Virgin Island is a reality TV show which feels like a new and revamped true 21st century freak show.
One might at first assume the viral Channel 4 reality TV show wishes to take its place alongside the long list of trashy, hyper-sexualized series glutted with vapid Essex dwellers who seem unaware that a conversation need not devolve into shagging or fighting. Such a show might be haphazardly selected by couples with too much time on their hands or housemates in need of witless background noise. However, one is promptly left mortified by the sheer awkwardness, of both the participants themselves, and the fact that such a show was aired at all.
Gone is P. T. Barnum’s era of freaks of nature with inexplicable physicality. Welcome to the world of mental illness, trauma, sexual repression, internalised shame, and incel-dom. Under the cover of a loneliness epidemic, the violating spectacle of the 19th century has been supplanted by the public exposure of those dealing with mental illness and social anxiety. What is most unsettling is that they could be your cousin, your friends, or maybe even yourself. And that makes it worse.
The show seems split between two groups. A cohort of men who desire sex but simply don’t have the means to achieve it. For them, the show is as simple as a crash course in the art of flirting and physical touch. On the other hand, many of the show’s women deal with altogether different issues: unresolved trauma, non-existent self-esteem, body dysmorphia, and a lifetime of bullying.
One quickly gets the sense that perhaps the two groups should be dealt with separately. Cringe-inducing demonstrations on genital touching, kissing, or flirting have little benefit to those dealing with childhood sexual assault, confusion around gender and sexual identity, or a dearth of confidence due to mental illness, as many of the women suffer from. The show’s one-size-fits-all approach of promoting comfort with sexuality by encouraging physical exploration, sexual encounters with sex therapists, or the group viewing of moan-filled dry-humping sessions seems only to hinder the characters in their journey. Such moments only betray Channel 4’s tendency toward shock value and viral spectacle, at the expense of real growth.
One of the most egregious faults of the show is Zac, a 28 year old delivery driver. Though he introduced himself through tears, delivering a heartfelt message of stagnation and failure, a rare trait in reality television, he quickly develops into the island’s chief creep meets incel. Unlike every other participant, Zac has no qualms about potential sex.
While other men here deal with apprehension to get naked, aversion to sex, and shyness, Zac has none of these. In fact, he has the opposite. Zac immediately wishes to fornicate with his surrogate partner from the moment he enters the show. It seems he only wished to join the island to treat the sex therapists as prostitutes and harass the unwitting girls of the island with insensitive remarks. Even continuing to call a woman beautiful, long after she had told him that she didn’t wish her looks to be commented on.
If you’re begging to know if any of the stars hook up or begin a healthy, happy, prosperous, long-term relationship with the other virgins, spoiler alert, they don’t. The closest we get is Dave, a 24-year-old accountant (with no real issues to speak of) who manages to sleep with a “surrogate partner”, a moment that feels suspiciously like a manufactured finale. By the final episode, the audience is left confused. Seemingly little actual progress was made, and yet the virgins surprisingly seem content with their experience.
In an age so obsessed with therapy and psychology, it only makes sense that a show that is effectively televised group therapy would find a large audience. We are confronted repeatedly with group therapy sessions, which seem expertly constructed to maximise cringe-worthy viral moments, of say, public dry-humping to familiarise the virgins with sex. Much of the show’s ideology is based on a theory that missing experience with sex is what is holding them back.
Scenes that pressure participants into showing off their bodies, touching genitals, and mimicking sex and kissing each other seem altogether inferior to either actual therapy or practical advice, which the show dishes out in bits and pieces. The only moments of genuine progress come during one-on-one therapy, where issues of trauma and self-esteem are handled with real care. Unfortunately for Channel 4, restraint and respect do not make good television in 2025.
In the end, Virgin Island feels less like an experiment in helping young, sexually inexperienced Britons and more like a spectacle of public awkwardness. A chance to gawk at those least familiar with sex being forced into televised shame, repackaged as therapy and growth for a generation uncomfortable with the prospect of enjoying a freak show.
Of course, this premise collapses when confronted with genuine barriers such as past assault or queerness, that no amount of “practice” or experience can fix. It does not help that many of the participants protest in belief that the experience is moving too fast or feels invasive. Virgin Island, despite its therapeutic and mental-health conscious coating, seems only to succeed in milking the vulnerable through televised “therapy” for profit and virality.