There must have been forty of us that day, seated in the Ian McKellen Hall, in the dusty, afternoon sun. It's a Saturday and we're volunteers on a training day at one of London’s most prominent HIV and AIDS charities. The day seminar is on the likelihood of HIV transmission across a broad range of sexual activities and the talk leaves nothing to the imagination – it can’t afford to. Many people shift uncomfortably in their seats but mostly because they are rubbernecking at the two seemingly ancient Irish nuns also gamely in attendance.
The volunteers’ trainer – who has probably seen it all - continues to spout, in some courageous detail, the ins and outs (sic) of various off-menu, mostly behind-closed-doors, activities. Every possible variation is noted and discussed. The nuns should play poker – they are completely inscrutable.
As the trainer finally winds up the session, a hand tentatively goes up. He looks over and sure enough, it’s a hand belonging to one of the two nuns sat, stooped and still, at the back. It is, in other words, A Hand of God. A palpable sense of expectation shoots across the room. The odd stifled giggle.
The trainer takes a moment to collect himself, a hint of a blush forming beneath his skin. The whole room legitimately swivels around and holds its breath
“Yes?”
Nun Number One, defiantly oblivious to the stir of excitement she is causing, looks to the trainer and in her soft Dublin accent asks in a surprisingly enthusiastic manner “Can you tell us more about the felching, please?”
