S2E4 - Pearl Harbour

Previously on two foreskins walk into a bar Blake arrived at 08:00 p.m. on the dot. He waited for eleven minutes. He tried opening the door out of concern, I'm certain, whilst I hid silently under the bed. Two foreskins walk into a bar written and performed by Chris Thompson season two episode four Pearl harbor after 20 minutes, I crawled out from under the bed and I glugged down a pint of water before lying face down on the mattress. And there I remained until dawn at 06:00 a.m. the following morning, the workmen arrived at the house next door to start their day. I took my tea onto the porch and spent a moment being grateful that I'd come through that hangover vowed never to drink again. It was too hot for tea, but that didnt stop me. My glasses had steamed up and I was already sweating. I could usually stay there for five minutes before having to return to the air conditioning, but the sky today was grey. It felt close and oppressive, and the trees were trembling rather than wafting. The workmen who id cruised on my first day stepped up onto my porch and smiled. He spoke far better English than I did Spanish, and in a bold gesture he said, hey, man, wanna suck it? I couldnt say no, so I invited him into the house, sat him on my daybed in front of the air conditioner and got to work. When we finished he said, dragres Espana. I hear you. And then he left. On his way out he said, next time I do you. After the storm, it was all so beautiful in its simplicity. It was transactional, yeah, but it was infused with such joy, such easiness. It lifted my mood, and I returned to sit on the porch and listen to the international news on the BBC World Service. I checked the weather and sure enough, a tropical storm was due this evening. Today I planned some literary pilgrimages. I'd been far too focused on carnal matters, so I vowed not to have sex for 24 hours, instantly discounting my blowjob with the workmen as a legacy hookup carried forward from a different day. Today was about the artists who frequented Key West, Ernest Hemingway's house in the morning, then Tennessee Williams Museum in the afternoon. Blake had messaged me whilst I was with the workman. I knew I would reply. I just needed to figure out what lie I would tell to excuse myself. In the shower, I wrote and rewrote several versions of the possible message I would send. I was sick. I was arrested. I was called away to Miami to meet a producer. It wasn't till I was drying myself and choosing my clothes for the day that I asked myself the actual question, why did I do it? I put on a jock strap in case I decided to go back to Key West House later and shut the question from my I was ready for a busy and fulfilling day of intellectual stimulation and no sex. I chatted with you as I walked down Love Lane. It felt right that I turned to you, the men I have loved. Immediately after whatever happened with Blake, id clearly got close to something, and rather than address it, I took refuge in our fiction. Chickens and iguanas roam free in Key west, and I watched a large, bright green iguana lollop across the street without a care in the world. We talked about this and that, what id have for dinner, how long the storm might last, what was Tennessee Williams first play? And Blake was banished from my mind. On the way to Ernest Hemingway's house, I passed a butterfly sanctuary. It looked magical. You walk into a tropical greenhouse and thousands of butterflies surround you. On the wall outside, there was a picture of a child, wide eyed with wonder, looking at an exotic butterfly which had landed softly on her hand. I went and bought a ticket. The man on the desk was gay. A snootier homosexual than I might describe this man as a regional gay. His haircut belonged to a different era and his leathery face suggested he'd not drunk a glass of tap water in about 15 years. A snootier gay than I might characterize this man's life in a few waspy bullet points. Such has several female friends with the same haircut, goes to the same drag show every night and sings the same song at karaoke, which hes known for. Said song is show me Heaven by Maria McKee. Oh, and finally likes to neck a bottle of Sauvignon blanc on a Sunday afternoon and get down and dirty to the r and b grooves of the Hamilton soundtrack. But I was keen to imbue him with more meaning. What was his wound, I wondered. As he gave me my change, he called me honey, which made me like him even more. Five women from Atlanta and I were shepherded into the airlock and the doors behind us were shut. The gay gave his well practised speech from muscle memory, complete with a joke about flamingos, which none of us really got. The instructions, however, were the butterflies must not escape, so you must wait until there are none on your body before you exit. And above all, for the love of Dali Parton, do not touch the butterflies. Some of them are very rare and fragile, and if they land on you. Do not brush them away. Just enjoy the precious moment with nature and stand still until they fly away on