It's less a chocolate-frosted treat and more like a loaf of Wonder Bread – with the right ingredients and preparation, it can hit the spot, but really, it's just a ho-hum staple. Its message, and the show's, is that sex is everywhere, always. (Masters died in 2001, Johnson in 2013, just a couple months before the show premiered.) Over a boisterous, winking score, the opening credits to Masters of Sex reveal glimpses of everyday objects presented in a Freudian light – a pair of hands washing a cucumber, a coin deposited in a slot. I like to think the real Masters and Johnson would have approved of the saturation of sex on TV. Slithery, pulsing sex scenes are so reliably studded through most cable dramas that they've become a familiar routine: dim lighting and heavy breathing, a glint of nipple here, a butt dimple there. It's kind of an ingenious move – a show about the science of sex. Based on Thomas Maier's 2009 book about mid-century sex researchers Bill Masters and Virginia Johnson, Masters of Sex doesn't just throw sex in the middle of work. But the prestige medical drama television has been waiting for is not Grey's, but Showtime's Masters of Sex, which began its second season on Sunday (TMN, 9 p.m.). As it gears up for its 11th season, the once-brilliant Grey's Anatomy still manages to attract millions of viewers each week.
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