For as long as I can remember I have been a library rat. The library has been a refuge, a sanctuary, and a gateway, as well as a place of learning. It was my father who taught me to read and to appreciate books. My father worked as a bricklayer; hard, backbreaking, physical labor. At the end of a long day, he would come home and have dinner, then sit on the couch and read. My earliest memory is of him setting me down beside him on the couch. Then he would read to me out of his large, strange books. I have an indelible image of him reading to me, and as he read, he would would point to the words with his finger. I was fascinated. The high point of my day would be when I sat on the couch by my father and he read to me. What my father read were mostly accounts of the American Civil War, books like Lee's Lieutenants, The Land They Fought For, The Blue and the Gray, and Ordeal By Fire. I would listen rapturously as he recounted the struggle of ill-clad, poorly equipped, half starving men as they struggled against long odds to defend their native land, their homes and families. I thrilled to their victories and shed tears at their defeats. Being a child, I had no real sense of time, of the past, of history. It was as if he was reading about events that were transpiring right then, but somehow far off not in time but in space, in exotic sounding places like Virginia and Tennessee and Mississippi. Of battles with names like Antietam, Shiloh, Murfreesboro, Manassas, and Chickamauga. After a time, my father would silently point to the words and have me pronounce them, teaching me to recognize the words. In this way, my father taught me to read at a very young age. And when he was away at work (I was too young to be going to school yet), I would go to the bookcase where he kept his books; and I would pull a book out and attempt to read it. I struggled with the words, and struggled to comprehend the scenes that were being described. I remember the night my father had me read to him for the first time. He would open a book and lay it upon my lap. Then I would point to the words as I read, as he had done. And he would correct me when I mispronounced a word. I remember him smiling at me after I was done. He turned to my mother and said, "You should take him to the library tomorrow and get him a library card." I didn't know what a library was, and I wondered what it was my father was suggesting to my mother. 

The next morning, after finishing her chores, my mother walked out to the car with me, helped me into the passenger seat, and then we headed down town.  After what seemed an interminable ride, we pulled up and parked in front of a large, two story, red brick building. We got out of the car and walked across the street and went into the library. I was immediately fascinated. There were shelves, row upon row of shelves, each shelf filled with books! There were more books there than I could possibly imagine. Mother led me to the check out desk and announced to the lady standing there, "Bobby wants to get a library card." The lady behind the desk smiled down at me and asked if I wanted a juvenile library card. My mother responded to the woman's inquiry by stating, "No, he needs an adult library card." As simple as that. I had a library card, my passport to learning and understanding. The library soon became my favorite place to visit. I was there once a week, like clockwork. I would return the books I have checked out the week before, and carefully go through and select another 14 or 15 new books to read. Years later, I was still a "library rat," hanging out at the library, reading, doing research, checking out books to take home and read. I had a great deal of pleasant memories connected to the library. College was especially interesting in that the university I attended had a library with 9 million volumes. Needless-to-say, I spent more time in that library than I did in class. I didn't read all of those 9 million volumes, but I sure gave it a try.

