention my

research, and who were very keen to participate. In total, I was able to complete 16 in-depth interviews (see

Appendix IV for a participant list).

The non-existence of mixed relationship identity had implications for diversity. Importantly, it

allowed for a wider range of sexual identities (and non-identities) than research on 'sexual orientation' that

focuses on heterosexuality, homosexuality or bisexuality. However, only a quarter of the participants

identified their sexual desires as predominantly other-sex oriented. Many of the 'same-sex desiring'

participants had 'straight identified' partners who were not interested in participating in the interviews. I did

not ask in-depth questions as to why partners were not interested in the interviews as I felt this would come

across as a coercive efforts to encourage participation. It seems clear, though, that 'sexual orientation' tends to

be associated with same-sex desire rather than 'heterosexuality'. Among 'same-sex desiring' participants,

however, there was a great deal of diversity in terms of gendered desire, sexual practice and relationship

patterns.

In terms of 'race' and nationality, each member of the group identified as 'white' and all had come from

the overdeveloped world; seven were born outside of the UK and English was a second language for four of

them. Although 'class' varied in terms of income, job status and parental status, none of the participants could

be considered deprived in terms of 'cultural capital'. Politically, all of the participants could be described as

'left-wing' with a minority being 'politically active', including three involved in anarchist politics. Apart from

two men living in towns, all of the participants lived in large urban areas in either England or Scotland.

Participants ranged in age from mid-20s to late-60s, with an average of 35. Techniques for increasing

diversity (i.e., snowballing and friendship networks) utilised in large scale funded projects on same-sex

relationships and desire (Dunne 1997, Heaphy et al 1998, McWhirter and Mattison 1984, and Weston 1991),

were valuable, but less successful for smaller scale research on a non-established identity. Furthermore,

theoretic sampling (Heaphy et al., 1998; Holland et al., 1994; Weston, 1991) depends upon a wealth of

potential respondents from which one can select individuals from various social positions. This was a wealth I

did not have. I only turned away a handful of individuals who lived in locations that I could not afford to

travel to for a single interview and one man who wanted an opportunity to talk about difficulties in his

relationship -- a service I was not willing to provide. As the aim of the research has not been to represent the

experience of people in mixed relationships based on a representative 'sample', no particular forms of

diversity were required.

Interview data

After deciding to interview people in 'mixed relationships', I organised a small, informal focus group

of friends and colleagues who I felt would have valuable insights. While the discussion also touched on issues

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including personal safety and the benefit of acquiring a mobile phone, its main function was to simulate my

thoughts on interview participants. From this meeting, I developed an initial interview schedule and began

interviewing participants.

The data production process was characterised by staples of qualitative research generally credited to

grounded theory, an approach developed a Chicago school symbolic interactionism by Anselm Strauss and

others (e.g. Glaser and Strauss, 1967; Strauss and Corbin, 1998).

Grounded theory is a general methodology for developing theory that is grounded in data

systematically gathered and analysed. Theory evolves during actual research, and it does

this through continuous interplay between analysis and data collection. (Strauss and

Corbin, 1994, p273)

In keeping with this tradition, I modified the interview schedule over the course of the interviews (see

examples in Appendices I, II and III).

Interviews, which lasted between one and a half and four and half hours, were tape recorded and

transcribed by a professional transcriber. During interviews, data was produced rather than collected. As

feminist research debates have come to conclude, 'the research interview is not a clear window onto the

interviewee's experience, rather it is the joint production of an account by interviewer and interviewee through

the dynamic interaction between them' (Alldred and Gillies, 2002:146). The production of data was, by and

large, an enjoyable experience. I was able to develop a genuine sense of connection with each of the

participants and felt privileged to be trusted with their stories. Many the interviews were also, at times, very

emotionally demanding as participants described experiences of violence and shame. (I return to the

experience of interviewing in 'Ethics' below.)

Distinguishing between and data production and analysis is difficult, as the interview situation

involves both (see e.g., Miles and Huberman, 1994). However, in the more formal analytic stage, began I read

the transcripts and made corrections while listening to the tapes. Initially, I coded interviews using coloured

pencils. Based on careful and repeated readings of the transcripts (and influenced by a collection of factors

described below), I began to divide selections from the transcripts into three headings from which I expected

to develop chapters: policing, resistance and empowerment. My coding technique shifted. On one office wall,

I placed the three chapter headings. I then developed some headings according to my reading of the

transcripts. I highlighted sections of the transcripts and coded them with a number. The interviewee's

pseudonym and the number were written on a post-it note along with a brief description of the transcript

selection. Post-it notes were added to the wall near appropriate subheadings. This approach gave me an

overview of the potential for this analytic system. After completing four of the transcripts using this method, I

had filled my wall (see Figure 1). However, I was also reasonably confident that developing an analysis based

on the divisions of policing, resistance and empowerment was consistent with the stories I had been told. I

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transferred my analytic system from the wall to, ironically enough, a set of pigeonholes, three across and

seven down (see Figure 2). Now that I was confident this system was consistent with the data, I began cutting

up the transcripts, placing segments in appropriate pigeonholes (see Figure 3).

Figure 1: Office Wall as Data Analysis Tool

This approach is in many ways similar to that utilised by various software packages. However, my

experience of these packages is that it is difficult to maintain a focus on the 'big picture' and on the elements

of analysis simultaneously. Finally, as the analysis developed I needed the flexibility to recode data. With my

system, this was easily done by shuffling pieces of paper around. When it came to the final stages of analysis,

that is writing, pieces of paper repeatedly shifted categories. Furthermore, referring back to interview

transcripts to extract the coded text often resulted in extracting a different segment from the original scissorsjob.

