I’m down with any show that includes a true personal account of a queer woman fucking a queer man—to their mutual delight. I’ll leave the details for you to discover, but they involve a device called a feeldoe. It’s on my Christmas list. Michelle Lunicke’s reminiscence filled me with a giddy sense of liberation, and gratitude that the solo artist is using the Fringe to break new ground in terms of content. The show starts badly. Lunicke’s attempts at audience involvement—“Here! Play a kazoo!”—fall flat, and the opening chapters of her coming-out story are generic. There’s a pot of gold at the end of that road, though. I left the theatre with a smile on my face.