At the tail end of April, week three after my surgery and running out of entertainment options, I decided to take the plunge and watch Dying for Sex. After hearing people recommend it, I figured distracting myself from the boredom of recovery with some chastity cage footage and emotional nudity might be appropriate. A dramatic exploration of cancer and sex while waiting on biopsy results felt apt1.
If you haven’t seen it, the programme is a dramatisation of a podcast also called Dying for Sex, where friends Nikki Boyer and Molly Kochan openly discuss explorations of sexuality after Molly’s terminal cancer diagnosis.
Upon receiving the news, Michelle Williams’ character, who plays Molly, realises she no longer feels desired by her partner. They’ve become more like carer and patient than lovers, and the spark has gone. She sets off on a mission to explore her sexuality, wanting to finally experience an orgasm with another person, as well as exploring the nuances between wanting to be dominant sexually and gaining experience of being submissive.
I have to admit it. The show is hot. And moderately dirrrty. A smattering of some ‘perfect dick’ and golden showers was just what the doctor ordered. 2 I cackled with laughter at a scene when I saw the inclusion of a pot luck at a queer kink party. There is no escaping the queer pot luck. I also enjoyed the nuance of Rob Delaney’s performance, which includes touches of humour but remains robustly masculine and displaying a delightfully hairy torso. 3 I
Delaney plays Neighbor Guy, and remains Neighbor Guy, he is never awarded the grace of a real name.
In a pivotal scene, Michelle Williams bumps into Rob Delaney on the street, and it’s the first time they’ve seen each other outside of their apartment block, in the real world. I remember watching this scene, laughing, probably talking out loud to myself (I’ve spent a lot of time alone lately), and shouting at the TV:
“How have you never bumped into your sex neighbour?!”4
It reminded me how I always bump into my OSN5 (Original Sex Neighbour) on my way home from work on a Friday, often as he heads to the gym. Most recently, that happened on Valentine’s Day, the significance of which I’d forgotten about entirely, as I walked away, eyes-rolling, as he shouted “Leave that with me!” instead of the usual “I’ll call you!”
Later I reflected: had he remembered what day it was?
Another time I was heading out for dosa with a friend, idly chatting about how thinking of people seems to make them appear—and five minutes later, OSN walks past the restaurant. Being slightly wily, I waited approximately seven minutes before announcing it, fully aware my companion was craning his neck to get a look at the infamous and so far, anonymous OSN.
The inclusion of dosa is important—isn’t this supposed to be a food newsletter? Well of course, it is! I find it impossible to untangle the role of food in my dating life. Everything is food-adjacent, after all.
Let’s take the concept of the 20-minute neighbourhood. The City of Edinburgh Council describes it as follows:
Our vision is to enable a net zero Edinburgh where everyone can live well locally.
We are working in partnership with local communities across the city to create healthier, greener, thriving and more inclusive neighbourhoods. These are places where everyone can meet most of their daily needs within a short walk, wheel or cycle of their home. Our aim is to create places where most of people’s daily needs can be met within a 20-minute round trip.
Having met someone on Tinder a few years ago who took delight in owning the label ‘sex neighbour’, I could n’t help but snigger at the council’s vision when I think of some daily needs that may need to be met. I’m sure their vision was dominated by things like access to healthly and culturally appropriate food; access to leisure facilities; schools; public transport; libraries; medical care, and other such public infrastructure. But nowadays it can be disheaterning to realise how frequently our desire for friendship, creativity or intimacy can clash with work commitments or scheduling blips. In this sense, the twenty minute neighbourhood can be a useful tool…
There was the time many months into Covid lockdown cycles when you shared shared a dating story during a veg-forward cooking class—beamed to a global audience of food nerds—about accidentally glimpsing a nearly naked man on a lockdown walk. Recounting the thought; “That’s the most sex you’ll get this summer,” only to accidentally match with him weeks later on Tinder.
Or the friend who lives nearby, who you have mutual friends with. At the pub, not long after Rebecca May Johnson’s Small Fires came out, he spent the entire night waxing lyrical about sausages. As a weirdo, it piqued your interest. “Sausages are so hot right now,” you agreed. Fast forward a couple of years, you’re at another pub, a local one this time, trying to have a serious chat with a friend about the newfound complexities of trying to date women. Sausage guy is there, pretty drunk, and joins us. The heartfelt conversation is abandoned. The football’s on. Spain wins, you think. He yells “chorizo!” far too loudly. You suggest sobrasada, morcilla—any other cured meat as a chant—but no, no— chorizo dominates.
