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Subject: {ASSM} "Fan Mail" ("literary in-the-[M]head Medical Erotica")
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Date: Sun, 27 May 2007 13:10:01 -0400
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                                TO  BE  FILED  UNDER  "FAN  MAIL
FROM  NUTTERS"


To:

 Emma McCallum

c/o Messrs. Snipcott, Stepford & Tweed
Publishers
London EC3


Dear Ms. McCallum,

I am writing to let you know how very much I liked your recently
(spring 2005) published novel "Dry Run", which I have just read.  As a
male in my fifties, I am perhaps an unlikely enthusiast for the genre
of fiction referred to (sometimes disparagingly) as "chick-lit" -
which classification you would not, I take it, be offended to have
applied to your novel. You'll understand that in view of brief
description, above, of myself, this is a taste which in the main, I
keep secret from friends and workmates; but though "in the closet"
over this issue, I devour books of this sort, by a wide range of
different authors - and this work of yours has put you in my
"favourite author" slot in respect of this literary category.

Since becoming (to my own surprise) a devotee of the genre some half-
dozen years ago, I have derived much genuine pure enjoyment from its
heartwarming, wry and witty qualities (and call me shallow, but I like
following a fiction scene where the convention is that many trials and
tribulations work out to produce, in the last pages, a happy ending);
and from the insights which it gives to one such as me, into "how the
other half (of humanity) lives". But - to borrow an expression from
elsewhere in the contemporary-fiction ballpark - every department of
life on earth has its corresponding "dark side". Both concerning the
elements just mentioned, and concerning other matters which I will
shortly move on to: there are ways in which vis-a-vis peace of mind, I
would probably do better to hit myself repeatedly over the head with a
hammer, than to lap up chick-lit the way I do, or indeed to read it at
all. The thing is, I'm getting none of the kind of action, in any
shape, chronicled therein; and at whiles, how I wish I were. There are
times when I have to feel that this passion of mine shares some of the
attributes of (so I understand, not from first-hand experience)
unrenounceable indulgence in hard drugs - reference the "highs" and
"lows" which go with playing that particular traumatic game. To make
one of the ghastly puns loved by some of the authors in the field
under discussion (Kathy Lette and Jilly Cooper come prominently to
mind), an apt description of me would be "a heroine addict".

Plenty of my love of our kind of fiction is quite truthfully as
described above. There's a pronounced flavour in the mix, though,
which has made a big contribution to my getting hooked, and which is -
quite honestly - more intoxicating and exciting to me, than any other
goodie in this particular bag of tricks. I have had for the past half-
century or so, rather a fixation on medical matters, in particular as
regards people doing indecent things to people - such things as would
be, in the general view, scandalous in the great majority of life's
other situations. This mental and emotional oddity of mine, originated
in childhood dealings with the medical profession - it has escalated
over the decades (things going thus, having no doubt been compounded
by - simplifying and summarising here - my not having been "lucky in
love"). It took a giant leap forward when, a little later than the
average, I discovered girls, and subsequent to that, progressively
discovered the magnitude and variety of the embarrassments and
indignities which they have to undergo "at the doctor's" - overall,
they cop a good deal more in that department, than lads do. With the
frankness and lack of inhibition  which is possible and extremely
common, in fiction in this country and in this period of history,
chick-lit -- as it got onto the scene in a big way -- was able to
treat ad lib (mincing words as little or as much as the author
desired) -- of this aspect of the whole deal of being a woman. And it
does so, plenty. This is the aspect of my here-described printed-word-
type addiction which far more than any other, causes said addiction to
be, for me, sweet torment.

