Consent is not embarrassing and feeling awkward is a small price to pay for true intimacy

With a huge international following on both sides of the Atlantic, the hit series Bridgerton is a case in point about the central role consent plays in heightening passion and connection

Bridgerton season four, Picture: Netflix

Sex in Ireland has long been a topic few of us openly discuss. Many of us remember the contentious, day-long debate on RTÉ Radio 1’s Liveline in 2020 about the explicit nature of Normal People.

Daisy Edgar Jones as Marianne and Paul Mescal as Connell in Normal People. Photographer: Enda Bowe

We can laugh about comments comparing it to “a porno movie” now, but what we may not have realised at the time is just how pioneering popular culture can be in shaping and normalising conversations about sex, intimacy, and indeed, consent. Since then, we’ve had many series  which have pushed those conversations further, but few as successfully as Bridgerton, Netflix’s hit Regency-era show known for its scandalous storylines and steamy romances.

Yerin Ha as Sophie Beckett and Luke Thompson as Benedict Bridgerton in episode 401 of Bridgerton. Picture: Netflix

Back for a fourth season, with two more on the way, its appeal ranges from lavish costumes to inclusive casting. For many viewers, though, it’s the show’s particularly passionate sex scenes that have captured the most attention. Amid the spectacle, Bridgerton centres on communication, consent, and female pleasure more than most mainstream depictions of sex.

In later seasons, intimacy builds slowly, rather than racing toward the inevitable. Pauses and hesitation are all part of the courtship. In season two, when Kate and Anthony finally get together, consent is central.

“I will stop,” says Anthony, to which Kate replies, “Do not stop”.

“I think there’s something incredibly sexy about consent generally,” Jonathan Bailey said in an interview, explaining that the line wasn’t originally scripted but was put in to be “respectful” and “understanding”.

Historically, sex scenes on TV and in film have followed quite a rigid formula; they’re almost always spontaneous, wordless, performance-driven, and crucially, overwhelmingly centred on male pleasure. Consent is rarely articulated, and silence has long been mistaken for “chemistry”.

“There’s a misconception that consent is embarrassing, that it’s going to ruin the mood, that it’s awkward,” says Grace Alice O’Shea, a sex and intimacy specialist, author, and podcaster. “But just because something feels a bit awkward doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.

“Actually, awkwardness is a very small price to pay for the knowledge that both you and your partner are really happy with what’s going on and you’re both really enjoying yourselves.”

How consent can deepen desire

Bridgerton’s love scenes are arguably more nuanced than other depictions of sex, but as O’Shea mentions, very little of the content we consume is totally realistic. Sex may appear to unfold organically on screen, but it has been carefully orchestrated to look that way.

“It’s so scripted,” she says, citing the rise of intimacy coordinators who plan sex scenes out “almost like a fight scene or an action scene”.

Porn, she adds, operates similarly. It is “adult entertainment”, not education —centred on fantasy and performance, rather than communication or mutual pleasure. If consent isn’t being expressed or communicated in the media we’re consuming, it’s easy to see why having those conversations in real life can feel “unnatural” to people — but they shouldn’t.

Simone Ashley as Kate Sharma, Jonathan Bailey as Anthony Bridgerton in episode 204 of Bridgerton. Picture: Netflix

“I would argue it’s the most natural thing in the world to want your partner to feel really good,” says O’Shea.

As with any television drama or Netflix production, Bridgerton’s sex scenes have been meticulously planned out, but they still make room for hesitation, reassurance, and shared participation, showing that consent can exist as part of desire.

Of course, alcohol can further complicate matters, as it impairs our ability to give valid consent.

“Alcohol blurs and weakens our capacity to be fully present and to make good decisions,” says O’Shea.

