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I’ve never found that the people in my life are afraid of talking about sex. If anything, it’s the opposite—we frequently philosophize on all aspects of those inner desires. And we certainly don’t have to try hard to talk about it—sex is an almost universal object of fascination for young adults, whether they are active, curious, or utterly disengaged.
For many, the words “sexual education” often bring to mind a stuffy high school classroom—condoms on cucumbers, Googling STI symptoms, your gym teacher sitting you down to talk about “growing hair down there.” But it’s in college that these early lessons truly bear fruit. On campuses, sex ed morphs into something else entirely. Debriefs with roommates, whispers at parties, and Sidechat discourse become informal kernels of knowledge, filling in vast gaps left by inadequate high school curricula.
For many students stepping onto a college campus for the first time—or for anyone, frankly—sex can be a lot. There is both the new opportunity to explore this formerly elusive world and a sudden thrust into the very real emotional and physical implications that come with sex. Induced shame, forced ignorance, and a lack of access to information and resources can lead young adults to feel overwhelmed about entering this new stage of their life. Navigating the world of sex health and reproductive justice on campus and in the city can be confusing—that’s why we compiled this list of resources for you.
Earlier this summer, The New Yorker boldly asked, “Are young people having enough sex?” Now that the latest generation has come of age, it is acceptable, at least legally, to talk about our sex lives. Or, if you believe the current discourse, our lack of it. You’d think Generation Z was either too traumatized to touch each other or too busy role–playing with artificial intelligence to have a real libido. In 2018, The Atlantic reported on what it calls a “sex recession” occurring among young adults following a 14% drop in high schoolers having sex, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. A new moral panic emerges—older generations are suddenly no longer concerned that young adults are having too much sex, but rather that they are having too little.
On the night of my 21st birthday, sitting at a booth in Local 44 with a lavender hibiscus kombucha marg in hand, I received a revelatory piece of advice from a dearly beloved friend about my embarkment into a new era of life: “I think your 20s are all about having regrettable sex.” Now of course, the sentiment is not meant to encourage one to engage in unsafe, emotionally harmful, or dangerous sex. Rather, it acknowledges that the foray into adulthood is not so glamorous, and those sexual escapades are often a lot more awkward than you may expect. I mean, let’s be real. You’ve gotta get through the Lena Dunham Girls stage of life before you can even dream of living an episode of Sex and the City. Young sex is messy and embarrassing, and like most things in life, there is a steep learning curve. Street has had its fair share of uncouth trysts and inopportune rendezvous. Learn from our mistakes, or just laugh at us. But there’s no shame in figuring things out, even if it leaves a twinge of regret the next morning.
In most queer TV shows, the performance of straightness is merely a phase. A queer character might be in denial about their sexuality or reluctant to share details about their sexuality with others. They hide parts of themselves, presenting themselves in ways they think will be acceptable, and eventually come out—a moment of revelation framed as liberation.
There are some superhero movies that you forget the moment the credits roll. And then there’s Matt Shakman’s The Fantastic Four: First Steps, a retrofuturistic elegy that doesn’t just redeem Marvel’s long–misunderstood “First Family,” but imbues their story with a new emotional weight.
The first time I read a book cover to cover, I felt like I had been let in on a secret. At five, however, I didn’t yet know that it was a secret not everyone gets to be in on. That not all stories are told, and not everyone gets to see themselves on the page. I grew up in a small town where school libraries did not put stories of queer love on their shelves, where classrooms didn’t discuss things like race, power, or grief. At first, I read to escape. But as I got older, I read as a form of resistance and reclamation. I read to find words for the things I felt and to make sense of the things I didn’t understand. To see worlds I had never been shown. Literature didn’t just entertain me. It built me: one book, one question, and one dog–eared page at a time.
I didn’t grow up around film sets or cameras, but I did grow up with sitcoms and movies. They were the one constant in my life that connected me with everyone around me. Growing up in an Asian household, shows and films filled the emotional gaps that my parents and I didn’t always know how to communicate. We could always talk about the movie we just watched, though. Whether it was a Nickelodeon sitcom or a blockbuster that they’d take me to see in theaters, shared watching experiences became ways of expressing our excitement, humor, and affection.
