For nearly a decade, a steady stream of podcasts, books, and public discussions has attempted to diagnose a persistent cultural question: why is Generation Z not having sex? Recently, the cultural landscape appears to have shifted to compensate for this perceived youth frigidity. From the rise of “smut” literature and prestige television featuring OnlyFans creators to indie films embracing kink, the screen is increasingly fixated on the sexual misadventures of young people.
This trend highlights a deep contradiction in Gen Z life: despite being the most sexually progressive generation, they operate under the weight of intense sexual conservatism. Following the 2022 overturning of Roe v. Wade, research indicates that 16% of single Gen Z adults feel more apprehensive about dating. This tension serves as the premise for the new romcom One Night Only, which depicts a dystopian reality where the government has banned premarital sex, allowing for one night of freedom annually. The film follows Owen, played by Callum Turner, and Allie, played by Monica Barbaro, as they navigate this landscape, including obstacles like the $2,000 price tag Owen faces while trying to purchase condoms.
While One Night Only uses its political setting as a backdrop for romcom tropes—reminiscent of 90s-era missed connections—it arguably misses the mark on the nature of the current “sex recession.” The film frames the issue as a lack of libido, whereas the reality for many zoomers is existential. Growing up in an era defined by digital alienation and the isolating effects of the pandemic, many young people find the process of initiating intimacy inherently difficult and often painful. While the film captures the awkwardness of modern dating, it fails to provide a deeper critique of the societal pressures facing its characters, leaving Allie’s search for her “Prince Charming” feeling somewhat generic.
Other summer releases suggest that sex alone cannot resolve the fundamental loneliness of modern life. In Gregg Araki’s I Want Your Sex, Elliot, a studio assistant played by Cooper Hoffman, struggles with this alienation while working for the provocative artist Erika Tracy, portrayed by Olivia Wilde. The film’s tension peaks during a complex, doomed threesome with Elliot’s roommate Apple, played by Chase Sui Wonders. This moment of shared, muddled desire forces the characters to confront their own projections and insecurities, revealing the distance between them even when they are physically intimate.
This dynamic of a younger, less experienced person being guided by an older, sexually confident woman appears in both The Invite—also starring and directed by Wilde—and Jane Schoenbrun’s Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma. In the latter, 29-year-old filmmaker Kris, played by Hannah Einbinder, attempts to reboot a slasher franchise that once sparked her own “queer awakening.” She approaches the project with the singular theme of “DESIRE” in mind, viewing the film as a vehicle for self-discovery. Unlike its counterparts, Camp Miasma treats sex, art, and death as inseparable human impulses.
Through her relationship with her muse, the original final girl Billy Presley (played by Gillian Anderson), Kris learns that achieving artistic or sexual climax requires letting go of control. Billy teaches her that slashers are elemental, much like desire itself, and should be experienced viscerally rather than theorized. While One Night Only treats bodily autonomy as a punchline and I Want Your Sex features a protagonist who dismisses Gen Z “wokeness,” Camp Miasma maintains a more sincere tone. Kris eventually moves past her need to overintellectualize the genre, finding a genuine connection with Billy that allows her to create an authentic film.
Ultimately, these movies do not serve as perfect models for young people navigating their sexuality; rather, they act as cautionary tales. After years of fearing that sex might vanish from cinema entirely, the return of these themes—messy, awkward, and complicated—is a notable shift. Whether through raunchy comedy or psychological drama, these films provide a raw, if imperfect, reflection of the current generational landscape. The report also notes that and since then, a deluge of books, podcasts and roundtables has tried to get at the bottom of the problem: why is gen Z not having sex, the first alarm bells sounded nearly 10 years ago. The report also notes that it merely presents obstacles for Allie and Owen to overcome – such as the $2,000 price tag for the condoms Owen attempts to procure – much like the missed connection brought about by a busy phone line in a 90s romcom. The report also notes that which means that Allie’s complaints about the difficulty of finding her “Prince Charming” come off generic, indistinguishable from any number o, we know nothing about what these characters’ lives were like before the ban. The report also notes that recently it’s as though culture has been recalibrated to make up for the youth’s apparent frigidity. The report also notes that despite its political tenor, One Night Only’s vision of dystopia is not a comment on America’s rapid hurtle toward authoritarianism. The report also notes that which means that Allie’s complaints about the difficulty of finding her “Prince Charming” come off generic, indistinguishable from any number of complaints that I, a married zoomer, have heard from my single friends about dating in the age of apps, we know nothing about what these characters’ lives were like before the ban. The report also notes that or can’t find a man: they are the first generation to grow up fully under the influence of the internet, with its attendant alienations; worse, its youngest members came of age during the pandemic, it’s not that zoomers aren’t horny. The report also notes that let alone how to initiate sex – a process often awkward, if not outright painful, for everyone no matter their age (This much, at least, One Night Only gets right.), knowing how to relate to one another is hard enough.
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