It was a Thursday evening. I was in the library, going slowly and methodically through the section on American History, 973. I was looking for a book on the archaeological research that had been done on the Little Bighorn Battlefield, the infamous site of Custer's Last Stand. I had found a book that had data from that particular archaeological project and was thumbing though it. There wasn't anyone else in that particular section of the stacks so my attention was focused on the book in hand. As young girl went by me, I looked up and gave her a smile, then went back to reading. From the corner of my eye I noticed that she went down a short ways, then disappeared around the corner of one of the shelves. I went back to my reading. The author was discussing the approach they had taken in collecting the archaeological evidence from the battlefield, their methodology. I was about to take my book and head for the checkout desk, when the young lady caught my eye again. She had reappeared and was looking idly around, as if she were searching for something. She was about 5 feet tall, or a little more, wore glasses, nicely dressed in a button up white blouse and knee length dark skirt. I guessed her age to be about 15 and she had the appearance of a student at a girl's school. She turned and began walking towards me, in a very slow and deliberate manner. She was looking right at me, or maybe it was through me, for I couldn't imagine her really taking any notice of me. I continued to watch her as she walked right up to me, not stopping until she stood right in front of me, her body all but touching mine. She stood there, her eyes focused on my face, just gazing up at me, her arms hanging limply at her sides. I gazed down on her (I'm over 6 feet tall), not knowing if I should speak to her, not knowing what I would say if I did speak to her. She appeared apprehensive, timorous, standing there, her hands playing absentmindedly with the hem of her skirt. The tip of her tongue slid nervously along her lips, wetting them. Then she said, hesitantly; "Could you help me?" Before I could reply, her hands grasped the hem of her skirt and slowly lifted it up, not stopping until her hands reached her breasts. "Please," she said in a voice that was barely a hoarse whisper;  "please touch it." My eyes slid down her body, drawn inexorably to where her genitalia was located. I quickly took note of the fact she wasn't wearing any panties, her groin bare and exposed to my view. Her small lips looked so tiny and delicate, a fine pink line of demarcation separating them. I noticed the thigh high hose she was wearing for the first time. "Please," she repeated in a bare whisper, her voice plaintive in it's appeal. Something seemed to take hold of me, something excited by this delicate wisp of a girl. Without thinking, I leaned my head towards her and spoke into her ear, "Spread your legs." She immediately shuffled her feet, her legs stretching further apart. My right arm swung forward, my hand clasping her smooth, ripe lips. Her eyes closed, and she took a swift breath, making a little rushing sound as she sucked in air. My middle finger curled, sliding along the line where her lips parted. I could feel her lips were damp and she has a musky aroma that I could almost taste. "Open your eyes," I ordered, my words coinciding with my finger being forcefully thrust up inside of her. Her eyes opened as if she had received an electric shock, her lips parting as if to speak. My finger stabbed deeper inside of her, quickly joined by a second finger. Her face contorted with what looked like pain; she bit her lower lip and moan softly. I separated her lips with my thumb and forefinger, probing until I felt her clitoris and hood. My fingers closed, squeezing them harder and harder. Her body quivered as she let out a grunt. I brought my left hand around to the small of her back, steadying her. Another moan escaped her lips as I squeezed her clitoris and hood even tighter, rubbing back and forth on the tiny nodule. Her head tilted back, her knees wobbled, then gave way and down she went. She would have ended up on the floor if it hadn't have been for my right hand between her legs and my left hand supporting her back. I gently eased her down until she was in a sitting position on the floor, her legs still splayed apart. I finally had a moment to think. Everything that had happened occurred so quickly that I was swept up in the moment. I didn't know this girl, and yet we had shared a moment of extreme passion, if that was the term to use. Something very intense and sensual had just transpired between us and it was as exciting as it was unexpected. It had all been an emotional reaction on my part, an irresistible urge. I noticed her head had tilted forward and she was opening her eyes. After a moment in which she seemed to be recovering herself, I helped her to her feet. She seemed to regain she senses and without another word nor even a look in my direction, she turned and walked out of the stacks and disappeared from my view.

 

 

When I left the library, my mind was alive with images, punctuated by conflicting emotions. I keep replaying what had occurred, feeling a rush of excitement as I recalled the events. Had it really happened? Oh, yes; this wasn't an illusion or fantasy. I lifted my right hand to my face, the pungent aroma of her body lingering, triggering an intense and vivid replaying of the event. Who was this girl, and why had she done what she had done? And why me? I was baffled. If it hadn't been for her musky aroma that clung to my fingers I would have doubted whether it had even occurred at all. It was both startling and exciting at the same time. I lay in bed that night, thinking of this girl, wondering who she was, wondering if I would ever see her again. And wondering how an encounter that couldn't have encompassed more than 5 minutes time at most could have affected me that profoundly. 

