mia loves henry miller – Letter 39 – He’s Married to a Mafia Princess, Crazy Cunnilingus, and Extreme Intoxication at the Palomino Club

mia loves henry miller

Letter 39 – He’s Married to a Mafia Princess, Crazy Cunnilingus, and Extreme Intoxication at the Palomino Club

“My books seem like someone else’s work now. Sometimes I wonder, did I write this or that? Was it I writing about myself or was it somebody else writing about me?” –Henry Miller, quotes on page 116 in the book, Henry Miller Full of Life, A Memoir of America’s Uninhibited Literary Genius, by Kathryn Winslow

2/20/2012 – 8:48 p.m.

Dear Henry Miller,

I’m at letter thirty-nine in less than three months time.  I have only eleven more letters to write before I compile all of these letters to publish my first book, Mia Loves Henry Miller – Volume One.  It’s nice to come close to reaching a goal of mine, after many years of dreaming about it.  I still have so many topics I want to discuss with you, and it is the reason why I will continue writing these letters and publish another fifty of them as a second novel, Mia Loves Henry Miller – Volume 2, to accompany this first book, somewhere in the near future.

“The reason Henry painted nude figures and covered up heads was because clothing and hair were too difficult for him to do. He omitted ears for the same reason. The emphasis was on the eyes, which he especially liked to paint-in his way, as orbs without lids or lashes. Sometimes he threw in a few eyes here and there on the paper.” –Kathryn Winslow, Henry Miller: Full of Life, A Memoir of America’s Uninhibited Literary Genius

Today, I’ve been painting a large portrait of Prince for a majority of the day and listening to one of my favorite author’s J.D. Robb on Audio Book.  Lieutenant Eve Dallas kicks major ass! I listen to J.D. Robb’s books over and over again.  I never get tired of J.D. Robb’s talent and the person who reads this intriguing, ingenious detective series. Susan Erickson has a multi – talented voice!  She mesmerizes me, sucking me in, making me lose track of time as I paint away.  She is seriously iced!  Being seriously iced is a good thing in Lieutenant Eve Dallas’ gritty, crime ridden realm and part of this futuristic world’s sci-fi lingo, which I love.

“Without the enthusiastic reader, who is really the author’s counterpart and very often his most secret rival, a book would die. The man who spreads the good word augments not only the life of the book in question but the acts of creation itself.” –Henry Miller, The Books in my Life

I love Lieutenant Eve Dallas, because she’s a survivor.  She talks from the heart and gut, and is straight to the point.  She’s direct and not afraid to be herself, regardless of her flaws.  She’s my fictional hero.  I’m not afraid to live my life as who I am, greatly in part because of Lieutenant Eve Dallas courage and inspiration, and her ability to use her unfortunate circumstances in her childhood, such as severe  physical, psychological and sexual abuse, to her advantage as an adult.  I think Lieutenant Eve Dallas kicks some major ass in NYC in 2059.

Next, I am going to listen to the audio book, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larson. Lisabeth Salander is another one of my fictional heroes!  She totally kicks ass and lives life on the edge.  I can hardly wait to listen to this audio series again.  I listened to them several years ago.  I love the trilogy and can’t wait to see the newest version of the movie, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, without subtitles.

I’m going to be spending some long nights at the loft, painting, over the next few months.  I’ve already been here for several days.  I have several art shows to get ready for in the spring and mid-summer, and a large portrait of local celebrities to finish for the mural project.  I also need to get a collection of art work ready to take with me to Dublin in August.  I’ve officially accepted the small part as an artist in the play, Voodoo Chile and the Jupiter of Music.  I’m nervous and excited.  Tonight, I have been enjoying my silence at the loft, and my ability to sleep without any interruptions.  I miss quiet nights like this.  I love my private space.  But, I also miss my husband, my dogs and even the doves.

