Television, as a medium, has always mirrored society’s core values and discomforts, particularly when it comes to sex. Historically, it’s a domain that has revolved around male desires and visual gratification. Whether in glossy network dramas or gritty streaming originals, on-screen sex is often filtered through a masculine lens – performative, predictable, and more concerned with aesthetics than emotional truth. Enter Dying for Sex, the latest boundary-defying miniseries from Disney+, which dares to invert those expectations with astonishing empathy, raw humor, and radical vulnerability.
Dying for Sex
Loosely adapted from the acclaimed Wondery podcast of the same name, Dying for Sex chronicles the real-life odyssey of Molly Kochan, whose terminal breast cancer diagnosis ignited not just an existential awakening but a sexual reawakening. What makes this story revolutionary isn’t merely the premise – a dying woman choosing to spend her final days in search of pleasure – but the execution, spearheaded by a phenomenal performance from Michelle Williams and grounded in deeply felt female friendship.
Let’s start with the brilliance of the show’s concept. In a television landscape overcrowded with stories about trauma and survival, Dying for Sex stands out by focusing on how terminal illness can become an unexpected portal to radical joy and agency. The series opens not with Molly’s diagnosis, but with a powerful scene during couples counseling. Williams, portraying Molly with exquisite emotional control, receives the devastating news while navigating a marriage that has all but dissolved into caretaker-patient dynamics. Her husband, Steve (portrayed with quiet sadness by Jay Duplass), has emotionally checked out, leaving Molly not only facing her mortality but mourning the premature death of their intimacy.
That call becomes the spark for the journey that follows – not just a journey through the increasingly eccentric spectrum of human sexuality, but through the emotional terrain of grief, identity, and friendship. Molly doesn’t merely want to feel alive before she dies; she wants to reclaim her body, her desire, and her voice. It’s a theme that pulses through every episode.
Molly’s transformation isn’t a solo act. Enter Nikki, played with charming chaos and comedic warmth by Jenny Slate. Nikki is not just a friend, but the kind of soul-companion whose love, support, and occasional ridiculousness create the emotional bedrock of the series. Where Molly embarks on a physical quest, Nikki is her constant spiritual mirror, reminding viewers that true intimacy often resides in friendship, not romance.
From the outset, it’s clear that Dying for Sex is uninterested in replicating the tropes of traditional erotic dramas. There’s no male gaze here, no aestheticized sex scenes meant to titillate. Instead, we get raw, awkward, often hilarious encounters that reflect the full spectrum of human sexuality. The series dives headfirst into kink culture – from pup play to BDSM, cock cages to orgasmic self-discovery – but always filters these experiences through Molly’s perspective. This is crucial. The camera is aligned with her gaze, her needs, her confessions. It’s sexy only when she finds it sexy. It’s awkward only when she feels discomfort. That subtle but radical shift turns what could have been exploitative into something deeply personal and transformative.
Williams’ performance is a revelation. We’ve seen her tackle emotionally complex roles before, but here she channels something far more primal and intimate. Her Molly is fierce, funny, and flawed. She’s not here to be an inspirational cancer patient or a martyr for the cause of bodily autonomy. She’s a woman who wants more from life – even as it’s slipping away – and is unapologetically willing to chase it. In many scenes, Williams oscillates between profound grief and giddy liberation with the kind of nuance that makes you forget you’re watching a performance.
Yet what gives Dying for Sex its unexpected emotional heft is how it redefines the concept of soulmates. While Molly’s romantic and sexual escapades form the show’s spine, the beating heart is her bond with Nikki. As Molly becomes more empowered sexually, Nikki must reckon with her own avoidance of responsibility, particularly as she takes over some of Molly’s caregiving duties. It’s a dynamic that evolves gracefully, avoiding sentimentality in favor of honesty.
There’s a generosity in how the series treats its supporting characters, too. Rob Delaney is particularly memorable as Molly’s oddball neighbor with a masochistic streak, bringing tenderness to a role that could’ve easily veered into caricature. Even Sissy Spacek, in her brief but poignant appearance as Molly’s estranged mother, provides a powerful counterweight to Molly’s journey – reminding us that sexual trauma and childhood wounds are never far from the surface, no matter how much pleasure we pursue.
The writing is sharp, often laugh-out-loud funny, and refreshingly devoid of euphemism. It doesn’t flinch from showing the ugly logistics of illness – medication schedules, insurance bureaucracy, bodily degradation – but it never lets those elements define Molly’s story. There’s no pity here, only perspective.
If the series has a flaw, it’s that it leaves you wanting more – not because it’s underdeveloped, but because the world it creates is so vivid, so unlike anything else on television, that six episodes feel too brief. With such rich characters and themes, a longer format might have given more space to explore Molly’s history, her marriage, her friendships, and her inner turmoil. But perhaps that’s the point: Molly’s time is limited, and so is ours. The show doesn’t just tell us that – it makes us feel it.
There are moments in Dying for Sex that resonate like a gut punch, moments of silence that speak louder than any monologue. One such scene involves Molly quietly masturbating in a hotel room, confronting both her loneliness and her longing in equal measure. Another is a quiet conversation between Molly and Nikki, late at night, where the specter of death hovers gently above them, yet their laughter cuts through it like a knife.
It’s in these moments that Dying for Sex transcends genre and becomes something altogether more profound: a meditation on mortality, identity, and the urgent need to reclaim joy in a world that often discourages women from seeking it. The show isn’t just about sex. It’s about permission – to feel, to explore, to say yes to life even as it slips away.
Dying for Sex is a triumphant piece of television – emotionally rich, sexually radical, and narratively daring. It reclaims eroticism from the margins, placing it firmly within the experience of female autonomy and friendship. In doing so, it upends every stale television trope we’ve come to accept and offers something that feels, finally, new.
It’s not often that a show can change the way you think about life, death, and everything in between. Dying for Sexdoesn’t just change your mind – it opens it.