The part of this whole which most frequently crops up in chick-lit's
pages, is the cervical smear test. Finding out why this should be so,
"needs no reconnaissance force", as the guy said. In Britain, with our
National Health Service perennially in trouble and short of resources,
not a great deal can be provided for the population in the way of
universal medical screening ; the thing which is most prominently thus
laid on, is the cervical smear test, at three-yearly intervals, for
virtually all the women of reproductive age in the whole country.
(Various questions about this issue, come to mind for me; but enough
already - I'll resist the temptation to get sidetracked onto that.)
Because of the more-or-less universality of this thing for those who
write, and those who mostly read, our drug of choice (I'm an exception
- I've never had a cervical smear - but then, I've got the best
possible excuse), it gets mentioned a great deal in the literature
which we're looking at. In the very large majority of the references
to the procedure, it's referred to as something imposed on the victim,
which she dislikes - indeed dreads - but she reluctantly acknowledges
that it's for her own good and her protection. My goodness, I could
write a thesis on the smear test as dealt with in the whole chick-lit
spectrum - assuming that anybody were likely to take any interest in
such a study.  Actually, I'm aware of people who would -- and you can
take that to the bank. I know a website or two, whose loggers-on would
lap up a scholarly work answering that description; perhaps I will
write it, and publish it on one of those, if I can spare the time from
- sorry, digression threatens to rule.

Well, Emma, what has sent me totally bananas over you, are two
particular short passages in "Dry Run" -- which, I hasten to add, I
would have loved even had it lacked those passages - but icing on
cake, rainbow and cuckoo's song together, etc. The first, involves the
heroine's ruminating on how, basically, she isn't very brave - and the
paradox of how cowardice can make her braver than she'd otherwise be.
Her reflections continue thus:  "I put up with disagreeable things -
smear tests, visits to the dentist, well-woman check-ups, and other
'nasties' - because ducking out of them could have consequences a lot
more unpleasant, in the long view of matters."  Well, I was blown away
by those few lines of print - "love hurts, and so does lust", doesn't
begin to describe it. It hit me where I live, and got me furiously
going in the rather addled department "upstairs" - among many other
thoughts, I wondered: your heroine isn't obviously affluent - she has
a fairly down-market job - how does she come by these regular well-
woman exams? For most things, the N.H.S. is direly up against it; in
our "Benighted Kingdom", periodic routine "ensuring all's well" exams
usually have to be got privately if at all, and they don't come cheap.

That which covered in the paragraph above, was bad enough for me. But
- piling Pelion on Ossa, or what? - 150 pages later, our hapless
"Perils of Pauline" victim is musing once more, this time on a
forthcoming difficult and expected-to-be-recurring work situation
which is shortly to be forced on her. She soliloquises,  "I look
forward to this prospect about as much as a cervical smear. You get a
smear only once every three years. This, though, will come up at very
much shorter intervals..."  Emma, that really did it for me.  I'll tell
you - you may be disgusted, but in for a penny...  I thought, I want
this woman in the worst possible way. (The author, not the heroine - I
flatter myself that I have some tenuous grasp of who's real and who
isn't.)  I got made a photocopy of the book-rear-jacket picture of
you, with your sweet little elfin face and your  cleavage (not huge,
but delightful) peeping out of lowish-cut top. That night, said
photocopy came with me into my lonely bed, and, well, we're talking
smears - that sheet of A4 and what was on it got smeared but good; and
the following day, I took your book back to the stationers' where I'd
had the first copy made, and with an eye to the future, I got a dozen
similar copies done, and they're getting their way worked through in
short order, believe it.

Emma: the brief blurb below the lovely photo of you which - well,
anyway... says that you're in your thirties, and doesn't spell out
anything about a significant other in your life. Your page of
"Acknowledgements" at the start of the book likewise says nothing
(unless in a covert-beyond-understanding way) about anyone who could
be read to be your soulmate and one-and-only. So I'll put my head on
the block and say, Emma, on the basis of what I've laid out as above,
I'm crazy about you - please, will you marry me?  I'm twenty-odd years
older than you, but that needn't matter desperately; plenty of
partnerships in this world, with similar age-disparity (most usually
the man the older one, as it would be with us, but occasionally the
other way about - on this weird scene, nothing's impossible). I'm in a
job, albeit not a very remunerative one.

