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Previously on Two foreskins walk into a bar. You're up late, Robert. What time is it in London? He took a deep breath. I'm not in London. I'm in New York. Chapter Nine no Man's Land we arranged to meet at the drama bookshop in front of my place. It was his idea, not mine, he said it might be be quite fitting or poetic, I can't remember which. The night before, I lay awake in a sweaty bundle of clinging sheets and wrote the scene of our reunion 100 times in my head. My internal voice, designed for dialogue on the page, drafted and redrafted what we would both say. We suffer more in the imagination than in reality, Seneca told us, but I suffered equally in both. I lay awake willing into existence the words we would say as the air conditioner spread hard, icy slices of air over me that my body melted like butter on toast. I wanted to arrive early. I didn't have enough money for breakfast. I was down to my last few hundred dollars, but I was too overwhelmed to eat. It was a hot August day. The sun had set fire to the city, and this morning was heating up, putrid piles of trash around every corner. I turned, someone was drilling. The city was being turned inside out, its innards exposed, with no thought for its dignity, to a soundtrack of metal meeting concrete. Dogs pissed down drains and rats below them bathed in fetid puddles of sulvate human and animal waste. A pigeon was eating shit out of a discarded diaper. Summer in New York was upon us when I arrived. I went straight to my play scripts. There was just one left. I scoffed inwardly. How fitting. As it is written, I thought, when these scripts are gone, so am I. On the back wall was an entire shelving display devoted to my nemesis playwright's new play. There must have been at least 100 copies of this one play, aimlessly piled up to suggest abundance, the books reframed by a poster of her. On the wall in the bottom right hand corner of the poster was a small banner at a diagonal with the words signing Copies Tomorrow. I looked at her face. She looked like she ate regular meals and can afford her rent. She was a person at whom Maslow would nod with satisfaction, her hierarchy of needs being fully met. If he were then to turn his attention to me, a mangy malnourished dog, he'd likely throw a net over me as I hissed and spat and take me to a sanctuary and put me out my misery. It wasn't her face that upset me. It was the pile of books, the casual incoherence of how they were arranged, a teetering, bountiful monument to her success, a lavish fuck you in the face of those less fortunate, quite without design. I grabbed as many of the books from the pile as I could have started to hide them. I put a few of them behind my one remaining of Carthage. No one will look here, I figured. Then I undertook to stash as many of them out of sight. As quickly as I could, I darted up and down the aisles, not stopping to pick up the copies that spilled over from my arms. In the corner of the store, I saw a blue recycling bin. I made a beeline. Can I help you with those, sir? It was the store assistant. Here, I'll carry them to the checkout for you. Before I could speak, I'd been shepherded over to the counter the store assistant, who clearly saw the shop floor as his stage, glided over to the cash register with a fixed showbiz smile. Your total today is 329 34. His feet were in the bevel position. I handed over my card. My hand trembled. We waited for the card machine to make contact with my bank in the UK. My card was declined. Thank fuck. I'd been gripping my wallet so tightly that when the relief came, I dropped it, its contents scattering around me. When I stood up again with my wallet intact, the assistant gave me my receipt and handed the bag of scripts to me with a smile. Don't worry, sir. I took one copy of the total and the card went through. Consider it a gift. I looked at my phone. He'd be here soon. I took my bag of scripts to the shelving unit where my one pathetic play lay. I stood and waited, shaking, jaw clenched and right on time, he walked in. He tried to smile, but it had petered out by the time he reached me, replaced by tight lips and creased brow. In the script I wrote of this moment in my head the night before, I expected to fall to my knees, to sob, to beg his forgiveness. But I was motionless. Riveted hello, he said. Hello, Lionel. Thanks for meeting me. I actually don't have long. I hope that's okay. How best to summarize this conversation? Perhaps it's better to start with some bullet points of the facts to begin with. That's pretty much how the information was relayed to me, as perfunctorily as a case in a social work textbook. Lionel's dad had got sick and they thought he didn't have long left. So Lionel went home to try and make peace with him. His father lived longer than they expected, but eventually died. Lionel didn't relapse and retain sobriety. I assumed he'd remained in Ohio, but he had in fact returned to