mia loves henry miller
Letter 25 – London and Paris: Planes, Trains and Eating Mary Jane
“I think it was a happy thought to name you a ‘living book’. I can turn to you like a book, turn the pages of the few hours spent in your presence, and find there the joy and wisdom that is you…To be able to write to you, to know that you are still in the flesh, is a great comfort, a joy. Que le bon Dieu Benisse!” –from a letter to John Cowper Powys by Henry Miller, May 19th, 1950
1/11/2012/ 9:11 a.m.
Dear Henry Miller,
I fell asleep on the couch last night. I worked on the mural project yesterday, and worked on some other art work in the evening. I was so tired! I didn’t even hear Mr. C leave for work at 4 a.m. this morning. I think I fell asleep shortly after I got off the phone with Mr. B.
Mr. B’s been away on business. He arrives early today. We are going to spend a few nights together at the loft, while his wife is away – an opera in New York City. I can hardly wait. We always seem to binge on each other, gorging ourselves on sex, whenever we get a few nights together. I’m definitely ready to play – to experience some long foreplay, some intense, erotic endorphin release and paramount orgasms!
The afternoon is damp, cold and gloomy, reminding me of my visit to London five years ago. This trip was a birthday gift (my birthday is Jan. 27) from Mr. B, five years ago. He had to meet with an international literary agent, inviting me to join him. I had never toured outside of the country. I was very excited!
“If there is something wrong about our attitude toward sex then there is something wrong about our attitude toward money, toward work, toward play, toward everything. How can one enjoy a good sex life if he has a distorted, unhealthy attitude toward other aspects of life?” –Henry Miller, The World of Sex
“Here,” Mr. B handed me a small, white pill, soon after our flight to London took off, “take this. It will relax you and make you sleepy. It’s a long flight.”
I didn’t think that I needed the sedative. I was so excited the night before, I couldn’t sleep. I remained awake, packing my suitcase, showering, and getting ready. I’m already a bit drowsy. I had to meet Mr. B at the airport at 5 a.m. But, I trusted him, taking the pill, the chalky bitterness dissolving upon my tongue – washing it down with a sip of semi-hot, Earl Grey tea.
Mr. B draped a small, thin, navy blue, airplane blanket between us, before he opened up his lap top to do a bit of writing. He had a revision to make on a chapter in his new book, before we landed. His British literary agent was meeting us at the airport.
I was still too excited to sleep, flipping through a small stack of gossip magazines Mr. B bought for me in the airport gift shop. I am generally so busy with my life that I’m disconnected from what is going on in the world, fashion, celebrities, etc… It’s fun to catch up with magazines – to catch a distorted glimpse at our celebrity world.
I was into the second magazine when my eyelids became heavy with drowsiness. My head nodded, bobbed and dropped onto Mr. B’s shoulder. I was drifting into a light sleep. I felt stuck inside the pages of Nabokov’s Lolita novel, when Mr. B’s hand crept beneath the blanket we shared, underneath the waist band of my faded black sweatpants, which had Dr. Farrago printed on the ass in white letters.
I felt his agile fingers inching their way towards my smooth, shaved sex. He wanted me sleepy, to take advantage of my vulnerability, like Humbert did in the infamous story, Lolita. It was kind of exciting, so I didn’t stop him. I slipped in and out of drowsy sleep, as his deft hands and fingers nudged their way in between my thighs. My sleepy, relaxed state heightened my arousal. Suddenly, I jolted fully awake with the fear of what would happen if I did have an intense orgasm in front of all these people on this flight?
Quickly, I pushed Mr. B’s hands away. “Stop,” I said in a hushed whisper – so he did, removing his hand from the blanket, disappointed – his hand smelling of my sex. I felt grateful there wasn’t a third passenger in our row. It offered us more privacy and room to spread out, relax, snuggle my body up to Mr. B and slip back into a light sleep.
I can still hear the stewardess’ pacing up and down the center aisle, with their metal carts, asking passengers if they’d like any beverages or snacks. I listened to the sweet click-clacking sounds on Mr. B’s computer keyboard. He was in the zone, revising. I could also feel the airplane sometime bounce, jiggle, and jerk with turbulence in the air, way above the clouds.
