And oddly enough, you can blame it on author and screenwriter Larry McMurtry. A couple of weekends ago, I devoured his newest book, a memoir entitled Books: A Memoir. I had discovered its existence via New York Times article. I knew of McMurtry, thanks to my father’s love for his westerns. I had seen some of his movies, knew of course of his screenplay adaptation of Brokeback Mountain, and even knew of his life struggles to keep writing.

But I had no idea he was also an antiquarian book dealer, and where most people answer to his call of The West, I answer to his call of The Book. I ran right out and bought the book. Sure, its mention of Gershon Legman and the briefly excerpted tale surrounding an early de Sade grabbed my attention, but it also isn’t the first book about books I’ve read. I’ve a few rows of such books in my personal library.

McMurtry had only one further tale of an erotic nature — SF author Cordwainer Smith had, it seemed, a bra fetish and McMurtry acquired the man’s bra mannequin as part of an estate acquisition that included the man’s library — but I was impressed. It’s rare for a bookseller’s memoir to divulge tales of the eroticis libris with any regularity. In fact, if you’re looking for book tales about erotica, you’re pretty much limited to Roy Harley Lewis’s 1981 title, The Browser’s Guide to Erotica.

However, I have book tales to tell. And erotica as a genre is growing — via Romance fiction, but it is growing. There’s plenty of book material past and present to write about.

So I’m going to change the slant of Pursed Lips. Hence, the changed subtitle of this blog. It’s time I shared my book lust more fully with you. I’ve done a bit of this before, but for every tale I’ve told, another waits in the wings.

Keep an eye out, OK?