S2E7 - A Film About Someone You Love

Previously on two foreskins walk into a bar. Come here, he said, and he coaxed me gently towards him. His naked body was touching my clothing. Can I? Two foreskins walk into a bar. Written and performed by Chris Thompson season two, episode seven a film about someone you love. Often in motion pictures, when two characters fall in love, a montage is used to dramatise the burgeoning feelings between the protagonists. It's typically a series of vignettes in which we see the bond between them grow their defenses lower, culminating in a declaration of love. For example, in Runaway Bride 1999, directed by Garry Marshall, the love between the two characters, played by Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, is demonstrated by such a montage. The vignettes comprise the first we see them playing cards together. I think the game is snap. Its not fully clear. Then we see Julia Roberts swinging on a tire thats attached to a tree with rope. The setting is an autumnal woodland and Richard Gere is reading a book whilst pushing a child like Julia on the swing without looking up from said book because theyre so in tune and theyre finding their balance between Julias silly childish needs and Richard's grown up male concerns. Then theyre playing cards again and yes, it is snap. Continuing the infantilisation of the female character and Julia wins adorably. In the final vignette, they are sat on the floor drinking champagne. Julia Roberts is laying down on her side, free spirited, zany, propped up by her elbow, and Richard Gere feeds her food like a fucking baby. At the end of this montage, with the female character's regression to infancy now complete, we also know that they are perfect for each other and are now in love. The montage of me falling in love would comprise the I'm sitting on the toilet shitting my guts out for the fourth time that morning because the man I love has not texted me back. Now I'm squatting over a mirror and I'm applying diaper rash ointment to my red, raw, stinging sphincter. Next, I'm writhing in my bed and sobbing. It's three in the morning. I have not slept in a week. I've not eaten in two days because the man I love has not texted me back. Finally, I'm standing on a beach with waves crashing at my feet and I'm threatening to walk into the sea and not come back shouting, is this what you want? Because I swear I'll do it. Because the man I love has not texted me back. I wonder if you, the men I have loved, are aware of any of this. For my goal each time has been to conceal this craziness in the hope that it will subside. And I don't inflict it on you. For me, it's the takeoff that is bumpy. But when we're cruising at altitude and the seatbelt signs come off, I relax more and I can do a secure attachment in the calm blue skies of love. So I know that if I can soothe myself in this awful part and just hang on in there till I have pierced through the clouds, it will get better. Robert. I know in my youth and inexperience, I once cornered you in a nightclub and held you hostage there until you told me if you loved me or nothing. But I was younger then. Lionel, you may be thinking of the time I turned up to your house party uninvited in a cheerleaders dress. And Simon, it occurs to me you might recall the time I phoned you at six in the morning to discuss monogamy. I kept the conversation light, of course. It was just something that had occurred to me as I was brushing my teeth. I think you might have guessed that this actually came at the end of a terror filled night of nausea and deranged, contorted insomnia. You asked me if I'd slept at all, which I hadn't, but I passed it off coolly and said, oh, I tossed and turned a bit. I blame you though, Simon. It was because you looked so good in your speedos and were about to fly to for two weeks and would be wearing them on the beach the whole time. That drove me to the brink of insanity on that particular occasion. But I hope you will all vouch for me when I say I can relax eventually. And I wonder if you even knew the extent of my insanity. For as much as I wanted love, craved it dearly, it is not an easy process. Perhaps this explains why I wanted Blake to fall in love with me and me not to have to fall in love with him. Wanting it is one thing. Putting myself through the trauma of getting it is another. Perhaps my numbness actually suited me and was helping me. My plan these days is to show my working and to find a man who I can just be honest with and say, look, I'm going to go do lally for the next month. Just take it as a compliment. Hang on in there. My therapist has a different hypothesis. My therapist thinks I should find a man who doesn't trigger my attachment system so much. And if I do find such a man, the process of falling in love won't be such a hellish nightmare because this man will offer reassurance, containment, and safety. Where is this man? I can tell you where he is. He's in a relationship with someone else and they are very happy. In fact, he's just posted a video on Instagram of him telling his boyfriend that he's booked his first Broadway show. They have a beautiful apartment that looks as if it's at least on the 20th floor with Manhattan views. They have big muscles and beards. On hearing the news of his Broadway debut, his supportive boyfriend falls to his knees in pride and joy, and as they hold each other, a beautiful bundle of emotions and love from screen right enters a well groomed dog and they collapse into uncontrollable