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SSSS S.O.S.

This past weekend found me in St. Petersburg [FL] at a conference for the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality. [The specific info is here.] I've attended the SSSS (or "Quad S") conferences before in 1999 and 2002, and both times I found some solid material that helped out my Human Sexuality class. However, this time was not so rewarding along every meaningful level of assessment, and I'm not sure if I'll ever attend a SSSS shindig again. So what went so wrong?

For starters, as I'm a social psych guy at heart, I respond more to presentations of data that are more quantitative (measured) than qualitative (observed), and there were too many presentations that relied on qualitative examinations (also known as the "isn't that interesting?" approach) for my liking. For example, one of Friday's lead-off presentations was Trends in the (gendered) content of US adult films, which examined 27 adult films for content in gender-typed presentation, partner activities, sexual practices, and what not. However, without any quantitative data for valid and reliable comparison to back up some of the discussion -- for example, stating that 50% of all current adult films feature condom use based upon a stunningly incomplete and biased sample is pretty rough sledding -- it felt like a masturbatory exercise. Ditto for An analysis of print media coverage of sex workers, Genital cosmetic surgeries, and so forth. Give me some "real" quantitative research any day rather than specious speculation based on subjective and incomplete observation.

Another bummer is that I was unable to strike up a conversation with any of my fellow attendees that lasted more than 40 seconds. (Yes, I know I'm scary and antisocial, but this was ridiculous.) Being one of the few non-SSSS members, it was a weird social dynamic from the start, as most of the people were cliquey according to their school affiliation and/or professional field. It didn't help that the majority of those at the conference were there only to present, vanishing soon after. Sure, I chatted with a few folks here and there, including an older male doctor who's spent the past four years helping women transcend vaginismus through Botox and dilators, but overall it was as socially disappointing as it was academically limited. [And the hot tub was barely lukewarm, the greatest insult of the whole Hilton stay.]

That meant that I was left to my own devices for much of the time, wandering the streets of St. Petersburg, passing the many bars and seafood joints on my way to the nearby Publix for periodic supplies. [Such as fresh mac & cheese, Krispy Kreme donut holes, canned peaches, Pop-Tarts, and other bomb shelter staples.] So thank God for my HDTV, the king-size bed, my iPods, and the magazines and books that I brought for just such an emergency, because without those creature comforts, the weekend would have been as limp as...well, you know.

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