I love books. No, I luuuurrrrve books. And as a result, I luuurrrve going to the library.
The library, I purr, with a lustful, lecherous, libidinous leer. I skulk in, pulse quickening. I dump the last load of books, their appeal already forgotten as I ponder my next victims. I stalk up and down the aisles, waiting for a likely candidate to catch my eye. I snatch them up, stroke their battered covers and shove them into my bag.
Don't forget to cruise past the new books, quivering and shy, their plastic covers clean and their pages as yet unmolested. And sometimes there's a table of books that haven't been borrowed for a while - they're a bit desperate, so you know they'll try harder to please. And on the sorting trolleys, you can pick up books still warm from the sweaty hands of their last borrower.
I plonk my choices down on the counter and hand over my card. I hope that maybe the librarian will nod approvingly at my choices, that we will make eye contact and share a smile. Then I hurry home, barely able to stand the wait, tempted to stop my car on the side of the road and start reading, but no, anticipation heightens the pleasure and I must be patient.
And then I'm home, and all self control is gone. I fumble through the pile of books and seize the lightest, most insubstantial fare, and I tear through it. There's no respect here, I don't draw it out. It's a quickie, and usually by the end of the day that book is finished. But if anything, my appetite has only increased. For the next couple of days sleep, food and socialisation come a distant second to my overpowering need to read.
Then it's over. I've read them all, and there's a void in my life again. I thought this time the books would last longer. I thought we'd have more time. If only I had kept my orgiastic impulses in check...
Might be time to go to the library again.