mia loves henry miller
Letter 24 – Love Letters, Midnight in Paris, Erotic Fantasies and the Roaring Twenties
“That night I was going to hear Henry Miller speak at an acting class, my house burned down. I didn’t go to the lecture, but a few weeks later I still wanted to meet him. I began to ask around for his address so I could write to him. At the same time, I was trying to refurnish my home. At an estate auction I discovered a first edition set of books titled Women through the Ages. I took out one of the volumes, and there folded inside was a letter from Henry Miller to a woman. How could I not bid on the books? Three thousand dollars later I owned them and had Miller’s address. I wrote him, enclosing the letter I had found, as well as a few “actress” photographs of myself that I thought might pique his curiosity. A few days later, Henry sent the first of fifteen hundred letters he was to write to me. We became good friends and, perhaps, even more.” —Brenda Venus, Dear, Dear Brenda
Dear Henry Miller,
I wish that I would’ve been able to communicate to you via letters, when you were alive. I would have savored and cherished the words you might have written to me in reply to my letters, upon paper. Your past lovers, Brenda Venus, Hoki Tokunda, and Anais Nin were lucky to possess a bit of your soul, capturing your spirit with the words you once wrote to them in numerous letters. The great passion you possessed when you were alive, must have bled into the ink like deep, flowing blood.
I know time travel is impossible. To satisfy my yearning to transport into the past, I made do by slowly, over the course of many years, purchasing a vast collection of your books, reading them whenever I found a spare moment. You speak to me from another space and time, another era, another realm, through your written words – through the books you have left behind. I have an obsessive need to speak back to you from my mortal plane to your immortal plane, through my erotic, personal letters written to you, hoping to connect with you on a deeply spiritual level, beyond the limits of the physical body.
Letter from Henry Miller to Brenda Venus 8/19/1976 – “Dear Brenda, Not finding any letter from you these last two days is like seeing a deep black hole in a bright blue sky.” –Henry Miller, Dear, Dear Brenda
As I read over some of your letters you wrote to Brenda Venus, I learned how anxious you were to receive letters from her in return. I felt your disappointment on the days when you didn’t receive any. You were also disappointed when you didn’t get letters from Hoki or Anais, as often as you would have preferred. I sometimes wonder about if you would feel just as anxious to read my letters, much like you were with Hoki, Brenda, and Anais, if we had lived in the same life time and had been lovers. I’d like to think so, and ponder the thought that maybe that is what is driving me to continue writing my letters to you today. I know that you enjoyed the art of letter writing, and that you also enjoyed receiving letters, especially from good friends and lovers.
I once read that Hoki did not read a majority of your letters until after you passed away. With written words, you connected with her, and a million other souls, after you were gone and they were published. I was mesmerized by your book, Letters to Hoki, so many years ago. I remember that I had just watched the movie, Henry and June, and was enamored by you, Anais Nin and June. After I read your first letter to Hoki, I was hooked to your passionate words and soul. Shortly thereafter, I took the time to read Anais Nin’s diary, Henry and June. I absolutely adored Anais’ writing!
You are a man I would have loved to experience life with, to vehemently fuck – to make mad passionate love to. I figured that it could do no harm to write to you about my thrilling, erotic life. Maybe on a spiritual level we are communicating. I’d like to think so. Or I’m just writing letters to air and nothingness – to an empty void in space and time – to an imaginary person. I’m okay with that too. Pretending that we are connecting is what continues to keep me writing. It keeps my imagination well oiled. Writing to you is like writing to a good friend – offering me the comfort to get more personal and explicit.
I recently watched the Woody Allen movie, starring Owen Wilson and Rachel Mc Adams, Midnight in Paris – wonderful movie, especially for writers. I really enjoyed it – except that they didn’t include you or Anais into the mix of great writers living in Paris during those times. The movie reminds me of you, and writers like me. Owen Wilson, the main character, (Gil) is a striving author, loving to walk the streets of Paris at night. At midnight, he escapes, lured by several high spirited, inebriated people, in a fancy, vintage automobile, driving into the night, into another dimension in time and space – into a vintage world – the roaring twenties.
In this estranged world, Gil meets legendary writers, Hemmingway, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stine, and artists like Picasso and Salvador Dali. He also meets a very beautiful woman named Adriana – who had been a lover to Picasso and Hemmingway, who Gil starts to fall in love with…
I can’t slip through a magic dimension in space and time, like Gil did in this romantic movie – to travel back to Paris, to the exciting and exuberant era when you were living there. When you were barely surviving financially, writing during your days and nights. When you strolled silently, deep in thought, upon the idyllic boulevards of Paris at night – when you were making love to Anais, or fucking June when she visited, or when you were bedding pretty whores at French brothels.
