library girl

Library Girl comes and goes but some things stay the same.

2007-09-18T09:47:00.000-03:00

Fall is here. It seems so long since winter was. We suffered through a long, hot summer, sweating and moaning about the heat and each other's bodies. There were lazy evenings in the back alley in the dark with my shirt off. But now its fall, and we're a different type of shameless. We keep things hidden. We reveal slowly. We're just as bad.

So what about you?
What about me?
What about us?

I have been up to plenty, graduating one degree to begin another to become a real library girl. One thing is for sure, I am still up to my curves in books. I flirt with the artist I see every day at lunch time. I take my clothes off for myself and imagine your eyes on me. Cup my breasts, dark between my legs.

Library Girl likes your mittens but she wants you to take them off.

2006-12-02T11:31:00.000-04:00

So it's December now. Funny thing isn't it? I'm sitting here at my desk and you're out there somewhere, shoulders hunched, glaring at your monitors putting off a million things you need to do for other things you've been putting off forever. In my case, it's schoolwork. It's always schoolwork. I may not reveal it often in this blog, but Library Girl is all about her academia, and with good reason. She's almost finished it.

I'm almost finished with you, but I'd like to taunt you a little more first. I'd like to press my cold fingers into the crevices of your warm body. I'd like to see how you taste on ice, pleasantly chilled.
Bundle up lovers. It's cold outside, and there is no sign of snow in sight.

Library Girl lacks basic organizational skills.

2006-11-29T23:52:00.000-04:00

It's been awhile, cats and kittens and I do apologize. I'd tell you what I've been up to explicitly but too many names would have to be changed to protect the innocent. However I have spent most of my time on the end of a particular fantastic cock, or up to my over active imagination in papers. These papers dull slightly in comparison to the cock. I won't lie. I've also been pondering moral questions, believe it or not, but I'll save those for another entry. Let me just say this:

There is nothing I like better then you in the morning, before you're really awake. Your hair's messy and your eyes are bleary and you're gasping and groaning and you're never sure what for. I like your face as it slowly dawns on you what I'm doing. I like your face when you realize where my mouth and my terrible, terrible fingers have gotten to. I like you with your clothes off, stretched in front of my window, head thrown back, pulling the curtain out of my wall.
I like you loud, darling. I like you livid.

It's winter, lovers. It's cold.
Don't you feel it?

I'd like you to write me and tell me where. I'd like to hear how you've been a very busy bee.

Libray Girl is a meticulous dresser, all for naught.

2006-07-09T01:05:00.000-03:00

You like me in my work clothes. You love the fussy buttons, the impratical shoes, the complicated hook and eye fastenings and arrays of zippers. All the earrings and glasses and pins and camisoles. All these things to get lost in, all these things to make you wait. You like to wait. You like to sit at your desk, throbbing, waiting until I call. I know. I can tell. Don't be shy about it. I like it that way. I like how you like to pounce when I come in the door. Throwing me up against the wall, undoing the buttons of my pressed white blouses, licking and biting eagerly at my chest, yanking off my vest, casting it on a chair. You like my feet in the air, high heels kicking the sky, skirt hiked up around my hips, topless, on the counter, on the floor, in bed, anywhere you can get me. You've been waiting for me all day and you won't be disappointed.

I've been overdue, it seems, since summer showed up. I've left a tattoo of fingernail marks on your back as excuses, but you exact every fine with a thrust up between my kidneys. A groan, a promise, an fuck in the shower.

honey, i'm home.

2006-06-10T05:37:00.000-03:00

You pull me into the tiny bathroom where we can have some privacy. Off comes my underwear, hanging around one ankle, up slides my skirt because there's no room or time. Buttons and zippers are suddenly awkward and inelegant. Useless when there are faster ways to inside me. Like a child always awful at gently opening a package. Ripping off the sides, making use of every cranny.

Your hands are shaking and quivering fingers hike up my tshirt and pull the cup of my bra aside. Your tongue finds a lover in a bright pink nipple.

c'mon just take me over.

