The Bookstore 

Possessions are a strange thing.  The coveting of possessions can 
be stranger.   What do we need to survive?   Food, shelter, 
clothing.   What makes life enjoyable?   Friends, family, lovers: 
companionship.   But beyond that, we like our little things.  Things 
that entertain us.   Things that make us more comfortable, or more 
stylish.   Status symbols.   Clothing, jewelry, nicer furnishings in 
our house.  A sportier car.  

What about the multi-millionaire who pays someone to steal a 
priceless painting from some museum?   He can't show it off to 
anyone; he could get arrested for having it.   So it must be 
displayed in some vault in his mansion's basement, where only he 
can view it, or at best, an extremely select few.  The hunger to 
possess this piece of artwork must have been overpowering.

Or an Oscar-nominated actress who has been paid millions to be in 
movies, who must surely have money, gets caught shoplifting 
jewelry.   What could be the reason?  Other than a hunger for the 
thrill of possessing these things through a naughty caper, when she 
could have just pulled out one of many credit cards and paid for it.

And how about collections?    Things that often have no great 
intrinsic value except to ourselves.   Oh, sure, we can show our 
collections off to friends and family, and they may nod, and say, 
"That's very nice", but they don't really understand the appeal it 
has for us.    I sometimes think there must be something deep in 
our brains, some primitive leftover, that compels us to collect, the 
way a bird might have the urge to line her nest with shiny objects 
she finds.

     I have one friend who collects little glass figurines of unicorns.   
She has so many that she can't display them all on her shelves; she 
has more wrapped in tissue paper in boxes in her closet.    They're 
not particularly valuable, but when she's traveling she hunts stores 
for new acquisitions.    I have another friend who collects stamps.    
Maybe some of them are valuable, or will be someday, but in his 
case, it's the stamps themselves that he hungers to put in little 
plastic sleeves, and then in a binder.  Selling them off would be 
well nigh unthinkable.   For myself, I find such a small canvas a 
difficult way to appreciate Art.     I can find them mildly 
interesting, but I'll never have the shining light in my eyes that he 
has when he has a new find.    Someone else I know collects shot 
glasses.    Shot glasses!   Tokens from different cities.   She doesn't 
even drink much.   Just how much enjoyment can one get from a 
shelf full of shot glasses?   For me, none.   For this person, 
apparently, a considerable amount.  Another friend collects comic 
books, but he barely reads them, seals them off in plastic bags so 
they keep some supposed value for years down the road.      If I 
collect something, I'm going to open it. Play with it.   Take it out 
of the original packaging.

But collecting can sometimes be a strange hunger or thirst, maybe 
something like an alcoholic's.   We want something, we get it, and 
then we start wanting the next thing.  Insatiable and consuming.

My passion is books.   I admit it, I'm a bookworm.    Mysteries, 
science fiction and fantasy, historical novels or non-fiction, the 
occasional Romance (guilty pleasure), the back of cereal boxes.  I 
have to be reading something.       I like to get all the books by one 
author, particularly some rare or unusual book, perhaps out of 
print.

But though I'm a fast reader, I can accumulate books faster than I 
can read them.    Charity book sales, garage sales, flea markets and 
swap meets.   I can usually find something I want.

I'm not a stickler for First Editions, or books Signed By The 
Author.   Sure, if a favorite author is doing a book signing 
somewhere, I may pick up a new book or bring along an old book 
to have them sign it.   But in general, if the content is there, if it has 
an interesting cover that isn't torn or watermarked, if the pages 
aren't loose and the spine isn't broken, I can live with it.   
Paperbacks or hardbacks: sure hardbacks are nice to have, but they 
take up valuable real estate on bookshelves, and you can clobber 
yourself falling asleep reading a big heavy hardback.    And one 
slightly dog-eared one found at an amazing bargain in fairly good 
condition is many times as sweet to me as one in perfect condition 
that I paid top dollar for.

