[IrishGrrl]

Yes, I know it's not November 1st. Here is the start to my novel. Like I said, it's all crap. LOL

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He began by telling me how much I wanted it. How much I would like it, the feel of his cock inside me. Turns out he was right, but not in the way he thought. And so it began, my journey towards love, if that's what it can be called, in the back seat of an old musty car parked in an abandoned school parking lot.
Everyone had always said that love didnt come easy, but it didnt seem all that complicated to me. A game really, the business of love. One I would learn to master, mostly. If you are smart you will draw it out, because as soon as it begins, it's almost over. I can always see the end from the start. It's the middle that I'm curious about.
When I was a child love meant pain, hurt, abondonment, and abuse. You loved someone by striking them in the face with a closed fist. Speaking profanities at the top of your lungs. Humiliation, and degredation. I thought anything different was not real, how could it be? At least when someone is beating you, you have thier full attention. Thier deepest emotions are being played out on your body, mind and soul. It's a gift, like the socks and pajamas you open at christmas. Even if it isnt what you wanted, something
is better than nothing,and at least you werent completely forgotten.
Later on, I realized that not everyone knew that kind of love, the love you dont speak about. It's not something you go shouting from the rooftops. It's not the love you are supposed to aspire to. Love is pretty, shiney, and everyone wants it. It cannot be bought, sold, or bribed. It takes it place among whomever, and whereever. That's what everyone said anyway, but I beg to differ.
What is love to one is not love to another, and if you learn how you can manufacture your own brand of love anytime, anywhere. The kind that you feel safe in, the kind you recognize. That's what true love really is. It is your own story, that begins with your roots, moves slowly toward your center, and shines bright at the top. Where you begin telling this story, what part you show to the world is another matter all together. Exposing your roots can be dangerous. People dont love roots, they love what you show them.

c IrishGrrl 2010