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“The pursuit of pleasure,” said French libertine Voltaire, “must be the goal of every rational person.”
And there are few things that spark as much anticipation, joy, and utter pleasure as sex. In a zeitgeist defined by excesses—in food, fashion, art, digital content, and everything in-between—Americans should be awash in coital pleasure. But by all accounts, America is instead in the thick of a sex recession, a term that entered our pop culture lexicon back in 2018, spurred by reports of young adults’ steeply declining interest in sex. And we’re arguably lunging into an erotic depression.
In 1990, 55 percent of American adults between 18 and 64 had sex at least once a week. In 2024, that number dropped to 37 percent. And according to data from the National Survey of Family Growth, in 2015, 4 percent of young adult males reported being virgins; in 2023, that percentage spiked to 10 percent. Reported virginity among young adult females increased from 5 percent in 2015 to 7 percent in 2023.
What exactly is driving Americans’ waning interest in sex puzzles sociologists like me. What we do know is that, like its economic cousin, the sex recession is the product of two things—a deep lack of interest and a subsequent deep lack of activity. We also know that the implications of America’s sexual nadir are expansive.
When most of us think of sex, we’re rarely thinking much beyond our immediate genitalia, what feels good, what doesn’t. But the consequences of the sex recession are potentially existential. On one hand, our national sex slump threatens to slow the sex positivity movement, a much-needed societal campaign that puts safe sex and sexual satisfaction at the forefront of physical intimacy. Whatever our feelings about the politics of sex positivity, it’s a movement whose values can boost the quality and quantity of sex for everyone.
On the other hand, a broad decline in sexual activity directly impedes our ability to address America’s deepening fertility crisis: In short, no sex, no offspring to take care of America’s aging population and tackle the country’s swelling debts.
But there’s another consequence of the sex recession that’s more startling that we’ve ignored: a hit to our health and wellbeing.
Democrat and Republican politicians alike, as well as a throng of megalomaniacs like Elon Musk, have spent much of the last decade bandying about plans to get Americans back in the bedroom and copulating. But predictably, these plans haven’t been a call for greater romance as a matter of public health. They’ve been barely disguised pleas for Americans to help stave off the country’s looming economic insolvency by any means—which is about as unsexy a pitch for the nationalization of sex as there could be.
Sex is arguably the world’s most unheralded wonder drug, not least of all because it’s tethered to every dimension of human wellness—physical, emotional, and spiritual. But sex is also something of a miracle drug because, when done consensually and safely, it propels our health without virtually any negative side effects. And it’s free (well, usually).
Sex is one of humans’ most routine—and enjoyable—forms of physical activity. During sexual intercourse, men lose an average of roughly 100 calories, and women around 70 calories, equivalent to a 20-minute walk. Sexual activity can also lower blood pressure and the risks of hypertension and can improve sleep quality. Other physical health benefits that sex confers are admittedly more nebulous but seemingly magical. For a period following genital stimulation, for instance, many people report experiencing significant pain relief.
And the mental health perks of sex are vast. Healthy sexual relationships can be a boon to one’s self-esteem and can reduce various forms of anxiety. Cuddling, general arousal, and orgasming are all linked to the production of oxytocin, a hormone responsible for stress relief and bonding. Given all this, it’s unsurprising that a healthy sexual life is not just a happier one but usually a longer one.
Even our Neanderthal predecessors felt the perks: Sex helped them build strong connections and collaborate with partners.
In contemporary times, though, sex simply doesn’t seem to have the same panache. And the signs of our apathy towards it have been bubbling for a while. In a 2012 poll conducted by the Today Show and dating site Match.com, 32 percent of single people said they’d rather give up sex for a year than their favorite food. Surprisingly, individuals in relationships didn’t feel much differently: 28 percent preferred chow over a romp. Fast forward to 2026, an EduBirdie poll showing 67 percent of Gen Z prefer a good night of sleep over sex doesn’t look too shocking.
It’s unlikely that sex itself has somehow become less enjoyable than things like sleep, and much more likely that the cognitive tradeoffs have changed. Sex is wound up in the ever-expanding attention economy, jockeying for position with the bevy of other energy-depleting—or preserving—things, like social media, outings with friends, and, yes, sleep. One study hypothesized that the iPhone’s introduction in 2007 contributed to 33 percent to 52 percent of the dip in general fertility rate among women between 15 and 44 years old. But why?
Our digital immersion and embrace of parasocialism, largely one-sided “intimacy” with celebrities and influencers, means we can accrue the benefits of social connection on demand and without the upfront infusion of effort usually required to find and sustain sexual relationships.
Paradoxically, digital devices like the iPhone also keep us constantly intertwined with lovers. This would seem to typically be a good thing, but it may slowly dilute intimacy. Our partners’ virtual omnipresence dilutes our anticipation and desire, eroding much of the tension and longing that undergirds fulfilling sexual connection. And there’s a direct biological analogue to this: One study found that when couples spent 100 percent of their time together, men inseminated 389 million sperm per ejaculate, but when couples spent only 5 percent of their time in one another’s company, the number of sperm ejaculated nearly doubled to 712 million.
The manosphere is also subtly implicated in America’s growing ambivalence about sex, particularly in the case of young men. On a daily basis, from the far reaches of YouTube to the bowels of Reddit, legions of teen boys and young adult men are being socialized to believe a bevy of harmful things about sex and sexuality—for example, that masturbation is best enjoyed at its extreme, as the gooning movement argues, or that self-pleasure should be avoided together, a notion linked to the reductive “nofap” crusade, or that intercourse is, at best, a conquest over women that should be begrudged.
By encouraging asymmetrical romantic and sexual relationships that advantage men over their partner—or no such relationships at all—the manosphere discourages intimacy, while also amplifying the likelihood of various forms of psychological, physical, and sexual violence being perpetrated against others.
The manosphere, though, is just a symptom of the American public health system’s puritanical, abstinence-based foundation—think the anti-drug D.A.R.E. program of the 1980s or the Trump administration’s current assault on family planning initiatives. To this end, one might think that people, especially young adults, have become afraid of or turned off by sex, spooked by the potentially negative consequences of having too much or too little of it.
However, over the last few years, there has been a steady decrease in STIs and unwanted pregnancies. Sex has become much less risky and shed much of the shame and cultural baggage of yesterday, with views today about things like acceptable “body counts” and nontraditional relationships like polyamory incredibly fluid.
These are irrational times indeed.