Men are like books.......
What can I say? I love men, all varieties. Men are like books, to be read or skimmed, studied or forgotten, enjoyed for the moment or digested in a forever kind of way. A few go back on the shelf and gather dust, others I might pull out now and again to reread a passage two or three or fifteen. What I mean is that they all can't be "Anna Karenina", but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy them just the same. I love talking to men and listening to their life stories. I love smelling them and holding them and making love to them, because really, this is the most pure, metaphysical form of communication I know. I love their idiosyncrasies; this one likes his thighs caressed on the inside, not the outside: that one fixes me a plate of scrambled eggs after each assignation; this one is haunted by dreams of nuclear holocaust; that one has a thing about Dylan Thomas and kissing. And just as each book I read changes me in some small, or perhaps large way, each man I bed, to be perfectly hyperbolic, makes me feel that much more attuned to the transcendence and bounty and beauty of life. 
