sex education

After one unorgasmic finger stab too many, I was haunted by the realization that I had spent years of my life having unsatisfying sex. It was clearly necessary to make a drastic change.

The season fell into the trap of being too obviously didactic. Because it tried to fit so many lessons into so few episodes, it didn’t have time for subtlety.

One of the third season’s greatest strengths is its incredibly likable and multidimensional side characters; they are the ones who allow the show to truly become something special.

Unlike most award show nominations, the GLAAD award nominees provide a unique introspection into the media that queer people can most easily see themselves reflected in.

Her singing rarely erred on the side of nonsensical — as punk-adjacent acts are wont to do — and even when they did, it was clear that the roughness was all part of the intended aesthetic.

If the history of queer female representation in film and television has taught us anything, it’s that representation tends to come at the expense of misrepresentation.

For this week, I’ve crafted a schedule that celebrates the diversity of affection, taking inspiration from the ancient Greeks’ seven forms of love.

For a show revolving around sex, “Sex Education” is surprisingly wholesome, featuring one of the best-written ensembles of characters on television today.

As a primary socializing agent, schools have a tremendous opportunity and responsibility to be inclusive of all students, including transgender and other gender-diverse students. In this role, educational institutions can significantly impact the degree to which gender diversity is viewed — either positively or negatively.

On the one hand, it’s a welcome change to see people of color in prominent roles in “Sex Education” — the head boy, the caring teacher, the secretly dirty pro-lifer are all played by nonwhite actors. But not only are people of color still barred from the lead roles, they are treated like shit by the lead characters.