Let us cross our fingers and briefly adjust the rules for what is printable in newspapers, for this play is hardly about roosters. “The penis,” Colette Kendall notes, “is notorious for being bad-mannered around the female visage.” She then pokes and rolls a rubber substitute about her face in ways hilarious and haunting.
The Cockwhisperer is a sort of inverse Vagina Monologues, down to moments of extreme seriousness which handsome Kendall is wise enough to poke fun of immediately. “Who here loves cock?” she yells cheerfully, then adds how her mother would be so proud of her right now. Ha!
The play is in the form of a three-relationship testimonial, which Kendall freely admits she invented...Her nostalgia becomes strangely universal, mixing the ’70s and ’80s, and there is no cheaper way to see a pretty 48-year-old grunting and grabbing her crotch in feigned heat this side of the river. We can practically smell her convincing ache... And all this she manages with wit and without tabloid tackiness.
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