Emma, for the past ten days - ever since I finished "Dry Run" - my
every second thought, or more, has been about you. If you'd only be my
wife, I'd be the most joyous man on earth.  I'd love and cherish you,
and do everything in my power to make you happy. The thought of you
and me going to bed together, makes my heart turn over. I so love the
image of you taking all your clothes off, for me to make tender and
passionate love to you - hopefully often, and repeatedly, many times a
year, into a future which - well, with the age gap, that might be a
problem. Or maybe not. Not very long  ago I read in a newspaper agony
aunt's column, a distressed letter from an 88-year-old man who was
bothered about the fact that he still had strong sexual urges, and
still addressed them by masturbating, and wondered whether this made
him freakishly unusual and not nice to know (her answer, of course,
was that it didn't, and he had no need to worry). At the time, my
reaction was, bloody hell, however long my twilight years go on for,
can I never look for ceasing to be bothered by sex, at a time of life
when no woman could possibly have any use for me "that way"? I felt
that this geezer's worry gave a whole new meaning to the expression
"don't know whether to shit or go blind". But now, this "Dear Abby"
item gives me an odd bit of comfort. Marry me, and with a bit of luck,
thirty years from now - with me pushing ninety and you pushing seventy
- we could still be giving each other delight between the sheets.
Hopefully, I'd still have my marbles at that age - I come from a long-
lived and well-preserved family on my mother's side (sound like Bilbo
frigging Baggins, don't I?)  Sorry, I'm starting to witter on - back
to the main theme.

Your having mentioned in your novel to the extent that you did, the
medical procedure which I've particularly referred to, leads me to
hope that you might at least be understanding about the bee I have in
my bonnet about such things - too much to hope that you actually might
share my "kink" on that theme, but very unlikely scenarios sometimes
come true. If you were to become mine, how I love the thought of my
asking you about - and you gladly telling me of - the entire range of
embarrassing and blush-creating things which have befallen you on the
whole "in-the-surgery-or-hospital" scene, in your thirty-something
years. (And I'd gladly reciprocate, though probably what I had to tell
you, would be outweighed 10:1 by what you could tell me.) The thought
of it all, sends shivers through me. Ladies - especially a lady for
whom I harbour tender feelings - being medically examined: it's a turn-
on for me, even thinking about the lesser and ordinary things which
are done to the lass in such a situation; she has most of her clothes
off already, for this non-X-rated stuff to be administered to her,
before the really private and intimate areas need to be bared and it's
hands-on there, and the fireworks really start for me.

What did the poet say: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways."
School medicals. College-related medicals. Necessary things to sort
out contraception, which no matter what method is used, always boil
down to the girl being, in a clinical situation, indecently exposed,
and having indignities visited upon her. Medicals connected with your
jobs - pre-employment ones and/or a standard periodical going-with-the-
job deal. Smear tests, of course, and maybe other routine health
checks insofar as our pressured system could supply them (those well-
woman happenings of yours -- or your heroine's --  enter my mind -- by
whatever means they come to be available, in British conditions).
Necessary injections and inoculations, highly preferably requiring you
to take your pants down and have the needle stuck in your bottom.
Breast self-examination and, in latish adolescence, instructional
sessions on how to do same; and discoveries resulting from such self-
examination, and the addressing of them (with you, my darling, it
would of course be found that there was in fact nothing to worry
about). Moving southwards: ailments down below - as with the tits
issue just contemplated -- for you, sweet one, nothing grievous;
merely uncomfortable, and soon resolved, just requiring you to get
embarrassingly indecent while problem was investigated and solution
decided on. By the way - thought following on from those about
situations of whatever kind, which would involve your having to expose
your nether holes to medical personnel: I do hope that you're one of
those ladies who - unlike very many nowadays - prefer to keep their
pubic hair in its full splendid natural glory. I love pubic hair on
women: it seems so inconvenient and incongruous and pointless (though
we gather it has a function, of sorts) that the whole situation by
which it exists, is very sweet. For me, that's wildly sexy. The idea
of having you naked before me, with my fingers, and my face (in
whichever order) in your plenteous pubes, drives me yet further round
the bend.

