Unwanted Anal Probing Abroad
I probably could have avoided having my colon surprise-probed by a stranger in a ramshackle room whilst in the company of a middle-aged woman who wanted my money, but… as a global hobo, shit happens.
‘Twas a European summer and me, my boyfriend at the time and our straight friend of the male persuasion (who agreed to spend copious amounts of time with us, a gay couple, in confined spaces – bless his soul) hired a campervan from London and set off on the roadtrip OF A LYFTYM! With our hobo budgets in the mix, we could only afford the pov-pack edition vehicle. What this meant was that all three of us were sharing a bed that was sized for only a loved-up cosy couple. Yes – my boyfriend and I did fully consider the fact that we wouldn’t be able to flip, flop and fondle with each other when night fell, but the road ahead was too good to let our homoerotic fantasies get in the way.
We had perfected the sleeping arrangement: I being the little spoon would press my body up against the rear cup holders whilst my boyfriend jig-sawed into my body and our friend would face the other way, snuggling up to his respective rear cup holder.
Night one was fine and the excitement of the roadtrip had distracted us successfully from thinking of penis. Night two and hands had crept inside pants. By the third night my balls were bluer than royal blood. Of course we couldn’t help ourselves, and as soon as our friend was in ZZZ mode we snuck out the side door of the van and looked for an appropriate place to have some naturist fun. We clambered down into a nearby skate bowl and did the deed.
Now I need say no more than, “Once you pop, you can’t stop.” Days passed, the deeds continued and by the end of the second week, we were yet to shower. I don’t know a whole lot about this penis-entering-vagina business, but what I do know (thanks to my sister’s explicit explanation when I was 14) is what a urinary-tract infection is: that lethal combination of pussy juice, sweat, piss and semen. Well, take away the pussy juice, add some faeces and don’t shower for weeks, and you are 5000% more likely to contract a UTI.
A month later, the road trip OF A LYFTYM had come to an end.
My boyfriend and I had parted ways with our friend and were spending a few days in London before heading to Croatia. One day, with nothing to do but bask in our infatuation for each other whilst basking in the sun, we headed to a nearby park, where – if you know England at all – is where everyone heads whenever there’s a glimmer of sunlight. We were being all cutesie and I was attempting to do a handstand when, on descent from attempted handstand, I felt my undies tug at my urethral opening. I grabbed the affected area and fell to the ground, ripping the cotton away from my wee-hole; oh, the pain! I’d had this feeling one-too-many times to know exactly what was going on, but was left baffled when I assessed the situation. I realised there was no way my boyfriend could have cheated and contracted clap, gonny or syph in the weeks passed and subsequently given it on to me. Nonetheless, I had a go at him, insisting that it definitely wasn’t my fault that there was puss oozing from my penis, and that it was entirely his doing.
We ventured to a walk-in clinic and waited in line for hours with the local Vicky Pollards to see a doctor about my little problem. I wanted to get this shit sorted asap. After urging a doctor to “pleaaassee just get rid of it”, I was guaranteed that the testing process would take at least three-to-four days before I could be administered any sort of medication. B-S, I thought. I knew from previous experience that a quick pill and a jab could get me sorted in less than halfy. By the time I’d have received the results, I would be in Croatia, so I flicked my non-existent hair, turned my back on the walk-in clinic and left.
The problem only got worse. I had sporadic period-esque pains and had to undertake a ritual of ripping my genitals from the material they had become attached to each morning. By the time we landed in Croatia, I had fallen violently ill. This was not the summer-fun-in-the-sun getaway I had been dreaming of. I spent the first three days in Split locked up in the hotel room writhing in pain and watching the Olympics. The morning that I felt slightly better, we made getting to the doctor our number-one priority so I could fix my oozy willy.
By the afternoon, we had finally stumbled upon a building which looked like something health-related and was fronted by a litter of stray cats. After walking inside, we were disturbed to find a hospital that appeared to have been unchanged since 1925, not a single helpful staff member in sight and a limbless, lifeless man laying unaccompanied in a stretcher in the middle of the hallway. Wandering around the halls of the hospital, I should have noticed that the lack of security and concern for limbless patients floating around was a real reflection on the facility’s truly backwards approach to health care. We could get no one to point me in the right direction. When the rare staff member made an appearance, they would pretend to not speak English, so I would point at my groin and make a painful face, but this still didn’t help.
Suddenly, a tall woman with a pointy nose spied our tourist flesh and jumped on us like she’d won the lotto. She ushered me into a room and made it horrendously clear that my boyfriend was to stay outside and wait for me. Inside, the room was falling apart; there were cracks running down every wall and watermarks extending from them. I waited impatiently for the doctor to arrive as the woman stared down her pointy nose at me with a smirk on her face. Eventually, the door opened and a man entered. He started jabbering on and signalling for me to take my clothes off; although he didn’t look the part, I figured he was the doctor. I started disrobing, but felt uncomfortable about the witch in the corner smirking away, so I politely asked for her to leave. She rolled her eyes and mumbled back and forth with the doctor until he turned around told me, “No, no – she stay.”
Fuck it, I thought, if I do what he says, I’ll get out of here quicker and will be able to dry my urethra out. So I got into my birthday suit. He instructed me to lean over a bench in the room. I felt so helpless – like an animal awaiting its slaughter. Before I had time to ask why he’d put me in such a position, I felt the hairs around my bum hole being tugged and two of the mans chodis fingers lodging right up in my anal passage. I yelped in pain! Let’s not lie about this: it wasn’t the first time I’d had a foreign object enter my rear end, its just that this time there was no warning, no lubrication and not a drop of consent. My eyes watered – I felt so violated. The fingers wriggled roughly inside me for a few second, then just as forcefully as he inserted them, they were ripped back out.
“PROSTAHTAH. INFECTION. PROSTATAH,” was all the doctor said before rolling the glove of his hand, tossing it in the bin and storming out of the room. (Ok no syphy for me, phew, just a chronically infected prostate – wuteva).
I clambered for my clothes and got changed. The woman was giggling and writing out a prescription at the desk. When she finished she started hassling me, “Money! Passport! MONEY! PASSPORT! MONEEEEYYYYYY!” I was so taken aback by the entire situation that had preceded her heckle, I didn’t know how to react. So naturally I just started crying. Instead of feeling sorry for me the pointy-nosed woman started cackling. She picked up the prescription and left the room, ushering me to follow her. Once we reached the reception, my boyfriend saw my red face and blurry eyes and he was not having a bar of that (my knight in shining armour!). The next five minutes consisted of him yelling things at the witch like “human rights!” and “bitch!” while she hurled back with “stupid!” and “money!”
A 20-something-year-old man who spoke better English than everyone else came rushing into the room and diffused the situation. I paid the witch her fee in exchange for my prescription and got the fuck out of that crummy ward as soon as I could. This evidently wasn’t very quick, as I had to drag my boyfriend out – he was still fuming and spitting insults at the pointy-nosed witch bitch. There was only one last hurdle to overcome – filling the prescription and taking the meds. Finally I could have sex again! After all these weeks of sickness, pain and sticky undies, I would be rewarded with a great sexual release! I couldn’t wait to down the pills and let the magic happen overnight, then wake up to some morning glory.
The woman at the pharmacy filled my prescription and handed me the medication. I looked over the instructions on the front of the box and felt my heart drop:
Take two pills a day for three weeks.