Overall, I feel that my data analysis method allowed a much greater flexibility and a more 'playful'

(Lofland and Lofland, 1985) approach to the data than that allowed through the use of qualitative data

analysis software.

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Figure 2: Pigeonholes as Data Analysis Tool3

One of the most difficult aspects of the analytical writing was choosing which stories to exclude. Each

individual's thoughts and experiences were valuable contributions and each of the 16 people had many

emotionally powerful and theoretically interesting stories to tell. Limiting chapter length while including

sufficient detail from narratives required reducing the number of analytic categories explored in each chapter.

(See Figure 3). I could easily have written up an entire PhD thesis from the resistance data alone. Analysis,

then, also depended upon selecting analytic categories to make up chapters subsections and then selecting

quotes that work together with the other theoretical elements to produce an analytical narrative. Quotes also

shifted from categories that ended up being discarded for being too specific (e.g., Policing:Partner). I also

selected two interviews (Mark and Erica) for more in-depth exploration in Chapter Five, allowing the

opportunity to explore detail both within and across narratives. In all cases, and especially in Chapter Five, I

was careful not to produce linear narratives characteristic of the modern subject (Alldred and Gillies, 2002),

but attempted to demonstrate the contradictions, complexities and chaos (that is, non-linearity) of participants'

lives.

3 Photograph taken while the Empowerment data was being analysed.

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Policing Resistance Empowerment

Presentation of

self for gay cause

Sexual Orientation

identity labels Labels Alternative Discourses

Sexual Violence Shame/Fear

Attraction/

Desire

Doing

heterosexuality

differently

Partner

Family Partner Family Relationships Other Relationships

Lesbian Sex

Police Gender Gender Gender & Desire Communicative

Ethic

Sharing desires

Joint cruising

Marriage Sex/Desire Nomadism in

policed states Sex Questioning Sexual Practice

Capitalism Monogamy Monogamy

Explicitly

Challenging

Policing

Nomadic

Groups/Spaces Experience

Invisibility/

Impossibility

Teasing Autonomous

Boundaries Misc Nomadisms Urban Not British

Figure 3: Analytical Categories: A Map of the Pigeonhole System

While this research project has been data-driven, theory cannot be understood to grow from an

empirical centre like the tree from the ground. In my experience of research, theory and data are not easily

divided. Mark's story, characterised by a sharp contrast between relationships of domination and empowering

relationships based on mutual aid, first encouraged me to consider anarchist theory. However, were not for

my involvement in anarchist politics, it is unlikely I would have turned to this 'subjugated knowledge'

(Foucault, 1980), to help me understand intimate relationships. While Strauss and Corbin (1994) resist the

caricature of grounded theory as springing forth from data by emphasising the necessity of drawing on

experience and theoretical work where appropriate, it is important to recognise the complexities of the into

sections of experience, theory and data. For this, I found in Deleuze and Guattari's concept of the rhizome

invaluable.

Theorising Data

Crucial to Deleuze and Guattari's project of the anarchist alternative to '"State philosophy" [, which] is

another word for the representational thinking that has characterised Western metaphysics since Plato'

(Massumi 1987: xi), is the advocacy of rhizomic rather than arboureal understanding. The tree, they suggest,

is the model upon which representational philosophy is based. It has a central trunk from which stem binary

divisions of branch and root. The existence of a centre imposes both unity and hierarchy. Each branch and

root is unified by the trunk, and each is defined in terms of its position relation to the centre. Rhizomic

thought is Deleuze and Guattari's alternative to centralised and hierarchical trees. Unlike the tree with its

trunk, the rhizome has no centre. 'Any point of a rhizome can be connected to anything other, and must be.

This is very different from the tree or root, which plots a point, fixes an order' (p 7). Without a centre, the

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rhizome lacks the determinism of hierarchical arbourescence: there is no correct order. Furthermore, the

centreless multiplicity of the rhizome contrasts sharply with the singular unity of the tree. Defying the

dichotomy of subject/object, the multiplicity is the effect of relationships themselves (or, in Deleuze and

Guattari's terms, an assemblage of lines). 'Puppet strings, as a rhizome or multiplicity, are tied not to the

supposed will of an artist or puppeteer but to a multiplicity of nerve fibres, which form another puppet in

other dimensions connected to the first' (p8). In other words, Deleuze and Guattari reject the notion of the

independent subject, but see the 'individual' as a multiplicity interconnected with other multiplicities.

Importantly, a rhizome is also nomadic, and 'never allows itself to be overcoded' (p 9).

I have found the rhizome to be valuable in helping me understand how to describe my experience of

'methodology'. I have continuously felt that I am doing something wrong. I have a background in the very

arboureal disciplines of chemistry and psychology. Since then, I have also heard from various sociologists that

my work is 'too political', that I should have known exactly what I was looking for when I interviewed people,

or that I should develop an analysis by 'listening to my data'. My experience of research, however, has been

far more rhizomic than this.

Queer, anarchist and feminist theories must challenge the binary thinking that underlies social

divisions (Anthias, 1998) if they are to overcome the various hierarchies they oppose. This includes a false

dichotomy of theory and popular thought.

There is an old -- and I believe convincing -- argument that most of us theorise a fair

amount of the time as we go about the business of living our lives, whether that living

involves writing books or painting houses or changing bedpans. We ask how and why the

world works as it works, why it does or doesn't change. [...] It should not be such a

daunting task, for instance, to integrate materials from anecdotes and interviews and

everyday life with theoretical encounters of the footnoted kind. The point is not to treat

street theorising as 'raw data' that remains TBE -- to be explained -- but to approach street

theorising as a well spring of explanatory devices and rhetorical strategies in its own right

(Weston, 1998: 144-145).

