Sunday, 5 October 2014

The Lure of The Confessional

Exploring Tacky Trading Estates
Last weekend I was down in Kent, UK visiting friends. Arriving a little early and finding them not at home, I decided to take advantage of the unseasonably good weather by taking myself for a walk. I should say at this point that I am particularly fond of out of the way trading estate, and like most things, the seedier the better. Imagine my delight then, when I discovered a truly downbeat little pocket of small warehouses and cheap units with ultra-thin breeze-block walls, nestling in a grubby little close just along the road from my friends' house. Turning up the collar of my light raincoat, I skulked around the various units, assessing the tacky signage and peering in through windows.

Dolly's Cake Occasions
A lurid pink sign with several grammatical and spelling errors pronouncing to the visitor a tempting list of services, including both 'confectionery' for special occasions and 'training corses' for would-be cake makers. Party balloons seemed to be another speciality. Dolly appeared to be sitting at a single desk in a bare room, answering a telephone call as I looked in. She smiled politely and I moved on.

Burt's Blinds
Incorporated 2008. Unlike Dolly, Burt did not seem to be in situ. A torn off take-away Kentucky Fried Chicken box had been stuck on the glass door with Burt's mobile number and the words, "Back in Harfa Mo," written on it in biro. I couldn't help but notice that the shop's own window blind was broken and teetered precariously on an uncomfortable slant.

A Well Known Brewery
Following the road around the back I saw beer barrels stacked in front of a double unit with open doors. I recognised this immediately as a fairly well known Kent craft brewery (a microbrewery as they call them in the UK) and strolled over to engage one of the brewers in conversation. We were in the midst of the green hop ale festival, he told me, so they were busier than usual. Busy by his standards still gave him plenty of time to chat to me about brewing and the virtues of a number of local ale houses.

The Adult Warehouse
While discussing real ale brewing with Barry, I couldn't help a very large sign opposite advertising an Adult Warehouse. Naturally I was intrigued. Bidding my newfound friend Barry a good day, I strolled casually, as if by accident, over in the general direction of the open door. Inside I found a lady standing behind a desk. My first realisation was that she did not look like the kind of lady one would expect to find in a sex shop. Perhaps, I wondered, I had made an incorrect assumption about the goods or services this place was in the business of purveying?

"Can I help you dear," said the lady. She was plain, probably in her late forties and smartly dressed. Not by any stretch of the imagination tarty.

"Er, I'm just having a look around. I was out for a walk and I just noticed your sign."

The lady looked at me as if to say, "oh yes we've heard that one before!"

"Have you been open long?"

"Just six months it is now. Are you from around here then?"

"No I'm a visitor. From London." She nodded knowingly and a faint smirk wrinkled her orange lips.

"So how's business then?"

"Oh we can't complain. No it's been very good actually. We've found theres quite a demand. Professional classes mostly but we do get all sorts. Plenty of repeat business though, which is very reassuring. Weddings - couples come in to have photos done, if you see what I mean."

I resolved to work that one out later, or look on their website perhaps. I congratulated her, noticing an elderly couple tottering in through the entrance as I did so. They lowered their spectacles, perhaps struggling to determine what it was that this place sold. I chuckled to myself, imagining that they were probably expecting to find curtains or bathroom fittings inside.

"Where can we find the apparatus?" asked the elderly gentleman. "The man told us there would be some new beds in this week... with the chains and things."

"Oh yes dear, they're through in the new bondage suite. Follow the purple carpet and through those doors back there. Derek will be through there somewhere if you'd like to try anything, or I'll come and find you when I'm finished up dealing with this gentleman."

I felt uncomfortable having been described as a gentleman being dealt with, so I distanced myself from the counter slightly, saying I'd just have a browse around if that was okay. That would be fine, the lady said. The warehouse extended quite some way back. In each section there were descriptive signs. All fairly subtle really. One said "Toys", another "Dressing-up" and another "Adult Literature and Films." One room that seemed quite popular announced itself with a slightly perturbing sign saying "Made to Measure and yet another equally popular room was entitled the "In Flagrante - Film Yourself Room." A number of extra signs let shoppers know that one could "try before you buy." There seemed to be a number of treatment rooms tucked away at the back. Passing back along the long corridor I distinctly heard groaning. It may of course have been the sound of someone with a bad back stretching to reach a book, but it sounded rather too prolonged.

It had been an interesting way to waste half an hour or so before my friends returned from wherever they go on a Saturday morning, but I felt sure I had now exhausted my curiosity. Or so I thought. It was not easy to position one's self in this warren of adult delight. I had presumed I was approaching the front sales desk area when I found myself lost. Attempting to double back I heard the sound mumbling voices and followed it into an alcove. Off to one side I saw a sign. "The Adult Confessional." It didn't seem quite right to stand and listen so I kept a polite distance. Fortunately as it happens, I am possessed of acute hearing and I could still hear from outside in the hallway. And of course you will be unable to resist wanting to know what I overheard, so I will tell you. It went like this:

Man's voice: my lady, I'd had my shower. My squash partner had gone already and I was the last
one in there. I was in the shower and I could hear women's voices through the gap at the top of the wall that separates the men's from the ladies showers. They were giggling and I put my ear to the wall to listen.

