Last night, I went to see a one-man show that has caused a lot of controversy here in London. Most theatre critics have panned it, and the conservative press have found it especially galling that it’s in the state-supported Royal Court.

Called Tim Fountain: Sex Addict, it’s 90 minutes or so spent in a small theatre space listening to a 37-year-old bisexual man talk about sex, his former lovers, his fondness for sex with strangers, cottaging, and the world of internet shags, most especially those found via Gaydar , the website that claims to have 1.7 million members all over the world. The gimmick of the show, which pushes it away from “pure” theatre and more towards performance art or reality television, is that we, the audience, get to vote for whom he goes off with on his bike and has sex with immediately after the show. We can choose from those who have logged on that evening to a dating website (which, when the show started in last year’s Edinburgh festival, was Gaydar itself, but their lawyers objected, so now it’s one designed specifically for the show.)
A big computer screen dominates the stage, so we can see everyone’s profiles, and the audience gets to bicker about grading their photographs from 1 - 5; some are face shots, some just of cocks or arses. Those that the audience likes are asked to call into the show, and Tim has a chat with them. Among the pool of candidates for the shag of the night are members of the audience, from where the previous night’s winner came. When the audience votes, the “chosen one” is asked to text their address or a meeting place to Tim’s mobile, to ensure that they are not time-wasting, then Tim goes off to meet him, with his video camera in his bag. The audience waves to him from the window as he cycles off.
The next night, the footage from that meeting is included in a video montage that begins the show, containing interviews and pictures of the men he’s met while the show has been running. A daily “shag report” is written up by both parties and posted on the website’s message board. Tim is diplomatic in his written reports, but allows himself a little more acidic leeway, for comic purposes, in his montage of previous encounters.
I went to the show dreading it, to be honest. I’d got a fluey feverish cold, and had spent the day in bed. I didn’t feel at all like entering an audience-participation show, felt the complete opposite of horny, sat in the back row and yearned for a paper bag over my head to indicate “don’t even look at me”. I also was squeamishly uncomfortable about how he would handle the subject of men and sex, as it matters to me on so many levels. Some comments I had read about the show had worried me - I feared that it was a display of vacuous exhibitionism, devoid of soul.
To my surprise, I felt pleased at the end. I had enjoyed myself. But it wasn’t the pleasure of having seen a powerful work of theatre, or having been impressed with his script or performance. It wasn’t that I had learned anything new about gay sex or the internet. I had found him engaging, likeable, and funny, with a nice line in droll Yorkshire banter. It was a technically challenging show which they carried off well, but that’s never been my criterion for a good night at the theatre.
I knew it was important, but couldn’t figure out why.
It hit me when I got home - I had enjoyed a very good lesson in sex education from a nice, funny secondary school teacher. Not that I ever had a sex education lesson at school, but if I were a teenager now, and wanted to know all about the way of life that many men have, in a way that was thought-provoking and demystifying and honest, then I could not have designed a better lesson. Indeed, the audience last night behaved in a way not unlike a group of teenagers, some answering back to teacher, some volunteering to enter into the spirit of the thing, some sniggering knowingly, and some worldly-wise and patronising. There was a lot of goodwill, though, and all that was missing was a discussion immediately afterwards, with the teacher there to answer questions that the lesson had raised, to encourage reflection and sharing of experiences.
What is poignant for me about the show is that, in the current climate, this could never be a “real” sex education lesson. And yet, I passionately believe it should be, in every school. We have not yet managed to catch up with the social consequences of the internet, but one of the most challenging ones is that children with access to the internet (ie practically all of them) now are more informed about human sexual activity in all its creative and often disturbing manifestations than their parents. The only reasonable thing to do is to discuss it honestly, bring fears doubts and concerns into the open, to socialise it.
The internet’s shadow is its secrecy – a huge amount of human interaction now goes on in private, including sexual activity. If that sounds paradoxical to some, it is to underestimate the capacity for people (in particular, men) to use an instrument such as the internet to maximise pleasure, maintain control, and avoid getting attached, and therefore run the risk of getting hurt. This is something that, if taken to extremes, can be toxic. I am a firm believer in the value of talking about real lived experiences, to root them, to stop them being private festering secrets, and to come to shared understanding about things. This is especially important about sex. We need to share with each other how confusing it is.
If I had had a sex education lesson from Tim Fountain when I was sixteen, asked the questions I needed to ask about loneliness, safety, relationships, pleasure, and love, explored with others in my class notions of respect and friendliness and sexual health, my life would have been enormously different, and, I suspect, a lot happier. Because I was living a sexual life similar to Tim’s when I was young - but could never, ever talk about it to anyone. I was not seduced by anyone into that sort of life - there really has to be an end, once and for all, to the notion that homosexuality is contagious, and that honest sex education - based on the reality of people’s sex lives - is a danger to society.
In the show I saw, Fountain’s honesty and his humour shone through. As did, perhaps unwittingly, his still-present love for the comedienne, Jackie Clune - “isn’t she lovely?...” he sighed, when her picture popped up on screen, in his litany of ex-lovers. No one else got anywhere near as much warmth. He wanted the audience to choose a woman, but none were volunteering, although he had a lovely chat on the phone with a nice woman from the previous night’s audience. The previous night’s shag had since gone on to the website and created a profile, so the audience insisted he called in. Tim was nervous - endearingly so, for “Maverik” was a handsome, talkative, engaging man with a very sexy profile. It was confirmed to us all, to Tim’s relief, that Maverik did indeed have a good time.
Joining the dots, it appeared the night hadn’t really ended, and perhaps they had got a bit mashed together; Tim was very tired, and mentioned, more than once, that the audience could give him a night off. But the audience would have none of it. Some called for Tim to spend another night with Maverik, who wouldn’t have minded; but that, apparently, was against the rules. This was not called “Love Addict”, he said, in mock distress, head rolling on his desk, he didn’t want to fall in love, that wasn’t the point of the show.
The point of the show is, simply, to tell it like it is for many, many men.

www.timfountainsexaddict.com / www.gaydar.co.uk