I hope I am not misunderstood when I say that, regardless of sexual preference, I really can’t stand it when I am pursued by anyone with an erection. Jesus, men are dogs. People like me only get an occasional glimpse at things like this; women live with it. I wonder whether you can snap an erect penis in half? I’d give it a try were it not for the fact that a failed effort might be taken for encouragement. Anyhoo, so obsessed had I become with this feature of leisure time since my time on the boat, and my previous experiences in this country, that I became rather too vigilant about the issue – seeing potential violaters of my personal spaces everywhere. It is a recognised fault of mine, this – to obsess about one issue to the exclusion of all others. Add this to my other great weakness – that of getting every single 50-50 decision wrong, and it all goes to concoct a lethal brew.
For some reason, I decided to abandon the obvious route home – to the west coast and cross into Europe via Istanbul, believing that more of my oppressors would be tolerated in the tourist-friendly west. So, instead, I persuaded myself that it would be interesting to do the opposite. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the Caucasus – an idea that first took hold while I was learning Russian at school many years ago. Sergei and Katya always went there on holidays.
But, as it turned out, crossing the border into Georgia proved more difficult than it sounded, and I found myself on a ferry bound for Ukraine. Unfortunately for me, the first ferry from the port was heading not to Odessa, as I’d thought, but to Berdyansk. I didn’t so much make an interesting target to be tracked and abducted by malevolent forces, so much as walk into their midst and hand myself over.
Shortly after disembarking, I was handed over to someone or the other. They could have been Ukrainians; they could have been Russians; they were perhaps an independent militia. All I know, is that they’re not the friendliest. After an interminable journey strapped to the underside of a lorry, most of which was on unmade roads, they eventually delivered their quarry to an abandoned village, standing stark and bare, in a dry landscape. The recipients seemed delighted with me, and the delivery men had praises heaped upon them. It struck me as odd, because it had felt like my head had been within a few centimetres of the ground, and they had driven as if they had no interest in whether I’d arrived dead or alive.
That indifference to my safety made me think that I had been delivered to a sex ring, and that I’d be played with until I broke, then cast aside. But again, such fears were the mere product of a limited imagination, and before long I was in a room above a garage, chained to a radiator and blindfolded, like little Terry Waite.
Dickie White's Diary 