I couldn’t kiss him. No matter how terribly I wanted to—no matter how willingly I would have relinquished my Chardonnay for his touch—rules were rules. He was my fourth first date in as many days and I still had 26 men to go.
A year earlier, I was bent over my desk in a small lecture hall in southwest London, a pink highlighter in one hand and a black pen in the other. Before me sat an impressive-looking stack of papers: the Royal Anthropological Institute’s official Code of Ethics, courtesy of my fieldwork professor.
“Never sleep with an informant,” she warned us.
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