In his teens Tony would often go by train in the evening to nearby towns to hear a concert. (This was in the days when England had a functioning rail network and it was possible to travel to most places by train without first consulting one’s bank manager and booking a month in advance.) One evening, following the concert, he found he had an hour or two to wait before his train home. Young and daring man, far from home, alone in a strange town of an evening? He picked up one of the ‘working ladies’ who frequented the area around the station and they went to her place.
As she was getting undressed he noticed a few sores in various parts of her body, but a young man does not back out at that stage and matters were duly — er — consummated. But as he left he began to worry; might he have caught something ghastly?
Arriving, still a little early, at the station, he went to the canteen. ‘Two large mugs of very hot tea, please.’ One mug he reserved for drinking, but with the other he concealed himself behind the lift-shaft (that’s what he told me; I didn’t ask why he didn’t just go to a cubicle in the gents) and, taking a deep breath, lowered his entire wedding tackle into the scalding tea, paying special attention to under the foreskin and the folds of the scrotum.
He escaped infection, but a few days later the entire outer layer of skin came away from his scrotum in a sort of purse. I didn’t ask if he had preserved this intriguing item.