On reflection, I wonder if I dare push out the boundaries a bit,
following on from much material in the literature: but the thing is, I
love you so very much that I feel terrible about wishing anything even
medium-bad to have happened to you. However, let's suck it and see
(why did that  particular clich� float into my mind?). Suppose you'd
had to go into hospital for some gynaecological operation, just a
minor one - hearing about it from you, I'd go nuts with mingled
concern and pity, and raging lust: the thought of the nude-below-the-
waist poking and probing which you'd have had to go through "pre-and
post-", and your needing to have, pre-op, the gorgeously abundant
fleece between your thighs shaved utterly bare (I'm given to
understand that the "silver lining" there, is that shaving it,
encourages it to regrow rapidly, and even better than before).

Same applies, concerning back-passage-related problems. I'm really
torn here: thoughts about girls requiring medical attention for such
troubles, get me going in a big way - but at the same time, I love you
so heart-wrenchingly much, and I absolutely don't want anything truly
nasty to happen to you. I do hope, anyway, that at least a few times
in your life, as part of a routine examination of whatever kind,
you've had a healthcare person's finger up your bum-hole. And, in that
ballpark, proceeding to thoughts about poo-ing - or not: mustn't go
there, not right now; there isn't world enough and time, and I've no
doubt that there are whole websites devoted to that fetish, as there
are to the medical one.

And: something which even in the tell-it-like-it-is world of chick-
lit, is on the whole hinted at or mentioned in passing, rather than
fearlessly explored in depth. And here, yet more, I feel I'm on
perilous ground - turned-on by associations and implications, but
really, really not wishing anything dreadful and highly unsavoury, to
have happened to lovely you. I'm thinking about S.T.D.s and the
addressing of them. Obviously, God totally forbid that you should ever
get any such malady - but maybe an episode or two of rashness, causing
you to worry that you might be thus infected, resulting in a visit to
the "special clinic" and unspeakably embarrassing experiences there,
but culminating in your being pronounced totally in the clear.  I feel
that many of these reflections in the last few paragraphs, lead into a
tightrope-walk set-up; I adore you, and only want a status quo, of you
being totally healthy and happy in your gorgeous body - but at the
same time, I'd like to be turned-on by your having had said body
indecently exposed, to suffer (in the bigger assortment of contexts,
the better) a lot of highly intimate indignities and humiliations
under the hands of the medical profession. It's a bit of a difficult
one!

How do you fare in the menstruation department, I wonder?  Heavy,
light, painful, not-so-bothersome?  having you in a real state
beforehand, or are you one of the lucky ones who escape that?
Dragging out over days and days, or rapidly here-and-gone? Has
menstrual bother caused you to have to go to the doctor, to discuss in
embarrassing detail - and pursuant to same, to take your pants off and
be examined concerning it - the misbehaviour of your shedding the
lining of the uterus and accompanying materials, which was overrunning
your life with pain and/or sheer inconvenience?  If you became mine,
how I'd love to take a share for you, in this monthly misery which
afflicts all your sex - I'd joyously change your tampons, and rub your
back or your tummy if that would do anything to relieve your pains or
cramps, and fix you soothing drinks or whatever might help in this
general mayhem-by-the-month which life visits on half the human race.
And as I understand it, there are some ladies of an uninhibited cast
of mind, and with the luck to have less woeful periods than afflict
many, who are accepting of - even desirous of - sex with their man,
while they've got their period. Messy and bloody, but potentially a
heck of a turn-on - in my mind, anyway; not quite sure how I'd feel if
theory became practice. But in principle, Emma, I'd reckon that if it
were you and me, and this is what you wanted, then I'd be - in every
sense - your man. But in this particular situation, I'd reckon that -
for fairly obvious reasons - I'd want to wear a condom.

