Channel 4 has never been one to shy away from eyebrow-raising television, but its latest venture, Virgin Island, may have taken things to an entirely new (and slightly baffling) level.
The reality series, which wrapped up this week, dropped 12 self-proclaimed virgins onto a sun-drenched island paradise and handed them over to a crew of intimacy experts with titles that sound like something from a very niche dating app — think emotional intimacy coach, surrogate partner therapist, and the ever-mystifying sexological bodyworker.
The mission? To help these brave, blushing souls untangle their deepest sexual anxieties through a mix of public therapy, steamy workshops, and activities that veered from enlightening to outright ludicrous.
Think Love Island meets Embarrassing Bodies, with a dash of Carry On comedy and a sprinkle of deep-rooted childhood trauma for good measure.
Over two weeks, the contestants navigated everything from oral sex tutorials to animal role-play sessions, complete with cringey “smooth transition” exercises between positions.
At one point, participants were even instructed on the properly seductive moment to kiss someone’s hand at dinner — a move that felt less like romance and more like the prelude to a crime drama.
Despite all the heavy breathing and not-so-subtle innuendos, only one contestant actually lost their virginity on the show. And while no one rolled out a prize like a Nissan Micra for their bedroom bravery, you could almost sense the producers itching to.
Not surprisingly, the show’s most entertaining moments came from its weirdly tone-deaf attempts at tackling the complexities of sex while simultaneously ignoring them.
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Beneath the forced flirtations and awkward encounters lurked real issues — power imbalances, deep-seated shame, and the quietly grim social dynamics that the show never quite had the guts to explore.
Characters like Charlotte, who shamed a fellow contestant for his stretch marks, and Zac — the unapologetic villain of the villa — provided plenty of drama.
Zac, in particular, steamrolled through the series with all the grace of a bulldozer in a china shop, dishing out unsolicited compliments and sulking when his coach delayed his long-awaited moment. His conviction that women were “intimidated” by him was met with a polite suggestion to put his clothes back on.
The programme flirted with introspection but ultimately chickened out. While it dabbled in ideas of desire, shame, and control, it steered clear of the tougher conversations — like why certain acts carry power, how consent and vulnerability play out in real life, and the unsettling nature of so-called experts handling vulnerable contestants like reality TV props.
In the end, Virgin Island became the very thing it seemed desperate to avoid: a vanilla, overproduced, oddly joyless spectacle that reduced intimacy to a checklist of positions and prematurely-planned seduction tactics.
As much as it tried to be daring, provocative, and sex positive, the show seemed terrified of its own potential to start an honest conversation.
