#1 Book Slut

All right, I’ve said it before, but I guess it’s about time I really came out and confessed: I’m a total book slut. Whore. World's #1. Call me whatever you want. I’ve got a feeling there are others out here in cyberspace, because the webzine Bookslut seems to be quite successful, and judging by the growing number of (little black, I’m sure) book blogs out here, I know I’m not the only one who keeps track of her conquests. However, I'm pretty sure no one is as bad as I am.

I’m not proud of this fact, you know; I didn’t even own up to it until I was nearly thirty. When I was in college, it was really bad, and I can remember many a time hiding the fact that I'd spent my Christmas break with, say, A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy rather than Ulysses. I really do wish I could be the book connoisseur so many of my friends seem to be, and I’m still not extremely comfortable stating what I am in mixed company. I like to pretend I’m not quite so indiscriminating. I’d like others to think I’m perfectly capable of resisting a tantalizingly handsome package of bound pages.

All the symptoms are there, though. I’ll never forget when I closed the cover on Crime and Punishment. I swore to myself I was never again going to read anything that wasn’t at least as powerful, well-written, and significant. My days of sleeping around with no-good trash were over. No more would I cheapen my body and soul with the literary equivalent of Swedish fish. I went to Border’s with my list of significant works in hand, and there, front and center as I walked through the door, was Tom Corcoran’s Mango Opera. His cover was so cool. At first, I was just flirting with him a little, but then I invited him to come join me for a cappuccino at the café. From there, it was really easy to convince him to come home with me.

A couple of weeks later, after running off to the library to pick up a few more mysteries, whose names I don’t even remember, I had a bad taste in my mouth. I felt empty. What was I doing? I called my old friend The Cider House Rules. When he started hitting on me, I told him I wasn’t really in the mood, but boy did I need some of his substance. I didn’t plan to take him on a scuba diving vacation to Bonaire with me, but then I realized I really needed and wanted him. You know, sometimes you just have to bring a tried-and-true friend to bed with you. He was a little miffed, I think, when I spent quite a bit of time hanging out at the hotel’s lending library and even brought a few interesting-looking books back to our room with me, but he forgave me. After all, he’s a good, understanding friend.

So, you see, no matter how much I want to change, want to be a real book connoisseur, want to be able to say things like, “Oh, I would never bring a contemporary novel or a mystery or (God forbid) some chick lit into my house. It’s 18^th-and-19^th-century or nothing (and preferably first editions) for me,” I just can’t. Yes, I may wake up many a morning regretting what I’ve done, but I have no ability to quit leaping into bed with Tom (Brown), (Deadeye) Dick, and Harry (Potter) when they cross my paths, first edition or not. Most of them don’t leave me longing for their phone calls after they’ve left, the way I wait with high hopes for Don Quixote to return my calls (who, of course, will never call, because he knows I’m nothing but a slut and thinks he’s not all that special to me), but that doesn't stop me. I know this is no way to behave if I want a real relationship, but I just can’t help myself.

Others seem concerned for me. I think they’d like to see me settle down. They give me classics and first editions as gifts. They encourage me to try at least to keep myself to only one book at a time. I’m hopeless when it comes to this. I can be deeply immersed in giving my whole heart and soul to The Innocence of Father Brown, but then I’ll put him down to go out to the kitchen, walk by The Moon and Sixpence, looking so attractive, and I find I just have to ask him to come out to the kitchen with me while I wait for the kettle to boil. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have to tie myself down to only one at a time.

Well, you know, it’s not my fault, really. I’m sure any good psychologist would tell you my parents created this slut. What else could I possibly have become growing up in an old farmhouse full of bookcases in every nook and cranny? And it’s not exactly like they were the most chaste of beings when it came to spending hours in bed, pages spread wide, right in front of me. I know it’s less fashionable these days to blame parents for all woes, but in this instance, it makes perfect sense not to be able to think of anyone else to blame. A child would have to be awfully tough not to be affected by such an environment, either following in her parents’ footsteps or swearing off books for life.

Oh, hold on, there’s the phone. Caller ID says it’s an “unknown number.” My heart just went pitter-pat. You don’t think it could possibly be One Hundred Years of Solitude after all these years, do you?