mia loves henry miller
Letter 14 – Fortune Cookies, Dirty Talk, Spankings and the Smashed, Stepped on Fried Szechuan Green Bean
“I don’t believe in health foods and diets. I have probably been eating the wrong things all my life—and have thrived on it. What I do I do first for enjoyment.” –Henry Miller, on Turning Eighty
“Writing is its own reward.” –Henry Miller
12/16/2011- 7:17 p.m.
Dear Henry Miller,
It’s been an exhausting day. I just returned from the mural project. It was good to see my friends, Mr. K and Miss V today. I had missed them! I don’t really know if the people who read my letters which I write to you via blog enjoy them or not. I have a few followers and I’m appreciative of the people who have click on the “like” tab, on some of my entries. I’ve even had a few comments. It is my hope that my readers find pleasure in the words I write, as much as I enjoy writing them to you, Henry. It’s been exhilarating, recalling so many of my past experiences, fantasies, dreams, and memories. However, it’s been a gigantic rush just writing these letters to you, exposing the details about my galvanizing life, which thrills me, enlivens me – completely liberates me. Every day, since I began, I have felt excited to share my time with you by writing these letters. I somehow feel connected with you on a cosmic level (much like in the movie Julie/Julia, between the blogger, Amy Adams and Julia Child, Meryl Streep), through your written words, your books, your letters, your wisdom, your friendships, your videos, and your vibrant art.
These letters are also reacquainting me with relinquishing my will and my life to each single moment in time – to surrender to my obstacles, my circumstances, my finances, my art, my writing, my performances, my relationships with my husband, my children, my lovers, my pets, and the future of my burlesque show. I am learning to let go and trust that everything will turn out for the best. I’m learning how to apply all that I have learned over the past decade and to use it as tools to enrich my life, such as submitting to all aspects of life. I want to grow another year wiser – more experienced – better – richer in all ways, monetarily and emotionally– and even become a more defined, strong, confident woman.
“Henry makes notes on me. He registers all I say. We are both registering, each with different sensors. The life of writers in another life.” –Anais Nin, Henry and June Diaries
(Mr. B’s visit on Wednesday night – 12-14-11)
Mr. B and I picked up Chinese food at the Tea House on the way to the loft, from my home in suburbia. The food at the Tea House is always delicious! We ordered, Chung King Spicy Chicken, Fried Szechuan Green Beans, and pan fried dumplings. It tasted wonderful! I was hungry! I didn’t eat much most of the day. My appetite felt insatiable by the time we entered the loft with our brown paper bags of Chinese take – out.
Mr. B and I enjoyed our spicy meal together, cozy on the couch near the fireplace – our food spread out on the coffee table like an intimate, evening picnic. Between our conversations, our amorous touches, our ravishing caresses, and our wanton gazes, my eyes would observe the twinkling back drop of the Twin Cities, peeking through my long, tall vertical blinds, which sheath my large balcony. I love our connection with each other, as well as the view of the city from my cosmopolitan loft. Between bites of Asian food with our forks, fingers, and chopsticks, we conversed about our day, his writing, my painting, his upcoming book contracts, my Henry Miller blog, his financial donation to the Writer’s Loft, as well as his unfortunate trip to NYC next week – my upcoming holiday plans with my family and my New Year’s Eve burlesque Show. We covered much territory with our conversations in such a short length of time, while fueling ourselves with savory food for an eventful night ahead of us.
Mr. B had also told me that he read a few letters I wrote to you, Henry, over the past few days, in his car on the way to the restaurant, and that it made him so horny! I said to him, turning my head in the passenger seat, facing him, smiling with sass and satisfaction. “I wouldn’t be very good at getting my point across if my words did not make you horny! I’d be a shitty writer, and that Mr. Writer Man, would definitely suck!” I teased with an impish twinkle in my eyes, my lips curling upward wickedly, my hand now reaching over to stroke his hardness a few times, feeling so juvenile and mischievous. (It means so much to me that Mr. B likes my writing. Because of his successful career as an author, I highly respect what he thinks of my work). Soon after Mr. B’s car parked at the restaurant, I yelped, distressed, when I felt his virile hand reach over, tugging on my long, sleek, ebony ponytail. “You are so bad!” He scolded, laughing while exiting the car, “that’s what I love about you.”