Mafia Man…

A very long time has passed – it was well over a decade ago when I used to chat in the evenings on IRC, and I met this gentleman from NYC many months after I returned from California and had experienced my adulterous encounter with Mr. Cali Man.  We began by conversing in chat rooms regularly and sending private emails back and forth.  We progressed rapidly into having very hot cyber-sex.  My fingers typed fast and furious over my computer keyboard, horny and lost in our cyber – sexual tension.  I was a single mother with two, young children.  I didn’t have time to look for dates at nightclubs or single’s events at this point in my life.  At the beginning of my separation from my ex-husband, cyber sex felt safer for me to explore.  I loved the titillate men’s senses with erotic words.  It gave me a rush.  It was masturbation material.

“I think of this work as a sincere, honest effort which, in liberating me as a person and a writer, has somehow done the same for many others. I make no attempt to evaluate it as literature, since that is the task of posterity. But I feel certain that it is a work which will live, no matter what is said and done about it. I have found life worth living, even when unbearably difficult, and I think this view of life permeates not only the book in questions but all of my work.” –Henry Miller

Soon after we found our comfort zone via online chat, and private emails, we eased our way to talking on the telephone.  This man, who I will name Mafia Man, talked to me almost every afternoon for several months, his NYC accent was strong and thick.  I loved listening to him pronounce the words, Coffee (Caw fee) Cigars (Cigahs), and Water (Watah).  Did you talk in a New Yawk accent, Henry?  I would have enjoyed listening to you talk smut into my ears all day long, if you did.  I remember back then how I longed for New York City, even though visiting this magnificent city was only a dream at this time in my life.  I felt intoxicated by Mafia Man’s deep, charismatic, straight to the point, heavily accented voice.  To me he was dreamy.  I envisioned him to be tall, dark and handsome, which made me hot and very wet.

“To start with, there’s the alien accent.  “Tree” is the number between two and four.  “Jeintz” is the name of the New York professional football team.  A “fit” is a bottle measuring seven ounces less than a quart.  This exotic tongue has no relationship to any of the approved languages at the United Nations, and is only slightly less difficult to master than Urdu.” –Fletcher Knebel

Our telephone conversations which were heavily laced with phone sex, eventually led into our first and only meeting in downtown Minneapolis, many months after we first communicated online.  I wore a classic, form fitting, short, black cocktail dress – the thin spaghetti straps elegantly criss-crossing in the back.  My hair was in a sophisticated up do to accentuate my smooth, bare shoulders.  Mafia Man was running late.  I grew impatient, as the minutes ticked by on the clock, wondering if this man was for real or not.  “What if this was all a joke – and I’m at this bar inside a fancy hotel, waiting for no one?” I thought, bewildered.  Suddenly, I see a tall, bulky gentleman walk in with a dozen white roses.  I’m a little dumbfounded because he’s not as handsome as I had imagined him to be.  But, he did recall that I liked white roses.  I had to give him a plus for thoughtfulness.  I thought Mafia Man’s appearance was a bit awkward and appeared to me a bit like Fred Flintstone.  Yet, he had a distinct and diabolic way that he carried himself which intrigued me.  So, I didn’t run when he wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned – although, I thought that his voice was much sexier than his appearance.  I was intrigued enough by his initial charisma to remain on this date and discover more about this new person who recently entered my life.

“My apologies for being late,” Mafia Man said, appearing genuine, flashing an apologetic smile.  Next, he astounds my naïve eyes by doing a quick, yet simple magic trick for me.  I felt like a little girl again when he makes his cigar ashes disappear from the top of my hand and reappear into the bottom of my hand.  This was back when you could smoke in bar establishments.

“You have a certain Je nais se quoi,” he told me after he brushed away the ashes on the palm of my hand, turned it over and kissed the top of my hand like a gentleman, causing my face to grow hot and pink.  I was unfamiliar with the French language, so I stared blankly at his statement.  I was very young at this time and very naïve to the world.  I had no clue if what he said was a good thing or a bad thing.  I just smiled, like I do when my Korean mother is talking to me in her quick, heavily accented dialect and I don’t understand a word she has just said.

