I pressed forward against the tall bookshelf so the arm under my long skirt could reach my thighs. My chin rested between two encyclopedia volumes with worn silk covers and loose stitching that smelled like relics from 1880, in other words: divine.
When the unseen hand between my legs first pulled the damp cloth of my panties to one side my vulva, I inhaled sharply and looked forward at the books in front of my nose–pages instead of spines–the backside of the adjacent stacks. Why do libraries call bookshelves “stacks”? His finger slid up into me so fast and deep, I raised my arms and clutched the metal brackets, struggling not to call out, not to topple the rows of shelves around us.
This wasn’t happening; this couldn’t be happening; oh my god this was happening. The Eyes–that’s what my roommate and I called him because his were a shade of green available nowhere else on campus–was right over there in the next aisle over, kneeling down reaching his arm through the gaps left by displaced texts and fingering my cunt. I had never spoken to him before and now he was piercing me bluntly, stabbing gently, slowing faster: fuck, I needed more. I needed his god damned cock.
We were on the third floor of Macalester, the undergrad library on Halloween night. I’d come to escape my dorm–a madhouse clattering with slutified versions of nurses and vampires intent on resuscitating and sucking everything in sight, which wouldn’t bother me so much if they would bloody do it quietly. But eighteen year-old girls cannot restrain their squeals when costumes are involved. Plus, my Intro to Russian Lit class was kicking my ass. So I’d retreated to the unusually vacant stacks to plough through The Brothers Karamazov in peace.
Except now instead of savoring Dostoyevsky’s words, “What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love,” I was slammed against a rack of books with wet thighs trying not to whimper aloud while this invisible man I had never officially met was making me come for the second time. When the wave of it passed, my contractions throbbed around his knuckles, he continued thrusting into my vagina. I pulsed my hips at the books in front of me, humping the shelf, riding his hand. What could make him let up?
“I want to see you.” I whispered even though no one else was near enough to hear. It wasn’t seeing him I wanted as much as total immersion. His penis inside me, his body over me, but there were hundreds of books, thousands of words between us.
The fingers slid out of me and squeezed the meat of my inner thigh.
“Please,” I said.
When there was no reply, I pulled away and straightened my skirt. I walked to the end of my row and u-turned into his where he still knelt next to his courier bag. I didn’t care if there was a condom in there or not. At first all I could see were his eyes, mystical green even under the flat florescent lights. Then, as I walked towards him, I noticed his forearms, tattooed with long black feathers, and his hands, those hands, that hand. He stood by the time I reached him. I neither kissed him nor said a word. Instead, I stopped, turned away from him, and held the shelving as I had done one row over. Before I could inhale the fresh tomes around me, he proved he knew what I’d come for.
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