From a young age, we are taught that rules exist for our own good. Wear a seatbelt. Get vaccinated. Don’t drink and drive. The idea that safety requires legislative intervention, even coercion, is propagated to the public as “tough love.” But where is the line between protection and control? A recently proposed Philadelphia bill tests the law’s bioethical bounds, allowing courts to involuntarily commit individuals suffering from substance abuse. Advocates argue it’s a necessary regulation in a city increasingly overwhelmed by overdoses, while critics contest it’s a blatant violation of medical autonomy disguised as care.
There’s a scene from The Summer I Turned Pretty’s recent Entertainment Weekly shoot that stays with me, from the beach where the cast reunites just days after wrapping up the final season. Lola Tung, Gavin Casalegno, and Christopher Briney all stand in the sun doing the same thing they’ve done for years: pretending not to be pretending. Tung laughs. Casalegno stares. Briney, off to the side, skips rocks. He waves. They wave back. It’s not scripted, but it might as well be.
Walking through Delhi’s bustling Sarojini Nagar Market, I found myself swept into a stream of unremitting sound, heat, and motion. The morning air was heavy with a torrid warmth, tinged with the sweet smell of frying chaats. Yellow and green tuk–tuks darted alongside the road while vendors called out their wares: vibrant bangles, lehenga cholis, glittering rows of pendants.
There’s nothing like almost getting hit by a car to drag you out of a Monday morning stupor. You slip recklessly through an amber light. A car comes out of nowhere as it makes a sharp right turn, unfortunately crossing your bike lane in the process. You swerve and raise an acknowledging hand as the driver lays on the horn, but you can’t help but think, “What do you want me to do about it now?”
I didn’t think I could still feel anything watching a superhero movie. Not in 2025 after capeslop became a term. Not after watching two decades of men with god complexes punch each other across cities while monologuing about loss, legacy, and their inability to cry.
When Christian Dior introduced the New Look in 1947, France was still rationing sugar. When Chanel sent out an all– white blossom couture set in 2009, the financial world was mid–meltdown. And when Schiaparelli put a $19,000 lion head on Kylie Jenner during an inflation panic, no one at the atelier flinched. They weren’t responding to interest rates—they’re responding to legacy, archival bravado, and the kind of zero–friction economic ecosystem Coase could only dream of.
In the now–dusty relic of 2010s pop–R&B, “Boyfriend,” Justin Bieber whispered threats of “swag, swag, swag on you,” hauling the term from the fame of 2000s rap stars to a new audience of white kids all over the nation. Not surprising, if you knew his affinity for Lil B, the West Coast rapper most associated with “swag” at the time. Thirteen years later, Bieber’s back on the same wave with his seventh album, SWAG, and the jury’s out: does it really live up to its title?
Season seven of Love Island USA came and went with the wind, which means summer is also nearing its end—and no, I’m not ready for it. This season, much like all of the others, was a roller coaster: chaotic, dramatic—and as always, quite entertaining. Others may use their screen time to consume media with deep meaning and real sociopolitical perspective, but if you’re anything like me, TV time is best served sun–drenched and overproduced; an escape from real life and into a multimillion–dollar Fijian villa.
In just a few short years, Chloe Gong (C ‘21) has built a literary empire. Since making her debut with the historical fantasy novel These Violent Delights during her time at Penn, she’s become a No. 1 New York Times bestselling author known for her Secret Shanghai series and the adult fantasy Flesh and False Gods trilogy. Now, she’s returning to her young adult roots with something completely different: Coldwire, the first book in a dystopian cyberpunk trilogy set to release this November.
It has been just over two weeks since Tyler, the Creator dropped his ninth studio album DON’T TAP THE GLASS, and the surprise album is running the charts. This marks his fourth consecutive No. 1 release on the Billboard 200 albums chart.
This year, I was lucky (and blistered) enough to be at Cannes Film Festival—hobbling down the Croisette in my mother’s vintage Manolos, which I wore so religiously I started bandaging in the shape of them. Every morning began with my beloved roommate’s sacred rites: “What are you wearing?” followed closely by “Does this purse look stupid?”
Solutions by The State News