My imagination and writing is my only transport to the past, to you, in Paris. It permits me to teleport back in time, when you were a young, vital, passionate, hungry writer, who was so full of life and passion. I can almost see the Eiffel Tower, taste the delicious French pastries, hear the romantic melodies of people speaking French, see the newest fashions, hear the tranquil current of the River Seine, and listen the Cathedral bells ringing every fifteen minutes at Notre Dame.
“(Henry) Louveciennes – November 26, 1933
Was thinking last night apropos of ‘Mlle. Claude’ and Germaine that it was a pity that women could not enjoy gigolos in the same way as men enjoy a whore. It is a fact that they don’t; that the only women who make use of them are women who can’t get anything else. Man needs reality, and woman illusion. Man needs illusion, too, but the woman who gives him illusion also gives him less reality- in proportion. Why did the ancient whores of Greece and Babylon and India study also the art of speaking, of culture, of artifice (see Kama sutra)?” –Anais Nin, A Literate Passion, Letters of Anais Nin and Henry Miller, 1932 – 1953
I’m going to use my imagination, Henry, pretending that we’ve entered through a mystical door in time and space. – We are in Paris 1920’s. I am a young, beautiful French girl, named Fifi Marie, working at a moderately priced, Parisian brothel, as a prostitute. Fifi is very passionate about life, sex, literature, art, poetry, and writing. The only way I can experience life and survive as an artist, during the great depression, is to make love to men and women for a living – an occupation where I can make good money for a short amount of my time. So that I can purchase books, paints, canvas, brushes, ink and paper to write on. And so, I would have enough time in my day to paint, read or write.
Fantasy to be continued….
1/5/12 10:12 p.m.
I must get some sleep Henry. I will try and write soon.
1/8/2012 8:14 p.m.
I apologize, Henry – it’s been a few days since I’ve had the time to write. I’ve been working on some art work this weekend, using Sharpies and Prisma Color Markers. I feel like a kid lost in the joy of creating for hours. I’m finding it difficult to balance my writing with creating my art. I’m sure I will eventually get the knack for juggling both my art and my writing. I used to do it often when I was with MindCaviar.com. I wonder if you ever felt torn between your two loves, writing and painting…
Back to the story of you and I, in Paris 1920’s…
“I’m no model lady. A model is just an imitation of the real thing.” –Mae West
“Ten men waiting for me at the door? Send one of them home, I’m tired.” –Mae West
Fifi Marie feels no shame for her profession as a prostitute in Paris 1920’s. I’m not forced to do this. In this fantasy, I do it because I like to do it. The profession was different than I initially expected. I wasn’t so sure that I could connect with others so quickly and intimately. After a few weeks, I find it intriguing. I think being a paid lover is a beautiful art form. It offers me great satisfaction to make others feel good. I like being with the other girls at this brothel and a part of Madame Cherie’s family. Fifi Marie feels no remorse for her sins.
One night, after midnight, you find me at a Madame Cherie’s brothel, which you are well known at. Many of the girls talk about you, Henry – all good things about the way you fuck. Anais has just mailed you some money, which she snuck from Hugo’s wallet. You are suppose to buy food and writing supplies – but you must have felt me thinking about you, my voice calling you in the night – to come to me – to share my world for awhile.
We had met once before, months ago, in the brothel’s line up. You probably don’t remember me – you didn’t choose me, you chose Bella. She’s a wonderful choice – a very beautiful and an amazing lover – this I know personally. But, it’s not her that I yearn for. It’s you, ever since the first time I saw you and heard you brutally fucking Bella in her bedroom, which is right next to mine. The walls are thin with barely any insulation.
On the evening which you pick me from the line up, I am wearing black, fishnet stockings with a tight, blood red corset, shiny black pumps, and very feminine, elegant, silk, black lace bloomers. I’m wearing a long, elegant, sheer black robe over it, tied at the waist. My hair is short, raven black in a dramatic 1920’s finger wave style – my lips are painted ruby red – my eye make-up dark, bordered by charcoal black. You immediately pick me out of the lineup, wasting no time. You tell me on the way upstairs that I remind you of your French lover, Anais Nin. She sounds beautiful and intriguing.
I can see hungry lust filling in your deep, penetrating eyes, whenever you steal quick glances at me. Your sexual appetite is awakening as we near my room. So is mine. My heart is racing with apprehension, which I most often do not feel before a visit from a gentleman. You are different Henry. I can feel your virility – taste your dominance in the air. I must admit, I am apprehensive– but, my curiosity is so much stronger.
