The View From The Cab.

Sex In My Times. Many years ago I stopped the cab one day for a chap, who when I asked where he was going said: “I want a woman.” He was not English I hasten to add but from where in the world he came I could not say. After I overcame my shock, not to his request but to his choice of word…”Wanted”…as opposed to…”Needed”… I asked if he would care to elaborate. He complied, and indicated his wishes in an unmistakable way by mouthing his intentions with that international word beginning with the letter F, and gyrating in a manner that left no doubt in my innocent mind. I suggested that we find a telephone box where women who catered in that branch of the service industry for his particular demands, would advertise their collective expertise on business cards on display. After due deliberations he made his choice from the provocative and lurid depictions ranging from…’Busty Blonde will personally see to your every sexual cravings’ to…’Russian Slave Girl Caters For Subservients!’ He returned to the cab and handed me an address. As all of this was taking part during a time that in England that we would affectionately call…Lunch-time…it crossed my mind that his preference, to his sought after exercise, was probably more pleasurable to the often seen Joggers, that in my opinion looked bored, and who’s penchant served no purpose in life other than stimulating the onset of arthritis in knees and ankles that would later cause trouble to both them and our overstretched National Health Service. My mind wandered, and I wondered if his form of workout could ever be recommended as an alternative to such activity. I came to the conclusion that if so advocated, it could well be cost-effective set against the prescribed drugs that Joggers would eventually need! A catalogue of benefits traveled though my senses on that journey, only to be compared against the equally long list of disadvantages. My foremost concern for the well-being of those amongst us who shared this man’s predilections to sex, as a way to gain fitness to parallel that of those Joggers, was what lead me to refuse the invitation he offered me when we arrived at the door to the apartment where his appointment waited. That’s what he invited me to do…To wait his return. My refusal was not based on any estimation as to this man’s sexual prowess, or stamina. I have never based opinions only on impressions. I’m not that stupid. No, it originated as a headline I had read in an obviously respectable newspaper ‘ 87 Men Dead Whilst On The Job.’ I considered informing this man of that headline but, after giving consideration to his lack of understanding of my language, and quite honestly a selfish desire not to share my considerable knowledge of all things, I decided not to and drove away. Oh, I almost forgot. If you need to research that enlightening news, then I should give you the name of that newspaper…’The Civil and Mechanical Engineering Times’… Anything with the prestigious name of the Times on it, must be right!


About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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