Body Count: You Are Not A Number.

Last year I stumbled across a tweet mentioning body count. Having only heard this term in relation to mass murders, and guessing that NSFW tweeps wouldn’t be enthusiastically debating (and berating) so publically if that were the topic, I took to google in order to find out what this was. Good lord, what a grumpy making corner of the internet I fell into.

Since this new word discovery I have been mulling over the content of a post on this particularly vulgar subject header- body count – and it is almost with relief that I spotted the prompt on Revelations.

What is a body count?

According to Lape Soetan, in her article The Acceptable Body Count For A Woman, when someone asks you what your body count is, they are really asking how many people you’ve slept with. Ahhhh, OK, I understand now! I was seeing a guy for a while who was hell bent on mine, but he called it my “number” or asked how many people I’d slept with.

For men the general consensus is “the more the merrier”. However, if a woman has enjoyed multiple partners then the gloves are off. Instead of cheers and a slap on the back, she will often be slut shamed, vilified, treated inhumanely. According to one male life coach, offering “enlightened self-help” a promiscuous woman with a high body count has no self respect and therefore won’t respect you. He also used hugely derogatory language towards the example woman who’d been mentioned in an email he’d received. (Here’s the link– he made me very cross, but perhaps you’d like to read his viewpoint.)

Most articles I’ve found state that it is the number of people you’ve had sex with. But what does “had sex with” mean? Is body count just sex- PIV (Penis in Vagina) or PIA (Penis in Ass)? And what about V-V? And oral? Hands, toys… (Incidentally, if you have a partner who is constantly asking how many people you’ve been with, asking them “do you just mean fucking or are we talking blow jobs and hands too?” is unlikely to make them relax about your sexual history.)

What is an acceptable body count?

An acceptable body count, to my mind, is the one you have. Preferably one that you have enjoyed and consented to each and every partner. In her article, Lape Soetan suggests that if a man asks your number, then tell them Three. Supposedly this is an acceptable body count for women, men will see us as experienced enough, but not too liberal with sharing our body. This approach wouldn’t work for me- I don’t believe in lying!

It’s generally accepted that a person’s body count is linked to their gender and generation.

According to the Sun, who published a research-based article on this, writing that the average for my age and gender, a GenX AFAB woman, is 10.1. Though the point of an average is it’s in the middle. There is no “normal” because there are always outliers with higher or lower counts. This study was conducted with 2000 participants aged 18 to 72, so, perhaps, not the most accurate reflection of current counts. Especially considering that Baby Boomers are currently presenting as the most likely to contract an STI.

But this is a discussion for another post so I shall move along…

I wanted to see how heteronormative relations compared to LGBTQ+ statistics and struggled to find much information. If you have any data or useful articles on the subject I would appreciate you sharing, either in the comments or through my contact form. The demographic which appeared in my search was for homosexual men, and the article Gay Promiscuity Statistics made for fascinating reading for me. The study of 12,000 men spanning ten years showed that the average sexual partners, over a lifetime, is between ten and twenty two. But that just over half of men had zero or ten partners.

So why does this group get such a bad rap for promiscuity?

It seems that 10% of the studies cohort had over one hundred sexual partners, and 1.9% having over 400 partners. Helpfully, the study stated that sexual partners was “generally defined as oral, penetrative or simply ‘sexual experience’ such as mutual touching.” And with the minority of people having the majority of partners, I can’t help but wonder if, perhaps, I’m more average than I thought.

Why keep count?

I can’t speak for everybody, but let me share my own story. Before I got married I was kinky and promiscuous, but having grown up in a society where female should equal purity there was a certain amount of shame. Until I met P I kept a list of all of my lovers. I didn’t want to forget the names of men I’d fucked, much less lose track of the total number. While I was old enough to consent to the life I was seeking out, I wasn’t emotionally mature enough to understand that these experiences were things I could celebrate rather than to tear myself down over. This led to decision making that would bite me in the ass, domestic abuse eating away at my confidence.

However, the list was purely those whose cocks I’d ridden. When the fella I mentioned above asked my number (and I asked if he meant oral as well) I realised I would never be able to tell him. While I’d tracked the number of PIV/PIA liaisons before my marriage, this wasn’t the whole picture. My mouth had been entertained by many willing men in that time. Yup, I’d thoroughly enjoyed sucking a lot of cock before the age of twenty, when I met and married my ex husband.

