tagNovels and NovellasIt's Not Easy to Be a Love Goddess Ch. 01

It's Not Easy to Be a Love Goddess Ch. 01



It's not easy being a love goddess.

You doubt me? You think it might be the most romantic, amazing profession in the world?

Let me tell you, it's not.

Nobody understands me.

Nobody. You either.


First of all, you think I'm a prostitute. Or, you will once I tell you my story. And that's exactly my point.

There's no room for me here. I was born a thousand years too late, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's probably a punishment for something I did wrong in that last lifetime, that I just can't seem to remember.

They sent me here to Hell, and let me tell you, it's a whole lot worse than the flames that licked up around my skin and consumed me when I was the sacrifice in my virginal phase. Those lifetimes a person knew where they were headed, had no illusions; saw the prize and went for it. There was no wavering, no confusion, no identity crisis then. It was--take the plunge and come up for air on the other side. It was cut and dried. It was a cinch.

Not here. Not now. Now, there's nothing sure, nothing to count on. The sun comes up every day and goes down at night, if you're lucky enough to be able to see it beyond the smog and the hazy, mutated weather patterns.

It's all so confusing.

Because what I am, who I am, is not reflected back to me by any of the life forms so anxious to get ahead of me on the freeway. It's like, I've entered this crazy funhouse where all the mirrors are distorted and perverted; and let me tell you, I'm having a hard time maintaining my equilibrium.

If it weren't for Darian, I don't know what I'd do.

Darian's my guide, my protector. Does the term "pimp" mean anything to you? Well, in your perverted world, that's probably what you'd call him.

But you're wrong. Darian loves me with the highest love there is. Only you jokers don't seem to get that. So for you, he's my pimp. Got it?

Do I sound angry? Sarcastic? Disillusioned? Well, I don't know an illusion from a Golden Axiom incarnate anymore until it bites me.

But where was I? Oh yes. I was going to tell you my story. Do you want to listen? Really listen? Ah well. You'll do what you want.

So here it is anyway.


I was born in this little house in the middle of Nowhere Town, USA, a few years short of the Millennium. I batted my long dark eyelashes at my father and mother, and they both fell in love with me at the Opening Ceremonies (opening of the womb, I mean).

But the moment they strapped me into that chastity belt they called a "diaper," I knew something was wrong.

A faithful servant, my mother bathed me in sweet waters, perfumed me with oils, and clothed me in the exquisite fabrics and adornments befitting a personage of my rank.

My father adored me and worshipped at my altar, caressing me and covering my soft, chubby skin with kisses. When I was older and perched upon the throne of his arms, I blessed my subjects with the benevolent wave of my arms and blew them kisses from my pursed, heart-shaped lips.

But as I made my acquaintance with the new body I had acquired, and the new world to which I had come, I began to realize I was not at home anymore. I was in a strange new place, and I was not to be allowed to pursue my calling.

I observed that this place I now called home was a world of sadness and unfulfilled desires. Though my parents loved me dearly, I could tell they were not truly happy, and at times their negative vibrations and the words of anger and frustration they spoke gave me great distress and confusion.

I fell into a great despondency. The knowledge of my office had accompanied me to this birth, but no one had sent a messenger ahead to herald my dawning. These people were idolaters, and they worshipped something they couldn't even see, but called "God." How strange.

I had come to them as Love Incarnate, and rather than bow down to me, they did the unthinkable: they didn't even recognize me!


Well, I had a lot of thinking to do, and I spent what was called my "childhood" doing it. They couldn't keep the other children away from me—especially the boys. They were drawn to me as if I was a magnet, and seemed content to sit under my gaze for hours.

I said little. As I told you, I was thinking. But the love waves flowed out of me in undulating ribbons, and seemed to cast a spell over them as they gathered to me.

Even the girls—those who didn't harbor a similar calling in their past and feel jealous, who had never harbored even the ambition of such an occupation—were drawn to me and especially delighted in bringing me lemonade, removing my sandals, braiding my hair into long, dark plaits.

But my father made it clear from the beginning that I must keep my clothes on in company at all times. A kiss stolen now and then from the little boys who followed me as if I was playing haunting music on a pan pipe was small comfort.


The real trouble began when I hit puberty. Up until then, while I was versed in the practice of my craft and knew it all by heart, I had no great urge toward using it, not being presented by opportunity. However, the boys in my school recognized the scent of my Blossoming, and I too began to sense a need of expression rising within me.

