When exactly does it count?

And then it occurs to you, as you mumble something inaudible whilst taking a large gulp of your chardonnay, that perhaps your answer is not quite as simple as it might seem.

At what exact moment does he become a notch on your bedpost? Is it the moment that your fashion faux pas Bridget Jones pants go flying across the room? Is it as simple as the point of penetration? Or is the moment of climax the defining factor?

In high school the stages of one’s promiscuity were defined in terms of "stuff" (i.e. “well we didn’t have sex, but we did stuff”), and whilst a quick hand job in the locker room was one thing at that age, once we begin to know our way around, “stuff” can become almost as intimate, and at times even more satisfying, than the act itself.

A few months ago, several bottles of wine down, and a victim of the seductive influence of York’s own ‘Willow Disco’, I decided to finally give in to the advances of a certain male colleague. After dancing the night away our group decided to return to someone’s for some desired, but definitely ill advised, further drinking. Sat on the sofa hands began to wander and so we retired to the ‘privacy’ of our host’s bedroom.

We had embarked on pretty much every variation of foreplay known to man, and no longer required the satisfaction of sex.

Victims of our alcohol infused passion we collapsed on the bed, ripping off each other's clothes in true Hollywood style ‘desire’. About two hours later (yes, dear reader, it really was infused passion!), we both collapsed, naked, exhausted, and entirely satisfied.

Yet believe it or not, there had been absolutely no penetration. We had embarked on pretty much every variation of foreplay known to man, yet due to the immense success of this, we no longer required the satisfaction of sex. And yet, I had never felt more exposed than I did at that point.

Let me introduce another scenario (again, probably alcohol infused because - let's face it - we are students): pressed up against your front door, desperately fumbling for your key while snogging the face off your new conquest. You find it, open the door, and have removed all items of both your and his clothing by the time you get to your room.

Hearts beating, lips locked, legs entwined, you are both far too turned on to worry about “stuff” – its time to get down to business. Obligatory stilted moment while you hunt for a condom, find one, and then attempt to continue to look seductive while he puts it on. And then you’re off… or to be correct, he is.

You, however, begin to sober up shockingly quickly as you realise that you have been staring jerkily at your ceiling for about ten minutes, while Mr Gorgeous hammers determinedly away downstairs.

You have been staring jerkily at your ceiling for about ten minutes, while Mr Gorgeous hammers determinedly away downstairs

This is NOT what you signed up for! If you wanted to stare at your ceiling and replay last night's episode of Heroes in your head you would have come home alone, £20 worth of wine cheaper, and without the promise of a splitting headache tomorrow morning.

Yet there is nothing you can do about it, pinned to the bed by his admittedly gorgeous arms you moan appropriately and encourage him to climax, realising that there is no way tonight is going to end in a scream no matter how hard you try!

And so, at the risk of sounding like Carrie Bradshaw, I have to wonder, when exactly does it count? With the gender inequality inherent in our society that labels sexually active men as studs and women as whores, the increase of a girl's number is no insignificant detail. In which case, should a girl really be subject to judgement for an experience that was less than impressive?

With every man a woman sleeps with, it appears she is making a gamble: that he will be worth risking her reputation for! When a woman takes home a gorgeous guy, and stands pressed up against her front door, she is acting on a promise of delivery. If that delivery does not materialise, then is she really obliged to consider it sex? Especially as sex itself appears such a relative concept – many gay men never partake in penetrative sex, yet they do not consider themselves virgins.

Unsatisfying sex is a let down for everyone involved. Easily forgotten and pushed into the far recesses of one's memory. Therefore, when asked for my number, it is not those ten minutes of examining the cracks in my ceiling that spring to mind, but rather the hot and sweaty jumble of limbs that rolled around a colleague's bedroom.

So forget American Pie, forget dividing that ‘technical’ number by three that is defined merely by a point of penetration, and remember passion. Remember the gasps, throwing back your head, the rise and fall of your chest as you lay beside the man/woman of the moment, and then, if there was feeling, a connection, either physical or emotional, but only then, are you required to declare it!

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