I think often and hard, morbidly true, that if someone was to walk into my bedroom or house and I was not there, what would they make of me? I think your reading defines your thinking. And I often think carefully about the books that grace my bedside table and bedroom.
As a girl, I dreamt of having a library and now, at my (limited) grand age, I love that I do... Sounds pretentious, but I have a great love of books. Right down to the fact that my greatest sexual fantasy is of having sex in a library! In my fantasy, I am thrown up against the shelves of a huge, grand library, in the philosophy section, and the smell of the old dust, the leather, the paper, the words of all the great peoples thoughts supporting my body, seems somehow just intoxicating
... anyway... I shall explain this in more detail later- but... back to MY library.
My purchases are sporadic, but never singular. I found a bookshop (and a bookseller) that was so... 'meaty'..., it was how every perfect bookshop would look in my dreams; books covering every inch of floor and wall space, the smell, the history, and the Yoda of all things written at its helm.
I went in there in there researching my script, I get most of my inspiration from actually reading other works, and I went in there with specific stimulation material requisites; "Historical scandalous sex stories. Not love! Sex, scandal, history and the more bizarre the better!"
This wrinkled Oracle of all things published, looked at me blankly, I thought she might throw me out for such a request. As it turned out she was merely cataloguing in her head, her response was quick, I immediately sensed that she may not repeat this answer if I missed it and asked again.
It was beautiful,
"Up the back stairs, not the ones on the left, the ones behind the door, at the very back, 2nd floor, go one, two, three, four, five rows across, (walk to the left side of the balcony), then, bend down, one, two, three shelves down, about fifteen, sixteen books across, there about eight books there, mainly of French origin, translations, that should do you. BUT... if not your thing, come back down here and I've got some British stuff, but, in honesty, the british ones are crude, the French ones are voluptuous... I'd try there first. You want aristocratic affairs. That's where the kinky stuff happened... orgies and the like, the real seedy oddities... Shout if you get lost..."
I was so blown away by the fact this woman knew the exact location of a few books in such a specific genre, that I got the expressed feeling she had already read everything, EVERY one of the 10,000 books in that store, that I could barely utter a response other than, "Thanks...."
As it turns out not only was she SPOT on... But she joined me a few minutes later, like a stealth bomber, to say,
"I think, looking at you, you want these ones..."
What does that even MEAN????
She handed me four books. And I'll admit, I was so bowled over by everything she uttered, as she seemed like the font of printed knowledge. I said, "Yes, I'll take them all"
She was right.
Not only was she right, she gave me one book that to date is one of my favourite things I've ever read. I read it with such succulent relish that I could have inhaled it. What made it even more perfect was, given that it was a very old text, (now I am a SUCKER for this) inside was not only a penned note, but a personally written poem, To... and From... but also dated and signed.
It was self written poetry. I was holding in my hand, the most unique soul baring thing any man can leave after death, his word. It gets better, this was one mans word, written in 1947, from Mike, to Tony.
It made it quiet possibly the most romantic thing I'd ever seen. One gay mans love poetry for another, at a time of such closeted, forbidden love of such a kind, that it made it even more erotic.
I shall for all of your pleasure, release this mans love, for the very first time onto the world;
To Tony, Love Mike, 15 Sept 1947
I give you all that I possess,
My eyes, my lips, my hair
But in my heart, I save my soul
For one who is not there.
You are my friend, I love you, will
And know your goodness and your kind
But O’ dear God, where is my love?
For him I cannot find.
You loving me, gentle kiss and joy
And moments of stolen pleasure
And know my secrets and hold my hand
And say you’ll leave me never
But where is the wildness and the pain
The hurt words and the sorrow
The laughter and the stars that shine
In eyes that know no ’morrow.
Where is the hand that stroked my hair?
And told me stories old and time
And loved me with a lovers passion
Sweet garlands of loves spring dew.
N.B When researching this article I found out I am not alone on this fetish for books, a "biblophile" I believe is the term. And I found this site- I'm not going to lie, I actually got more turned on than if I had been looked at a naked David Gandy standing at the end of my own bed... Sad but true... Check this out!