Intimacy coordinators: Meet the women changing the way we view sex on screen — and in our bedrooms

Scroll through the headlines on any given day and you’ll find “sex” everywhere. A nearly-nude Bianca Censori strolling the streets of Spain. An OnlyFans creator claiming to have slept with more than 500 men in a day. Nicole Kidman blowing up, again, for her latest steamy role alongside an actor nearly half her age. A writer declaring that this sex position, bedtime routine, supplement or TikTok trend rekindled her marriage. The stories are intentionally provocative — sex sells after all. But for all the sexual content circulating on our screens, there has long been something crucial missing: the real, honest and messy depictions of what real sex looks like. Despite living in a hypersexualised culture, many people still struggle to communicate openly in their own relationships. They don’t know how to say what they enjoy, what they want, or what they’re uncomfortable with. They’ve seen a lot of sex on screen — whether it’s in their favourite series, Hollywood blockbuster or pornography — but rarely anything that resembles their own early (or even current) experiences. The fumbling, the awkward giggles, the wondering what on earth the other person is doing. Nobody knows this feeling better than intimacy co-ordinator Ita O’Brien. It’s a topic she felt so passionately about, she penned her new book Intimacy in the hope she can promote change not just on screen, but in the bedroom too. For decades O’Brien witnessed mainstream film and television push an inauthentic representation of sex, as foreplay, communication and even consent was left on the cutting room floor. “We’ve become accustomed to seeing portrayals of sex that are robotic, athletic, gratuitous,” O’Brien writes in Intimacy. “It’s rare to see the kind of relationships we’ve all experienced in real life: an expression of connection that is clumsy, awkward, funny and — hopefully — ultimately satisfying.” With the rise of intimacy co-ordinators attached to big-name projects — O’Brien has personally worked on Sally Rooney’s television adaption of Normal People, popular Netflix series Sex Education, Florence Pugh and Andrew Garfield’s rom-com We Live In Time and Michaela Coel’s multi-award winning I May Destroy You — a realistic depiction of sex on screen is becoming the new normal. On the set of The White Lotus actors Aimee Lou Wood and Walton Goggins, who have a 22-year age difference, worked with the series intimacy co-ordinator on designing their characters’ sex scene. Wood told Elle Magazine that she believes intimacy co-ordinators are “absolutely essential”. Emma Stone, Kate Winslet and Sydney Sweeney have all echoed Wood’s sentiment. Early in her book, O’Brien offers a behind the scenes look at the first sex sequence between the internet’s favourite faux couple: Marianne (Daisy Edgar-Jones) and Connell (Paul Mescal), which for many viewers was so meaningful and unforgettable that fans are still infatuated by their chemistry five years on. “It was a depiction of intimacy that was both realistic and explicit,” O’Brien writes. “Its truthfulness resonated with audiences worldwide. In fact, it resonated so strongly with the viewership that, for many, it was the experience that introduced them to the very concept of an intimacy co-ordinator, and the idea that the intimacy we see on screen can have a profound experience on our ‘real’ lives.” In O’Brien’s words, the official role of an intimacy co-ordinator is to help the creative team build a convincing narrative of intimacy — one that serves the director’s vision, ensures the sexual content is essential rather than gratuitous, and provides clear choreography so actors feel safe and empowered. She likens it to the art and necessity of a stunt co-ordinator choreographing a fight scene, only with less punching and more touching. Despite being used in live theatre, the role didn’t begin to infiltrate mainstream sets until 2017 after Me Too and Times Up campaigns gained momentum and it became evident they were pertinent to protect actors’ safety. Now for many productions having an intimacy co-ordinator on staff is as standard practice as catering or a hair and make-up team. And intimacy co-ordinators aren’t just creating aesthetic or ethical improvements, but cultural ones too. The way society represents intimacy — in film, television, books and in the media — has real-life consequences, says sexologist Chantelle Otten. The author and podcaster points out that many of the films people grew up with (she lists cult-classics American Pie and How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days as examples) were all fast-moving and exciting which was far removed from the sex people are actually having. “So many people feel the pressure: the pressure to perform, the pressure to be woke enough to know that there is a difference between TV and what is happening for them,” she explains. “A lot of people really don’t understand their own emotions, and if you don’t understand your own emotions, how are you meant to know how to translate what is happening between the discourse in