Fan Anonymous: A True Story if you squint, sort of...maybe... Look! Squirrel!

by Cari Silverwood

  by

  DRAMA LLAMA

  writing as CARI SILVERWOOD

  who is writing this for me ...

  For mature readers only.

  Cause there’s dicks, cocks, penises, and vaginery bejazzled lady bits inside.

  Clitoriseses...?

  OK, I have no clue how many S’s.

  Maybe a few whips and tentacles too. Things that make my eyes bug out.

  This is a sexy spoof that plays around with the fuzzy line between fact, fiction, and fantasy.

  This is not a story aimed at mocking the author of Author Anonymous (E.K. Blair), and was written after this author saw the kerfuffly shenanigans and back-stabbing ensuing in the hunt for A.A.

  Wowie.

  Holy shit-snozzles.

  Only a few homeless budgerigars were harmed in the making of this book.

  * * *

  Advance praise for Fan Anonymous

  “I was literally laughing out loud throughout this memoir. I drew many stares from people at the airport. Nothing like being in a crowded area and laughing so much that you are certain the others are wondering about your sanity, or lack thereof." JODY RHOTON, Beta reader of Excellence and Reviewer of Books.

  "OMG woman, I was laughing so much by the end of this mad caper.

  It was highly entertaining, laugh-out-loud funny – so much so that Thomas kept asking what amused me so much." NERINE DORMAN, Vampire Queen of the South, Mistress of the Treehaus of Stories and Other Things, Penguin Wrangler, and editor of FAN ANONYMOUS.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About Cari Silverwood

  Acknowledgements & Copyright

  Chapter 1

  “Bam, bam, bam!” The sound of one of my offspring thumping the timber-and-glass door to my author cave threatened to shatter my sanity, if not my ear drums.

  It wasn’t that loud; it was just the stress of trying to sort out the plot of my next kinky romance that was undoing my brain. The time for doing, and not simply staring at the virtual page, had arrived. And I had nothing.

  “Mum!” It was Jayne. She knew not to step into my room without permission, or risk the wrath. Sometimes I had a screen filled with naughty words. Sometimes it was my pornographic “research” that I dreaded them seeing.

  “Mum?”

  Being little Australians, my kids spoke fluent Aussie and mom was mum, though I automatically thought mom now, and wrote mom in my books, and left out most of the U’s, changed the S to Z and generally tried to remember what was a USA conundrum.

  Flip flops were the worst, as we called them thongs. People had been upset about that.

  I was probably a traitor to my country.

  “What?” I leaned back in my chair and watched her shadow behind the glass.

  “When’s dinner? We’re hungry!”

  “Find Dirke and take the dog for a walk for a while. I’ll make dinner soon.”

  “Really?”

  “Really! See if you can get the dog to run. He’s getting fat.”

  Her groan had me grinning. “See Spot run? I’m disowning you, mother.”

  Our dog was called Spot. It was a running joke. Haha.

  Teenagers were so omniscient and omni everything, except when it came to making their own meals or anything important to their survival. I considered it my duty as a parent to get revenge by making appalling jokes.

  By naming my kids Dirke and Jayne, and the dog Spot, I’d scored a hundred gold stars even before they were born.

  “It’s nearly dark outside.”

  “Spot will eat all the serial killers. You’ll be fine! Shoo!”

  I heard a long sigh.

  “What?”

  “Nothinggg.”

  I listened to her trudging away followed by the scampering of doggy paws and children’s feet, to the doors slamming, before the house was finally quiet enough for me to think.

  Story thinking required silence.

  Now I could hear my brain tick.

  So I drank some of my stone-cold dead coffee while I flicked through the PC-screen internet tabs. Procrastinators R Us.

  Emails...I had some. Maybe that one would be important? Or the next? Idly, I scrolled, clicked, read.

  One from a Becca made me sit up in my comfy, rotating architect chair. I stared at the three-inch-high metal minion that weighed down some papers beside the screen. Hmmm.

  Was this lady crazy, or what?

  Tempting. She lived in New Zealand, or so she said. Hobbit and Lord of the Rings country. For all I knew, she might be lying and live in Antarctica.

  Hello, Ms. Silverwood.

  I was hoping you’d consider writing my story. It’s a romance and a wonderful one. Though I only just met Cecil, he has swept me off my feet.

  The Cecil gave me pause. Was this some octogenarian or a new fad in naming men in Antarctica? New...as in say, thirty years ago. I liked my heroes to have a few years under their belt, but not a hundred. Oral sex and false teeth could be quite ick if the teeth fell out at the wrong moment.

  You are one of my favorite authors, I think.

  I grinned at that and ticked the box that said winner in my mind. This was a novelty. Writing a true story? Wow.

  I found your name in the S ones on Amazon and you seem to write a lot so that’s good.

  Hmmm. I tapped my desk, screwing up my mouth. Uncheck that box. Maybe send her a nice anthrax bomb.

  I think you’ll find my story unusual. And I won’t ask for any reward, just my name in print. So far nobody else has answered me.

  Yours truly,

  Becca.

  It was all so ridiculous. So I fired off an email.

