You're more likely to die eating a pickled onion than you are falling cock-first into Magic Johnson's mouth.
Wise words.

I had an acquaintance once, a lovely girl who liked to play fast and loose with her vagina. With a grim inevitability, the two of us mated one night in a deserted car park. Due to my pathological fear of STIs borne from an astonishing run of bad luck two years previously, and the fact that her oven-glove minge had been trampled smoother than a marble by an endless supply of penis, I downright insisted on a condom.
Unfortunately, the combined effect of my sun-dried giblet of a cock and the voracious slab of minced cattle that she called her clopper meant that the sheath slipped off at some point without us knowing. "Don't worry," she cooed as I worryingly rehoused my tepid bean-weevil. "I'm on the pill, and the doctor won't prescribe it unless you have an STI test first." Lies!

A few months later, I was told in strict confidence that she had contracted HIV. When and from whom, I didn't know. "Get yourself tested," the informer told me. I gulped and nodded. We dropped the subject.

Over the coming days, my mind buzzed with harrowing images of my death. Sunken-eyed and yellow, covered in sores and lesions, rotting away my final hours alone in a Romanian orphanage. I developed ulcers in my mouth, proof positive (in my mind) that tiny AIDS monsters were ravaging my body. I booked myself in for a test. Terrified, I sloped off to the clinic to be probed and siphoned by a disapproving saw-cock – a large, gruff African fellow with a completely understandable antipathy towards other men's stinking genitals, and the most incredibly apt surname I've ever heard (which I won't mention here).

There is no wait like the wait for HIV results. But hallelujah (and unsurprisingly, given this QOTW topic), they came back negative. I had dodged the AIDS bullet. I was invincible. My penis must be gilded with essence of luck. Perhaps the pooling residue from my recurring yeast infection was so scorchingly toxic it simply incinerated all incoming AIDS germs. I told my friend, the informer, the good news over a pint. "Oh yeah, I meant to mention that. Turns out it was all bollocks about her. Sorry if you were worried."

I shrugged. "Nah, hardly thought about it."
*sip*


Yeah, so not really a narrow escape, more "I thought me and someone else were ill, but we weren't"
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Thu 19 Aug 2010, 16:03, 4 replies)

You, err, lucky bugger
How many Jaffa Cakes will it take to persuade you to reveal the chap's amusing surname? I'll start the bidding at three.
(SimianKid internet faffer, Thu 19 Aug 2010, 16:19, closed)

Well, I just googled him
and it turns out he's a cock-wizard of some repute. Organises international sexual health conferences, no less. I wouldn't want this silly story coming up in future searches though, given that I allude to his brusque manner and slight disdain for me.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Thu 19 Aug 2010, 16:32, closed)

Furry muff!
You're a better man than me. Though not a cleaner one, by all accounts.
(SimianKid internet faffer, Thu 19 Aug 2010, 16:48, closed)

OK, hair-raising it wasn't, but you told the story with style. I like it.
( tromboner cherophobia is my kind of fun, Thu 19 Aug 2010, 18:44, closed)

Thanks.
While we're slinging compliments about, may I say that you look like a relaxed Brian Blessed.
*doffs hat*
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Thu 19 Aug 2010, 18:59, closed)