Book Whore

I am a literary slut. I bring books to bed and sometimes more than one at a time. I try to be a faithful reader, staying with one book from start to finish, but I am constantly tempted. It is hard to resist the hard cover binding of Collins, the soft shell of Anderson, the tattered covers of Diaz, Lamott, and the countless others scattered on the floor, the shelf, the desk, and those still tumbled in the sheets.
Just read the inside cover, they tease and soon I am engrossed in page 116.

Before I am aware of my adultery, I find myself juggling six lovers simultaneously. I struggle to keep each plot line, character, and setting in order so that none of my titles will discover my sluty secret. It is even more challenging to devote adequate time with each novel, without the others getting suspicious. I will admit that I have been a bitch and a pimp, discarding titles halfway through because I have found younger, fresher, more exciting reads that I cannot help but devour immediately. Once the fun and games settle beneath the sheets, I crawl back to my older titles and show my appreciation until my attention is lost again.

Bookshops and libraries are my brothels and strip clubs. I make frequent visits to these locations and feel up a few books during my stay. Knowing I cannot foot the bill to bring these titles home, I drool longingly as I run my fingers over their gold embossed spines. Other times, when I am desperate for a good read, I neglect my basic needs. I choose titles over groceries, fuel, and new shoes. For on these occasions, I know that I will be fed by my lovers. Oh what a satisfying meal!