You've dropped your pants, your belt, keys and wallet are tangled somewhere around your anxious ankles as we slam forward onto the counter and your knees crack against the cabit door. You're too busy to care with your mouth on my breasts and my fingers a wicked distraction. You press your warm hand between my knees, fitting your torso in the space between my legs like you have made a home there. There is a place for you between my stockinged thighs. There is a spot that requires my feet up against the wall and my arms pulling at the medicine cabinet, biting into my arm, trying to be quiet, even though my head is hitting the glass. I will have a bump later. It'll make my nipples hard every time I touch it.

honey i'm home.
can you feel that? i've been expecting you.

Library Girl Obeys the Rules.

2006-05-24T20:21:00.000-03:00

Foxy Boy is in my library a lot these days. We brushed up against each other in the stacks. He held his breath and whispered 'excuse me' into my ear while I tottered by him, a pile of books against my aching nipples. His finger barely touched the nape of my neck. He grinned and tugged the sleeve of my sweater.

"I think we're here for the same thing," he murmured, tapping the pile of books I held. I looked him in the eye. "Not exactly," I breathed. I backed away and bit my lip.
He smiled. He rubbed his face and shifted his bookbag. I felt his eyes on my back as I walked away.

I imagined his stubble against my neck and my breasts. I imagined his hand over my mouth.

be quiet, silly. we're in a library. you can't make noises like that.

You

2006-05-07T11:09:00.000-03:00

Were taking pictures on Barrington street. Light nervous fingers touching every sensor and all of the settings, soft pierced lip set in a grimace of concentration.

You saw me watching you. looked me full in the face. Raised and eye brow. Bit your lip. Smiled, Sliding your hand into your pocket.

Busy Work

2006-05-04T01:06:00.000-03:00

It's been too long. I apologize for this. I will attempt to avoid such extended absences in the future, but sometimes library girls are busy. People are going, people are visiting, but most importantly, people are coming all over the place, and their going on's are keeping meoccupied. I'm constantly dishing with someone over cheap food in one of Halifax's many fantastic little diners, and this has tied up my time more than I had ever thought possible. It has also proven to me that I can indeed grow tired of the tried and true club sandwhich and milkshake combination. Who knew? But the food doesn't matter. I've reverted to a steady diet of coffee and gin anyway. What matters is the gossip. For example, Stars and Straps' new nickname is Zombie Tits. The bruising and bitemarks are so bad she can't wear a v-neck tshirt. Words of advice to you shy ladies, don't fuck a heavy metal drummer and expect to come out clean. She's got glassy eyes and the expression of a woman who has been brought to orgasm multiple times, but the zombie tits.

Now myself, I wouldn't mind that so much, I like a reminder that I've had sex with someone. I always leave something behind of myself on my lovers. A scratch, a bruise, a bitemark, and I am quite disappointed if they don't do the same. However, some people avoid the evidence at all costs. Let me tell you lovers, there is little that is fucking sexier than the look someone gets when they have been screwing and getting screwed like a goddam rabbit. What makes it sexier still is if there is subtle evidence of this beyond the pervasive 'sex glow'. Now I'm not saying you have to give your lover a necklace of hickeys, but who hasn't been turned on when they see a girl at the groccery store with a hickey on her clavicle, just hidden, but just barely peeking out of her shirt? And maybe her lips are a little swollen from being bitten? It's a reminder. Something to play along with later. It's a tease, and who doesn't love a good tease now and then?

just the tip, just to see how it feels...

Things like these have kept me busy. We're all busy this time of year anyway. And I was busy having my arms pulled over my head while you bit ferociously into my neck, exploring me with needy fingers. I was busy have my breasts nibbled back and blue while you came hard and fast into my palms, your eyes glassing over, your breathing heavy, cursing me and begging to fuck me all in one breath.

do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

I was busy straddling you when we were both half asleep, feeling you get harder inside of me.

I was stamping books, and letting a bite mark peek out from the neckline of my sweater.

Extended absences just means buying more batteries.

2006-04-19T01:01:00.000-03:00

You caught me off guard. First your fingers were in mine, then your arm was around my waist, then your tongue was in my mouth, then your hand was sliding down the front of my jeans. You're going to pin my wrists over my head later. You're going to bite my neck and make me work for it.