Weston challenges the arboureal logic of grounded theory that depends upon the dichotomy between theory

and data. In this research project, interviewees' narratives have initiated to the theoretical development of this

work, not simply as illustrations of high theory, but often as theoretically sophisticated themselves. Indeed,

after interviewing Erica, whose story along with Mark's is explored in Chapter Five, was increasingly

convinced the benefit of an anarchist analysis, because she has developed a convincing argument along these

lines in terms of her own experience.

Also, long before I began to understand the works of Butler and Foucault, I was heavily influenced by

much more accessible theory. Libertarian, sex-positive women writers have influenced my thinking on

gender, sexuality and politics since I first encountered pornography as a teenager. As the advice columnist for

Penthouse Magazine and author of The Happy Hooker, Xaviera Hollander is hardly likely to be considered a

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theorist to be cited in serious scholarly work. But what is the political impact of maintaining a silence on her

influence. bell hooks has voiced her concern.

Work by women of colour and marginalised groups or white women (for example,

lesbians, sex radicals), especially if written in a manner that renders it accessible to a

broader reading public, is often de-legitimised in academic settings, even if that work

enables and promotes feminist practice. Though such work is often appropriated by the

very individuals setting restrictive critical standards, it is this work that they most often

claim is not really theory. Clearly, one of the uses these individuals make of theory is

instrumental. They use it to set up unnecessary and competing hierarchies of thought

which reinscribe the politics of domination by designating work as either inferior, superior,

or more or less worthy of attention (hooks, 1994: 63-64).

Although thoroughly capitalist, Xaviera Hollander's column supported and encouraged people to explore a

wide variety of sexual desires and practices without regard to the rules of 'sexual orientation'. Indeed, some

pornographic writing provides a space in which the relationship between gender and desire is often very

complex. Just as gay pornography has been crucial for many men resisting compulsory heterosexuality

(Preston, 1993), so too has pornographic nomadism influenced my own theorising. Other, less stigmatised but

still clearly non-academic forms of cultural production have also influenced the theoretical development of

this research. In particular, the anarcha-feminist science-fiction writings of Ursula LeGuin (1999 [1974],

2001), Starhawk (1993, 1997) and Marge Piercy (2000 [1976], 1991) present inspiring alternative realities

where relationships of gender, sexuality and authority are radically different. So too has the music of

politically engaged songwriters, too numerous to mention, pieces of queer, anarchist and feminist propaganda

in the forms of zines, leaflets and web sites, conversations and other miscellaneous pieces of theory that have

passed through my head without necessarily having been carefully documented and cited as 'theory'. Rather

than confessing poor scholarship on my part, I mention these examples to acknowledge, in hindsight, the

debts that my theory owes to the labour of many people whose theoretical labour will perhaps not be granted

the same social status that mine may be as 'academic' work.

Another a significant false dichotomy is the division between theory and practice. To theorise is a

social practice. Like any other practice, theory has implications for reality -- whether that be to challenge or to

produce relationships of domination (or, as often is the case, both simultaneously). Likewise, the sharing of

theory -- through writing or more interactive forms of education -- can also be a practice of freedom or a

practice of domination (hooks, 1994). Other forms of social practice necessarily involve theory -- the

everyday practice of understanding what one's actions mean and why one does them. The 'theorising' that

shapes this project is not all inspired by the writings of 'philosophers' and 'pornographers', by the thoughts and

feelings of the participants, but also by my own participation in various social practices including intimate

relationships, teaching sex education, and political activism. Each of these is examined in-depth below.

As I argued in the previous chapter, anarchy is not simply chaos, but, like all of life, it does depend

upon chaotic forces. All of social life is both stable and fluid at the same time. Is this analysis science or art? I

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must say no to this dichotomy. Like life, it includes stability and fluidity, rigour and chaos, science and art. I

will not attempt to convert this anarchic, rhizomic process into a linear narrative. To do so would give an

unrealistic description of my experience, as well as contradicting my critique of representation, singularity,

linearity: of the State. This thesis instead is a nomadic fiction. Through most of it, I have constructed stories.

If you're reading this in order, you will already have read stories of the anarchism, of feminist sex wars, of gay

liberation, gay pride and queer resistance. The next chapters includes stories of policing, resistance and

empowerment. There are also stories of violence and shame, of negotiating boundaries and of the importance

of relationships. Here, I offer a selection of short stories, each of which attempts to offer a flavour of the

rhizomic elements from which this thesis grows. These stories are, of course, interconnected in more ways

than I can describe. Furthermore, they do not provide the 'truth.' I do not remember all of the elements that

make up this rhizome, and I may never have been aware of many of them. Finally, I retain my freedom to set

boundaries; many of the stories I could tell here, I choose to keep to myself or share only with particular

people in particular situations. As a multiplicity, a rhizome cannot be divided into individual singularities.

Instead, the following stories offer one way of describing the rhizome; in this case I describe six aspects:

ethics, sex education, activism, identity, emotion, and relationships.

Ethics in practice

Social researchers are increasingly concerned with issues of ethics in the research process. Of

particular concern is the relationship between researcher and the researched. Qualitative interviews,

particularly those focusing on sensitive issues (Lee, 1993), depend upon a high degree of intimacy and trust,

and therefore a high degree of vulnerability on the part of research participants. In the previous chapter, I

described anarchist ethics as based on multi-value consequentialism (i.e., ends and means are inseparable and

involve multiple forms of 'good'), anti-representationalism (i.e., telling people who they are or how they

should live), mutual aid and voluntary association. I attempted to apply these ethics to the research process.