Mafia Man invited me upstairs to his hotel room after he indulged in a strong, alcoholic drink at the bar, and before we had dinner at the Palomino Club.  I had ordered some bubbly water, sipping on it as we talked for awhile, before he invited me to his room.  I thought to myself, “What the hell?  I haven’t been intimate with anyone in a many months.  Why not live a little and experience life?”  So I followed him to his hotel room.  I was quiet, not knowing what to say, my thoughts spinning in a million directions.  “What if he murders me once we get inside this room?  What if he wants to fuck?  I didn’t bring condoms?  I hope that he did.  What if he sucks in bed and I have to fake my way through this?  What if he doesn’t like a shaved pussy?  What if his penis is super small and I can’t feel a thing?  What if he’s weird and kinky?  And would that be the worst thing?  What if?  What if?  What if?”

“An artist who is non-commercial has about as much chance for survival as a sewer rat.  If he remains faithful to his art he compromises in life by begging and borrowing, by marrying rich, or by doing some stultifying work which will bring him a pittance.” –Henry Miller, The Plight of the Creative Artist in the United States of America. I found this quote inside the book; Henry Miller: Full of Life – A Memoir of America’s Uninhibited Literary Genius, by Kathryn Winslow

“Mia, I have something important to tell you.  My name isn’t really _____ it is ______ and I’m not really who I say that I am.” Mafia Man tells me just as we enter his elegant hotel room.

“Oh Fuck!” I screamed in my head, immediately thinking the worst.  “I am going to get murdered.”

My eyes suddenly go blank and then turned hazy with confusion.  It takes me awhile to register what he is saying.  “I have to protect myself, Mia.  My wife is a mafia princess.  If her family finds out about this affair, I’m in big trouble.”

I see nothing but the color red before my eyes.  Rage infuriates me.  My youthful temper triggers easy.  I don’t fully understand how the big people play in the real world.  I live in a small, Minnesota town and lost in my own world of fiction and art a majority of the time.  I don’t get out often and I don’t comprehend what Mafia man is telling me.  I hardly watch television.  This is all way too fictional to me.  “No one really lives a life like that.  Do they?” I thought, perplexed.

“We have to keep our affair a secret.  No one can know.  Understand?”

I nod my head, thinking that I do understand.  But I don’t.  Not really.

“I want to take care of you and your children in a financial way.  I will give you a week at Club Med once per year, a generous allowance, and a college education for both of your children, if you become my secret Mistress.  Please don’t be angry with me for not telling you my real name.  I couldn’t tell you this on the phone.  Sometimes my wife has her goons listen to my phone calls.  I’m surprised that I’m not in trouble already, for all of the time I have spent with you on chat and talking with you on the phone.”

I had never been propositioned like this before.  I desperately needed the money to help support my children.  My ex husband was incapable of doing so.  But, could I really do it this way?  I honestly didn’t know.

2/20/2012 – 9:45 p.m.

I’m going to find something to snack on, paint for another hour or so and then go to bed.  Mr. C brought me groceries this morning.  Again, he brought all of my favorite foods, even Greek yogurt, which Mr. C can’t stand.  I am surprise that he takes such notice, as I do the same for him.  It kind of makes me feel all warm and mushy inside, which is good, because it is cold outside and snowing tonight.  I will try and write for an hour in tomorrow morning, before I start my day.  Good night Henry.

2/21/2012 – 7:42 p.m.

Good Morning Henry.  I’ve been up since 6 a.m.  I feel good!  I did the perverse kit – kat shuffle between my bed sheets early last night, and then got some really good rest!  I’m feeling stronger every day.  This morning, I’ve been doing show promotion work and other tasks for the next show, which is coming up fast.  It’s next Friday night, March 2nd.  I’m doing my best to juggle all of this, as well as paint for all these art shows coming up.  I’ve also been putting together a manuscript of all the letters I have written to you so far, so I can send them to a NYC publisher, who is interested in reading them.  I’ve been delayed by illness and other tasks over the past few weeks.  But, I try to insert one or more letters each day into the manuscript, which is growing large in small increments.