“‘Well, you know…’ she said, finishing it off with a lascivious laugh. The laugh got to me in the scrotum. I got a hold of her again, pushing her into a corner. I put my hand on her cunt, which was blazing, and slid my tongue down her throat.” –Henry Miller, Sexus, Volume One
Seconds after I shut my door, you grab my arms tightly, thrusting me closer to you. Your face nears mine, your breath hot and raspy, your lips press hard and ardently onto mine. Your mouth opening with voracity, lust and eagerness, your tongue deeply exploring every crevice inside my mouth, you suck the tip of my tongue as if it were my clitoris – your well, built cock, stiff beneath your pants. In a horny frenzy, I help you out of your trousers and under garment, stroking your shaft a few times, squeezing it inside the palm of my hot and sweaty hand, feeling it grow harder. I do a slow strip tease to tantalize your senses. You race to unbutton your shirt, remove it, tossing it onto the floor, alongside my robe, corset, garter, stockings and bloomers.
Without words you firmly guide my body until I am on my knees, sternly grabbing the back of my hair again, forcing my mouth near your hardness. Your other hand softly stroking the side of my face, “Good girl,” you whisper down to me, praising me,” good girl.” I am comforted, briefly. Next, you position my face closer to your cock, pushing it beyond my lips, deep into my mouth. Your hand continues to tightly grip the back of my hair, pushing my head firmly downward – you enter much deeper towards the back of my throat. My lips tightly encompass your raging hard on – my mouth sucks greedily.
I’m not used to such aggressive lovers. I’m an inexperienced whore who is still learning. Your rough demeanor is alarming and arousing. Your dominance excites me. Yet, it’s frightening. This spicy flavor of sex is also enticing, intriguing, titillating, and lecherous. I’m very wet. There is no way that I can fake this kind of arousal, Henry.
“Here I am back and still smoldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger.” –Henry. V. Miller, A Literate Passion, Letters of Anais Nin and Henry Miller, 1932 – 1953
I gasp for breath, my eyes open wider with surprise, when you throw me down upon my freshly made bed – the clean, crisp sheets, aromatic with the scent of sunshine and fresh air. Your dominant force surprises me – slightly knocking the wind out of me. My sex aches with mad lust, pulsing, throbbing, and dripping hot, humid moisture. I was as wet as a dewy blade of grass on a hot Mississippi morning in mid-July. My body quivers intensely with anticipation and hunger. My back arching high when your fingers tickle my glistening slit and play with my stiff, pink stem, teasing, taunting, pinching, poking and stroking me.
Your other hand reaches for my left nipple, fondling it gently. Soon, your fingers pull and twist my nipples with mounting pressure – my eyes brim with salty tears. Blood rushes fervently to my clit, as if the erotic sensation in my nipple is somehow connected deeply inside me, to my stiff, wet clit. Suddenly, you release it – blood rushes back into my agonized nipple – my toes now curling with scandalous rapture.
Your strong, viral force intoxicates me like a full glass of expensive champagne. I gasp for air when you plunge two of your fingers deeply into me, offering me a slight bit of relief – giving a small morsel to the voracious, sex demon inside me. You enjoy observing my face, to see if I find pleasure in what you offer – to make sure I am pleased with your deft hands and your overriding, erotic torture. I can hardly stare back at you – I’m intimidated, I’m submissive, I’m highly stimulated and I’m absolutely high on endorphines – dizzy and dumbfounded.
Before your visit to me at Madame Cherie’s brothel, I had been with many well paying gentlemen – none of them brave enough to seduce me with their strong hands and their commanding aura. I can easily seduce them into tame, harmless beasts with just one kiss, with just one stroke from my soft yet firm hand, or with just one slide of my wet, silky tongue upon their long, hard shaft. But, you are different, Henry. I sensed that right away. Our passion as writers and artists explodes with carnal instincts and inflamed desires. We live in the moment, letting the erotic drama unfold…your soft bites on my nipples, three of your fingers plowing deeply into me, curling, wiggling, and dancing inside of my plush, velvet walls, as if a great puppeteer, making my body do things I never imagined.
I am in “La La” Land, forgetting that you only paid for one hour of my time and attention – I’ll have to make up some kind of lie to tell Madame Cherie. Our time together is running well over an hour. I don’t want this to end. I forget about the minutes on the clock. Vehemently you fuck me like wild beast, in a variety of carnal ways.
You prime my pump, beginning with missionary style – your teeth scraping against my pulsing throat, nibbling and softly biting the sensitive skin on my neck, sending shivers down my spine. I can hear laughter downstairs and Bella fucking some guy in the room next to mine. Her headboard is banging against my wall at a fast and furious pace. She’s very vocal about her erotic pleasure. I let her arousal heighten mine until I push the noise out of my mind, concentrating upon your rhythm as if we were intimately dancing.
