When It's Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

boxer briefs that hug his erection. I slide one hand down the front of my sweats and cup a breast with the other, reaching my fingers over my puckered nipple. A small moan escapes from my throat. Maybe Professor Sparling hasn’t replied yet because he’s busy touching himself, too.

I was in kindergarten when I began to understand that my mother didn’t like me. On parents’ visiting day my classroom was full of proud mothers and fathers who admired their children’s drawings on the walls. Most of the children had two parents, and those who didn’t still had one doting parent. Parents hugged their children, held their children’s hands, and said things about our beautiful art projects. My mother took no part in it. She had simply walked me into the classroom in her clicking high-heeled shoes without looking around or saying a word. She fidgeted with the pale pink scarf at her neck as she nodded to my teacher. For a moment her eyes scanned the room. She must have noticed the happy families. I sat at my table, looking up at her. I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful mommy in the room. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a loose fitting pink dress that fell to just below her knees. I waited for her to sit down next to me, but she never did. For a split second my mother looked down and her eyes met mine. She didn’t smile, though. She pointed at herself then gestured towards the door. With that she turned and walked out. She didn’t even say goodbye.
    Around that same time I began to ask why I didn’t have a daddy. Whenever I asked, my mother would reach for a cigarette and light up before she answered. “Some people get daddies, some people don’t,” she’d say. She presented it as matter of fact, as if she were telling me that the earth is round. That was just how it was, and we were powerless to change it, even if we really, really wanted to. Until I was in fourth grade, when kids asked me about my dad I would say, “I didn’t get a daddy.”
    The older I got, the more time I spent with my mother’s parents. My mother never seemed to care if I was home or not. In first grade I began to get off my school bus and walk to my grandparents’ house instead of going home. Soon enough I was sleeping at my grandparents’ almost every night of the week. If my mother ever wondered where I was, I didn’t know it. And if I’d disappeared all together she’d probably have been relieved.
    My grandparents lived about 1/4 mile away from my mother’s house, all the way up at the top of the tallest Clarksville hill. Both descendants of original 19 th century Clarksville settlers, my grandparents were from well-known, well-to-do families. My grandfather’s family had owned Morrison’s Dry Goods Store for three generations before my grandfather sold it when I was twelve. He was ready to retire and my mother, his only child, had no interest in running the store. He said he couldn’t keep working until I was ready to take over the business (assuming that I’d want to stay in Clarksville my whole life). I was glad he sold the store and relieved me of any pressure to have to stay around and run it.
    My grandfather was a tall man with a heavy build. He enjoyed playing golf and watching birds. He wasn’t much of a talker and when I lived with him he wasn’t the sort to show a lot of affection, but I always knew he was a decent man. He took a lot of shit from my grandmother, who was always complaining about a leak in the house, an ache in her knee, or a fly in the room. Everything bothered her, including me. But as long as I didn’t make too much noise and kept to my bedroom most of the time, things were decent. My grandparents ate breakfast and dinner with me. They took me where I needed to go. From time to time my grandfather would give me a sweet pat on the head.
    High school was my refuge. People often hate it, but I had no problem making friends. Finally, I was in a place where