I was grateful when we finally made it to London! I wanted a cigarette so bad! I also needed to pee! I found a bathroom nearby, after we exited the plane. I still feel groggily from the sedative – unbalanced. I forget my purse in the bathroom, which has all my money and passport inside of it. I don’t realize this until Mr. B and I are on one of those moving walk ways, that remind me of the sci-fi cartoon, The Jetsons. We were heading towards the center of the airport where I could smoke, when I realize that I don’t have my purse.
My jaws clench tight, I gulp in anxiety, my teeth grind in fear, my heart skips with trepidation – I turned around on that one way, moving walk way, running as fast as I could. It felt like I was flying on air, sprinting so fast, dashing against the direction that the moving, walk way was guiding people to. I barely noticed when I reached the end of it, and was running on solid ground again. I felt breathless, but was extremely relieved to see that my purse was still in the bathroom when I rushed through the ladies room door.
I desperately wanted a cigarette by the time we entered the designated smoking area. I felt pretty stressed. But, it smelled like a gross, giant ashtray, in the center of the London airport. It disgusted me, regardless of my nicotine withdrawal. I only got a few drags in before Mr. B rushing me to the luggage area where he had to meet his literary agent. My head felt dizzy and light from the nicotine rush.
I thought that Mr. B’s literary agent looked like a really old, fat, stuffy Britain. He wasn’t so sure what to think of me, knowing that I’m Mr. B’s mistress and not his wife. He made me feel a bit uncomfortable. Or maybe I was imagining it.
“Come on, let’s board the train,” he said to us in a thick, London accent. “We can get some drinks and nibblies on board.”
“Nibblies?” I thought, “What the fuck is nibblies?” I knew that we had a long train ride into the city. I really wanted to have a few more drags off my cigarette before we departed. I even asked if we could, when we were no longer inside the airport, and waiting for the train. I never got to fully finish the one I had started, after we landed. Mr. Literary Agent Man wouldn’t let me, when he saw our train quickly approaching, insisting that we board the train immediately – not caring that we had just endured a long flight. I don’t think he thought much of women in general, especially free spirited ones who fucked married men and smoked fags.
He told me in a rude, British accent, that if I absolutely needed to have a cigarette, I should do it in the loo on the train. I didn’t like his idea. I wasn’t going to be arrested for smoking on a train in London – especially hours after I have arrived. I bet he thought I was the devil, and would have liked nothing better than for that to happen to me.
I stifled my frustration, trying to act as ladylike as I could, helping myself to a few nibblies (snacks), which were now on our small table, between our train seats, suppressing my nicotine fit. I stared at the fast moving scenery outside my train window, ignoring both Mr. B and Mr. Literary Agent Man – whom I thought was a bore with a huge stick up his ass.
But, I enjoyed the lush, green scenery of the London countryside. I dreamily thought of Harry Potter as the scenes of suburban townhomes raced by. I loved the energy of London – it’s fast pace inside of an old, English city, with streets that curved like the hips on a voluptuous woman. I had only seen views of London in the movies. I never imagined that I would actually personally experience the views of this city in my lifetime.
We stopped at a restaurant somewhere in mid London for lunch. Mr. B and Mr. Literary Agent Man had business to discuss, over a tasteless, boring, British meal. The meat tasted funny and the lettuce in my sandwich was brown and wilted. I tuned them out, picking at my food, thinking about all the book stores and flea markets I would visit tomorrow, when Mr. B has business to take care of.
I was also anxious for alone time with Mr. B. And, I was excited to see where we were staying, which is this artsy, funky themed hotel, where many celebrities, artists, and musicians stay, called the Pavilion, in Sussex. I wanted to see our creative room, smoke some pot, which Mr. B brought with him, relax, fuck, get something better to eat, stroll and explore the evening streets of London, and fuck again.
When we finally checked into our hotel, I was enamored by all of creativity put into this unique place. Our room, Cosmic Girl, was downstairs. It was impressive – reminding me of a futuristic, rebellious, teenager’s bedroom, in the basement of their parent’s home. The room is very modern, sci –fi, colored in black, chromes, sparkling silver, mirrors and glass. I loved it! It made me want to jump on the bed and start playing my air guitar. It also looked very kinky, which was inspiring and arousing. I loved its unique energy.
I felt so naughty smoking Mary Jane with Mr. B, because the eclectic style of this room made me feel young, daring, and rebellious. I knew we shouldn’t be smoking this – our curls of pungent smoke disappearing into the vents near the ceiling. But, we did anyways. I was finally relaxing. The long flight, the stress at the airports, time spent with Mr. Literary Agent Man, had all my nerves tied in tense knots, which pained my lower and upper back, jaws, temples, shoulders and neck. My muscles were finally loosening. My headache subsiding.
