Obscene Works

I'm reading an absurdly obscene book. It's called Women, by Charles Bukowski. In it, Bukowski details the exploits of his alter ego. The book simply says 'Women' in larger letter across the front, and it occurred to me that anyone who spotted me reading it on a park bench or in a coffee shop might think I'm reading a book on how to pick-up women. I worry constantly that someone will read it over my shoulder and then tail me to the first staircase tall enough to justify pushing me down. The concern is not entirely unfounded; I'd loaned Post Office, Bukowski's earlier book to a friend, and when a group of Postal Clerks saw him with it on a train he was the target of much antagonism. I jump and give a nervous laugh whenever anyone interrupts my reading, and though I've considered it, I don't have an answer prepared if anyone happens to ask why I bother reading it. I guess I could just say I'm doing research on how not to behave. Yeah, that's the reason I hangout in bars so late all time, too.

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