Today, as I was slicing open the last of the book boxes, and setting up the last of the bookcases, I finally realized which of my books had gone missing during their disastrous journeys across the country.
I am a woman who believes in guides. Manuals. Handbooks. Books for all of life’s sundry activities. Including sex.
Call me geeky, but there it is. (I also researched every drug I’ve ever done before I did it. Often in the school library.) I don’t have a penis, I don’t expect this crap to be intuitive, I WANT A MANUAL. With pictures. Color-coded, if possible. I learned to give a blow job more or less the way I learned to dissect a fetal pig and it’s basically the same headspace.* Thus I own a fair number of books, from the technical to the raunchy, on how one performs various acts. I can’t say I’ve had opportunity to use ’em all, but by god, I was prepared.
At least, I was.
They all vanished in the mail.
Every. Single. One.
We’re talking a half-dozen hardcovers here, yanked from their boxes. Stolen is not too strong a word. Yes, I can replace them all on Amazon, but jesus, what that’ll do to my Amazon recommendations makes the heart quail. (“You recently purchased “The Borrowers,” “The Cricket of Times Square” and “Blow Jobs for Dummies.” We have the following recommendations for you…”) Damnit.
Somebody in the post office is havin’ a fine old time with a highly specific portion of my library, and by god, I hope it burns when they pee.
*No insult intended to those on the receiving end. But it totally is. “This is all very biological and would be mildly disgusting if one thought too much about it, so let’s have fun with it! Now which bit’s where…?” (Look, I enjoyed dissecting the pig. I made it dance around and sing “Start Spreadin’ The News.” Really, this isn’t an insult…)