Mr. B was horny – he always is! He had removed his faded blue jeans. Now, he rests beside me, with his t-shirt still on, lying on black cotton sheets, upon this awesome, cosmic looking bed which has glass squares beneath it that light up, jerking his ever growing cock.
“…Alexandra gets too hot to keep at it for more than a few minutes. She wants to be screwed, and a finger in her fig is a poor substitution for what ought to be in there. She tickles John Thursday’s…” –Henry Miller, Under the Rooftops of Paris
Suddenly, Mr. B was on top of me, pinning my arms together above my head with one hand. The other slapping my face lightly at first, testing me, discovering, how much harder he can go before totally pissing me off. He decided to keep the slaps moderately shocking. I was grateful. I didn’t want to be totally pissed off. I was feeling calm and mellow, floating with the unfolding drama of this erotic scene.
“The mission of man on earth is to remember.” –Alfred Perles
I winced in pain when Mr. B’s firm fingers twist both of my nipples, endorphins zip like tiny speed boats beneath my warm skin. I can hear many voices in the distance, coming from the various vents near our ceiling, and people walking above us, upstairs in the hotel. This heightens my arousal. I feel like I’m seventeen again, sneaking in a boyfriend after curfew. Mr. B has brought some toys. I’m very aroused.
Adrenaline starts to percolate inside my blood stream, as if a fresh, brewing pot of morning coffee has just been turned on. My eyes widen with surprise when Mr. B aggressively flips me over onto my stomach, propping my pelvic area and hips up and onto two plush pillows, and I feel the first smack of a leather paddle upon my bare ass. His strong, left hand presses hard into my upper back, pinning my body to the mattress – a warm surge of surrender sedates me.
Mr. B paddles my ass hard until my flesh is hot, tender and pink. I moan with each salacious strike, still wondering if they can hear us playing, upstairs, through the vents. I am hoping not, wishing that Mr. B would lessen the noise, by softening his force. He did not. He continued on until I was screaming into my pillow, my body squirming to get away from his striking paddle. My adrenaline’s steamy hot. It’s fiercely simmering and at the boiling point, scorching and sizzling my quickening blood stream, intoxicating me even more, my arousal heightens even higher, my sexual appetite is starving…
1/11/12 12:32 p.m.
I must get going Henry. Mr. C, my husband, is going to be home soon. I’ll be leaving for the loft shortly thereafter. Mr. B, husband no. 2, is taking me out to dinner tonight at a new, Middle Eastern restaurant in Saint Paul. I’m looking forward to getting out and eating something other than a sandwich. When I’m lost in the art of writing or art work, my eating habits really suck. I look forward to a spicy, ethnic meal.
1/11/12 – 4:40 p.m.
Mr. B is on his way over. I expect him at any time. I’m now at my loft. I arrived around 1:30 p.m. The fireplace is on, warming me, relinquishing the damp chill inside my bones. We’ve endured a weird winter. Just yesterday, it was almost 50 degrees outside in January. That rarely happens in the Midwest. The temperature is now dropping. It’s supposed to continue to plummet into to the mid teens by Thursday. Minnesota is one fluctuating, moody bitch! Why do I live here?
(I’m writing while waiting for Mr. B to arrive) – Back to London/Paris story….
“—the mating was that passionate and charged. And then, as Josh came and his semen pumped deep into her still pulsing cunt, Isadora had the sense that her orgasms began again, or that it had, in fact, never stopped…..” –Erica Jong, Parachutes and Kisses
Mr. B and I had amazing sex inside the Cosmic Girl room on the night we arrived. It was after 6p.m. when we finally got out of our messy bed and got dressed in warm layers of clothing. I was hungry. I didn’t like the food I picked at earlier. All the energy I spent having orgasms made me feel ravenous!
Mr. B and I strolled upon the London Streets in Sussex, navigating where the Tube station is, taking it; traveling to Covent Garden. Mr. B wanted to show it to me so that I would know how to get there the next day, when they have the Jubilee flea market in this area.
I was immediately charmed when we arrived to this crowded piazza, enamored by a highly talented group of classical musicians playing in the idyllic courtyard on the first level. Their serene music mesmerized me. Mr. B purchased one of their CD’s for me. I love to get them from all the street artists everywhere I travel.
