Everybody knows that a visit to the clap clinic is less pleasant than than missing Happy Hour, but as gay men on the London scene, it has to be done. I’ve never had an STI – that was until last week…
“Girl, I think I’ve caught something…” I confessed to my friend Darren, at a chill out.
She looked like I’d told her I was dying. Jesus, there’s still less gunk than ‘I don’t know why ya’ll is acting like this?!’
“Oh girl… ” It was the stare that said ‘I’ll-love-you-no-matter-what-but-how-did-a-sister-slip’
“Here girl, have a bump of k.” Well, if needs must. I took the bump and made the dreaded phone call. The receptionist acts like you’re phoning a sex line…
“Anything you tell us is strictly confidential, we won’t share your details with anyone…”
Okay, whatever, just book me in?
Walking into 56 Dean Street is like entering a sauna – you need to get inside, and you need to do it without anyone seeing you. On come the bug eye shades that cover half your face and the Raquel wig, before tip-toeing military style at Road Runner speed. Ducking and diving behind cars, lampposts, letterboxes before squat lunging into a forward roll through the glass doors.
Don’t think I wasn’t sitting in the waiting room for a good hour before they call out my name, finally! And trust me to get a gay nurse.
“Got a bit of a drippy willy have we?” AS IF I wasn’t mortified enough, I was now being teased with the most audibly vile adjectives to describe my predicament.
He continued to probe me (verbally), as I exposed the details of my sex life to an total stranger.
“Well… it was a bit of a session…” BIBLE – why did I have verbal diarreah?! He didn’t need to know everything. Then, looking at me, eyes engorged and mouth salivating, asks the standard procedure question for all doctors,
“So, are you always the top? Or do you switch it up?” I’m 90% sure this questionnaire wasn’t in professional interest, as he licked his lips and adjusted his crotch.
“Erm… Yeah, both” – uncomfortable doesn’t even cover it.
“I see…” she salivates a bit more while the eyes circle around my ankles before running up to my thigh – I knew wearing batty riders to the G.U.M was asking for trouble!
“Okay, so I just need to take a swab from your mouth, then your penis and then your anus.” It was one of those moments when you hear the sound of a Chinese gong and the camera zooms into your face.
“But I thought swabbing was outdated? I’m sure I only pissed in a cup last time?” Literally grappling for any last thread that there might be an alternative to having a queen shove a cotton bud down your japseye.
“That’s if you don’t have symptoms” I could hear the total glee in her voice that she was getting to do the honours, as she slid the elongated instrument out from its packet.
So I dropped my pants, gave her something to wank over later, and endured the most invasive procedure a man has to endure.
She was loving her job today! I could see the thought bubble above her head, it read: ‘Go on – fucking take it you little bitch.’ Blatantly pushing it in way further than it needed to go, probably catching dregs of coke from my nasal passage.
And DON’T THINK after all that – I didn’t even have an STI. Asshole. I’m pretty sure that classifies as statutory rape. I was told that I’d probably just overdone it,
“Seen as you had a bit of a session…” (I knew that would come back to haunt me) – “the infection was probably caused by too much rough play.” AS IF my encounter with one sloppy sket wasn’t fairly cringe-worthy enough, I was now being given the ‘what for’ by the queen that’s just seen my insides on the end of a cotton bud. Later.
After feeling totally violated, I solantro’d to the first bar I saw and ordered to two sambuccas and three tequilas
That’s how you do it bitch. *Files nails.