After we finished eating, we quickly broke open all of our fortune cookies. I insisted! I did not want to eat them – my stomach bulged, full of dinner. I just wanted to read the fortunes inside. Fortune No. 1 – your mood signals a period of change – Fortune No. 2 – The odds of hitting your target go up dramatically when you aim at it – Fortune No. 3- A judgment will rule in my favor – Fortune No. 4 – Affection is the broadest base of a full life.
I liked fortune No. 2 and Fortune No. 4 the best – especially No. 4. Mr. B says that I am a slut for reading Chinese fortunes buried inside fortune cookies. I’m just a slut for the written word – especially, if they are words of wisdom. It’s generally when I’m in the need of the most guidance in my life, is when the perfect words jump out of a book, a song, or spoken lines from a movie, words from a poem, a blog, an email, or even a fortune cookie. The written word in many forms is what encourages me to move forward on my journey in life. It’s the synergy of many authors, in a million different forms, guiding me like a bright northern star on a dark night.
“I have only three desires now, to eat, to sleep, and to fuck.” –Anais Nin, Henry and June Diaries
I took my two, black, square, ceramic, dinner plates to the sink, removing them from my large, vintage, oriental, black lacquer, mother of pearl coffee table. Mr. B filled a one hitter full with expensive marijuana. We took turns hitting on it, deeply inhaling – slowly exhaling, watching the flames in the fireplace, dance and flicker nearby. Mr. B turned on his IPod for our background music – our stomachs still feeling uncomfortably full – our muscles and thoughts unwinding, like the curls of smoke unraveling in the sweet, pungent air. I lavished spending my time with Mr. B – my body leaning into him, like a lazy, content cat. Him and I, generating a hedonic fervor on the couch. Soon, we fell into a rhythmic dance of lust, need, greed, punishment and surrender.
“Yes, Anais, I was thinking how I could betray you, but I can’t. I want you. I want to undress you, vulgarize you a bit – ah, I don’t know what I am saying. I am a little drunk because you are not here. I would like to clap my hands and Voila –Anais! I want to own you, use you. I want to fuck you; I want to teach you things. No, I don’t appreciate you – God forbid! Perhaps I even want to humiliate you a little – why, why?” — Henry Miller, A Literate Passion – Letters Of Anais Nin & Henry Miller 1932-1953
I fought for breath between the harsh spankings, gasping, feeling abashed, submissively bent over Mr. B’s knee (that sounds kind of cute when it is said a loud), my dark blue skinny jeans and my panties wrapped tightly around my knees. “Ooh! Ouch! Oh My! Umpf!” were the only sounds that escaped my lips with each sinful strike upon my bare ass. Suddenly, I burst out laughing, almost uncontrollably. I had difficulty, concentrating on our dark, perverted scene when my eyes darted in upon a smashed, Szechuan Fried Green Bean on the floor, inches away from my face. Mr. B must have stepped on it when he went to the bathroom earlier. It looked like a gross, green worm that had been stepped upon in the rain, immediately zapping me out of the erotic zone – but, only briefly.
Whack! Whack! Whack! My body writhed and shuddered, sensing Mr. B’s hand thwack down hard upon my tender, heated flesh – a vast explosion of torridity and white stars danced before my eyes – electricity zapped every single one of my atoms – blood rushed through me like wild, white water rapids, throbbing fast and hard between my thighs.
“Ouch!” I yelped, distressed, yet, stifling my laughter as best as I could – attempting to rid myself of the aching grin on my face. It probably wasn’t the best time to laugh – however, I couldn’t help myself. It took me awhile to slip into our sexual groove again. Mr. B’s spankings were helping me to forget.