We walked through this nostalgic, quaint destination, witnessing everything from open air café’s, the street performers, artists and small shops – mesmerized as if it held some kind of magic spell over me. This enchanting place was covered by a high roof top constructed of iron and glass.
We shared a crepe with fresh strawberries and whip cream, purchased by a local vendor. It was delicious! We drank steaming hot coffee and English tea, strolling in and out of little souvenir shops, hand in hand. I was still intrigued by everything.
There was so much to look at….trinkets, souvenirs, dolls, books, paintings, designer clothing, humorous stuff, novelty items, toy shops, doll houses, puppets and so much more. I was in love! The energy was magical! I even purchased a few prints at the Tate Museum of Modern Art gift shop by Frida Kahlo and a tiny, toy violin at another small, gift shop that actually plays music when you move the bow across its small strings – its battery operated.
When we exited the Paddington Station, returning from Covent Garden, we walked, huddled closely together for warmth, towards our hotel, stopping at a Middle Eastern bakery, in between our hotel and the train station. Mr. B introduced me to Baklava, and many other Middle Eastern pastries, covered with pistachio nuts and dripping honey, which I also fell in love with – sinfully delicious! We bought some extra to bring back to our hotel, to eat later, after having more sex.
1/11/12 5:05 p.m.
I must stop writing Henry, Mr. B called. He is on his way…
1/12/12 – 9:00 a.m.
“Henry and Varese can talk. I cannot talk. I can only talk through my writing. I am mute in life. I must write. In writing I talk with others, I touch them. Let me be published. By not publishing me you seal my lips, you entomb me, you deny my existence. I love the world….” –Anais Nin, Diaries, Volume Three, 1939-1944
Holy shit Henry! I slept for a long time! I’m just finally getting the drowsy cobwebs out of my head. I think I passed out around 9ish last night. I never go to bed that early. Mr. B fucked the hell out of me for a few hours before then! All that was left of me when he finished was my weak, limp, over exhausted, empty shell of a body, with a large grin on my face.
I think Mr. B was up for awhile writing. I seem to remember seeing the light of his laptop on and hear the click-clacks of his fingers dancing upon his keyboard. I thought I was dreaming. But, I think I was actually awake for a few brief moments.
We never made it out to dinner or grocery shopping last night. Shortly after Mr. B arrived, we smoked some marijuana and talked for awhile, closely together on my couch. I had been yearning for sex all week. Writing about such erotic stuff, has increased my sexual drive to a much higher plane. (Mr. C’s been super busy with work.)
When there was a lull in our conversation, his hands took over, playing with my breasts, pulling my long hair, my nipples; his lips kissing mine, his finger penetrating my mouth as if it were his hard, stiff cock, forcing it’s way in and out – in and out. Every inch of my body melted with warmth and seduction -my sex aching with lust, need, and greed. I was no longer interested in going out for dinner. Food was no longer a priority. I’m such a slut!
We stroked, fondled, pinched, and caressed each other for awhile on my couch, shadows flickering over our faces from the dancing flames in my fireplace. I became more aroused when he firmly placed his hands around my neck and then covered my mouth. We were going to go to the bedroom, when Mr. B’s wife called.
Mr. B went into my painting room to talk with her in private. Instead of pouting, I put my time to good use, quietly walking into my bathroom, running a shallow tub of hot water, dipping myself in, making sure that I was very clean and smooth for our upcoming play time.
My eyes narrowing when I see some of my sexy lingerie hanging on metal towel bars, exiting the bath. Lacy, delicate items which I had to hand wash awhile ago, after a burlesque show. My eyebrows arch up – naughty thoughts flutter through my brain, deciding to put the lingerie on.
I can still hear Mr. B softly talking to his wife when I finished dressing, tip toeing into my bedroom, which is connected by a closet to my bathroom, and finding a pair of black silk, thigh high nylons with lace tops, and a matching, silk robe to my lingerie.
“‘I want to be fucked,’ she moans, ‘I want you to fuck me…’ – I have such a hard on, I can’t walk without limping…” –Henry Miller, Under the Rooftops of Paris
I walked with light, quiet feet into my painting room, standing sexily near the doorway. Mr. B looked up. Suddenly, his easy flow of conversation with his wife ceased. He tried to begin again, but stuttered for a bit, before he eventually regained his composure. I grinned so wickedly, softly walking back to my bedroom, lighting a cigarette, and picking up Anne Rice’s, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty.