It was then that I began to struggle with the ultimatum of my father. It was an exhausting battle, but I won, thank the Golden Axiom. The force was too strong within me. It burst the fetters that had wound around and wounded me. Six hundred thirty-nine lifetimes of practice (well, except for the thirty vestal virgin ones) were too much for the pale stringy words of a man from a warped and impotent planet.

Besides, he needn't know.

I wasn't a baby anymore. I was a maturing girl-woman, capable of all the wiles of the species.

So, the first order of business was to put as much distance between me and those virgin lifetimes as possible. After all, it wasn't like anybody was offering me a fiery furnace and eternity in Paradise for it, or anything. And if they had, I would have told them a few things about how long you really get to spend in Paradise. It only seems like eternity while you're there. Then you get to come back to the land of Time again.

Buster was his name. I laugh to think of it now. Good ol' Buster. He didn't know what hit him! How could he? I suspect he had spent a lot of lifetimes digging dirt. I suspected this one held all the promise for him of a plumbing job, complete with drooping pants that never could seem to stay up over that crack!

I have to smile when I remember Buster. He was a sweet kid. He grew up to be a sweet teddy bear of a man. He had a pecking hen for a wife and seven yammering youngsters. Lived all his days with that woman, wondering why she couldn't give him the sensations I had, and lamenting that first love—young love—was the best, and it was all down hill from there.

But I had too many other supplicants to attend to. I had arrived on a planet that was languishing for lack of the gift I had brought, and I decided that the only way to even begin to satisfy the need of this destitute parish was to allow each petitioner only one sacrament with me. Otherwise, how would I ever reach them all?


I became mildly acquainted with the religion of the masses when my girlfriend, Liesl, and I visited the church she attended with her parents on Sundays. It was a small building, very white and very cold.

The altar was made of marble: pretty, but plain, and so cold...and high!

I asked her how they got up on it, and she told me they didn't.

"Then where do you do the coupling rites?" I asked. The whitewashed wooden benches lining the aisles toward the door didn't look very comfortable either.

"We don't do coupling rites," she answered.

I was stunned. What kind of religion was this?


At the end of high school during the graduation ceremonies, I congratulated myself. I felt humbled by the enormity of my task, and grateful for the strength that had been given me to fulfill my mission. By the grace of the Golden Axiom, I had persevered to plant the Immutable Jewel of Light within every member of the male population that marched across the platform that night to receive their diploma.

For many of them, I had been the first in this lifetime to offer the sacred gift, and while many of them identified themselves with each other as part of the "Shawna Club," others kept their membership a secret, preferring to worship in private the fire which had been kindled upon their individual hearths.

Those who were attentive knew they had been changed, and were prepared to go out and initiate others to the High Altar of Love presided over by Shawna, High Priestess.

Sadly, I noted over the years that the faithful dwindled, and many of my initiates did not nurture the Flame with loving kindness, but allowed it to grow dim and dingy under selfish and base pursuits.

Still, I persevered.

Being accustomed in former lifetimes to the support of the Temple—"A workman is worth his hire", and "Do not fail to bring offerings unto the Servants of Love" were written in the Scriptures, after all—I received gladly the tithes and offerings brought to me in many forms. Sometimes it was cash, other times a meal, a gift of jewelry, an opportunity to travel to other places on the globe.

The most difficult part for the petitioners to accept was my edict that, once initiated, they could not return to me.

This gave me the most trouble. I felt terrible about it, because in any civilized society, there would have been numerous goddesses to satisfy the need, and I would not have been overtaxed. As it was, I could only do what I could do.


At one time, I thought I had found the sisterhood of my profession, when a gentleman escorted me downtown in a large, brightly lit city one night. There were glittering gowns, short form-fitting skirts, and tight blouses strutting up and down the street, linking arms with men whose prowling scent reached me within the vehicle we were driving.

I had never felt so much hungry, seeking energy concentrated in one place before. My nipples were reaching to it, my body was straining, bathing itself in moisture. I felt myself being pulled apart, ravaged by the need.

My companion, sensing my arousal, mistook the source of it for himself, and began to fondle me in the darkness of the car. Arresting his hand, I asked him about the place we were in.

I had not heard of the "Red Light District" before, but I thought it was a fitting name for a Temple. For the Fire which I sought to kindle in my followers was a Light that burned red hot in its most living state, just before it turned white, shifting into the cosmic dimension.

