mia loves henry miller – Letter 33 – Heat and Mischief in NYC with Mr. B

mia loves henry miller

Letter 33 – Heat and Mischief in NYC with Mr. B

1/30/12 10:25 a.m.

Dear Henry Miller,

“New York is cold, glittering, malign.  The buildings dominate.  There is a sort of atomic frenzy to the activity going on; the more furious the pace, the more diminished the spirit.  A constant ferment, but it might just be as well be going on in a test tube.  Nobody knows what it’s all about.  Nobody directs the energy.  Stupendous. Bizarre. Baffling.  A tremendous reactive urge, but absolutely uncoordinated.” –Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

During the first few months, after Mr. B and I met, we took so many trips to NYC in a short amount of time.  It’s difficult to remember what events happened in precise sequence during each visit, because it all kind of blurs together.  The first trip we took to NYC was in mid to late April or possibly early May, almost six years ago.  The spring weather was gorgeous!  I love New York City in the spring time.

We flew again to NYC sometime in July.  Mr. B was getting ready to publish his second book.  He had some business that he needed to take care of.  It was so fucking hot!  NYC was on the verge of a black out.  The classic song, Steam Heat, kept playing in my head.  The Manhattan generators were working overtime to keep everyone cool.  The streets smelled like rotting garbage and melting, hot tar.  Chinatown smelled like spoiled fish and chicken.  The sidewalks were wet from small puddles of spilt coconut water.  The heat from the vendor carts projected even more heat as you walked past, clouds of billowing smoke from the food on the grill, stole your breath away.  The homeless looked defeated, slumped up against a building, hoping for some money to purchase something to cold to drink.  The subways were stifling hot and miserable due to the air conditioning going out in some of the subway trains.

“I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel – you were talking so brave and so sweet – giving me head on the unmade bed – While limousines wait in the street – Those were the reasons and that was New York – We were running for the money and for the flesh – And that was called love for the workers in song – Probably still is for those of them left.” —Leonard Cohen, Song Lyrics Chelsea Hotel No. 2

We stayed at the legendary Chelsea Hotel, where Jack Kahane from Obelisk Press had once stayed.  Instantly, I thought of you and Anais Nin and your connection to Jack Kahane.  The rooms were humid, sticky and kind of seedy, yet unique and artistic.  The small air conditioning units didn’t do much to cool our hotel suit down.  However, I loved the energy I felt in this historic hotel!  I could hardly believe I was finally a guest at the legendary Chelsea Hotel.

Our room was on the ninth floor.  The elevators took forever, moving slowly – much like the people who tried to move through the city in this torturous heat.  We had to take the stairs a majority of the time.  It was much easier going down than it was going up.  The pungent smell of marijuana filled the hallways and stairwells – which adds to the ambiance of this artsy hotel.

The best thing about walking down the steps at the Chelsea Hotel was observing the art work hung in the hallways and the stairwells.  I took my time, staring at the variety of art work exhibited. I felt especially hypnotize to these dark, intriguing portraits done in oil.  The eyes on the various, haunting faces seemed to stare right into your consciousness, reach in and clutch your soul.  The lustrous and intricate designs of some of the paintings reminded me of a smooth, shiny agate found in a large rock quarry.  My impulse was to touch the portraits, to feel the smooth, slick, gleaming art.  But I had too much respect for this artist to do this.

After walking down those steps many times over the course of a few days, I began to quickly familiarize myself with this amazing, talented artist – whose paintings were besieging and spell binding, Hawk Alfredson – who I eventually got to meet, on another NYC trip and befriend.  I also became friends with his lovely, talented wife, who is a photographer and was also named Mia.  What’s weird is her last name is Hanson, which was my maiden name.  I felt we were destined to meet.

Regardless of the heat, Mr. B and I managed to get sweatier and stickier late that night, after we walked for miles in Manhattan and down by the Hudson River, and eventually cooled off. The breeze by the river felt so good like expensive silk upon naked, wanton skin. During the day time, we had purchased some new, heavy duty, black leather cuffs and a new Hitachi wand, as well as a few other kinky items and toys. Mr. B also bought me some very expensive vintage lingerie at a very upscale vintage boutique in Chelsea– a white bustier.  It’s very beautiful!

