Joe: On a typical college campus, a 1% decrease in the number of female students increases a woman's chance of going on a traditional date by a staggering 3.3%. It turns out the price of love isn't just emotional—it's mathematical. Lewis: Whoa, hold on. That is an incredibly specific, and frankly, a kind of bleak statistic. Where in the world does that come from? Joe: It comes from a fascinating and pretty provocative book we're diving into today: Dollars and Sex: How Economics Influences Sex and Love by economist Dr. Marina Adshade. Lewis: Right, and it's one of those books, like Freakonomics, that got people talking because it applies cold, hard economics to the messiest parts of our lives. The reception was really divided—some people found it incredibly insightful, while others felt it was a bit cynical, stripping the romance out of, well, romance. Joe: Exactly. Adshade basically created a field she calls 'Sexonomics,' and she argues that to truly understand love, you have to understand the market forces behind it. Lewis: A marketplace? That sounds so unromantic. What does that even mean in practice? Joe: Well, that college campus statistic is a perfect entry point. Adshade says that when women outnumber men on campus, it creates what economists call a 'buyer's market' for men. The 'price' of sex goes down. Lewis: The price of sex? You mean it becomes easier for guys to find casual hookups instead of committed relationships. Joe: Precisely. And this isn't just a theory; it has devastating real-world consequences. Adshade tells the story of a first-year student named Sarah.

Lewis: Okay, I'm listening. Joe: So, Sarah is new to college, excited, and goes to a popular off-campus bar on a Thursday night—which the book calls 'the new Friday.' She's having fun, has a few too many drinks, and a good-looking older guy approaches her. He buys her more drinks, convinces her to go back to her dorm, and they have unprotected sex. Lewis: Oh, I can see where this is going. It's a classic, sad story. Joe: It is. The next morning, she wakes up and realizes she doesn't even know his name. A few weeks later, she discovers she's pregnant. She has to go through an abortion, the emotional turmoil causes her to fail her midterms, and she nearly flunks out of her first year. Lewis: That's just brutal. But can you really blame all of that on a simple gender ratio? Isn't that just about bad decisions and alcohol? Joe: Of course, those are huge factors. Adshade isn't ignoring personal responsibility. But she points to compelling data. Binge drinking is strongly correlated with this kind of risky behavior, and the campus environment, the very market Sarah is operating in, encourages it. Adshade’s quote is chilling: "What Sarah would know if she was listening carefully in her Economics of Sex and Love class is that an excess of women on the college sex market has driven down the price of sex, making it, essentially, a buyer’s market." Lewis: So the environment itself, the supply and demand, makes that tragic outcome more probable. It's not just her; it's the system she's in. Joe: Exactly. The incentives are skewed. Men have less incentive to commit, and women feel more pressure to compete in a market flooded with 'sellers.' It's a powerful, unseen force. Lewis: That makes me think about online dating. That’s a market with seemingly infinite supply. Does that make things better or worse? Joe: Ah, that's the perfect question. You'd think more choice is always better, right? But Adshade uses this brilliant analogy. She says online dating is like walking into a massive pastry shop. Lewis: I like where this is going. I love pastries. Joe: You're overwhelmed with options—éclairs, macarons, tarts, cookies. To simplify, you start applying filters. You think, 'I can make cookies at home, so no cookies.' Then, 'I had chocolate yesterday, so no chocolates.' You narrow it down to éclairs and tarts. Lewis: Makes sense. That's what the filters are for on dating apps. 'Age 25-35, non-smoker, lives within 10 miles.' Joe: Precisely. But here's the catch. In a real pastry shop, even after you've mentally eliminated the cookies, you can still see them. A gorgeous chocolate-raspberry macaron might catch your eye and you'd think, 'You know what, I'll make an exception.' But on a dating app, the people you filter out are gone. They are invisible. You've artificially created what economists call a 'thin market' for yourself. Lewis: Okay, that I get. I've definitely filtered someone out for being an inch too short or having a political view listed as 'middle of the road' and then wondered if I missed out. So the technology that's supposed to give us more options is actually limiting us? Joe: It can, if we're not careful. We over-rely on easily measurable data—height, income, education—and filter out people who might have been a perfect match based on experiential qualities like humor, kindness, or chemistry. We never even see the 'macaron' because our filters hid the entire cookie section. Lewis: That is a fantastic, and slightly depressing, way to look at it. We're all bad inventory managers of our own love lives. Joe: And we're often trading on bad information. The book cites studies showing how people, especially less-attractive people, are more likely to use deceptively flattering photos or lie about their height and weight. Men add an inch, women subtract eight pounds on average. The market is flooded with misinformation. Lewis: So it's a market with hidden options and false advertising. No wonder it's so exhausting.