Woman's voice: I see. Now that was a lewd and disgusting thing to do, wasn't it?

Man's voice: Yes I did know that. I was invading their privacy, but I thought if they didn't know I could hear, then at least they wouldn't be embarrassed.

Woman's voice: You are filthy and you have violated those poor women. What did you hear them say?

Man's voice: One of them was talking about her husband, my lady, saying he couldn't satisfy her. The friend said she should try having sex with her ex-boyfriend who was a master of exciting and satisfying women. The other woman wanted to know more.

Woman's voice: So you listened to their very private sexual conversation?

Man's voice: I'm afraid I did, my lady. Worse than that it excited me. I became erect. I couldn't help but touch myself.

Woman's voice: How utterly disgusting! You are a vile animal with depraved desires. What else did you hear?

Man's voice: The one woman described how her ex-boyfriend used to bring her to the edge of an orgasm by minimal contact, so that she could feel him but that he would not fulfil her desires. Only after she screamed and clawed at him with her nails, my lady, would he give up to her desires.

Woman's voice: So I am assuming you gratified yourself listening to these two women, is that correct?

Man's voice: Unfortunately not, my lady. I was in the midst of passion when all of a sudden I opened my eyes and saw before me a cleaning woman dressed in white trousers and shirt and holding a mop and bucket. As I had turned around I had displayed myself and she gasped at what she saw before her.

Woman's voice: Oh my goodness, how utterly grotesque. That poor woman!

Man's voice: Yes quite, my lady, I would not have wished it upon her but to my surprise she smiled and reached out to touch me. I should point out, my lady, that she was wearing rubber gloves.

Woman's voice: So do you mean to tell me you allowed this cleaning woman to gratify you with her gloved hands while you were in the shower?

Man's voice: I tried to resist, my lady, but when her shirt became wet and her nipples became visible through the fabric... well I lost all control. I'm afraid I took a great deal of pleasure from the experience, my lady, along with the lady's mobile telephone number.

Woman's voice: You are a vile human being. In fact you are barely human. Such behaviour is a sin and will not be tolerated. Either submit to a spanking in the treatment room immediately following this session or you will be expected to pay a fine of thirty pounds on your way out. At your own discretion of course. Now get out of my confessional and send in the next sinner.

Needless to say I scuttled off quickly, but not so far that I avoided catching a glimpse of the poor
devil who had unburdened himself. A well dressed, portly old gent looking like a ruddy faced solicitor type, or perhaps an insurance broker. It was hard to tell from a distance. The lady, however, who followed him out from behind the curtain a few moments later, was unmistakeable.

"Hello sir, you're still here browsing then – did you find anything we can help you with?"

"One or two things," I replied awkwardly, "but I'll have to come back when I've got more time."
If you are tempted to read more by A.K. Anders, please click on of the links on the right panel of this blog. If you're too lazy, click here: AK Anders on Smashwords (click here for Amazon or just type A.K.Anders or the title The Pimlico Tapes into your search engine). Enjoy your evening and remember to add your e-mail into the Follow By e-mail box (top right hand margin) if you'd like to be notified of future posts (about quarterly - after all you can have too much of a good thing).

Monday, 16 June 2014

Regret And Man's Natural Impulses

Why Are We Here?
Man has for quite a few years now, pondered over our existence –

What are we?
How did we get here?
Which came first the chicken or the egg?
Are we alone as intelligent beings in the universe?
What is our purpose here?
and what is it about Johnny Depp?

"What about Johnny Depp?" I hear you ask. Well haven't you noticed? The very mention of his name sends women blurry-eyed and... well, out of character. Their usual constraints of public behaviour go out of the window. Heterosexual men are frequently perturbed by him and the effect he
has on the female population. What is it exactly? There are plenty of very good looking famous men around but they don't have this effect on women. What has he got so much of that they haven't. Gay men probably have a better understanding. Come on don't be shy you know what it's something animal, isn't it?

I have no doubt it is something animal. I propose that the biological (i.e. unaffected by made-up morals etc) fact is that Johnny Depp has something about him that drives the female of the species (and probably tempts many males also) to want to have sex with him. I propose that this is something innate rather than learned, although I have no doubt that he has over time developed an ability to use it to his benefit. To turn it on, so to speak. So why would this happen? Well far be it from me to second guess the workings of mother nature, but I am guessing that the aforementioned goddess (Gaia as James Lovelock explained her) mother nature, knows that for some very good reason known only to her, it would be a jolly good idea if Johnny Depp were to father an enormous amount of children by a variety of women on the planet. The same applies in reverse of course. There was a time when Australia could probably have used Kylie Minogue's bottom to change the future if it had had the inclination. Very simply, nature makes sure that the right genetic matches fancy each other. Every so often nature throws up one near perfect specimen who nearly everyone's hormones tell them is right for them. Of course you might ask, "right for what?" and that would be a far harder question to answer. I would suggest, however, that the correct answer is, right for the survival of the planet. Perhaps not right for the survival of man though. What do I mean? Well I would suggest that if man overpopulated the Earth, or began to threaten the Earth's delicate ecological balance in some other way, mother nature would step in and make the necessary adjustments by making sure we didn't fancy the same people. Men might begin to fancy skinny women with narrow hips who were physically unsuited to childbearing. Women might begin to not fancy men at all. Men might be more inclined to have sex with other men or by themselves. Consequently the birth rate would drop. Ecological problem solved. I will leave the rest for you all to work out. Meanwhile I must get back to work on developing my new pheromone sprays.

