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Previously on two foreskins walk into a bar. For the record, I'm technically versatile. Evidence of personal growth. Two foreskins walk into a bar. Written and performed by Chris Thompson season two, episode eight a working definition of Love Blake and I took a bath together and agreed not to get out until we settled on a working definition of love. We both had been feeling something brewing, a vague mixture of uneasiness and excitement, and Blake suggested that before either of us leapt to pronouncements, it would be worth fully understanding what the other person meant if just if, he felt moved to speak on this subject. The Oslo accords were probably quicker, and we had to refill the bath several times as our negotiations went long into the night, we wanted to be very precise with our language to really pin down what we meant. So anything that felt woolly and subjective was abandoned. Feelings of butterflies in one's stomachs, fireworks, etcetera, were thrown out as quickly as they were thrown in. In this hot water, Blake got goosebumps and his usually large ish penis shriveled. On the other hand, I swept profusely, and my scrotum became looser and bigger, to the point where Blake couldn't keep his hands off my ball and rubbed them gently between his finger and thumb as he pushed me to clarify each point I was making. Blake's experience of falling in love was very different to mine, in the same way that our bodies reacted differently to the hot water in which we bathed. Our physiological and psychological experiences of love were very different. Love for Blake never hit him like a car or sent him into fits of terror as it did me. The three times love had come to call, Blake felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned around, and there was love like it had been there all along. I need not spend time here summarizing my experiences of falling in love. I've written plays and podcasts and poems on this, and I'm confident that listeners will know by now that each time I've fallen in love, I have been rendered a deranged, useless lunatic. Ironically, the first thing that we agreed on was that love is not enough. You can love someone, but so what? I'd learned the hard way through Lionel, that someone can say they love you, but those feelings of love feel so intolerable, harmful to them, so, perversely, they punish you. They want you there, and they don't want you there, and you spend your time trying to be in two places at the same time. Blake loved his ex wife. They had spells of amicability, and they both loved their daughters. Blake left her as an act of self love, sure, but also to free her and to enable her to eventually find someone able to love her in the way that she desired. Blake had fallen in love with another soldier in the army, but he was straight. Blake never acted on these emotions, and the object of his affections was none the wiser. Blake did all he could to rid himself of this curse that had been visited on him. Holding onto this secret love for three years, an agonizing and unexpressed love that took place in a vacuum. When this man was killed during active duty, Blake grieved him privately, an exquisite, thunderous pain that was made all the more deafening by its silence. In fact, I was the first person Blake had ever told this. One might think the release would have stirred emotions, but Blake said it so off hand ish and casually. It was as if he was reading a grocery list. I could feel myself crying, but I held back the tears. I didnt want this to be a situation whereby the person with the actual problem ends up having to comfort me. So I bit my lip and settled for squeezing his hand. And we let Blake's secret evaporate away with the steam that rose off our skin. The following day, Blake's daughters were coming to visit. It was a last minute thing where his ex wife had something come up, I don't know what. And everyone felt it would be a good opportunity to start building back the relationship. Blake was thrilled and planned the weekend within an inch of its life. He had a spreadsheet that broke the weekend into 15 minutes intervals, and we'd been to the supermarket to buy their favorite cereal and lactose free milk. Blake and I had spent the afternoon cleaning his apartment. It was clean when we started, but it wasn't clean enough. Blake wanted to be beyond reproach. I was going to leave Blake to his daughters for the weekend. For all my fantasies of the four of us making a great sitcom, I had no desire to insert myself into this weekend, and I felt better just to support him from afar. But Blake was nervous and felt overwhelmed at the prospect of pulling this whole thing off on his own. So we agreed we'd go for a drive up the keys to the dolphin sanctuary together as a nice day trip. His kids reminded me of a girl I used to be a social worker for, beautiful but sad and fragile. One of them, Lisa, had such intensity that I was convinced she could move inanimate objects with her mind. Our day trip to the dolphins went well. We had the top down in Blake's bright blue jeep and for a moment, the colour of the sea and the sky and the cardinal coalesced. They wanted to know if I was Blake's boyfriend, of course. And we answered honestly. They asked if we were in love. And based on the definition that we'd reached the night before, we replied that at this time we were not. The girls parroted at this time with wicked glee, and it became the slogan for the weekend. At this time. I'm going to the bathroom. Would you like a glass of water? At this time? At this time, no, I would note I took a photo of the three of them posing