I got excited at the thought that here were other purveyors of my craft, and I asked my companion about them. Yes, he had visited some of them in his younger days. I wanted to meet them, but he discouraged me.

"Honey, you're a cut above them. You're a diamond; they're cut glass. You're the real thing; they're just cheap imitations."

I didn't know what he meant. Oh, how blessed it would be to find others of my kind in this world!

But he refused to introduce me to them, drowned my protest in the warmth of his mouth, took my elbow and escorted me inside to the restaurant on the 35th floor.

So I found a way to meet them on my own. While the energy was intense in that district, and I felt a drawing upon me that was predatory and unnatural, it wasn't as bad in the daylight, when I went and found some of the girls pacing. I asked a couple if we could talk, and offered to take them to tea at the restaurant where my friend and I had dined, as it was open for luncheon during the day.

They seemed surprised by my offer, and told me they'd have to turn a few "tricks" first, but they could meet me in a couple hours.

I felt puzzled. Why were they pacing the streets? Where were their Temples? Did a "trick" refer to the alchemy we performed of implanting the immutable, or was there other sorcery which they practiced?

I browsed a book store while I waited, and met them at the appointed time.

Where to begin?

Well, I gazed into their eyes over the table, and one of them lowered hers, while the other flicked hers sideways.

Taking in the surroundings in the restaurant, she asked, "So, whatcha wanna know? Lookin' for some action? This job ain't no walk in the park. Oh! I forgot! Yes it is!"

She glanced at her friend, put out her hand, which the other girl slapped, and laughed heavily.

"So, whatcha need girlfriend?"

"Well, I was wondering where your Temples are, and why you pace the streets as you do," I said.

"Temples? Temples?? Girl, I ain't Jewish. I don't know 'bout no temples. There's a cathedral down the end of Market Street. But why you bring us here to ask us about temples? We ain't exactly the church-goin' kind, if ya know what I mean."

She glanced at her friend again, widening her eyes and making a face at my naiveté.

She looked back to me and said with disdain, "An' why we walk the street? 'Cuz we need the green stuff." She rubbed her fingers together.

"Gotta eat; gotta drink."

She nudged her companion then. "Specially drink. Helps ya' forget. Helps pass the time. Helps dull the blows them bastards give . . ." she said, as if I ought to understand.

But I felt as if I was in a foreign land. This goddess was not speaking my language, if indeed she was a goddess, which I was beginning to doubt. The seeking vibrations I had felt in this place were unmistakable, but I began to understand their perverse nature as I noticed the dark circles around the woman's eyes which led into the dark, brooding sadness in their center. Such eyes held not the Sacred Light, much less the ability to transfer it to another through Union. I didn't know what to say. There didn't seem to be any communicating with these life forms. My hopes sank in my chest as I realized with embarrassment that it would take at least fifteen minutes to get the tea we had ordered and drink it, and find a polite way to end this fiasco.

The tea came while the woman was making her second examination of the entire restaurant, as if she had never seen such a place before.

She grimaced at the first sip of her tea, as if she had never tasted tea before.

After a few more sips, she suddenly exclaimed, "Well, we gotta go. Come on Carlotta. Thanks for the tea."

And they left.

I could only conjecture that this meeting had been as strange and alien to them as it had been for me.


So I resigned trying to contact others of my kind. My companion of that evening had told me they were called prostitutes. I was rather shocked when a subsequent devotee referred to me as such.

He was greatly in need, and I feared for the Jewel I would plant within him, for I felt from the moment I met him that he did not have the ability to nurture it. But, being a Servant of the Most High, it was not mine to question the disciples drawn to me by the Golden Axiom. The sun shone upon rich and poor, just and unjust, and in the same way was my gift given to all who sought it.

It was when I told him I could not see him again that he called me that name, asking in an angry tone why I thought I was too good for him, since the friend who had referred him to me made it plain I was "just an expensive, high class prostitute."

I decided to let his attitude slide and chalk it up to sexual frustration, and ignorance. I too had thought at one time that there was some similarity between those others and myself. I couldn't expect one of their kind to perceive the difference.

But when he grabbed my wrist across the table and wouldn't let it go, I became frightened. None of my adherents liked the limitations of my service, but they had all accepted it one way or another.

An angel stepped up to our table at that moment.

[The continuation of this story is available at all the popular online bookstores, if you would like to order it.]

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