giggles as the whippet jumps up and down, licks each of their faces in turn in this candid, organic moment of happiness, which they just happened to have filmed and then posted to Instagram. But back to Key West a few days before Blake and I found ourselves in the sauna together, I had tried to rectify my emotional and physical numbness by going to a tantric sex workshop. I'd met a guy in the men only area of Bourbon street bar, and he told me he hosted a bi monthly tantric workshop in his house. Given my troubles of being intimate with people post cancer, or as he put it, to integrate emotional intimacy with physical intimacy, he felt it would be useful for me to explore this in a group setting. I hadn't had time to get nervous about it because I'd been seeing a lot of Blake. In fact, I almost forgot to go, but right on cue, a concentrated zip file of angst downloaded itself as I waited at the front door. There were seven men standing naked around the kitchen counter. There was a friendly simmering of chitchat and my ears picked out the words Judy Garland, grinder, and houseplants, and I knew I was in the right place. I scanned the room straight away to assess if I was the ugliest person there or not. There was a lot of strong eye contact and intentional smiles, but my eyes darted down to the men's cocks, some of which were already hard to ascertain where mine would sit in the bell curve. I took off my clothes cautiously and covered my stomach with my hands, and then I joined the group. The energy was lovely. Every man seemed beautiful in his own way, and even though I knew this would be challenging, I felt it would be a useful experience to allow men who I feel are out of my league to touch and maybe even enjoy my body except for one man. He was at least 85, had no front teeth. His nipples were sagging like an aging female primates. He had a massive tuft of white hair coming out of each ear, as if he was a cartoon character blowing a gasket of steam from his ears. And I knew, I just knew I would end up with him, to my relief. To begin with, I was paired with a much younger mandehead. I cant remember his name, but he just smoked a cigarette. That much I do know. Our task was to stare into each others eyes for three minutes, uninterrupted. He bore his face close to mine, about six inches away, and he breathed out an ashtray through his mouth and smiled. I stared into his eyes for three minutes. Sweat was dripping down my arms, and I feared my hairy ass crack was going to leave a sweat stain on the orange couch. After what felt like an hour, the three minutes ended. My body relaxed. The other partnerships were hugging each other, saying thank you, and how incredible it was. So my partner and I did the same quickly, even though it was about as pleasurable as a urethral swab. And then we were made to do it again. I was sweating even more now. My life flashed before my eyes. Until finally our host announced the three minutes to be over. And quite from nowhere, I bloated out. Oh, thank fuck for that. The host looked me up and down, disappointed and aware that he had to crush this dissident swiftly for the sake of the vibe. He handed me a towel and suggested very tactfully, but very loudly, that I might be more comfortable sitting on this rather than directly on his new couch. I lifted up my ass and saw a horrifying sweat stay in the shape of Roosevelt island. Then we were put into pairs again, and I knew, I just knew who id be paired with. Chris, you can go with Miles. Which ones, Miles? Which ones, Miles? It was him. Miles was a charming gentleman, theres no denying that. I would certainly love to sit and have coffee with him and hear all about his life. I watched all the younger, hotter couples hug and greet each other, and I thought, shit, id better hug Miles. So I did that tantric, mindful hug where you hold each other a long time and breathe in loudly and make it sound really meaningful and connected. Miles smiled a toothless, gummy smile. The activity was as one person lists three things that he would like his partner to do to him. The other person can consent or not, and if he does consent, then they spend time fulfilling the others wishes and vice versa. The only caveat is that theres no penetration. Miles went first, describing the three things he would like me to do to him. First, id like you to kiss me on the lips, if thats okay, Chris. Well, Miles, ive just got out of a breakup and that feels a bit too intimate for me right now. Perhaps I could kiss your neck. I could see that he was disappointed, but he played it down and I started to plant chaste, soft kisses on his wrinkly turkey neck. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the other couples were writhing and moaning. It was euphoric. One guy actually came and his sperm landed on my ankle with a warm plop. And then there was Miles and me. He stated his second wish. He wanted to play with my penis whilst I kissed his nipples. I didnt want him to play with my penis whilst I kissed his nipples, but I did it anyway because I couldnt say no to everything. You have a very handsome penis, he said. Thanks, Myles. You too, I said with a mouthful of nipple. His third and final request was that he lay on his stomach and I lay on top of him. He was so old and skeletal I thought I might crush him. But Miles was adamant and I lowered myself onto his bony frame, covering him almost entirely. Miles sighed with pleasure. I understood what he was looking for. Ive craved it myself. That all encompassing, almost