I have always loved this erotic story – so much so that the binding of the book is breaking, pages and sections of the book fall out, if I’m not careful when I hold it, to read it. (I suppose my new Kindle would solve this problem) I love how aroused I get by reading the series of Anne Rice’s Beauty books.
1/12/12 – 9:28a.m.
Back to London/Paris.
We stayed in London for two days. On our second night at the Pavilion we stayed in the Casablanca Nights Room. I really liked this room. It made me feel like a slave to a rich sultan. I felt very submissive. It heightened my sex drive with its Middle Eastern décor.
I learned the Tube transportation system well. It’s much easier than NYC – the color coded system seemed simpler. I went to the Jubilee flea market, returning to Covent Garden, purchasing a black vintage hat with pink trim from one of the vendors. I perused over high stacks of so many old books. I was enamored by an assortment of so much vintage jewelry and a myriad of antiques. But, I didn’t want to buy too much, carrying around numerous shopping bags, while touring this beautiful, yet damp, chilly city.
I remember feeling so cold and damp in the light rain, which drizzled down upon the pavements, even though I had on several layers of clothing, a long, faux fur lined coat, a matching hat and gloves on. I had made it to London’s shopping district, and was getting overheated inside the stores from all the layers I was wearing. I tried to shop at some of my favorite stores like Zara, but I couldn’t spend twice as much as I would pay in NYC. Even though Mr. B gave me more than enough money, I could hardly spend it. It was expensive to shop in Europe. I’m too practical. My heart wasn’t into it.
We ate Indian food on both nights. I had never had Indian food taste so good. I was happy that I found something I enjoyed eating. We had great great sex in the Casablanca Nights Room, and even saw an afternoon, theatrical production of Cabaret in London’s Theatre District, reminding me of NYC’s Time’s Square and Broadway. I loved it!! It was awesome seeing nudity on stage, done so artistically.
Afterwards, we met with Mr. Literary Agent Man for dinner at a fancy, Indian Restaurant. He and Mr. B needed to discuss business again. Mr. Literary Agent Man’s body stiffened when he learned that we had just seen Cabaret, offended by the nudity in this production. He was an uppity Brit! I always thought that Europeans were more enlightened about the human body and sexuality.
I attempted to be nice and polite to him, until he said, attempting to be funny when the food arrived. “Let’s have the lady try the food first, if she doesn’t die, we know that it is safe to eat.” Ha! Ha! Asshole! I purposely ignored him and Mr. B for the rest of my meal. I’m normally not so blunt about my disapproval of someone. I was beginning to not feel so well. Spending all day in the chilly London rain, being overheated inside the stores, and going back out in the cold, had got to me. My mood was plummeting.
1/12/12 – 9:51 a.m.
Returning to last night’s story –
“But he was telling her to stand up and spread her legs. And as she obeyed she saw another pair of brass bells taken from the casket. They were as large as walnuts. And, whimpering slightly, she felt his hand between her legs as he clamped these bells to her pubic lips quickly.” –Anne Rice, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty
When Mr. B got off the phone with his wife, he entered the bedroom, scolding me for being so naughty, which only aroused me more. An impish giggle escaped my mouth. I couldn’t hide my wicked grin. I was feeling very naughty and submissive, after reading a few pages of Anne Rice’s book. I savored the sensation of his strong, dominant hand smacking hard against the bare skin on my ass – my flesh felt hot and tender. His greedy hands reach into the top of my lacey bra, pulling on my nipples, causing my eyes to blur in ecstasy. He severely spanks high, between my firm thighs, upon my wet, wanton flesh. My clit is pounding hard with fervid, tingling blood. His fingers slide my soaking wet, black lace panties over to one side of my cunt.
Next, he plunges them deeply into me. My moans slice through my dimly lit bedroom – faint hues of red, from the color of my red lamp shade sprays the room with a warm, seductive glow. My velvet walls of flesh squeeze around his curling knuckles, feeling the hardness of them rub upon my G-spot. Warm, wet liquid from my sex drips down his fingers and hand.
