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Previously on two foreskins walk into a bar. I wasn't alone in the cinema at all. Suddenly, a body sits up straight. I recognized the shape of this man immediately. It was Blake. Two foreskins walk into a bar. Written and performed by Chris Thompson season two episode three butthole destroyer Blake has asked me to describe his penis. Blake's penis is thick. I'm under strict instructions to note that it is just over seven inches in length, which is around 18 cm. For those who work in metric, it's darker in color than the rest of his body. He doesn't have a foreskin, which he regrets but is now at peace with. Blakes Penis has a jaunty energy. It's in on the joke of how preposterous we look when we rut. But it's also characterized by a certain elegance, a commitment to its purpose. Blakes penis is indeed a thing of beauty. Walking back from the cinema along Duval street, we browsed several tourist gift shops. In the windows they had the familiar t shirts one sees in shops like this. No one knows. Im a lesbian, firefighters running into the World Trade center, and a wide array of americana and Trump memorabilia. I voted for him, you know, Blake said. I was shocked. My immediate response was to pathologize Blake where hed been duped, lied to. It wasnt his fault. Were all susceptible to grooming. I said, okay, I wasnt asking your permission, Blake replied, and he playfully knocked my baseball cap off my head and ran away down the street with it. He stopped outside wendys and waved my cap with a come and get it glint in his eyes. Blake decided we should go on a date. I suggested we went for a drink. Now, seeing as though wed left the movie early. But this would not have been a date. A date for Blake must involve him picking me up in his car, taking me for dinner, which would be paid for by him, no questions, and conclude with him driving me home and waiting to check I'd made it back safely into my house. I got the biggest, fullest erection I'd had in months. I showed Blake, but he was angry with me and turned away in disgust. Don't do that. You've already fucked me. Well, I wish I hadn't. I am now going to make a sweeping generalization about american men, all 165 million of them. American men are traumatized. They are deeply wounded, and when it comes to sex, they are hung up. Sex for american men must be put in a box and locked in a dark room at night or sometimes at 03:00 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon, they surreptitiously creep through the door, unlock that box, and fuck a faceless hole. Then out they slither, locking the door behind them as they walk away, hunched over in the hope that they won't be spotted, they try to outrun their shame, lest it trips them up and lands them face down in a muddy pool of their own squirming humiliation. When Blake was fucking my anonymous hole, he called me a bitch. His exact words were, take that fat cock, you bitch. Later he called me a slut. I note with interest the misogyny inherent in these words. I've used them that way myself, and personally, I have no problem being called these things when I'm face down, arse up in an Airbnb in Key west. But now Blake sees me as dateable. I must unsex myself. Not in the Lady Macbeth sense, but in the sense that now I am a romantic prospect. I must separate myself from my sexual identity. I must close the box and lock the door. Once I matched with the same guy on Grindr and Tinder. On Grindr, we engaged in gorgeous, horny protestations about what we wanted to do to each other. When I accidentally continued this conversation on Tinder, you blocked me. More recently, I turned up to a date wearing a jock strap under my jeans. I was made to testify that this was because I was either coming to or from a workout. I wasn't, and I wasn't prepared to lie about it either. Never mind that my date mentioned during our chats that he loved men in jock straps and he left, explaining that he was looking for the real deal with someone who had done the work, not meaningless hookups with a New York slut. Em Forster said only connect. I wonder if now we might say only integrate. And yes, I concede it is grossly unfair to lay this at the door of American Mendez, to generalize about an entire group, and surely I'm projecting my own wounds onto this unsuspecting constituency. So I ask their forgiveness for my crude, reductive hypothesis formed solely from seven years of dating them. I accepted Blake's invitation and I said I'd be waiting for him, my gentleman caller, on my porch at 08:00 p.m. now I really did feel like I was in a Tennessee Williams play. Whos Tennessee Williams? Said Blake. Whos Tennessee Williams? I confess thats what came into my head, but im so glad I stopped myself before I said it. What a tiny myopic bubble I live in. I thought. What an utter snob I am. I have turned my nose up at him