I won’t do Dying for Sex the disservice of saying, “It isn’t really about sex.” For one thing, the Elizabeth Meriwether and Kim Rosenstock adaptation of the Nikki Boyer podcast is ABSOLUTELY about sex. For another, the real-life people who inspired Molly (Michelle Williams) and Nikki (Jenny Slate) would no doubt set me straight if they ever came across my review.

Rather, Dying for Sex isn’t JUST about sex. Or, perhaps more accurately, sex isn’t really JUST about sex. Because even “meaningless” sex or lousy sex or pity sex is about so much more than the act. Sex can be about love, lust, obligation, loneliness, exuberance, celebration, sadness, intimacy, avoidance of intimacy, and so much more. A near-endless list, one guesses. And Dying for Sex gets that, delivering a show that’s about sex in all its messiness, shortcomings, and delights. It’s the first piece of media I’ve watched in some time that treats sex not just as something fun or embarrassing or disappointing but all that and more.

If that wasn’t a heavy enough lift on its own, the show also applies that kind of openness with the taboo to another emotional third rail: death. That’s because the revelation of her fast-approaching death kicked off Molly’s attempt to discover, embrace, and thoroughly enjoy her sexuality. Her seemingly thwarted breast cancer returned two years later and metastasized in her bones. Doctors estimate she has less than five years left. Long hungry for her husband Steve’s physical affection—he can only see their relationship through the lens of being her caretaker from her first bout with cancer—she decides to end her marriage. Nikki takes up the role of her caretaker. Molly hits the apps, hoping to find a heretofore unobtained sexual satisfaction.

With apologies to Nathan Rabin, Dying for Sex does initially seem to be pushing Williams to perform a variation on the manic pixie dream girl as she excitedly shows off the multitude of penises she gets messaged and rapidly expands her collection of sex toys. It is a credit to Williams that, even at that stage of the storytelling, she makes Molly a character one wants to spend time with, even if she feels a bit idealized. As the episodes unfurl, though, the show reveals the effort behind her attitude, one that will no doubt ring a bell for those who have survived or continue to live with cancer. The ebullience is the merger of feeling liberated and the conscious decision to stay joyful.

When complications appear and steadily increase, Williams gives voice to all the hopelessness, rage, and frustration that run underneath a terminal diagnosis. Still, she does it without losing the Molly we get to know early in the series. Yes, her joyfulness is at least one part performance, but her desires and her commitment to them are authentic. She’s real, but so is her sex drive. Dying for Sex refuses to see either as antithetical to the other.

What’s lost in the arguably deeper dive into Molly than the podcast gives, which by necessity is more about Nikki bearing witness to her best friend’s quest and final years, is space for that best friend. As played by Slate, Nikki has a wonderfully chaotic energy that turns brittle and angry over her time as a caretaker. She endures more change and upheaval in her life despite being the one who will live on. However, to center Williams’ Molly, the show sacrifices Nikki’s interiority, an understandable enough decision that still stings.

It isn’t that the show doesn’t acknowledge all Nikki is sacrificing for her friend. Other characters make multiple explicit mention of it, in fact. It just rarely wrestles with what that means for the character. It comes closest in a scene where Slate unleashes impressive fury on boyfriend Noah (Kelvin Yu), telling him she’d rather spend every second with Molly than even a moment with him. It’s a blistering, painful moment, but one longs to return to the aftermath. To understand if Nikki truly doesn’t want to find balance in her life or simply can’t imagine a way to do it.

While the show may struggle to articulate Nikki’s journey fully, it adeptly gives dimensions to the “suitors” who move through Molly’s life. Her neighbor, played by Rob Delaney, is the obvious highlight. The arc of their relationship and how it ends is mean, funny, and ultimately deeply human. It is the best example of the way Dying for Sex juggles the sexual and emotional aspects of her hookups, be they brief or extended, but certainly not the only one.

The show extends the care and humanity it shows to Molly to the men. It refuses to reduce their desires to punchlines. The show’s willingness to discuss and depict sex is not just noteworthy but impressive. It’s all the more so as much of the sex is outside the mainstream. The show depicts things including mutual toy use, dom-sub dynamics, degradation, pet play, and watersports. There are absolutely laughs, but the punchlines are never “ha, isn’t this GROSS and WEIRD!” There is also tremendous tenderness in the writing and the care the characters frequently show each other. Never has a man showing up in a hospital dressed as a dog felt both so kinky and so kind.

It must also be said that Dying for Sex doesn’t ignore sex’s power for causing pain and harm either though. The series frankly engages in how people can misuse it and abuse others with it. It also is honest about how those transgressions damage relationships even degrees separated from the event and how those cracks can set in for years to come.

Clearly, to circle back to where this all started, Dying for Sex is about sex. Sex in all its foibles and glories. Its capacity to bring people together and drive them apart. Its blisses and disappointments. I repeat myself because it is just that true. Dying for Sex is not a flawless series. That said, its treatment of one of humanity’s chief drives—the one that makes most people the most uncomfortable to discuss in polite company—is as close to perfect as any TV series I can recall.

Dying for Sex stocks up on batteries on FX and Hulu starting April 4.

Dying for Sex Trailer: