401B Concrete Shacks
LONDON E17 4VZ
May 17 1997
I have been a bit pre-occupied recently, what with one thing and another, and there have been one or two events since I last wrote. Kev and I went up to the city of Cottonopolis, on the Inter-Rail, last Friday evening to see a ‘Spice Girls’ gig at the opera house. We took a couple of six-packs with us and other, smaller, items of equipment in case of getting lucky afterwards! The gig itself – whose purpose was to raise money for the Prince’s Trust – was excellent, with the girls taking one or two interesting liberties with the person of the Prince of Wales afterwards. I don’t believe it is actually protocol to kiss the heir to the throne on the cheek or pinch him on the bum!
Anyway, afterwards, we went off to a local bar and there we met a couple of girls, got stuck into one or four pints of lager, and went on to ‘Snuggles’ night club . . . You know how it is auntie. The one I was with had hair done up in lots of little plaits, threaded with pink ribbon, and her eyelids shone with iridescent, sky-blue, glitter. She was also showing quite a bit of leg and tit and – during the slow numbers in the club – pressed everything she had up against me. It was all quite hypnotic actually, what with the booze, the American grunge, the closeness of her flesh, and the scintillas of light flickering all over us from the mosaic balls overhead.
She whispered in my ear that I could come back and stay at her place if I liked. And I was mad keen to ‘get some’ if I could, as it had been quite some while since I’d had it! Her place turned out to be a flat some ten minutes walk away, and she shared it with two other girls who were, luckily, out. We set to snogging on the sofa (which had something wet on it; I couldn’t see what, because it was too dark. Maybe it was someone’s dinner from earlier.) It was lovely, auntie, to get some ‘deep throat’ after such a long time! I know I’m being a bit frank, but we seem to have told each other some quite extreme things over the years, don’t we? But then, just as we were getting to it, I realized I’d left my ‘smaller items of equipment’ back in my jacket pocket in the night club cloakroom! And she didn’t have any. We did try using cling film, but I don’t think it stayed on long; in fact, I think I found it later – wound round her cervix – when I was lapping up juices from a lower arena.
The long-and-the-short of it auntie is that – since then (or maybe a day or so after) – I have had a sort of watery discharge dripping out of the end of my willy. And also it burns when I try to take a pee. It has taken me until today to brace myself to go along to the Sexually Transmitted Diseases clinic near the Tottenham Court Road. These places are not very discreet are they? Some woman behind the desk, who looked like she had been sucking on a lemon, actually asked me why I had come! And surely it’s none of her business! I told her I had symptoms I’d like to talk over with a doctor if that was at all possible!
The doctor – thankfully a man of similar years to myself – looked it over and asked a lot of questions. He asked me, naturally, if I’d had unprotected intercourse and so I had to tell him that I’d been an idiot and that I didn’t think, personally, that cling film was up to the job! He took a swab from the end of my willy, and a urine sample, but said that he thought it was probably some condition called Chlamydia. Chlamydia (I don’t know if you know this) is a bacterium who name is derived from the Greek phrase ‘to cloak.’ At least, if I do have it, it’s treatable!
Speaking of cloaks, auntie, I don’t know how I’ve missed it before, but your Christian name appears to be (very nearly) an anagram. Didn’t your first name use to be something else? I’ve only ever known you as ‘Evangeline,’ so maybe I’ve got the wrong end of the stick somehow?
With fond regards
Your nephew Ralph