with the dolphins and Blake beamed with pride as his girls, now fearless, less fragile, took it in turns to be pulled around the pool by two old creatures of the sea. But then things went terribly wrong. Blake wanted the girls to come on his tour, so the following morning, they joined Blake on the 10:00 a.m. ride. A customer on this tour, for some inexplicable reason, took exception to Blake. Each fact Blake gave the guy corrected him publicly and halfway through demanded that the trolley stop and the whole of his party be given refunds. Blake, unwilling to cause a conflict in front of his daughters, ate shit and meekly acquiesced. And when the complaining customer called him dumb as fuck for the sake of his kids, Blake did nothing. But his girls didnt enjoy seeing their father humiliated and were furious that Blake didnt stand up for himself and told him so in front of his remaining customers. Its never about what its about. Anyone whos ever argued with a lover or a loved one will attest to that. And what started out as an argument about Blake not standing up for himself morphed into something else, something more raw and true. It became the proxy war for the actual issue, the deeply held belief, the open wound from which Lisa, distraught, now, screamed into her father's face, you never fought for us, dad. I was making lunch in Blake's apartment when his daughters stormed in and started packing their bags. Blake had left instructions with the girl's dietary requirements and I was poring over it, making sure I wasn't about to kill them. I knew they wouldn't want to confide in me. The good thing about having been a social worker is you're realistic to what you can actually do. So I gave them their space and I told them I was there if they wanted to talk. Blake followed on soon after and begged them not to go, but they were resolute. Blake was distraught and pleaded with them to try and understand that he didn't want to get into a fight. After all, he'd been banished here because he smashed his windshield. But it's never about what it's about. And the girls couldn't give a shit about the fight. Years of anger and rejection surfaced in these poor girls and they railed at their father for their perceived abandonment. I sat out on Blake's porch, figuring it best to leave everyone to it, but also not wanting to abandon Blake in his hour of need. But there was no talking anyone down and before long the girls were back in the blue jeep and Blake drove them to the airport to get on an earlier flight home. Blake was crushed. I decided to wait for him. It didnt feel right for him to come back to an empty house. I heard the jeep pull up outside, but Blake didnt get out the car. I peered through the blinds and I saw him sat stony, face riveted and immured in the car. I got into the car next to him and I held his hand. I set a mental timer for 15 minutes, no more, no less, and when the clock struck three, I suggested we go inside. Blake spent the rest of the day with his head face down in my lap. He didn't move, he didn't speak, he didn't eat. He just lay there. If I needed to go to the bathroom or get food, he would stand up, remain by the sofa until I sat down again. At which point he assumed the position and buried his face into my lap. I thought about our working definition of love as I stroked Blake's head. For all our debating, wed narrowed it down to two. Being able to put someone elses needs before your own. Two. Not trying to change someone. Each statement had a caveat. For example, its not healthy to put other peoples needs ahead of your own all the time, every second of the day. And number two, of course love changes you, but can you put a pin in that exact moment of change? Probably not. But starting a relationship where one of you fundamentally needs to change just to be able to get things off the ground is probably not a good thing. The natural, organic change that happened in the course of my relationship with Robert is ironically what ended things between us. I just wasn't the same person I was when we got together aged 23. And Lionel would have needed to change entirely for me to be able to be with him. So as I sat on the sofa with Blake's head in my lap, I felt your judgment. Yes, you. The men I have loved, I felt your judgment. My left leg was numb and had pins and needles, but there's no way I'd have asked Blake to move. I sat and endured the pain whilst you. You sat in judgment. Typical, you said sneerily. Youve never spoken to me like that before. All that therapy and self exploration in public are our fucking expense, no less. All that gross, spilling your guts up for the entire world to see and you still cant change. And newsflash, you never will. Don't talk to me like that, I said. You just laughed. He'll see it. Oh, he'll see it like we did. There is no one for you, Chris. Everything you try and hide, your ugliness, your badness, it's plain as day. And you can't hide it forever. One day he'll see you're just another weak and disappointing Mandy. When are you going to come clean and save him from yourself? Spare him what we have suffered. Look at what you did to Arthur. That's the kind of person you are. I closed my eyes and banished you. But you stood in my shadow, in judgment. I couldn't shut out the memory of Arthur that you'd planted like a curtain rising on a play. Revealing the stage. You revealed the setting. For my shame, I'd been in hospital for two weeks. Christmas and new year had come and gone and Arthur and I remained the only two men on our ward. There were still no visitors allowed and we were being neglected by the overrun nurses who were crumbling in the face of the