I make no secret of the fact that I love sex. It’s something that, as a single college student in her early twenties, I enjoy immensely, especially after a brief quarantine induced hiatus, and something that I don’t feel ashamed of enjoying. But recently, a discussion came up with my friends in which we revealed the number of the people we have slept with. Mine was most controversial, despite it being significantly lower than the boys of the same age in the room. In my less than sober state I was mortified, and vowed in that moment I was going to pack my bags and join a nunnery somewhere in the middle of nowhere to escape the shame I felt.
“It was mine that was most controversial, despite it being significantly lower than the boys of the same age in the room.”
However, as the night drew on, I realised that it wasn’t necessarily that I was being seen in a negative light by other people, but that subconsciously, I myself felt ashamed of my number. I cannot explain exactly why, as it was something I had rarely considered an issue before, until all of a sudden, it was. Rationally, I was able to tell myself that it’s an incredibly arbitrary scale of measurement for something that, I would argue, doesn’t even need to be measured. So why does it have such a hold on me?
The first suggestion to appear when you google body count is “body count for ladies”. When you click into that, you are met with a whole host of Youtube videos, magazine articles, and Reddit threads discussing the average number of sexual partners women should have in their lifetimes, and, by extension, whether or not the number holds any meaning. Does it matter? Should we even count?
When I approached my friends with this topic, I was particularly surprised with the range of answers I received. People seemed conflicted. Although the general consensus was that as long as everything was consensual, there was no magic number they deemed to be too much, even with my most sexually-liberal friends, there was an implied asterix where they confided there would be a point where the number was too large. They just couldn’t, or didn’t want to, pinpoint that number. On the whole, the overwhelming answer was that not only did it not matter, but it was really none of anyone else’s business. What was interesting then, was when I asked whether or not they thought there should be a conversation about one’s own body count with a potential partner. The responses were polarising — some people cited that there shouldn’t be any need for the conversation, as there shouldn’t be any judgement involved at all, while others point-blank answered “yes”. The most surprising difference was the way in which the men and women answered when I asked if they would want to know their partner’s number. Almost all of the women I asked said yes. I can’t help but wonder why; is this pure curiosity, or is it because, as women, we know that our number is far more likely to be judged than a man’s is?
“Often times, sex is so far removed from the equation that you wonder where exactly the ground rules of sluthood come from…”
No matter how hard we try to combat it, there is still a cultural stigma attached to women who have multiple sexual partners. Take Love Island for example, where summer after summer, no one bats an eyelid when the boys boast about how many hundreds of women they have slept with. But when Winter Love Island’s Rebecca revealed that she had slept with 20 to 30 men in her life, Twitter was awash with complaints that she was a bad influence to young girls. The double standard that exists is one that is so deeply ingrained in society that we don’t even question the fact that one of the most hurtful names to call a woman is based on nothing other than the amount of people she has slept with. The problem with that is that women are liable to be called “sluts” irrespective of how they behave. You can be called a slut for wearing too much; not wearing enough, for having male friends, for having no male friends, for the way you present yourself to the world, and even for the beliefs and opinions you hold. Often times, sex is so far removed from the equation that you wonder where exactly the ground rules of sluthood come from, because the rules on what is and isn’t deemed as slutty seems to be everchanging.
The word, which literally originated as a means to describe people who were physically unkempt or dirty, is undoubtedly an incredibly loaded term. No matter how many attempts there has been in the last few years to reclaim the word, there still remains a sting behind it that could explain why one’s own body count is of such importance to some women. We are so terrified of being called a slut that we forget that it’s meant to signify someone who has multiple sexual partners. By that definition, I am a slut. How, then, do you move past the dishonour of the word to move into indifference? I believe that the reclamation of the word must first come from the acceptance that your “number” is nothing but a concept; a concept that is both unimportant and anachronistic.
“As long as the sex you engage in is consensual, mutually fulfilling, and enjoyable, then crack on lads.”
Sex is an integral part of the human experience but one that doesn’t define who we are as people. The sex positivity movement is one that celebrates sex as one of life’s greatest pleasures and rejects the demonisation of the act and those who engage in it. I can’t answer the question as to whether you should keep a tally of your sexual partners. I can’t answer as to whether there is a number that is unacceptable. As long as the sex you engage in is consensual, mutually fulfilling, and enjoyable, then crack on, lads.