“The waves of ecstasy that tore through Kathryn’s cunt broke down her resistance and made her feel more fully invaded, possessed, controlled.” –The Parlor, N.T. Morley

A crawling spider of sweat drips down my naked body.  We have two, small fans blowing on high, which we bought at a nearby Duane Reed, upon our naked skin. I’m now bound to the hotel bed, my body sticking to the damp sheets. I close my eyes and drift into a dark fantasy.  I’m at this seedy hotel in NYC. All that I can hear is the noise from the late night traffic and the loud, intoxicated conversations of people walking outside, down below our room. I blur my eyes, so I can only see a dark outline of Mr. B’s body, pretending he is an unfamiliar figure, which makes me pant heavier with trepidation and provocation. Silky, humid moisture saturates my yearning sex.  My back arches as high as it can, which is very limited being bound and so widely splayed upon the bed, when I feel his fingers pinch and twist each nipple, electricity zips to my clit.  The cotton sheets stick to my sudoric skin.  I cry out with bittersweet pain and then moan with sultry gratification, when I feel his hand slap fervidly upon my sex, over and over again.  My body instinctively twists and turns, attempting to escape the strikes of Mr. B’s hands.

It’s no use – there is nowhere to hide the most vulnerable parts on my body. I draw my breath in sharply, bemoaning with erotic gratitude when his fingers finally penetrate my desperately aching slit. It feels as if massive currents of electricity dance up and down my spine, like a galvanizing Jacob’s ladder. The bottoms of my feet tingling with carnal warmth, my limbs are straining against the ropes, the cuffs cut deep into my skin.  My body is electrified and my cunt is on fire – my sexual heat is much higher than the temperature in Manhattan.

I wondered how many people could hear the large humming from my Hitachi Wand, through the thin walls, when Mr. B pressed it firmly upon my clit. I shriek from over – stimulated agony.  My body thrashed, pulling on the restraints again, from its unbearable intensity!  My struggle only overheated me more, making me sweat profusely; my skin glistening, and I feel weak with fatigue. My long, thick hair is drenched.  I felt a great sense of relief when the intense buzzing ceased. My muscles finally unfurl and relax, and the breeze from the fans dried the many beads of moisture upon my skin, lowering my body temperature by a few degrees.

“Katherine whimpered and tried to speak, but found that she couldn’t. Being immobilized that much further served to take her deeper into her dreamland.” –N.T. Morley, The Parlor

Mr. B tormented me for a long time, pinching my nipples, vehemently slapping my thighs, voraciously licking my shiny clitoris, penetrating me with his adept, virile fingers and thick, rubber toys.  Sometimes he placed his fingers deep into my mouth as if it were his cock, thrusting it in and out, in and out. Sometimes he viciously grabbed the back of my wet hair, until I winced in pain and then pounded my cunt with several of his fingers, until I felt dizzy from panting so hard and my intense string of multiple orgasms. Sometimes he inserted his hot, pulsing dick deep to the back of my throat, silencing my moans, forcing me to wrap my tongue around his sordid flesh, guiding it to the front of my mouth, until the tip of my tongue was swirling upon the tip of the head of his pulsating, rock hard rod.

“I’m going to keep you tied to this bed all night,” Mr. B wickedly whispered near my ear, his face so close to mine.  I can feel his hot breath strike upon my face, assaulting me as if it were a sadistic slap, “and invite strangers to come up and have their way with you.  They are going to pet you, poke you, punish you, spank you and fuck you.  I’m going to sell your body to each of them for a nice, handsome fee.  You will be my fucking whore and they will have the rights to your vulnerable body.”

My eyes grew wide with fear and disbelief.  I knew Mr. B did this to torment my mind with curiosity and to feed my dark fantasy.  I also knew that I was safe, but gave into this kinky possibility, causing me to feel even wetter and hornier.  My auditory senses zipped straight to the tip of my pulsing clit!  I desperately wanted to orgasm.  I wanted to be fucked in a rough and passionate way.  I wanted to give away myself completely to this moment and to this man.  I wanted to float in the land of fuck and euphoria.

