by Willy Hudson
First published in 2019 by Oberon Books Ltd
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Copyright © Willy Hudson, 2019
Willy Hudson is hereby identified as author of this play in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The author has asserted his moral rights.
All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to Independent Talent Group Ltd, 40 Whitfield Street, London, W1T 2RH. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the author’s prior written consent.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or binding or by any means (print, electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN: 9781786827388
E ISBN: 9781786827395
Cover photography by Joe Magowan
Cover design by Jimmy Ginn
Printed and bound by 4EDGE Limited, Hockley, Essex, UK.
eBook conversion by Lapiz Digital Services, India.
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Printed on FSC® accredited paper
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Paris
Contents
Foreword
Characters
Scene 1
Scene 2
Scene 3
Scene 4
Scene 5
Scene 6
Scene 7
Scene 8
Scene 9
Scene 10
Scene 11
Scene 12
Scene 13
Scene 14
Scene 15
Scene 16
Scene 17
Scene 18
Scene 19
Scene 20
Scene 21
Scene 22
Foreword
My name is Willy Hudson. I moved to London about five years ago. I naïvely moved to chase a guy, but after about two weeks he stopped picking up his phone. I was left feeling pretty lonely, and a bit silly. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. I didn’t want to go back home yet, and I was kind of interested in acting, but had no idea how to make that happen. So, I stuck loads of drugs up my nose and went out all weekend. I worked four zero-hour contract jobs to pay the rent and afford the lifestyle. I quickly got sucked into a hedonistic, distractive and destructive cycle.
I was a Bottom. In every sense. My sex life was shite – I used to think that it didn’t matter if I was enjoying it or not, I would just close my eyes and it would be over soon. I only ever had sex when I was smashed, which meant I could hardly get an erection and barely remember what happened. I was reckless with myself and had little self-respect.
I messaged a guy on Tinder. He responded after ONE WHOLE YEAR, but he looked cute and he seemed cool, so I agreed to meet up. The date was fucking glorious. We got some beers and walked around the Olympic Park in Stratford. He told me he had met Beyoncé and I freaked out. We sneaked into the Olympic swimming pool and stood near the edge of the pool in the middle of the night, daring each other to jump in. Both of us trying to impress the other with how far we’d go. Of course, I got scared the security guard would catch us and ran out. I will always kick myself for not having the confidence to let go and jump. It could have been an amazing first date moment, splashing around and being crazy. (And maybe getting arrested.)
A few dates later we tried to have sex. I felt like I needed to be a Top. We hadn’t communicated about it, I’d just got this ‘vibe’ and convinced myself that was what needed to happen. I didn’t tell him I’d never done that before. I was sober and so very nervous. I couldn’t get an erection, nothing worked, and it was all a big embarrassing mess. I still couldn’t jump in the pool, as it were. I didn’t talk about it with him and laughed it off.
At the same time as all this, I was taken by a friend to see Bryony Kimmings’ show Fake It ’Til You Make It. I was broken by that piece, the first time I had cried hard in a theatre. I’d never seen anything like it. I followed Kimmings online and signed up to her workshop on making solo performance. I thought it would be sick if I could make something like Fake It.
In the workshop, I made an impulsive decision to explore the Top/Bottom labels as my focus for the week. As we shared our topics to the group some bellend laughed and dismissed my idea, which initially shook me. But everyone else was hugely supportive, and it felt right, so I stuck with it. Bottom, in its most fragile form, was slowly hatching.
I began to pick apart the Top/Bottom dynamic and understand its roots. I got lost in queer sexual politics and all these labels within the community. I had always felt I distanced myself from what I saw as ‘gay culture’ and didn’t have many queer friends. I had a lot of internalised homophobia that would take me a while to work through.
As I zoomed out and documented my experience, I could see how my sexual anxiety was not only tied to the fears of being a Top, but also rooted in relationships and my general self-esteem. Having to live and work in London was putting huge pressure on me, and I was barely holding it together. My lifestyle needed to change if I was going to make anything happen and get out of the hole I was in.
The show developed and the swimming pool guy stuck around. I eventually sat him down and finally took one of my first little jumps. I said I’d never been a Top, I had a problem with intimacy and that I was so fucking nervous. He gave me complete support and said he didn’t actually mind which position we had sex in. Nearly four years later, I can still get anxious and lose my erections a bit, but I’m learning to be way more vulnerable and honest with him.