Why Do We Have Morals?
Those who study human biology, psychology and even philosophy, as well as farmers and others who
work with animals, often find themselves asking this question. If nature always knows what is best for us and for all on the planet in the long-run, then why invent our own rules. Surely it would serve us better to simply follow what comes naturally, no? I must admit, since I was a very young boy I have found this a very seductive argument. Apart from anything else, it provides us with excuses for doing anything we please. Rather like the 'the devil made me do it' argument or the argument that provides a legal get-out clause in many societies, 'I heard voices in my head telling me to do it', it opens up some very tempting possibilities. I remember when I was at school, a girl in the playground asking a group of us, "if you were able to make yourself invisible, what would you do?" You could almost hear the whirring of mental cogs whizzing round in everyone's minds and their adolescent loins awakening. For many years I thought that it was all a conspiracy. That those in power (governments and more so the Church) simply didn't want people to enjoy themselves. That out of a ridiculous sense of superstition, human beings are inclined to believe that pleasure is the work of the devil (especially if it is free pleasure).

Now, as I have matured and my overactive hormones have calmed down somewhat (all things are relative) I have come to realise that there is a reason for all this and it applies just as much to financial wealth as to the things it can buy. I call it the child in a sweetshop syndrome. Restricted from having sweets by parents on the basis that too many sweets are bad for you, children crave them more than the mere sugar-rush explains. They are forbidden fruit. The promise of sweets on special occasions or if you are good, is a very powerful driver I'm sure we all remember. But imagine a child is given access to as many sweets as they want. This is what happens to William Brown in Just William. Not only does he stuff himself until he feels sick but he plies a young girl he is soft on with the same. Very soon they want no more. In fact neither of them want to ever eat sweets again. They have lost their allure. The same happens with toys and toyshops and this is also true with adults. The attraction of a harem soon wanes as does the endless decorating and furnishing potential of a palace or a garage full of fast cars.
Going back to sexual attraction, I recall the fact that as a teenager I went out with a girl whose family were naturists (i.e. walked around naked, even in forests). When I recounted my experiences of naturism to friends who were more stubbornly attached to their clothes, I was always asked, "but don't you get excited when you see all those naked women?" and the answer was a resounding "No." The allure of naked women to even a hot-blooded 18yr old young man, disappeared almost the moment the shock of the circumstances subsided. Women in clothes or underwear were far more seductive. The element of wonder and of possibility was the catalyst for sexual excitement, not nudity, where everything is literally stripped back to the basics, leaving nothing to the imagination. The glimpse of a lecturer's stockings or a lacy bra-strap as she stretched to write on the board was infinitely more thought provoking.

Image courtesy of The Sun. Note: their images are usually far less subtle (and therefore less exciting).

On this basis of course, one can see why an interest in eroticism proliferated in the hyper-conservative
Victorian era. Table legs that had to be covered with linen out of a fear of sexually suggestive furniture? Was Queen Victoria's denial of such a possibility as lesbian sex an indication that she wanted this to remain the ultimate excitement and that the very admission of its existence would make it less attractive?

As you can see, I have made my peace with the moral codes that still constrain society and our sexual behaviours. I have even come to applaud them. I would not want to entirely lose the excitement I felt for simple pleasures in my youth. A glimpse of something through the trees. Claudia our French nanny washing my hair, splashing water on her white cotton blouse. The aroma of a girl's long hair as she leans across my desk to borrow a pencil sharpener. I would not want eroticism to disappear or to become boring. In my book The Pimlico Tapes, I have documented a case (dealt with by a therapist) of a man so overindulged with sexual pleasure, so permissive in his behaviour that he loses interest in the things most of us find sexually arousing. Slowly over time the therapist manages to reawaken the man's sexual feelings by means of self-denial and focus upon seemingly innocent activities like watching a tired middle-aged waitress shaving her legs in a back yard. It is the stuff of Catholicism and of attraction to that which we are denied. The moment the restrictions are lifted, the desire, the frisson, it dissolves.

If you want to read more by A.K. Anders, please click on of the links on the right panel of this blog. OK if you're too lazy, click here: AK Anders on Smashwords (click here for Amazon or just type him or the title The Pimlico Tapes into your search engine). Enjoy your evening and remember to add your e-mail into the Follow By e-mail box (top right hand margin) if you'd like to be notified of future posts (about quarterly - after all you can have too much of a good thing).

