The New Abstinence: Are We Swiping Right on Puritanism?


When the Archives of Sexual Behavior reported that Americans are having nine fewer rolls in the hay per year compared to the 1990s, I had to pause. Nine fewer? That’s not a dry spell — that’s a generational drought.

If the ’90s were Friends, sex was always just one sarcastic quip away. Monica and Chandler could barely keep their clothes on between snark. Fast-forward to today, and the vibe is more Euphoria: glitter, angst, sexual expression everywhere… but somehow, far less actual penetration.

Millennials, to be fair, weren’t exactly the sex gods of pop culture fantasy either. Despite being branded as Tinder’s “hookup generation,” the General Social Survey showed Millennials were having less sex than Gen X. We swiped, we sexted, we curated the perfect playlist — only to ghost each other before dessert.

Then came Gen Z. The supposed chaos agents of hypersexual liberation. The Feeld/Kinsey Institute’s State of Dating report finds nearly half of Gen Z are single, compared to only a fifth of Millennials, Gen X, and Boomers. Half. To put that in perspective: Will & Grace had more sexual tension in its laugh track than an entire Gen Z dormitory.

And yet, this isn’t prudishness. Gen Z is the most sexually open generation in history: gender-fluid, kink-curious, nonjudgmental. They are what Queer as Folk characters dreamed of being, what Sex and the City girls pretended to be after two Cosmos, what Millennials tried to manifest in a Bumble bio. They have the labels, the hashtags, the language. But the action? Not so much.

It’s almost poetic. A generation that grew up binge-watching Sex Education — a show where teenagers can explain every kink, boundary, and hormone-fueled fantasy — is ironically having less real sex than the fictional teens on Netflix. Otis can give a full lecture on vulvas, but in real life, his peers might not even be leaving their bedrooms.

Why? Millennials were broke, but Gen Z is broke and trapped at home with their parents until 30. Privacy is as scarce as affordable rent; spontaneous hookups are hard when your “bedroom” is still your childhood twin bed under a Frozen poster.

Meanwhile, COVID stole two prime years of fumbling in dorm rooms and replaced them with Zoom calls. (Forget the walk of shame — their biggest rebellion was forgetting to unmute.)

But partly, it’s intentional. Boomers were free-love hippies. Gen X perfected the casual hookup. Millennials swiped themselves into oblivion. Gen Z? They might just be tired of bad sex. They want meaning, consent, connection. In an era of performative everything, not performing in the bedroom might be the most radical move of all.

So maybe this isn’t a Puritan reboot, but a glow-up of abstinence. Celibacy as couture. The new rebellion is not having sex, but refusing to fake intimacy just to keep up with an HBO storyline.

Still, I can’t help but wonder: if Friends gave us coffeehouse hookups, Queer as Folk gave us liberation, Sex and the City gave us chaos, Euphoria gave us trauma with glitter eyeliner… will Gen Z be remembered for Sex Education — a generation that could explain every kink, negotiate every boundary, and redefine every label… but politely declined the invitation to actually do it?

Because in 2025, nothing seems to be sexier than saying “no.”


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 Aniket Kumthekar


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