pandemic. But alone on the top floor, Arthur and I looked after each other. We'd take morning strolls together, pulling our morphine drips along with us as we poodled past the empty beds. Knowing that in the floors below us, the wards were full of COVID patients. I managed to find some movies. And when we could manage it, we'd take it in turns to show each other a new film that the other wouldn't know. But mostly we chatted and prevented ourselves from going. Madden. On two occasions, I crashed and was raced out on a gurney into the resuscitation suite and brought back to life. And on both occasions, when I was wheeled back in, Arthur was there waiting, having saved me a banana from his breakfast or keeping a cup of tea warm. I would change his stoma with him. And on the times we fucked it up, I'd clean his shit off him in the shower. Once, he almost got an erection in the shower. And he danced with joy that there was still a bit of woomph down there. Not dead yet. He laughed and waggled his penis triumphantly and tried to chase me with it. One day, out of the blue, at six in the morning, the surgeon stood at the edge of my bed and declared that I could go home. I'd been so certain that I would die there, I couldn't believe I was actually getting out. I called my friend who had volunteered to pick me up and drive me home, and he raced over. I was shaking. It was adrenaline and relief, but also fear. I was so paranoid that they would change their minds that I'd be stuck there, that I had to get out of there as soon as I could. With my discharge papers in hand, the nurse wheeled me out into the arms of my friend, where, in disbelief that I'd made it out alive, I sobbed uncontrollably until it hurt. I was halfway home when I realized I'd not said goodbye to Arthur. I just left him there alone in the ward. He was asleep when I got the news, so he would have just woken up to find that I'd gone. I was disgusted with myself. The next day, I called him. Each bed has a phone assigned to it and you can ask for a ward and then the bed number and be put through. I gave Arthur's bed number one right by the window. The nurse said that normally she wouldn't be able to share information, but she knew who I was and, well, she'd figured I'd want to know that. Just after I left, they went to check on Arthur and found that he'd died. Can you just not. Can you just not say anything? Please? Just don't say anything, okay? I know. I fucking know. But, Chris, we, the men you have loved, know you the best. Leave me alone, please. Blake was asleep on my lap. Carefully, I eased myself up from under his body and put a cushion under his head. My numb foot gave in and I dropped to my knee. It's for the best, you said. Better do it now than make him suffer in the long run. I closed Blakes door behind me and I walked out into the night. At Key West House, there was a pool party. The mirror ball hung low above the swimming pool like a moon hanging low in the sky. I couldn't see the water in the pool. It was full of naked mendenna. Some were dancing, some were fucking. I was wearing my turquoise speedos and my Marilyn Monroe t shirt. I drank three margaritas back to back, stripped naked and waded into the pool, disappearing into the welcoming mass of male bodies. Hands grabbed every part of my body and then, willingly, I was pushed against the side of the pool and bent over. Then the first man penetrated me. There was a collective murmur of approval in the congregation. I gritted my teeth and winced. It hurt so fucking much. Eventually, the man fell on top of me. His body trembled and he moaned. Then he grabbed my hair, twisted me towards him, and spat in my face. He pulled open my jaw. I felt spit hit the roof of my mouth. Was it his or someone else's? And then? Now the next man fucked me. Then the next. And then the next. With each new cock, part of me faded. My fixations, my thoughts, my tastes, my desires, my individuality disintegrated as each man entered me. And now him. And now hime. And now him. And now him. And now him. And now him. And now him. And now you. Until finally all of me has faded away. I am liberated from my entire being. I am nothing but a whole. About an hour later, when it was all over, I lay in a man's arms on a sun lounger and our breathing patterns aligned to I ached. I wept in this stranger's arms, and he cradled me as he toweled me dry and told me he was proud of me. Exhilarating waves of ecstatic euphoria washed over me. I bathed in a terrific sense of accomplishment at what I'd just done. But then each euphoric wave receded, revealing the dirty sand of humiliation, and I lay there baffled, longing for the next cleansing wave to hit me. This man, who I know I'll never see again, whispered in my ear, I love you. But I knew I did not love him. I found my swimming trunks and left, and I got dressed as quickly as I could. As I walked down love Lane onto Duval street, past the cinema, the urgency of the words I wanted to say overwhelmed me, and I repeated them under my breath as now I sprinted down the road. I got to Blake's house. His jeep was still in the driveway and the lights were on. His door was unlocked, and I walked in. He wasn't on the couch. I searched every room, but he wasn't there. I checked my phone. No messages. The garden? No. The porch, no. The bathroom? No. Blake was gone. But on the kitchen table was a note. Next time on two foreskins walk into a bar. You can't just come into people's lives and use them to feel better about yourself and then leave. Two foreskins walk into a bar is written and narrated by Chris Thompson directed by Andrew Folaise edited and post production by Christopher Huthez.