S2E2 - Conversations With Men I've Loved

Previously on two foreskins walk into a bar. Ass up, face down, door open. What is this? The traditional cultural greeting of Key west. Two foreskins walk into a bar. Written and performed by Chris Thompson season two episode two conversations with men I've loved. At first you were Lionel, then for a time you were Robert, then Lionel again. Then after I broke up with Simon, you were him. Over time, you have morphed into an amalgam, a hypothesis of a man. When I visit my sister in Dubai, you come with me. And when the family has gone to bed, we sit in our room and chat at my annual family reunion. You keep me company while I make the dinner. I do not sit in the bedroom alone. I do not prepare the meal in silence. When I come off stage and the audience goes home to their lovers, you're backstage telling me you're proud of me. Through the daily grind of insidious, ordinary loneliness, you are there. Of course, one day I hope you will be real. But with my failing body and guarded, angry heart, you are, I fear, likely to remain a spectre. A column of haze on the dance floor. You, the men I have loved. I conjure you by the lack of you. Blake was standing in my doorway. His gold chain necklace caught the light. Im sorry if I scared you. You were walking and you looked sick. I thought id better check on you. Im fine. Is there someone here? I heard you talking to someone. No, theres no one here. I can stay if you dont want to be alone. The screen door closed and Blakes footsteps faded away. And you didnt speak to me again that night. When Blake saw me walk home that first night, he wrote about me in his journal. I passed the bar he was drinking in and he hid from my view. When he saw me, he said I looked sad and I was walking as if I was being followed by a ghost. He sketched me in pencil next to the journal entry in his drawing. I am walking at a 45 degree angle. My hands are clutching the lower right side of my stomach as if I've sprung a leak, and I'm trying to fold myself in half as I walk. He wanted to tear out the page and give the sketch to me, but I was so repulsed by the image he had conjured, though never once doubted its veracity. I couldnt accept. After id been there a week or so, I met Jackson. Ive changed his name because hes a local radio dj. He hosted the early morning show but would secretly record it the night before so he could stay in bed. The following morning on the times I stayed over hed stir around 06:00 a.m. open his blinds to check the weather, hoping it would match the forecast he could currently be heard giving on the radio. One time he asked me to fake a live phone in, and I called the radio station to enter a competition, pretending it was seven in the morning and I was on a morning run. In fact, it was seven at night and I was on Jacksons Porch in a jockstrap. I didnt win the competition on the grounds that this would be unethical. On our first meeting, we went for food. First, Jackson outlined in detail how he was looking forward to rimming me, but then, to my horror, he ordered tuna Tata. My jaw dropped in disgust. Youre not kissing my bum with that fish breath, I said. I faked a stomach ache and left. We tried again the next night. I suggested we'd meet after we'd eaten. For the amount of men I've hooked up with, it's surprising for some people to hear that each and every meeting fills me with dread. These hookups don't happen easily. Each threshold I cross incurs a toll of anxiety and stress, and yet I insist on putting myself through the torture. There were certain events in my life which I won't go into now. That meant I grew up with a slightly distorted sense of what love is and what you need to do to keep it. Bell hooks calls it being wounded in the space. You should have known love. Perhaps one day I'll be more specific, but even now I always leave things early, be it a date or a night with friends, based on the assumption that no one really wants me there. It's funny how being able to name something doesn't necessarily enable you to change it. If you told me I'd killed lady Di, I'd believe you. So as I knock on Jackson's door, I'm filled with dread that he will realize that I am bad. In the first instance, this means hell. Think I'm ugly? There are some photos in which I look good, I concede, but there is a hierarchy, especially in the gay world. It's worth noting, however, that those men in the top league tend to all look the same. They are fungible, and it helps me that I tell myself that these men are in a prison. It's depressing to think that we fought so hard and for so long for the right to be different. But we all end up looking the same. On my good days, I'm proud to break the mold, to not be a sheep. On my bad days, I'm an ugly old goat. And yet, there's an anomaly here, which, in the spirit of this scientific inquiry, I feel duty bound to disclose. All my boyfriends have been hot. Robert, Lionel, Simon, and the guy in New York who broke up with me last week. All of them are objectively hot. In all photos of me when I'm pictured with one of my hot ex boyfriends. It's an undeniable tale of two cities, hot town and not town. By now, I've also read enough self help books to know that confidence is sexy. So I hide my ugliness and unworthiness, or at least my perception of them, from these men I've loved. And I hope we won't be photographed together. At which point my cover is well and truly blown. In our text exchange, Jackson called me handsome. I get this a lot. Rather than hear the compliment, I hear the words. He hasn't said. He hasn't said hot. He hasn't said sexy. He hasn't. Because the idea that I am desirable in that way sometimes feels so inconceivable that if a guy does express as much, my automatic response is to assume there's something wrong with him. He's a liar. Oh, he's desperate. He's mocking me. He's a murderer. Interestingly, handsome is the word that most men often use to describe my penis, too. Well, they can't say massive. And nowadays, let's face it, they can't really say hard all that often. Therefore, they say handsome. So, as well as a sporadic but deeply held belief that I'm ugly and unlovable, I have a face like a dick. So it follows that as I wait the