The writhing couple on the bed are getting close to sexual climax. The moans are coming faster and louder. "Do me!!!" yells Nancy. "Ohh, ohh" groans Ben. "Do me, you hook-nosed Jew!!!!" yells Nancy at the moment of orgasm. "What?" says Ben, losing his erection. Set at 3am among a bunch of wired New Yorkers, Peter Ackerman's debut play is about sex and intimacy, the things we say in moments of abandon or in jest and the things we really mean; the things that you can say and the things you really shouldn't.
Ben is horrified by what Nancy, a non-Jew, has said. The couple row, and Nancy goes for solace to her best friend Grace, a 30-year-old unemployed sex-mad graduate who is turned on by her strictly bed-only affair with Gene, the repressed, hit-man brother of her gay therapist, Mark. With me so far? Before long Nancy is involved in a three-way conference call involving herself, Grace and Gene in one flat, Ben in another and therapist Mark and his boyfriend in a third. Laura Hopkins's design splits the stage horizontally, ensuring that you can see the action in all three apartments.
Imagine David Mamet's Oleanna or Rebecca Gilman's Spinning into Butter crossed with No Sex Please, We're British, and you have something of the flavour of this 70-minute play, which coyly refuses to take any of the issues it raises seriously. It merely piles endless improbabilities upon easy laughs. Abigail Morris's production is a deft affair, but fails to add weight to a wafer-thin evening that, like most sex farces, would like to be seen as naughty but is actually inoffensively nice.
· Until January 11. Box office: 020-7478 0100.
