Here are a few things Virgin Island is not. The Channel 4 series, in which 12 adult virgins travel to Croatia to take part in a three-week intimacy retreat, isn’t graphic, explicit, tawdry or tasteless. For reality TV, it doesn’t even feel that exploitative: unlike many other formats, you get the sense that everyone involved is crystal clear about what they are here to do and how it will end up looking on television.
It’s what they are here to do, however, that makes watching Virgin Island a mind-boggling experience. Whatever the reason for remaining a virgin, the remedy is broadly the same. With the help of various sex therapists, the participants are encouraged to tune in to their desires, expose their bodies and experience sensual touch via professional “surrogate partners” – a treatment that can (and, in the first series, did) extend to penetrative sex.
On paper, such methods may seem shocking. In practice, they make a lot of sense. These people are desperate to change their lives but have a total mental block when it comes to physical intimacy – one, it seems, only actual physical intimacy can remove.
What doesn’t make a lot of sense is that the participants are seemingly fine about this process being broadcast to millions (series one was Channel 4’s most successful unscripted launch since records began). There are people too scared to have sex in private and there are people willing to let a stranger caress their genitals on national television. The fact that on Virgin Island these are the same people is the biggest head-scratcher of all.
As series two arrives, the show’s central paradox persists – but there are a couple of developments. Whereas the first group of participants all had relatively similar motivations for avoiding sex – low self-esteem, lack of knowledge, fear of getting hurt or rejected – this cohort has more variety. Bertie, 24, is autistic and finds socialising difficult. Alex, 28, believes he has erectile dysfunction; whereas Will, 30, has experienced premature ejaculation. Callum, 21, spends an average of 16 hours a day gaming since losing his father. Joy, 22, can’t shake the association between sex and sin established by her Christian upbringing and, for a time, believed the vaginismus she struggles with was a curse from God.
There is, in other words, a bit more to armchair-psychoanalyse here. Still, Virgin Island’s appeal is unlike that of an ordinary reality show. The contestants are different: there are no narcissists or desperate attention-seekers, and while it might be an obvious defence mechanism, the proclivity for self-deprecation makes them an extremely likable bunch (and an intensely British one compared with the earnestly liberated American therapists). Virgin Island is not a popularity contest, or a competition of any stripe. Instead, the emphasis is on kindness and acceptance at all times.
That’s laudable, but it also cancels out a cornerstone of reality TV’s dark appeal: this is a genre that invites us to pass merciless judgment on the people on screen. Here, you are explicitly discouraged from doing that; exhibit A being the participant in series one who felt annoyed he hadn’t been granted permission to have full sex with his surrogate partner. While he was briefly villainised online by viewers, the show treated him with absolute compassion.
This does leave Virgin Island somewhat lacking on the entertainment front. The endless physical therapy sessions – by turns excruciatingly awkward and interminably boring – make for especially bad television. This edition is slightly pacier than the last, but there is practically zero drama and even less intrigue.
So what’s the point? Well, you could certainly argue the series is busting taboos and excising shame. After all, as Alex informs his new friends, approximately one in eight 25-year-olds are still virgins, “so in a room this big it’s one and a bit people”. (“I think in this room it would be all 12,” retorts fellow participant Jason, in a classic bit of Virgin Island banter.)
Yet what makes the programme genuinely worth watching is not its trailblazing concept, but its feelgood nature. The overall vibe is one of wholesome jollity – not what you’d expect from footage of somebody getting a handjob – and it is heartwarming to witness the participants’ palpable relief after a session, having been assured they are not physically repellent or incapable of enjoying sex. It might flout many of reality television’s rules, but by spreading positivity and peace of mind Virgin Island has managed to make this corner of the TV landscape a marginally less depressing place.