their own free will. This all sounded wonderful. I'd already had the instagram photos in my mind, a rare butterfly on my wrist, its wings beating slowly, the flamingo in the background, me being so at one with nature. His speech concluded to a smattering of applause from the Atlanta girls, and with a theatrical flourish, the gay opened the airlock and ushered us into the tropical garden, a place of bounty, of plenty. Like Adam and Eve opening their eyes and discovering Eden, we walked in with awe and marvel into the majesty of paradise. The butterflies attacked. Frenzied, ferocious butterflies flung themselves at us, thousands of them. My Atlanta ladies screamed and ran back into the airlock. But the gay saw them coming. Two of them had several butterflies on them, and he shoved them out of the airlock, back into the marauding frenzy, shouting, do not touch the butterflies. The three who saved themselves looked on in horror as two of their own were thrown back into the savage wilderness. The swarm was so dense, so seething, it shut out the sun. I couldnt see. I couldnt breathe. They were covering my nose and mouth and eyes and dive bombing me one after the other, an unrelenting blitz of vicious insects pelting us like fucking Pearl harbor. One of the Atlanta ladies fell to her knees and cried to God in heaven to save her. A merciless butterfly flew into her mouth, at which point she went rigid, lay flat on her back, and played dead until it was all over. Eyes white with fear, her friend pulled out her pamphlet on the butterfly sanctuary with the picture of the angelic girl on and began swatting the attackers away with it. Get behind me, she said, and I huddled up close to her as we tried to make our way through the swarm. Now they were finding their way up my shorts, into my ass, crack into my nostrils. The kamikaze motherfuckers were coming at me from all sides, the three of us huddled together in a corner. I was elected as negotiator, and I was sent back to the door to implore with the gay to let us back in. But he was resolute, his leathery face now stony. Not with the butterflies on you, honey. We were trapped, then, betrayed by my own kind. This was how I go. Not cancer, not a plane crash. My fate was death by butterfly. We can overpower him, I said. If we just get into the airlock, I can push him out. One of our squadrosa, as I learned she was called, had a friend who'd served in the military, so we felt she was best placed to lead the incursion. Crawling on all fours, we forced our way through the swarm back towards the airlock. Her friend Alexandra slowly stood up and looked into the window. By some miracle, our nemesis had gone, so we piled into the airlock. Now we were hysterical and stripped down to our underwear in the airlock, tears of laughter rolling uncontrollably down our faces. Id forgotten I was wearing a jock strap. Alexandra and Rosa exchanged a look, and we all laughed harder. Rosa did actually pee herself a little bit. We brushed all the butterflies off and shook free the ones on our clothes, releasing them back into the garden unharmed. Although we all agreed none of them deserved such clemency. We were getting dressed when the owner returned. We pulled ourselves together, ready for inspection. It was at this point that I stood on a butterfly and killed it. There was a squishy, spongy sound. Shit. He inspected us, granted us our freedom. So I pushed my shoe hard onto the butterfly, hoping the corpse would stick to the soul, and I limped to liberty. After that, I sacked off my literary day and I went for a boozy brunch with my fellow war veterans. It turns out they were here visiting a friend who I was sure to love code for hes gay, too. So they texted him and invited him to join us. 15 minutes later, in walked Blake. He shook my hand and said, nice to see you again, Chris. He explained to the group that wed already hooked up once and he joined us for brunch. Blake could have made it awkward, but he didnt. He was charming. At one point, Rosa said, why don't you guys go on a date? That's a great idea, Chris. Said, Blake, why don't we go on a date? And he kicked me under the table. Had he forgiven me already? Blake, like all of us, contained multitudes, but his multitudes were continually surprising and fascinating and now contextualized amongst his friends. Compelling. I learned that he had a second job working as a tour guide on the trolley tour, and it was on the Atlanta ladies itinerary that they would be joining Blake's tour this afternoon. I was a tour guide on the open top buses in London before I became a social worker. I said this to Blake, thrilled that we had it in common. But Blake heard it as a brag and rescinded his invitation on the grounds that there's no way he'd be able to be as good as someone who trained in London. But I was shit. I said. Rosa implored him to change his mind. And we joined his trolley tour that afternoon at 415, hoping the storm would hold off. Blake wore a green t shirt with the company logo on and jeans. I sensed that he was slightly