In practice, voluntary association is the first issue to arise as individuals choose whether or not they

wish to participate in the research project and, more specifically, in an interview with me on the issues of

sexuality, identity and relationships. To attempt to ensure that association was voluntary, involving informed

and active consent, prospective participants were encouraged to read details of the project from my web site.

The one participant who do not have internet access was posted a paper copy in advance of the interview.

Participants were also asked to read and sign a letter after the interview was complete if they were happy for

the material to be used in the project.

Like other researchers exploring issues of sexual orientation identity (e.g. Dunne 1997; Heaphy et al

1998), I found the participants to be very keen to share their stories with me. Throughout all the interviews,

with one exception, the participants seemed to feel very comfortable with the experience and therefore

'consenting'. Meg, for example, described her experience of the interview and why she had agreed to

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participate.

Oh, to have a chance to talk about myself and my relationships and think about them. I've

enjoyed the prompt to think about them and perhaps the prompt of seeing it through

somebody else's eyes or seeing how it sounds to somebody else or … and that, being happy

to articulate again what and why. [...] and also because you seem a sympathetic person

who I already feel like there's not any of the threats or dangers. I'm not having to make a

point to you. […] you don't feel demanding.

Because the material was on such a sensitive subject, I aimed to be not demanding. In only one interview did I

have concerns about someone's choice to participate. Phyllis seemed more anxious in the interview than any

of the other participants. One of these reasons was because she had chosen to participate in the interview

without telling her partner that she was going to do so. When I asked her why she had not, she replied

Phyllis: It's a good question. I think he's quite private and I think he wouldn't necessarily

like me talking about my relationship, with him, with somebody else and I suppose

because I'm talking about things that I haven't worked out myself, and he might be jealous

in a way that I should be doing that with him and so there's probably an exclusion thing as

well, I think, that perhaps in a way it's almost the most in-your-face thing that I would have

done since I've been seeing him. He's extremely understanding and open-minded but I

think it's the exclusion thing rather than the not understanding why I would want to do it

thing that might … he might find difficult.

Jamie: Do you think you will tell him that you've done the interview?

Phyllis: I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about it. [...] So I might tell him but I think it

would be better to tell him when I'm with him rather than the long-distance stuff. You have

to be really careful.

[...]

Jamie: And how do you feel now? Have you felt during the interview?

Phyllis: Well I suppose quite emotional in some ways, quite uptight. No, not uptight, that's

wrong.

Jamie: Anxious or …?

Phyllis: No, not even anxious just … I don't know how to describe it. Heightened

emotions, I suppose, in some ways. I very rarely talk like this about myself. I tend not to be

talking about myself most of the time so it is quite weird to do that [...]. Yeah, slightly

scary. Perhaps scary is the right word because I knew there were certain questions that

were going to come up and I was thinking 'what am I going to say?' [...] No, I think I've got

through it.

I left Phyllis's house distinctly uncomfortable. Had I been ethically obligated to ensure that her partner and

also given informed consent? Phyllis expressed a strong desire throughout the interview to have the

opportunity to explore the issues we were discussing, but uncomfortable telling her partner that she wanted to

do this. Had I participated in some sort of research equivalent of infidelity? Or had I provided a valuable

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opportunity for Phyllis to talk? Or both?

While I have no answers to those questions, the situation also brings up another issue that seems to be

lacking in the literature on research ethics: care of the self on the part of the researcher. I left Phyllis's house

with a sense of shame, because I felt as though perhaps a number of social bonds had been damaged. How

would this affect her relationship with her partner? Was she really okay? Was there anything else I could have

done differently? At the same time, I experienced pathological shame. I felt that as a social researcher, I

should have somehow been stronger and more capable. In part, I had internalised the rational ideal of the

university and of academic practice (see Game and Metcalfe, 1996; hooks, 1994). Also, Phyllis's anxieties and

shame about sex and sexuality, like that of all of the participants, resonated with my own experiences. In

order to fulfil the ideals of ethical practice, the researcher must not so much be skilled at the emotional labour

(Hochschild, 1983) that characterises the instrumental approach of 'doing rapport' (Oakley, 1981, Duncombe

and Jessop, 2002), but rather have an emotional capacity to create a comfortable environment for the

participants and to deal with difficult situations as and when they arise. Bourdieu (1999), for example, refers

to 'non-violent communication' depending upon 'active and methodical listening' (pp 608-9). I was most able

to meet this ideal of ethical social research when I felt relaxed and comfortable myself. In general, this

occurred more in later interviews as I became accustomed to the process. However, most of the interviews

raised very difficult emotions for me. Given the dominance of rational masculinist discourse within university

systems, researchers maybe left on their own to deal with the emotions of research. Colleagues who may well

be sympathetic and supportive are likely to be overworked in their efforts to survive in a highly competitive

and increasingly market-driven environment. Finally, researchers may accept a privatised view of emotions

and feel ashamed to admit feelings of shame, fear and anxiety. For research to be 'ethical', these emotional and

organisational issues must be addressed. As Buddhist theorist and teacher Thich Nhat Hanh argued 'the

practice of the healer, therapist, teacher or any helping professional should be directed towards his or herself

first, because if the helper is unhappy, he or she cannot help many people' (cited in hooks, 1994: 15).

Unfortunately, academic positions, whether teaching or research, are rarely considered to be healing or

helping professions.