New York several weeks ago. The idea of him being in the city, choosing not to see me, was dreadful. Inconceivable, in fact. But why didn't you call me? Why would I do that? He asked. Because you love me. His head cocked to one side and he put both hands in his pockets. He rocked back on his feet. I never said that. Yes, he did. On Coney island when he made me come in my jockstrap, when we were choosing the word of the year. And my word of the year was changed, but his was the sound I make when he penetrates me. Lionel, what are you talking about? I never said it. Whatever's going on, we can work through it. You're grieving. Your emotions are probably all over the place. But I'm here for you. I'm glad he's dead. He's the reason I'm like this. Like what? You're perfect. Look, Lionel said, you're nearly at the end of your 90 days. Right. I just wanted to say goodbye in person. Goodbye? This was not in the script. I fumbled for words. Oh, so you're just going to pretend you don't feel it? Is that your plan? I said, Lionel, we are good. It's wonderful. And I think you're frightened. And that's okay. I'm scared, too. It happened way quicker than I expected. But does love come our way that often that we should turn it away when it happens? All I need to do is get the train to Canada. Then I come back to America and I get another 90 days. Lionel's eyes widened. He was supposed to run into my arms at this point, but he stood still now he folded his arms. I'm not in love with you. And wanting love the way you do is weak. You don't even sound like yourself when you say that. He said it again, his voice lower, firmer and staccato. I am not in love with you on Coney Island, he exploded. I never fucking said it. Get out of my face about it. Jesus. The room went quiet. Customers peered over the books. They were browsing. Lionel turned away. Was he really going to leave? Why was he being so cruel? I didn't recognize him anymore. Before he could take two steps, I threw myself at him. I clasped around his waist, but as he shook me off, I slid down to the ground, my arms wrapped around his feet. Lionel crouched down without speaking. He tried to extricate himself from my grip. Give us 90 days. I'll go to Canada. I'll come back and we can start over. You're just very frightened. You do love me. I do not love you. You don't even know you're lying to yourself. He kicked his right leg free. How long were you with your ex? He asked. And how long ago did you break up? I couldn't speak. I'm not the one lying to myself, he said. But Lionel. Fuck you. Lionel snapped. Fuck you for thinking you know me. For having the fucking arrogance to inform me of what you think I am like when I am telling you you don't know shit. He got the remaining leg free and I sprung back hard against the shelf play. Scripts rained down on me. Lionel stood up and straightened himself out. He kneetened his hair back into a side parting. He was looking down at me now. But what about when I saw you at the cruising ground? Or when you found me on Grinder? Why would you do those things if you didn't want to be with me? In a cold, clinical voice the whole room could hear, he said, I just wanted to fuck you. That's all this was for me. And then he left. I let out a small, incredulous gasp. I couldn't move. I was pinned to the floor amongst the scattered debris of my writer namesakes. Ernest Thompson. Judith Thompson. Lisa B. Thompson. Chris Thompson. Not me, the other one. When you fall in love with someone, there is always the possibility they will leave you. It's the deal you make. Although, to be fair to Lionel, you can't leave someone you were never with. But there were two Lionels the one in my mind and the one crossing the street headed toward the subway. Today, the two Lionels, albeit briefly, had met at the end of some horror movies. The monster is slain, the hero's quest is over, and calm is restored. But then, from nowhere, the beast revives and comes at its victims with even more force for one final showdown. Likewise, I arose abruptly and staggered out the shop like a deranged, rabid zombie. The words that came to me, and that I spoke out loud, were, it's not over. It's not over. As I lurched out the shop looking for Lionel, I saw him cross the street, screamed his name and ran towards him. I didn't see the car coming. The next day, I returned to the scene of the crime with Marty. He'd read a book on restorative justice and concocted an intervention. We looked blithely at the spot where the car hit me and then the spot where I landed. As I was sliding off the hood, Lionel's eyes met mine. I don't know what he was feeling. You'd have to ask him. But what I saw in his eyes as he looked at me was utter disgust. Marty and I entered the drama bookshop. I was under clear instructions about what was expected of me, and so I silently joined the queue of people that snaked around the room. This was the first objective. The second objective was that I was not to mention Lionel. There