I arrive at our campus office—a cinder-block, fluorescent-lit room that also serves as home to the psychology department’s part-time lecturers who are often entertained by the circus that sometimes is our lab—and promptly dump a bag full of linens onto an empty desk. We will need them later. When I first started this tour of duty in grad school, we did our studies at the medical school, which provided hospital linens. Now I am the laundry lady as well as the project chief. I have heard through the grapevine that some of the other users of the functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) scanner facility were perturbed at the prospect of the scanner table being contaminated by bodily fluids, so I am vigilant about maintaining the pristine condition of the equipment.

I glance at the checklist tacked on the bulletin board. All it takes is one careless misstep and the consequences could range from catastrophic—for example, if we neglect the proper fMRI safety practices and some metal propelled by the powerful magnet hurtles into the bore of the scanner and impales a participant—to stupid—if a minor glitch in a computer program renders the expensive scan and subsequent data useless. Setting up my laptop to run the practice experiment for the participants to review once they arrive, I savor the stillness before the chaos begins.

I know my participants will be anxious when they arrive. No matter how comfortable they may be with their sexuality in the real world, donating an orgasm to science in the context of the sterile environment of the scanner is awkward at best. I should know. In the tradition of many scientists who have experimented on themselves, I have been the guinea pig for my own studies. I often share the experience with participants to make them feel more comfortable.

Armed with a Xanax tucked into my bra just in case, I am about to go into the MRI scanner for the first time—a daunting task for a claustrophobic, panic-prone individual under any circumstances. And the task at hand involves inserting a plastic dildo into my vagina while my colleagues sit in the control room next door. Having recently joined the team as a sex therapist and collaborator, thanks to the brilliant Dr. Beverly Whipple—an eminent sex scientist who is known for many things, including the naming of the G-spot—I am piloting a prospective study in which we will systematically map the projections of the clitoris, anterior wall of the vagina, cervix, and nipple onto the somatosensory cortex. Suffice it to say if you enjoy the sensation of touch, you are already a fan of the somatosensory cortex. It is the area of the brain that processes the input from parts of the body that are sensitive to touch, temperature, and pain. The valuable real estate of the somatosensory cortex is arranged proportionally to reflect how much sensory acuity a given body region has. The somatosensory cortex is sometimes represented by a figure called the sensory homunculus or “little man” —looking like a cartoonish Mick Jagger—all lips, fingers, and penis. The figure resizes body parts based on how sensitive they are to touch.