Some people will do anything for a bit of cash
I met a guy once, who we'll call John, because I honestly cannot recall his name.

John was a student, and an aspiring actor, who was hungry for a bit of fame and exposure, and also desperately needed some beer money to go on a lads' holiday he'd spent the last of his student loan on. So when the opportunity to appear on telly came up, and get paid for the privilege, he leapt at the chance. Only then did he start finding out the details.

He had agreed to participate in a sex education documentary.
"Erm... okay."
Nothing tacky, a sort of "lover's guide" sort of thing.
"Oh, that doesn't sound too bad."
No, not too bad at all. They were going to film John having an 'erotic prostate massage'.
"WHAT?!"

For the uninitiated (who are probably in the minority given some of the stuff I've read on these pages), an 'erotic prostate massage' involves having a third-party insert a lubricated finger (or two if you're feeling fruity) in to a guy's rusty sheriff's badge in order to stroke the little walnut-sized gland a few inches in. For sexual pleasure. Or mortifying discomfort, depending on how you felt about it.

Now, this was NOT John's bag at all. He certainly wouldn't have been enthusiastic about being digitally-interfered with by a long-term girlfriend, let alone by a stranger surrounded by a film crew.

But, he was skint, and as he summed it up to me, "£250 is £250, and I needed the money." Yep, that's right, he had agreed to rectally-rubbed in glorious high definition for the nation's entertainment, in order to earn what effectively would amount to two nights out on the piss on holiday. The production crew promised him the footage wouldn't be too graphic, and he would have the last word on what could be used in the finished programme, so very reluctantly, he agreed - a couple of hours of embarrassment in exchange for sun and sangria. He had sold his soul.

Filming took place in the masseuse's house. She was a spiritual hippy type, and surrounded the room in candles. She talked through the process as she went, in an irritatingly whispy, dreamy voice, with John, stark bollock naked on all fours, wincing back answers as she probed his holiest-of-holies. The six crew members in the room stifled sniggers. To say the least, he felt self-conscious. And then it got worse.

Unbeknownst to John, or any of the crew present, the masseuse had a big finish planned. "I'm just going to stimulate his external organs now," she cooed, and started wanking him off, as a cameraman who was now audibly pissing himself laughing went in for a close-up. John went crimson and buried his face in to the pillow in front of him, unable to say anything to stop the horror of being filmed ejaculating over his chest and neck whilst being bum-burgled by Mystic Meg. Another cameraman caught a beautiful close-up of his curling toes as he hit the vinegar strokes.

Days later, John had to relieve the horror as he went in to review the sequence in a darkened edit suite. He asked for most of the camera angles to be changed, as he had seen less graphic scenes in a Max Hardcore movie. Humiliated, he finally agreed that the footage could be put out (so that he would at least get paid) and sat back as he watched the finishing touches added to the programme, ready for broadcast to a potential audience of his peers, future employers, and grandparents.

So why do I know so much about him? You'll find you make a lot of small talk about something - ANYTHING - when you have to sit in a tiny room with someone for hours, in front of a computer, meticulously pixelating out their testicles so that the 'experience' can be broadcast.

Length? Impressive, if you've got a big TV.
(Sloppy Giuseppe, Thu 11 Jun 2009, 16:00, Reply)