This is a story of how a hunger for one thing can lead to a hunger 
for another thing, and got me to a state I wouldn't have suspected 
beforehand.

I love used bookstores.    When I discover a new one and enter, I 
feel the same way an English Lord must have felt when the dogs 
began baying before a foxhunt had begun.  My heart beats faster.   
I feel excited.   Old books make me cream my panties.    Ok, 
perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.    I really 
have found myself sexually aroused during a book hunt.   Hey, 
maybe it's a fancy car for you.   To each his or her own.

I love that old book smell in a used bookstore (as long as it's short 
of mildew!).   I love used bookstores that are a maze of smaller 
rooms that I can explore.

Used bookstore owners (and, generally, it is the owner staffing the 
place) are funny people sometimes.     Sometimes I think most of 
them chose the profession just so they have time to indulge their 
passion, reading.    Some are taciturn people, borderline rude, who 
seem to take any question as an interruption from the book they 
have their nose stuck in.   Most are very nice and sweet.   Others 
will talk your ear off; more than once I've been trapped by some 
woman bookstore owner who finds in me a kindred spirit and is 
seemingly ready to talk for hours, and eventually I'm trying to find 
a way to be polite but to either disappear back into the stacks or 
bolt for the door.    Sometimes bookstore owners are like The 
Comic Book Guy on THE SIMPSONS.   Worst... conversation... 
ever!

Other times, in the case of male bookstore owners, I suspect maybe 
I'm the only customer who's been in there all day, or the only 
fairly young, decently attractive female one, anyway.   They want 
to flirt.  I seem to get hit on in bookstores a lot, both by the 
employees and customers.

Sometimes, I can tell the bookstore owner is scoping me out while 
I'm exploring the store.   Too many times being sought out in the 
depths of the store to be asked if I need help finding anything.     
Generally, I'm browsing; I'll let them know when I can't find 
something!   Part of the joy of the hunt to me is the unexpected 
things I discover while exploring for something else.  

Sometimes, I think I've been observed; through the security 
camera in the back of the store which feeds to a small TV monitor 
behind the counter, or through the shoplifting mirror mounted in a 
corner.    It's been a slow day, and I can feel their eyes ogling me.     
That can be a nice, sexy feeling sometimes, a creepy feeling other 
times.    I've been a bit naughty sometimes, and intentionally put 
on a show when I thought I was being observed.    Got up on one 
of those bookstore/library stools in the back of a store (the kind on 
rollers until you put any weight on it, that make that distinctive 
metallic clank when you move it) and streeeeeeeeetched up to 
reach a book on the top shelf.  Or bent over to examine something 
at waist-level, displaying my ass.   Sank to my knees to examine 
something low-down, close to the floor.   On several occasions I 
could be pretty sure when I came to the counter to pay for a book 
that the proprietor was aroused.      I wouldn't be at all surprised if 
he took care of himself shortly after I left the store.   Was I being a 
tease?  Hey, I probably made his day, and fueled his fantasies that 
night.

I have a yearly ritual.    When I get home from work, and there's a 
stack of new phone books, I catch my breath.   My heart beats a 
little faster.    The new phonebooks are here!  The new phone 
books are here!  (Apologies to Steve Martin!)

I take them inside, curl up on the sofa, and thumb through the 
yellow pages to BOOKSTORES, USED AND RARE.    What new 
ones have appeared in the last year?   What old ones have, sadly, 
gone out of business?    Then there are ones a little further afield, 
ones maybe I've never been to before, in another section of town, 
or another town over.   Some Saturday I'll find it in Mapquest, 
print it out, and then go on an expedition.    In my mind, I'm 
wearing my English riding outfit, and can you hear the dogs baying 
for the fox in the morning mist?    I think you can!

* * * *

This year, I spotted one in the Yellow Pages I'd seen before, but 
had never been to.    I'd always assumed it was way on the other 
side of town, but it's just a street address I've never heard of, so it 
was hard to tell.       I looked it up on the web.    It wasn't that far 
away, a 30-minute drive, in a section of old shops near a college. A 
shopping district with some character, not another mall or strip 
mall.   I had some other errands to run anyway, so I planned on 
doing those first, and then hitting that bookstore late afternoon.