Sunday, 23 February 2014

Hanging Around In Bars & Cafes

The Honeypot
Most of us when we were teenagers, were told about places it was not safe to go. In these places we might find people who would lead us into temptation. Often we were not exactly told what this temptation was – just that things that seemed attractive to us might lead to harm. Most of us were told stories at school about bad men (usually) who would offer to show us kittens or puppies, or take us somewhere where we could eat cakes and sweets to our heart's content. If we followed these bad men or got into their car we would likely never be seen again. Of course there have been cases like this and it is a terrible thing, but once we become adults we can forget these stories, right?
Wrong. Many of us never really forget these stories or the feelings of fear they instilled into us when we were small. As a result we live, even as adults, in fear of bad men with candy bars or someone under our bed waiting to chop off our feet. This is present in most of us, but generally only to a small extent. It is locked away somewhere in the dark recesses of our minds. But for a few of us it is ever present and very much at the front of our minds. For these people, meeting an attractive stranger can be petrifying. But it is complicated. For these people fear and sexual excitement can blur into one. They are afraid and yet they seek it out – constantly putting themselves in danger in order to experience a sexual thrill. For some they may go through with a sexual encounter, but for others they never go that far. The mere risk of standing on the corner of a dark street outside a bar in a city, being looked at or propositioned by strangers, is enough to thrill them to the point of ecstasy. And yet they are rigid with fear.

Who says nuns don't have a sense of humour? Image courtesy of

It has been brought to my attention by the 'victims' of the experience, that girls who are educated by nuns in convent boarding schools, develop an obsession with boys / men and sex. Far from accepting what the nuns tell them about sex being evil, not for pleasure but for procreation etc. and men being dangerous, violent, sexually out of control beasts, these girls will do almost anything to meet boys and have sex with them. So don't the nuns realise this?
Well there is also a well known theory out there that the Catholic church being dominated by men, these men are most desirous of girls being brought up in this way. It is for gratifying the sexual desires of the men that these girls are hot-housed (I use the term advisedly). Keep calm, father, it's just a theory.

OK Keep Calm! St Trinian's look is still popular. Image courtesy of

Dens Of Sin & Debauchery
Unload a bus full of teenage boys and girls close to the Red Light District of any city and watch what happens. Such places are a honeypot for virile young people. They would be fascinated enough under any circumstances, but given that at least in the Western world they will all have been warned of the dangers, they will find it all the more enticing. It is not a fascination that wears off - not really. Sexual desire does drop off as humans mature, but fascination for what they are told they should steer clear of does not. They have also been told to steer clear of alcohol and drugs but that doesn't deter people either. Many have long since stopped believing these old wives tales. They have been playing with themselves for years and still they haven't gone blind. So why hold back? Why not jump right in?

 Amsterdam. Image courtesy of

Njmingen. Image courtesy of

Fear Of Getting Caught
What stops most of us from indulging ourselves in what we are told is 'sin' and 'debauchery' is the fear of getting caught. The fear that others who know us – our families, our bosses and our neighbours – will find out and brand us as disgusting. That these people will tell everyone to keep their children away from us. This is why so called red light districts – streets of shame as some call them – flourish in cities. This affords people a certain amount of anonymity. Many of the customers one will find in such areas are in fact tourists from other places – other countries even. The Japanese are fairly up-front about getting sexual pleasure in brothels or with acquaintances in so called 'Love Hotels,' but it does not stop large parties of well-to-do middle-aged Japanese women going abroad and turning up by the coach load in the likes of Hamburg's Reeperbahn. So what are our societies so afraid of? If we simply told each other to go and get your rocks off with whoever is willing for a few dollars or deutschmarks, would society suddenly break down. Would men and women run amok, like crazed beasts copulating on pavements and park benches? Perhaps for a day or two, but otherwise I think not.

Elderly Japanese women have a big sexual appetite but get cold easily. 
Image courtesy of

Before you start thinking that the world I have conjured up is some kind of sexual nirvana, I want you to hesitate for a moment. Think about nudity. Despite what many people think, after only a short time (minutes not hours) of everyone walking around naked, people forget about sexual attraction. Men do not walk around with erections. I know this from a spell of naturism in my youth. It is the mystique that is exciting – a glimpse of a man's muscular stomach as he stretches to lift a box from a truck. The slightly raised signature of a policewoman's nipples through a well-ironed white blouse. This is why there is so much money in selling underwear. The point I am making is that if we held nothing back – ran around offering ourselves to whoever we fancied, displaying our sexuality blatantly for all to see, then we would soon get bored with it. The pornography industry would die for a start and people would wear underwear for comfort only. Deadly dull. So before you begin calling for ever-greater sexual openness, give a thought to the subject of titillation.

Things To Remember When Visiting Streets Of Shame

1. Wear loose clothing - sweat is uncomfortable if you get overheated, and for men loose trousers help to hide an unruly erection.

2. Clean your teeth / use mouthwash. Street-women love chatting to potential customers but you will get far better offers if you are not breathing dog-breath in their faces.

3. Ladies – The Full Monty is just a film. Most men cannot perform on demand, so make yourself look enticing and tease them a bit.

4. The larger establishments have the benefit of being well regulated, but you may get a more personalised service by picking up 'freelancers' in the surrounding area. Hairdressers, barbers and nailbars are often more fruitful than bars.

Amsterdam cycle shop. Image courtesy of

5. Obviously, don't go out with loads of cash, credit cards or an expensive watch. Surprisingly most sex-workers don't work for pleasure and are always desperate for cash.

