Dying for Sex (a review and recommendation)
By Macy Jones
I was sitting on my couch the other day, coffee in my lap, crochet blanket in my hands, when all of a sudden, I found myself sobbing from a show that I knew would tug at my heart strings but not in this particular way.
While channel surfing, I found myself clicking on Dying For Sex, an eight episode comedy drama miniseries streaming on Max. I had seen previews, knew that the premise followed Molly, a previous breast cancer survivor whose cancer has returned to shake up her life. The series opens with her and her husband turned caretaker in couples therapy while Molly dreams of past hook-ups with men who weren’t afraid to go down on her. After receiving the news, Molly decides that she can’t be in a sexless marriage and to leave her husband, relying on her best friend Nikki to support her through her cancer journey. I was expecting funny if not awkward hookups with strangers and sexual exploration with the backdrop of death and dying, but what I was not expecting was an incredible representation of sexual trauma, somatic therapy, and a nonjudgmental inquisition of kink that should be written about (aka, this blog).
(Spoilers ahead if you’d like to actually watch the show.)
Molly begins her sexual exploration through engaging in solo sex via vibrators and pornography, meeting people at bars, and moving to dating apps. As she begins to have sex with other partners, she realizes quickly that she has the desire to perform more dominant roles in the bedroom. In the show, you can see her engaging in many different forms of kink, such as play parties, pup play, and humiliation play. As someone who works with a lot of kinky folks, I felt like the show provided a very factual and nonjudgmental exploration of how kink was integrated into Molly’s sexual practice in an explorative and consensual way. We see how, in some cases, her kink partners are preferred company when her mother’s emotions become centered in Molly’s death journey or in Molly’s desire to know more about and express herself. Kink becomes a method that Molly uses for healing, all thanks to her palliative care social worker Sonya, who is, in my opinion, one of the best social worker roles I’ve ever seen on television (even if her ethics at times may be a little questionable. But hey-sometimes it’s nice to see how untraditional methods can facilitate.)
Molly eventually finds Neighbor Guy (who is never named) and begins engaging in a very raw, vulnerable dynamic with him while she is getting sicker and more unable to hide it. Alongside of her changing body, Molly also experiences visceral flashbacks of being molested at a young age by her mother’s boyfriend. In these scenes, the viewer sees a blurred figure come to stand behind her partners, showing up when she is about to climax. Viewers watch as Molly struggles with the flashback as if the perpetrator were right in the room with her, as an ever-looming threat and reminder that she is not safe.
When I first saw Molly get triggered in the middle of being naked and experiencing pleasure, I started sobbing. As a survivor of sexual trauma and a therapist to those who also have survived similar, I could not think of a better on-screen representation of how alive and real that trauma shows up in our lives, especially when we least expect it. Molly is a lucky person. Molly is supported by Neighbor Guy during sex. She is supported by Nikki when Molly decides to talk about her trauma out loud for the first time. She is supported in group therapy as someone else reads her story. She’s even supported when she can’t feel the emotions and express them in her body during group. One of the most beautiful moments of the entire show is when, after an especially triggering day, she’s alone in her room with Nikki, and she finally allows her body to express her feelings. From an outside perspective, she’s dancing, but underneath the surface, she’s allowing that pain to move through in an energetic way. To someone who isn’t familiar with somatic therapies, she may look a little silly. The scene may feel random even. To a somatic therapist, I again sobbed my way through just how powerful and wise her body was in getting what it needed. She was witnessed and held by herself and Nikki at that moment. She listened to herself.
The thing about this show is that, while Molly engages in therapy and actively tries to work through her sexual trauma, she never “gets rid” of it. Molly eventually dies, after finally having an orgasm with a partner, but there is no sense of resolution or finality regarding her trauma. She doesn’t wake up “healed”. Her orgasm doesn’t “fix” her. She is able to find release and pleasure alongside her trauma.
Oftentimes, I feel like we are pressured to ~heal~ our lives through therapy. Gosh, some of us want to forget about the trauma or at least have it not be so overwhelming and present in our lives all of the time. Those desires are valid, especially when we are exhausted from the grief of endurance, the time and energy it takes to just keep going. However, I had a lovely mentor tell me one time, “what if the point isn’t to get rid of it but to learn how to live with it?” I would be willing to bet that most of us aren’t waking up every day choosing to be traumatized or depressed or anxious. We are because of things that happened to us or the way our brains are made. What if healing didn’t mean the elimination of these things but an easier time staying present with the way things are? An ability to be more present in our dysregulation? The journey before some unknown destination?
Therapy musings aside, Dying For Sex shows raw, vulnerable, gorgeous representation of the messiness of being human, the exploration of sexuality, the power of female friendship, the art of “healing”, and the embrace of dying. If you are looking for something cozy to watch, maybe skip this one; however, if you’re looking for a little punch in the gut, a show to get you thinking, and a therapist-endorsed way to feel something, this might be the show for you.