My pretties, it has been a good time of year to be a library girl. The hot weather turned damp, and most everyones' most private places followed suit. Delightful, if you ask me. The crocuses are popping out of the soil in full bloom in Public Gardens, and that's not the only thing bringing colour to everyone's cheeks. I haven't gotten a full night's sleep since the velociraptor rock. Although not all of it has been for sexy reasons. Part of it is a recurring dream I have where I am late for work because I'm eating powdered mini doughnuts. In the dream I marvel that the holes are so small that they get clogged up with icing sugar. I wonder if that means something.Who should I ask about that?

Again, more birthday news. I guess I know what everyones' parents were doing nine months ago. I can't say as I disapprove. This blog is a shameless sex blog, and besides, their parents' shenannigans brought me some of my best friends. On that note I extend a birthday shoutout to my favourite over concerned mother from the token wacky aunt. Much love, my chickadee.

In other events, S and S was back from her vacation, so we eagerly collected Twenty-One and went down to eat, drink and be merry. We also watched a duck terrorize two other ducks. S and S did a frighteningly accurate portrayal of its angry duck walk. After that, we strolled down to the Speakeasy. Still haven't been? Go already. Fight those 'pre-summer, post-exam, I'm-so-poor-I-could-puke' blues. Get drunk and get horny and handle it yourself. Sometimes there is something sexier about taking your time doing it right. It's not a chore, sweet thing. It's an experience. Don't believe me?

Listen. Just listen lover, here's exactly what you will do.

Armed with gin and some double A's, take some lady time in the shower, or the bath, or under your blankets. Think filthy thoughts. Listen to yourself breathe. Feel every muscle, every motion, down to your chest bobbing as you work yourself up. Pay attention, take your time and push all the right buttons. It'll turn you on.
Hearing your heavy breathing will turn you on.
Feeling your erect nipples poke against your shirt will turn you on.
Your body will burn under your greedy teasing fingers. or the shower head. Or the vibrator.
Because it's spring and it's damp, and it's worth it.
Take your time.
It'll be totally worth it.

Do it.
Come on, trust me.
You're alone.

Just you and me.

Library Girl loves Jurassic Park.

2006-04-10T18:39:00.000-03:00

It's been a mad week or two here in the city. The weather is warm enough and the last few days have been filled with birthday parties and glasses of hard liquor. Never neat. Always on the rocks. I like to eat the ice cubes.

Stars and Straps and I celebrated a brand new year of debauchery more than once when we weren't we creeping about The Speakeasy like hoodrats. Never been? Go. The manager, Carl, is my new best friend, and it easily makes up for the sketchy gutter punk feel that The Seahorse lost with it's renovations, new ownership and its slick coat of paint. I still love that place though. First bar I ever snuck into back in the day. I think King Konqueror were playing.

The season of spring hookups has started. When we're not drowning ourselves in the bottoms of whiskey bottles we're keeping our eyes open. Stars and Straps took her Heavy Metal Drummer for a spin and he's coming back for more. Hardcore-y kissed me on a tree stump shaped like a velociraptor. His breathe tasted like sweet rum and I still have the bite marks to prove anything ever happend. I was wearing a tshirt with a dinosaur on it that night. It's like the whole evening was channeling. Dinosaurs everywhere.

It's funny how people say they fuck like animals, usually meaning, I would presume, lions or cheetahs or bears. Rabbits sometimes. Maybe dogs or cats if they're into that strung out back alley feel. But does anyone fuck like a velociraptor? Better yet, does anyone SAY they do? Will I ever meet a lover that says "hey baby, I want to go back to your place and fuck you like a velociraptor or perhaps a t-rex or triceratops"? And if I do, will he or she have a mullet? Will they be wearing a 'Rammer' t-shirt? Will I start questioning the types of people I associate myself with if I meet such a dashing figure? I already associate myself with people who wear 'Rammer' tshirts. Such questions have need of answers. But since it's spring, it's time for research. Keep your eye out for me. I'll be coming at you, my tail springing as I run, jaws open.

I saw a pretty girl last night I would have liked to held hands with. I wonder if it would have been too bold to ask her if she would have liked to be fucked like a velociraptor?

Who am I kidding? Of course it would have. It would have been perfect.

Library Girl misses voices on the radio.