Another ethical concern in such research is the hierarchical relationship between the researcher and

the researched. 'It is the investigator who starts the game and sets up its rules, and is usually the one who,

unilaterally and without any preliminary negotiations, assigns the interview its objectives and uses' (Bourdieu,

1999: 609). However, this in and of itself is not necessarily problematic if all participants are happy to enter

into a temporary hierarchical relationship (see my earlier discussion on sadomasochism). Nor, I suggest, is the

problem that the researcher is the one who produces the final analysis of the stories developed through the

interview process. Indeed, this is inevitable. Rather, I follow David Silverman's (1985) ideal of nonauthoritarian

production of knowledge. Research is authoritarian when the researcher falls into the role of

scholar, State counsellor or partisan. The scholar, in Silverman's terms, follows an elitist liberal politics that

fails to recognise the production of knowledge as an act of power through a belief that knowledge is in itself

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neutral. The State counsellor, on the other hand, produces knowledge with the intention of providing

knowledge for elites to make appropriate decisions for 'the masses'. Finally, the partisan utilities the research

process as a way to justify their own political position, which depends upon 'the eminently elitist notion of

false consciousness' (p 185) as the researcher already has 'the right answer'. For a non-authoritarian

alternative, Silverman draws upon the autonomous (as opposed to statist) elements of Marx's writing,

including his arguments that only the workers could 'describe with full knowledge the evils which they

endure; only they and not providential saviours can energetically apply remedies to the social ills which they

suffer' (Marx, quoted on pp 194-195). Silverman's arguing corresponds with David Graeber's (2004) vision of

ethnography as

Something of a model, if a very rough, incipient model, of how non-vanguardist

revolutionary intellectual practice might work. When one carries out an ethnography, one

observes what people do, and then tries to tease out the hidden symbolic, moral, or

pragmatic logics that underlie their actions; one tries to get at the way people's habits and

actions make sense in ways that they are not themselves completely aware of. One obvious

role for a radical intellectual is to do precisely that: to look at those recruiting viable

alternatives, try to figure out what might be larger implications of what they are (already)

doing, and then offer those ideas back, not as prescriptions, but as contributions,

possibilities -- as gifts (pp 11-12).

Both Silverman's autonomous Marxism and Graeber's anarchism share the antirepresentationalist ethic that I

have promoted in this research. The aim of this research has not been to demonstrate the truth of mixed

relationships in Britain at the beginning of the millennium. Nor has it been to claim to understand, analyse,

and represents the truth of individual experiences. Rather, the process has functioned on a gift economy, an

anarchist economics of research if you will. I put out a request, asking people to share their stories with me.

Of the offers I received, I was able to accept 16. These stories have then provided the basis for my own gifts.

For theory to be a gift, it must be accessible, as bell hooks argues.

Within white supremacist capitalist patriarchy, we have already witnessed the

commodification of feminist thinking (just as we experience the commodification of

blackness) in ways that make it seem as though one can partake of the 'good' that these

movements produced without any commitment to transformative politics and practice. In

this capitalist culture, feminism and feminist theory are fast becoming a commodity that

only the privileged can afford. This process of commodification is disrupted and subverted

when as feminist activists we affirm our commitment to a politicised revolutionary

feminist movement that has as its central agenda the transformation of society. From such

as starting point, we automatically think of creating theory that speaks to the widest

audience of people (1994: 71).

My gifts include contributions not only to sex education practice and radical activism (see below) as well as

academia, but also to the participants themselves. After the thesis is finished I will produce an accessible

summary to be shared with participants and other interested parties, as well as magazine articles, leaflets and

workshops developing out of the PhD work. For Deleuze and Guattari, philosophy should be 'utopian', 'so as

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to summon forth a new earth, a new people' (Deleuze and Guattari, 1994:99). While this may sound very

mystical, it is consistent with the arguments that subjectivity is produced through social practices. An earth

upon which pathological shame was not ubiquitous, as I suggest it must be in hierarchical societies, would

indeed be populated by a new people. Deleuze and Guattari emphasise that this new earth should be

antiauthoritarian. 'In utopia (as in philosophy), there is always the risk of a restoration, and sometimes a proud

affirmation, of transcendence, so that we need to distinguish between authoritarian utopias, or utopias of

transcendence, and immanent, revolutionary, libertarian utopias' (1994:100). Though the summoning forth of

a new earth is ambitious as a PhD project, I into making modest contribution to that effort. In terms of new

people, the interviews alone may have had some small effect.

Bourdieu (1999) once described the interview as a process of creating a transformative space, which

changes both the interviewer and interviewee. I know that I have been transformed. While I have not asked all

the participants for feedback on their experience, those with whom I have spoken have been very positive.

After sending Erica a draft of her story (see Chapter Five), she wrote to me:

I got the draft in the post this morning. It's fine as it is, I'm actually really impressed and

can't wait to read the whole thing! It's a powerful experience reading my own words in

print, not just in a do-I-really-talk-like-that kind of way, but also being confronted with

what I said, and finding that it's, well, true, I really did mean it, I still mean it and live it

and intend to carry on. Because if that is me, then I am someone. It strongly counteracts

that vague sense of unreality I've had all my life. So strongly in fact, that I don't think I

could have handled it a few years ago! I'm glad I met you, and that you asked me to take

part in this project, and

that I said yes. I'm glad my interview helped. I'm glad you're writing this thing.

This ideal of the transformative space constitutes another element of the gift economy. If, as I argue later in

this thesis, having the opportunity to speak openly about issues of concern is an important part of empowering

resistance, then the interview itself is potentially a gift to the interviewee as well as to the interviewer. Of

course, this to be the case, the interviewee must have the opportunity to speak about what is important to them

as well as what is important to the interviewer. During interviews, I encouraged participants to carry on

talking about issues that seemed particularly important to them, using open ended questions and encouraging

expressions. I also listened to stories, even when I was not sure whether or not they related to my own

research aims. At times, this seemed like a bit of a weakness. I thought I should have a better idea of what I

was researching and what I wanted to know. However, not only does this more open approach offer greater

opportunity to participants, it also provided me with material that may not have emerged had the interviews

been more structured.

