URBAN HOMO
#nowheretohide
#nowheretohide
So after a gruelling bumper-to-bumper four hour drive, me curled foetus-like in the passenger seat of @former_model’s car, complete with crying baby in the back seat, I was unceremoniously deposited outside my rehab facility. Greeted by a sign that said: “Welcome to The Last Resort. And thank you for not smoking.” Coupled with the news that I was riddled with venereal disease, fresh in my mind, thanks to a confronting phone conversation with @doctor_cousin. All in all, things were not great. The only positive being that it was unlikely that they could get worse. So I cast my eyes heavenward, took a very deep breath and marched boldly through the front door, abandoning all expectations. Which was a good thing. As none of those expectations could possibly have been met. The interior had a clinic-meets-holiday-accommodation look, making me feel vaguely like I was on the set of a low-budget daytime soap. The scene: A tired 3-star hotel. I was met by an attractive woman whose warm-ish but closed lip smile was accompanied by a furrowed brow and a tilt of the head. The extending of both her hands to clasp firmly around mine, when combined with the above welcome, created an effect that demonstrated at once both care and judgement. She was dressed in that health spa/beautician garb that suggests some sort of medico-scientific qualification that is probably entirely fictitious, and deliberately deceptive. Designed to inspire confidence. And in this case, obedience. We were escorted by a robotic hunk, similarly dressed, and straight out of Logan’s Run, to my accommodation, which I’d half expected to be a windowless berth with padded walls. For the first time in several hours I was pleasantly surprised. It was a very comfortable room, the main features being an almost cinematically scaled TV and what appeared to be the world’s largest bed that made me want to throw myself down on it and flick straight to the movie channel. Ideally with @robotic_hunk beside me. Such a scenario was not, despite the quiet departure of @judgmental_carer, boding well. Once she had left us, @robotic_hunk demanded that I present and open my luggage for inspection. I didn’t quite understand, but the cruel truth became apparent as I watched him remove the following: cigarettes nicotine gum condoms (“You won’t be needing these,” he said. “No, unfortunately, I won’t. But not for the reason you suggest,” I countered cryptically, with no further explanation) ipad ipod iphone paperback crime fiction nicely edited selection of Colt DVDs Temazepam fat metabolising tablets. He even confiscated my daytime/nighttime Codral Cold And Flu tablets. Which I only take for fun. Each gasp of protest on my part met with a steely glare, and summarised with the very concise: “These are the rules. There are to be no distractions from your focus here and all habits that are potential addictions for you, or that provide a means of escapism, are to be removed. Your possessions will be returned at the end of your stay.” At this point I was interested in more than escapism, I wanted a means of escape. As if he could see my mind’s eye searching for such a route @robotic_hunk added: “And there is no way out from here. Other than by the front door, pending approval from your Case Officer.” Case Officer? Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Was this a treatment or an internment? “And who,” I sneered sarcastically, “is my Case Officer?” “I am.” “Ah.” I briefly considered turning on the charm but quickly decided he would see through such a ruse so chose, instead, the slow-release path whereby I would reveal my charms gradually over the course of the coming week in the hope that their subtly increasing sincerity (although fraudulent) would have greater effect. “All you will need is this,” he said, handing me an ipad. It was connected only to the resort’s own internal intranet, providing me with menus, meal schedules and a timetable of the various therapies and activities. And numerous videos showing happy addicts sharing their innermost thoughts and fears. Some of them even laughing in a patronising fashion at the person they used to be. Oh please dear God, don’t let me ever become one of those people who describe themselves as “recovering”. I plan to get fully recovered. And then resume my habits. Responsibly. Possibly not all of them though. How I was going to survive the next few days, though, was my immediate challenge. I thought how much I would now like @ robotic_hunk to leave my room so that I could just lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Or possibly turn on the TV. And again, with that eerie mind-reading thing going on, he anticipated my need by cutting it down with: “And the television is only a monitor. Should you wish to view The Last Resort intranet on a larger screen.” Oh. For Fuck’s Sake. Now, you’re fucking killing me. Although, not as much as the next comment: “But don’t get too comfortable. Because coming up next is your medical.” “My medical what?” “Examination.” Kill me now. “And what exactly does that involve?” “It involves you being here” – indicating the location on the 3D intranet map on my ipad – “in 15 minutes. Please shower and put on this.” A fucking surgical gown. Turns out it involved a lot more than just the surgical gown. And most of it involving the removal of said surgical gown. There was a urine sample. And a cavity search. I even had to squat and cough to ensure I wasn’t clenching anything up there. There was more coughing. While having my balls held. And not in a good way. There was searching for track marks. And syphoning of my blood. God only knows what they found. Little torches shone in my eyes. My ears. My throat. Even up my nostrils. Indignity after indignity. And all in full view of @robotic_hunk. Who shared smug smirks with the examining doctor. Who appeared to be enjoying it all a lot more than I was. And I was uncharacteristically silent and compliant in the face of such an affront. Which finally came to an end with a Miranda Priestley-like “That is all” and a dismissive wave of the hand. That sent me back to my stimulant-less room, where I flopped on the bed and cried myself to sleep.