The next morning I went back to the library. I made a slow tour of the stacks on all three floors, seeing if she might be there. I then made several discrete inquiries of several of the library personnel, but one seemed to have any knowledge of her. I wanted to find her, but I was unsure how to proceed. And what if I did locate her, what then, what would I say? I began having doubts as to the wisdom of searching for this phantom young girl, a girl who's name I didn't even know. Perhaps I should simply accept what had happened as a gift from the gods and move on. I went on to work and tried to put the incident out of my mind. But thoughts of her kept intruding around the edges of my mind, creeping in at the most odd and incongruous of times. As much as I tried, I couldn't put her out of my mind. My mystery girl, as I came to call her.

 

It was lunchtime, and I was waiting for space to open up at the Silver Skillet. I was absentmindedly looking around, letting my mind drift. Idly killing time. My eyes gazed at the panorama of patrons filling the dining room, busily eating and conversing. As I turned my head, taking in the room, my heart almost stopped beating. There, seated at a table, was my mystery girl. I felt my temperature rise and my mind began to race. I had wanted so desperately to find this woman, and accident had brought us together. Again. I stood staring, my eyes fixed firmly upon this girl, memories of our encounter flooding my mind. The world could have ended at that moment and I probably wouldn't have noticed.

"Sir? Sir, you can have a table now." I almost didn't comprehend the hostess as she spoke to me. As she picked up the menu and led the way into the dining room, I followed, my eyes still observing my newly rediscovered mystery girl. I didn't want to let this opportunity pass. I had lost her once, and it wasn't going to allow it to happen to me again. I sat down at the table, unable to even think about food. I took a closer look at my mystery girl and who she was with. He had the look of a businessman, nicely dressed, and he appeared to be in his forties, and maybe early fifties. He was obviously doing most of the talking, my mystery girl listening intently to him. She appeared subdued, as if what he was saying was unpleasant or even condemnatory. I wondered if the man was her father.

"Are you ready to order, sir?" I gave the waitress a vacant look, and then recovered my composure. I glanced at the chalkboard where they posted the daily lunch specials. I saw greek salad was listed, so I ordered it. I wanted to return to observing my mystery girl. The one sided conversation continued, my mystery girl only occasionally nodding or saying a word or two. To be this close to her, and not be able to doing anything was disheartening, to say the least. I kept casting about for a way to approach and saying something, somehow make my presence known. Of course, would she even remember me? I had no idea. At present, I was simply condemned to observe. The waitress came and served my salad, so I ate as I sat and watched. I racked my brain for an idea. The waitress came and placed their check on the table. I saw them getting ready to to leave, he picking up the check, my mystery girl grabbing her purse. My mind raced feverishly, several harebrained ideas jostling for attention. They began walking towards the register, the pair silent now. I was almost panic stricken. I couldn't let her get away again. That would really be too much. As they stood awaiting their turn at the register, a man approached and began conversing with them. My mental state was approaching despair at this point. All I could do was stare. As I sat, helplessly watching, it slowly dawned on me that I knew the man who had just struck up a conversation with the pair. Where did I know him from? I thought hard, trying to remember. The way they were talking, he obviously knew them, or at least one of them. What was his name and where did I know him from? Think! Think! Then I remembered. He and I had taken a class together. That's right. What was his name? Hugh, that was it. The man was at the register now. I abandoned my salad and hurried towards the register, glancing around for my waitress. I spotted her and walked over and asked for the check. She searched for a few seconds and then handed it to me. I pressed a five dollar bill into her hands and hurried on towards the register, my mystery girl and the man disappearing out the door. I stopped for a second and thought about what I was going to say to Hugh. Then I remembered I had a notebook with me. I'd tell him she left it behind, and did he know how I could get in touch with her. I walked and stuck my hand out. 

