Review: In Hold Me in the Water, Ryan J. Haddad Spills the Tea About His First Time

Ryan J. Haddad rises from a trap door in the stage of the Judy Theater at Playwrights Horizons wearing a sequined dinner jacket. His back facing the audience, he twists around in his walker to greet us: “Hello, darlings!” And for a moment, it seems as though he might launch into a rousing rendition of “Don’t Tell Mama.”

Like Sally Bowles, Haddad implicates the audience in a conspiracy, divulging personal secrets, often in graphic detail, about his first great love in the world premiere of Hold Me in the Water. Theatergoers familiar with his previous shows, Hi, Are You Single? and Dark Disabled Stories, will be unsurprised by the candor of an artist who always speaks forthrightly about subjects that are typically left unaddressed, either out of a sense of fear or embarrassment. “For those of you who don’t know me,” he quips, “I don’t know how you ended up here!”

Haddad is a master of the gay yarn, peppering his tale with self-effacing jokes and witty asides, all delivered with the dryness of a strong martini, his hint of a mid-Atlantic dialect serving as our spritz of vermouth. With unflappable self-assurance and perfect comic timing, he easily instills an atmosphere of giggly intimacy so that for 70 minutes, we’re his closest circle of friends as he recounts a significant chapter in his own book of love.

It’s about a man he met at a summer writing program. Haddad describes him as “the hottest guy at this residency,” the object of lust for this gaggle of horny scribes. And yet the mutual attraction Haddad felt was undeniable. “Trust me,” he assures us, “I have manufactured chemistry many times before.” And his feelings are confirmed when flirtation leads to a series of dates and his first experience with penetrative sex—an activity that always requires a lot of trust, but especially when you have cerebral palsy.

And it’s easy to see why Haddad chose this man for the job. In one of the most moving passages, he recounts a lake trip during that initial residency. He assumes that he will be deposited on a perch somewhere in the water as everyone else swims and splashes around him—a gesture toward inclusion without being truly inclusive.

But that’s not what happens. Instead, “the boy” (Haddad never refers to him by name) sticks by his side for the full hour, helping him to move around and intuiting his needs without ever being asked. “It was the most intimate I had ever been with another man,” Haddad confesses, “Forget all the blowjobs I’d given or received.”

It is rare when two bodies seem to instantly understand each other without the intercession of words—and even rarer when one of those bodies is disabled. Borrowing a phrase from disabilities justice activist Mia Mingus, Haddad calls this “access intimacy,” something precious that, once found, must be devastating to lose.

Like the boy in question, Haddad gently guides us through the ripples of his story, fully in command in a way that puts us at ease and makes us want to wade deeper. Director Danny Sharron wisely builds his production around the seasoned storyteller at its center so that every element supports this most basic form of theater.

The open and austere set (by dots) keeps all eyes on the performer. A ledge and a hanging mirror are the only elements that suggest a specific setting (Haddad’s bedroom). Once he removes the dinner jacket from the opening moment, Haddad wears jeans and a pink button-down shirt, a casual ensemble for a kiki (costume by Beth Goldenberg). Cha See’s lighting subtly shifts with the emotional intensity of Haddad’s words, with sound designer Tosin Olufolabi providing the softest of musical underscoring (all performances are “relaxed,” with the houselights dim, open captioning, and a liberal reentry policy).

Haddad and his words do the heavy lifting, conjuring people and places with wizardly skill. He makes it look easy, which is the sign of a great storyteller because anyone who has ever done it knows how hard it really is to capture the human experience in words. It’s a work that makes the promise of instant and unselfconscious nonverbal communication feel like liberation.