I have boxes and boxes of old paperbacks stacked neatly in my storage space. Mysteries mostly, and cult authors, and items I purchased simply for the provocative cover art.
I love it all, but I get the biggest kick out of collecting vintage erotica. Nothing classy, nothing written in French, nothing with any historical value or intellectual appeal.
I'm talking about the poorly written, slightly seedy tomes from publishers like Connoisseur Publications, Art Enterprises, Inc., and Magenta Books.
You know, the "wink-wink, nudge-nudge" garbage they used to keep under the counter at newsstands and liquor stores, the stuff they used to hawk out of the back of men's magazines, the guilty pleasures your grandfather kept out in the garage or in a plain shoebox hidden in the bedroom closet.
It's uncultured culture. Plenty of booksellers specialize in it, and collectors are happy to pay premium prices.
I refuse to shop online, which means I add to my collection the old-fashioned way. It's mostly slow-going, but I've found some interesting pieces in the last month.
It's ridiculous, I know, but I couldn't be more proud.