Writing and processing Bottom has been the most life-changing thing that has ever happened to me ever, ever. It has given me confidence and understanding more than I could have imagined. I owe huge thanks to everyone that has helped along its journey. I am so proud of what we have made. This one is for all the fabulous queers. I hope it entertains, connects and helps.
Willy Hudson
HUGE LOVE & THANX TO
The Arts Council, Soho Theatre, Exeter Phoenix, The Bike Shed Theatre, Bristol Old Vic Ferment, Strike A Light, Summerhall, Paines Plough, The CLF Art Café, The Bunker, Nicholas Hytner, Ian McKellen, Cameron Mackintosh, Jim Broadbent, Timothy Sheader, William Village, Iorwerth Mort, Alec Drysdale, Georgia Robinson, Lilly Burton, Rachel Quinney, Emily Souter Johnson, Ben Romain, Jim Goddard, Michelle Barnette, Catherine and Harry Lemon, Steve and Val Hudson, and my family. Everyone that has generously supported, donated, bought tickets, tweeted, and helped make Bottom happen.
Bottom first opened at Summerhall at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe 2018. It transferred later that year to Soho Theatre, followed by a UK tour.
Writer and Performer
Willy Hudson
Director
Rachel Lemon
Dramaturg
Bryony Kimmings
Lighting Designer
Lucy Adams
Sound Designer
Tic Ashfield
Associate Artist
Paris Augustine
Movement Dir
ector
Jess Tucker Boyd
Voice Support
Jake Hassam
Graphic Designer
Jimmy Ginn
Photographer
Joe Magowan
Videographer
Tristan Bell
Marketing & PR
Storytelling PR
Producer
Willy Hudson
Rachel Lemon
Line Producer
Sofia Stephanou
Supported by The Arts Council, Bristol Old Vic Ferment, Strike A Light, Exeter Phoenix and The Bike Shed Theatre.
Characters
WILLY
LUCY
Notes
There are a number of different performance registers, or ‘worlds’ – Present Day, Date, Backstory, Restaurant and Sex Facts.
There is space for audience interaction, improvisation and moments for ad-libbing.
BEYONCÉ and TOPS are voice recordings, taken from interview clips found on YouTube.
Scene 1
Present Day.
Ideally the stage is in traverse, although the show can be adapted for alternative configurations. Leopard print pants, a Beyoncé T-shirt and a pair of pink shorts are scattered around the audience, under the seats. A pink block with the bottom half of a mannequin, the bum facing towards the audience, is at one end of the stage. It is covered by pink, glittery, fabulous fabric. At the opposite end there is a larger pink block (there’s enough room for two people to sit). Behind it, on the wall, is another pink glittery piece of fabric. It’s a little bit tacky.
The stage is empty as the audience arrives. LUCY is operating the show from the tech box. Early era Beyoncé songs are playing (‘Me Myself and I’, ‘Baby Boy’ etc).
WILLY enters. The music cuts. He is wearing nothing but a pink towel, animal print socks and white trainers. He clutches the towel around his waist to cover himself. He is carrying a pink bucket of props in one hand, and his pink phone in the other. He has just got out of the shower and obviously late to do the show. He checks his phone intermittently.
He finds his leopard print pants and asks the audience to hold his towel up for him so he can put them on. Once they’re on, he gives them his phone. He tells them that he is waiting for a text, and that they should let him know if it comes.
He waits.
He begins to make an anxiety gesture. He repeats it a few times, transforming it into a dance move.
He stops.
WILLY:
Lucy, there’s meant to be music in the opening bit.
‘Love on Top’ by Beyoncé (an upbeat dance remix) plays loudly. He directs the anxiety dance move at the person with the phone, continuing to check if he’s got a text. He hasn’t. He gives up on that person. He finds his t-shirt under another chair and gets the audience to help him put it on. He gives them the phone, asking them to tell him if there’s a text. He builds another anxiety gesture which turns into a dance move, adding it to the first move to establish a routine. The text doesn’t come, he gives up on that person. He repeats this sequence of getting dressed/hold phone/dance move to put his shorts on. He now has a full routine.
The music abruptly cuts. He is interrupted by the Mannequin world. Here the music is not like Beyoncé at all. It is classical and foreboding. There is haze and blue lasers. It is ethereal and mythic. WILLY stares at the mannequin, taken off guard and slightly embarrassed.
This quickly disappears. The Beyoncé dance remix comes back and he continues his game with the audience. Faster, harder, more desperate for the text.
The phone dings, cutting the music. WILLY grabs it from the audience.
FUCK.
Oh, it’s my mum.
