mia loves henry miller
Letter 12 – Whispers To My Lover
“After dinner, Sophia, Josh, and Isadora were all three bemoaning the state of the world and smoking a little dope. From which they professed into one of those discussions of “open” marriage which is clearly a come on. Since Isadora could see Josh eyeing Sophia’s tits with undisguised yearning, and since Josh was in a deep depression following the publication of a book that was ignored, and since Isadora believed she could sooner keep him by holding him loosely than by trying to bind to herself his joy (to steal a metaphor from Blake), she didn’t protest when Josh maneuvered them all to the waterbed.” —Erica Jong, Parachutes & Kisses
Whispers to My Lover
I wait for him – cold and shivering in my long, black, vintage, fur coat
Outside the Barnes and Nobles store on Nicollet Mall.
Wind whips through buildings of glass, steel, and concrete – short, medium, and tall.
Autumn’s breath chilling downtown Minneapolis – the mini-apple – a quaint and cold city
I love the energy which buzzes above the old, the modern, the clean, and the nitty – gritty!
My lover – a successful man, ends his long, work day, high inside the tallest skyscraper nearby.
I sip my cup of hot tea – observing a variety of people pass me by
Until, I see him – walking towards me, from the corner of my eye
His silver hair dipping in between people who race for busses, taxis, cars and trains
Talking business on his cell phone beneath a sheer, freezing sheet of rain
Dressed sharply – suit and tie – his smoky, ardent eyes meet mine
A moment full of heat – captured in single space of time
Soon, he disconnects his cell phone line
Heat flushing through my fervent veins
My heart throbs hotly between my thighs
When I think of it today – I softly sigh
How I whispered in his ear, “I want to feel your fingers dance inside me.”
And he did just so – ever so discretely.
No one knew – it was just him and me
It was our secret – I felt so naughty
We were so intimate, despite the busy city
Soon, I hear a familiar car horn – beep!
I feel one more thrust inside me – deep!
Heat still radiating between my trembling thighs
My face feels flush – I release a sigh
I kiss his cheek – quickly say, “Goodbye.”
“Hi baby,” my husband greets, “How was your day?”
After I shut the car door and we are on our way
“Good,” I reply, “I bought some books today.”
“More?” He asks, laughing, “I’m not surprised.”
My lips curl upward – spreading wide
Embarrassed – He knew me oh so well!
My love for books – words to me a magic spell!
I put my hand lovingly upon his knee
Taking a small sip of my lukewarm tea
In my side view mirror I see faint images of Nicollet Mall
Leaving the city behind, where buildings stand – sleek and tall
My lips curl upward again – this time naughtily
I’m thinking of my lover in the city.
12/12/2011 5:42 p.m.
“I have been on my good behavior with you. But I warn you I am no angel. I think principally I am a little drunk. I love you. I go to bed now – it is too painful to stay awake. I love you. I am insatiable. I will ask you to do the impossible. What it is I don’t know. You will tell me probably. You are faster than I am. I love your cunt, Anais – it drives me crazy. And the way you say my name! God, it’s unreal. Listen, I am very drunk. I am hurt here to be alone. I need you. Can I say anything to you? I can, can’t I? Come quickly then, and screw me. Shoot with me. Wrap your legs around me. Warm me.” –Henry Miller, Letter to Anais Nin, March 21, 1932 (Clichy), excerpt from book, a Literate Passion – Letters of Anais Nin & Henry Miler 1932 to 1953
Dear Henry Miller,
I’m taking a break from painting, my feet hurt, and my legs are weak and tired. I’ve been standing for hours. I’m waiting for my husband to arrive home from work. I’m trying to relax for awhile, watching television or a movie on cable in my suburban living room. However, my couch is surrounded by books you have authored, or Anais Nin or Erica Jong has authored. They have been begging for attention, much like my four, small dogs who sit near me, staring at me, pleading for a scratch behind the ear or belly. So, are all my tasks which I need to do for our New Year’s Eve Burlesque Show. I was contacted a few hours ago by City Pages. They are A-listing our event and showcasing some photos of my cast. I’m thrilled. I’ve been worried about advertising costs for this show. And this is an awesome answer to my prayer. I feel so fortunate!
I will write in the morning before painting. Good night Henry!
12/13/2011 – 10:34 A.M.
“No man is alone who is thoroughly is himself.” – Henry Miller, Hamlet Letters
Dear Henry Miller,
Good Morning. Mr. C is gone – on a business trip. Mr. B is also gone – on a business trip. It’s just you, I, my written words, my dogs and my painting. The four doves which I use for magic performances, their names inspired by you and your circle of friends, Emil, Vienna( Emil White’s favorite place to visit), Henry, and Valentine, coo continuously, loudly, as if reverberating from surround sound speakers. A few of them continuously peck for food on their cage floor, rhythmically the noise from it sounds in the air, as if instruments to accompany the others who are cooing. Sometimes Emil will tirelessly ring his bell, in between this morning symphony, hoping to get my attention. Emil is the alpha male dove with the funniest personality ever!
The poem I wrote above was a moment in time, Mr. B and I spent together, on a damp, early spring day in downtown Minneapolis. I’m very grateful that I can live the polyamorous life I desire – to assiduously experience things as if I were living the life of Anais Nin. I’m a writer and an artist. I cannot help but be curious and to live my life in a way which best suits me.
