Bibliophile

Bibliophile

It was not love at first sight. Let me be quite clear on that. We spent quite some time avoiding one another and sizing each other up before he finally approached me.

I think my hesitation was all about looks. Maybe it was the torn denim or maybe it was his unshaven face, but I really did think him far too shallow for me. How could this mountain-man slob possibly get me? Could he really understand my subtly, my sensitivity, my unpretentious depth? He could never appreciate my sense of humor. A good sense of humor is important.

I can’t say with any certainty why he was slow to get around to considering me. Maybe he thought me too complicated for him. Maybe he thought me too dull. Maybe I’m too long winded.

But he did get around to me in time. He rejected me quickly but came back in time. When he touched me for the first time, at long last, I knew I’d been too hard on him in my initial estimations. I hadn’t been fair.

His first touch wasn’t anything invasive. It wasn’t presumptuous or demanding. No, it was slow and slight, considering. It was respectful but curious.

He took his time getting to know me. He considered all the superficial surface bits then went a little deeper. He didn’t get my whole story in this first meeting, no, but he got a good idea as to what I’m about and to both of our surprises, we took to each other.

I went home with him that first night. How could I not? Our connection was new and unexplored. I was as curious about him as he was about me and neither of us wanted to let the other go.

After a quiet dinner in his home we were both relaxed and open to one another.

I wanted our time together to be unforgettable.

Maybe he felt the same way. He was slow, savoring every moment. He reveled in every detail, every line, every curve.

His hands were rough and unhesitating but I soon realized that I didn’t mind. I found myself liking how he felt and the intensity with which he looked at me. The soft breeze of his breath, when he bent down to take my scent in, swirled around me in a heady, intoxicating sensation. Never had I been the focus of so much attention, so much admiration.

His every gaze, his every touch brought on a new heat. Like a flower, I unfolded for him, opened for him, urged him to explore me in every way. I wanted him to go deeper and deeper until we were fundamental parts of one another.

The climax hit in waves. We were in the throes of something magical that burned from the inside out, through me and into him, through him and into me. Each wave became less intense than the one before and slowly we slipped into an afterglow.

He held me, just held me, for a long while afterward. How long had the whole thing taken? Hours? Days? It seemed to last forever yet it was over so quickly.

Would we go again? Would we repeat the act? Perhaps we would, eventually. But the next time would be different. It could never be like that again. The first time through was always special, always different, always new. After that he would need time to himself and time with others. He would need to try others, explore others, know others, separate himself from others again before coming back to me.

It was the early hours of the morning when he finished with me. He had put his rest off for long hours already and would find the following day difficult as a result. I was complimented by that but not surprised. It had been that way many times before with others and so it would be again in the future.

He smoothed his hands down my spine, my front, my back one last time before putting me away and taking himself to bed. That and his one last sigh were all the good-bye I got from him. Whether he knew it or not, he took a small, intangible piece of me with him, and I kept a little bit of him. That is the way it is for used books. Considered, used, read, enjoyed, then put away before eventually being sold again or given away to someone new, touching lives and minds and hearts, and being touched in return.

It would be nice to be cherished long, but that would mean giving up the thrill of the new conquest. I live most in the new conquest, the new reader.