Rather, I have crafted from their stories new stories as gifts. I do not claim the authority to tell the

truths of the lives of these individuals. Rather than representing lives, I am re-presenting stories that have

been presented to me. In this sense, I identify my role in the research process as more of a story gatherer and

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storyteller than a 'social scientist'.

For literature, in contrast to science, thought is inseparable from language; 'writing' is

aware of itself as language. Certainly what Barthes says about science rings true for much

sociological writing which regards itself as a scientific representation of reality, and hence

not writing (that is for fiction). Notions of truth in sociology are connected with the idea of

a reality that is a presence, there to be represented: sociological text is a transparent bearer

of the truth of the world. [...] Writing disturbs 'reality', and any truth grounded in reality; it

also disturbs the notion on objective observer, outside social relations. The only reality we

can discuss is culturally produced. And the scholar -- one who uses language -- is in

language, the sociality of language; the scholar is culturally produced (Game and Metcalfe,

1996: 90).

It would be no gift to claim to tell the truth of people's lives for them -- they can speak for themselves.

Arguably this is no different from any sociological research which can only ever be 'an account of accounts'.

Sex Education

In response to Edinburgh becoming labelled 'AIDS Capital of Europe' in the late 1980s, Edinburgh

Council started an HIV and AIDS education programme that has evolved over the years into a broader sexual

health education project. Since the autumn of 1999, I have been a part of the team doing this work. Currently,

we spend three hours in session with small groups of S5 (15 to 16-year-olds) students, facilitating open

discussion of topics including: sexually transmitted infections and HIV, condom use4, sexual identity and

stigma, peer pressure, sexual-relational skills and questioning definitions of sex (i.e., moving beyond the

focus on penetration as definitive of 'sex').

Bagnall and Lockerbie (1996) performed a quantitative evaluation of this project. Their findings

suggest that work done by the council's sexual health team were received much more positively by students

than schools' previous efforts. Particular advantages of the team included sessional workers' 'anonymity' and

'specialist expertise', enhancing students perceptions of effectiveness of the small group discussions. The

authors concludes by acknowledging the value of this form of educational work. Watson and Robertson

(1996) utilised qualitative methodology to evaluate the programme. Their research found an 'increase in the

pupils' confidence in talking about sexual issues' (p295). Concurrent with the quantitative study, they also

found a great benefit in bringing in outside facilitators who 'were not viewed as people in authority or as part

of the school establishment' (p295). Furthermore, the interactive nature of the programme allows for

experiential learning that enables social and behavioural skills development. Overall, the authors argue that

this programme 'is a good model of practice' (p291).

As well as being valuable for the students, this work has had a massive impact on my life in general,

and on my research work in particular. Working mostly with young men, I have developed a much greater

4 In Catholic schools we are not allowed to show students condoms, but only to discuss them.

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understanding of the pressures of heterosexual masculinity. In one session I will never forget, I participated in

a half-hour long discussion driven by a group of young men who he had a great desire to talk about

homophobia. The young men felt strong peer pressure to be homophobic or else be labeled gay. Although

they did not want to support homophobia, this was a lesser evil than being called gay themselves.

Furthermore, they recognised, with some prompting, that homophobia was also damaging to them, because

their need to avoid being labeled gay constrained their behaviour. Although they were obviously desperate to

talk about these things, when asked they said it was impossible to talk about (outside of this exceptional

situation). Indeed, two of the students were obviously uncomfortable and kept trying to change the topic. If

we understand oppression to be systematic mistreatment, then these young men, regardless of their sexual

orientation identities, are oppressed (see Phoenix et al, 2003) and silenced by themselves and each other.

However, these young men would rarely be recognised as oppressed. They were upper-middle to upper class,

the majority were 'white', and, I presume, would identify themselves as heterosexual. Within the social

divisions of gender, class, ethnicity and sexual orientation, these people generally come out on top. This

experience supported my belief that it was importance to recognise the notion of sexual orientation as

oppressive in general, not just for 'sexual minorities'.

At the same time, as my theoretical work developed I began to apply it to my sexual health education

practice. I have developed effective ways an encouraging young men to consider the ways in which they are

damaged by rigid notions of heterosexual masculinity. The feedback forms from one session emphasised the

value of this discussion for a group of young men. In response to question on the form, 'Which part did you

find most interesting?' two young men said it was gender stereotypes of masculinity and how they were

expected to fulfil them. In another session the young men were very quick to grasp the ways in which

labelling others 'slag' or 'poof' simultaneously resulted in constraining themselves to avoid being like those

Others. I had also developed techniques to encourage them to consider how divisions of masculinity and

femininity, central to the ongoing construction of 'sexual orientation', impair sexual-relational skills (active

consent, respect, communication, etc.)

Activism & Identity

Although all elements of the rhizome are entirely interdependent, I find it nearly impossible to

separate the developments of my identity and activism over the past decade or so. At the tender age of 18, I

escaped the very heterosexual village of Laurens, Iowa5. I was off to the very liberal (and very visibly queer)

Grinnell College. I looked forward to the great gay community I had read about in glossy corporate

magazines. I immediately threw myself into LGBT activism, eventually becoming one of the student

coordinators of the Stonewall Resource Centre. Gay was good and I was determined to be a good gay boy.

The problem was, I was not very good at being gay. I did not fit in with the 'gay community' and I

5Strangely, the claim to fame of this village is a film entitled The Straight Story, the story of Alvin Straight who rode his

lawn mower (he had no driving license) across the midwest to visit his brother in hospital.