Late afternoon found me nosing my car through that area, cursing 
why some shop owners make it so hard to see their address when 
you're driving.   I found the area it must be in, and then found a 
side street to park my car.   Then I drove a little further to avoid the 
parking meter, now in a residential area.       There was a big open 
space.     Oh shit, with a fire hydrant.   Ok, next block.   A space 
and a half.    Ample room for me to not have to expose my lack of 
parallel parking skills.

I walked back, turned the corner on the main drag of this, really a 
smaller town inside the big city.   I walked past where the address 
should be.   Stopped.    Backed up to read the store signs.   Where 
the heck was it?     There was a higher number and a lower 
number.   Oh wait, there it was: a glass door with a stairway 
leading up.  Sandwiched between two shops; it was upstairs.    
Now that I looked closely, I saw the signs on the door for several 
shops and offices.   On the ground floor, an accountant.  I trudged 
up the stairs.   At the top was a foyer, off to one side another office 
on this floor, maybe a law office, but it was closed and locked.   
But dead ahead from the top of the stairs was another glass door, 
with Venetian blinds inside, open.   I saw shelves of books.    
There, my heart was already beating faster.  I felt a flush, that 
Christmas morning wanna-open-my-presents feeling!  

I turned the knob, and there was a tinkle as a bell rang.  It wasn't a 
gigantic space, but there were several rows going back a good 
ways, enough to get mildly lost in.   It was well lighted but 
windowless, dimmer than outside in the sunlight, so it took me a 
few minutes to adjust.   

"Hello", a voice said, before I'd had a chance to spot where the 
clerk was.    I scanned around, missed him sitting behind the 
counter the first time, and then spotted him the second time my 
eyes swept the store.      He was an older man, in his 50's, the 
owner, I judged.  You can tell owner from underling usually.   
Silver hair, fairly handsome.   Sitting down, so I really couldn't 
tell, he could have a paunch.   He had a friendly smile.

"Hi!" I greeted back, and walked further into the store, trying to 
get the lay of the land.   Art books were over here.    History there.   
Further back were probably mysteries, science fiction/fantasy, 
general fiction, non-fiction.   There were a few glass cabinets with 
special editions.   He sat behind a wooden counter.  Beneath it was 
a glass case of some other no doubt treasures.

"Just ask if you need help finding something!" he said, and 
returned to whatever it was he was doing.  And I liked that:  I need 
time to explore, and attempt to find things for myself first before 
being led to it in a place like that.

I spent the next half hour doing just that.    Different bookstores 
have different flavors.    Some bookstore owners seem to have a 
discerning taste for what to stock their shelves with, others just 
seem to put out everything that comes in.   

This was a neat, tidy bookstore.  Books were arranged well, and 
the surplus wasn't stacked in piles all over the place, waiting to 
avalanche.

I found a number of books I liked.     But all the must-have ones, I 
already had.   I found books that I'd been searching for several 
years ago but had since found them.    I made a mental note of 
some, in case I decided to get them as gifts for someone.   
Sometimes you can come back 6 months later and the book is still 
there, other times although you'd swear the book has been 
untouched there for years, two weeks later it's gone.  Ok, here's a 
naughty confession:  I have on a few occasions intentionally 
misfiled a book so that it's not under the author name, if I was 
planning on coming back in a week or so to get it.   Someplace 
where others wouldn't find it, unless they stumbled across it by 
accident.    So spank me.   I rummaged in my purse for my List, the 
list of authors and book titles I'm keeping an eye out for because I 
always remember one I'm looking for 10 minutes after I leave a 
store.  

Twice my scannings of the shelves took me up to the front of the 
store again, past his counter.   There was an alcove off to one side. 
As it turned out, that space held biographies, and past it, was a 
small restroom.  The store had rather nice wooden floors; the 
owner had apparently decided not to carpet them.