It’s amazing what one can accomplish when they take things one thing at a time and not become overwhelmed by the larger picture.  I have only focused on one letter at a time, throughout this, Mia Loves Henry Miller, letter/blog project.  I’m just now learning about how much I have accomplished in a short amount of time.  With all that I juggle in my life; putting together this manuscript, painting, organizing the show, booking performers, dealing with troupe drama, and doing family things, is many of the reasons I haven’t been writing to you as often as I would like.  At least I’m still writing letters to you whenever I can.  When I do, the words flow from my fingertips, flying fast and passionate upon my lap top keyboard.  A variety of phrases come very easy like a soft stream of water from a shiny, new, sterling silver, kitchen faucet.  I deeply slip into the zone, as I type, as if I were go-go dancing high on a catwalk at the nightclub, feeling dreamy and euphoric as I compose each paragraph.

Mafia Man….

“Miss Nin is not in the usual sense, trying to tell a story.  Her object is to reveal experience directly….she exalts love as the exclusive goal of living: and she can be fulfilled only by that absolute and total union with a lover which, intellectually she knows beyond the reach of human nature.  It is, of course, one of the oldest subjects in literature, for it springs from an awareness of the ultimate isolation of every individual, against which the human spirits permanently rebels.” –Lloyd Morris, New York Herald Tribune, March 12, 1950

I was shocked by Mafia man and his confident force, shortly after we entered his hotel room.  I was still stupefied by what he had just told me.  I could only go with the flow.  I didn’t have time to think about my next move in this intense, erotic chess game.  He moved with a sense of great urgency, commanding my legs to open as we fell upon the large, plush, king-sized bed.  He gripped my panties, pulling them down, abandoning them to dangle upon my right ankle.  He hiked up my short, tight, black dress, high above my hips. His wanton tongue licked salaciously upon my stiff, saturated stem of pink flesh.  Sometimes it darted in and out of my creamy aperture like a tiny, wet cock.  My nipples felt stiff as diamonds – completely erect with arousal.  My toes curled and uncurled from a rushing, intoxicating flow of ecstasy.  All of my atoms, skin cells, and senses were humming and buzzing with incandescent energy on a much higher plane of existence.  I was on fire!  My passion set a blaze by erogenous endorphins.  My eyes blur and unfocused.  My fingers gripped at the bed sheets.  My erotic moans grew louder, ricocheting off the hotel walls, transcending into desperate cries and ecstatic screams as he ate my cunt like Adam would voraciously eat Eve’s apple from the Garden of Eden.  He sucked, nibbled and lapped up my glossy, soaking wet clit, like a wolf, who had not eaten in days – the sounds of his growling and moaning were muffled by my slick sex.  I had to cover my mouth a few times, to scream into my hand, to soften my voice.  His talent to eat pussy was amazing!

I was in a lust-filled frenzy, thrashing my head from side to side – my back arching high off the bed whenever his fingers deeply plowed into my convulsing slit.  It felt so good!  I hadn’t been pleasured like this in such a long time.  My aroused hunger was being slaked.  It had been a long time since I had been laid.  Mafia Man’s technique was not gentle and romantic.  It was quick, mind-blowing, and rough.  Part of me enjoyed this, and another part of me was shocked with surprise, panting like a dog on a simmering, August afternoon.  My tongue was parched.  My throat was dry.  I couldn’t believe that I was here, having my cunt eaten by a man I hardly knew with a dark, dangerous background.  I had never been aroused to this level before with this kind of rough, indelicate skill.

“Who knows what will come out of the soul of man?  The soul of man is a dark forest, with wild life in it.” –Henry Miller, quote from one of HM’s notebooks

I did the best I could to clean myself up in the sink with a washcloth, afterwards in Mafia Man’s bathroom.  I winced as I re-pinned my up do, taming strays of hair and smoothing them to appear elegant, because I was feeling sore between my legs.  I wanted to relax a bit, to calm down my trembling legs.

“Do you mind if I smoke some pot before we go to dinner?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t an uptight Republican.

“No, not at all,” he replied.  “Do you mind sharing some with me?”

Together we smoked a long, fat joint.  It was really good weed!  At this time, I didn’t realize that Mafia Man had taken a tranquilizer on the plane, mixing it with the strong, alcoholic drink he had downstairs in the bar.  Mafia Man isn’t a regular pot smoker, so he was feeling very woozy and fucked up by the time we arrived at the Palomino Club.