6. Go for a wee first and switch off your phone. Nothing pisses off a sex-worker more than customers who hold up proceedings with a weak bladder or a call from their wife / husband / child's headmaster.

7. Be nice. These people have a hard time, that's how they got there.

8. Finally, don't try inviting your sex-worker to meet for lunch or a drink later. They do not want your friendship, they just want your money then to be left alone. They probably have a boyfriend or girlfriend to cook dinner for anyway.

If you want to read more by A.K. Anders, please click on of the links on the right panel. OK if you're too lazy, click here: AK Anders on Smashwords (for Amazon just type him or the title The Pimlico Tapes into your search engine). Have a nice evening :-)

Monday, 28 October 2013

Call Of The Wild

Our Lost Connection With Nature

I imagine most of us have had the experience. Out walking or picnicking with a partner, we feel a sudden overwhelming urge to make love in the open air. 

I have come across some surprisingly conservative grown-ups, some even quite elderly, who have been taken in this way. They describe it in a way as if they might have been possessed while out minding their own business.

"There we were, Marjorie and I, marvelling at the workmanship of a gate as we made our way casually along the South Downs Way, when suddenly she turned to me and said, Lionel, I want you to do me. Now in the long grass over here. I was taken aback. What right here? Yes, she said. I confess I was somewhat afraid. It wasn't like her. She couldn't get my trousers down fast enough! A wonderful experience, though. We do it regularly now. Never discussed, but I know when it's going to happen. Walking boots with a skirt and wooly stockings were never Marjorie's kind of thing in the past." 

I have wondered a lot about this. Once I became aware of the phenomenon, I became more aware of what was going on around me when out and about on my daily walks. I don't wish to sensationalise. Obviously not all walking couples are up to it, but if one becomes attuned to it there is little difficulty identifying those with outdoor carnal intent. There is a furtiveness in their body language. Exaggerated eye-contact. Pressing closer than needs be as they pass through a gate. A hand used unnecessarily to steady a woman's thigh or buttock as she crosses a stile. Look more closely, there's a lot of it about.

So why all of a sudden the passion for outdoor carnal activities?
Well, of course it has been going on for rather a long time – long before human beings ever had any notion of “indoors” in fact. It is our natural carnal playground. But I do believe there is a bit of a resurgence, and I think I know why.

Look at our lives now – especially in the developed world. We spend more and more time indoors. Even when we get exercise it increasingly tends to be indoors or at least removed from nature. Even pastimes with their roots in our primeval past, like hunting and fishing, have become steadily more sanitised and high-tech. We have become shy or even afraid of nature. It is dirty and uncomfortable. I surf because it brings me close to the forces of nature – one with its tremendous power – but even there, young surfers seem to spend more time on-line or in shops perving over equipment, or posing at beach-front bars and cafes than they do actually in the water, standing up.

So what is the future for our children? Call me extreme, but personally I think sport involving full contact with nature, some survival training and some wilderness adventures should be compulsory. Without it, I believe, we are doomed as a race. We will live comfortably with all our luxury, our digital virtual world gaming and our labour saving technology, but when the tipping point comes and nature gets angry, a revolution or a war begins, then 90% of those in the developed world will be wiped out. They will lack the wherewithal to survive. It’s not such a sad prospect, I don’t think. Yes if I think about individual people I like and love being washed down nature’s drain for losers, it does make me sad. But in the wider depersonalised scheme of things, the planet and the human race will be better off. Those who survive will be the more resourceful. It is survival of the fittest at its most painfully extreme, folks.

And what does this have to do with people – often very conservative people – suddenly being overwhelmed by the desire to fornicate out in the woods and fields? Well quite simply, they are responding subliminally (primitively) to the call of the wild. Nature is constantly reminding us that we are animals first and foremost and that our survival depends upon our ability to function as such. Many of us try to fight off these messages. Most of us have ceased to trust our primitive instincts. We are afraid of them. We are ashamed. We even make laws against them for goodness sake! The naked and the passionately unrestrained have been criminalised. But nature is fighting back in the form of our genetic memories. Nature is encouraging us to behave badly (“badly” in our society's ridiculous moral terms anyway), and when nature is the stimulus, many of us (the lucky ones) find it hard to resist. But calm yourself – this should not be seen as a problem. It is just our survival instinct kicking-in, and we should be thankful. One day it may save our lives.

So the next time you are out walking your dog and you see a local councillor or a couple of respectable members of a local rambling or bird watching society in-flagrante amongst the buttercups, console yourself with the knowledge that this is positive sign of human preparedness for survival. You might even try it yourself… Vicar.

Motivated by this subject, here follows part of a short story by the author, A.K. Anders:

Call Of The Wild
Sunday morning often finds me out foraging. Mushrooms are my main target. I have a penchant for wild mushrooms. I am in the habit of taking a small camp stove on a Sunday morning, along with some chorizo, eggs and ciabatta so that I can create a hearty breakfast somewhere impromtu. Last Sunday I took a lady I am acquainted with. She had requested it. Involved in a polite group conversation at the church fete, she professed to share my love for wild mushrooms and was taken with my description of these early morning open-air feasts. I took my time inviting her. I waited until later as I was leaving. I was being careful not to seem too forward, but it would have seemed impolite not to invite her at all.