As I walked back and forth, I could feel his eyes upon me.   Not 
leering, but appraising.   I hadn't really dressed up for my errands.  
Jeans, sneakers, and a blouse.  The weather was cool enough for 
long sleeves, but not cold enough for a jacket.   

I was about ready to go, and I hadn't found anything that I had to 
have.  I always feel a little awkward in these places leaving 
without a purchase; I think a lot of these stores struggle.   Sure, 
they may sell some rare first editions, but a lot of the stock doesn't 
seem to move, you can come back in six months and find many of 
the same books still there.  In some stores I'd guess that there must 
be a small percentage of fairly new books that move quickly, and 
then a lot of older stock that stays there relatively unchanged for 
months or years.   I felt like I should buy something, or at the least, 
make it clear that I'd be back to look for more.   But that sounds 
kind of stupid sometimes.  "Well, I didn't find anything today, but 
I'll catch you next time, bye now!"    It's not like I'm obligated to 
buy something when I walk into a store.    Why was I feeling guilty 
for not buying something?   It was like I wanted to cheer up the 
bookstore owner.  "Maybe somebody else will buy something 
today!"       How much was the rent on these places?     How many 
books did he have to sell per hour to make it worth his coming in 
today?    Was I the only person who'd come into this store today?   
What, was it up to me to keep this guy in business?  Why do I 
think about all this stuff?

I did pause to chat about a few authors and books for which I was 
searching.    He said he could have me fill out a form if there was 
something I wanted him to keep an eye out for.   I filled it out, with 
my name and phone number and email address, for one item I was 
looking for in particular.      I took one of his business cards, and 
said I'd probably call him on one or two more items.

I happened to notice that below the counter, to the right, were a 
few shelves of books marked EROTICA.  I started to look, and 
then felt self-conscious there under the gaze of the owner.     
Which was ridiculous; I'm a grown woman.    Why does he keep 
the adult section here?    Is it so he can make sure kids aren't 
delving into it in the back of the store?    Or that perverts aren't 
getting off on it?  Or maybe he just likes to keep an eye on who 
examines the naughty books.    And it was silly; I felt like a little 
kid caught by an adult in the racks of dirty magazines.       We 
were both adults here.  This is a bookstore.   This isn't porn, it's 
EROTICA.   I smiled to myself and took a closer look, still with 
this weird feeling like I was going to be asked to show ID or 
something.   

There was THE STORY OF O.   There was an Illustrated KAMA 
SUTRA.   Some of the Nancy Friday books detailing women's 
fantasies.   Madonna's coffee table book.   Other books I wasn't 
familiar with, but again, under the gaze of the owner, I didn't want 
to take them out and leaf through the interiors.    Some of the 
books I wouldn't have classified as Erotica, but I guess it fell into 
the range of, keep the kids and the perverts away from it in the 
back of the store.

Then I noticed that above the shelves, were two glass cases below 
the wooden counter.   The one on the left held more conventional 
books.  Big Little Books, some comic strips signed by the artist, 
some Raymond Chandler and Edgar Rice Burroughs books.  The 
glass case on the right, above the two small shelves of Erotica, held 
the specialty items in that department.   There were the Anne Rice 
books she'd written under a pseudonym.  The SLEEPING 
BEAUTY books, and BELINDA, and EXIT TO EDEN.   
Personally, those books hadn't done much for me, I found them 
mildly sexy, but though I like her writing style and enjoyed her 
vampire books, in her erotica she went off on a lot of tangents that 
just did not do it for me, for pages and pages.  I just didn't find 10 
page descriptions of welts sexy.

