URBAN HOMO

#lastresort.

So I’m driving at top speed along a wide and winding road. Cutting through luscious green countryside that rolls toward the horizon on all sides. The vast expanse of turf interrupted only by clustered armies of magnificent trees and the occasional house, old but grand and beautifully maintained. I’ve got the top of the car down, the wind is in my hair. The speed is exhilarating. The sense of freedom is empowering. But the solitude is peaceful. I am at one with both nature and the machine. I feel alive. And in control. Well almost. I’m actually curled up in the passenger seat of @former_model’s family wagon. Her baby daughter is asleep in the back. A truck has overturned on the Illawarra highway and traffic has backed up so much that even accelerating to a slow crawl gives us hope. It’s 30 degrees outside. But I’m wrapped in an old pashmina. @former_model’s iPod is playing day spa type music. She is reassuring me in soothing tones that everything is gonna be okay. I am going to re-hab. And she is driving me. Partly because I have lost my licence. And partly because I have the shakes. I would like to be able to say that I am a hot mess. But really, I’m just a mess. And I have just hung up the phone from my doctor. Who asked me to come and see him about my test results. I explained that I was “out of town for a few days” and suggested he just give them to me over the phone. “Oh no”, he said, “I’ll wait until you’re back. I’d rather see you in person. Just don’t have sex while you’re away.” My doctor is also my cousin. Which can provide awkwardness in some situations, but on the whole ensures an extra level of care. And permits a certain familiarity that may be inappropriate in other circumstances. A surge of panic that started deep in my belly quickly spread across my whole body. Like a thousand tingling spiders. “Actually I’m away for more than a few days, so I don’t mind hearing them over the phone,” my quavering voice said in as commanding a tone as it could muster. “I’d prefer to chat with you… face to face.” Heart about to burst through chest. “It’s fine,” I said in a way that said it was clearly not fine. “Tell me now.” Clenched teeth. “No, no, I’d rather wait.” “Well I wouldn’t!” I yelled. “Just tell me now!” “Okay, okay, calm down.” Nothing is guaranteed to make me un-calm as much as being told to calm down. “I’M ON MY WAY TO RE-HAB AND I’LL BE AWAY FOR AT LEAST TWO WEEKS, SO FUCKING TELL ME NOW!” “Ok, then”. And he reeled them off. Sounding very smug indeed. Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Syphilis. Yup. Syphilis. Jesus Christ. I already knew I had crabs. I’d packed enough lotion to drown an entire barrack’s worth of the critters. Excessive body hair, although attractive to many, is also attractive to these little mites. I practically have to bathe in Quellada for a week to get rid of the fuckers. Not to mention boiling the sheets. That I was not afflicted with more serious conditions was a source of scant consolation. For these other conditions were serious enough. Especially given that, apart from the crabs, they were not going to be treated until my return home. (There was no way I’d be admitting myself to re-hab with: is there a chemist in the complex who can prescribe these? as I flash an emailed prescription list that would put Henry VIII to shame). It had also dawned on me that I was now about to be locked in a compound full of addicts who would most probably be gagging for it and I would not be able to have sex with any of them. Not. A. Single. One. And to top it all off my yelling had woken the baby. So the sound of screaming infant could now be added to my litany of discomforts. Nor was @former_model pleased with this latest turn of events. Her soothing tones now turned towards two agitated souls, sounding decidedly less soothing. At least she’d turned off the day spa soundtrack. There’s only so much Enya a nervewracked homosexual can cope with. It becomes the exact opposite of relaxing. Like yoga. What is it with that shit? I’m not a lesbian for fuck’s sake. Oh, look out. I’m gettin’ antsy. It’s the feeling of pending peril that’s descending as I am approaching my recovery. Albeit slowly. The traffic has not improved. But as the reality of life at my destination presents itself to my addled mind, I am willing this motorcade of doom to stop completely. My resistance to what lies ahead is so overwhelming that I am actually pushing back into the car seat, in some desperate bid to somehow disappear. It’s not as though I actually know what’s in store, but a drug-fuelled imagination has quite the capacity for melodrama. I have seen Trainspotting. I’ve read Postcards From The Edge. I understand cold turkey. Delirium tremens. I see a lonely cell. And a barbed fenced yard. I see empty shells of junkies. Some shuffling along like the walking dead. Others scurrying at top speed, shifty eyes darting warily all over. All of them tr ying to steal my stuff. I see hardened wardens. And sympathetic caregivers. None of them believing my cries of, “I’m not supposed to be here!” “OH GOD I CAN’T DO THIS! TURN AROUND! TAKE ME HOME!” Then suddenly the car turned. “Thank you, thank you…” I slumped back into the seat, relaxed for the first time in hours. On the brink of tears of both joy and relief. I felt sure @former_model had chucked one of her famous U-turns. “I can do this better at home. I promise,” I whispered in a daze, my eyes closed. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. We’re almost there. That was the turn off.” I lurched forward in disbelief. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” “Now pull yourself together. You’re 42 years old, for fuck’s sake!” And with that she pulled over, pushed me out and said: “Now go and get de-toxed.” She waved me off with a kiss blown my way. I’m sure she said, “I love you”. But I’m not convinced that she meant it. And then the final blow. I picked up my Longchamp and turned to go inside. That sign. It’s a joke. It’s a hologram. “Welcome to the Last Resort. Thank you for not smoking.” Instagram: urban_homo Twitter: @urban_homo_dna Facebook: Urban_homo