Over the next hour or so, our reactions with each other played off one another fabulously, intuitively, impassionedly as if a well played tennis match. When Mr. B wrapped his hand around my hair and yanked down hard – I cringed with anguish, drawing in my breath with thrilled shock – exhaling moans which echoed throughout the loft- so desperate and fervent. The L-shaped web of skin on Mr. B’s hand, the delicate part between his thumb and forefinger, forcefully jammed itself into my mouth, silencing my moans and fake protests – stringently pushing between my teeth, assuring my silence. I luxuriated in the dominance in which he exhibited – diabolic and dynamic. His other hand pushed arduously between my inflamed thighs, vigorously wiggling, curling, thrusting, and even knuckling my thick, swollen, greedy sex – violating the fleshy, juicy walls deep within me.
We eventually made our way to the bedroom – my right hand vehemently pleasuring his cock, stroking up and down, back and forth, rhythmically – fast, slow, squeezing, releasing – my fingers tickling, teasing and taunting the glossy, wet head of his penis. Mr. B pinned my arms firmly to the bed, with one his strong hands above my head. His other slapped me on the face a few times, not enough to do damage, just enough to keep me aware of his dominance. My back arched upward towards the ceiling. Mr. B’s fingers fucking me into a crazy, frenzied state of lust. In between my flooding wet pleasure, Mr. B would turn my body over, spanking my ass until I was twisting, squirming, looking for retreat and respite – my body revolting the pain. My exaltation climbing slowly as if I was riding on a large, terrifying, roller coaster. Mr. B was drowning me in deep, orgasmic pools of pleasure, molesting me with an ornate glass dildo we bought many years ago at a sex exposition at the Minneapolis Convention Center, shortly after we first met. I loved to be fucked by it because it’s very rigid with decorative spirals of cold, colorful glass. My gratified cries were loud and abundant – sometimes I found myself screaming into my pillow to soften the volume. Every inch of me was tormented with extreme over stimulation, I could hardly withstand it. My pleasure was transcending into pain – and my pain quickly transcending into orgasmic bliss. I felt on fire!
Mr. B heightened my arousal, exhilarating me with barrage of dirty talk. “Are you a dirty slut?” He asks. “Do you like to be my slut, fucking girl and suck my cock?” “Do you like to be naughty for your Daddy?” “Do you like it when I fuck you fast, deep, and hard?” “Do you want to come, my darling? Do you want to be my fucking slave – my pretty little fucking toy?”
“Yes, to all the above,” I thought to myself, permitting my lover to do whatever he commanded me to do. We finally reached my favorite part when Mr. B hands me my Hitachi Wand, demanding me, “make yourself come, you fucking slut, make yourself come!”
And, so I do as he asks, desperate, wet, horny and so greedy for the ultimate climax. When I finished, Mr. B fucks me again, deep and hard, until my only vocabulary is, “Oh Jeez! Oh God! Oh yes! Oh no! Oh yeah! Oh God! Oh fuck yeah….Oh my! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!” My inebriated eyes blur, rolling upward towards the top of my head – blind from non-stop, titanic waves of unbridled, orgasmic pleasure!
When Mr. B ejaculates, he forces me to come some more, with the assistance of toys, a large dildo and thrusting fingers. I feel obliterated afterwards, as if I was a used up rag doll collapsed upon the bed, pleading for Mr. B to stop, attempting to catch my breath. As I lay there, trying to regain my composure, my chest heaving for air, I slipped into the zone between the conscious and unconscious. I felt so drunk on sex. Yet, I felt revived!
Afterwards, we snuggled up close to each other, talking, thinking, recuperating, while sharing a Christmas cookie – each of us enjoying the thrill of taking turns, biting off the head off of a sugary reindeer.
It was a very fun night! I must go to bed, Henry. I have a very busy day tomorrow.
“His life – the underworld, Carco, violence, ruthlessness, monstrosity, gold digging, debauch. I read his notes avidly with horror. For a year, in semi-solitude, my imagination has had time to grow beyond measures. At night, in a fever, Henry’s words press in on me. His violent, aggressive manhood pursues me. I taste that violence with my mouth, with my womb. Crushed against the earth with the man over me, possessed until I want to cry out. “ –Anais Nin, Diary of Henry and June
Photo taken by David G – Stillwater, MN