The Joup Friday Album: ‘Dirty Fan Male’ Trunk Records

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I’ll never forgot about DRE.

He was a young and eager GP, visibly perplexed by my ‘presentation’ but stubbornly reluctant to tessellate my gastroenterological symptoms toward the neighbourhood of research I’d done on the internet to save him time. I’d been suffering from a white hot smoulder below my navel that would occur two hours after eating and knock me onto my back for extended stretches, leaving me feeling pinned to the spot like a display case insect.

“I think we’d better do a DRE…” he said.

I allowed an expression to cascade across my face that I haven’t used since High School algebra, which coincidentally would have been the exact amount of time anything gleaned from those lessons has been utilised in real life, and counting.

“…A digital rectal examination.” he embellished.

Unfortunately I’d paid enough attention in English to know that we were talking fingers and nary a computer in sight.

After talking a little longer, eventually saying enough to make it seem like I’d put paid to certain diagnoses that might necessitate the dreaded, aforementioned DRE, he adjusted his stance, and affirmed that this information, in conjunction with how pale I’d said my stools were had satisfied him…until I corrected him about their being the exact opposite, after which he silently deliberated again…then looked at me gravely and said he thought he’d be doing me a disservice if he didn’t examine me.

Which was at odds with my understanding of what ‘disservice’ means when you’re reluctantly on the questioning end of an inquisitive finger.

He told me to get on the bed in a foetal position.

I assured him that wouldn’t be a problem.

He told me I’d done well in understanding his instruction by lying on my side, and that a lot of men got scrunched-up on all fours.

I said “Yeah, like ‘what have you been watching?!‘”

He gave me forewarning of the glove and lubricant that was coming then pretty quickly slipped his finger-in and did a quick clockwise rotation inside and swiftly withdrew. I get the feeling he didn’t want to be in there any more more than I did.

I was left relieved at the brevity but with a lingering notion that he hadn’t quite left the place as he’d found it, and it was a few hours before I rearranged the place to the kind of ‘tidy’ I liked it.

And that’s thankfully as close to any unwanted interference as I’ve gotten. I think maybe it should be mandatory for all men, in the hope we might have a more fully rounded appreciation of unwanted attention.

Today’s selection is a compilation of readings of fan letters written to Page 3 models and Porn Stars, and is a hilarious, fascinating and somewhat terrifying insight in to the psyche of the human male.

Over to you, Sonny.

Chester Whelks

Chester Whelks

Chester Whelks is a peripheral figure on the fringes of existence. Predominantly bothering the local music scene of his native Manchester, England, he has a very finely attuned Justice-button, and knows how to call a spade a ‘Multi-Purpose Murder/Concealment Device’.

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