2006-04-03T02:52:00.000-03:00

The weekend was almost too much. Going out on Thursday was a dream, but my compainions younger friends all seemed suspicious of me and asked if we were dating. I replied no, as he slid into the booth beside me, after fetching me another rye and ginger. This seemed to further encourage their belief that we were madly in love.

This irritated me. I just wasn't in the mood for it. It ruined the vibe and made us both uncomfortable since they asked me the same dating question 5 or 6 times, as if they could trip me up, trick me into telling them what was actually going on. Library Girls don't lie, ladies. Remember that. We are known to be elusive at worst, but a profession that revolves around books and facts and precise science does not attract sloppy people. It didn't matter though, because despite these questions and pesterings we still had a wonderful time. The weather was warm and we drank on the pirate ship play ground while a thirty something couple smoked weed and necked beside us, a silent pact of i won't tell if you don't, passed between us.

The weekend streched out cooler and beautiful, if not damp and full of loaded touches and conversation, all to celebrate Stars and Straps and her birthday. I ate too much, I drank too much and paid for it later. I was hyper and paced. I read more letters from the Long Distance Drunk.
I'm lost as to what to do with him. I'd like to put his head on my shoulder and smile into his unfocused eyes.

But Library Girls aren't gentle with everyone because they aren't gentle by nature. Watch out, lover. We bite.

We miss voices on the radio.

Library Girl Gets a Tan.

2006-03-30T16:21:00.000-04:00

Halifax has offered us natives a third glorious day of weather that is absolutely to die for. If the Public Gardens was actually open I would be the girl breaking all those rules by not only walking on the grass (with her shoes off of course) but rolling in it like some sort of heathenish boho academic as opposed to the dignified Library Girl that I am. I guess this is one of the few things I miss about my parents house. A yard. Here, I've got nothing but a dust and concrete field surrounding my apartment. Not exactly the stuff communing with nature is made of.

The temperature is officially hot enough that it has tricked me into thinking it's summer, and thus I am going to a show tonight. Maybe I'll see you there. I'll have set aside my sweater set and glasses for the occasion. Library Girl by night is a more stripped down occasion. I'll be the one with the bare legs, laughing and dancing and drinking cool sudsy beers foaming over the edges of my glass, dripping onto the table somewhere near Barrington and Spring Garden. No coat, no socks, no shoes, I won't be servicing you anyone in my mind tonight, because it's summer, lover, and we need to take a break. We need to meet some new kids to kiss and leave behind once September comes. We need to stand up from behind our computer screens and crack our spines, stretch our arms, wiggle our toes, and reach out and grab a body.

I love to read, you know I do, but it's past all that now. Leave those dusty books indoors. Let's go sleep outside.

Smoker's Cough

2006-03-28T16:50:00.000-04:00

Library girls like lots of prolonged glances from their patrons. The more unesscesary gazing into their eyes, the better. It makes them feel special. You must have known that because you never took your eyes off my face the entire time I set up your account and processed your books. I locked eyes with you before you walked out the door. You smiled, and the skin on my forearms tingled. You smiled and then I went back to calculating overdue fines. My fingers are still stained with blue ink.

In other news, it was Robot's birthday last night. A bunch of us went downtown and crowded into a booth, smothering her with presents and love before hitting up another bar to watch the Heavy Metal Drummer's band play. They were fantastic as to be expected. I found myself tucked into the corner of a smoking room talking to some friend of a boy with pretentious hair, dissing noise music and discussing the potential of a unified scene.

As gross as I admit smoking is, there is nothing prettier sometimes than watching a beautiful boy smoke. Long thin fingers, a smooth mouth. They're still young enough that they wear smoking like they wear their jeans. Slick, crisp. There is something clean and dark about it. It makes me think of white teeth although the result is usually the opposite. They fold themselves on the old ratty couches. Press their knees against mine when they sit too close, and let their fingers brush my shoulder, sometimes if they're brave, the nape of my neck, the lobe of my ear. They stare, glaze and glare, with parted lips, and flushed cheeks from that first nicotene rush.

And because they see everything I'm thinking in my eyes.

I'd like to kiss the soft spot where your chin and neck meet with my smoker's mouth. I'd like to leave a mark.

Breathe.