overpowering presence of another. And I felt pleased that wed managed to find something that I was comfortable doing and that he seemed to enjoy. The instructor announced that our time was up and we were to conclude what we were doing. I slowly pushed myself up off Miles, which was when I noticed that he'd stopped breathing. Miles? Miles, are you okay? I shook him. His eyes were open but glassy and his body was floppy. What the fuck have you done? I heard someone say. Panic broke out amongst the gaze. The host approached a homosexual with a mullet pointed at me and screamed, you've killed my husband, for fucks sake. Not again. Miles. The host ran to his bedroom and came out with a bottle of poppers. He shoved the poppers under Miles nose and like a shot, Miles came to with a jolt. Im sorry, I think I might have ejaculated on the carpet, Miles said. He rolled himself over and sat upright, smiling. He looked at me and said, that was lovely, thank you. The group carried on, but Miles and I opted to sit and chat. We sat on stools at the breakfast bar drinking tea and watched the remaining men entwine themselves in a sweaty confluence of bodies and breath. I never told Blake about this, but the memory of the sweaty bodies flashed into my mind as I sat alone in the sauna with him. Sweat poured from our skin onto our towels and dripped off our noses to the floor. Blakes erection had subsided and we sat in silence. I wondered about Blakes internal world. I make a living from mine, spilling my guts out publicly in the hope it helps others. But Blake contained things more, compartmentalized them. Maybe. Eventually I couldnt handle the silence any longer. I asked Blake what my security clearance was now. Would he be open to me, asking some questions, maybe getting to know him more? He said that I'd been given one level of extra clearance. I respected him for this and I told him I was going to rename him Betty boundaries. I asked about his daughters. He looked to the floor, but then he breathed in the hot, dry air and smiled. Blake had twin daughters, now aged 14. They knew he was gay and they always have. His wife was understanding. They got together so young, you see, and there were many ways in which they werent right for each other. Blakes homosexuality being a useful hook on which to hang the many ill fitting clothes of their relationship. Blake had always travelled with the army, but his wife, lets call her Lainey, and their daughters lived in the next town over from Blakes parents. So after they separated, whenever he was given leave, Blake would live with his parents and could see the girls a lot. When he was away. He called, he texted when he was allowed. Blake was a constant in his daughters lives. But when Blake was serving in Afghanistan, his base was attacked and he sustained an injury to his leg. That meant he was no longer fit for service. He was honorably discharged on medical grounds and returned to civilian life. But Blake had never known civilian life. Blake's sense of identity and purpose and masculinity was in the military and it was all taken away from him. I spiraled and they do help us a bit. Like, we all know what PTSD is and what it stands for, but knowing what some letters mean don't do much when you're going through it. I knew I was out of control. I was telling people, stay away from me, I'm not good right now. But you can't say that to your kids. They shouldnt have to suffer. I set up a fitness business, personal training type of thing and my girls would put the posters up and did the instagram for it. But the business failed and I got into debt. Theres more like, a lot more. Like all these smaller moments they build on top of you, dont they? But one time, Lainey said I couldnt see the girls as much because I was too. Well, she said tense, but she meant crazy. So then my relationship with my kids was just dinner at mcdonalds once a week. Me and all the other single dads sitting there knowing weve got to say goodbye again. Never allowed to do the bedtime routine, to tuck them in, to read them a story. And they call it a happy meal and fast forward. One day I went to collect the girls, but Laini said I couldnt see them because id got the day wrong. But I hadnt. And I smashed my car windscreen. Blind rage. And when I looked up, my babies were standing there watching me. And you never forget a look like that on your childs face. So there was an agreement that I should go away, get my shit together. And then this job came up. Its military, but its a desk job. It systems shit. And everyone agreed I should probably take it, first in Virginia. But then the option here came up and after four years, they said I should take it. Whos they? I said, lainey, my mom, dad. What about you and the girls? I wanted to stay with them and they wanted me to. He shrugged. Its hot. I need some water. Blake got up and walked out the sauna. He left a trail of wet footprints from his sweat, but they dried almost instantly. I heard a shower run and after a few minutes, the sound of someone getting into the hot tub. I wasnt sure if I should give him space or go and be with him. I thought how much id been through on my own, how damaging that loneliness can be, but also how I'd become inured to that solitude, how perversely I'd become addicted to it. I got out the sauna, rinsed off in the shower, and I sat on the side of the hot tub with my legs in the water next to Blake. He didn't move. He didn't look at me, and we just sat there for a time. Then Blake leant his