One night not too long ago, while casually trying to decide on a new show to binge, Luke and I stumbled upon Virgin Island on Channel 4. Needless to say we were both Intrigued by the premise, and encouraged by the low level of commitment—there are only six episodes–-we decided to give it a go.
The premise is, twelve adult “virgins”, all of whom find sexual intimacy terrifying and off-putting, gather at a retreat on a vaguely defined Mediterranean island where, with the help of a team of sex coaches and surrogate partner therapists, they begin to explore and confront their issues around sex, intimacy, and relationships. It doesn’t sound that bad when you put it this way, however, the show ended up giving me a humongous ick.
For context, Virgin Island is hosted by sexologists Danielle Harel and Celeste Hirschman, founders of the Somatica Institute, which is built around their signature “Somatica” method. According to their website, Harel and Hirschman believe that “it takes more than traditional talk-based therapy to unlearn the sexual or relational patterns we’ve picked up throughout our lives”, and we do in fact see this distinctly “hands-on” approach throughout the whole show, with sex coaches and therapists demonstrating and proposing exercises involving full nudity and sexual contact, all facilitated within the framework of surrogate partner therapy.
It all sounds great and undeniably sex-positive on paper, so why did it make my skin crawl?
There is no mention of asexuality, ever
We see all participants on the show, some more than others, struggling with issues around body image, self-esteem and rejection. They all share, sometimes candidly, sometimes more hesitantly, their fears and insecurities in their confessional segments. There’s a shared sense of inadequacy, of not being able to escalate intimacy with a potential partner, with several participants describing feelings of paralysis, terror and even repulsion at the thought of sex, and sometimes even at the idea of being hugged or touched in a non-sexual way. While this obviously does not apply to all participants, the show never mentions or presents asexuality as a valid sexual orientation. And since asexuality is completely absent from the conversation, there’s naturally no reference to the nuances within it such as sex-favourable, sex-indifferent, or sex-repulsed identities.
I’m not suggesting that people who find sex repulsive shouldn’t ever explore the roots of those feelings or that they should blindly conclude they may be sex-repulsed asexuals. I am saying that this possibility is not even presented to them. The show operates on the assumption that having sex must be everyone’s ultimate goal. Sure, the participants may have all entered the programme expressing a desire to have sex, but their reasons for wanting it are never explored. Is it peer pressure? A sense of inadequacy or alienation in a hypersexual, yet paradoxically sex-phobic culture? Or is it a genuine, authentic desire? We’re never told.
Sex becomes a performance
Throughout various phases of the retreat, the coaches demonstrate sexual approaches and even positions to simulate real-life sex. These demos are often exaggerated, particularly by Danielle and Celeste, who let out comically loud moans at even the lightest touch, say, on the arm.
Now, what’s interesting about moaning theatrically is that some people find that exaggerating vocal responses helps them get in the mood and even heightens arousal, which I’m totally okay with. However, if the show’s aim is to make sex feel less intimidating for people who have never had it, then shouldn’t sex be portrayed as a genuine experience rather than as a show you put on for a partner? Realistically, who moans that loudly when someone touches their elbow? If I were the one attending the retreat, I’d surely feel even more intimidated, and worse, I’d start to wonder what’s wrong with me for not finding orgasmic pleasure in something so minor.
Sex is widely understood as ‘penis in vagina’ sex
Yes, the show sees one of its female participants coming out as gay, having previously identified as bi. Despite this though, Virgin Island never meaningfully challenges the heteronormative, outdated idea that “real” sex equals penis-in-vagina intercourse. Not once do the sex coaches advocate for a broader, more inclusive understanding of sexuality or pleasure.
The belief that sex can only be understood as such when it involves penetration is not just limiting, but actively invalidating toward all those who aren’t interested in PIV sex, whether temporarily or long-term, for reasons ranging from vaginismus to gender dysphoria. Other sexual acts—fingering, oral sex, mutual masturbation etc.—are largely dismissed or relegated to the category of “foreplay,” as though they’re mere build up to the only act that truly counts. For a show that clearly wants to present as sex-positive, this narrow definition of sex feels like a missed opportunity. Similarly, the very same concept of virginity is never called into question for what it actually is: a social construct without a medical definition, influenced by cultural norms associated with ideas of purity, innocence and morality (which happen to only apply to women and girls).
Sex feels orgasm-centred
If you’ve read some of my previous writing about sex, you might know that I have a condition called anorgasmia, which is the inability or extreme difficulty to orgasm, whether alone or with a partner. Anorgasmia does not prevent someone from having a fulfilling, exciting sex life; this is because orgasms are not, and should never be treated as, the be-all and end-all of sex.
There are many reasons someone might struggle to orgasm, including spectatoring, trauma, and pelvic floor dysfunction just to name a few. That said, as someone who experiences this and still deeply enjoys sex, I was honestly horrified to hear Danielle Harel, in episode five, say, verbatim, “if you don’t know how to orgasm, you just won’t be able to share erotic energy with someone else.”
That’s bullshit. I don’t know how else to say it.
There are a multitude of ways to exchange erotic energy with a partner that don’t require the ability to orgasm. Erotic energy is expansive; it’s about the build-up, the playfulness, the tension. To use a popular metaphor, it’s about the journey and not the so-called “destination.” I truly cannot understand how a trained sexuality professional could make such a harmful claim on camera, but here we are.
In conclusion, yes, I know this is a TV show that has been edited, curated, and condensed. We don’t know what happened behind the scenes, but I’d urge anyone watching to take Virgin Island for what it is: entertainment with the occasional dash of education here and there, not a reliable source to learn about sex. Especially if you’re new to it.