This was a recipe for disaster!

2/21/2012 – 8:15 a.m.

I must start painting.  I’m working on a new collection.  The infamous Minnesota artist, Prince, portrait number one is looking awesome!  I’m hoping to create a large, twelve piece, collection of Prince Portraits – done with acrylic paints on canvas, and complete them by mid-July.  I’m genuinely excited about this project.  I have been doing a small, music based collection for the past two years, for a huge celebration of talented, black musicians from Minnesota.

My parents and my children kids gave me gift certificates for my birthday to purchase new art supplies.  I indulged in higher quality paints.  It truly does make a difference to use quality products.  The acrylic paint I just purchased is thicker, richer, creamier, and more vibrant, reminding me of my love to paint with oils.  I love the consistency.  Sometimes it sucks to work on a low budget.  I’m grateful for useful gifts from family members.

Mafia Man…

I had never been to the upscale restaurant, which resided in downtown Minneapolis years ago, The Palomino Club.  Up until this point in my life, my financial budget never permitted me to enjoy this kind of extravagancy.  My great uncle had been a very famous Chef in the Twin Cities at the infamous Blue Horse, long ago, when I was a child.  Yet, I never knew the names of the elegant, ornate dishes he prepared for famous guests like Dean Martin, Hubert Humphrey and Zsa Zsa Gabore.  The wording on a fancy menu appeared foreign and frightening to me.  However, the peculiar behavior I was observing from Mafia Man was even more horrifying.  I didn’t notice when Mafia Man ordered his second strong drink of alcohol when we first arrive.

After we ordered, I cringed, dropping my fancy, metal, salad fork, which dings loudly upon my plate.  A few heads turn quickly in our direction, and then go back to their conversations, drinking wine, or eating dinner. I am terror stricken in disbelief!  I can’t believe what I observe with my wide, brown, dismayed eyes.  Mafia Man was now literally transforming into a hilarious caricature of the cartoon image he reminded me of, Fred Flintstone.  His awkward, cartoonish mouth grimaced large, and then he grossly spit out his salad as if it were a fancy salad shooter being sold on late night television.  Part of me wanted to burst out laughing.  The adult inside of me did my best to compose myself and desperately pray to the Gods above that no one was observing this ridiculous scene.

Mafia man’s eyelids are now heavy and droopy.  His eyes appear as tiny slits on his large face.  He looks more like Mister Magoo than Fred Flintstone, shoveling food into his mouth with both of his large hands.  I can’t recall what he ordered, but it wasn’t finger food.  My mind is screaming, “GROSS!  REALLY?!  Pinch me.  Am I dreaming?  This can’t be happening.”

I’m feeling kind of buzzed from the pot which Mafia Man and I had previously smoked in his hotel room, and I am doing everything in my power to control the deep, down, silent belly laugh, that trembles and quakes in my pits of my gut.  I quickly sober up when Mafia man pushes himself away from the table and begins to stray through the elegant, posh restaurant.  He has no balance as he clumsily walks, stumbling over his large feet.  He appears as if Barney Rubble has just hit this image of Fred Flintstone with Mr. Magoo eyes, over the head with a large, wooden, prehistoric club, and he is stumbling in small circles.  I swear I saw little birdies flying around his head as he stumbled in circles throughout the restaurant and entrance area.  Must have been the pot and my over active imagination.  At this point, I’m seriously concerned and completely embarrassed.  This behavior is definitely NOT normal!

I was grateful for my past experience working with people who were severely mentally ill, and in Detoxification centers with alcoholics and drug addicts. As quick as a fleeing second, I completely regain my composure and act on impulse.  I retrieve Mafia Man who has now been wondering the mall area attached to the restaurant and guide him back to our small, quaint table.  He’s still dazed and stumbling on our way there.  His large body slumps in his chair after I push his chair in.  His head is bobbing up and down, with the drowsy attack of the sleepy nods.  The mix of a tranquilizer, two strong drinks of alcohol and weed had pushed this guy over the edge.  I wouldn’t have offered to smoke pot with him if I had known about the tranquilizer that he took on the plane.  He was over the top inebriated!  I don’t understand why someone would mix so much together, especially if you wanted to make a good impression on someone.  Oh well.  Life is often full of funny, awkward moments.  It definitely makes a humorous memory and great story.