So this lady is a rather well-to-do woman who's land I like to walk on now and again. She has seen me there a few times and not objected, at least not openly. Her husband shoots, although he's limited by arthritic knees these days. We were on last year’s church fund raising committee together. He seemed rather to be living in cloud cuckoo land, to be honest. Thought the new roof could easily be paid for with a “Sunday morning whip-round.” She, on the other hand, is much younger and in possession of all her marbles. So anyway, out of politeness I invited her. We walked quite a way before we felt we had collected enough fungi for our feast. She's a tall, strong woman and takes mammoth strides, even for a country lady. A successful three-day-eventer in the past, apparently and still an impressive horsewoman, or so I’m told. Eventually my foraging bag was full and we stopped at a small forest clearing by a fast flowing stream. There’s been a lot of rain recently and the power of the stream reflected it.

Sylvana had brought one of those waterproof picnic blankets, which, she said, would make everything more civilised. I was not sure I liked it. Getting muddy is part of the pleasure for me, but I didn't object. Anyway, though I say so myself, I had made a decent job of cooking the fare and Sylvana was just pouring some coffee when we heard giggling from nearby. We were very much out in the sticks so it was a surprise. She looked at me to see if I too had heard, then put her finger to her lips. Carefully Sylvana got to her feet and began heading in the direction from whence the sounds had arrived. Turning, she waved to me to follow her. All of a sudden this rather serious, mature lady had taken on the behaviour of a schoolgirl. Her face seemed filled with intrigue and delight. Down between silver birch saplings she tiptoed, beckoning me to follow. I duly obeyed. The giggling sounded close-by now, but we still saw no sign of its source. There seemed to be a line of large chestnuts with dense bushes grown up between then and it was in this direction Sylvana was drawn. 

"Be careful," she mouthed to me, "there's a sudden drop."

Carefully I followed her into the thicket, noticing how the ground beyond the thicket was at a starkly lower level. I heard a sudden intake of breath from Sylvana and saw her raise her hand to her mouth, but she was blocking my view. Placing a hand on her shoulder I moved in close behind her to see over. I could feel Sylvana's heart beating and it made me a little concerned about what I might see. Still the source of the sounds was not apparent to me. Frustrated slightly, I followed her gaze and caught my own breath as I focussed upon the brook. It was larger at this point – a river in fact.

What caught my eye first was the shoulder bag and the clothes laid out on a rock. Then the splashing of water and a restrained screech as something emerged from the water. Now I could see them. A woman was sitting in the water with her back against the bank and hanging onto a tree root so as not to be washed downstream. Something about the way her chest was rising and falling so quickly and the short gasps we could hear every now and then, told me the water was very cold. I was just considering this, when out from under the rushing white water something surfaced – a man. Clearly the woman knew him as he was now making amusing growling sounds and had begun biting her. It was entertaining to watch. However, very soon her girlish excitement gave way to squeals of shock as he began biting her and it was obvious that she was finding the attack deeply pleasurable. Laying her head back on the bank, the woman laughed brazenly and allowed her pale legs to float to the surface of the water. The man responded, moving in closer, preparing to pounce.

For those who feel the need to know how this story progresses, the complete story "Call Of The Wild" (and others like it) will soon be available on

Just click the relevant link, or enter the title and author into the search-box of your local amazon website.

Wednesday, 2 October 2013

How Fictitious is Fiction?

"Joe, I'm afraid you've read something that makes you a threat to someone. I can't help you."

The question, "How fictitious is fiction," puts me in mind of an excellent film released in 1975 by Sidney Pollack – 3 Days Of The CondorJoe Turner (Robert Redford) is a CIA employee (Condor is his code name) who works in a clandestine office in New York City. He reads books, newspapers, and magazines from around the world, looking for "hidden meanings and new ideas". As part of his duties, Turner files a report to CIA headquarters on a low-quality thriller novel his office has been reading, pointing out strange plot elements therein, and the unusual assortment of languages into which the book has been translated. One day Joe returns from buying a sandwich and finds everyone in his office has been shot dead. Following his training he runs into hiding but soon realises he can trust nobody - least of all his employers. 
I loved this film and found it an intriguing subject. Just like the book in the film, however, the film itself seemed to me like it might have been based on truth. The danger to the CIA, the US government and other unknown powers, was that the reading public would spot the fact that the story had a little too much authenticity – that what was written was very close to real life circumstances, and that they would put two and two together. They could not, of course, allow this to happen. So how far does that seem from reality, eh?

The dictionary provides several definitions of fiction. I find them particularly interesting:

a. An imaginative creation or a pretence that does not represent actuality but has been invented.
b. The act of inventing such a creation or pretence.
2.      A lie.
a. A literary work whose content is produced by the imagination and is not necessarily based on fact.
b. The category of literature comprising works of this kind, including novels and short stories.
4.      Law Something untrue that is intentionally represented as true by the narrator.

