By Candice Helfand-Rogers
Do you recall the first time you were confronted with the idea of your own sexuality?
My introduction came in the form of a hidden stash of Penthouse Letters magazines, accidentally found in a forgotten box on a forgotten shelf in the largely forgotten attic of my childhood home. In what would become a pre-teen habit of mine, I snuck one issue into my bedroom on the day of this discovery to read about strangers’ sexual exploits by flashlight while hiding under a blanket post-bedtime.
I wouldn’t behold the real, in-motion deal, however, until several years later, when I tuned the cable box I was at last permitted to have in my teenage bedroom to HBO, volume lowered to basically-mute while everyone else slept. It was in those moments that I’d watch episodes of another innocent-yet-illicit discovery: The network’s salacious past offering, “Real Sex.”
For the uninitiated (or the young), “Real Sex” was a docu-series that debuted in 1990, one of HBO’s earliest forays into original content. Throughout its run, which after an oddly-spaced-out 33 episodes concluded in 2009, the show took unflinching looks at… well, you name it: Masturbation and cunnilingus classes, fetishes ranging from whips and feet to sex dolls and toys, nudist colonies, erotic video game makers, penis puppetry… everything your mind could possibly imagine or heart could desire – and a great deal more.
Each interest was explored in its own informative vignette, with several of them packed into each episode – live footage of the kink du jour in all its glory, woven with show-and-tell-all interviews with experts and enthusiasts alike, presented with a similar live, unfiltered feel to another popular 1990s offering, “The Real World.”
It was perverse. Enticing. Sometimes uncomfortable. Often challenging. Of its time, in good and bad ways. Always insightful. Everyone was enthusiastically consenting. It was largely respectful — if wholly irreverent.
And everyone involved was, as the title promised, real. By that, I mean that these were not the mostly white, gym-sculpted individuals mainstream pornographic offerings feature. The bodies of those on “Real Sex” came in most every color and size. And none of their differences or imperfections mattered when the orgasm was approaching. (Those were real, too.) It was about the pleasure, the appreciation, the exploration, the connection. Every time.
The fun started at the outset. The familiar static and C-major hum of the classic HBO title card gave way to, depending on where you were in the series, a theme song that played to the raunchiness to come through bawdy, brassy instrumentation and previews of the night’s focal points, or a slinky, bouncy tune that scored an artist’s rainbow renderings of individuals pleasuring themselves and one another.
One of the earliest installments of the series took viewers on a journey through voyeuristic displays for pay, a couple who documented and shared their intimate moments (using the sort of bulky camcorder permanently perched upon the shoulders of early-90s dads) – and, most memorably for me, a sit-down with Madame Beverly Harrell, founder of the Cottontail Ranch, a legal and licensed Nevada brothel. (Not to be confused with the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, a different Nevada brothel that was the subject of its own HBO show.) What stuck out to me was the separation she and her employees experienced between sexuality and emotion – an experiential narrative for women that’s negated by most every other form and example of storytelling out there.
A later episode visited women learning, together, how to manipulate and orally “work” a penis to greatest pleasurable effect, readings of explicit “punany poetry,” and an unflinching examination of the oft-mocked foot fetish. Only, the show didn’t make fun (at least, that was my read of it) – the tone was light, but the respect for its feet-loving subjects was clear, even as they zoomed in tight on a perfectly painted toe making its way between an eager gentleman’s lips.
I recall laughing at times, anyway – either when watching by myself, or alongside the friends with whom I inevitably shared this treasure trove. But the laughs were part of the experience, too – even beyond my clique’s juvenile discomfort. Interspersed throughout each “Real Sex” episode were man-on-the-street style chats with individuals, couples and groups caught off-guard but game to talk about sex – while having their own giggles in the process.
Because as “Real Sex” reminded its viewers, sex should be fun. Imperfect, weird, powerful, exploratory, immersive fun.
In the world we now live, such an amusing, marvelously flawed, sometimes very messy and earnestly educational offering — one that takes some time with its subjects — feels like it might as well have been broadcast from another planet. And the experience of accidentally finding such fare feels as increasingly inaccessible as other solar systems do.
To stay with the sexual for a moment: It’s true that the ubiquity of internet access and smartphone technology makes it so that most every sexual fantasy is instantly catered to – just a Google search and finger tap separate you from most anything you can imagine.