If the two are to mix, both parties must have an open conversation beforehand. The HSE’s sexual wellbeing guidance reflects this, highlighting that consent requires capacity and clarity. Consent is not simply the absence of a “no”, but the presence of a clear and voluntary “yes” — something that becomes more difficult under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

Dominant sexual scripts — reinforced through popular culture and wider social expectations — have perpetuated the idea that men are verbally assertive while women communicate desire indirectly, through body language, passivity, or silence.

“Wider culture often teaches people what sex should look like, but not how it should be negotiated,” says psychosexual and relationship therapist Aoife Drury. When desire is framed this way — “immediate and wordless”, as Drury puts it — the responsibility for initiating and interpreting consent is unevenly distributed.

“Many dominant sexual scripts still frame men as initiators and women as responders,” she continues. “Responsibility for clarity isn’t shared equally, which creates situations where ambiguity is normalised, even though it’s a poor substitute for consent.”

Bridgerton disrupts the traditional imbalance, showing communication flowing both ways, with female desire at the centre rather than on the periphery as we’ve come to expect.

According to research in the bestselling book

Come As You Are by Emily Nagoski, 70% of women can only climax through clitoral stimulation. Bridgerton centring female pleasure shouldn’t be groundbreaking, but unfortunately, it’s still a new concept.

As Julia Quinn, the author of the books that inspired the screen adaptation of Bridgerton , once said: “That feminisation of intimacy is so revolutionary that people say, ‘well, it must be sexy and raunchy.’” But the only difference is that it is being shown through the female gaze.

Communication is vital

Why does clear, enthusiastic, informed consent lead to better sexual experiences? Because, as O’Shea points out: “The best sex and intimacy comes from being able to be vulnerable with a partner and being able to talk about what you’re into, what you like, what you want. To do that, [you need] a level of communicated consent, ideally physical and verbal.”

Whether it’s casual or committed is besides the point, because “consent needs to happen in all sorts of conversations”.

“To be a good sexual partner is to be a good sexual communicator,” she continues. “You can’t separate the two.”

Drury echoes the idea that good sex is rooted in communication, emphasising that consent must be ongoing. People mistakenly believe that it’s just for first-time lovers, but that isn’t so.

Luke Newton as Colin Bridgerton, Nicola Coughlan as Penelope Bridgerton in episode 401 of Bridgerton. Picture: Netflix

“Desires, bodies, and circumstances change, and intimacy needs to be able to respond to that,” she says.

“Most misunderstandings and harm actually occur in long-term relationships, where consent is often assumed rather than checked in with. Seeing consent as evolving allows space for nuance, change of mind, and different kinds of intimacy. Consent then can support a connection that is responsive rather than routine.”

While false assumptions and misunderstandings persist about sex, it’s clear that consent is now widely recognised enough to provoke collective criticism when it’s mishandled — a cultural shift that would have seemed unlikely two decades ago.

“We’re in a transition period,” says Drury. “Having the language doesn’t always mean it’s easy to live out in relationships and communicate our needs… people are more informed, but still unlearning deep-seated scripts around gender, responsibility, and who sex is ‘for’.”

Part of that transition has also been moving away from intimacy designed with just heterosexual men in mind.

For decades, mainstream depictions of sex have centred on male pleasure —treating male orgasm as the natural end point and largely forgetting female desire. Bridgerton has shown that stories told for women, from their perspective, can have huge power — not just in reframing intimacy, but in encouraging more honest conversations.

Bridgerton season four, Picture: Netflix

Beyond film and TV, projects like the Department of Justice’s recent advert campaign helps normalise the concept of consent in sexual relationships, framing it as an ongoing conversation as opposed to a one-off agreement. If consent has become central to how we understand good sex, then perhaps Bridgerton’s real appeal lies in how seamlessly it weaves that into its storylines. The sexual tension doesn’t come from uncertainty or miscommunication between characters, but from anticipation and mutual enjoyment.

By treating communication as integral to desire —and female pleasure as important — the series reflects a cultural shift. It’s not about sex without limits, but intimacy shaped by clarity, agency, and mutual choice.