When we finish playing, we go back out, walk around Chelsea, stop at an all night nearby bodega, and get some more bubbly water and Hagan Daz Mango Sorbet.  The smell of really good skunk weed permeates throughout the hotel hallway as we enter our room again.  It makes me want to spark a bowl shortly after we shut the door.  The cold bubbly water quenched our cotton mouth and the Hagan Daz mango sorbet cooled us down and satisfied our munchies.  We both fell asleep naked, with the small fans blowing upon our sticky skin.  It’s too hot for blankets.  It’s too hot to cuddle, entangling our bodies in dream.  If I had not just been fucked into oblivion, I probably would not have been able to sleep, due to my discomfort.

The next day, I wanted to see the Empire State Building.  Mr. B had most of the afternoon available.  He only had an early meeting with his publishers.  Mr. B has never toured it, and he has lived in NYC for many years.  I was shocked by how much security one had to go through just to get to the top of the Empire State Building, and how long the wait was to get to the observation deck.  When we finally reached the top, Mr. B showed me different parts of the city, pointing his finger down towards Broadway, Central Park, The Chrysler Building, Chinatown, Soho, East village, etc…

When we were finished and on our way down, I felt very naughty, frisky and carefree.  There were about eight people in the elevator.  Everyone was quiet, observing the numbers go down.  Mr. B stood near the back wall of the elevator.  I stood very closely in front of him.  My mind was in its own world, which only consisted of Mr. B and me.  I was oblivious to the other passengers, never thinking of them, when I reached my hand behind me and began stroking the crotch area of Mr. B’s jeans.

I was unaware that some of the people in the elevator were sneaking glances in our direction.   As we exited, Mr. B had a large bulge in his pants.  I’m surprised he didn’t walk funny.  He told me that I was very naughty and that he couldn’t believe I would be so bold in a public place.  I thought I was being discrete, until Mr. B told me otherwise, and that some people were observing us.  I found it kind of amusing.  We both busted out in laughter as we exited onto 5th Avenue.

“For years Central Park wasn’t a park. It was called a Public Square and was more of an overgrown vacant lot.” –Frank Boyett

Later in the day we went to Central Park and tried to cool down near the large fountain area.  Mr. B and I were sharing a bottle of cold water as my eyes digested all the activity in the park, when a middle aged man approached us, directing a question to Mr. B.  “Excuse me,” he asks, “are you Ted Turner?”  Both of us started laughing.  It was a funny moment that sticks in my mind.  Apparently Mr. B gets asked that often.  It was amusing to be thought of as the mistress to Ted Turner in Manhattan. Doesn’t he own most of the city?

When we walked past the area where they play chess in the park and a nearby pavilion, there was a blue and white flannel shirt hung on the iron gates protecting the pavilion windows.  Both of the sleeves were tied in knots to the iron metal bars.  I found the image intriguing. I wondered how that shirt got there.  Did someone get too hot playing chess, and forgot it there, and someone found it and hung it on that pavilion window for the person who lost it to find?  Were two lovers kissing on the large boulders in the park or upon the wooded trails, and the shirt was left behind?  Was someone playing basketball or softball and got too hot? The possibilities were endless. The scene intrigued me enough that I took a photo of the shirt, and then painted a portrait of it shortly after I got home.  

In the evenings we went to burlesque shows in Brooklyn, Williamsburg, or in the East Village.  I fell deeply in love with the NYC burlesque energy!  I had the opportunity to meet some amazing performers during my initial visits to NYC, like Little Brooklyn, who is so charismatic, beautiful, talented, and has such a wonderful disposition.  She was so nice and told me about her show which she produces with Creamee Stevens, Starshine Burlesque.  I knew that I would check out her show as soon as I returned to NYC.  I also met Molly Crabapple, who is an amazing artist and was organizing this fundraising, burlesque show which we attended.  I also had the opportunity to observe the ingenious, comedic, and creative Clams Casino perform at this fundraising event.   Sometimes we would go to Williamsburg where the World Famous Bob hosted a burlesque show at Galapagos.  It was exciting times.  Didn’t you grow up in Williamsburg, Henry?