2/12/2012 – 9:58 a.m.

I must go back to painting.

2/12/2012 – 7:35 p.m.

Good evening Henry.  I have returned to my suburban home.  Mr. C and I went to get some dinner and art supplies after he picked me up from the loft.  It feels good to be home and nice to see my doves and dogs.  I even talked with my 21 year old daughter today.  Her daughter is already walking and she’s not even a year old yet – fun age!  And I text messaged a few times with my son.  It’s nice to know that mom is thought of every once in awhile.  I should probably call my mother soon.

Mafia Man…

“Waitress,” I spoke loudly, catching the attention of a beautiful waitress.  “Can we have the check and if you have a dessert with chocolate, can we get it to go?  Can you please call us a cab?  Thank you.” I smiled as graciously as I could, attempting to cover up my embarrassment, as Mafia Man remained semi-conscious in his chair.  His tongue was now sticking out of his mouth, with bits and pieces of food stuck to it.  I wish I would have had a camera phone back then.

“Did that same tongue lick my “who–who” an hour ago?  It doesn’t look so appealing now.  Is this the same guy?” I thought to myself while waiting for the check and dessert.  I didn’t think about who would see the credit card bill when I signed my name.  I didn’t know there might be repercussions for doing so – a consequence Mafia Man would pay for when he returned home.  Honestly, I just wanted to get this date over with.

I managed to get Mafia Man back to his hotel, and keep him upright in the elevator on the way up to his room.  His large, unbalanced body kept wobbling back and forth and swaying in small circles.  I tried to get him to remain still – no use.   I flashed an embarrassed look to the three older ladies in the elevator.  They appeared very conservative and high class.  Suddenly, I hear a loud, large “BURP!” expel from Mafia Man’s mouth.  On impulse, I scolded my date like a mother would instinctively scold her naughty child,”mind your manners! Don’t be so rude!”  Instantly, I hear the three older ladies bust out laughing, which only made me join them.  I almost fell on the floor from laughing so hard when the elevator opened on our floor.  My maternal instincts kick in again and I guide Mafia Man off the elevator, leading him down a long corridor to his hotel room.  I must admit it was difficult because of the inebriated state Mafia Man was in, and because I was still laughing pretty hard from the weird, humorous scene in the elevator.  The laughter from the older women made me laugh – a deep in the belly, almost crying, and peeing in my panties kind of  laugh, and so did thinking about how absurd this entire date has gone so far.

“Come on.  You are almost there,” I encouraged Mafia Man, attempting to silence my laughter, as we entered his hotel room and I managed to get his slumping, limp, heavy body onto the hotel bed.  My empathetic soul couldn’t leave him alone in this condition.  He was a mess!  So, I remained the night, but was totally pissed off in the morning when Mafia man finally awoke, semi-sober.

“I don’t want your allowance, your Club Med, or college educations for my children.”  I hissed at him, anger flashing dangerously in my eyes.  “I can’t be your secret Mistress.  I’m sorry that I’m not grown up enough to play this game.  I don’t even know how it works.”

I packed my overnight bag and left.  That was the last time I saw Mafia Man.  He did call a few times after he made it home to NYC. He said that his wife, the mafia princess, found out about our encounter and that her goons beat him up, and gave him a black eye.  I’m unsure if his story about being married to a mafia princess is even true.  It seems too absurd to believe.  But, what a story!  Even if it’s pure fiction, I enjoyed experiencing this silly, sexy adventure.

Good night Henry.  I have a busy day tomorrow.

Much Love,

Mia

“He did not mind being labeled as an obscene writer. “Obscenity, like sex, has its rightful place in literature.” –Henry Miller, Henry Miller Full of Life, A Memoir of America’s Uninhibited Literary Genius by Kathryn Winslow

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One response to “mia loves henry miller – Letter 39 – He’s Married to a Mafia Princess, Crazy Cunnilingus, and Extreme Intoxication at the Palomino Club

  1. 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.

    Like

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