But the mainstream stuff, as previously mentioned, is largely populated by white, slim, able-bodied, cis-presenting individuals engaging in heteronormative sex, with scenarios that often involve off-putting power dynamics (both on- and off-camera). The rapid development of AI technology allows folks to manufacture anything, true… yet in pornographic contexts, it’s largely used to generate more of the same – or far worse, overtly disturbing fare. A failure of imagination, born of the mechanics of our present home entertainment landscape.
Because, how is anyone supposed to explore wondrous, consensual variety, or discover something new about one’s own sexuality, or cultivate a healthy sexual imagination, or appreciate how sexual openness often courts imperfection… when they’re never given the opportunity to sort out what they want, what they’re looking for, or what can be by exploring the good possibilities in more real, less manufactured and spoon-fed ways?
It’s a problem plaguing our broader entertainment landscape, as cable TV’s decline into near-death coincides with the rise and current domination of streaming platforms. Home entertainment, especially, has adopted a sort of “find what you seek” model, while moving increasingly away from an a la carte one that tells viewers: “Here’s what’s on offer.” (Of note: You can’t find “Real Sex” on HBO or on its streaming service, Max.)
As an elder millennial, I am one of the last to have childhood memories of finding beloved bits of entertainment by chance. Beyond my “Real Sex” experience, my lack of control over what was airing in patches of boredom led me to find entertainment offerings made beyond my own time such as “The Sound of Music,” “Happy Days,” “Clue” and the works of Connie Francis and Meatloaf.
Now, everything is watched on demand. Cord-cutting, or the practice of canceling cable subscriptions in favor of maintaining a suite of streaming services, continues to rise in the U.S. Just 36% of American households had cable packages as of December 2025 – in 2011, it was 80% of homes. Streaming was supposed to be a more convenient, money-saving alternative, but American families are spending just shy of $140 per month on a mix of bundled services, and most are still not fully avoiding ads.
When it comes to sorting out what to watch on these platforms, research shows that personal recommendations reign supreme, with social media-based suggestions growing increasingly influential among younger viewers. Those finding entertainment through happenstance or other scenarios that don’t involve external suggestion? Less than 5%, a figure that’s growing smaller as time goes on.
We’re also in something of an even broader crisis when it comes to curiosity, and fun. Adults in the U.S. are going months on end without discovering new shows or songs to add to their rotations. Nearly half of Americans report lives lacking in enjoyment. We’re on our smart devices more than ever, yet despite the world of knowledge and entertainment that could be opened up during our scrolling, we are often staying stuck in what we already know.
Everyone is missing out as a result — big time — but younger generations most of all. We’re losing out on the necessity of exploration of music, TV shows and films from other eras and places in the world. We’re losing out on the exposure to variety and difference that comes with happening upon what’s available in a given moment – on the chance to stumble upon something great. We’re losing out on learning about how we work, how we interact, how we love and play and grow – and fuck – through accident and discovery.
And we’re having way less fun as a result.
For me, beholding the fullness and weirdness of humanity and sexuality at a formative time in my life opened my mind (and libido) to the beauty and thrill that imperfection and difference can bring.
It can all be so exciting, this process of looking-and-finding – if only one’s open to it. We cannot control what lights us up, but even within those parameters, there are gradients just waiting to be traversed, waiting to delight us.
Today, we’re losing out on sex as something fun, empowering and exploratory (especially as social interest in sex overall wanes, most notably among Gen Z) by losing out on programs like “Real Sex.” But looking and thinking more broadly, we're losing out on exploring who we could be when presented with life beyond our own living, because our current media and social landscape discourages the very act of exploration.
Stumbling upon this show by accident in my teenage bedroom proved a critical part of the process of becoming who I am now. It helped me understand myself as a bisexual woman. It helped me understand my relationship to sex itself. It helped me truly appreciate sex as something accessible, something thrilling, something to be discussed, and enjoyed. Something, well … real. It helped me open up to all the possibilities.
How will future generations find the same in the world they inhabit? In a world that’s increasingly crafted and sustained by that which they already know?
Candice Helfand-Rogers is an accomplished journalist, essayist and editor living in New York City. Her writing has appeared on The Story Exchange, CBS, The 19th, Forbes and The Star-Ledger. Candice is also a professional singer - you can learn more about both of her careers on her website:candicehelfandrogers.com