Post by Halo on Feb 11, 2005 21:35:24 GMT -5
Walking slowly down the aisle, my fingers are stretched out to caress the spine of each book as I pass by it. Just a quick and gentle touch, as if I am some whore pretending to be a masseuse. I take in the appearance and texture of every book as my fingertips travel along the row. Some are enclosed in plastic, prepared for close and intimate contact. Others are bare and unprotected, risking socially transmitted deformities from which there is no cure.
It is unusually quiet near the back, even for a library. I am completely released from the responsibilities that come with being seen by others. Here I sit on a low stool, my thin legs resembling the legs of a spider, with my bent knees rising well above my waist. Taking a closer look at my choices, I run my index finger from one book to the next until I finally select my companion. Unlike most partners, this one is easily convinced to open up and reveal to me all that is inside. It falls onto my lap, spreading its many paper legs.
Books dealing with the photography, painting, or drawings of the human body have always intrigued me. On the outside they are just like any other book, but on the inside they are able to contain someone’s obsession, their passion. They hold dark and secret desires. There is no censorship.
The only thing between us is the thin fabric of my skirt, but it does not keep us entirely apart. The material drapes between my legs like an unsuitable curtain, exposing half of my thigh to the outside of the book. The edges of the pages press into my fingertips as I turn each page, beginning to explore inside. In an instant like a vision, a page slices into my finger as I turn it. The sting of the cut sends shivers down my body, transforming into heat between my thighs. All I see are in shades of gray, except for the deep red wine. It smears along the edges of the pages as I turn from one to the next. It is beautiful.
It is unusually quiet near the back, even for a library. I am completely released from the responsibilities that come with being seen by others. Here I sit on a low stool, my thin legs resembling the legs of a spider, with my bent knees rising well above my waist. Taking a closer look at my choices, I run my index finger from one book to the next until I finally select my companion. Unlike most partners, this one is easily convinced to open up and reveal to me all that is inside. It falls onto my lap, spreading its many paper legs.
Books dealing with the photography, painting, or drawings of the human body have always intrigued me. On the outside they are just like any other book, but on the inside they are able to contain someone’s obsession, their passion. They hold dark and secret desires. There is no censorship.
The only thing between us is the thin fabric of my skirt, but it does not keep us entirely apart. The material drapes between my legs like an unsuitable curtain, exposing half of my thigh to the outside of the book. The edges of the pages press into my fingertips as I turn each page, beginning to explore inside. In an instant like a vision, a page slices into my finger as I turn it. The sting of the cut sends shivers down my body, transforming into heat between my thighs. All I see are in shades of gray, except for the deep red wine. It smears along the edges of the pages as I turn from one to the next. It is beautiful.