The ride to the facility was eerily quiet, except for the soft whimpers from our baited breathing. I spent my time staring out the window at what would become my temporary home for God-only-knows how long.
As we pulled up to the large building, my forehead hit the window in defeat, the coolness of the glass curbing the sweat that was starting to form on my brow from nervousness.
The center itself was massive, at least the size of a Los Angeles city block, and it was in the middle of absolute nowhere. The only thing in sight were a few evergreens and the barren expanse of snow-covered nothingness.
The sight of it made me shudder, an eerie feeling slithering down my spine. I always viewed these places as death traps, the type of place you go when you’re an absolute loon, or when you’re at the end of your rope.
I don’t consider myself to be either, but apparently, the rest of the world thinks otherwise.
I felt the car slowly grind to a halt in front of the neatly shoveled walkway, sliding precariously from the black ice buried beneath the snow. I wait patiently, dreading the door opening. Once it does, I stare up at the driver. I’m avoiding getting out, and he knows it. I don’t want to move.
Unfortunately, Trace slaps me upside the head, and I knew I needed to depart before another fight got started. I’m not sure my ribs could handle it. I stick my almost perfectly manicured sneaker out, and it gets buried in the snow. I silently curse to myself as I get out, nearly doubling over in pain.
This is going to be a long week.
I made the walk inside alone, even though I knew the guys were following me. I refused to look back, though. This was already taking every ounce of energy I had, and if I saw the car, I would hop back in, kick their asses out, and disappear in a heart beat. Instead, I stumbled inside and forward to the counter and gripped it painfully, not even noticing the petite blonde that was startled by my appearance.
“Oh my God! Are you okay!? What happened to you? How did you get here!?” her voice was quiet, serene, and filled with worry.
“I...I’m fine,” I utter. My voice wasn’t very convincing, though. Maybe it’s because I’m not fine. I’m in fucking rehab. There is nothing fine about this situation.
“No you’re not. You’re bleeding....we need to get you to see a doctor,” she finished, getting up from her seat.
“Can you just check me in, and take me to my room? I don’t give a shit about seeing the doctor. I don’t want to be here, but I’m being forced to be here against my will. So the sooner we can get over this shit, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair, and the sooner you won’t have to look at my bloody features.”
I didn’t have to see her face to register the shock that was undoubtedly there. I rested my head on my hand as I waited impatiently for her to tell me whatever it was that I needed to know. All I could hear was the tapping of her fingers on the keys, and some shuffling of papers.
“Name?” she asked.
“Timberlake. Justin Randall,” I sighed.
“Date of Birth?”
“January 31, 1981,” I groaned. “Look, don’t you have this on file? Or can’t you look this up in some teeny bopper magazine. I’d really just like to go lay down right now.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But this is procedure. I need to get all your vitals, and then I have to ask you a few questions.”
“Fine,” I reply, pointedly. She continued asking me the most mundane questions about my person, to which I answered robotically. And then she started spitting out some things I wasn’t quite expecting.
“How many women have you slept with?” she asked.
Uh.....
“Excuse me?” I asked, feeling completely incredulous at the thought of the question.
“How many women have you slept with,” she repeated, very nonchalantly.
“I have no fucking clue. Why would I know that? I’m a fucking rockstar for God’s sake. You think fucking Mick Jagger knows how many women he slept with? I doubt it.”
“Sir, there’s no reason to get hostile. I just need you to answer the question, even if it’s a guesstimate.”
I took about five minutes to think about it. Let’s see....seven national tours plus five global tours, plus tons of international promo work, plus 4 steady girlfriends....times sex three to eight times a day. But wait....
“Does a threesome or foursome...or an orgy, really--does that count as one partner....or....two, or three...or however many?”
I watched her blush, and couldn’t help but smile. This was way too easy.
“Yes, Mr. Timberlake. Each person counts. So...your guesstimate?”
“Well, in that case, I would say that I’ve slept with thousands of women. I have no idea how many. But I’ve been having sex since I was 16, and for the past five years, I usually get laid about five to six times a day, depending on whether or not I’m in a relationship or not.”
