We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them. —John Waters
Jesse was better than Michael because Jesse had Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins on the floor (he did not own a shelf) and as he kissed me he whispered, “Oh, you should read it, you’ll love it.” He didn’t know that I had already read it and loved it. While we were touching each other, rapidly, lovingly, by the apple crate (Jesse’s chair), I had also spotted Siddhartha by Herman Hesse, which I’d not read but had heard good things about. By then I was ready to do anything for Jesse.
I am such a bookslut. Seriously. Years before Jesse and Michael, Kristopher spent an entire charming, smoke-charged (we smoked back then) evening in a pseudo-Tiki bar, telling me the story of Perfume by Patrick Süskind and it was such a crazy-good story that, once he finished telling it, we walked about two minutes east and did it right there on a little triangle of beach, with the Baltic Sea metres away from our heads.
The point is that I’m the type of girl that would gladly fornicate with men who read. I’m not atypical in this preference. A gentleman who reads has 30 per cent more chance of fornicating with a female of his choosing. Every woman knows this. You don’t have books, don’t read books: You are dumb.
The lack of hair (Kristopher), the unskilled dick (Michael), the hygiene (Jesse) will not stop me from wanting to lick you up and down if there’s a book that made our union possible (not just any book, though — more about that later).
How did I develop these discriminating tastes?
Or maybe not, maybe Justin first.
Justin. He was 18, like me. Tall, long flowing hair (shut up, it was in style), lithe body, great muscle tone and a legendarily (high-school bathroom wall = pre-Internet resource) long & thick penis. He was also artistic. He painted a mural of a non-ironic crying unicorn, air-brushed vans with superheros for biker friends, sculpted clay ashtrays and grew/smoked pot.
We fornicated. A lot. And we did it quite well, since he was indeed well-endowed and didn’t take that for granted but rather learned how to work it. We even moved in together because I just couldn’t let go of that particular attachment. But we broke up. We had nothing to talk about: The only things he ever read were comic books. He refused to even read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, which, like, all of his stoner friends were reading, man. Eventually we were stuck staring at walls decorated with alien-head posters and fluorescent paisleys, and I was not horny.
So I ran into Michael and he had a book shelf. With books on it. A huge collection of Stephen King books, which, if you’ve ever read, you’d find surprisingly well-written, as long as you can suspend potential prejudice against talking corpses and toxic mists. But then I learned that he read nothing else. Just Stephen King. As soon as I met Jesse, I was outta there. At least Jesse read two authors.
The moral of the story is that boys can be attached to one specific genre, like comic books (Justin), and can also be voracious consumers of two books and two books only (Jesse), or one book (Kristopher and his Perfume… Years later, a female friend told me he hit on her by asking her to listen to his tale of a book he had just read, guess what it was called). But as long as they read, they have a chance to intrigue a woman for longer than a minute.
These days, if you don’t read I won’t fornicate with you but not only because I am now committed (to a man who not only reads but also writes books) but, if I were single and we could potentially fornicate, I would not do you were there no books on your walls or at least a Kobo loaded with stuff. I strongly believe that lack of reading indicates lack of knowledge — not education, knowledge — and those who are lacking should just stick to counting sticks and dragging knuckles on the ground and barbecuing. Or whatever it is you do: stick to that.
Just don’t try to fuck.
Because no one, no female should fuck you. You’re boring. We (women) may do you, but then we’ll flee. Guaranteed. So if you actually read this, but don’t read: No books = no booty.
Image courtesy of Guy Jaques.