was an excited murmur amongst the crowd, which soon became whoops and cheers as only Americans can. And then, in she walked, my nemesis, playwright in all her glory. Marty said, if German and English soldiers can play football on Christmas Day in no man's land in the middle of a fucking war, you can wish this fellow artist well for her New York debut. I wasn't so sure. Soon thereafter, it was my turn. I shuffled sheepishly to the table with my copy of the Ear. She had a welcome open face. Actually, we've met, I said. We were on a panel together a few years back at the National Theater. She had absolutely no fucking clue chris, I offered. Oh, Chris Madden. Chris Thompson, I said. Oh, Chris. Chris Thompson. Chris Thompson. It's so nice to see you again. Remind me, will I know your work? She said this with such kindness and authenticity I forgot for a moment she was my sworn enemy. Probably not. I had a play called Carthage Blankster Albion. Albion. She exclaimed. I saw that. Oh, wow. I saw the West End transfer. It really suited the space. You're a terrific writer. That play really inspired me, actually. That's Albion by Mike Bartlett. It came out a few years after my Albion. My Albion didn't do as well. Marty declared it was time to go. A look of relief washed over her face. Chris has something he wants to say to you, Marty said. Looked up at me kindly. It felt as if the whole room was looking at me. Passers by on the sidewalk outside stopped and stared in at me. Every passenger sitting on the left side of the plane flying over Manhattan at that exact moment peered out of their windows at me. Marty elbowed me hard. I gripped the book so hard its pages crumpled. Best wishes for your New York debut, I mumbled. And enjoy my fucking life. Marty hauled me outside. He was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. I told you I didn't want to do it, Marty. He shrieked again and patted me on the back. That was the performance of your career, babes. Now, don't you feel better? I felt a tug on my arm. Oh, my gosh, Chris. It took me a while to place this smiley, handsome man now in front of me. But I knew I knew him. Malik, remember? I was at a sex party in your apartment. It was a day you shat yourself on kids'carpet. It transpired that Malik had come to the store to buy my place. They only had one left, he said. They must be selling like hotcakes. He had in his hand the last remaining copy of Carthage. The hourglass had finally run out. What are you doing tonight? Malik asked. He'd love to come, said Marty before I could even speak. As night fell, Malik and I found ourselves in a vast loft in Green Point. We were on all fours, facing each other on an enormous bed. Beside me were another three men, also on their hands and knees, and the same for Malik making one row of four men facing another row of four men. There were at least another 20 men in the room who formed a queue and chatted awake convivially as they went along the line up of bottoms, fucking each of us in turn before swapping sides and fucking our counterparts. They would then join the back of the line and stroke their cocks so they were hard for the next lap. As time went by, the system found a natural rhythm with tops circulating in a clockwise direction around the eight bottoms. There was a warm collegiate atmosphere amongst the bottoms. We exchanged words of encouragement and support in the knowledge we were fulfilling an important duty to our assembled tops, and the tops milled above us, each time seeking consent before penetration, thanking us with a pat on the bum on exit. If a bottom was fucked particularly hard or took a load, we congratulated him and nods of mutual respect went around us like a Mexican wave as his top fell on top of him, held him tight across his chest and moaned in ecstasy. Malik stood up and another man took his place seamlessly so the flow wasn't interrupted. I watched in anticipation as Malik fucked the others, making his way round to me one man at a time. Later I lay in a man's arms. Our breathing patterns aligned. A tall man opposite us wept softly in the arms of another. Conversations and laughter bubbled over and then dissipated. The scent of herbal teas enticed us. Everyone was smiling as we unburdened ourselves of the chaos of our lives. Our shame left at the door with our shoes. Malik snuggled in with me and my partner and cupped my cock and balls in his hand. This was the calmest I had felt in months, woven together with these glowing, sweaty bodies. Malik's head rested on my shoulder. Well? Malik said, what are you going to do? I thought for a moment and closed my eyes. I saw a calming blue light. I kissed Malik and thought about my answer. I'm going to fight for the man I love. Two fourskins walk into a bar is written and narrated by Chris Thompson, directed by Andrew Fillets edited and postproduction by Christopher Houston. Thanks for listening. If you're enjoying, please like and subscribe wherever you get your podcasts.