Just looking at it makes my heart thump, even thirty years later. The 70s and 80s. Expanding consciousness. The intensity. Long hours alone with similar travelers looking for rest. The nooks and crannies. Swinging light bulbs illuminated my high white cotton panties as I zipped past the European History, 1600-1800, aisle towards geology of the lower Americas and my awaiting lover, the boring, big-dicked Dan.
The Vanderbilt University library was my Studio 54; the sex was amazing. I’d go to the floor below the main entrance, all dank and small. My study partner would be at the table next to me. Hours passed. A couple of Coke breaks created deeper intimacy. Hands moved under the table.
The smell spurred us on: decay of paper and lack of moving air reminded us our Grandparents basements. Our Grandparents reminded us of death. Fear of death lead our thoughts to sex. That’s right Mom and Dad, it never was the drugs that made us do those things.
We’d spend hours with no intervention: What librarian with any dignity would clatter down those stairs back then and yell “Are you kids f@cking again?!”
No, they were upstairs with earnest students who asked legitimate questions. They were interested in a real life of the mind. Martin’s fevered, “where’s the clit!” shouted up the stairs at them perhaps caused disgust. No answer came back.
College libraries going all digital pains me, and I am an aspiring eQueen. Something is gained and something is lost. But for as long as I live and there are libraries, I will pass thinking with an organ besides my brain.
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