nervous, as I would be if I had friends turning up to my work. The only thing on my mind was, how does this man give tours of Key west if he's never heard of Tennessee Williams? I know ive said this before, but it bears repeating. Is there anything more attractive than talent? Blake was a terrific tour guide. Funny, warm, entertaining. One would be forgiven for thinking this was a ghost tour because throughout the ride, Blake made several pointed comments about ghosts or being ghosted and stared me down hard each time. But the only ghost on the tour was me. When we got to Tennessee Williams house, Blake spoke non stop for ten minutes about his plays, his themes, his leading ladies, and his gay life in Key west. When Blake finished his digest on the playwright once again, he looked at me hard and this time mimed a mic drop. There was something very sexy about being absolutely owned like this. I had to cross my legs to conceal my erection. Outside the museum was a faded cardboard cutout of Tennessee Williams with a cartoon speech bubble saying, hi, I'm Tennessee Williams. Please visit my exhibit. I couldn't help but think how much he'd hate that. After the tour, we congratulated and thanked Blake. The storm was getting closer, so we put the Atlanta ladies in an Uberland and Blake and I stood opposite each other uncomfortably. Blake grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the public toilets on the opposite side of the street. He marched me into a stall and locked the door. There were puddles of piss on the floor, and Blake pushed me down to my knees and shoved his groin into my face. This what you want? Huh? You piss pig. He hauled me up, turned me around and bent me over. He pulled down my shorts and saw my jockstrap. Ha. Typical. Always ready. And then he laughed, spat onto his hand and wiped the saliva between my buttocks. Fucking whore. Blake, stop. He stopped immediately. Cant we go on a date? I asked. Oh, fuck off, Chris. Fuck off. I know what it sounds like, but I know what type of guy you are, Chris. When people show you who they are, believe them. And you have shown me who you are. So get on your knees, you pig. I myself have been heard many, many times to use that phrase, not get on your knees, you pig. When someone shows you who they are, believe them. And I do agree with it when I say it, but it turns out, not when it's being used on me. Blake thinks I'm just another sex obsessed, emotionally unavailable fuck up. But blake doesn't know. Blake doesn't know how much I want love back in my life, how I long to be deeply known again. Blake doesn't know that I talk to you while I wait for him. He doesn't know how I have cried. To friends, to families, to strangers in the dark. Blake doesn't know the disappointing dates, forcing myself to feel something towards a lovely man for whom I feel nothing. Blake doesn't know the hours I spend alone, sitting alone at the computer, writing alone, walking in the park alone because I have to leave the house today, even if it's just for 15 minutes. Turning up to parties alone, to weddings, to birthdays, to my own press. Nights alone where I'm photographed, interviewed, applauded, even, only to sit on that night bus alone and go home to my empty apartment, my taste microwave meals and pornography playlist. Blake doesn't know how. If I could shrink myself, I would. If I could desiccate and vacuum pack myself and shove myself under the bed with the clothes I would wear if I was happy, the clothes I would wear if I was with him, I would. Blake doesn't know how I turned up to hospital alone. And I opened my eyes after each surgery and saw nothing and no one. Blake doesn't know how this loneliness has hardened me. And Blake doesn't know how I long to be held but cannot tolerate being held. How I have turned to stone and my cold concrete skin will repel him. Blake doesn't know the tyranny of wanting this, of reaching for it, but not being able to hold it. A futile grasp at that column of haze on the dance floor. Blake doesn't know how I annihilate myself in orgies, how I bend over and take cock after cock after cock until I hurt, until I bleed. Blake doesn't know the horror of wanting to be who I was, not who I've become. To see myself faded and to see myself numb. To be alive but to live, though I'm dead. Blake doesn't know. Blake does not know. Blake does not know. A clap of thunder shook the cubicle, suddenly hard. Angry rain pelted the corrugated iron roof. The butterfly from the sole of my shoe now floated in a puddle of stale yellow urine. I know what type of guy you are, Chris. I looked at Blake and wiped the piss off my knees with some toilet paper. I said, I think you're probably right. Next time on two foreskins walk into a bar. She took one look at me and I knew something was up. She traced the drip to my arm and her face changed. And then she went into crisis mode. I think they're going to kill me. Two foreskins walk into a bar is written and narrated by Chris Thompson. Directed by Andrew Falaise. Edited and post production by Christopher Huthe.