A gymnastic, verbose, thorough dissection of the boundary between gay intimacy/sex, I'm floored at how vivid and wide-reaching this one-person play is. Rodgers and Hammerstein one moment, then Rumi, then spinning into autobiography and love letters to the moon??? Go off! Berry captures the (frightening, almost violent) rituals of gay rejections based on inhuman body standards, then twists the bitterness with an eye towards the transcendental self. A pastiche of gay mythology and theology-- Whitman and Tim Miller and those horny holiday chain texts all rolled into one. To summarize is to reduce, but gorgeously structured and wildly impressive.