[ WP ] Reading books is illegal , and libraries are run like brothels . Describe borrowing and reading a book like a sexual experience .

Now, you have to understand, up until that evening, I thought I knew what a book was. I thought a book was just a foolish romp around in someone's fantasy, which had no place in polite society. Not to say I did n't partake every now and then, but my scope was, let's say limited. The books I would so eagerly duck my head between, matching the authors words with my lips, silently and almost breathlessly, they now seem like those days when 68 cents could get you a quick go at your babysitter's comic book behind the tool shed in comparison to what I found. 
 They were at the very back of the library, and they were all bound in dark leather, with old faded trim which told me immediately, by virtue of being several times my elder, these books had nothing to fear from me. Just a minute of browsing, out of the sight of even the librarian's falcon-like gaze, and I began to feel as if they were all watching me, daring me to choose just one of them, for a night I'd hardly soon forget. Orwell, Huxley, Bradbury, Salinger, Rand, to name a few. Nothing so fanciful as the books of the newer collections, dolled up with all the frills and thrills as was expected of all books before... 
 I took down a volume, big, black, and heavy, and took it into a corner with me. I thought I'd be able to take my time with it, control my pace, and spend a relaxing evening buried inside, but the novel had entirely different plans with me. Page after page, I felt something I was not used to: pain. I had no idea a book could make me feel that way, to be honest, and I most definitely would not have guessed that it could feel so good. Every phrase, every word chosen by the book, was chosen specifically to hurt, to shame me and my society as well. The iron will of the story plunged deep inside of my soul, causing some discomfort. Part of me wanted to stop, but the rest of me was already under the spell, and demanded we continue. The hours passed, and I felt tears run down my face, as it reached me right in my vulnerable center, in a place I never knew existed. I could n't stop, as I continued on through the climax of the tale, not caring what the book did to me, oblivious to how it was warping my mind slowly and subtly. The last page turned, filling my vision with the blank white ending which all books have in common. It deposited its seed deep within me, a lesson in humility that I would not once choose to try and forget. And I felt a peculiar warmth inside, like I had been fed something natural yet very shameful. I sat there, rather, I lay back on the floor, while the rest of the books cast their `` looks'' down upon me, challenging me, telling me that I'd never be man enough to take them all. They were wrong. Since that day, I've been left with an insatiable thirst; a void that only the likes of them could fill. I gave into my mental desires, allowing them to be my masters and mistresses, myself becoming a student in return. People around here know better than to interrupt me in my tight corner of the world, this library section. They know that when I lick my fingers to make each page fill me even faster, when I'm sitting down not moving for hours on end obediently, when I sacrifice my entire day to a night beneath 5 or 6 men or women greater than myself, they should just leave me be...