for his politics, then for wanting to go on an old fashioned date, and now for not knowing who some playwright was, I immediately apologized to Tennessee Williams. He wasnt some playwright, he was the playwright. But equally I was a snob and I hung my head in shame. Later that afternoon, I did some work on my play, which nobody had asked for. The conceit was as the lead character, Christopher has three different conversations with three different men at various points in his life. The three men are each played by the same actor and represent three former Robert, Lionel and Simon. When Lionel broke up with me, I wrote him a letter, which I never sent him. This letter was for me to help express myself and process the loss. Six years later, when Simon broke up with me in a bookshop in London, I did the same. I wrote a letter with no intention of sending it. I'd filed them in my personal Dropbox folder and hadn't looked at them since. Recently, when my storage was full and I had to delete stuff, I reread these two letters. I was horrified to find that whilst written six years apart, the letters were pretty much identical. In some cases, the exact turns of phrase cropped up in each one. All my same insecurities, all my same needs for reassurance, all my same fears of being alone and my self blame. Had I really not progressed at all? Or was it, as my therapist, who I'd been seeing for seven years, suggested, a sign that in love, two people will speak to each other's wounds, and my wounds would always be the same? I liked this idea, but I couldn't help think it got my therapist off the hook too. These letters were to form the backbone of the play. I wanted to explore how much we change and yet how little we change. So the first conversation would be with Robert, and little Christopher is a 23 year old petrified bundle of fake confidence and need. The second with Lionel. Christopher is in a cheerleader's dress, don't ask, begging Lionel not to leave him. And the third with Simon. Christopher is now in his early forties and brought to his knees with the agony not of losing him, but the despair of what this loss represents, that he has failed again and he is indeed unlovable. The span of time would be nearly 20 years. I envisaged an ongoing motif of Christopher, talking about how he longed one day to take a partner to visit his sister in Dubai. The final coda would be Christopher sat on the bed in his sister's spare room in Dubai, talking to someone in the ensuite bathroom. The moment would come for this person to walk out the bathroom, at which point, blackout, the play ends and the audience is left wondering if the man in the bathroom is one of the three former lovers now rekindled or a figment of Christopher's imagination, the hypothetical lover that protects him from the pain of his loneliness. It was 04:00 p.m. on a Friday, which it transpires was changeover day at Key West House, meaning that there was a brand new batch of men messaging me on Grindr and a cruise ship had just pulled in. So there were crew members with a few hours shore leave wanting something quick. So I was on duty. I closed my laptop, fuck that stupid play, put on my bright turquoise Speedos and skipped over to Key West House. According to my bank statement, I had my first drink at 04:00 p.m. and according to that same bank statement, I had my final drink at 06:00 a.m. at approximately 08:00 a.m. i was woken up by the police banging on my door. They walked around the property, peering in all the windows whilst I hid under the bed. When I was certain theyd gone, I looked out my door and saw that theyd hung my speedos on the flag next to my mailbox. But back to that first drink at 04:00 p.m. it quelled my anxiety and gave me the confidence to mingle. There was a pool party going on and I made friends with the new arrivals. It was a nice mix of couples, solo travelers and one man whose name I cant remember, but I was attracted to him immediately on account of his huge taxi door ears. I asked him if he would have sex with me later. Amongst the revelers there were hushed whispers of excitement. A rumour was going around that a famous Instagram dilf was staying at the resort for a photo shoot. He had over 70,000 followers and we all kept our eyes peeled for him. I went to and fro between the dark room, the pool and the jacuzzi and by 06:00 p.m. i was drunk enough that I abandoned my swimwear altogether and was gaily frolicking around naked. Word soon reached those of us in the pool that the hot Instagram dilf had arrived and was in the hot tub by the main entrance. My curiosity got the better of me. He was sat on the ledge of the hot tub with the water up to his calves and by now there was a queue of gays lining up to meet him. Some of them, if they were lucky, were invited to suck his penis. I once won a competition for a meet and greet with Elaine Page. It was a big moment