interminable time for Jackson to open the door. Did he spy me through the window and is now hiding behind the couch? I'm in agony. The easiest way to shut out these thoughts is with meditation and mindfulness. Only joking. It's with alcohol. The door opens ajar and Jackson looks me up and down. Then it opens all the way. Hey, handsome. Jackson was stocky, with big muscles and a large, round belly, which was becoming. We both wore sportswear. He long bro y basketball shorts with no underwear. Free baling for you tonight, Chris and me. Tight, skimpy running shorts and a jock strap. Once I'm there, I can enjoy it with the disinhibition afforded by alcohol or, if I'm sober, by the desire demonstrated by my partner. I do feel kind of sexy as I get on my hands and knees and rub my head in Jackson's groin to save him from having to look at my face as his hand slides along my spine down into my buttocks, the fear melts away. Never fully, never entirely. But I do sometimes overpower these thoughts long enough to live presently sexually. In this moment here with Jackson and most men I hook up with, I am submissive. It turns me on to a degree. But I must admit that over time, I have devalued and sublimated my own desire for pleasure. And I have to remind myself that I deserve it, too. So I worship Jackson's muscles as requested. First kneeling on the floor, focusing on his calves and glutes. Later, I stand behind him as he flexes, and I stroke each individual muscle and comment keenly on their size and firmness. On my way there, I used a thesaurus to refresh my vocabulary for the task, and Jackson is treated to a barrage of incongruous, ill fitting synonyms to honour his stony thew. Now I am to call him daddy or sir, and he wants to edge me. He ties me up and explains, this will last a minimum of 1 hour, and if I want to come, I must beg him for it. I'm not used to my desire being the sole focus, and it feels strange. But this really isn't about my pleasure. I consent fully, freely, and I lay there bound with rope. And through sheer force of willpower, I shut out the negative thoughts, tell myself, this man wouldn't be there unless he wanted to be. Until finally, blood flows to my penis. He jerks me so hard, so roughly, and for so long, that when I leave his house and for the three days that follow, my penis looks like it's been stung by a bee. I'm smart enough not to waste this opportunity. And the following afternoon, I sneak into Key west house, an old school clothing optional resort for gay men, and I parade around the pool proudly presenting my engorged penis. Men look at me in a way that they never have before. Today looks of admiration. More conversation started. A drink bought for me, bottoms quite literally backing into me. This vehicle is reversing, one man says as he grinds his buttocks into my groin. At the bar, I laugh and make a mental note to steal that. Come on. A russian man wants to fuck me. He speaks broken English, but we muddle through in the dark room. He positions me in the sling, and then he leaves. If I've understood correctly, to find another top. I'm in there for quite some time. The owner of the establishment comes in. He asks if I'm a member. I'm not. I snuck in and as punishment, the owner has no issue with reading me the full terms and conditions of entry and charging me for the membership. Whilst I'm legs akimbo in the sling, the Russian returns alone, but is thrilled to find that I have recruited someone myself. And so the Russian and the owner take it in turns to fuck me. It's rather lovely, actually. The Russian's fantasy, it transpires, is that I am his prized possession, which today he has chosen generously to share. He fucks me and tells the owner how good it is, how tight it is, and then, proudly, he invites the owner to try me. Theres a formality in how he extends the invitation, as if hes entertaining dignitaries at a reception organised by the UN and hes inviting them to taste the delicacies of his homeland. The owner plays along and thanks him graciously, bowing several times with humility as he is ushered towards me by the smiling, noble host. I am spit roasted to a chorus of compliments about various parts of my body, my tight hole, my throat, which is wet like a pussy, and not least, my thick, imposterous cock. As a finale, I'm able to generate my own momentum in the sling and I swing back and forth on their cocks as they applaud and laugh and praise me. When we finished, the russian man, whose name he didn't wish to divulge, sat in the corner and weptein the owner. And I comforted him, knowing better than to ask the reasons for his tears. Some things a man must face alone, but nevertheless, there can be moments of respite from this solemn task. I stroked his hand gently with my thumb and we, three men who languished in the lower leagues of beauty, an unlikely triumvirate in this dark room in Key west on a humid Wednesday afternoon in May, with a storm rumbling in from Cuba and Donna summer underscoring our accomplishments, sat and held each other for 30 seconds, no more, each finding his own point of intersection on the graph of pleasure and pain before walking out into the blinding sun and rejoining this terrible world. At the Airbnb, you looked at my dick and laughed. It was a nice laugh. I only allow you to be nice to me. It's the prerogative of he who has summoned. We both agree. So I covered my penis with a bag of frozen peas and attended to my Zoom call. On the Valentine's Day after my second surgery, I was recovering alone in my flat in London. I was unable to move much and was having panic attacks as well as physical complications from the surgery. We were still in lockdown and I had been rushed into hospital several times in an ambulance after collapsing at home. The fear for each time being that I was about to die. In a moment of lucidity, I posted a message to my bowel cancer support group. In this message, I acknowledged those of us who were single and fighting cancer. So many posts in this group were about people effusively thanking their partner. No one, it seems, knew how they would do it without them, but there was a constituency of us doing just that. So I sent all the single bowel cancer patients in this group