But also, on a little stand to keep it upright, but in a snug Ziplock 
bag, was a copy of IMAGINATIVE SEX by John Norman.   I 
caught my breath, and my heart beat faster.   John Norman is the 
author of the GOR novels.    It was a pseudonym; the author was 
apparently actually an English professor.  The books, written in the 
late 60's and 70's, are set in a fantasy world sort of like Edgar Rice 
Burroughs' John Carter of Mars books, but they have a definite 
kinky flavor.     Slavegirls and Masters, a lot of dominance-
submission and mild S&M themes.     Sexy covers by Boris 
Vallejo.   As a kid, my older brother had some of them, and I'd 
steal them and read them in my room.   The books were horribly 
sexist, and great fun.    But they were always a little disappointing, 
because they were never as explicit as the lurid covers of scantily 
clad slavegirls in poses of submission might lead you to believe.   
Of course, I found as a kid that there were a lot of paperback 
covers like that.    

But in college, a friend had shown me a rare book by the same 
author, this same one: IMAGINATIVE SEX, a 1974 paperback 
where the author details a bunch of role-playing scenarios between 
a man and woman.    "Captured Lady and the Pirate", that sort of 
thing.   I'd read a bit of it then. It was no great literature, in fact, 
parts of it were kind of silly and a bit puerile, it was the author 
basically writing a treatise on the value of imagination and role-
playing to spice up a couple's sex life.  But I had been interested in 
finding a copy ever since.   Just maybe because it tagged two of 
my interests, unusual books, and sex that was a bit outrĂ(C).   I had 
seen one in a bookstore a few years back for $20, and at the time, 
thought, surely I'll find this at some Goodwill book sale or 
something, so had not snagged it.   Only later did I find out that the 
book was fairly rare.   I'd been annoyed that I hadn't gotten it that 
time ever since.    Like fisherman, we bookworms all have the one 
that got away (One time, at a charity book sale, I found a book I'd 
been searching for years for, and right as I made to grab it, another 
woman picked it up and walked off with it.  I bit my lip and 
avoided the temptation to get into a catfight with her).  There was a 
1997 reprint of IMAGINATIVE SEX, with a less interesting 
cover, but it also was out of print and expensive as well.

So -- I wanted this book.   My blood was racing.  There was a 
sticker on the Zip-lock bag, but I couldn't read it through the glass.

"How much is that John Norman book?" I said casually.  

He glanced at me.  "Oh, this one?"  He slid open a panel behind 
the counter and took it out, bag and all, and placed it on the 
wooden counter.     Now I could read the tag.   $150.   My heart 
sank.   So much!   I wasn't going to spend that much on a book.    
It's not that I absolutely couldn't afford it, but it's the principle of 
the thing, my book searching walks a tightrope between acquisition 
and bargain, that's part of the game for me.   And it was, after all, a 
silly little book.    My life would not be greatly enriched by owning 
this book.    I would not achieve a Zen-like state with it in my 
possession.  But I still wanted it!

"Have you read the GOR books?" he said.

I started to respond, and then bit back my first impulse.  I didn't 
want to seem too gushy about these; I'd sound like a pervert!   
Detailing to some older guy in a bookstore how I liked fantasy 
books about slavegirls being dominated, submitting to cruel 
masters.

So I said the bit about my brother having the books when I was a 
kid, and having paged through a few.    And that a friend had the 
IMAGINATIVE SEX one in college, and we'd read through it and 
laughed, that I wanted to have a copy just as a lark.   

He smiled and locked eyes with me.  "I see" he said.

There was that moment that almost seemed like telepathy.   I knew 
what he was thinking, and he knew what I was thinking, and I 
think we both knew that we KNEW what the other was thinking.  I 
felt a wave of heat go through my body, and my pussy suddenly 
had a little tingle, and that little release of moisture.  Yes.   He'd 
just made my panties a bit wet.

And I felt transparent before him there, like he'd just taken my 
measure.   That he knew I was a little aroused.  Like he could smell 
it, or like there was now a wet spot on my jeans, or something.  I 
shifted a little uncomfortably, like I'd just realized I was wearing a 
sheer blouse and someone could see my nipples through it, or like 
I'd noticed someone staring at my chest and I looked down and 
remembered I was wearing a T-Shirt that said "Complete Slut" or 
"I swallow" or something.     None of these things were true of 
course, but I felt exposed before him.    But it was my eyes he was 
gazing into steadily, and again, I felt that heat and flow of moisture 
from between my legs.  And I felt like my head was transparent, or 
that as he was looking into my eyes he could see my dirty little 
mind exposed.

