Bibliophallic by Josh Maday
I sit in my little room, walls papered inches thick with
books, and light a candle. I stare at them all, my beautiful books. Biblioholic?
No. Bibliophile.
People think I have an obsession. But how do they know? Who do they think
they are?
They can’t know how the lifeline of these shelved books matches my
heart rate, dipping down low and deep with the short paperbacks before spiking
high like my stiffening cock with the huge phallic hard covers. Hardback
hard-on. I run my eyes along, fingering my pulse through a clammy wrist,
hearing the thud of my heart match the heights and the depths.
They would cringe to see me slide from my chair, from my pants, to crawl
on my knees toward the holy of holies against my walls, mouth open, cock
in hand. Who can describe the pheromones old books emit, like an experienced
woman seducing an ever-erect young man? Or how the glimmer of a glossy virgin
paperback can bring me to climax at first sight? It cannot be explained,
only experienced, like the perfect texture of a hardcover stripped naked
from its dust jacket, vulnerable to every dirty, groping hand, every pre-coming
shaft.
The massive shelves tower over me as I grovel on my knees. I see the eyes
on the spines lusting after me, commanding me to do as they say. These eyes
are my audience as I lay back and handle myself before the fixed gaze of
the greatest human minds of all time. They say to look at them, to watch
them watching me, to go down the shelf and admire the bulk of their work,
the length of wood pulp tattooed with all things holy and perverse, things
their tongues said and their minds manipulated. They watch the come jump
out and gather on my leg, watch it dot the floor around me like the pearls
of wisdom they’ve thrown into my lap.
Satisfied, I curl up on the floor before them, these writers I know intimately,
these writers I’ve never read and never will. In the end, I wouldn’t
want their work to change how I feel about them.
Josh Maday
Born in 1980, raised and somehow still living in Saginaw, Michigan, he helps
pay the bills by laying brick. He’s not currently being indoctrinated
by any impressive universities, and therefore must do so himself, foregoing
sleep and sometimes food. He’s been told he has too many books and
that he spends too much time with them, fondling more than reading. He doesn’t
agree. His poetry has been published in Fusion Magazine. He also
co-writes a micro-fiction blog, which is updated daily, called Dancing
on Fly Ash.
He can be contacted at
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