Compulsive

It was Tuesday, and everyone knows that Tuesday is a great day to buy books. I am what some would call a bookworm, others would just say I have a rare form of LOCD, literary obsessive compulsive disorder. By my own account, I am a collector. My house is my evidence; it is full of books. I own fifteen four-shelf bookcases. My coffee table is made of books and an old door; in fact, the majority of my furniture is made of books. My bathtub... is not made of books, but is surrounded by them. My house smells like a library, you know the smell, that deep musk that resounds through your olfactory. I think history must smell just like an old book.

There are fifteen bookstores that I frequent and the owner of each knows my name, and each understands my obsession. Maybe they take comfort in knowing someone else who has the physical toe tingling need to immerse themselves in books, or maybe they like knowing someone else who would rather live a lifetime of generic brand mac and cheese in order that they might someday own the entire Hardy Boy series. Once I had a dream that I had a swimming pool, and the pool was filled with books. I'm not sure what that means other than I really like books.

On this particular Tuesday I am wearing a pair of butch snake skin pants and a low cut white femmey t-shirt. I notice that I feel particularly college-like with my Starbucks filled mug and black stocking cap which I tuck in my backpack as I enter "Tequila Mockingbird," a bar slash book store. The two eternal college greats come together in an old, tined ceiling, ancient woodworked building. The smell in this store is unlike any other I know; its a mixture of stale beer and old paper.

"Joe," I say, acknowledging the burly man who acted as bouncer and identification checker. I couldn't come to this store legally until this last summer. I think I am the only person that has gotten a fake to buy a copy of Moby Dick.

"Honey," he says, tipping his imaginary hat over his bald head. He motions his large arms toward the glass door, I don't really have to show my ID here anymore. I push open the door.

A Jane Monheit song drifts through the store and I begin my search to the sway of the soft jazz. The bottom level of the store is deserted except for a girl with pink hair arranging a display of magazines. In my book travels, I always start in the back and work my way to the front, and just for the record, this also happens to be my technique for seducing women. I seduced my current girlfriend, who is nothing short of a walking miracle on two lesbian legs, with this very technique.

Mockingbird's building is located in an industrial area of Chicago and my mind drifts between the makeshift wooden and cinder block shelves inside to the faint sound of steel on steel outside. I run my fingers along the bindings, the rough skins leave dust tracks on my tips. There are picture frames and bumper stickers interspersed between the droves of Woolf, Kafka, and Wolfe. During the next hour, I browse my way shelf by shelf, aisle by aisle, through the fiction to the non to the poetry to the miscellaneous. I am careful, but not so careful that I won't be able to enjoy my next trip to this store.

I harvest four books from the field of golden shelves and then make my ceremonial walk up the dark stained wooden stairs to begin reading Venus Envy, a homoerotic gods and goddesses story set in the South.

As I ascend, I immediately see a man and a bin, the bin and the man's arms are both full of books, the bin is new, the man is not. I notice four important things. First, he looks about forty, and second, his socks do not match. Third, I see the beginning of a comb over start to happen, and most importantly, I am attracted to him. He is wearing a loose sweater over a white t-shirt, some kind of khaki pants that are just a smidgen too short, bottomed off with a horrible pair of brown shoes. And I'm just guessing here, but those shoes look older than I am.

By definition, I am a big dyke, even my grandmother knows. But by trade, I am a flaming bisexual. I am rarely attracted to the men folk, but when I am, I tend to make an attempt to pay attention to the attraction, ugly shoes and all.

I lay my books down on an emerald circa 1963 couch and go to him, to the bin. I smell his coffee and musk as the music turns to some indie rock sounding guitar riff.

"If you see a Catch-22, let me know," he says, not looking up.

I nod, fall in love, and begin to dig into the mounds of books, bending over so my cleavage is obviously visible, because I'm not above using this womanly power. I cough loudly when he still doesn't look up.

He laughs with me. "Did you want me to ask you something?"

I tell him my name as I fall farther in love.

"Molly dear, I'm Kirk," he says.

"What's your real name Kirk?" I joke.

"Kirk," he says, straight faced.

I am a nerd.

Must recover, must recover, I think. I look down, grab a hard backed copy of Heller and place it on the pile of books in his arms.

He smiles. I walk back to the green couch and he follows in self assured strides like a found puppy dog high on leg humping lust.

We sit, I cross my snake-skinned legs, he sighs, I sigh, its all so very tense.