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occasionally fancied women. I tried bi next, but I wasn't very good at that, either, apparently, because I did not

fancy enough women. After that, I was queer, which seemed very exciting for a while.

Around this time, I moved to Scotland and became active as a Pride organiser. Just before this event, I

came across Read My Lips (Wilchins, 1997) a radical transgender-feminist critique of identity politics. I then

saw performance artist The Divine David proclaim that he couldn't afford to be gay. My background in

feminist theory and my increasing involvement with anarchist politics encouraged me to recognise the

intersection of oppressions, particularly class. I saw the first Pride events I had helped organise with new

eyes, and frankly I was disturbed by LGBT policing and consumption. Although my immediate response was

to resign, my partner encouraged me to stay on and organise the Diversity Area for the next year. Amnesty

International served tea and coffee, various political groups offered information outside (in the rain), and the

stage was a unusual collaboration of not-your-usual-gay performances. I had the gratification of hearing a

report of an attendee who was happy there was a place on the site that 'wasn't so fucking gay'. During this time

I decided to give up on sexual orientation identity, and became rather embarrassingly, dogmatically antiidentity.

The next incarnation of my activist life was the founding of the Sexual Freedom Society, which later

became Intercourse: talking sex. The aim of this network continues to be supporting an encouraging people to

talk openly about sex, sexuality and relationships. We have produced two popular leaflets: Give Yourself a

Hand: An Introductory Guide to Masturbation and Are You Normal? (sexually speaking). The first seemed

like a very good cross-identity topic. The second takes apart the idea of normal, including a section

specifically focusing on 'sexual disorientation':

Supposedly people can be put into three boxes, depending on whether they fancy women,

men or both. While this is a popular idea, it seems to cause an awful lot of suffering.

People worry a lot about their image, trying very hard to make sure that others realise

'what' they are. At the same time, we worry about 'what' other people are -- are they like me

or are they different? (Aren't we all different?) Even worse, some people are so unhappy

and anxious about these 'differences' that they attack others, either physically or verbally.

Even people who call themselves 'straight' get attacked. Finally, people suffer when they

desire others of the 'wrong' sex, or if they are worried that others think they do. This idea

of 'sexual orientation' leads to so much suffering over something that really should be very

nice. Maybe we should get rid of it and just enjoy ourselves . . . (Intercourse, 2003)

In many ways, my sex education work and this research project are both compatible with the aims of

Intercourse. Rather than advocating any identity (or non-identity) position, they both encourage thinking,

talking and (ultimately) changing practices.

Finally, if I had not become involved in antiauthoritarian politics, this research project would have

been very different. Anarchist theory is only just becoming increasingly visible in studies of alternative

globalisation movement, but certainly not in the areas of gender and sexuality studies. I would not have

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sought out anarchist theory, if not for the inspiration of my activist experience. More importantly, the

motivation for continuing the project stems from the value it has had, and I expect will continue to have, for

my own life and for the lives of others. This thesis should not be understood so much as work of an individual

'intellectual' or 'activist', but as an effect of political mobilisation of which 'I' am only a small part.

For me 'intellectual' is an old concept -- intellectuals who are separate from the movement.

For me, there isn't a division between the intellectual and the movement. For me the

movement of movements are a collective intellectual. [...] And for me there isn't a

separation with the people that study and the people who practice. The practice needs

study and the study needs practice. And this idea in the movement of movements makes a

collective intellectual -- the rule of vanguardism is finished. Separated theoretical work is

the first step in vanguardism. This work is abstraction; the practice of the movement is an

abstraction for the work of the separated intellectual. This is important for me. We make a

new conscience -- we are all intellectual, we are all activists. (Luca Casarini in Shukaitis,

2003:89).

Emotion

This research project is the product of a passionate sociology (Game and Metcalfe, 1996). I have

never been, nor do I ever intend to be, a dispassionate, rational and distant commentator on social life. From

the beginning, my intentions have been not only to develop political ideas to enable resistance to sexual

orientation and help others, but also to understand my own experiences. I feel as I have had some success on

this front, though not without difficulties.

My emotional responses to the experience of interviewing people about their sexual identities, desires

and practices are important for understanding the research process. Thomas Scheff's (1990) concept of

pathological shame has been invaluable, not only in theorising participants' experiences of sexual orientation,

but also for understanding my own experience of researching this area. The identity of a rational 'sex

researcher' or 'social scientist' was once an appealing fiction. However, maintaining this fiction depended on

failing to acknowledge the extent to which I was ashamed of asking people intimate questions. Their stories

often resonated deeply with my own past and present experiences of sexuality and relationships, forcing me to

address feelings that I had long felt more comfortable avoiding.

This, of course, affected the interview process. In my efforts to demonstrate my identification with a

given participant, I sometimes assumed that we shared a common understanding rather than encouraging them

to elaborate their own analysis. For example, my interview with Sandra was one of the earliest, and for that

reason one of the most stressful for me. The approach I took in questioning was not always open-ended and

encouraging, but often offering my own analysis of what she had said, both to demonstrate that I understood

and to check to see if I had. Sandra challenged me on this by pointing out my assumptions. Here, we were

discussing her problems with 'dykelings' (young lesbian and bisexual women). At the end, she compares my

assumptions here with my frequent namedropping of Holly Near to demonstrate that I knew about women's

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music because I could name a singer.

Sandra: I'm not saying that I want them to suffer but sometimes I want them to realise.

Jamie: You want them to look at the bigger picture of the injustices that have happened to

people.

Sandra: Yeah.

Jamie: That kind of …

Sandra: Well, that's only … that's touching on a kind of an edge of it.