“Alrighty....” she nodded. “Right...’thousands.’ SO....STD’s?” she asked again, looking up at him.
“Not so far,” I chuckled.
“How often do you get tested?” she asked.
“Tested? Never. I always wear a condom, and I don’t have any itching or any physical deformities. I’m straight.”
She started typing away furiously.
“So you’ve never been tested for an STD?” she asked, incredulously.
“Well, I mean...once or twice a long time ago. But not recently.”
She started typing again, and it was starting to make me nervous. I didn’t like it when she asked me questions like that.
“What are you typing?” I finally ask, really curious about what she could possibly be typing that much about.
“It’s just information for your file, Sir. It’s part of the procedure.” I rolled my eyes. Everything is a part of procedure around here, and that word makes me angry and sick to my stomach all at the same time. “Have you ever had sexual relations with a male?”
I nearly coughed. “Why on earth do you need to know that?” This was not going in a direction I was happy about. “I’m a straight man...” I paused to look down at her name tag and sighed at the sight of her tits slightly popping out of her little nurses outfit. I could feel the itch starting to work it's way up my spine again. This was not good. “...Veronica.”
“This is a sexual rehabilitation facility, Sir. I need to know everything about your sexual past. Now...have you had sexual relations with males?”
“I don’t feel comfortable answering this question...” I trailed.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need the answer. Please just answer the question, Sir.”
I nervously start scratching at my sideburns, and I sigh a little. “Um...” my voice barely above a whisper. I was really hoping Trace and JC weren’t behind me, because they would never let me live this down if they found out. “Yes....I mean. I’m still very much a straight man...but...I’ve unfortunately had a few run-in’s with men...sexually.”
“Were they with, or against your will?” she asked again.
“Um....a little of both. In...different situatons,” I nod, unsurely. I don’t know why, but the question made me feel really vulnerable. “Are we done now?” I ask, meekly.
“Yes sir...that about covers all of the information I need. Why don’t you say goodbye to your friends, and I’ll have the Doctor come out to meet you and take care of your wounds before taking to your room and giving you your weekly schedule. But first, I need you to sign these.”
She hands me a clipboard, and I don’t even bother reading it. At this point, I just wanted to go curl up somewhere and hide. I was in pain, and I felt violated. I scribbled my name on the blank boxes and turned to see JC and Trace waiting in the lobby area. I slowly walk over to them and nod.
“So, this is it. How long will I be in here for?” I ask, a little more politely than before. I was still angry, deep down, but I was too exhausted to fight any more.
“The pamphlet said a month. But it may be longer or shorter, depending on what they diagnose you as, and how your therapy goes. So I guess it’s up to you,” JC said, standing up to greet me.
“A month?” I sigh. Shit.
“Hey...man, I’m sorry....about earlier. I didn’t mean to get you all riled up. I just...we’re both really proud of you for doing this, even though we know you don't want to be here. But you’re going to be better when you get out of here, okay buddy? We’re going to stay in the next town over....so we’ll be here, visiting when we can," Trace offered.
“It’s okay.” I look down at my feet and shrug. “So, this is it. I guess I’ll see you guys around....” I was trying to hold off the inevitable, until I heard someone call my name. I look up just as a gorgeous woman walks out one of the steel plated doors to greet me.
“Mr. Timberlake?” she asked warmly. Wow, did she have a smile that lit up the room. And those glasses...mmm. It’s been awhile since I’ve been with the nerdy type.
“That’s me...” I nod, raising an arm.
“Wow. Veronica was right. You banged yourself up pretty good, huh?” she asked, that smile warming the pain away.
“Yeah...something like that,” I finish. Is this some kind of joke? Should all rehab centers have drop dead gorgeous doctors treating their patients in sex therapy? This has to be morally wrong on so many levels.
“Well, let’s go. I’m going to clean you up, give you a sponge bath, and then get you to your room to explain your schedule. That sound good?”
Did she say sponge bath?
This might not be so bad after all.
“You got it...” I smiled. Before I disappear behind the steel plated door, I turn around to the guys one last time and give them a solid wink with a shit eating grin adorning my face. And then I disappear.
Let the Rehab begin.