And another thing prominent in chick-lit and real life: young(ish)
ladies are in a position to - give or take, and sometimes in spite of
- medical intervention: have babies -- and "some hae meat, and cannae
eat, and some hae nane that want it", etc., etc.  Again going by what
you vouchsafe outside, and (just) inside your book, it would seem,
Emma, that to date, you're childless. I have no burning desire, just
re myself, to have kids; but if you'd marry me, and you wanted them,
then I'd do my very best to oblige. And from all that I hear and read,
a lady who has a baby, gets an absolute surfeit of highly-embarrassing
medical attention and intervention, "before, during, and after". Even
in the process of actually giving birth, despite all the ghastly pain,
some women get something of a buzz out of the sheer indecency, closely
observed by those assisting, of the thing. For a woman who was odd in
the same way in which I'm odd, these factors would be a side-benefit
of the joys and miseries of becoming a mother. (And, talking of "odd",
an odd bit of info which I've picked up along the way, would seem to
suggest that breast-feeding gives the mother a delicious pleasurable
twinge in her cunt, with every suck that the baby takes. If so, it's
surprising that every new mother doesn't breast-feed, and for as long
as possible - but people are full of surprises.) Anyway, Emma, if you
wanted reproduction, and if you did me the honour of marrying me,
consider me ready and eager to give you however many you wished.

Reflections on the "breeding" scene, usher in another big chick-lit
theme: that of infertile couples and their trials and troubles. The
tightrope-walk thing again - it's intensifying. Believe me, that for
lovely you to have to go through any of this sort of hell, is not what
I actually want. If we went for having kids, I'd hope that you'd fall
pregnant with great ease and promptitude (though a couple of months of
energetic trying, would be fun). However, it's something of a
convention in our literary canon, for authors to plumb the depths of
the miseries, physical and emotional (and financial) gone through by
couples desperate for a child and trying to have one via IVF.

And with reference to the "physical" aspect of the above: from what we
read in the various works under discussion, the stuff that a woman is
put through in the course of IVF doings, really is (maybe short of
childbirth itself) the lowest depths - or the pinnacle - as regards
the overall great range of things involving discomfort and worse,
indecency, loss of dignity, and acute embarrassment,  which are
inflicted on your sex by the medical profession. It all adds up to a
bunch of experiences which you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy, but
at the same time, if you're like me it's a big turn-on, in a horrid
way, to hear about. And on this scene, the man gets - for once - a
moderate dose of humiliation-behind-closed-medical-doors. If we're
talking of literary conventions, here's a convention, on the "chick"
bookshelf, as beloved and invariable as Homer and his wine-dark sea: a
sperm sample is required of the poor guy, and he's dispatched into a
cubicle with a phial, and handed a dirty magazine to help get him into
the condition for providing the necessary. If it were me in this
unenviable situation, one thing's for sure: I could be like the brave
and defiant execution victim who says to the firing squad, "to hell
with the handkerchief" - I wouldn't need any sodding magazine. On the
basis of this letter so far, you'll agree that I have more than enough
muck sloshing around in my head already, to make such a masturbatory
aid, totally superfluous. Heck, in the course of composing this letter
to you, I've had to get up from my computer a couple of times and go
and, shall we say, re-read a few of my pet passages from my favourite
Jane Austen novel - which would, of course, have to be the one which
bears your own lovely name.

I'm besotted with you, and at present can hardly function in any
department of life, for lusting after you and thinking about you, and
especially for thinking about you "at the doctor's" in multi-assorted
guises of that catch-all expression. How lovely would be the blissful
quenching of this fire, if you were to accept my proposal. Would you
ever consider taking in matrimony a shy, now rather tubby, low-earning
(but at least never previously married; no baggage of that kind, no
kids), fifty-six-year-old loser - for, hopefully, a couple-or-three
decades of shared love and passion; and medical fetishism (ah, the
joys of new experiences in that ballpark which would await us, as our
bodies progressively shut down and wore out. I know of no work of
chick-lit - the genre tends, after all, to recount the experiences of
younger ladies - which gives a detailed chronicle of anyone's
menopause. Potential new ground to break there... ); and indulgence to
the ultimate, in our favourite kind of fiction - which is a growth
industry if ever there was one: I see no running-out of the supply of
such novels for our delectation, very much the reverse.

I feel quite confident that finding that prospect nearly as delightful
as I find it, you may well say the word which would make me the
happiest man alive, while at the same moment Earth's entire porcine
population takes wing in unison.

With all my love

Yours

Charles Payne

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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