Jamie: Recognising where they fall within that as well or have a sense of history.

Sandra: Have a sense of history, I suppose, is the closest but … yeah. I want them to have

a sense of how lucky they are to be where they are and to be able to be who they are and

… I don't know. I don't really know where I'm going with this but there's something in

there that is …

Jamie: So is it that you feel like they focus so much on the injustices which they perceive

themselves to be victims while not also recognising they have a lot of privileges relative to

a lot of other people especially people that have been around longer?

Sandra: That's probably part of it. That's probably just part of it. I mean another part if like culture.

It's like … you've brought up Holly a couple of times. She's not, for me, the … but I know what you

mean. But sort of like that. It's like … there's a lot of things jumbled in that I have yet to make

concrete but those things are touching on bits of it, I think. (My emphases)

In the end, she became self-conscious about trying to explain how she felt and stopped trying. If I had had a

more relaxed style, if I had not been in the rigid grip of pathological shame, then this portion of the interview

may have elicited rich data. Indeed, feeling comfortable in the interview situation and after would have made

for a more enjoyable and the research experience.

If I were to imagine beginning this research project again, my own emotional experience would be the

issue I would think about most carefully. The emotional impact of participants' narratives of shame and

violence in the policing of sexual orientation was very intense. I did not know how to talk to friends or

colleagues about my experiences in research, as this would have challenged my fiction of expertise. Trapped

in a cycle of pathological shame, several times my emotions became too much for me to cope with and I

needed to seek counselling. I tended to see this more as a personal weakness than as an inevitable effect of the

research process. If I were to begin again, I would hopefully not be so ashamed of shame that I did not find

consistent sources of emotional support, professional or otherwise, throughout the process. I would also aim

to document more carefully the research process, something I felt to ashamed to do with this project. I

entered each interview afraid and left too drained to take notes. Even at the end, writing this chapter on

methodology has been one of the hardest as it has at times felt like a confession of my limitations as a

researcher. Perhaps, then, this process will encourage a sense of modesty in future research on sensitive

topics.

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Relationships

Over the years, most, if not all, of my sexual and/or romantic relationships have been 'mixed'. At

times, this has been deeply troubling. In one relationship, a partner refused to label himself, which made me

anxious. In the same year, a relationship with a woman had me anxious over a my inability to labelling myself

-- was I really bisexual or queer? Or was I really gay? Other relationships have been both 'mixed' and difficult

to define (is this friendship, romantic love and/or sexual desire?), have also made me very anxious. In

hindsight, all these anxieties have stemmed from my desire to be able to situate myself clearly in relation to

these significant others. Who was I? Who were they? What was our relationship? I had been led to believe

that these questions should not be difficult. When it turned out that they often are, I was unprepared.

My own capacity to live with the ambiguities of relationships and desires, that is to resist orientation,

is interwoven with living through those relationships and desires. In addition to my 'personal' relationships,

those I have developed with students and co-workers in sexual health have been invaluable to the sense of

empowerment I have needed, and continue to need, to overcome policing. Last but not least, my sense of

empowerment has been supported by having the privilege of asking 16 people about the complexity of their

own desires and relationships. These brief, but intimate, relationships with strangers have had a powerful

effect on my life. For these reasons, as well as the contents of my participants' stories, I have placed

relationships at the centre of my analysis. Of course, as all of social life is a decentralised network of

relationships, this centre is no centre at all.

Indeed, my capacity to resist orientation through this project of postgraduate study on sexuality and

anarchism, piling stigma upon stigma, taboo upon taboo, has depended not only upon particular individual

relationships, but also upon awareness of and participation in networks. I very much doubt that I would have

had the bravery to even consider an anarchist approach to this research if it were not for various anarchist

networks, academic and activist. Furthermore, if previous activist experience had not empowered me to

initiate the development of a local anarchist studies group, completing an antiauthoritarian PhD would have

been much more difficult.

Conclusion: Rhizomic justifications

The idea that philosophy creates concepts that are inseparable from a form of life and

mode of activity points to a constant dimension of Deleuze's conception of thought and

philosophy. It implies that the test of these concepts is ultimately pragmatic: in the end,

their value is determined by the uses to which they can be put, outside as well as within

philosophy (Patton, 2000:6).

In conclusion, arboureal research is justified through reference to scientific narratives of truth.

Rhizomic research, on the other hand, can be justified by how well it works. Does it help us understand reality

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differently, opening up possibilities for change? Is it plausible in terms of other stories ('empirical' and

'theoretical')? The answer to both of these questions seems to me clearly affirmative. 'Personally', this research

project has helped me to understand my experiences of 'sexual orientation' and provided me for ideas of 'good

practice' within relationships. Likewise, Erica's response to reading her story from Chapter Five offers further

justification for this research project as a valuable one. Furthermore, my own use of the research for

improving my sexual health education practice clearly demonstrate its value for social change. Over the years

of this project, I have also facilitated workshops with fellow activists, addressing the issues analysed in the

research. Not only has attendance often been very high, indicating the necessity of more discussions around

sexuality and relationships and activist circles, but the feedback I have received from these discussions has

been invariably positive, including constructive criticism.

Finally, although I have been critical of a wide variety of analytic perspectives, the narrative produced

through this research process are in many ways compatible with the history of debate within sexual politics

described in Chapter Two, and the theoretical perspectives explored in Chapter Three. Rather than offering

any claims of absolute validity and truth, this work is a gift of fiction that coexists within the network of

fictions that produce our understandings of reality. It is a contribution to ongoing discussions of what sexual

orientation is, how people experience it, and what can be done to address the brutality and suffering it entails.