I especially like number 2. A Lie. All my own writing is lies. An imaginative creation may sound more literary perhaps, but I prefer "lies".

image courtesy of www.overtheretohere by John Burningham

But fiction needs to be more than lies. It is in the nature of fiction writing, that what is written seems believable, is it not? Lies are all very well, but we need believable lies. Even with fantasy writing or with science fiction, if the job is done well, the reader's disbelief is suspended. Something that may be far fetched still has a sense of authenticity. When it does not, the reader is dissatisfied. So how does the writer achieve this?

I think it is generally true to say that good fiction writers have highly developed observational skills. They notice how people behave and how others respond to their behaviour. They will usually have a wide experience of people, cultures and circumstances. These skills and their life experiences are then married to a literary ability to describe characters and situations in words (including in film scripts). Both elements are required to achieve success. So the fiction writer is a repository for a mass of memories about people and circumstances; of life stories and intriguing events. All things that are filed away in their mental library for future use as fiction. Why are we surprised, therefore, when people or events found written into fiction, bear a strong resemblance to people or events we know? Why accuse the writer of presenting fact as fiction? Must we fiction writers tweak things to ensure that they do not seem too authentic, for fear of such accusations?

image courtesy of

In my own writing, I have experienced exactly this phenomenon. People say (very flatteringly) that my writing has an overwhelming sense of authenticity. Not just the stories, but the detail. Particularly the characters, they say. The descriptions of my characters, what they do, what people say and most importantly how they say it, give the reader the sense that I am describing a real person and a real event. "Surely," I say, "all good fiction should do this?"

"Fiction my arse, I know that Newsreader"
Since the publication of my first book, The Pimlico Tapes, my publisher has received over a hundred accusations from people who claim that the characters (in this case the patients of a therapist) are in fact wholly and completely them, or someone they know. Only the name has been changed, they say. I call it "The Condor Effect." What makes this especially problematic, is that some of these patients are famous and therefore wealthy people with a taste for instant litigation, especially where their private lives are concerned and especially when it concerns sex. Their claims are hard to prove but it does not stop them trying, and that can be tiresome as well as expensive. Why do these people find it so hard to believe that their particular issues (the one's they have gone to a therapist about) are not unique to them. This is how palm readers and clairvoyants manage to dupe people. "You met a dark haired man recently and something he said made you nervous of him." "Someone in your family told you something that hurt you." Almost everybody will identify with these statements. It does not make the palm reader a gifted seer or a genius! The skill of the fiction writer is to conjure up something that people will immediately identify with. Something perhaps that they will feel is personal to them. Yes the individual components of what is described will come from the writers real life memories, but few would write them down exactly as they had happened in real life. In most cases it would not fit the story anyway. But I think what I have been accused of is actually the opposite of the legal dictionary definition 4. above:

Law Something untrue that is intentionally represented as true by the narrator.

In the case of The Pimlico Tapes, people feel that I am taking something true and deliberately representing it as untrue. Hah! I say to them, "Prove it."

The docudrama on television and sometimes in cinema has made good use of blurring the lines between fact and fiction. Imagine one of those political dramas featuring past or present senior politicians. References to certain events, phrases people use or they way they dress connect the characters to real life people or events. This is intentional of course but they don't say so officially. Certain elements in the drama are true but not all. Enough of them are true, however, that the viewer believes that all of what they are seeing might be true – or at least they do for a while. Such programs are often said to be fiction but based loosely upon real people and events. The question is, how loosely? Carefully, in most cases, they do not mention specific names. Some, on the other hand, do take the risk of mentioning names but it is a risk. It's a dangerous game and one that provides meat and drink for lawyers.

For myself, and perhaps for many others, the line between fact and fiction easily becomes blurred. I am a self-confessed fantasist. I live (as my father used to tell me) in a dream world. Many real things seem like fantasy to me and equally many unreal things seem painfully or pleasurably real. Step down all you therapists, I have no desire to be cured of this. I like my life this way, thanks. This does mean that often the things I invent (fictitious stories, or "lies" as I've chosen to call them), over time become fact to me. The more I read them, edit them and re-work them the more real they become. People pick me up on it.

"You're talking hypothetically of course," they say. Or "You mean if you had stolen the car!"

And I have to stop and think. Did I make it up? I'm not so sure I did. I remember everything about it – the place, the time, the people who were there, what shoes I was wearing, what I ate for breakfast that morning, the smell of the glovebox, the electric shock as I twisted the wires together. All of it. So it is real for me. Who's to say it didn't happen? Maybe in a different dimension, but it happened.

I wonder how that would stand up as prosecutory evidence in a court of law. By pure coincidence, I am a trained lawyer. Can you imagine how it would have been if I'd become a high-court judge? Outrageous. Yet there must be practicing judges out there who have the same tenuous grip on reality that I have. Fantasy Judge!
"I find you guilty because I met you in a dream once and you told me what you'd done." The mind certainly does boggle!

image courtesy of

Thursday, 4 July 2013

Eat My Erotic Shorts!

