If “sex” is in the title of a TV show, I am probably going to watch it — and if Michelle Williams is in it, I am definitely going to watch it — but I have some sex-positive friends who nonetheless were turned off by the title of Dying for Sex, thinking it would be something cheesy like an American Pie-style sex romp. Fortunately, this enthralling limited series was a beautiful creative animal unto itself, its comedy and drama deftly balanced, with the sex as much a symbol of self-discovery as it is a source of humor. That the sex turned out to be largely BDSM sex was a delightful surprise to this BDSM writer.
Based on a true story about a woman in midlife named Molly (stunningly portrayed by Williams), who is literally dying of Stage IV cancer, she is also metaphorically dying to have satisfying sex. Because of childhood sexual trauma Molly has never, she tells her best friend Nikki (a ferocious Jenny Slate), experienced an orgasm with another human being, and certainly not with her overly solicitous husband who sees her only as a tragic victim. And so, Molly, with the limited time left to her, leaves her asexual marriage and with the help of the ever game Nikki, she sets out to discover what might spark her desire.
As it turns out, what she most desires is to be in control in the bedroom, and a trip to a BDSM dungeon shows her exactly how she might wield that control. In the captivating journey that follows, Molly discovers her inner Dominant, partly from encounters with her handsome and very submissive Neighbor Guy (the pitch perfect Rob Delaney), all while battling a crippling onslaught of the cancer that wanders her body and leaves it too broken to have actual sex. In this knowing and sensitive series, BDSM is never trivialized or introduced for laughs — even though several of the D/s scenes are profoundly funny — but is presented in all its glory as a path of healing. Molly is able to explore her desires with a number of men who need to surrender to a woman as much as she needs to dominate them, with much playful abandon as well as much care. Most gratifyingly, there is nothing cookie-cutter or predictable in the BDSM-focused scenes; instead, those scenes convey exactly how BDSM feels in real life, sometimes awkward, sometimes sublime, always surprising. But then, that’s how everything in this achingly lovely series is rendered, whether it’s the sex scenes or Molly’s cancer battle and its pain, or her intense soulmate-style friendship with Nikki. Her journey to satisfying sex teaches her (and us) exactly how to live (holding space for pleasure amidst pain), as well as how to die with grace and dignity.
I wish all movies and series that feature BDSM would present it with such care and respect. I also wish more series were anything close to this good, period. The writing, the direction and the luminous performances of the two leading ladies were exemplary, and I binged the whole series in two days. Then I binged it again a few weeks later with my husband, both of us laughing and crying throughout the skillfully paced eight episodes. If Dying for Sex doesn’t win at least some of the nine Emmys it has been nominated for (as of this writing), there is something wrong with the world. Or maybe it could be just something wrong with the title? Either way, I have been dying to tell everyone I know to watch this heartrending but ultimately joyful series, what I consider the best television of the year, and my favorite series of the entire decade.
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