"Hugh. Been a while. How have you been?" I could tell he was struggling to remember me. "I'm Robert, we had an Russian literature class together. I was the guy that was the Bulgakov fan." 

"Oh, yes, I remember now." He grasped my hand, shaking it, a smile creasing his face. "It has been a while."

"Hugh, that couple you were just speaking with. The girl left this notebook behind." I waved the notebook in the air. "I want to return it to her. Do you know how I can get in touch with her?" Hugh gave me an odd, patronizing look. I got the distinct impression he wasn't buying my story.

"Forget it," he said abruptly.

I gave him a quizzical look. "What do you mean, Hugh?'

"You're not her type. Believe me, she would tear your heart out."

"Her?" I asked with a slight laugh.

"Yes, her." He shook his head, then said, "She lives in a different world from you. Just take my word for it. Forget her." He looked around for a second, then pulled me over into a corner. "Do you know anything about dominance and submission?" I shook my head, waiting for him to explain further. "Her name is Danielle. She's an artist. And weird to boot. She likes men who are, " he seemed to be searching for the right word, "forceful, controlling."  He looked at me directly. "Sadistic." I stood there, hearing , not really comprehending what he was telling me. "Robert, she likes men to hurt her. Really hurt her. She gets off on it. Understand?" I was hearing his words, but I was having trouble understanding. "Robert, if you can't control and hurt her, she'll rip your heart out. Take my word on it. She's a weird bitch. And stay away from her if you know what's good for you."

What he was telling me was quite a shock, and did not in anyway coincide with my perceptions of Danielle. At least I knew her name now. Were we even talking about the same girl, I asked myself. Just didn't seem possible. Strange to say, I was even more intrigued by her now, even more interested in finding and talking to her.

"I just want to return her notebook. How do I get in touch with her, Hugh?" I  tried to make my question sound as nonchalant as possible. 

Hugh rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You know that art supply store over on Northside? Blix I think is the name." I nodded. I was vaguely aware of it. "She hangs out there a lot. I'm sure they can put you in touch with her. But don't say I didn't warn you."

I thanked Hugh, paid for my lunch and left. I wasn't at all prepared for what he had told me about Danielle. Maybe he was wrong. Or just trying to scare me off. At least I had a lead on how to get a hold of her now. That old question re-surfaced. Should I continue my effort to contact this girl?I knew the answer almost without thinking. Yes.

I had been in Blix a couple of times, when I needed some paper for a background. It was an odd place, the type of place where artists would feel comfortable. I thought I would at least go over there and make an inquiry about Danielle, see if I could locate her. It was certainly worth the short drive over to at least find out. I was still digesting the others things Hugh told me about Danielle, the dominance and submission, that she enjoyed being hurt. I didn't know what to make of the statement that she was a bitch who would tear my heart if I didn't control her. That seemed really incongruous. But then my knowledge of her came from 5 minutes, or less, of interaction, and that under the most extraordinary circumstances.

That evening I drove over to Blix. Told myself I was just going to look around. It was about 7:00 PM or a little after when I walked though the door. I went back to their paper section, which I was most familiar with, and proceed to browse, using that as my vantage point for checking out who was in the shop. There was a young man, long dark hair, mustache and scraggly beard, who appeared to be in charge. I looked through the drawers of handmade papers, slowly, methodically. Waiting for an opportunity to speak to the young man. I waited for the customers to dwindle and then walked up to the gentleman.

"Pardon me, but I have a question." He turned with a smile and asked how he could be of service. "I'm looking for a woman with frequents this shop. Young, short, glasses. Her name is Danielle. I'm trying to get in touch with her."

"Yeah, I know her. You want to hire her as an artist, or as a model?", the gentleman with the mustache asked. I didn't know she modeled. But then there really wasn't much I did know about her.

"As a model," I relied, more as a reaction than thoughtful response.

