Wander Lust

By Frank Wall

Who could ever tire of endless sex and more money than it’s possible to imagine?

Featherstone does. He leaves Swinging Sixties England, allowing Fate to dictate his destiny. She leads him to Amsterdam, sin capital of the world.

Seduced, robbed, rescued, nurtured. Featherstone marvels at the wonders that unfold. Cops smoking dope, Free love and white bicycles. He’s easy meat for insatiable Velma Ventura.

She’s the owner of an exclusive brothel. Topless slave girls, Live sex shows, hot and cool women on tap.

Easy money: It had almost been his downfall before. This time it will cost him life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Wall
• Release date: Sep 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301644223

Frank Wall

Like his characters, Frank Wall imagines his life to be more exciting than it actually is. When it came to writing a biography he stated, “Make something up; I’ll go along with it.” This attitude has muddled him through life, 3 marriages and six wonderful children. That is the truth. Frank has been a writer since he became a grown up, not seeing the point when at school. For twenty years he wrote; mostly advertising copy and letters to creditors. He started using joined up letters at the turn of the century, producing five reams of manuscripts fit for the shredder. In 2013, Frank Wall introduced Featherstone, an affable young man who meets life in the mid 1960s. It is seen by some as an account of the author’s own experience. Sadly, that isn’t the case. FEATHERSTONE Rogue Tales is now available POD through CreateSpace and also Ebook at Amazon.com. Well, it’s a good place to start.

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F E A T H E R S T O N E

R O G U E T A L E S

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V O L U M E T H R E E

W a n d e r L u s t

Published by Frank Wall

Smashwords Edition / Copyright 2013 Frank Wall

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I never gave future a thought, and didn't plan to become the man I am. I let Fate take care of things like that. So I'll never know if paths I'd have picked, or doors I'd have chosen, would have led to me being a better person. What’s so special about choosing my own destiny? I only know that the one time I tried, I cocked it up.

Spring sun shone indifferently from above the cloudy sky, but my decision to go had nothing to do with the weather. It was a case of six of one, a dozen of the other, and cons outweighing pros.

I had more than two hundred pounds in my pocket; a small fortune in 1966. I made my way to meet up with my friends who would have waited in vain for their share of the cash, if good fortune hadn't provided yet again.

I found them sitting in the pub nursing half empty glasses of warm beer, no doubt mulling over our last meeting. Keith had called me a cunt and I’d told him to get fucked, as mates do now and then. Rob sat up straight and looked expectant as I walked up to their table. Steve carried on watching a fly drinking from a puddle of spillage. Madeline seemed the most pleased to see me. Pulling out the chair next to her, she patted the seat, but I didn’t sit.

Share the wealth, I announced, as I dropped the wedge of money on the table, I’ve taken my cut. The nonchalant display caught the attention of a group standing nearby. What? Never seen a day’s wages before? I scoffed. They turned away. I did too, and walked back out the door.

Whether I’d return in a day, week, or never at all, I had no idea.

I went home. Where have you been? This is not a hotel, my mother reminded me.

Hello, Mum, where’s my birth certificate? I didn't want to get into yet another round of domestic responsibilities.

Before dawn the next day I was at the port of Dover. If I was sensible, I’d have spent the night sleeping before setting out, but I felt desperation to get away from the world, and besides, sensible was a stranger to me. I’d hitched lifts through the night. I was in search of my destiny; or so my thoughts told me as I sat freezing on a park bench waiting for the post office to open. For those seeking their destiny, you still need a bloody passport; a cardboard temporary one at least.

I boarded the cross channel ferry with more than a slight feeling of excitement. I couldn't help thinking of my grandfather, him being the only other member of my family to have travelled abroad. That was in 1917. He soon returned, minus a foot left somewhere in a Flanders field. I hoped for a more welcoming reception than he'd had.

I sat on deck to eat breakfast: Bacon in something called a baguette that was actually a bread roll, and a pack of four small bottles I hoped to be beers.

The sky was cloudy and threatened rain. I cupped a match in my hands for the fifth attempt and managed to light a cigarette. I looked out to sea. France was already in view. I wondered what future she held. I’d done my bit by deciding to leave England. My life is now back in your hands, Madame Fate, or whatever you’re called on the continent.

I wondered why I hadn’t had more of a say in what I’d done in the past. What am I talking about? No one told me to do well at school. Yes, they did, actually. Well no one told me to fuck up in my exams. No, that’s true, I did that by myself. No one told me to go to Art College. No, I could have gone and got a bloody job, like I was told to do. Yeah, like, right. No one told me to fall in love with Crystal, when Madeline would have loved me in return.

That was the thought that gave the socceroo punch. It hit me like a tennis ball in the face. I loved Crystal. She didn’t really love me. Madeline loved me, but wanted too much in return.

Did all that happen in only one week? It feels more like a fortnight. OK, smart arse. I mean, a year ago, I was pining for pussy, thought of one thing only: getting my end away. Jean gave me that, and I’m grateful, thank you Jean, sorry I left you in such a hurry.

I looked up. The clouds were doing their best to deny the sun an existence. Six months without a girlfriend, now, all of a sudden, I’ve got more than I can handle, as much as I want, but at what cost? My feelings, my liberty, what, for fuck sake?

The sun broke from behind its grey curtain. Do you have a light? I thought it said. I broke away from my pondering to see two bright blue eyes in a pretty face under a big woolly hat. I offered her the choice of matches or my lit cigarette. She took the cigarette and placed its glowing tip to the roughly rolled handmade one clasped between her light pink painted lips.

Would you like a Rothmans, I said. I’ve got two hundred, well a hundred and ninety seven, in fact.