2006-03-26T02:02:00.000-04:00

It was The Vegan's birthday today, and his roomates threw him a surprise party I departed early from. Stars and Straps has a new crush on the Heavy Metal Drummer which we had to investigate since it's so full of sexy potential. Furthermore, as much as I love The Vegan, I don't fit in with his group of friends. They're whimsical veggies who wear hemp and dress up. Wonderful, talented people, that I do adore, I just can't have a prolonged interaction with.

Other than The Vegan's special day, I was there for Foxy Boy, marching around like he owned the place, which he theorhetically does, squatting down in front of me with a smirk. I think he knew I was watching him. We made eye contact once or twice, and he looked away, smoked the hookah. Grinned. I imagined his flat belly pressed against my own and almost excused myself.

I wonder if he knows library girls like it rough. Biting, pressing, rude, and almost uneducated. Fumbling at flys, hiking up skirts, belts around knees, in bathrooms, against walls.
Breathe.

He probably knows I want to fuck him. I'm not sure there's a girl who doesn't. I don't care if he even likes me. I don't care if he remembers my name. I don't need him to. I don't want him to. It's not important. I just need him to look me in the eye while he grinds himself into me, all the while never dropping his gaze from mine. I want that cocky smirk while I'm being railed against a wall, never looking sideways.

Breathe.

It has been a weekend full of boys strutting and setting hips. Last night we got wasted and watched the Band of Beards. I danced with Scraps and he bit my arm, pulled at my ear, and I didn't take my eyes off the singer. I let myself revel in this dark damp place that every hand is coming from, the tightness of a pair of jeans, friction against my hips. The singer sweated and tore his shirt open, gyrating to the music, and I felt someone pressed up warm against my ass. This raw burn and tingle of nippes and tongue at every touch makes the days feel washed out in comparison, and too boring to even be comfortable. We all pace like chained dogs, fighting a sameness overlying a desperate need to be touched.

Because everyone I talk to is smoldering these days. There's a smoke curling up from the pits of their bellies. Everyone I'm talking to is touching each other too much, keeping their hands on each other's stoamchs a little too long. Holding eye contact a little longer than is deccent. Everyone is waiting for someone to lean in.

"It must be spring." Snuggles breathes.
His face is too close to mine. His lips are parted. He looks away.

good night, library girl.

2006-03-24T00:17:00.000-04:00

When you're closing down the library for the night and you find a couple necking in the computer lab, there is always the question of how to suitablly handle the situation. Do you bang on the door like a stern authoritarian type, even though you're no older than they are, wagging your finger in disapproval? Go upstairs and ring the warning bell again? Watch and see if he takes her shirt off? With so many choices, it's difficult to choose just one. Personally, I like to wander over to the Q section where the science books are, and find a book about anatomy. Then, I open it to the page that describes the vagina, walk in, and place it in her lap, if I can get around his roving hands. Then I leave. I fgure I'm doing them a favour. Most boys need a guide, regardless of how great a lover their too nice gifrlfriend tells them they are.
Plus, it has the extra bonus of getting them the hell out of the damn library. They come sneaking up the stairs with the collars of their jackets popped and their winter hats yanked down over their foreheads to hide their crimson shame, half running out the door as if I was about to point them out to everyone in the checkout line. I admit I always kind of want to, but it keeps the fear of God in them if I don't.

"Fuck suspense." Girl Roomate tells me. But hey. That's easy for her to say. She's been with the same man for years.

Got a note from Long Distance Drunk today. He scribbles me the same old love letters on the insides of 6 packs. Then he types them up later, at odd hours, when he's too hung over to sleep. He tells me I haunt him sometimes. I suspect I treat him badly, but that's because I long for nothing more than a chance to feel his stubbly face against my neck and chest, a brush of lips and rough hair in all the soft places that stand up. I'd like him to take his glasses off, exploring, blindly. I'd like to feel him breathe, one belly pressed against the other, reaching legs and needy toes, bared teeth biting my shoulder, strong square fingers and thumbs wrapped around my wrists, holding them over my head.

Instead I blow kisses at Kid Schrodinger, and ride the stationary bike and use the eliptical machine 2 times a week. 20 minutes each.

Who do you love?
(How do you love?)

And it's another couple making out under the stairs. Another truck of books I have to shelve. Another rubber stamp.