I’m waiting for a text. Not from my mum.
Beat.
Lucy can you hold this and tell me if he texts please.
WILLY gives the phone to LUCY.
It’s quite embarrassing actually because –
Last night was the first –
Beat.
Scene 2
Date.
WILLY is at the large block. This is the Date. It is bright and warm. There is a light underlying beat to this world, giving it drive, urgency and pace. This world is direct and performative.
I apologise.
‘I’m sorry’
I say, ‘It’s never happened before.’
‘It’s never happened before.’
I excuse myself, and I go through the kitchen into the bathroom.
He makes his way to the bathroom which is stupid because it’s such a small space.
I’m naked on this journey – which is risky, I know.
I lock the door.
Sound of door locking.
I turn on the tap.
Sound of tap being turned on and water running.
– so it sounds like I’m having a wee – and I look in the mirror at my floppy, flaccid, shrivelled…asleep…willy.
Beat.
Thank you for letting me down.
Thank you for making me look like an absolute mug.
And THANK YOU for being a wimp I mean it’s a hole, it’s a fucking hole.
Beat.
I stroke it gently to coax some life back into it. I splash some water on it to try and wake it up. I pull it a little bit, then I pull it down hard. I shake it. I pump it. I spit on it – and I want to fuck-ing smack it.
For a moment it looks like the spit is actually the kiss of life my willy needs, as it slowly rises to attention – like a happy turtle who is just waking up.
Yes. Good morning. About bloody time.
I turn off the tap.
Sound of tap being turned off.
I flush the toilet.
Sound of toilet flushing.
I go to run back into my room and say, ‘Ooh I was just warming up…’
But it’s a false alarm.
I flush the toilet again – (toilet flush) – which is probably a mistake as now because I’ve flushed twice he’s gonna think I’m having a shit.
He jumps out of the Date, into one of the anxiety moves from the opening.
Any texts Lucy?
LUCY:
No
WILLY:
Fuck!
Scene 3
Backstory.
Hello, by the way. My name is Willy.
I’m twenty-seven years old and I am from Exeter.
I’m a massive Beyoncé fan. I have seen her six times, I’m on the tour DVD and she’s touched my hand.
He lets an audience member touch his hand.
I also have a Beyoncé tattoo, in the form of a watermelon on my left ankle, just next to Simba.
WILLY shows his ankle.
This is in reference to her song ‘Drunk in Love’ where she sings ‘I been drinking WATERMELON.’ And I’ve only just recently realised that she doesn’t actually mean she enjoys drinking the juice of this summer fruit, but rather watermelon is a metaphor for her husband Jay-Z’s semen.
So I have a tattoo of Jay-Z’s semen on my leg.
Typical Willy to get a tattoo of what I thought was a nice cute watermelon, when actually it’s just cum.
Beat.
This is Bottom, the story of my quest for love.
And this –
He whips off the sheet covering the mannequin. It is wearing the same leopard print pants as WILLY. We faintly hear a short phrase of the Mannequin music.
– is my Bottom.
The Backstory music comes in. This is different to the Date and the Mannequin. It is electronic and synth-y.
The story begins when I moved this bottom to London. The Land of the Gays. I moved into an eight-bedroom warehouse flat with twenty people and a house rabbit in Hackney Wick…wanker…
I was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and tight-arsed.
WILLY checks in with himself.
Self-esteem?
He feels up the left mannequin leg.
Sky high.
Love for Beyoncé?
He
feels up the right mannequin leg.
Endless.
Quest for love?
He squeezes the bum.
I’ve only just started – I’m gonna get out there and find my man.
So I moved into the box room, and put all my Beyoncé posters up to make myself feel safe.
WILLY crosses the stage and pulls down the glittery sheet. It reveals loads of Beyoncé posters stuck to the wall.
Hello Bey.
BEYONCÉ:
Hello.
Scene 4
Date.
Doorbell.
He arrives late. Which is annoying.
I had timed it all perfectly. That means the fish has now been in the oven for over an hour, and that I’ve over-boiled the peas.
But I don’t tell him this.
I pretend that it’s fine and cover it by saying, ‘Ooh I’m a shit cook, so please don’t expect much.’ (But actually it’s not that I’m shit, it’s that you’re fucking late.)
I smile and sit down opposite him in my little kitchen, ignoring the smell of stale, dry fish. He picks up his fuck – fork – and asks me how I made it. I say, ‘I’ve picked the fish from my garden, chopped the peas and I’ve shit in the pan.’
