The Scent Of A Woman Who Reads

Justin Timberlake may or may not be Bringing Sexy Back, but trust me when I say, there’s nothing sexier than a well read woman, in my book.

A woman who reads books is a turn on. And did you know, there was roughly one thousand years of literal darkness when reading was forbidden, and even considered scandalous for a woman to be literate? Literacy could lead a woman to think for herself, and civilized society just couldn’t have this. But the desire for things denied persisted and in her mind their were still worlds to be plumbed, myths to be remembered, theories to be spoken of and examined, and oh, the many places one might travel, to be explored.

There are secret corners in Paris around which she’ll steal a kiss or be pressed in unspeakable urgency against a wall in a darkened stairway. Personally, I don’t read “Romance” novels, but I’ve heard. Reading makes you sexy. I’m not kidding. And don’t get me started if you both read and write! Here’s where you’re welcome to imagine Bugs Bunny’s eyes, doing the anatomically impossible and slightly objectifying version of popping out of his head to the “Ahhyuuugaahhh” car horn sound looping in the background. Oh, and steam, there’s lots of steam.

Marilyn Monroe

But I promised you a little perspective about our minds, imagination and context so lets put aside childish things, for now.

When I read, I don’t need pictures to get there. I don’t mind a picture here and there to get my motor running, but really, reading is about the words and our ability to create the picture for ourselves in our imaginations. When we were little pups our imaginations were primed with colorful pictures, but at some point the picture books are supposed to fall away, so we can build our mental muscles where images blossom and explode in our consciousness.

Ladies, it’s true, we are responsible for our own orgasms.

I believe, things which come too easy lose their value to us personally and as a society. You could choose from an infinite number of examples, but let’s take pornography. Usually long on pictures and short on words, dialogue and imagination. You see my point?

So now, I’m climbing upon my night stand (give me a minute, I’ve got to move some books) to deliver a message, a soliloquy, if you wish, a passionate ode to books, those pulsating, charming, insightful, disturbing, rapturous and illucidative missives bound in cardboard and cloth.

To begin with, I’m always a little dumbfounded when a woman tells me “I don’t like to read”. Really? What planet are you from? You say you migrated here from the telepathic universe Lexiconiaphobia (loosely translated: Idontwannareadit’stoomuchwork) where books are an antiquated and feared mode of communication? I’m sorry to hear that, but welcome to planet Earth. We read here, especially the sexy women. You’ll need to do some, at least, in order to navigate your Starship Illiteratati, but don’t worry about reading a map or street signs, or cultivating a sense of direction all your own- we’ve got an app for that!

I’m from a generation which actually utilized libraries, and 3x5 index cards neatly filed one in front of another in long drawers which sometimes jammed either coming out or going back in from the dusty pulp collected on their tracks. Detritus of the literate women gone before me.

Marilyn Monroe

Libraries were the vital organ of the education system. They carried a decimal code which held the all important address of the book you were seeking, and if you were lucky, books banned from other less progressive communities, like Lady Chatterly’s Lover.

Look them up, libraries were real, brick and mortar places. I can still smell their distinct odor…but I’m not giving that memory away. Go find one that’s not the virtual kind and smell it for yourself. I hear even the librarian has gotten sexier. No longer the stereotypically uptight, modestly dressed, slightly repressed book nerds, now there are men, young men with muscles and tattoos and young women with Rastafarian braids and hair in their armpits in colorful cotton smocks.

Because the internet has made it too easy to extricate bits and pieces of information kicking a screaming from their original context and sometimes, well, most times, context is everything. Not only do I believe and revere whole books as magical and transformative, I fear the loss of them. What will you do if one day the umbilical cord of power gets pulled from our infant’s belly and it ceases to wail and spit bytes of pureed peas out for you on command? I hope you’ll want to want to a read book, but you may have forgotten how or worse, were never so passionately encouraged to pick up a precious book in the first place. If the latter is the case, let me be the privileged one who encourages you to surrender your virginity to the realm within which only a book may penetrate.

Alright, alright it’s getting difficult to breath in this rarified air above my nightstand and my nightie is just about to come off from all the arm waving, so I shall get down from the pulpit with one final word about nightstands and the sexiness of reading books. Among the imaginative and necessary accoutremen to be found on your nightstand, I hope there will be a book or two.

s lynnknight 2016

Move over Rod McKuen, it’s 1968 and Midwest-born S lynnknight is just getting started. Writing poetry and songs by age eight, she loves words, music and sentimental things. Self taught and accompanying herself on the guitar by age 12, she preferred the brief format of a lyric to prose or novels, until now…. A childhood desire to be a singer, English teacher, and a nun, (perhaps all at once) culminates today in a fiery and passionate voice tempered with compassion. She has a BS in Music Therapy, but not a single writing credential to sport. She lives in the Arkansas Ozarks and has been happily married to a brilliant, red-headed engineer for 3 years. Into her life, her wife brought two daughters and three grandchildren, and she couldn’t be happier.

Read more of s lynnknight by clicking the titles below. And don’t forget to hit the recommend button….

Dear Victoria of the Hooters


Collateral Damage, from The Weekly Knob, where S LynnKnight is an Editor

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