let's talk about sex/love

 Sex Education Season 1

Creator: Laurie Nunn

Stars: Asa Butterfield, Gillian Anderson, Ncuti Gatwa

A teenage boy with a sex-therapist mother teams up with a high-school classmate to set up an underground sex-therapy clinic at school.

To figure out what clicks, you’ve got to give things a shot. Sure, some attempts will be clumsy, some will flop spectacularly, and some will surprise you by working. Then you double down on what works. That’s true for sex, love, storytelling, and especially Netflix’s cheeky gem Sex Education. Laurie Nunn’s coming-of-age comedy doesn’t nail everything in its eight-episode debut—some moments are as gangly as a teenager at prom—but as the series settles into itself, it becomes a delightful mix of hilarity, heartbreak, and hormones. It’s messy in all the best ways, and by the end, it feels like a tale well worth telling.

The premise is wonderfully ridiculous: What if the sexually repressed son of a no-filter sex therapist moonlighted as an underground relationship guru for his high school peers? Enter Otis (Asa Butterfield), a wide-eyed innocent coaxed into this entrepreneurial venture by Maeve (Emma Mackey), a whip-smart, leather-jacketed queen of sarcasm who’s seen more sides of high school life than most. Backing them up is Eric (Ncuti Gatwa), Otis’s flamboyant and fearless best friend who treats life like a runway and wields charm like a shield. Otis, armed with a library’s worth of secondhand sex knowledge and a surplus of empathy, soon discovers that his mom Jean’s (Gillian Anderson) baggage isn’t just hers—it’s his too. Cue the hilarity, heartbreak, and heaps of awkwardness.

Sure, the whole “virginal teen turns sex therapist for cash” concept strains credulity, but Sex Education makes it easy to suspend disbelief. Why? Two reasons: a cast that commits with gusto, and a structure that sneaks in emotional depth behind the laughs. Think of it as part high school dramedy, part procedural—like Law & Order: Hormones Unit. Each episode kicks off with a glimpse into the life of a student grappling with some unique sexual or romantic hurdle. Adam (Connor Swindells) can’t, ahem, finish. Lily (Tanya Reynolds) is desperate to lose her V-card, preferably in an alien cosplay scenario. Ruby (Mimi Keene) is reeling after a leaked nude. The episodic nature allows the show to zip through a buffet of issues with surprising thoughtfulness, all while keeping the laughs (and cringes) coming.

Much of the magic lies in the cast. Butterfield is pitch-perfect as Otis, balancing adolescent cluelessness with surprising emotional acuity. He’s the kind of actor who can sell a scene just by listening—though watching him rescue a classmate from a glittery fake moon is pretty spectacular too. Anderson, meanwhile, brings Jean’s mix of over-the-top candor and hidden vulnerability to life, occasionally veering into camp territory but always pulling it back with her quiet, contemplative moments. Mackey, Reynolds, and Kedar Williams-Stirling (as Maeve’s dreamy but insecure boyfriend Jackson) shine in their roles, but it’s Gatwa who steals the show. His Eric is electric, bouncing between exuberance and deep, aching vulnerability with a finesse that makes every scene he’s in unforgettable.

That finesse is crucial, because while the show’s cast elevates the material, the writing and direction occasionally stumble. Some tropes feel a little stale, and not every tonal leap lands as gracefully as it should. For every Gatwa nailing a scene, there’s a headmaster character (Alistair Petrie) chewing scenery so hard you’re surprised he hasn’t choked. Directors Kate Herron and Ben Taylor mostly keep the show grounded, using striking visual cues to highlight the isolating weirdness of teenage life. Two bikers pedal down an empty road, framed as tiny specks in a vast landscape. Students stand inches apart, yet divided by a cold black wall of lockers. A boy briefly steps away, and when he returns, his coat—and his sense of belonging—is gone. These moments linger, anchoring the show’s more absurd bits in something real.

Sex Education isn’t for everyone. Its humor is often dark, its awkwardness toe-curling, and its subject matter unflinchingly frank. But like the world’s most earnest teenage therapist, its heart is in the right place. It experiments boldly, stumbles occasionally, and ultimately finds its rhythm. And when it clicks? Like good sex—and good storytelling—it’s a riotous, satisfying pleasure.