Dying for Sex Redefines Desire in the Face of Mortality
Last year, John Crowley tugged at heartstrings with the sentimental drama “We Live in Time,” where a terminally ill woman (Florence Pugh) grappled with career and motherhood. This spring, Elizabeth Meriwether and Kim Rosenstock, creators of the sitcom “New Girl,” alongside “Babyteeth” director Shannon Murphy, delve into the unyielding finitude of life and the shadow of death. Despite its playful title and genre trappings, “Dying for Sex” is a profoundly tragic work at its core. Anchored by the true story of 45-year-old Molly Cohen, the series inspires as much as it moves to tears.
Molly Cohen (Michelle Williams) learns of her devastating diagnosis during a family therapy session with her husband, Steve (Jay Duplass), whose affection for her seems to have faded entirely. Clinging to her last reserves of optimism, Molly files for divorce and joins Tinder, determined to spend her remaining days chasing the elusive spark of female fulfillment—an orgasm. Her steadfast friend Nikki Boyer (Jenny Slate), an emotionally and financially unsteady actress, helps her navigate the chaos of nerve-racking dates and grueling chemotherapy. Together, they face life’s unpredictability, from fainting during BDSM encounters to an accidental porn leak online.
In 2015, the real Molly Cohen was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. Rather than succumbing to despair, she chose to reinvent her life. In 2020, her friend Nikki Boyer launched a six-episode podcast, “Dying for Sex,” where Molly candidly shared the realities of living in a dying body, her romantic escapades, and childhood traumas. The podcast became a sensation, downloaded over five million times. Listeners were drawn to Molly’s raw honesty and her unyielding drive to live and learn happiness despite medical prognoses. Amid growing interest in feminism on and off the screen, “Dying for Sex” proved a goldmine for Hollywood. The resulting series, inspired by the podcast, speaks unflinchingly about female sexuality with no preamble or censorship.
“Dying for Sex” loosely mirrors the narrative arcs of films like “Now Is Good,” “50/50,” and “The Fault in Our Stars,” but with a crucial distinction: this is not a tale of romantic love but of sexual awakening. A quiet thread runs through the story—the struggle for bodily autonomy, stolen from Molly first by a man and later by illness. As a young girl, she endured sexual abuse from her mother’s partner (a chillingly serene Sissy Spacek), leaving invisible yet searing scars. Molly’s sexual odyssey is a desperate bid to reclaim what was lost: not just the ability to climax but the joy of feeling desired. She explores a spectrum of kinks—from dominance to degradation—alongside sex toys, pornography, BDSM clubs, and lovers of varying appeal. On the brink of death, Molly finally grants herself permission to be herself. Her bedroom experiments, sometimes awkward and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny, feel far more authentic than the polished escapades of Samantha Jones in “Sex and the City.”
Meriwether and Rosenstock infuse the onscreen Molly with nuances absent from the podcast, guided by consultant Nikki Boyer. They deliberately streamline the cast, with figures like the grating Neighbor (Rob Delaney) serving as a composite of men who aided Molly’s journey of sexual self-discovery. Defying genre norms, the show’s explicit scenes are strikingly chaste. Meriwether and Rosenstock sidestep the mechanics of physical intimacy, focusing instead on the emotional currents of connection. Meriwether has shared that she drew inspiration for these moments from Hulu’s “Normal People,” adapted from Sally Rooney’s novel.
In a world where sex is still often framed as a male prerogative, with women cast as perpetual objects, “Dying for Sex” challenges outdated norms. It empowers its audience to decide when, where, how, and with whom—free from judgment or unsolicited advice. Ultimately, libido is no myth but a force women have been unfairly denied for centuries.
