handful of other guests chat, sip liqueur and coffee, read or nod off. Three tall grey regal sisters play Scrabble, quibbling amiably about this word or that. The place is too wonderful to mind getting romped at any board game, and I simply smile at my lover and lay my king on his side in defeat.
Dean Jagger stretches out by the fire as we make our leave for Roseline in snowbound bliss, ready to take on another year of good loving.
WANDA
Deep in my soul let your words be singing.
âDorothy Parker
Words are sensuous creatures, waiting to be rolled off tongues, sung in harmonies, whispered in ears. The books that contain them beg to be touched, opened, fingered. They wait, those handsome volumes with sleek bindings and smooth covers, on bookshop shelves and in library stacks, to disseminate their pleasure if only one would just open. . .
My friend saw a guy at the Toronto Reference Library not long ago having his own personal sex fest on the fifth floor. Had he reached for Henry Miller or the Marquis de Sade and found in their pages the inspiration to undulate across the broadloom to wet orgasm right there in Literature? Did he sniff along the stacks, inhaling row upon row of books imprinted with black ink spelling out words that anyone could dress up or dress down to suit their own fantasies? Did he crack open volumes hiding luscious secrets like loversâ throbbing hearts, crying out to be plucked from the shelf, thumbed, caressed and ravished?
Not at all. My friend was reading in one of those big, cushy library chairs when she broke to gaze through the window at the panoramic view. What caught her eye instead was a manâa young man, as far as she could tellâlying prone on the floor.
She watched, frozen in the unreality of the moment, as this man slithered across the carpet toward a woman seated in another cushy chair.
A blonde woman dangling a sandal from her foot.
Iâm sitting in a neighbourhood library reading Anaïs Nin (good Gorgeous Girl lit) and wearing not sandals (itâs snowing outside!) but soft, Argentinian-leather boots called âDaily Miraclesâ by their creator, John Fluevog. All around me, students stare blankly at blue monitors, clueless of the lustful thoughts racing through my mind as I consider the fifth-floor orgy my friend witnessed.
While the dull regulars seated around me snap newspapers and chew gum, out of the corner of my eye I see a guy in a navy-blue pinstripe suit enter the library. I turn to watch him. Brushing a little snow from his natty jacket, he heads straight for the stacks, knowing exactly what he wants.
What book has set him in such fluid motion? He plucks it from the shelf and sits at my table. I bury my face in my book and inhale deeply as I peer shyly over the page at him. My mind drifts again to the sex scene my friend witnessed. I imagine four library patrons watching the young manâs actions, including the blonde whose feet he lusts after. No one does anything. Itâs one of those dreamlike moments, questions moving vaguely through the mind: What is happening? Does she need help? Is she part of it?
The blonde drops her sandal to the floor.
No one moves. Except the man. His dishevelled hair falls across his eyes as his movements quicken. The woman looks uncomfortable. Is she in on the game? Is her discomfort part of it? Maybe the woman is frozen in ecstasy.
Much like the kind Iâm experiencing now.
A teenager seated near me, mesmerized by some computer game, bangs the keyboard to my left, while I dream of banging the man in the pinstripe suit.
But while I may fantasize that Iâm a nymph with bare toes, Iâm not about to enter into some carnal carnival for the whole library to watch. Perhaps that little study room upstairs?
Of course, that room is rigged for maximum visibility, but then so is the Reference Library. The whole episode there, my friend related, took approximately fifteen minutes. Once he reached her
Dean Jagger stretches out by the fire as we make our leave for Roseline in snowbound bliss, ready to take on another year of good loving.
WANDA
Deep in my soul let your words be singing.
âDorothy Parker
Words are sensuous creatures, waiting to be rolled off tongues, sung in harmonies, whispered in ears. The books that contain them beg to be touched, opened, fingered. They wait, those handsome volumes with sleek bindings and smooth covers, on bookshop shelves and in library stacks, to disseminate their pleasure if only one would just open. . .
My friend saw a guy at the Toronto Reference Library not long ago having his own personal sex fest on the fifth floor. Had he reached for Henry Miller or the Marquis de Sade and found in their pages the inspiration to undulate across the broadloom to wet orgasm right there in Literature? Did he sniff along the stacks, inhaling row upon row of books imprinted with black ink spelling out words that anyone could dress up or dress down to suit their own fantasies? Did he crack open volumes hiding luscious secrets like loversâ throbbing hearts, crying out to be plucked from the shelf, thumbed, caressed and ravished?
Not at all. My friend was reading in one of those big, cushy library chairs when she broke to gaze through the window at the panoramic view. What caught her eye instead was a manâa young man, as far as she could tellâlying prone on the floor.
She watched, frozen in the unreality of the moment, as this man slithered across the carpet toward a woman seated in another cushy chair.
A blonde woman dangling a sandal from her foot.
Iâm sitting in a neighbourhood library reading Anaïs Nin (good Gorgeous Girl lit) and wearing not sandals (itâs snowing outside!) but soft, Argentinian-leather boots called âDaily Miraclesâ by their creator, John Fluevog. All around me, students stare blankly at blue monitors, clueless of the lustful thoughts racing through my mind as I consider the fifth-floor orgy my friend witnessed.
While the dull regulars seated around me snap newspapers and chew gum, out of the corner of my eye I see a guy in a navy-blue pinstripe suit enter the library. I turn to watch him. Brushing a little snow from his natty jacket, he heads straight for the stacks, knowing exactly what he wants.
What book has set him in such fluid motion? He plucks it from the shelf and sits at my table. I bury my face in my book and inhale deeply as I peer shyly over the page at him. My mind drifts again to the sex scene my friend witnessed. I imagine four library patrons watching the young manâs actions, including the blonde whose feet he lusts after. No one does anything. Itâs one of those dreamlike moments, questions moving vaguely through the mind: What is happening? Does she need help? Is she part of it?
The blonde drops her sandal to the floor.
No one moves. Except the man. His dishevelled hair falls across his eyes as his movements quicken. The woman looks uncomfortable. Is she in on the game? Is her discomfort part of it? Maybe the woman is frozen in ecstasy.
Much like the kind Iâm experiencing now.
A teenager seated near me, mesmerized by some computer game, bangs the keyboard to my left, while I dream of banging the man in the pinstripe suit.
But while I may fantasize that Iâm a nymph with bare toes, Iâm not about to enter into some carnal carnival for the whole library to watch. Perhaps that little study room upstairs?
Of course, that room is rigged for maximum visibility, but then so is the Reference Library. The whole episode there, my friend related, took approximately fifteen minutes. Once he reached her
Similar Books
