Story of a woman diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer, who abandons her husband of 15 years and begins to fully explore her sexuality.
Okay listen.
I haven’t listened to the Dying for Sex podcast. Yet. But I might. I could! Maybe I will. I dunno. I’m not really a podcast listener, especailly now that I don’t have a daily commute. I knew I’d watch the show though, so, I don’t need a podcast. Right now, what I need is for this show to settle in my bones. And it has.
This show has been mentioned in my Pleasure Professional circles since it was released on Hulu earlier this year. People I respected said that this show handled so many important topics in such a delicate, human way that I knew I would love it.
I didn’t know it would change me.
Here’s what Dying for Sex did to me:
It came out of nowhere and karate-chopped me right in the tender. It snuck up behind me wearing a cozy robe and whispering affirmations and then softly asked, “Hey, what if you’re allowed to feel everything at once and still ask for more?”
And this show doesn’t flinch. Not at pain, not at pleasure, not at the weird fleshy in-between space where people actually live.
It’s so funny, too. So stupidly funny, in that exact perfect way where you laugh mid-sob and snort through your tissues. It gives “Shrinking if everyone had sex and trauma and a much more interesting wardrobe.”
But let’s get to the part where I scream about Sonya.
Esco Jouley, if you’re reading this:
You are everything. You are the nerve center of the show. The softest steel. A friend who holds space and asks real questions and says hard things and makes them feel like gifts. I want more characters like Sonya on television. I want young and old and middle aged and all people to see someone like her and recognize themselves. Because that self-awareness and gentleness and culnerablity and understanding should be what we all thrive for.
Now, the men. Oh, the men!
They don’t have names… and that has gotta be an intentional design.
There’s “Neighbor Guy.” There’s “Pet.” There’s “Man With a Blurred Face,” “Hot Guy,” and some other fellas. This show understands that they are just auxiliary to Molly’s story.
And look, I’ve been in the pleasure industry for over a decade. I know how often we flatten men into threats or jokes or saviors. But this show does something rare: it lets men be vulnerable without making them the point. And that? That’s art. That’s power. That’s truth.
And speaking of softness and power: Jenny Slate.
What an actress. She never once performs grief… she embodies it. But with levity. With grace. You feel her doing the work with you, not at you. I kept thinking, what a generous performance. One that holds space instead of stealing it.
And okay, yes, Conrad Ricamora plays “Pet.” And he’s great. Sexy and awkward and trying—which, honestly, is the new gold standard for hotness. But if we’re talking theater kids making the leap, let’s talk about why I’m really excited this week: COLE ESCOLA.
I’m going to see Oh! Mary—and yes, Conrad is in it, but Cole Escola wrote it and stars in it and has been serving weird queer genius since Search Party and beyond. Watching this show become the success it has made me realize: I crave vulnerability on stage the same way I crave it on screen. I don’t care how polished it is… I want the guts. The risk. The gender chaos and panic attacks and maybe a cheeky musical number.
That’s what Dying for Sex gives me.
Not polish. Permission.
This show gave me aftercare. And not just the BDSM kind (although, yes, thank you for that too), but the emotional kind. The kind where a friend doesn’t say “it’s okay” but says, “I’ll stay with you in this.” Where a dom has a panic attack. Where someone brings you juice and doesn’t leave the room.
It’s giving “you can be wild and still want to be held after.”
It’s giving “you don’t have to die alone just because you’re not pretending to be brave.”
It’s giving “name your grief. Ride it like a mechanical bull in a back alley and then cry in the Uber home.”
I am not okay.
I’m better than okay.
I am cracked open and full of glitter and gratitude.
So no…I haven’t listened to the podcast.
But I’m still feeling the echo of this show like a bassline in my chest.
And I might just hit replay. Right after I get high, cue up the Leftovers soundtrack, and let it hurt in surround sound.
And Sonya? If you’re out there?
Thank you. We needed you.
And we need more.