“Look, she says. She spreads her legs and gives me a peep at her conillon. There’s a juice between her thighs: she has a small river under her ass. She lies back in my arms while I feel her up…suddenly her teeth prick my arm like hot needles.” –Henry Miller, Under the Rooftops of Paris
Soon, Mr. B is on top of me, fucking me with his agile shaft. My legs wrap tightly around his body, pulling him deeper into me with my legs. His cock pounds into me, his body slapping hard into my wet skin, his rhythm picking up pace – harder, deeper, and faster! Erotic groans and moans echo through my room, a multitude of impassioned shudders, quake through my body. And my swollen, edacious walls grip and pull at his ejaculating rod, squeezing the last bit of juice of out him.
Mr. B loudly exhales a relieved moan, his body shudders, he finishes his release, dismounts me, collapsing on his back, his head cradled in the plush pillow beside me. I feel amazing. I still feel horny. My stomach is now rumbling for food. My appetite is awakening. I have no food here at the loft. I rarely do.
After a bit of rest, Mr. B leaves to go home for a bit, to shop for some snack foods. He tells me to order something for delivery – he’ll be back soon.
1/12/12 – 10:55 p.m.
Back to the London/Paris story…
“Paris is like a whore. From a distance she seems ravishing; you can’t wait until you have her in your arms. And Five minutes later you feel empty, disgusted with yourself. You feel tricked.” –Henry Miller
After a few days in London we take a train to Paris for 24 hours. I had never been on a European train before. I was delighted! It’s Fashion Week in Paris. The hotels are scarce. We eventually book a beautiful room at the Hotel Le Madison. It was so French looking. They even had a bidet in the bathroom! I definitely fancied that!
I’m still not feeling very well, but doing my best to enjoy my trip. I have an ear infection. My physician prescribed anti-biotic before I left. They don’t seem to be helping. My ear is probably more agitated, caused by the long flight and cold weather in London. I’ve been running a fever. I don’t feel as peppy as I’d like, touring the chilly city of Paris. It’s a beautiful city. I’m doing my best to get by, imagining what Paris might have been like when you and Anais Nin lived here.
A different type of fever now moves through me when I hear Mr. B speaking fluent French to the shop owners. I have no idea what they are saying. I’m dumbfounded, but aroused by this new discovery. He makes my panties wet speaking fluent French! I told him how wet he makes me when he speaks in a passionate, foreign language, exiting the store. Regardless of my not feeling well, I still wanted to fuck him at that moment, on the crowded streets of Paris. I had just listened to him speak the romantic language of love!
I found it thrilling to observe how busy the city was accomodating Fashion Week, and feeling its abundant buzz of energy. I enjoyed strolling through many boutiques, book stores (even though they weren’t printed in English) and small, quaint shops.
Yet, I didn’t understand the language the shopkeeper’s spoke, or the price tags. Mr. B would have spoken for me, and helped me shop for something if needed, but, I wasn’t feeling so well. I also felt foreign, confused. I even felt some of the rudeness the Parisians had towards Americans. I did not even feel like shopping when I saw sparkly, glittery, feathery costumes. What the fuck was wrong with me???? What kind of woman resists shopping in Paris?
I was pretty cold as we continued strolling upon the Paris streets. I loved people watching, and enjoyed eating various crepes and pastries, drinking hot coffee or tea with heavy cream and sugar. I found riding on the Metro eye opening.
While Mr. B and I were waiting for a Metro train, we were huddled close together, trying to warm ourselves. I observed the many other people who were also waiting. I noticed this French man reading a newspaper, dressed sharply in a dark black business suit and overcoat. Suddenly, I gasp really loud when I observe him shoving a finger far up his nose, curling it to dig around for a bit, removing it, briefly eye-balling it, and then he licks his finger! Gross!
A few people within hearing distance looked in my direction. I started to laugh and could not stop. Mr. B discretely pulled the back of my hair, attempted to silence me. I eventually ceased – but it was hard. I still had a deep inside, silent, quivering hard, belly laugh when we boarded the train. My cheeks ached from grinning so long. I couldn’t believe that I had just witnessed something so bizarre. We were now heading for the area where the famous Moulin Rouge is.
We saw so many things that day and night in Paris – the Moulin Rouge, River Seine, Montparnasse, Notre Dame, and the old Paris Opera House. I even bought an Anais Nin Diary that is printed entirely in French. It’s still inside the wrapper. I don’t think I will ever learn the French language.
I was so cold and exhausted when we returned to our hotel room. My fever was burning me up on the inside, and not in a good way. I didn’t feel so sexy, but somehow managed to fuck Mr. B before going to sleep. It was definitely not a highlighted fuck – but, an orgasm nonetheless, to help aid me in sleep.