I begin to imagine what I think he is imagining, and I am deeply disturbed by his naughty little school girl fantasy. So I scoot closer and open my book as he opens Catch-22. I stare at the fuzzy first page of black on white and wait for him to say something.

"You drink?" he asks as he casts his nonchalant words to seemingly no one. He flips another page.

I offer my coffee cup and a smile. He takes the cup from me, grabs his own, and strides to the bar. I nervously smooth my pants and hum to the familiar sounding music, trying to get into the book I have open on my lap. I know this fellow must be something special if I can't concentrate on my latest find.

Kirk returns with a tray of two coffee cups and two shots of a clear something. I take my share and watch him gracefully sit down. I learn the mystery substance is vodka when my throat experiences the vomit burn of the shot.

"Good huh?" he laughs as he lifts the small glass to his lips and takes it all in one gulp.

I nod in naive disgust and return to my caffeinated poison. He clears his throat, his voice shakes the couch, and my body responds to the vibrations. I scoot just a little closer to him and the music changes again to a seductive sounding hip hop song. He keeps reading his book, apparently unaware of the music. I reach across his body, brushing my elbow against his crotch, and grab his empty shot glass. I grab mine as well and make my way to the bar.

"Hey Mol," the bartender says.

"Hey sugar," I reply, because I can never remember this guy's name.

"More vodka?"

"Mmmhmm," I lay a five on the bar.

The bartender hands over the poured shots and I walk back, trying to look smooth, even though his head is still buried in the book.

I start to wonder what this guy is thinking as I sit down. I know that I am really attracted to him. But I don't know what he is thinking, my overactive female mind becomes paranoid as he continues to read. All I know is that I'd jump him right now if I had the choice.

So I gulp my shot and begin to rub my fingers along the inside seam of his pants. He keeps reading. I kiss his neck. He keeps reading. I brush my breasts against his arm as I move my fingers to his balls and bite his neck. He stops reading.

"Come on," he says in a quiet voice, taking my hand and the book. I follow like a good little girl. We go to the small unisex bathroom on the upper level. The wallpaper is yellow and there is a large red countertop with a small sink. The toilet is out in the open. The bathroom smells like disinfectant and vanilla and there is a poster of Shakespeare over our heads.

As soon as the door closes, he presses me against the wall and then he lifts one of my legs and I wrap it around him. He begins to rub the binding of his book between my open legs, I cup my hand around his neck, which is thick with auburn hair. He starts to whisper lines from the book in my ear, a horribly nerdy turn on.

"'It was love at first sight. The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him,'" he recites to my willing ear. The entire time he keeps the book pressure against my meeting point of my legs, rubbing back and forth, faster and faster.

I bite his shoulder.

He responds with, "Keep telling Daddy what you want."

This drives me crazy, my love turns to lust and I buck against the book. My mind begins to drift to an image of me walking into the store two hours earlier, a girl on a buying mission, and now this stranger had his Catch-22 pressed against my throbbing labia.

I again bit his shoulder, he jerks away.

"Be nice," he whispers in my ear.

I nod, he drops the book and his hand massages my clit through my pants. I can smell my cum, or maybe its his, but is definitely smelling like sex in the small bathroom.

I purposely avoid the bulge in his pants, knowing how much he will want me to touch him if I just simply don't. My knees and brain are feeling the full effect of the two shots I just downed on an empty stomach and my vagina is feeling the full effect of this stranger's hand. I come, moan loudly, in my high pitched way, between his fingers that are pressing against my mouth.

I come down from my orgasm, sliding down the wall to sit at his feet, my chest moving up and down in post-ecstasy.

I breathe a "Your turn."

He laughs. I blush.

It is a fatherly laugh, a laugh that signified to me that he was older and wiser and knew what he was doing. He helps me from the maroon tiled floor, and I become aware that my panties feel soaked through.

"Come on," he says, unlocking the bathroom door, and swaying his gentlemanly hand in the direction of the shop, an indication for me that we are done here.

The door closes as I walk to the green couch, past the bartender who is busy cleaning glasses. I am slightly confused, but I decide to leave before he comes out. I always love a suspenseful ending.

I buy my few books as he brushes against me at the check out counter. He lays his copy of Catch-22 on the counter and pulls out his brown wallet. I notice his erection is fading beneath his khaki pants.

"I got it," I say, looking at him, dropping a twenty on the counter and I leave with my books.