Both of my hands tightly grip your small, white ass. Slowly, it pumps up and down, up and down, picking up pace like a locomotive departing a train station. Your hand, gripping and pulling the back of my hair, hard, until my face winces in pain, when we fuck like beasts, doggie style – your hips thrust rapidly in fervor, crashing hard into me. I’m thrilled beyond words. Sometimes your hand spanks my firm ass and sometimes you use it to quiet my moans, covering my mouth with it, silencing the screams which desire to escape from my mouth. You are driving me fucking wild!
The pleasure is so exquisite. I’m deeply inhaling for air, admiring your self control when you cease fucking me, without ejaculating. Your strong hands flip me upon my back, prying my legs apart, spreading them as far as they will go. My lascivious moans begin again when I feel your tongue sensuously slide down my body, southward, towards the hottest part of my body. My eyes flutter and roll towards the back of my head, relishing the ecstasy, when you go down on me, forever licking my clit and cunt.
You are relentless – devouring me – my hands gripping the bed sheets tightly, wrinkling them with the dampness of my sweaty hands. My lascivious moans escalate, increasing in volume, second by second. My voice sounds raspy, my mouth and throat feel dry from breathing so heavily. I’ve been panting as if a dog on a hot afternoon, enduring this glorious pleasure. You play my naked body like a symphonic instrument, soaring me to the high notes, plunging me to the low notes, maintaining my pleasure with the in between notes, and shattering my world with the ultimate, clitoral climax!
“You’re a naughty, fucking whore,” you chant repetitively, my legs now flung over your shoulders – you’re fucking me deeper and deeper, faster and faster. Voraciously, I take you in, erotically moaning into the Parisian twilight. I’m sure that the entire brothel can hear me.
“Fuck me Henry…Fuck me Henry…Fuck me Henry…” I chant in hot whispers like an eastern mantra – my eyes rolling again towards the top of my head, my eyelashes fluttering. You continue to ram your hips down upon me, harder, deeper, and faster – my head is thrashing from side to side, hardly withstanding the tsunami waves of erotic bliss. Silent screams hiss at the back of my throat, rolling off my tongue, exhaling into the room as if an extremely long, loud, hot whisper. I release everything I have inside of me – my entire body shakes hard from the massive orgasm – my fingernails digging into your skin.
I can feel my vaginal walls constricting, releasing, and gripping around your hard, throbbing cock. Your hips thrust at a more feverish, frantic, rapid pace – your cock’s thrusting deeper and harder into me, driving me further into a mind blowing realm. I cannot believe that I’m going to come again, as you continue to pump and grind your hips between my trembling thighs, even faster and harder than ever before.
Our sexual energy passionately entangles, escalating our pleasure higher and higher. I feel the intensity of your orgasmic energy – your scorching hot, white liquid spraying the inside walls of my sex – my swollen walls of soaking wet flesh. My body explodes with orgasms shortly after you begin to come. After you finish, you wait until my last shudder, and then you dismount me, flopping with exhaustion upon my bed. You are on your back, chest heaving, heavily breathing, and your hand wipes the salty sweat away from your eyes. I glance over at you, observing the sinful smile of satisfaction upon your face.
Suddenly, there is a knock upon the door. Our bodies jolt from our sleepy, satiated state, our muscles stiffening with alarm. “Fifi?” I hear Madame Cherie sternly ask, “Are you still in there with Henry?” She knocks harder upon the door, “Henry! If you are in there, you penniless writer, I’m going to ban you from this brothel immediately!”
You suppress your laughter, quietly putting on your round, black rimmed glasses, getting out of my messy bed, and slipping on your under garment, trousers, stained white shirt, faded black suit coat and matching fedora hat. Your cock is still drenched with my sexual juice. “Fifi Marie, the extra time you spent with Henry is coming out of your share of the pay! Don’t make me have to punish you! Henry, I know that you are in there with Fifi, you do this all the time to my girls – seduce them into extra time…you free loading pig! I don’t know why I put up with you! I highly suggest that get dressed and go! And don’t return for a very long time…you understand?” She hollered through the door.
“Oui, Madame Cherie,” you say, slowly opening my bedroom door, looking sheepishly downward at the worn, faded hardwood floors, departing my room, closing the door behind you. You politely tip your hat to Madame Cherie, escaping through the brothel’s front door as fast as you can. You enter into the Parisian night with a light step, whistling a French tune which Anais Nin has recently taught you. Your smile is large, happy for the great fuck, while walking under the illuminating moon and glittering stars upon the vintage boulevards of Paris.
End of fantasy…
Thursday – 10:00p.m. 3/15/79 – “My darling Brenda – I am so filled with you I am spilling over. Thinking of you continually and praying for your hopes, wishes, and dreams to come through. For me you are already through- thru the net of obstacles, I mean. You are one of the famous Greek goddesses- there were quite a few, you know. Women weren’t always the pawns for men. And some were wild and fierce.” –Henry Miller, Dear, Dear Brenda