for me, and I waited nervously in a line of men, trying to think of a question about Evita or Sunset Boulevard that no one had asked her before. Here, this Instagram Dilf had established his own informal meet and greet, and we were the lowly competition winners. In fact, one canny gay in a canary yellow thong and a comb over had appointed himself the DLF's unofficial assistant and was marshalling the queue, ensuring no one outstayed their welcome. This dilf, who can be found online by searching for the profile name and who I concede was hot as fuck, would spend a gracious few moments with each man asking where he came from, how long he was in Key west for, before smiling and signalling that he could, if he wished, suck him off for a few moments. It was a well oiled routine, and he was able to start the next conversation as the previous pleb was still bent over between his legs. I took issue with all of this. First and foremost, I was jealous. It was as simple as that. But there was something about his deification, how we, the little people, ugly minions, were being granted this benevolent, unprecedented access, all to fuel this man's ego. It was off putting. Was I really so needy, so indoctrinated, that I would collude with this man's narcissism just for his approval? Yes, wouldnt you? But I figured if I could somehow communicate how vacuous I thought this was, and I was there. Ironically, I could reconcile my cognitive dissonance because the fact remained, I really wanted to suck his dick. And I took it upon myself, on behalf of my people, to take him down a peg or two. It was my turn. It was like Henry VIII holding court. He thinks Im some puny minion. I thought, well, I hope hes ready for this. He asked me if id come far. I looked him up and down, made sure everyone was watching and listening, then trumpeted, when you die, what will your contribution have been apart from some pictures on an app? What will you actually have given the world? A big fat boner, he said, and im a human rights lawyer in a non profit. What about you? Shit, I totally forgot that id been a social worker for twelve years. Child protection, for fucks sake. Anyone who knows me will confirm I waste no time in getting that trump card out. But in this moment, faced with George Clooneys wife, I totally forgot. I blanked. And I said meekly, I'm a playwright. Anything I've heard of. And with those four words, he'd won time of 09:43 p.m. once again, that damned question got me. He smiled in triumph. Without losing his composure, he leaned into me close and a cat can look at a kingdom. I figured I might as well get what I came for. And I bent over for a suck. Id only just got down there when he grabbed my neck and pushed me away hard. I slipped and fell fully submerged in the water. When my head rose above the surface and the water left my ears, it became clear that the onlookers were laughing at me. He announced to the assembled crowd, toothy won this one. Watch out, guys. She bites. The laughter turned to screechy wails of glee. I waddled pathetically out the tub, shrivelled, dick protruding scarred melon belly, and I went to hide at the bar. I sat alone at the bar with a drink, and I googled the phrase a cat can look at a king. An Ariana Grande song was playing on the tv screen. The barman, who was also naked, was watching porn on his laptop and fluffing his penis. How tragic we both must look, I thought. I was reminded of nighthawks by Edward Hopper. The long empty bar, the barman's sad face lit by the laptop, and the public loneliness. Oh, the neon glow of loneliness. A cat can look at a king. Even people with low status have rights. Doesnt even make sense. What a fucking wanker. I wasted no time and I rejoined the queue to inform him that I had been a social worker for twelve years. Child protection ill have, you know. And if he was going to use fancy phrases, it would be my expectation that as a lawyer he should be at least able to use them properly. But I was distracted by a grinder message. It was sent by a man who went by the name of but hole destroyer. The message why are you wasting your time with that loser? The real party is up here. And then another message. An image of his door open with the room number visible. His room was at the end of a long corridor. The door was ajar. I pushed it gently. The room looked empty. A single bedside lamp lit the space. I was about to turn back, but an urge to know more overwhelmed me, and I took a few tentative steps inside. Hello? Is anybody there? I felt like Dorothy meeting the wizard. Mister Butthole destroyer, are you there? The shower was running. I crept further into the room. I hesitated, then pushed open the bathroom door, appearing through the mist like a ship emerging through fog. There he was, butthole destroyer. In all his glory. He fucked me in the shower. It was fine, a tonic to my previous