My initial reaction on hearing about Netflix’s new reality series How to Build a Sex Room was full-body cringe. There was simply no way this show would be sexy. At best, it was going to be lightly embarrassing for everyone involved – from Mike, a confused contractor tasked with installing a red pleather saddle, to his blushing junior apprentice and son, who is forced to watch his dad gently flog Melanie Rose, the show’s daffy host.
At worst, the series was going to entice viewers with the promise of sex-positive voyeurism, then exploit couples’ kinkier fantasies for awkward laughs. Plus, the rooms themselves would be wildly tacky and, like most TV makeovers, shoddily executed.
Well, I was wrong. Mostly. How to Build a Sex Room isn’t a sexy show, but neither is it a mean one. American couples of all marital statuses, races, sexualities, and even sizes – I refer here both to the heights of the lovers and to how many people comprise a romantic coupling – are encouraged to name what turns them on so that middle-aged English interior designer Melanie Rose can build them a room that suits. But for most, a sex room is aspirational. People want them so that they can figure out what they want from their sex lives, which also makes Melanie Rose an amateur sex therapist for people who didn’t realise they could use one. And she’s so sincerely good at her job that How to Build a Sex Room ekes out a reality TV miracle: it leaves you genuinely uplifted about the human race.
The format is simple. Melanie Rose is a pleasure-palace guru with short-cropped hair and an array of brightly hued blazers. If you’re picturing Prue Leith but more approachable, you’re doing it right. Like on any makeover show, she first meets with couples to discuss their renovation needs. A self-proclaimed “single as hell” 52-year-old woman wants a chic spot to try out hook-up culture. For a couple with a dramatic height mismatch, the issue is that their toddler has appropriated the entire house. “It’s my opinion that young parents are the most in need of a sex room,” Melanie Rose pontificates to camera.
Her clients are exceptionally well cast to maximise diversity, relatability and the frisson of scandal, often at the same time. Those toddler parents have, according to the mother, “struggled for so long to have shower sex because of our height difference”. So Melanie builds them a custom bathroom with an inversion table. Affectionate Soriya, who is in a seven-person polyamorous “family” that includes her ex-husband, really wants a bed big enough for a “cuddle puddle”. She’d also like to indulge her golden shower fantasies but it’s impractical because their basement is fully carpeted! So the willing crew install a floor drain because, on How to Build a Sex Room, form follows kinky function.
At first, I found Melanie Rose’s “aren’t I so casual and enlightened about sex” routine a little grating. It feels, at least on camera, relentlessly performative. Did she really need Mike to practise flogging her on that spanking bench? Do those brass penis hooks really make her “happy”? But an air of cultivated eccentricity is her most important tool. It puts her clients at ease, so much so that they divulge secrets to her that they’ve never shared with their partners.
Melanie’s there when one husband learns that the mother of his three children has never orgasmed. And she’s not just there – she actually forces the reckoning under the guise of talking about what sex toys they’ll need to complete the suite. For Melanie, nothing about sex is embarrassing, and, in a loving relationship, there’s no sex problem too big for a sex room to solve.
Which brings us to the rooms themselves. Sorry, Melanie, but they are hideous. One couple is searching for the G-spot, and she decorates their bedroom with a chrome stripper pole. A gay long-distance couple get a regrettable “Yes, Sir” neon sign (and, to be fair, some very hot if cheesy Tom of Finland-inspired boudoir photos of themselves). Instead of a sex room, a couple of “frisky farmers” get a “sex shed”, complete with red gingham curtains and shiplap, the horizontal timber cladding made ubiquitous by Fixer Upper host Joanna Gaines. Is there any wallcovering less erotic than shiplap?
But here’s the thing: every single client absolutely loves Melanie’s work. I’ve seen enough reality TV to know when someone’s faking. The reveal vibes are real, and they are horny. The stripper pole was inspired by a pair of heels Melanie unearthed in the back of mom’s closet. Does she wear them in her real life as a community organiser? No. But Melanie sees people how they’d like to be seen... in bed.
The “how” in How to Build a Sex Room isn’t accidental or superfluous. Melanie Rose also doubles as the world’s least intimidating sex-shop worker. She explains what that crystal butt plug is before you have to ask. She’ll get you a Sybian saddle, and make sure the vibrating masturbation device – imagine a pommel horse bench with a dildo on top – is in working order before she leaves.
Sure, the result isn’t sexy, but it’s surprisingly, delightfully and deceptively educational.
‘How to Build a Sex Room’ is streaming on Netflix now
