🤔 Why Does Your Maturity Come With an Increased Body Count

Why does your maturity come with an increased body count? That’s the question that’s been living rent free in my head lately, and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. It’s put up wallpaper. It’s bought a plant. It’s not leaving.

Think about it. We spend our entire adolescence being told to keep our legs crossed like we’re guarding the last slice of pizza at a birthday party. Abstinence. Purity. Wait until you’re married. Wait until you’re in love. Wait until you’re ready. Wait until the stars align, the moon is in the right phase, and you’ve completed a twelve step program on self respect with a certificate to prove it. Then you hit your twenties and the script gets flipped so fast you get whiplash. Now you’re supposed to have experience. You’re supposed to know what you’re doing. You’re supposed to have a body count that’s high enough to prove you’re desirable but low enough to prove you’re not a menace to society. Good luck finding that sweet spot. It’s like trying to hit a moving target while blindfolded, on a treadmill, and someone’s shouting contradictory instructions through a megaphone while their friend films it for content.

And here’s the part that really gets me. The rules are different depending on who you are. A man with a high body count is a legend. He’s a ladies man. He’s got game. He’s experienced. He’s a catch. He’s basically a tourist collecting stamps in a passport everyone applauds. A woman with the same number is damaged. She’s loose. She’s easy. She’s for the streets. She’s a red flag with a warning label and a siren. Same number. Same experiences. Completely different verdict. Make it make sense. I’ll wait. I’ve been waiting. I’m still waiting. At this point I’ve aged like a fine wine and I’m still waiting.

And somehow we’ve decided that maturity is measured by how many people you’ve slept with. Too few and you’re a prude who needs to loosen up and live a little. Too many and you’re a walking cautionary tale that gets passed around at family dinners like a piece of gossip with legs. The perfect number apparently exists but nobody can tell you what it is. It’s like the unicorn of sexual resumes. Everyone’s heard of it. Nobody’s seen it. And if you claim to have found it, you’re lying through your teeth while maintaining eye contact.

But here’s the thing nobody wants to admit. Body count doesn’t measure maturity. It measures body count. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. That’s the entire TED Talk. You can sleep with fifty people and still be emotionally unavailable enough to give a brick wall a run for its money. You can sleep with one person and still be the most self aware human being on the planet. You can sleep with nobody and still know exactly who you are and what you want and how you like your eggs. Maturity isn’t a number. It’s not a score. It’s not a badge of honor or a mark of shame. It’s just a thing that happens to you when you learn how to communicate, how to set boundaries, how to respect yourself and the people you’re with. It’s not a trophy. It’s not a body bag. It’s a personality trait that has absolutely nothing to do with your genitals.

And while we’re at it, let’s talk about the people who ask the question in the first place. Why do you need to know? What are you going to do with that information? Judge them? Compare yourself to them? Feel insecure about your own number and then make it their problem? Because that’s what it’s really about. It’s not about them. It’s about you. It’s about your own fear that you’re not enough. That you’re too much. That you’re doing it wrong. That everyone else has figured it out and you’re the only one still googling “how many is too many” at two in the morning while eating cereal over the sink in the dark like a raccoon with wifi.

Here’s a radical idea. Maybe maturity is knowing that the question itself is stupid. Maybe it’s understanding that a person’s worth isn’t determined by the number of people they’ve been intimate with. Maybe it’s realizing that the only body count that matters is the one you’re comfortable with. The one that aligns with your values. The one that doesn’t keep you up at night. The one that you can look in the mirror and defend to yourself without flinching or blinking or having a small existential crisis.

Because at the end of the day, the only person who has to live with your choices is you. Not your friends. Not your family. Not the internet. Not the random guy at the bar who asked you how many people you’ve slept with and then had the audacity to look surprised by the answer, like you personally owed him a lower number. You. And if you’re happy with your number, whatever that number is, then that’s the only number that counts. It’s not a leaderboard. It’s not a fantasy football league. It’s not a competition and there’s no prize at the end except maybe a therapy bill.

So the next time someone asks about your body count, hand them a calculator and tell them to compute how much you don’t care. Better yet, ask them for theirs and then laugh slowly and uncomfortably until they leave the room. Maturity isn’t a number and it’s definitely not a competition. It’s knowing when to walk away from stupid questions and when to stay and watch the chaos unfold with a beverage in hand. And honestly, I’m staying. I brought snacks. You should too.