When we returned to London, we checked back into the Pavilion, this time into the room, Enter the Dragon, which was so ornately styled with Asian decor. I was miserable and just wanted to sleep. My fever was making my mood horrible.
I was also approaching my 39th birthday. I was supposed to be having the time of my life in Europe. I was approaching closer to forty. I felt the birthday blues, enhanced by not feeling well. I wanted to go home. I missed Mr. C, who I called during the middle of the night, just to cry and tell him how miserable I was and how much I missed him. I also missed my four, small dogs.
I didn’t feel very horny, staying in this elaborate, beautiful oriental room with Mr. B. But, everything was kind of hazy for me – we may have had sex a few times. I don’t recall. All that I can recall is that I just wanted to be left alone for awhile to sulk, sleep, and get over whatever was causing this fucking fever.
1/12/12 12:01 p.m. –
Returning to last night’s erotic adventure
“A long shudder went through her as she contemplated herself – spread out, yet mounted so that all could inspect even her face if they chose, and she tried to conceal her sobs by pressing her lips together. Even her hair was no covering, for it fell evenly on either side of her face and cloaked no part of her.” –Anne Rice, the Claiming of Sleeping Beauty
When Mr. B returned, we ate some of the pizza I had ordered and some of the snacks he brought back with him – brownies, croissants, etc… I had taken a short bath before the pizza man arrived. I was clean again and ready to play. This time Mr. B secured me to my bed with four leather cuffs and long cords of rope. I wasn’t going anywhere!
Mr. B slapped me between my legs with a long, thin leather paddle, stroking my clit with it in between yelping blows.
“What would you think if I went strolling through the halls looking for young, horny men, telling them to come to your loft, to play with you, while you are tied, helpless and vulnerable to this bed?” His hot, lusty, cruel whispers made me even wetter – my clit harder, my mind drifting into this erotic, dark fantasy.
Mr. B sadistically places tight, pinching, wooden clothespins upon my nipples, causing my back to arch high off the bed – my face wincing – agony and ecstasy zipping fast inside my bloodstream. His leather paddle striking my drenched, swollen skin between my spread thighs – my body writhing in pain, squirming hard against my restraints. I’m completely intoxicated – my head’s dizzy from panting heavily. I’m thirsty. My mouth and throat are dry.
I gasp desperately for air when I feel one, two, three, four of his fingers stretch, wiggle, thrust, curl, flex and extend deep inside my needy, greedy, velvet walls, which constrict tightly around his flesh. My body trembles, shudders, quakes – my limbs pulling hard on the restraints – the leather cuffs biting into my flesh.
Mr. B’s head nuzzles between my trembling legs – his tongue, lips and teeth devouring me. Electrifying shock waves intensely zap my nerves when his teeth bite down hard upon my aching clit. My eyes open wide – I deeply gasp for air again, and then exhale a string of lascivious moans.
Many of his fingers plow into me once more, my hips trust down hard upon his fist. He’s almost deep inside me. My body shudders. My moans were loud and lascivious. I make a grunting sound, clenching down hard upon his hand, squeezing him out. I’m not relaxed enough to completely take him in – to sore from our previous fucking.
Mr. B plugs in my Hitachi wand, leaving it to buzz loud, high between my legs, far enough away from my insatiable clit. My hips grind, move, and thrust, attempting to get near my favorite toy. I can’t reach it. I mutter softly, a string of swear words in frustration, like a person with Tourettes Syndrome. I hear Mr. B sadistically laugh nearby my bed.
“Please, please, please let me make myself come – Please!” I desperately beg. Soon, I feel my limbs being released and my diabolical toy being placed in my hands.
1/12/12 12:40 p.m.
Back to my London/Paris story…
Not all of my nights with Mr. B can always be full or erotic sex. Sometimes, the sex demon inside of me, resides sleeping and dormant like a bear in the winter time. I’m not always in the mood – which sucks for Mr. B, who expected seven, European nights of sensuous fun! I’m just as disappointed. I hate feeling sick!
In between long naps, Mr. B managed to encourage me to see Harrods’s Department store. I felt so miserable I didn’t even want to shop. We huddled close together that evening, romantically riding high upon the London eye, observing the twinkling, beautiful city below us. We ate again at another Indian restaurant, watching them pass a large Hookah to a variety of their customers. And we drank some more hot tea, loaded with cream and sugar to keep us warm, as we walked around the city on our last night in London. I was still feeling a bit melancholy. My ear ached really bad. It was difficult to hear when Mr. B talked to me, which was frustrating.
