Anonymous: The Oyster, volume1 and 2

We are none of us quite what we appear to be. Running parallel with our physical existence, with our mundane chores and daily habits, is another secret, ghostly character, a private companion forever commenting upon what we see and do, rewriting the manuscript record of our lives in a manner more satisfying to us.

It is this gap between reality and fantasy, between what is and what might be or might have been which I find truly a source of endless fascination.

Will the fucking of a particular girl be an anticlimax, I wonder? Will reality be but a pale imitation of the adventures of the mind? We accept these dreams with hardly any consideration, never questioning for a moment our right to be able to leave our bodies for a while whenever the mood takes us, but for some reason, as we progress from childhood to adult fife, we become peculiarly embarrassed to admit to this. For the older we become, the less likely we are to admit to the more expansive fantasies, as grown-up, responsible citizens are supposed to have put away this childish habit. This is an impossible task, for surely in all of us there are two beings that ride through life as if on a tandem bicycle, steered by the chap in front but commented upon endlessly by the man in the back seat.

I do not discourage daydreaming for it represents perhaps the only time in life when you can be sure of playing the lead role, and in that sense, dreams are great revellers. In the vivid play that is acted out in the daydream all manner of wrongs are put right, all kinds of witty ripostes are applauded and the most beautiful of women conquered totally and without resistance.

Throughout my life I have daydreamed. As a child my fantasies were glorious, unblocked by considerations of reality, but adults dream, increasingly as the years slip away, about what might have been had their lives taken other turnings.

I must immediately confess to this kind of postmortem, especially over the critical decisions which affect us until our dying days. We are all faced with a series of crossroads that are unique to us and we can continually look back and examine the routes that we chose, for better or for worse, that have brought us to the present time.

By and large this is a fruitless and indeed even a totally futile exercise, but then since when was mere futility the servant of common sense?

What brings these musings to mind? I suppose, reader, that were I to be fully truthful, my brain is taking a much needed respite from the hard labours, of recall. Oh, do not misunderstand me, I have enjoyed penning these sexual exploits, which are all totally verifiable. If any person wishes to see proof furnished, simply write to me care of the Post Office, Sudbury, Suffolk and I will personally reply to all letters. How pleasant it is to recall that free and easy life we enjoyed as schoolboys at the Nottsgrove Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk, and what wonderful memories I have of that giant amongst mortals, dear old Doctor White, whose wise leadership has since influenced me and all other students to such good effect. What a man! His immense learning and erudition were matched only by his cheery manner and true kindness of heart which was shown to one and all, regardless of their station in life. He was a man who won the respect of both peer and pauper. And it seems that it was but yesterday that I was sitting in his book-lined study, sipping a glass of port and discussing with the old headmaster pertinent questions of social and political affairs which had been brought up in that day's edition of The Times.

You will see, then, how my mind has been straying far, far away on a merry trip to the lands of yesteryear whilst my body has been locked here in the admittedly splendidly comfortable present: the warm armchair in the library of my fine old friend Sir Lionel T-, himself of course a scholar and artist of great distinction.

So I have skeltered through this brief period of my adolescent life with great joy; which leads me to suggest that if we sometimes feel prisoners of our present circumstances, this may simply be because we are blocking the escape valves of our imagination. If all adults could play the innocent game of make-believe as do our children, we would, I dare suspect, live out our lives in a fuller, more contented fashion.

Let us now return to the main theme of this narrative, and I crave again the indulgence of the reader for my digression.

I awoke that next morning quite bleary-eyed and indeed I was so tired that I even forwent my usual morning ritual of shrinking, my stiff prick by a vigorous tossing off. Today, however, I performed my ablutions as if in a trance and what I consumed at breakfast will forever remain a mystery as I have no recollection whatsoever of even sitting down in the dining hall that morning! Luckily, I could enjoy a free period after breakfast, which I spent taking a refreshing sleep in the library until the midmorning break bell shattered my slumbers.

After the interval I joined the rest of my sixth form colleagues in the Art Room where Doctor White was due to give his weekly lecture upon matters of culture. I sat down next to Pelham who whispered to me: 'I say, old chap, are you quite well? You look rather tired.'

'I am somewhat sleepy.' I confessed. 'I just could not get to sleep last night.'

'Well, you are not the only one. Look at Paul sitting slumped over his desk. He also looks as pale as a ghost,' said Pelham.

I was pleased that at this point Doctor White swept in and began his dissertation immediately, thus saving me the problem of explaining to Pelham just why Paul and I were so exhausted at a quarter past eleven in the morning!

'My subject today is women in the arts,' rumbled the Doctor. 'Let us look at the status of women in society, and of the current agitation by many females to be freed from the ties of home and hearth.

'Of course, both men and women have always needed a great deal of determination to succeed in their various professions. But historically women have needed more determination and more talent merely to keep in the race for the glittering prizes even though both sexes alike suffer from inequalities of brainpower. Let us take art and politics. This latter subject is perhaps so controversial that we will keep discussion of it until next week's lecture. So let us today look solely at the world of art, a field in which practitioners have often been forced to suffer varying degrees of injustice.

'Every artist suffers in this way, but for women the injustice has always been greater, which goes much of the way to explain why relatively few women artists have surfaced and why so many have failed, or why so many women have made initial headway against nude prejudices only to sink back later into obscurity.

'Even an ardent espouser of women's rights such as my niece Lucy will admit that no significant art movement has ever been started by a woman. But, gentlemen, we must ask ourselves why this is so. And the answer is very simple: historically there has always been a lack of educational facilities for girls and, even when they have matured, there has been a taboo against women at meeting places for artists such as bars, clubs or, heavens alive! a genuine artist's studio! So there has been no real chance availed to them and the female artist has been left in painful solitude.

'There are still far too many obstacles in their path and I propose that we at Nottsgrove here and now symbolically show the way forward.'

On this stirring note he strode to the door and motioned into the room a most attractive young girl of about nineteen or twenty years old. She was slightly taller than the average with a mop of bright auburn curls that set off a cheeky little face, the best features of which were a retrousse nose and large grey eyes that sparkled with promise. Her slim, athletic frame was delightfully shown off by a close-fitting dark green costume in the modern style. My tiredness vanished in a trice at the sight of this lovely girl and my eyes gazed longingly at her small but perfectly-formed breasts that jutted out like two firm apples ripe for my mouth…