On a one-way street, faced by blank buildings, stands a strange little toy-town house, with cars drawn up in front of it on the gravel. The female receptionist conducts you to a room – cubicle, really – with two chairs, a table, and magazines (Cleo with Katie Holmes on the cover: “Is she too good to be true?”). You’re left to fill in the forms:
- Do you have problems maintaining an erection? yes/no
- Are you diabetic? yes/no
- How long has the problem been going on?
Then she gives you the injection.
It’s like a little white plastic gun, pressed onto your penis. She snaps the catch, and … fu-u-uck – it’s as if a firecracker’s gone off inside the shaft. She injects the drugs, briefly examines the result, then returns you to your cubicle: Pull on it a bit; stay standing. It’s starting to get hard.
Twenty minutes or so later she comes back to collect you. You’ve been listening to the voices come and go through the cubicle walls. It’s almost like a relay race: injection – erection – pep-talk. All synchronised so we don’t have to see one another.
You’ve had time to read through all the pamphlets she gave you now. The pills can cause you diarrhoea, stomach upsets, coloured flashes in front of the eyes. Sounds sexy, no?
You decide to go with the little white gun after all. The gold-chip method, they assure you.
Now through the door to the technician, whose job’s to teach you how to shoot up. He demonstrates on a pink plastic penis (a retired dildo?), then gets you to repeat the procedure once or twice.
Surprise, surprise, the more doses you buy, the less it costs.
Now you’re led back to reception (a cool young guy now, replacing the cool young girl). He issues you with a bag of syringes, swabs, and drugs. The second bottle’s way more powerful – so go back down in the dose when you start on that one.