  Tell me more, Becca. I’m curious. Why are you unusual?

  New Zealand was just across the sea. Same time zone, approximately? I expected a quick reply, being an impatient bitch. So I waited and waited. Nothing.

  Damn. Now I had to do some actual writing instead.

  The blank page mocked me.

  Damn again. I had pages and pages of notes on how to write this one.

  After ten minutes of chewing my nails, rereading my notes, and mumbling curses, I did what all those emojis did, I head-desked. Not a good idea. My desk was glass-topped and my head was not made of the same substance as an emoji’s head.

  Note to future self: Do not do this again.

  What was worse than potentially mild concussion was that I nearly broke my keyboard. For a writer, having one letter stick down and push its way onto the page in a never-ending line is a disaster of screaming proportions. Luckily, the letter J saw sense after I poked it with my toenail cutters and swore to throw it on a fire if it did not give in.

  Remnants of the coffee I’d spilled a week before must’ve been lurking beneath the keys and glued it down after my head butt.

  I’d had enough. I pushed back from the desk and went upstairs to find a bag of frozen peas for my forehead and perhaps to make dinner. The kids were still out but from the crackle of the tires on the concrete outside, my husband, G, was arriving home,. I’d taken to calling him G after having to type his name in PMs so often on Facebook that my fingers had worn out. I abbreviated there, and now here. He didn’t seem to mind.

  Then the phone rang.

  I picked up. An unknown number.

  “Hi?”

  “Hello. It�
��s me. Becca.”

  Strands of ice dripped down through my chest, tangled with my intestines, and played havoc.

  Yeah, hyperbole, but so what? Similes, metaphors, and analogies are my tools and I wield them merrily, like a hobbit hewing an orc with his trusty sword.

  Jesus, this woman had my mobile phone number! Mentally, I crossed out mobile and replaced it with cell. Traitor, my Aussie DNA squealed. I was going to rot in hell.

  “How...did you get this number?”

  “Ahhh, my little brother is a whiz with internet stuff. From your Facebook, he says.”

  Impossible. I shook my head, stared at the phone then put it to my ear again. Figure this out later. Yay, on the plus side, I had a stalker. Authors are so needy.

  “Okay. So. You phoned me to tell your story?”

  “Sure did! Are you going to write it? Cecil is sooo handsome. I love running my fingers through his hair.”

  “Keep going.”

  At least this was procrastination with writerly intent.

  I listened, and cog wheels began to turn. Then I walked down the stairs to my cave, sat down, and started to take notes.

  Handsome. Good.

  Hair color etcetera? I could make that up.

  I let her talk and talk.

  A man from the New Zealand country area. A farmer, I gathered. Rough and rugged.

  A shocker at just up and grabbing this woman and demanding her attention. A little dubcon even? She seemed to love his attention.

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “An internet site. Starts with F, ends with, uhhh... Life?”

  Fetlife? My New Zealand friend was kinky.

  My fingers drifted to the keyboard.

  “Gotta go!” And she hung up.

  Fuck.

  But, I had enough to begin. The story was writing itself in my mind. Granted, the words were floating about, but I knew myself. I knew my writing process. This was good.

  Chapter 2

  After placing my glass of bubbly on the coffee table, I flopped onto the lounge next to hubs then I picked up the glass and sipped. Pinot Noir Chardonnay. Jacob’s Creek. Lovely, if not expensive. My throat felt like heaven as the cool wine washed down.

  The TV was doing its thing in the distance – talking news, current affairs, and over-dramatized political bullshit.

  Eyelids half-lowered, I snuggled into my husband’s side. “Have a good day?”

  He shrugged. “You?”

  As a partner in a small company that produced games for mobile platforms, such as phones and tablets, G’s job had as many ups and downs as mine. Book sales rose and fell, as did game sales.

  “I...have this new thing I’m doing. A true story.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. A fan contacted me. Wants me to write her romance story.” Scratch fan. Make that psycho. Who else chased down an author’s phone number? I should put a cricket bat beside the door in case she turned up here. I sat up. “Hey, where are the kids? Did they have dinner?”

  Strange, I couldn’t recall, yet Spot was here, at our feet, lying on the rug.

  “Of course,” he murmured, his baritone rumbling nicely from his chest to my ear. “Don’t you remember? Their plates are in the dishwasher if you want to go count?”

  “Hah. Guess I was a bit lost in my plotting.” The world did fade when I was deep into musing.

  The TV news switched to a story about a homeless man being robbed of his Chinese takeaway...make that takeout, by two kids and a dog. Now that was odd.

  “Did you catch the name of the dog?”

  “The dog?” G asked incredulously. “No. I think the man had other concerns.”

  “The dog’s name would help the cops track them. How callous is that? Stealing from a homeless guy? So...where are Dirke and Jayne?”

  “Sleepovers.”

  “Ahhh.”