Mr. B even took me to see the ballet at the Kennedy Center – Shakespeare’s Midsummer’s Night Dream.  I had purchased the most beautiful, black and white dress at a fancy boutique in mid-town, not too far from the Doubletree Hotel when Mr. B was meeting with his literary agent.  I took the time to put my long, raven hair up in an elegant up do.   After dinner, we rode via taxi through Central Park.  It was so beautiful to drive through at night, a thousand lights glimmering on the roads in the parkway.  I reached over and stroked the outside of Mr. B’s pants, feeling his cock harden.  His hand crept beneath my dress.  His fingers slipped beneath my white lace panties, pressing it up inside of me, wiggling, thrusting, curling and then cruelly ceasing all pleasure just before I could come.  The pleasure I felt dominated over the slight pains I was beginning to feel on my left side, which intermittently jabbed into me like a sharp knife.  Regardless of a bit of discomfort, I felt as if I was living inside of a dream as we climbed the steps to the Kennedy Center.  I had only read and dreamed about attending events like this.  I never thought that I’d actually be experiencing it.

The ballet was beautiful!  But, we did not get to stay for the entire production.  I had been flying frequently for several weeks. The pressure changes from flying can cause me to form kidney stones. The high temperatures caused by the summer heat, as well as the pressure change from the long, elevator ride inside my Empire State Building also agitated my kidneys, increasing my chances for kidney stones to form. I  was feeling the sharp pains in my side again, feeling as if a kidney stone was starting to pass, mid-way through the show. I excused myself and went to visit the ladies room.  My urinary flow trickled.  It felt like I was peeing hot, burning nails.  The water inside the toilet bowl was red.  I was peeing blood. When I returned to my seat, I was shivering from the pain and a possible low grade fever. I squirmed in my theater seat, attempting to find some comfort.  It was no use. I had to cut my beautiful evening short and leave. The pain was excruciating! We stopped at a nearby bodega in Chelsea and bought lots of water and cranberry juice. We didn’t have sex on that night – which was so disappointing.  Sex feels so much better!

After being curled up on the bed for quite some time, the pain subsided some.  I was feeling a bit better.  We took advantage of the cool, evening air and the quiet streets of Manhattan, attempting to distract me from the intermittent pain.  I am hoping that I will drink enough water and our walk will get this kidney stone to pass.  Regardless of my discomfiture, I was falling in deeper in love with Manhattan, even in the gruesome heat!  I know New York City was not your favorite place, Henry, but it was quickly becoming mine.  It was our last night and I couldn’t wait to return to NYC again.  It was getting harder to say goodbye to this city, which already felt like home to me. I felt as natural in Manhattan as a fish would in water.  I was also starting to feel some emotions for Mr. B.  Initially, I wanted to remain emotionally unattached. I didn’t want to start to get confused with mixing my emotions in with sex with my lover.  It was a bit frightening.  It was also a bit exciting.  It was a new adventure – a new chapter in my life.  I have no regrets.

I must end this letter Henry.  I need some rest.

Much Love,

Mia

“What holds the world together, as I have learned from bitter experience, is sexual intercourse.” –Henry Miller

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8 responses to “mia loves henry miller – Letter 33 – Heat and Mischief in NYC with Mr. B

  1. I love reading your posts. They take me away to a place sometimes that I wish I could be sexually at times and satisfy me in a way that really has no words. It is intimate and somewhat spiritual. Thank you and keep up the great work. I love your art work as well. I would love to have your work hanging in my home someday. Peace be with you and all of whom that you are connected, always.

    Like

    • Thank you so much Don. I appreciate your kind words so very much. They mean a lot and are inspiring. I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to write such wonderful, encouraging words.
      Do you have a photograph of an image you like? If so, let me know on Twitter and I’ll give you my personal email on there to send it to me. I’ll see what I can do, in my spare time, to make art work out of an image you like, if it is possible.

      take care and thank you so much
      Peace to you, Mia

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      • We should all acknowledge others when we can and when they have an affect on us. That is why we are here I believe. To share and to learn from each other. I just sent you a reply on twitter publicly. You can DM me if you like @dwlanier. †Ω

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  2. Pingback: Mia Loves Henry Miller - LoversThatLast.com

  3. Reblogged this on mia loves henry miller and commented:

    I am reblogging my first collection of Letters to Henry Miller, via blog, as I finish the last letter in this first collection of erotic letters written to Henry Miller. This review of stimulating letters will end with Letter 50. Once I finish editing my manuscript and prepare my book for publishing, this first collection of letters will be removed from my blog web site Mialoveshenrymiller.com and transcend into a book. Once this is complete I will begin writing, Mia Loves Henry Miller, Book 2, beginning with Letter 51 – Thank you for all of my readers support.

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