Joe: And if finding a partner is a market, Adshade argues that staying with them is basically an economic contract. This is where things get even more controversial. Lewis: A contract? You mean like marriage? That's not a very romantic way to put it. Joe: It's not, but from an economic perspective, that's what it is. It's a partnership designed for efficient production. Lewis: 'Efficient production'? Of what? Children? Happiness? A clean house? Joe: All of the above. Adshade explains it with the concept of 'comparative advantage.' She gives an example of a couple, Jordan and Alex. Let's say Jordan is better at everything—cleaning the kitchen and putting the baby to bed. She has an 'absolute advantage.' Lewis: Okay, so Jordan should just do everything? That sounds like a raw deal for Jordan. Joe: You'd think so. But let's look at the numbers. Jordan can clean the kitchen in 45 minutes and put the baby to bed in 30. Alex is slower; he takes an hour for each task. The key is to see who gives up less to perform a task. For Alex to put the baby to bed, the 'cost' is one clean kitchen he could have done in that hour. For Jordan, the 'cost' of putting the baby to bed is only two-thirds of a clean kitchen. Lewis: I think I'm following. Jordan is much faster at the baby task than the kitchen task, relatively speaking. Joe: Exactly! She has the comparative advantage in childcare. Alex has the comparative advantage in the kitchen, because he's equally slow at both, making him relatively less bad at cleaning. So, for maximum household efficiency, Jordan should always handle the baby, and Alex should always start the kitchen. Lewis: So my marriage is more efficient if I stick to mowing the lawn, even if my wife is technically faster at it, because my time is better spent on something I'm even better at, like fixing the leaky faucet? My wife would love this theory. Joe: It's a powerful idea for organizing a household. But Adshade takes it a step further. If marriage is a contract for efficiency, then infidelity is a breach of that contract. And that decision, too, is economic. Lewis: Come on. People don't pull out a spreadsheet before they cheat. It's about passion, or unhappiness, or a moment of weakness. Joe: Adshade would say even those things can be framed as costs and benefits. The benefit is the thrill, the biological drive, the ego boost. The cost is the risk of getting caught, the financial devastation of divorce, the emotional fallout. She tells the story of a man named Leonard. Lewis: Let me guess, Leonard pulled out his spreadsheet? Joe: Not quite, but he illustrates the principle. Leonard is in his 50s, in his second marriage. He loves his wife but feels lonely and misses the adoration of new partners he had when he was younger. He gets a promotion at work, giving him power over younger female employees. He feels a surge of confidence. The perceived benefit of an affair is high. Lewis: And the opportunity is there. Joe: He thinks so. He starts making subtle moves, testing the waters. But every single attempt fails. The women aren't interested. He remains faithful, but as the book says, it's not out of conviction. It's because he couldn't find a willing partner. The cost—in terms of effort, rejection, and potential humiliation—was too high. Lewis: Wow. So he was faithful by force, not by choice. That's a bleak view of commitment. It suggests that if the price were right, or the risk were low enough, anyone might cheat. Joe: That's the uncomfortable implication. And the book has data to back it up. It's not just income that affects infidelity. It's power. Studies show that as people gain more power in their careers, their likelihood of cheating increases, and this applies to both men and women. Power gives you confidence and, more importantly, opportunity. It lowers the cost of finding a partner for an affair. Lewis: So it’s not that rich men cheat more, it’s that powerful people cheat more. That’s a crucial distinction. It’s about the opportunities your position in the world affords you. Joe: Precisely. It’s all a calculation, whether we’re conscious of it or not.

Lewis: So after all this, are we just cogs in a giant, invisible economic machine? Is there any room left for actual love in this model? Joe: That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? And I think Adshade's point isn't that love, affection, and romance don't exist. It's that the conditions under which we find and express love are powerfully shaped by these unseen economic forces. Lewis: It makes you question your own choices. Are my preferences really my own? Joe: Think about this for a moment. The book points out that online dating, by making it easier to find partners with similar education and earning potential, has fueled a trend of 'assortative mating.' High-earners are marrying other high-earners at a greater rate than ever before. Lewis: Okay, that makes sense. People want to be with someone on their level. Joe: But here's the societal consequence. This trend is a significant driver of household income inequality. The gap between two-doctor households and two-minimum-wage-worker households is widening, partly because of the technology we use to find love. Your private choice on a dating app has a massive, public, economic consequence. Lewis: That's a heavy thought. My swiping right could be contributing to national economic disparity. It takes the personal and makes it political, or at least economic. Joe: Exactly. So the real takeaway isn't to become a cynical, calculating robot in your relationships. It’s to be aware. To pull back the curtain and see the forces at play. Lewis: It's about understanding the 'market' you're in, whether it's a college campus, a dating app, or even your own marriage, and recognizing how it shapes your options and your desires. Joe: And once you see it, you can make more conscious choices. The goal is to be the master of the market, not a victim of it. So the real question the book leaves you with is a personal one. Lewis: What's that? Joe: Are your preferences truly your own, or are they a rational response to the market you find yourself in? Lewis: A question worth thinking about. We'd love to know what you all think. Does this economic view of love resonate with your own experiences, or does it feel like it misses the human element entirely? Let us know your thoughts on our socials. It’s a topic that’s bound to get a lot of different reactions. Joe: This is Aibrary, signing off.