terms of public opinion and what is happening in your own bedroom?” For Otten, a fulfilling sex life isn’t something you stumble into; it’s something you build. And what’s often missing on screen is exactly that — the build-up, the communication, and the conversations happening not just between partners but among friends too. Emily Kingsley is proof of the impact more nuanced portrayals can have. The Australian intimacy co-ordinator — who has worked on psychological thriller The Surfer starring Nicolas Cage, comedy Ghosts Australia, and gothic horror Proclivitas — says growing up queer in rural WA meant that film and television were more than entertainment; they were a lifeline and a first glimpse into identity and self-expression. Those formative experiences, combined with a rich career in theatre and film and a SAG-AFTRA Intimacy Co-ordination Certification, now fuel Kingsley’s mission to bring a broader range of stories and perspectives to the screen. “Instead of shaming ourselves for not living up to a polished, manufactured ideal or a single story, we can start making room for realness (which includes) imperfection, vulnerability, expressivity, and the kind of intimacy that only emerges when we show up as we truly are,” she says. In Australia, Kingsley says intimacy co-ordinators are becoming a more common presence on sets, but the profession is still in its early stages and largely unregulated. “This can sometimes result in individuals stepping into the role — only for them or the production to soon realise they’re not fully prepared for the work,” she says. “That’s why proper experience, mentorship, and a strong understanding of leading practices are so essential. It’s a complex role, and like many new disciplines, there are aspects that people stepping into the role may not even know they don’t know.” When O’Brien, an actor by trade, first started in the industry it was a wild west landscape where sexual demands or harassment on a specific set ensured she knew to leave an after-show party early. She writes that for decades the “dangerous dynamic” persisted until it reached a tipping point in 2017 with the Harvey Weinstein allegations and things were forced to change. Throughout her career O’Brien had been putting together a code of practice, which is now the Intimacy On Set guidelines that are used by major production houses, as well as across professional and amateur productions. Yet despite the growing support, not everyone in the film industry is convinced an intimacy co-ordinator is necessary on set. Gwyneth Paltrow, for instance, asked the intimacy co-ordinator to step back a bit during sex scenes with Timothee Chalamet on Marty Supreme — her first leading role in a film since 2010. “I’m from the era where you get naked, you get in bed, the camera’s on,” she told Vanity Fair. Jennifer Aniston expressed a similar sentiment when filming The Morning Show. She reportedly brushed off the intimacy co-ordinator hired to oversee a scene between her and co-star Jon Hamm, telling Vanity Fair: “I’m like: ‘Please, this is awkward enough!’ We’re seasoned – we can figure this one out.” In an interview with The Times, Toni Collette spoke about feeling more anxious than at ease when working with intimacy co-ordinators in her past, but noted she’s been fortunate to have “’only worked with a few arseholes over the several decades that I’ve managed to keep this boat afloat”. While it’s evident that some of Hollywood’s heavyweights are yet to get on board, it isn’t strictly generational resistance at play. In Anora — the Academy Award-winning film directed by Sean Baker — 26-year-old Mikey Madison played a stripper, Ani, who quickly becomes engaged to her wealthy Russian client, Vanya (Mark Eydelshteyn). Despite the film’s explicit content and R rating, it was made without an intimacy co-ordinator. During a Variety Actors On Actors conversation with Pamela Anderson, Madison explained that she was offered the opportunity to work with one but decided against it in order to keep it streamline, small and to shoot it “super quickly” calling it a “very positive experience”. This decision to forgo an intimacy co-ordinator — whether it comes from a seasoned actor or young rising star — reveals the lingering misconception that sex or intimacy miraculously happen and that safety and spontaneity are mutually exclusive. But as Kingsley and O’Brien both make clear, their role isn’t to make scenes more awkward or deny creativity. They work to create environments where actors can feel safe and supported while sharing more authentic representations of sex on screen. “Representation, both on screen and behind the scenes, truly enriches our storytelling,” says Kingsley. “Authenticity isn’t always neat: it can be messy, honest, awkward, raw, and diverse — just like real life. And that’s what makes it meaningful. We are all human. We are all imperfect. But it is exactly these imperfections that have the power to connect us most deeply to each other.”

Intimacy coordinators: Meet the women changing the way we view sex on screen — and in our bedrooms

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