When you walk into a bookshop, are you ever just overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence filling the shelves around you? All those hundreds upon hundreds of books, filled with adventure and magic – wonder and delight – waiting for you to open them and find out what’s inside.
I can rarely leave without buying something, which means my shelves (and cupboards, boxes, suitcases…) now bulge with more words than I will ever be able to read over the course of my life. It’s comforting and thrilling, all at the same time. They cover the spectrum of human emotion and experience: life, love, death, sorrow, fear, friendship…and sex. Books and sex are inextricably, gloriously linked – let’s face it, books themselves are sexy as fuck.
Sometimes I want to take all those books off my shelves, out of my cupboards, and just roll around on a big pile of them. That feels like it would be pretty sexy too.