  Later, both of us were in bed, under the sheet, with our laptops out. I could write like this if the bedroom TV was off. The sex scene with Cecil was coming hard for me, and that wasn’t a dirty pun. So far, I had zero kinky details and yet he was from Fetlife. A fair proportion of the men on there seemed to be posers, or so my kinky friends told me. Didn’t some turn up with whips and iron maidens, first date? Then you had to scream a safeword when they wanted to cut your tits off or whatever. Cecil just wasn’t doing enough in this true story. I needed to milk a wannabe Dom for some juicy details.

  Or I could play it true to life.

  Naaah. I needed to embellish.

  “You know, Becca said she met this guy on Fetlife.”

  “Really? Dirty place, or so I hear.”

  “It is. I have a profile there. So much nudity. So much delicious perversion. Though Tumblr is almost as bad and less judgy. Hmmm.” I stared at the atrocious kookaburra painting on our wall. “I need to research.”

  My profile was dead, since I never answered anyone or participated in any of the groups. Time to woman up and chat to a few Doms.

  He paused in his typing. “What are you going to do?”

  “Contact a Dom or three. I need to hear it from the horse’s mouth...so I can add some spice to this story.”

  “Right.” G looked dubious. “Just remember, the horse’s mouth might prove to be literal truth on there.”

  Outrageously silly. G was being protective.

  “I might join up too. To watch you.”

  “Sure.” I shrugged as I logged on for the first time in over a year.

  Lo and behold, I had a message from a Dom. Master Terence? Almost as bad as Cecil, but not as bad as Master Bater.

  I opened the message and winced. On the other hand.

  Wow. My first ever cock shot. And it’d been waiting for me for a whole five months. “Probably moldy,” I muttered, poking the screen with my forefinger.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. A twatwaffle.”

  “Ah-huh. One of those.”

  I clicked through to his profile.

  The rest of Master Terence was handsome. Not Hollywood handsome, but okay. Perhaps we’d just gotten off on the wrong foot...err, cock? It couldn’t hurt to reply. This was the net, not a guy at the corner store.

  Hi there. I think you dropped something. I’m not into male appendage worship, but I was wondering if I could ask you some personal questions. For research in a book. I’m an author.

  “I’m Master G.”

  I jerked. G had slid over and whispered that an inch from my ear.

  “What are you doing wrong, little one? Researched pegging yet?”

  “Little one?” I snorted. “And no, I’m not.”

  Pegging was G’s favorite thing. He was forever urging me to try it. Anal, sure, on me. Me doing it to G made me wanna puke. I had an aversion to puke and poop. So there it was.

  “Never doing it,” I reminded him. “Ever, ever.”

  “Then...I hire a gigolo? Or Master Terence?”

  “Stop peeking.” I lowered the screen. “He’s purely M/f straight. And I gather...” I guess-read from my memory of his profile. “He expects women to kneel and be collared and kiss his feet if they wish to be considered as a potential slave.”

  Wannabe Dom jackpot.

  “This is supposed to be a true story of Cecil, this man Becca met through Fetlife, but he’s boring.”

  “So you’re jazzing it up?”

  “Of course.”

  To my surprise a message was showing in my FL inbox.

  Master Terence had replied already:

  What would you like to know? Do you live near Phoenix? Can we meet?

  I giggled at that one then typed my reply.

  Phoenix, USA? My profile says I live in Australia and I’m married. You’re a few days away as the crow flies.

  Master Terence:

  I can grow wings. People lie on here too. Just checking.

  So, next Thursday? Pick a café. And don’t forget to pick a safeword too.

  Joy of joys. He had a sense of humor after all.
Then, I squinted and reread. Or was he serious?

  Did it matter?

  No.

  Tell me. What do you expect of a submissive on a first date?

  A few minutes later his answer arrived. Oh my. The man had the gift of the gab or of drooling all over a PC screen. This was an essay on how to submit to him and suck his cock. He expected payment to help him move continents. Wowie. At the very end, he named a café in Australia for us to meet. It was located far across the country from me. That he’d suggested one that was even in my country? Very disturbing. Hurriedly, I said goodbye, logged off, and closed the lid.

  Maybe I should check the ceiling for listening bugs and outside the window for drones?

  No. Probably an over-reaction.

  After the light had clicked off and I’d snuggled into my pillow, G said, in a low voice, “I might as well order a strap-on dildo. A pink fluoro one. You never know until you try...”

  “Urrrr,” was my eloquent answer.

  Chapter 3

  The words from Becca looked back at me from my notes, mocking me, I swear, jiggling their smart-ass letter bits. He pushed me down and bit off the button on my jeans.

  He bit off buttons. Was that a fetish? Or was he just hungry?

  Okay. From what I could tell, after two more phone calls, they hadn’t even had sex yet. Why was I still writing this? Or trying to? Cecil was as sexy as a pencil. It had become some sort of vendetta, a jihad to create this...this book. My procrastination to extreme. I procrastinated so hard, I wrote a book before the book I was supposed to write.

  The first try at a sex scene, based on Becca’s observations, also mocked me.

  He pushed me into the long grass and lay down beside me, slowly undoing the buttons on my blouse, one by one.

  “Urrrgh.” I laid my head beside the keyboard and stared at the dark space trapped between my forearms. I needed to clean the glass. I needed more SEX in this sex scene. Even Master Terence would do.