I was relieved when we arrived at the London airport, but horrified when Mr. B asked me if I wanted to smoke some pot outside the airport before our flight. He’s so fucking daring! I couldn’t believe he still had pot on him. This made me nervous, because the London airport security looked extremely tight. I didn’t want to go to jail in a foreign country.
“You shit head!” I scolded him. I had a bad feeling about traveling internationally with Mary Jane.
“I can’t believe that you still have pot on you. What the fuck are you thinking?”
I quietly told him to go to the bathroom to flush it. He said he didn’t want to flush so much pot down the toilet. He told me to take the baggie into the ladies rest room and eat as much as I could of it – so I did. I couldn’t eat it all. I was gagging just trying to shovel what I did, into my mouth, attempting to wash down the dry, gritty, stem-my taste with lukewarm tea. I brought the rest to Mr. B and told him to do the same in the men’s room.
We both were extremely high by the time our flight took off. My mood was definitely better! I was glad to be going home. It was my birthday and I was on a long flight. I’d rather be at home. I really missed Mr. C. I’m generally not gone so long when I take trips with Mr. B. I’m generally not out of the country.
I was so happy when we finally landed at the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Terminal. I giggled when I went through Customs, and they went through the process of opening my luggage, taking out my Hitachi wand, with an erotic attachment still on it, looking at me, suppressing their grin, quickly putting it back into my suitcase. I walked away, towards the exit, with a large, naughty, satisfied grin, still feeling a bit dazed and euphoric from all the marijuana which I had eaten many hours ago.
“You’re warm baby,” Mr. C said, when he embraced me, hugging me for a long time, gently kissing my forehead, near the luggage area.
“I missed you, Happy Birthday.” He said, kissing my lips. I wasn’t feeling too intimate, and was still running a fever. My ear ached fierce from the long flight. Mr. C knew that my trip didn’t go as well as I would have liked. I told him about how cold I was in Paris, as we got my luggage and walked to our car and griped about how expensive it was to shop in London.
It was even fucking colder in Minnesota! I wished for my long, raccoon fur coat, shivering in the passenger seat. Mr. C tried to console me with his hand on my knee as we drove, chatting away with me, telling me we had to stop at my artist loft, near his office, he has something he wants to show me.
It was only one-ish in the afternoon. The Minnesota day was still early. I was not in the mood for birthday surprises. I just wanted this horrible day to be over. But, I must admit, he had me curious. I thought that maybe he purchased a new piece of furniture for my loft. We moved in a few weeks ago – the first of the year.
I just about shit my pants after we entered it, walking half way down the long, warm, concrete hallway, which led past my bedroom and into my living room area. My body jolted with an enormous surge of fear and shock when I observed a surreal gathering of so many people huddled closely together in my living room area, and heard them shout, “SURPRISE!”
Instantly, I ran back into my bedroom, screaming at the top of my lungs into my pillow upon my bed. I thought I was going to pee my panties – I was so shocked! I was still so high from eating Mary Jane at Heathrow airport! I thought this was a weird dream. No one has ever thrown me a surprise party before.
It was a very happy ending to a long, European trip! I felt horrible for feeling sorry for myself about turning 39, my last birthday in my dirty thirties, when I saw all of my closest friends, family, performers from Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater and other close acquaintances crowded inside my loft.
My eyes watered up with happiness. I felt extremely grateful to share delicious cake, drinks, and presents with all of my friends, family, and wonderful, loving, accepting husband. London, Paris, orgasms, shopping, family and good friends all within a short amount of time. What more could a woman ask for?
I must go Henry. I need a long, hot bath. Mr. B is spending another night with me. I wonder what kind of kinky things we’ll do…
P.S. Mr. C just stopped by the loft. He brought me a few items I needed, like toilet paper, and a small, acorn nut. He told me to step on it, while wishing for the thing I want the most. So I did. When it smashed, I saw a pink condom burst from inside the nut. I laughed, picking it up and the pieces of the smashed nut up off the floor… Mr. C is a crazy nut! He’s always full of surprises! That’s why I love him! I’m very lucky to have two men who love me enough to make sure that I ended my dirty thirties with a memorable time! Thank you so much Mr. C and Mr. B!