“To always be ecstatic. Be filled with divine intoxication.” –Henry Miller, Conversations with Ben Grauer
It was almost six years ago, when Mr. B and I had coffee for the first time at the Barnes & Noble on Nicollet Mall (this was not the visit which inspired the poem). It was snowing, late afternoon on St. Patrick’s Day. The streets were busy, getting ready for the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade on Nicollet Mall. Only in Minnesota did we still have a heavy snow fall in late March. We met several weeks earlier at the Writer’s loft, sharing a class together on fiction writing for the past few weeks. He enchanted me with his written words. I thought, when he read his work a loud in class, he was handsome, brilliant, imaginative, and creative – I had a lust filled crush slowly growing on him, even though he was twenty years older than I. But, the huge age difference between us never seemed awkward. I felt comfortable to say whatever was on my mind, and listen to his stories and conversations, whenever we’d smoke a cigarette together after class in his sports car. Sometimes, we’d smoke a little pot; discuss our writing, books, and favorite authors. Sometimes we’d smoke pot and make out like teenagers at Inspirational Point. I like the fact that Mr. B rarely seems much older than I. We somehow connected on the same level. That’s all that matters to me.
We used to fuck at a wide range of hotels in the Twin Cities area, nice hotels, expensive hotels, moderate hotels, and even some low scale, skanky ones – wherever it was convenient, until I rented my first artist loft in St. Paul, a year or so into our relationship.
“Taboos after all are only hangovers, the product of diseased minds, you might say, of fearsome people who hadn’t the courage to live and who under the guise of morality and religion have imposed these things upon us.” –Henry Miller, The Paris Review.
At the time of our first meeting, I had been married to Mr. C for seven years. Mr. B had been married to his highly conventional wife for approximately nine years. We both loved our spouses deeply. However, we found that we both required much more sexual contact and satisfaction, than we were getting from our spouses. We also connected as writers. We understood each other through the written word and literature. We inspired one another, fueling each of us to continue to write. Mr. B soon became a fatherly figure for me. He also filled needs in which my marital relationship couldn’t, as I did for him – like eating ethnic foods. In many countries, states, cities and cultures, there is often more than one mate in a person’s life. I am not writing about something new.
“These girls with old gents don’t do it despite the age — they’re drawn to the age, they do it for the age. Why? In Consuela’s case, because the vast difference in age gives her permission to submit, I think. My age and my status give her, rationally, the license to surrender, and surrendering in bed is a not unpleasant sensation. But simultaneously, to give yourself over intimately to a much, much older man provides this sort of younger woman with authority of a kind she cannot get in a sexual arrangement with a younger man. She gets both the pleasures of submission and the pleasures of mastery.” —Philip Roth, The Dying Animal
Mr. B has no children. Our relationship is kinky and Lolita-ish. We were both huge fans for Nabokov’s Lolita, which are both of our all time favorite story. Getting to the comfort level where we are at today, wasn’t very easy. It was very difficult for me in the beginning, to let Mr. B get close to me – I held him at an arms distance – terrified of intimacy once again. I had no problem fucking him – which I didn’t mind. It was dealing with the emotional part I had difficulty with. It made my life so much easier when we were just fucking without attachments and emotions.
“Before it is possible to love one another, as we are so often enjoined, respect the privacy of the soul.” –Henry Miller, Stand Still Like the Hummingbird
Mr. B and I have endured a few break ups over the course of our dating years. It is when our connection was severed, when I realized how stupid I was for keeping him at a distance – a great arms length. It was when we completely distanced ourselves from each other when I realized that my heart was big enough for more than one person. Mr. C will always be number one in my heart, my mind, my soul and my life. Mr. B’s wife will always be the same for him. I am no longer afraid to share some of myself with him. He is a large part of my life. I hope that it continues.
12/13/2011 – 9:56 p.m.
I just received a very hot email from Mr. B – He arrives home tomorrow from his business trip. We are meeting tomorrow night at the loft. I’m looking forward to highly erotic time.
It’s about 60 degrees outside, maybe a little warmer. I have a balcony in my room, and I went out on it to smoke some dope. I imagined you there with me, bending over on the balcony. And I lift your skirt and pull your panties down, and put my cock in you deep while you hold on to the rail of the balcony with both hands. I grab your hair and pull it back, and the whole skyline of downtown Atlanta, red and white, is before you. You could spit, and it would rain down 20 floors. I have my cock so deep inside you that you scream. I pound you hard.
A few moments later, I pull my hard cock out of you and let you pant there on the edge of the balcony. I make you stand up, and I pin your arms behind you. March into the bedroom, slut!
I put a blindfold on you and I bend you over the bed. I have a large leather flogger, and I flog your bare ass.
I want to test your slut-O-meter, so I pull your hair and make you kneel before me. I want your mouth to tease my cock. You have to fill in the details here: Use your imagination darling.
— Mr. B – Last Night’s email.
Good Night Henry. I will have to paint some more this evening.
I will try and write tomorrow.
“Whoever the Creator may be, one feels that He is not concerned with success or failure, sorrow or joy, but with the drama itself. It is up to each of us to discover the rules of the game. The problems that arise in the course of one’s life are never really solved; they were not meant to be. The murderer had a different role to play than the saint; all that is asked is that one play its part the best he can. For the authors of the play is really one own self. (“I and the Father are one.”) And so it is not the happy ending or the bad ending that matters, but the endless transmutation of which we are witness and prime mover at one and the same time. ” –Henry Miller, The Paintings of Henry Miller: Paint As You Like And Die Happy