That list was, to my young mind, an anchor of hope that I wasn’t a slut.

I couldn’t feel shame if I could name, and number, each of my lovers, right? Roll forward twelve years and I managed to escape that marriage. The desires, which I’d put aside for years, all came tumbling out in email after email to Sir: filth, fuckery and the freedom to be me. The realisation dawned that I certainly was a slut, but that this was something to be proud of, not ashamed by.

As I have ventured on my way, and added to my already above average body count, I didn’t once feel the need to restart the list. P’s number was ingrained but after him I never once tried to keep track. And so, when the next questionable choice of mine asked, I couldn’t have told him even if I wanted to. The slut shaming was immense, with both men. But with P I was ashamed of my pre-marriage choices. I didn’t understand my wants and needs, so I was susceptible to his bullying. The next one, however… He messaged me first, on Fabswingers, where my proclivities were there for all to see. And even if it had been a surprise to him- that the woman he was seeing had a history beyond double digits- you can’t shame someone who finds joy in her memories.

Should you know your partners’ body count?

I can only answer from my experience. I don’t lie so I couldn’t answer that ex. How can I give an accurate answer that I don’t know? He wanted me to sit down and work it out. Even if I knew all of the people I’ve fucked- anonymous strangers sourced by trusted friends are a treat for me- I wouldn’t sit down and trawl the memories in order to appease him.

If it is important to them, and you, then I’m all for healthy discourse. But making it a condition of your relationship feels all wrong. What feels right for me is to have conversations around sexual health, precautions you’ve taken and things you’ve learnt along the way.

Is the number important?

I am not a number, I am a free (wo)man

Patrick McGoohan

As a lover of many, I prefer not to think of them as just a number. That makes people a notch on my bedpost. For me, keeping tabs on how many cocks I’ve pleasured, how many cunts I’ve feasted on, bodies I’ve writhed with, takes away from the joy of our time together. Sex is not a tick box exercise. It would feel strange saying “ah yes, last week I got railed by 93, 94, 95. And it was great of 32 to come along for old time’s sake.” Of course, it would feel strange to say this. It didn’t happen and, at the time of publishing, Sir is away and I am only enjoying self-love.

Ooooh, does having sex with myself count for an additional entry? Exciting!!

Even if I wished to share my number, my body count, I couldn’t.

Why? Because I don’t know it. Could I sit down and work it out? Uhh, no, probably not. Not because my encounters mean nothing to me and I don’t respect people. Remembering people for the right reasons is my preference, and I could list all the people who have left a nasty taste in my mouth by over-stepping boundaries. As I said earlier, I like anonymous fucks with strangers, if these are friends of friends, brought in as bonus cocks, . Also, I have a full life, with wonderful people. If I choose not to fixate on the number, and instead enjoy the memories, what harm am I doing?

The life coach mentioned a promiscuous woman has a lack of respect- for herself and her hook up. I say that’s nonsense. I’ll always communicate my expectations in advance with an enthusiastic other. Why should me getting my needs met be judged by those not invited?

Many of the people I’ve shared my body with are also friends. People with whom I enjoy vanilla adventures as well as kink. But I haven’t enjoyed physical intimacy with all of my friends, nor do I intend to. And kinky play partners aren’t also fuck buddies or friends with benefits. This post is getting too long to digress further. Do check out Coffee, Tea and Non-Monogamy for a look at the way my friendships can work.

For me, sex and sex-acts are adventures too.

Opportunities to explore my fantasies, my passions. Just like with the rest of my world. Sometimes I have adventures with people I know and love. Sometimes I enjoy them completely solo. Other times I have random conversations with people I will never remember, and who will never remember me. All of this is completely fine by me.

As a woman who enjoys a wide range of sexual experiences, with a selection of wonderful and obliging folks. I enjoy my freedom from societal expectations. I don’t give false promises or play games with people (unless they agree in advance, but that’s a different post). You know what? If someone is offended by the way I live my life then they probably aren’t a good fit for me.

If my number is important to you, then you’re unlikely to be welcome in my world.

And if you are included in my body count (urgh, I hate that term!) then know that you will never be “just another number”. And thank you for being part of my sexual explorations. Unless you took something I wasn’t offering, in which case… Yeah, I’m definitely not grateful for that.