New Short Stories by A.K. Anders - Thanks to The Thatcherstazi

Determined not to see me waste my valuable time while I was in hiding from the Thatcherstazi (see previous but one blog), my two dear ladies advised me to use that time in hiding productively, by writing. I am so glad I listened to them, wise ladies that they are. A few weeks back, I came across the somewhat dog-eared Moleskine notebook that I used to jot down some new erotic short stories with one of those short betting-shop biros. The limited ink in that biro only just lasted the course. I immediately set about editing and publishing them individually on KDP. These are the first eight. Once all the stories are individually published, I intend publishing them as a collection. I will probably entitle that 'My Erotic Shorts' or possible 'Eat My Erotic Shorts' (just decided to change the title of this blog).

Model is not A.K. Anders

The cellar in which I was holed-up, had no power or water and was devoid of daylight. Once a day I ventured upstairs to use a backyard toilet and to collect a coolbox of food and water from a friend (eternally grateful to my fellow author MS). I did have an emergency bucket but tried to avoid using it – I have always been most sensitive to aromas. I don't wear a watch and had no clock so I was mostly unaware of time. It was an interesting experiment in sensory deprivation. Unfortunately I did not experience the kind of hallucinations that William Hurt enjoyed in the film 'Altered States'.

Image courtesy of

This cellar-life gave me little else useful to do but to think and write. The result of my time alone in that cellar is five new short stories. My ladies like them. You might think one of them would have been an erotic tale of me being trapped in a cellar with a gorgeous and adventurous nymphomaniac. If so you (like my ladies) will be disappointed – at least so far. I have notes for more to come. The stories are erotic but mostly err on the side of my favoured 'romantic-erotic' genre. Here is a brief synopsis:

All are available on Amazon at minimal cost. Due to regional differences I advise going to my author's page or entering the title or author name into your local Amazon website's search box.

buy via .UK author page
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Not For Training Purposes
An Erotic Short Story – with humour.
Martin receives a phone call one evening from Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs. Sure it is yet another prank by the admin girls at the university where he works as a junior lecturer, he tries to turn the tables by embarking upon a conversation in the guise of 'phone sex'. The consequences take him further than he expects.

On My Way To The Church Hall
An Erotic Short Story
Lawrence is a respectable man in his 50's. One day on his way to the church hall he is called upon to assist a young woman who has locked her valuables in the bathroom in the house of his friends who are away. The Slovakian girl is house-sitting. Using a ladder, he climbs in the window and releases the door. But after a polite cup of tea, Lawrence soon finds himself losing control while sampling Saskia's grandmother's strong homemade spirit.

Tickets Please!
An Erotic Short Story - with humour
An innocent young woman takes a sleeper train and is awakened in the night when a section of bulkhead falls out onto her bunk. Slowly she becomes aware that she can see into the next compartment. Later she witnesses a half drunk man return to his girlfriend, mimicking a conductor for a joke. Unable to find her ticket he tells her he must have his way with her as payment / punishment. The young woman looks on as the man punishes his girlfriend before the tables are turned on him.

See Me After The Lesson!
An Erotic Short Story - with humour
Two precocious sixth-form girls chat after returning to boarding school, discussing their adventures during summer holidays. One notices the other has an interest in the young Economics teacher and lures her into the Lacrosse pavilion to tell her about her fantasy about him. The heat rises and the two end by acting out the scene.

An Outdoor Girl
An Erotic Short Story - with humour
Polly is disturbed by a young farmer while picnicking semi-naked in a remote hilltop field. Unfortunately the farmer's Labrador has a penchant for ladies underwear and runs off with her panties and shorts. Stranded, she is saved by the gentlemanly behaviour of the farmer who runs to fetch a pair of shorts for her. That night her true desires come to her in a powerful dream that changes her life and her view of the outdoors forever.

An Erotic Short Story - Mildly humorous
Howard is a retired grocer and a keen member of a local birdwatching society who take weekly walks. Today, Winifred is the only other member who turns up. Their relationship is formal. Winifred, a spinster, is a charity worker and heavily involved in the local Women's Institute. A little disturbed by having inadvertently picked up an erotic book in Oxfam that week, Winifred finds herself considering the possibility of trying out sex with Howard while out walking. 

WARNING elderly people may find this story shocking and should not read it if they have a heart condition, without first consulting their doctor.

Something From Upstairs
An Erotic Short Story - With humour
Terry opens a second-hand bookshop but is troubled by unruly schoolchildren coming in to buy comics. One Viola, day a six-form girl, comes in and seduces him. Terry soon becomes involved in a social science experiment organised by Viola and her friends. Finally the project is submitted by the girls and all hell breaks loose. Needless to say the press find out and Terry is brazenly exposed. 

Banged Up
Erotic Short Story
The Author, A.K. Anders, is forced to go into hiding after British security forces hound him, over the possible true identity of a character in his book (The Pimlico Tapes). Living for 2 weeks in a tiny celar room in central London, he begins to hallucinate due to sensory deprivation. One night, Anders is unexpectedly joined by an diminutive Indian woman, Jamini, who has escaped from a brutal fiance in an arranged marriage. She has been sent by his two ladies, she tells him. Anders soon discovers that Jamini has special talents and the two spend the ensuing weeks occupied in gentle sensual experimentation. Despite no electricity, no window, and not enough room to swing a cat, boredom never raises its ugly head. 

A powerful tale of how the human mind can overcome sensual deprivation and turn an intolerable situation into an enviable one.