From practically the moment 40something Molly (Michelle Williams) hears that her breast cancer has metastasized, its all she can do to fixate on sex. She mourns the fact that shes never orgasmed with another person. She wonders if its too late. She sets herself up to change that fact by any means necessary, trying to cram a lifetimes worth of experience into the few years or months she has left.

Her show, FXs Dying for Sex, follows suit, chronicling the ins and outs of her erotic odyssey in loving detail. It is, if nothing else, a fresh take on the usual terminal-illness narrative; Ive certainly never seen a cancer show fling the word cum around with such abandon. Unfortunately, it does not, in the end, turn out to be a much more expansive one. For all of the shows eagerness to map the contours of Mollys desires, it proves less invested in the rest of her thus undermining the very story it means to tell. Were informed right off the bat that Mollys frustration isnt new. The opening minutes of the eight-part miniseries finds her in couples counseling with her husband Steve (Jay Duplass), discussing their bedroom non-activity in scrupulously grown-up terms. Molly, however, only appears the picture of calm. An oppressively frequent voiceover tips us off to the roiling thoughts within, which swing between daydreams of an earlier cunnilingus-loving boyfriend and pleas toward Steve to touch her again.

Then she gets the call from the doctor informing her shes dying. Suddenly, what had seemed like an unpleasant but fixable situation becomes more urgent. Unwilling to leave this world without experiencing such connection again, Molly kicks sanctimoniously sexless Steve to the curb and moves her chaotic bestie Nikki (Jenny Slate) into the role of her main caretaker. With Nikkis encouragement, she embarks on a quest to open her body up to new pleasures even as its increasingly ravaged by disease.

As a chronicle of carnal awakening, Dying for Sex, created by Kim Rosenstock and Elizabeth Meriwether based on true events detailed in the Wondery podcast of the same title, is unapologetically horny and refreshingly open-minded. You early Millennials are so tragic you think sex is just penetration and orgasms, laughs Mollys Gen Z social worker Sonya (Esco Jouly). The narrative refuses to make the same mistake.

Molly begins with run-of-the-mill makeouts and handjobs, but soon discovers a taste for kink and a willingness to explore it in all its forms, from penis humiliation to pup play. While the sex scenes dont run particularly grimy or graphic, they benefit from candor and humor. The most compelling (the funnest or funniest or hottest) moments embrace the awkward, as when Molly fumbles with the latch on a cock cage, or the unexpected, like when she gets an impromptu lesson in submission in the backroom of a furniture store.

And although theres plenty of (mostly male) nudity on display, to Sonyas point, the excitement of Mollys encounters lies more in their energy than the actual physical contact. Nowhere is this more apparent than in Mollys entanglement with a nameless neighbor, played by an alluringly intense Rob Delaney. Their connection begins with scowling in the elevator and arguing in the hallway and escalates to listening to each other masturbate from opposite sides of their shared apartment wall. So crackling is the charge between them that its almost a letdown when it finally develops into something more conventional.

By the time it does, though, the progression feels practically inevitable. In fact, perhaps too much of Mollys journey does; it makes her arc satisfying in the moment but undercooked upon reflection. While there are halfhearted reminders that Molly has hang-ups rooted in a traumatic childhood assault, she blazes through sexual milestones so quickly they barely feel like speed bumps. It takes only a single half-hour installment, for instance, for Molly to go from realizing that she wants to dominate to getting good at it, and from taking control in the bedroom to asserting herself outside of it (specifically by telling her doctor, played by David Rasche, exactly what she wants).

Perhaps the plots super-brisk pacing can be attributed to the narrowness of its scope. A few episodes in, it dawned on me that I had no idea who Molly actually was outside of her X-rated bucket list. Shes allotted exactly one family member of note, her mother Gail (Sissy Spacek), and the dynamic between them is defined entirely by that one specific incident of abuse. She has precisely one friend, Nikki, with whom she shares a devotion so immutable that it feels one-dimensional despite the many sweet scenes of them giggling together. Despite snippets of dialogue suggesting Nikki hasnt always been reliable in the past, and meatier scenes acknowledging the emotional toll the situation is taking on her now, the bond never feels informed by complicated feelings, a long history or the possibility of change.

If Molly has other friends, we never hear about them. If she has interests besides boning, we dont watch her engage with them. If she ever had career aspirations, theyre never mentioned. Even Williams performance does little to flesh her out. Although the five-time Oscar nominee has demonstrated a gift for tremendous nuance elsewhere throughout her career, she comes across here as slightly too mannered in Mollys wide-eyed wonder especially against the rawer, less self-conscious turns by Slate and Delaney.

Molly is generally loath to tell people about her diagnosis, wary of being seen by others as just the woman who has cancer. In that sense, the show feels like a gift to her. Here is an assertion of sexual agency we rarely see in stories about sick people, a declaration that the pursuit of pleasure can be meaningful in itself, a celebration of the sheer diversity and idiosyncrasy of desire. But this portrait still seems an incomplete one. As a sexual explorer, Molly is clearly blessed with an expansive curiosity, and the courage to explore strange and rich new lands. If only Dying for Sex had borrowed some of her brio.