Nowadays, he is my go-to for sharing sausage content.6
There was a Christmas Eve when someone from the neighbourhood came into the shop where you worked asking for tiramisu (sadly, we didn’t stock it), and you confide your prior tryst to your manager, cheekily hiding in the office until he left. It’s someone you kind of knew already, but really got to know in a bath in Granton Harbour on a milestone birthday. There’s no hard feelings and they’re definitely not a regular customer; you just couldn’t be arsed with festive small talk. And the inevitable blushing. I am a blusher; I can't help it.
The show is good. It’s sad and hot, but I’m not here to give a review. I’m here to comment upon a SPOILER. The spoiler is not that that Molly dies - that’s a given.
After finishing the show, I did two things. First, I sought out reviews and discussion, mostly via Substack.7 Interestingly, but unsurprisingly the first two posts in the search results came from conservative voices. I won’t share them here, but one described the show as “celebrated selfishness”; another was penned by a female men’s rights advocate. Luckily, another piece by Martha Bayne discusses the use of expressive dance in the cancer therapy groups and is well worth a read:
The second thing I did was plan to listen to all of the original podcast. I still haven’t listened to all the episodes, but I skipped to the interviews with the cast members and these were extremely tender and heartfelt, I wept a lot.
***SHOW SPOILER ALERT INCOMING***
In one of the post-show interviews, Nikki Boyer, the presenter and Rob Delaney discuss the significance of his character—a character which was drawn from several men in her life. “You’re like the buffet!” Nikki exclaims to Rob, whose character became a human emotional compote. They talk about the scene in which his character tells her he loves her, a moment that, in truth, never actually happened. And yet, in offering that imagined tenderness, the show gives her friend an ending she never quite got within her sexual conquests, an expression of love.
I felt stunned because watching the show had made me reflect on my own Neighbour Guy (OSN), a character in my own life I’d previously felt rather perturbed by. Not because of any obvious or deal-breaking flaws, but mostly because I hadn’t felt a deep or passionate sexual charge with him.
Initially, the show made me dismissive of him for his lack; made me focus on petty shortcomings that you may notice if you are not smote with passion for someone. During that time, I’d also been turning over the word situationship in my head—how it’s used, and what it really means.
I think I first started analysing the word after he’d brought me over some tiny cardamom buns he had made. It was one of a few acts of care during a time where this was lacking from others. These actions made me wonder if I’d been too quick to judge our romantic compatibility. I’d come to realise that my use or understanding of the word situationship implies a relationship which is inherently dysfunctional or doomed to fail. That is, it won’t go anywhere in an ‘relationship escalator’ sense. But that doesn’t stop it from being meaningful. As Rob Delaney states in the interview: “vulnerability is a gift; give them that gift, it will bear fruit...”
On reflection, I started to think there is not enough appreciation of those casual encounters that are not wave-crashing passions. Experiences that are woven into garments of life in threads that do not necessarily shine so bright.
Because of this, I’d like to write an ode:
To those that taught you things about yourself,
and about humanity
To the ones who offer to buy you milk,
Lend you yeast late at night
Make you laugh.
To proximity,
Community
Small flames,
sausages, smut and orgasms
The 20-minute neighbourhood has the potential to act like a spatula - folding people into our everyday without effort. Lovers within walking distance and lives that orbit yours. The people in proximity that the algorithms feed to you first.
It’s almost surprising when I think about how many odd little relationships have been shaped by that kind of closeness over time. Not always romantic, not always logical, but friendships rooted in place and routines. Intimacies that emerge from praxis. There’s affection to be found in the in-between spaces; a cup of tea; laughter; a genuine and honest apology. The ‘I’m not-going-anywhere.’
That is, of course, until they move out of the area.
Live well.
Oh, and free Palestine!
For further reading on the joy of being fed by and in the neighbourhood, check out this piece by Rebecca about quitting delivery apps:
Watching Apple Cider Vinegar on Netflix had me in absolute pieces, totally recommend it. Fortunately, my biopsy results have come back with no indication of cancer.
It has something that was missing for me in Babygirl (and that’s probably something as simple as the casting of the protagonists’ sexual partners).
Oh really, you’re using these exact two words again, huh, Steph? (devil on my shoulder/self editor)
At the time, I didn’t realise the relevance of this observation. It was similar to when I watched Black Mirror recently and was dumbfounded as to why a food product RD professional wouldn’t know what carrageenan was. Yes, I have been off work for weeks, I have watched pretty much everything during this time on Netflic.
An abbreviation of ‘Original Sex Neighbour.’ OSN likes, and encourages the use of the term ‘sex neighbour’; the ‘original’ part, being added after I had a date with someone else who lived even closer to my flat. My Neighbor guy has a ‘u’ because I live in Scotland, goddamit.
actual sausage, not penis!
It might be worth noting I haven’t bothered to read any of the recent content on here about the show. I’m too busy and when I have time I seek prioritise the wonderful network of those who write about food on Substack!