Let’s start with a paradox: Gen Z is having less sex than generations before them—fewer hookups, fewer swipes, fewer tangled sheets by morning. Study after study confirms it, from Rutgers to the Kinsey Institute. And yet, somewhere between TikTok trends and intimacy fatigue, a curious cultural shift is unfolding: sex positive parties are on the rise, and Gen Z is at the center of them.

It begs the question: if this generation is supposedly so sex-averse, what draws them to spaces where sex is not only visible but celebrated? What if this isn’t a contradiction at all, but the early stirrings of a second sexual revolution, one shaped not by rebellion alone, but by intentionality, aesthetics, and consent?

Back in the '60s and '70s, the first sexual revolution was loud. It shattered silence and stigma with birth control pills, communes, and slogans of free love. It was radical in its defiance, urgent in its politics. But revolutions evolve. They become quieter, more personal. Today’s version might look less like a protest and more like an invitation to slow down, to choose carefully, to reimagine connection in a world that too often confuses constant availability with intimacy.

Angie Rowntree, founder of the ethical porn platform Sssh.com, has noticed this shift firsthand. Gen Z, she says, isn’t flocking to sex parties for sheer hedonism. “They’re into the costumes, the aesthetics, the whole production of it. It’s less about the act and more about the experience, the vulnerability, the community.” In other words, these events aren’t just about sex. They’re about being seen.

If you’ve never been to a sex party, it might be easy to imagine something straight out of a bad movie: dim lights, masks, orgies. But the reality is often more thoughtful, even tender. A sex party can be a curated social space, equal parts club, art installation, and consent workshop. There might be lingerie, leather, or simply people mingling in conversation. For many attendees, sex is one possible outcome, not a requirement. And for Gen Z, the draw is often less about the physical act and more about creating space for permission to explore, express, and engage, all on their own terms.

This shift feels especially poignant for a generation raised on ubiquitous porn, swiping fatigue, and social media oversharing. It’s no surprise that many have grown wary of casual hookups. According to Pew Research, Gen Z is significantly more likely than Gen X to report having no sexual partners in early adulthood. But this doesn’t mean they’re disinterested in sex. They just seem to be looking for something deeper, something more human.

Sex parties, in their current form, seem to offer just that. They’re often built around themes “cosmic kink,” “retro fetish,” “goddess worship," that invite play and performance, yes, but also presence. And presence, in our overstimulated world, might be the ultimate turn-on.

“Intimacy requires a level of emotional intelligence,” Rowntree says. “And this generation is bringing that into the bedroom or wherever the party’s happening.” It’s sex as communication. As boundary practice. As a way to ask, What do I want, and how do I want to feel?

This doesn’t mean Gen Z is abandoning monogamy or romance. Many still seek long-term connection, or at least the possibility of it. But in the meantime, sex parties offer a new kind of sandbox: a space to rewrite scripts that never felt like theirs to begin with.

It’s not about “free love” in the way their grandparents imagined it. It’s about freed love, a love unburdened by shame, expectation, or performance. A love that doesn’t demand one version of intimacy, but allows for many.

So yes, Gen Z may be having less sex. But maybe that’s not the full story. Maybe what they’re doing is taking sex seriously not as a taboo, not as a transaction, but as something worth slowing down for. Something worth getting intentional about.

And if that’s not revolutionary, I don’t know what is.