Every so often, I feel the need to fondle books, to run my hands over their slip covers, pat their pulpy pages and caress their naked spines until they relax and open up, revealing their innermost thoughts and feelings.
I love how books, when properly attended, release their characters and plots, offering experiences I may never have, each paperback or hardcover a new lover giving up untold mysteries, occasional torture, sexual innuendo, explicit description, in exchange for my undivided attention.
When it comes to books, we all have our favorites, from self-help to spiritual, gothic to horror, with the occasional action-packed adventure thrown in. New books, with their virginal covers and pristine pages have their own followers. Me, I prefer used books, some of them sorely abused, ripped and torn apart, covered with the sweat of previous owners. Who were they? Did they hesitate over the same pages? Did they read out loud? Silently? Alone or with someone else? After paying with cash, I bundle them home, to decipher the words and the stains – coffee? chocolate? Or something more?
Entering one bookstore aisle after another, I seek out romance, search for the hottest bestseller, the latest diet book on how to lose weight by eating, hover over the poor, forgotten remainders, like cheap hookers sold by the pound or box.
New and used, large and small, hard-covered and soft, they reach out, teasing me with covers that entice, promises to deliver. I flip through their pages, breathe in the scent of ink and paper, while glancing sideways at fellow book lovers, especially the ones hanging out in the Tantric Sex section.
Then it’s on to the next bookstore, in search of more passion. Before stepping inside, I stop, run my eyes over the shiny selections displayed in the front window, then place my hand on the smooth door handle, turn and push, take a deep breath before stepping in.
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