She knows you have needs and won’t leave the bed unless you are stupid enough to push her out or throw her out once you are finished with her. You’re not that kind of guy. But she knows you’ll never do that, because you can’t get enough of her, you always want more and you damn well will regret it later when you look for her again and you can’t find her because you miss her and everything about her.

She will never crowd you out because you’ll always make room even if you fall out of bed. She wants to snuggle close to you, no matter how awkward the position, because she knows you enjoy the warmth of her company. And you are drawn to her fire.

Sometimes it starts out furious, burning through the pesky sheets while you hold her, then you take your time, absorbing all the voluptuous wonder she gives freely to you. Your brawny hunger gives way to a floating desire to prolong the night until the next day and night as if time doesn’t exist.

You’ll fall asleep but she arouses your brain, just by being there next to you, knowing that you’ll easily wake up with a smile and enjoy her again, with a fever, no matter how sleepy or fatigued you think you are. The fever always wins. Sleep comes in second.

I don’t care if she’s paperback or hardcover, she’s welcome in my bed. I turn the pages with gusto, absorbing all the book has to offer, chewing on the words, thinking about them, and wondering how I can put myself into that boiling scene.  I usually keep the difficult medical journals to read and review at my desk or kitchen table, but all the others somehow end up scattered around my easy chair while the best ones end up in bed with me, or piled up on the bedside table with pens and paper pushed inside the brilliant parts, filled with scribbled notes.

Which ones land in my bed depends on my reading pace and what’s interesting me at that time. It could be Churchill’s diary, Einstein’s biography, Kesey, Coben, Mitchell, Gerrittsen, C.S. Lewis and the list goes on.  But I usually reserve my kindle for vacations due to convenience, although usually on airplanes I annoy people because I abhor sleep; my brain forces my hand to write stories in bound black and white notebooks from takeoff to landing, disappointed when landing because I’m not finished writing a chapter.

No, if she falls out of bed, it’s because I accidently kicked her out or she plopped down on my belly after reading the last page and I turned over and there she went to the floor with crinkled pages. If I’m too exhausted to pick her up, I’ll find her tomorrow and resume where we left off.

SRC