The room is bare, lit by soft neon lights. A few mats are laid out on the floor, two blankets neatly folded, a water bottle and a notebook. There is nothing scenic about it. No four-poster beds, no film set. Just a neutral space where, for the next six hours, people will talk about bodies, boundaries, and how to protect them when the work requires putting them on display.
It is half past nine on a spring morning. Eight people sit in a circle: three actresses, two actors, a director, a director of photography, and a woman in her mid-forties with her hair pulled back and a grey sweater. Her name is Sara M., and for six years she has worked as an intimacy coordinator. Her role, on audiovisual productions that include scenes of nudity or intimacy, is to act as a bridge between narrative needs and the well-being of the people who have to perform those scenes.
“Today we won’t be shooting anything,” she says, opening her notebook. “Today we’ll learn how to talk about the things that are usually left unsaid.”
Intimacy coordination is a relatively recent professional role in Europe. Born in the United States after the #MeToo movement, it has slowly spread to Europe as well, especially in independent productions and series. Its purpose is not to “censor” or make scenes less intense. On the contrary: it is about making intensity possible precisely because boundaries are clear and respected.
Sara begins with a simple exercise. She asks each person in turn to describe one area of their body they consider “private” and one they consider “public.” There is no need to explain why. Just name them. The answers come slowly: “The neck,” “the shoulders,” “the inner thighs,” “the chest,” “the hands.” Some people smile, others remain serious. The exercise is not meant to classify, but to remind everyone that every body has a different map, and that this map is not readable from the outside.
“On set,” Sara explains, “the first tool of protection is not the contract. It is conversation. Before any rehearsal of an intimate scene, there is a meeting called an ‘intimacy meeting.’ We all sit down: actors, director, any choreographer. We read the scene together. We ask: what makes you uncomfortable? What makes you feel safe? Which gestures are acceptable, which are not? We take notes. And those notes become part of the shooting plan.”
One of the actresses present, Chiara, 32, worked last year on an independent film that contained three sex scenes. She shares her experience:
“Before I met Sara, I thought it was enough to say ‘it’s fine’ or ‘it’s not fine.’ But it’s more subtle than that. In a scene where I had to be bare-chested, I said I didn’t want the camera to frame me from behind while I was bending over. Not because I was prudish, but because in that position I felt exposed in a way that didn’t serve the story. Sara spoke with the director of photography and they found a different angle. The scene remained powerful. I felt respected.”
The standard protocol of an intimacy coordinator includes several mandatory steps. Before shooting: the shared reading of the scene and the mapping of boundaries. During rehearsals: the use of “scaffolding” techniques — first practising the movements fully clothed, then adding one layer at a time, always asking for explicit consent at every stage. On set: the constant presence of the intimacy coordinator, who can interrupt at any moment if they sense discomfort. And finally, the “closed set” rule: during scenes of nudity or intimacy, only the people strictly necessary remain in the room. Everyone else leaves.
“It’s not a matter of modesty,” Sara insists. “It’s a matter of power. When you are naked in front of a camera, lights, and people watching you, the power dynamic is unbalanced. Our job is to rebalance it.”
Another important tool is the “safe word” or, more often, an agreed non-verbal gesture. Not because the scenes are improvised like in BDSM, but because sometimes the voice breaks or the situation becomes too intense. A simple gesture — raising a hand, touching an ear — allows the action to be stopped without having to explain.
During the workshop, Sara has the participants try a short choreography of a prolonged embrace. Two people approach each other, look at each other, touch each other’s shoulders, then wrap their arms around one another. At every step Sara asks: “Are you comfortable? Do you want to continue? Would you prefer to change something?” At first the participants answer automatically, almost out of politeness. Then, slowly, someone starts to say genuinely “no, wait” or “slower.” The atmosphere in the room changes. People breathe more easily.
Marco, a 28-year-old actor, intervenes:
“I came from a theatre background where they used to say ‘the body is an instrument, use it.’ It sounded nice, but in practice it meant you had to accept almost everything. The first time I worked with an intimacy coordinator I thought: finally someone is asking me what I want, not just what the scene needs.”
The director present, Elena, admits she initially had some resistance.
“I was afraid it would slow everything down, that it would kill the energy. Instead the opposite happened. When actors know they are protected, they dare more. They no longer have to defend themselves. They can enter the scene with greater freedom.”
Sara also talks about a less discussed aspect: aftercare following the shoot. After an intense scene, especially one involving nudity or simulated sexual acts, the body and mind can remain in a state of activation. The intimacy coordinator often stays with the actors for a few minutes, checks that they are okay, suggests they get dressed in a private area, drink some water, take a few breaths. It is not therapy. It is attention.
“The set is not a neutral place,” she says. “It is a workplace where people are asked to make very intimate parts of themselves available. If you don’t also take care of the ‘after,’ you risk leaving residues.”
In the afternoon the workshop moves on to a more technical topic: how to choreograph an intimate scene without it turning into dangerous improvisation. Sara shows a few principles borrowed from dance and martial arts: clear points of contact, defined trajectories, safe exits. It is not about “acting sex,” but about building a score of movements that can convey desire, tension, vulnerability, while always maintaining control.
“The difference between a raw scene and a powerful one,” she explains, “often lies in precision. When the bodies know exactly where to go and what they can or cannot do, the energy doesn’t dissipate into anxiety. It concentrates.”
Towards four in the afternoon, as the light outside the window begins to fade, Sara asks for a final round of words. What are people taking home from this day?
Chiara answers first: “The awareness that asking for boundaries is not an act of weakness. It is an act of professionalism.”
Marco adds: “That consent is not a single ‘yes’ at the beginning. It is an ongoing conversation.”
Elena, the director, concludes: “That protecting bodies does not impoverish stories. It makes them more truthful.”
Sara closes her notebook. She does not make any grand final speeches. She simply says:
“Our work exists because for too long bodies were treated as material. We try to remember that they are people. And that people, when they feel safe, can do extraordinary things.”
Outside, the city continues to move. Inside that room, for a few hours, something simple and radical at the same time was practised: talking about desire, exposure and limits without fear and without judgment. On an erotic set, where vulnerability is part of the work, this capacity is not optional. It is the condition that allows art to exist without leaving wounds.
Intimacy coordination does not eliminate erotic tension from scenes. It makes it sustainable. And in an industry that for too long confused intensity with a lack of respect, this distinction is not only technical. It is ethical. And, ultimately, deeply human.
