erotica!

[A mock-heretical post-Catholic meta-erotic short story for Easter Sunday]

The library was almost empty.  A few art students meandered asymmetrically towards the exit, large colour-plate books in hand, undecided if they would actually look at them later, or merely use the flat surface to skin up.  Laura walked past them with an efficient high-heeled clip, pencil skirt riding up a little, to floor two, philosophy.  She had recently become intrigued by the work of Georges Bataille, and was looking for a decent secondary text that might help her put some of his, and her, ideas in context.

            Laura had been turning one line in particular over and over in her head.   ‘The object which causes Eros to stir comes guised as other than it truly is.’  What did Bataille mean, she wondered.  Was desire for someone else not what it appeared to be?  How would you know?  Reaching the philosophy section, she turned towards the ‘B’s.  The library seemed darker than usual, the cheap strip lighting flickering occasionally, through the window the distant vapour-trail of a passing aeroplane.  She sighed.  University had not so far been the rush of breathless affairs and witty flirtation over coffee and wine she had idly imagined it would be - what excitement she got these days seemed to come more from books than men.

The Bataille section was small, containing a couple of well-thumbed Penguin editions of his notorious erotic masterpiece ‘Story of the Eye’.  Laura had actually read this on the bus last week, hiding her blushes behind her cheap second-hand copy.  The previous owner had underlined certain passages.  Laura assumed these has been the parts that had aroused the reader, man or woman, she couldn’t tell.  There had been no inscription in the front.  She rather liked the idea of having secret access to the desire of this other, anonymous, reader.  A movement close by caused her to turn suddenly.

         ‘Sorry, miss.’  It was a cleaner.  The library must be closing, Laura realised.   He smiled, a curious smile.  Broad shoulders, he looked young.  Not like most of the other cleaners here, Laura thought.  Perhaps he was doing community service or something.  He noticed the book she had in her hands, a large biography of Bataille.

         ‘He was a librarian, you know,’ said the cleaner.  Laura stared at him blankly.  The man continued, ‘Bataille, I mean.’  Laura vaguely remembered reading this somewhere.

           ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, smiling back, placing the book back carefully.  ‘I’m thinking of writing something on him for one of my courses.’  They weren’t supposed to talk in the library, but as there was no one else around now, Laura supposed it wouldn’t matter.  It was funny this cleaner saying that about Bataille.  She looked at him more closely.  He laughed slightly, placing his long-handled broom at an odd angle against the wall.

          ‘You wonder how I know that, don’t you?’ he asked softly, moving towards her, his hand pushed forward, as if to grasp her around the waist.  She said nothing, but stayed where she was, more thrilled than frightened.  His eyes fixed on her now, dark pools of laughter.  Laura blinked, and reached up, running her smooth hand down one side of his face.  She felt like he was daring her to.  He pulled her close.  ‘Come with me,’ he whispered, deftly covering her hand with his.  Unlocking a small room to the side of a set of tall bookshelves, he guided her in, not bothering to switch on the light.

They fell together on the linoleum, fingers in each others’ mouths, limbs writhing with such abandon that Laura, for brief moments, feared she might faint.  It was a glorious feeling.  She twisted her body under his, her heels kicked madly off.  As he worked her tight skirt up over her hips and pushed her underwear to one side, she gasped, delicate, yet animal, sounds filling the room with glorious echoes.  As he entered her, not a moment too soon, a hot, deep sensation at the very edge of her understanding exploded in her mind, blocking out all thought.  Now she realised what Bataille had meant when he spoke of indescribable and miraculous ecstasy, of the experience of the mystics!  It seemed the stranger beneath her understood it perfectly too.

Afterwards, they lay, entwined, and Laura began to make out dark objects around her.  Books!  Dozens of them.  Shouldn’t they be on the shelves?  The man began to speak.

           ‘I’m not really a cleaner,’ he said.  ‘Well, at least not most of the time.  I’m, er, doing this as part of my community service, actually.’  So Laura had been right.  ‘What did they…catch you doing?’ she asked carefully, holding her breath for fear of an answer she wouldn’t like.  She was already beginning to wonder when they could see each other again.

           ‘Oh, that.’  He grinned at her broadly.  ‘Stealing books.’