humiliation. Afterwards we lay on the bed and he set a timer on his phone. We hold each other for 15 minutes. Do you mind? His real name was Eric and he spent most of the year in Ghana, having moved there in the year of the return. But he came to Key west once a year to, in his words, make sure hes not neglecting any part of his life. You can kind of be gay in Ghana, he said, but theres no scene. Its more in peoples homes, but its not safe. So coming to Key west once a year met his need for complete openness. Hed left the US to feel closer to his roots, to be in a place where he wasnt in the minority and felt a better, more complete person for it. Which was ironic, he noted, because it involved minimising one part of himself to honour another. I told Eric my new motto was only integrate. He thought about that for a moment, but Eric wasnt a house divided. And by way of rebuttal he asked me why was I queuing up like a sheep to fuel a weak mans ego? Hed read my profile on scruff and googled me, which was why hed picked me for a one on one. He assumed id have a stronger sense of self, not to get caught up in groupthink. This was a withering takedown, but I took it on the chin because it was a good point. And I recounted my humiliation. He howled laughing and suggested we plot our revenge. We hatched several plots to exact a painful reprisal, none of which I can remember now. But then the timer rang and Erich released me from his arms. A wave of relief washed over me. I hadnt realized how tense my body had become in those 15 minutes. He patted me on the bum code for you can go now. Normally in these situations theres a moment where one gets dressed, gathers ones things and engages in some small talk. But I was stark bollock naked and had no belongings to gather. So it all came to a rather abrupt ending. I have a different motto, just so you know, he said. Break the mould. I said, youre the first person ive had sex with after cancer. No, im fucking not. And he closed the door on me with a gleeful smile and a raised eyebrow that said, dont try that shit with me. The only other memories I have of that night are being in an orgy in someones room and then being fucked by that guy with the big taxi door ears. He was fucking me so hard that my head began to spin. I made it to the bathroom and vomited. I assumed that would be curtains for our assignation, but he gave me some mouthwash, bent me over the sink and carried on. And then I woke up in my bed and have no other recollections. The only explanation for the police I can think of is that I was spotted walking home naked at 630. That morning I was so hungover I couldn't stand up. I ordered a pizza and when it arrived, I cried. And then I crawled to the front door to retrieve it. As I chewed, my pizza slumped on my side against the door, flashes of the previous night came and went. A phantasmagoria of desire, humiliation and obliteration. I thought about my planned date tonight with Blake. Politics aside, was he not looking for the same things as me? I felt a twinge of fondness in my chest for him. His smiling face when he stole my cap, his salute at the cinema, his complex and full life, his timid, unconvincing laugh as if joy was novel and familiar. An estranged parent that he was warily letting back into his life. Yes, Blake seemed rather lovely. And then I painted another picture of him. In my mind. He was a hick, a magger, racist, certainly not very intelligent. Who the fuck hasn't heard of Tennessee Williams? What the hell would we have in common? This man's life is a mess. Two daughters who he hardly sees, two busy, fucking faceless holes in Airbnbs. Well, I thought, a cat can look at a king. But who was the cat? And who was the king? Blake arrived at 08:00 p.m. on the dot. The sun had just set. He was wearing a bright blue shirt with a collar and he'd bought me a gift. I couldn't see what it was through the window. He knocked a few times, called out to me. He walked around the house, looking through the kitchen window and then the bedroom. His footsteps crunched on the dry leaves near the outdoor washer and dryer. He waited for eleven minutes, calling my mobile once, maybe twice, in fact. He left a voicemail and sent me a text message, which I couldn't read until later because I'd turned my phone off. He tried opening the door out of concern, I'm certain, but I had bolted it shut. He sat on the porch and waited some more until finally he left, whilst I, with feline stillness, hid silently under the bed, locked in a box in a dark, dark room. Next time, on two foreskins walk into a bar. He hauled me up, turned me around and bent me over he pulled down my shorts and saw my jockstrap. Ha. Typical. Always ready. I know what type of guy you are, Chris. Two foreskins walk into a bar is written and narrated by Chris Thompson. Directed by Andrew Falaise. Edited and post production by Christopher Hoothen.