In the very first episode of Channel 4’s Virgin Island, 28-year-old virgin Zac finds himself irrepressibly horny. He immediately pushes past the bulk of his intimacy issues with the help of his “surrogate partner”, Kat, who is described as “a highly trained therapist who is able to have sex with a client” (sure, OK). Zac strokes Kat’s arm; in return she lasciviously eyes him as though he were Tom Hardy bulging out of a white t-shirt. This stroking is enough to fill the room with sexual tension, to assure an audience of the palpable clamminess of Zac’s uninitiated brow.
The voiceover lady says what we’re all thinking: “The speed of the surrogate programme doesn’t seem to be moving fast enough for Zac.” This man – a virgin, and surely not for lack of willing – is ready to go.
Before we get into the specifics of this ethical minefield of a reality dating show, let’s explore the premise. It’s obviously the brainchild of a mid-thirties creative producer who dared to dream, “What if: Love Island but for adult virgins?” It follows the stories of 12 virgins aged between 22 and 30 (so Gen Z and young millennials) who have chosen to go on a luxury retreat somewhere in the Med to take a “unique” (the press pack materials are not kidding) course in intimacy. Will they achieve their ultimate aim of losing their virginity? Only the first two episodes of six were provided to journalists, but it’s safe to predict that for at least some of the contestants, full heterosexual penetrative sex will be had.
Given the established genre of virgin jokes and the sheer existence of every American Pie movie, there’s some humour to be had in this set-up. All the men wear the same pale blue shirt: in Channel 4 land, the dowdy mark of a chaste fellow. A row of these squeamish men are presented with a woman showing her real-life vagina for the first time – yuck! After some major first-time boob squeezing, courtesy of one of the intimacy experts, 25-year-old Jason does a victory dance out by the sea, and exclaims that he is no longer a virgin! OK, wait, no. He’s a “…different virgin”! And then there’s a ceremonial burning of expired condoms.
For the most part, though, the laughs are with the virgins, not at them. They also necessarily balance out the earnestness of the (very) touchy-feely staff and the deep vulnerability required of these poor contestants. The women are scared of sexual intimacy; the men overthink their ability to relate with women. On both sides, there’s a lack of presence, a terror at being seen.
Virgin Island was made for good reason: in our hypersexualised society fewer young people than ever are having sex. When OnlyFans is a legitimised and well-paid career path for young women, and people are entering adulthood meticulously comparing their looks to others while mediating entire relationships from behind a screen, it’s unsurprising. The stats, as provided by the voiceover, are surprising: a remarkable one in eight 26-year-olds in England today are still virgins, compared to 1 in 20 in previous generations.
The show presents a group of young people who have made sex too important, made it mean many things that it doesn’t, really, like evidence of manliness or of having been chosen. Yet in presenting how individual young people are suffering, Virgin Island reveals that those one in eight matter. Sex is a big deal but not for the act itself – everyone deserves to experience intimacy with another person. Virgin Island does a surprisingly decent job of illustrating what those aforementioned barriers to intimacy are, and providing bitesize exercises to build intimacy with a willing partner: stroking, “building” sexual energy, getting into your body and definitely moving away from just talking about sex.
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Throughout the first two episodes, there’s the constant elephant-sized ethical issue in the room: the surrogate partners and other sexologist bodyworkers who are able to get it on with the contestants. In an age of intimacy coordinators and the ethics of reality TV being questioned in public life, this show is a daring choice by Channel 4. Many viewers will never have even heard of a “surrogate partner” before watching the show. Maybe I’m more prudish than I realised, but even during the presumably mild virgin-on-expert dry humping early in the first episode, my brain was spinning its wheels: Is this fine, is this good? What sordid Mediterranean waters will we be swimming in by episode six? I wonder how long until the spinoff, Sex Addict Island?
It’s interesting that the contestants most eager to get sexual with the experts are the men, while the women are in tears just being in close proximity to the male experts (admittedly, one of them has tribal tattoos and wears a bead necklace). Maybe these vulnerable women need real trust and privacy to let go, not just the willing person, visual stimuli and the opportunity? Is sexual availability for men really as simple as telling them they’re manly and sexy, as the surrogates do? Just so many questions for a six-part show to present and not answer – I hope they try to.
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Only a broadcaster like Channel 4, the very same which created the chaotic and depraved coterie of Naked Attraction, Dogging Tales and Embarrassing Bodies, could make this show – and it’s positive that they did. For any adult virgins, this will be a de-shaming watch. For the sexually active, it’s a reminder that sex is something done for fun and to find a much deeper intimacy than we’ve experienced before. Nothing exactly like this has been seen in reality TV before; so, well done C4, once again you’ve identified and popped a new cherry we never knew we had.
