The folly of youth. Read and weep. Weep as I did some 40 years ago (ago, go). Never said I was perfect. Luckily I found a woman who accepts my past transgressions and puts up with my current lapses
Sexually Transmitted Diseases (STDs) affect and blight the lives of up to 10% of our youth today. The social stigma and shame should not be underestimated. Also, knob rot hurts like fuck.
Here is my cautionary tale…….
Dat ain't me
Imagine a young Flaxen Saxon, brash, wickedly handsome, with long blond hair a flow, out with his mates on a Saturday night at the Brum Locarno Night Club and Abbatoir, circa 1974. All dressed in wide lapelled crushed velvet jackets and flairs.
Sometimes I’d leave at 3 o’clock in the morning covered in blood and snot. Sometimes I’d leave at 3 o’clock in the morning with a vaguely feminine form clamped to my arm. To be honest, it was sometimes difficult to distinguish the chicks from the fellas in them days. All that beer, flashing lights and strobes. In the disco, in the dark, mistakes were made. My opening gambit, was always: 'Are you a guy or a chick?' Once in the alley, at the back of the nightclub, I would distract my ‘date’ with a humorous impression of Keith ‘Cheggers’ Chegwin. An impression I was particularly adept, whilst pissed. In those days, I always kept a small squeezee bottle full of Domestos discretely inserted down my trousers. Whilst distracted, I would give my intended a quick squirt around the ‘bowl and rim’. I’ve always believed that prophylaxis is better than cure. Often I would add a couple of crushed Palma Violets just to show that I cared about feminine freshness.
As I’m sure you will remember, Domestos used to proudly announce that it killed 99.9% of all known germs. Alas, on one occasion I became a statistical outlier and anomaly. I had an inkling that something was amiss when two weeks later I expressed a small amount of bland, serous fluid. I thought the best course was to ‘wait and see’. Three months later my fireman’s helmet had the look of a busted pomegranate and issued forth a foul-smelling odour. As I lapsed in and out consciousness a moment of serene lucidity descended. My tumescent and weeping member popped up, winked and wiped a thick, yellow tear from its eye: ‘you dozy, fat, blond twat, catch the number 127 bus from Dudley Castle to Birmingham General Hospital.’ And then it kissed me. I decided to take a premed of seven pints of Bank’s bitter before alighting in
Corporation Street. Although late at night, my swollen member gave off a faint ethereal glow and I was mysteriously guided to Ward 19.
Dr Mugumbo (for it is he) took a long drag on his cigarette, squinted and softly exclaimed: ‘Mr 74/3879, that’s not clap, that’s applause.’ After a vigorous course of antibiotics and scouring, the end of my cock sloughed off. Thereafter I was as good as new. Chastened, I never performed Keith Chegwin impersonations again.
Take home message: Substitute the Parma Violets with 2 parts battery acid and 1 part Vim. Oh yes, and always listen to your cock.