Since the beginning of my time here at the University, I’ve consistently observed a certain predicament be a central conversation of premature relationships — the “body count.” For those unfamiliar with the phrase, according to a well-vetted source, the Urban Dictionary, a body count conventionally refers to “how many people you’ve had sex with.”
Whether you’ve been in a long-term relationship since high school or are a master of the late-night catch-and-release, you have a number attributed to you. I, for one, hear this term tossed around left and right and cringe each time I do so. So, why is it that in 2025, the concept of body count still seems to impact one’s perceived worth?
Though I have much disdain for it, the concept behind a body count is not inherently negative. Though it has always existed namelessly, a clear-cut term for the phenomenon wasn't coined until relatively recently. In 2020, social commentary around the concept grew substantially. Trending content creators — such as @quincybytheway — caught on to its prevalence, posting videos of them approaching people on the street to ask them to share their body counts.
Oftentimes, discussing body counts demonstrates a mere matter of curiosity. We, or at least I, cannot help but to inquire about our close friends and partners’ intimate excursions. Theoretically, it’s all in good faith — we are simply engaging with our spirits of inquiry about sex.
Moreover, the nuance of a body count typically reveals itself amid an early situationship or talking stage, when it is time for the dreaded discussion of past partners. At times, this conversation spurs from a place of good intention and fosters a transparent dialogue for the foundations of a new romance. However, I have also seen countless friends from colleges across the nation begin to fall for someone they have been going out with, only to douse the spark the second they share their resume of past intimacies.
Maybe, the stigma around body count is a byproduct of the perpetual need to be “caught up” — another sensation that is exacerbated in one’s early 20s. Personally, when I began college, I felt overwhelmed by how advanced some of my new friends were in the dating game, and I often felt “behind” with my own sexcapades. However, I now find this conundrum to be an unsuspecting reflection of the ego epidemic that us semi-adults incubate.
If I’m honest, I find the entire idea of a body count to put a sour taste in my mouth. To put it simply, attributing a number to past and present sexual partners feels degrading. The mere wording of the phrase “body count” speaks volumes about the practice of treating sex as something non-intimate. It reduces every sexual experience to merely a feat to conquer, with your sexual counterpart being a casualty left behind.
Although most of us dream of a world in which hookups are sincerely “no strings attached,” let’s be honest here — when has sex ever been uncomplicated? But, despite the discomfort of revisiting nights of the past or the cringe of spotting your first-year rendezvous on the Corner, your sexual co-star is still very much a person with whom you bear a connection — not just a numbered body.
Beyond my own personal feelings towards the concept of body count, there is also an indisputable double standard, specifically in heterosexual relationships, regarding who can have what number. Consistent with generally-accepted stereotypes, men wear their body counts as a badge of honor — flaunting it as it increases — while women are subjected by others to bear it like a scarlet letter. Although I would like to give the dialogue on Grounds some benefit of the doubt when it comes to having progressive views on sex and relationships, I can’t help but to call out this clear roadblock.
All of this is to say, I firmly believe that there is plenty of room for change in our perception of body counts. College students have been notorious for engaging in sexual activities for decades, but only now are we seeing so much emphasis on the number that is attached to it. We have clearly built up this concept, so it is our responsibility to tear it down and instead uplift our sexual autonomies, no matter where you might fall on the spectrum.
The majority of the undergraduate population is between 18 and 22 years old. Most of us have had high school sweethearts, summer flings or first-semester awakenings. It is only natural for us to have sexual histories and we should begin treating it as just that — natural. It can be beautiful to recount the formative relationships of our early adulthoods, but attributing an impersonal “score” to them can diminish experiences that are often defining for us, at least ones that will make for entertaining stories one day.
It is time for us to embrace our sexual history for the learning experiences they are and appreciate the space they consume for each and every one of us individually and in our blooming relationships.
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