some love on Valentine's Day, and from that an informal support group called the Cancer Cuties was born. It was, for the most part, a group of middle aged divorced women and me, who you could also argue met that description. And most sessions involved white wine and moaning about men. When I joined the call from Key west with a bag of frozen peas in my lap, Margot was two bottles in and was modelling t shirt she'd had made with the group slogan printed on it no more weak and disappointing men. I declared it drunkenly one time, but it was Margots idea to put it on t shirts. The ladies still weren't used to seeing me sat upright most of the sessions. I was too unwell to sit up and I conducted business supine. When it came to light that I had a masters in social work, I was unofficially made the resident group leader, but wed each take it in turns to say whatever was on our mind without judgment. Margot was estranged from her family and we never knew why Fatimas children had disappointed her in her time of need. Each grid on the Zoom call was a window into a world of pain and suffering and loneliness. But equally radiating from each frame was resilience, humour, laughter, love and survival. One time Fatima, who had never been clubbing, decided she wanted to go to a disco. So we made a Spotify playlist and had a club night. There was a lot of sit down dancing and we were all rather tired quite quickly. But I did a screen grab and at one point, by pure luck, in each and every grid, a woman is smiling. This group of women saved my life. On the day I had to call my dad and tell him his 42 year old son had been given five years to live, they were there for me and I was there for them. When Lizzie, one of our older members, died, we were bereft and Margot, who lived in the same state, was able to represent us at her funeral. The night after Lizzie's funeral, we were debriefing on Zoom. I was in my flat in London and there was a knock on my door. When I opened the door, I found a bag of groceries leaning against the wall. And then, 2 meters down in the corridor, wearing a mask, was Robert. I could tell from his eyes he was smiling, although his mask hid it from view. From the bedroom in which I convalesced on the 16th floor, I could see Robert's and my old apartment. He lived there still. And as Covid raged on and my body failed me, I would lay in bed looking down at my old life, imagining if I hadn't done the unthinkable all those years ago, that I wouldn't be alone now with no one to look after me. I said this to Robert. I am looking after you, he said. When we separated, we made an agreement that if something happened in our lives and we needed each other, we would be there. Something happened to Robert a few years earlier, which I won't say here, but I saw his number on my phone and I knew exactly what it was. And I dropped everything and went to pick him up in a taxi. Now Robert was bringing me food, shopping and medication and human contact. I felt guilty. So guilty and ashamed of my helplessness. But Robert would never think in those terms and told me not to either. We chatted for a few minutes, but I couldn't stand up for long and I had to return to my bed. I looked out my window at the apartment he was returning to. According to Google Maps, it would take him 23 minutes to walk home. On the 23rd minute, I imagined him walking through the door, putting on the kettle. And how I used to be there waiting for him. Now he comes home from me, not to me. Love can change shape over time, I thought. And yet it remains the shape of love. In Key west. Theres a beautiful old art deco cinema. After my Zoom call with the cancer cuties, I decided I should take my swollen penis to see a movie. There was a film about Siegfried Sassoon playing Sassoon, a traumatized war veteran who through his own convalescence and proximity to death became a different person. Felt like he might have something helpful to impart and I reserved a ticket. When I entered the cinema, a trailer was playing. It was a film about robots and a strong female lead was kicking their asses and wasnt taking shit from weak and disappointing men. I was the only person in the cinema and I sat in the last row, shivering under the air conditioning. The film started Sassoons poetry was recited over images of desolate, deathly trenches. The world's worst wound, as he put it. After my diagnosis, I made peace with dying. I figured I'd done some good as a social worker, been a good friend, and was leaving several plays by which I would be glad to be remembered. Although I would have loved to have enjoyed success in my lifetime, I was satisfied I could be proud of what I was leaving behind me. And if success came posthumously, so be it. But I realize now that was bullshit. I was terrified of dying all along, to the point where now I cant tolerate even seeing the word death. And I shiver and wince every time I hear it. So a film about a generation of young men dying in the trenches was a bad choice. I see that now. After about half an hour, I couldnt cope with the film anymore and I got up to leave. But something caught my eye in the front row, for it turns out I wasn't alone in the cinema at all. A figure stirs down at the front. I squint. Suddenly a body sits up straight. And now he's standing. His shadow on the screen described the shape of a man saluting in this freezing, empty cinema. A man stood to attention, silently saluting the dead, after which he sat down with formality. A gold necklace caught the light of the projector. I recognized the shape of this man immediately. It was Blake. So now, three of us in this room. Me, Blake, and you, the men I've loved. On screen. A slow tracking shot of the trenches and the voice of a poet. You smug faced crowds with kindling eye who cheer when soldier lads march by, sneak home and pray. You'll never know the hell where youth and laughter go. Next time on two foreskins walk into a bar. The door was ajar. I was about to turn back, but an urge to no more overwhelmed me. Hello? Is anybody there? Mister butthole destroyer, are you there? Two foreskins walk into a bar is written and narrated by Chris Thompson. Directed by Andrew Falaise edited and post production by Christopher Hoothen.