"Well, thanks for getting that out of that case." I said, with a little 
quaver to my voice.

"My pleasure." He just gazed at me, making no move to put it 
away just yet.

"I'll see you next time!" I said, and took a step towards the door, 
thinking what a lame thing to say this sounded like in my ears.

"Goodbye.  It was nice to meet you, Janet." he said simply, with a 
smile.   He held out his hand.  For a second, I had this surreal 
panic, and almost blurted out, "How do you know my name?!" 
before remembering I'd filled out a form with my name (and 
phone number!).   Feeling slightly foolish, I shook his hand.   He 
gripped my hand firmly, and I felt another little wave of heat tingle 
through me.

I went out, opening the door with a jingle of the bell, and shut it 
behind me.  I gave a quick glance to see if he was looking after me, 
but he seemed to have returned to whatever book or bookkeeping 
he was doing.  I went down the stairs, and I gripped the railing a 
little more than I might normally.   I felt a little intoxicated, like I 
had a slight buzz.

I drove home, stripped off my clothes, drew a warm bubble bath, 
and settled into it.   And then I frigged my pussy until I came, hard.

And that next week, I found myself thinking about that book.  At 
work, at home, in the car, during idle moments.     I was hungering 
for it.   It was a silly thing.  It was just a book, and not that great of 
a book.   But I was virtually salivating to have it.   And I was 
thinking about the calm steady gaze and the grip of that bookstore 
owner too.

         *         *         *         *         *

The next Saturday found me back in that section of town.   And 
why not drop by that bookstore again?    I entered about 3 in the 
afternoon.    The tinkle of the bell above the door.   There were 
several other people in the bookstore this time.   The bookstore 
owner said "Hello again."   He remembered me from last week!   I 
perused the store again.    Went through every section.   Here's 
another odd thing about bookstores:  The place can only have one 
other patron in it, but if you're looking for an Author, last name 
starting with S, in the Mystery section, that's right where that other 
person will be standing, and you can't get closer without invading 
their space.     So you scan further down, waiting for them to move.    
Come back, and they're still there.   

I looked at everything else first, not wanting to make a beeline for 
the Erotica section there beneath his counter.   But finally, I 
casually sidled up to the shelves, and scanned them for new 
additions, and saved the glass case above them for last.   Purposely 
not looking into it until the last moment, afraid the book would be 
gone.  Which was silly, because I wasn't prepared to pay $150 for 
it anyway.     But I was wondering if he could be talked down in 
price.   I finally looked, my heart beating a little faster, and there it 
still was, with the $150 sticker on the protective bag.   I wanted to 
discuss if the price was negotiable, but I didn't feel comfortable 
haggling for a sex book with at least 3 other people in the store.  
What was I willing to pay?  Half price?    Really, even that was too 
much.     Fifty bucks?   Still a lot, but maybe.    I glanced his way, 
and saw that he was watching me stare into the glass case.   Again, 
I felt that he was looking into my soul, that he had pegged me.    I 
smiled, a little embarrassed, and then feigned an interest in a book 
over in the History section.    I waited around a few more minutes, 
but the other patrons showed no sign of leaving, so I finally 
departed.  "See you later!" I said, which again always strikes me as 
a dumb thing to say in a store, but it always seems rude to just 
depart from a small shop without saying anything.  "Bye now!" he 
said, making eye contact.   And this time I could feel his eyes on 
me as I left the store.

And that week, again, I found myself thinking about that book.  
Hungering for it.    God help me, almost salivating for it.  It was 
ridiculous, the book wasn't that important, and yet, I really really 
wanted to possess it.

To Be Continued