head on my leg and I gently placed my hand on his shoulder. I looked at the clock on the wall and set a timer in my head. And we stayed like that for 15 minutes. No more, no less. We left Key west house and wandered aimlessly for the most part, in a restful silence. We passed a bar with karaoke and I suggested we both do a song. Blake was up for it, but warned me to be ready to have my socks knocked off. Blake sang sweet transvestite from the rocky horror show, and I did my old faithful. It's all coming back to me now, the Celine Dion version. On his turn, Blake immediately got the crowd, three women on a bachelorette party on his side. They were so pleased to see us, to see some actual homosexuals in their natural habitat, that they whooped and cheered. As Blake propelled himself across the stage in a series of pelvic thrusts. His smile took up his whole face and his dance moves got more and more outlandish. We roared with approval when he finished and he stepped off the stage and I ran up to him and gave him a big kiss on the lips. The women wanted to know everything. How long we'd been together, when we were going to get married and who was the top and who was the bottom. They were pleased to show off their advanced knowledge with that one. Blake's answers were, we're nothing, never. And look at him. What do you think? I felt a bit sad that he'd ruled me out of his wedding so definitively. And I quickly tried to figure out if I'd just been bottom shamed or not because woe betide anyone who does that to me. And for the record, I'm technically versatile. Evidence of personal growth. And how helpful are these labels anyway? But it was my turn to sing, so I grabbed the microphone and jumped onto the stage. What Blake didnt know, but soon knew, is that in karaoke I rule theres no genre of music that I cant do justice to. Theres no limit to my range. Sure, my enthusiasm often outweighs my skill, but when it comes to karaoke, its wise not to fuck with me. Especially with this song. With this song I am amazing. I tell you the story, I take you on a journey. I know this song like the back of my hand. It's my go to. In fact, I was crowned king of Karaoke in Tunbridge Wells in 1996. With this song, there are many songs I will butcher but this one I can nail. So don't fuck with me when I'm singing Celine Dion. I could spend ten minutes describing that performance. The scale, the breadth, the drama, the power, the connection, the gasps, the tears, the triumph. So I'll spare the time and space and just say with british modesty and understatement, I was fine. Blake's mouth was wide open. The women nudged and teased him and his cheeks went bright red and I fucking loved it. The song ended. I took my applause, perhaps for slightly longer than was merited, then joined the group. Blake cackled, he was delighted. Ok, youve got game. And he grabbed my arse and kissed me on the cheek. We left the karaoke bar and wandered around without remit. At length we stumbled across a childrens play area and we took it in turns to push one another on the swings. This evolved into a competition whereby I had to push Blake, then do a push up underneath the swing and then get up again before Blake swings back. You had to do as many push ups as possible before you get hit. Then we swapped and the person with the highest score won. Blake won easily. He transformed into a machine. When I finally did knock him over, he pulled me off the swing by my ankle and I landed on top of him. We were a bit more chatty by now. The adrenaline from the workout and karaoke had lit us up and we decided to get some food. We went to a diner and the waitress laid out the menus like a deck of cards. Blake and I ordered the same thing, blueberry pancakes, and the waitress said snap before gliding away to put our order in. After we'd eaten, we took our leftovers to the fishing pier to look for dolphins. The entrance to Edward B. White pier is framed by the AIDS memorial. We looked at the names before heading down to the end of the pier, the salty atlantic air now finally cooling us from the heat of the day. The pier is an enormous, brutalist concrete structure jutting far into the ocean, an unfinished road to Cuba. At the end of the pier, engraved onto the floor is a large compass, its once bright colors now sun beaten to a faded palette of pastel yellow and red. The sun was setting, it was redder than usual, and the sky blushed with the secrets of the day. The waves crashed loudly on the concrete, flinging a light wet spray over us. Blake and I lay down on the north northwest and, propping ourselves up on our elbows, fed each other our leftovers. I recited Blake the poem sea fever by John Masefield, which he enjoyed, and said he would look up when he got home. He took particular delight in the word spume, which we both agreed sounded equally preposterous in both our accents. I tried to say it in an american accent. Spoom, Blake said. You have a terrible american accent, Chris. And there, on a compass on a pier in the middle of the ocean, we took it in turns to shout the word spume in the silliest, loudest way possible until our hoarse voices and howling laughter were sucked away into the vast atlantic skydehe by the salty calling wind. Next time on two foreskins walk into a bar when are you going to come clean and save him from yourself? Spare him what we have suffered. Two foreskins walk into a bar is written and narrated by Chris Thompson. Directed by Andrew Falaise edited and post production by Christopher Huthe.