I didn’t have my first kiss or make my “sexual debut” until I was 32. So tuned into Virgin Island, the new Channel 4 reality show featuring adult virgins aged 23-30, I was dreading it. Specifically, I was dreading how the “late bloomer” contestants would be depicted onscreen. Did I love the idea of a group of adult virgins finding community, conquering their fears, and embracing their true selves? Absolutely. But after decades of ridicule in popular culture, I knew Virgin Island would be walking a fine line between encouragement and mockery. I wasn’t sure where it would land.
“Virgin feels a bad word,” says 23-year-old contestant, Emma in the show’s opening sequence. “[As an adult virgin,] it’s like there’s something wrong with you,” adds 30-year-old Ben. These are both sentiments I recognized. At the crux of the late bloomer struggle is the isolation when you face with the basics of sexuality—a core human experience—feels impossible. You see everyone around you effortlessly coupling up, but you have no idea what you did wrong or what to even do about it. Add to that the enduring culturalstigmas surrounding virginity and lack of positive representation, and you’ve got the makings of a mean self-esteem-killer cocktail.
My initial dread compounded as the show’s premise was revealed: that the contestants would be there to overcome their insecurities around sex through a combination of hands-on group exercises, individualized somatic (touch) therapy, and “talk” therapy. But, as one of the therapists explains during a workshop on expressing/receiving desire, sex cannot be taught without actual practice. Virgin Island contestants aren’t just receiving theoretical advice, they are there to learn the mechanics of intimacy and sex firsthand.
Here we go, I thought, so this show will simply fetishize and titillate the late bloomer experience. However, as I watched the first two episodes, what followed instead actually surprised me. I’d assumed the tone of Virgin Island would be to sensationalize, shock, or ridicule. Instead, what stuck out to me was the show’s inherent earnestness. The contestants are there hoping to grow emotionally and take the leap into expressing their sexuality, all under the guidance of professionals who validate their fears, teach them logistics, and try to help overcome mental roadblocks.
Is there some shock value woven into the premise of learning about sex in such a forthright manner? Absolutely. But it’s balanced by earnestness in the vulnerability of the contestants. Earnestness from the therapists and mentors who clearly what to make a difference in the lives of those participating. There is such earnest hopefulness in confronting one’s most shameful secret, learning to overcome it, all while surrounded by kindred spirits and a passionate, supportive team.
Do some of the exercises make you want to cringe along with the contestants as they are given front-row seats to embracing sexuality? Sure. But I also found myself touched by their honesty, stirred by their bravery, and intrigued by the notion of learning sex—without the emotional confines of a relationship—like you would any other skill. I found myself cheering the collective cast along. Their openness, even under the weight of their own shame, fear, and embarrassment, was not only refreshing, but inspiring.
Their openness, even under the weight of their own shame, fear, and embarrassment, was not only refreshing, but inspiring.
The moment I realized this quirky show was something different, was during the Desire Workshop in the first episode. Two of the mentors demonstrated an act of desire: a female metor was pushed (consensually) against a wall by a male partner. They inhaled each other’s nearness, the male mentor parted the legs of female mentor with his knee, and then raised her hands over her head. It was an act of sensuality, physical intimacy, both clearly enjoyed by both partners. Many of the Virgin Island contestants looked uncomfortable with this intimate display, but one, Emma, cried as she watched. I recognized her sadness.
Once, witnessing even the smallest hint of physical intimacy in real life or depicted in my favorite books or movies was excruciating. Intimacy, sex, and romance were supposed to be natural, but—to me—they felt entirely out of reach. Because this was an issue I never saw depicted outside of “virgin jokes” in pop culture, I thought I was alone. The weight of that shame was crushing. If I’d heard even one person talk about how widespread the late bloomer experience is, it would have changed my life. How different the narrative around sex and physical intimacy could be if it was demystified and destigmatized.
In the end, I feel like that’s what Virgin Island has earnestly set out to do