The gentleman with the mustache smiled. "Yeah, she's a better model than she is an artist. She's a real cutie. There's a guy who sets up her modeling appointments. I've got his number here. Let me get that for you." He disappeared into the back of the store for several minutes, then reappeared and walked back over to me. "Here's his number. His name is Michael. Calls himself Sir Michael," he said with a chuckle, handing me a slip of paper with a phone number on it. I thanked the mustached gentleman and left, paper clutched in my hand.

After getting home, I sat on the couch, holding that paper in my hand. Did I want to pursue this girl? I did, very much. She intrigued me. I want to know more about her, perhaps be her friend, maybe more. I just knew I had to talk to her. I dialed the number. A voice answered and I asked for Michael, Sir Michael. The voice said he wasn't in, did I want to leave a message. I left my name, number, and that I was inquiring about Danielle, the model. The voice said he would give him the message. I hung up the phone and sat there, digesting the day's events. I decided to retire to my bed with a book and just let the events of the day go. It had been a hell of a day.

I remember being awakened by my phone. I fumbled for the light switch and got it on, and then grabbed my phone and answered it.

"You want me to send Danielle over?" the voice on the phone asked. I was still half asleep and didn't quite catch the import of what he had said. I asked the voice to repeat the question.

"Do you want me to send Danielle on over to you? Simple question, dude. Yes or no?" The voice literally dripped sarcasm. I hadn't expected this type of situation. I thought, did I want to see her now, like this? Yes, even at, whatever o'clock in the morning it was, I wanted to see her. I told the voice, yes, and gave my address. The voice said she would be there in about half an hour and hung up. I decided to fix a quick cup of tea so I could wake up before she arrived. The thought jarred me. Her. Danielle. My mystery girl. Going to be here in less than half an hour. I scurried about, washing my face and hands, getting dressed, straightening up, fixing a cup of tea. I was washing a few dishes in the sink when I heard a knock at the door. I felt a chill run up my spine. She's here. I dried my hands off and walked to the door, my mind filled with anticipation. I paused for a second, took a deep breath, and opened the door. She stood on the threshold and I watched as her eyes looked around and took in the room.

"Please, come in," I said. She was dressed in black sweat plants, the word PINK running up the side of the left leg, and a hoodie, also black with a little silver trim. She looked quite different from the girl I had met in the library and had seen at the Silver Skillet. I revised my estimate as to her age; she looked like she was in her late teens, possibly 20 or 21. She had yet to look at me, being more interested in examining her surroundings.

"You the only one here?" she asked suspiciously.

"Just me," I replied. "Please, sit down." She looked round and then walked over and sat on the couch. I sat in the overstuffed armchair I used for reading.

"Do you remember me?" With that question she finally turned her attention to me, scrutinizing me closely.

"No, I don't," she said, shaking her head. "Should I?"

"We met in the library one evening, about a month ago." When I said that, a slow look of recognition crossed her face, and a little smile appeared. She let out a small laugh.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember you now." The smile broadened to a grin. "Nice to see you again." She just stared at me for a minute, her eyes twinkling. "So, where are we doing this?" she asked abruptly.

What, exactly, are we doing? I asked myself. This all happened so suddenly I had not had an opportunity to think this all the way through. As I sat there, searching for an idea, I saw her get up off the couch and walk over until she was standing right in front of me. She stood there, looking at me intently, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"You want to pick up where we left off?", she asked, looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary.  With that her hands went to the waist band of her sweats and she pulled them all the way down, leaving her completely naked from her waist to her ankles. "I liked the way you touched me in the library," she said in a low, soothing voice. I sat there, mesmerized, unsure what to do. She lifted her arms, placing her hands behind her head. Her vertical lips exuded a pungent aroma, musky and sexual, that was unbelievable alluring. The sweetest of perfumes. I brought my left hand up, and with my thumb and forefinger, slowly parted her delicate lips. I grasped her clitoris, hood, and her small, inner lips, gently rubbing them.