mialoveshenrymiller – Letter 48 – B is for Broken Hearted, Break up Letters, Benefactor, Bereavement, Bondage and Books

mialoveshenrymiller

Letter 48 – B is for Broken Hearted, Break up Letters, Benefactor, Bereavement, Bondage and Books

I’m writing this letter on 6/27/2112 at 2:41 P.M.

Dear Henry,

“First it was a broken toe, then a broken brow, and finally a broken heart. But, as I said somewhere, the human heart is indestructible. You only imagine it is broken.  What really takes a beating is the spirit. But the spirit too is strong and, if one wishes, can be revived.” –Henry Miller, Insomnia or The Devil at Large

I’m at home in the suburbs with my four dogs, six doves and my husband.  I am comforted by their unconditional love.  A new baby dove has been born.  She looks like a girl.  I am thinking about calling her June, because she was born during the month of June.  I’m also calling her June after Henry Miller’s infamous wife, June.  The only single male dove I have is named Henry, who is named after Henry Miller.  I think Henry is the most handsome, smartest, cutest and the horniest bird ever!  He seems lonely, so I am hoping that this new dove is a girl, and can be a companion for Henry.

“Struggle is the most invaluable experience of all. Suffering seems to be the inevitable fast of the creative sensitive types.  Poverty, disease, death, unrequited love affairs, and disappointments of every sort fan the flame of the artistic spirit.” –Henry Miller, Reflections

Over the past few days, I have felt like I have walked for miles and miles through my most, darkest, lowest hours in my life.  I’m trying to pretend nothing bad has happened – all is well in my world.  Suddenly I jerk myself back into the present, snapping myself out of a rose colored fantasy world.  And then I remember that I live in a reality full of life’s ups and downs, much like riding the vintage, Cyclone Rollercoaster at Coney Island.

When I first started writing these first fifty letters to you, Henry, I never imagined that I would be writing such a sad letter as I was nearing the end of this book.  I always like to believe in  happy endings.  However, the winds of life can change as quickly as one blinks their eyes. On Monday,  June 25, my entire world went to shit.  I took a nose dive into Hell.  I had a fight with my 21 year old daughter, on the phone.  Next, I engage in a loud disagreement with my twenty-three year old son, face to face, at our suburban home.  He and I scream mean and ugly words at each other – which is so dysfunctional and fucked up.  The funny thing is – we hardly ever fight.  I genuinely enjoy my son’s company.  He moved out of my home, hours after our fight ended, which makes me sad, yet, happy that he will finally learn how to live his life independently – a mother can only hope.  And I will finally get some peace and solitude and a rest from my never ending bitching for my son to do the dishes or to put the toilet seat down when he finishes pissing in it.

“Life is change.  Growth is optional.  Choose wisely.” –Henry Miller

Sometimes arguments can lead to good things and promote change in one’s life. However, heated arguments tend to zap my energy and dampen my enthusiasm for life.  I honestly don’t enjoy confrontation.  But, life is what it is.  It’s not always going to be full of joy and calm, rational conversations – especially between a mother and her child.  And, just when I thought I could take a respite from heartache, I receive a break up letter via email from Mr. B.  He was not brave enough to end our relationship face to face.  By the end of the day, there was nothing left of my soul.  It was shredded into a gazillion pieces, like torn pieces of paper, which flutter chaotically in the air, with a large gust of wind.

Do you know what the B in Mr. B stands for, Henry?  It stands for Benefactor – the Benefactor, who has just said goodbye to me in an email, for reasons I cannot disclose – to keep the privacy of this gentleman’s life.  If he hadn’t just broken my heart, I would have gone on with my letters, never revealing to you why I call my lover, Mr. B.  I was a hidden secret in his life.  He has kept me hidden from his world and from his wife for a little over six years.  I am assuming that having an affair for this long, must have been a heavy load to carry.  It must’ve been difficult keeping track of various lies he has told to his wife, just to have a kinky affair with me.

“Every day men are squelching their instincts, their desires, their impulses, their intuitions.  One has to get out of the fucking machine he is trapped in and do what he wants to do.  But we say no, I have a wife and children, I better not think of it. It would be better if a man did what he liked to do and failed than to become a successful nobody.” –Henry Miller, My Life and Times

Due to my unconditional love for Mr. B, I have released him from my life, my heart and my soul.  I don’t want to cause any more additional stress in his life.  We had a wonderful time while it lasted.  I am sad and broken hearted, Henry.  I will greatly miss Mr. B’s companionship and our sexual play, so very much!  Once again, my husband, Mr. C comes to my rescue, consoling me as much as he can.  I suppose it is silly to ask for my husband’s comfort, time and attention, because I am feeling so down and blue, because my lover just broke up with me.  But, I’m glad that my husband does.  He is my firm, sturdy base in my life, everything else is icing on the cake.  Yet, I did not take my relationship with Mr. B lightly.  He was a wonderful part of my life. I grew in so many ways, emotionally, intellectually, physically, and spiritually.  I can never erase all that he offered to my heart and to my soul.  It’s difficult to say goodbye to this chapter in my life.  It’s been wonderful while it lasted.  I will never be able to delete all of the wonderful times we spent together from my heart and my memory, regardless of how hard I try.

“Always we are led back to the heart.  It is there that everything is determined.  A community must be organized around the heart, otherwise, no matter how rational the theory, how stout the principle, it will fall apart. This is the true theater of operation: the heart. What happens outside in the world, as they say, is only the echo of the passion play which goes on in the soul of every individual.” –Henry Miller, Remember to Remember

I grew up with a Korean mother, as I mentioned in one of my earlier letters, shortly after I started writing to you on a consistent basis.  My mother came to America in 1966.  Her family escaped from North Korea and found liberation from communism in South Korea.  Due to her culture and nature, she never permitted me to get too close to my father when I was growing up.  I’m really not sure why it was that way.  I never really understood it.  Getting close to my father was considered wrong in my mother’s eyes.  There were severe consequences if my father and I got too close – such as I getting a severe beating from my Korean mother.

My mother forbidding my relationship with my father was disheartening, because I loved my father very much when I was young.  He was my hero, my savior, my sense of safety.  I’m assuming that my mother behaved the way she did, because that was her culture, her fears and her nature.  I was denied love and affection as a young child by both of my parents.  I was the first daughter and a middle child.  I have an older brother and a younger sister.  Of course, I was the black sheep and scapegoat for everyone in my family.  It’s a typical story for the middle child.  I was very lucky to have a very loving, Polish grandmother, who I was very close to.  For most of my life, my paternal grandparents lived two blocks away from my home.  I could walk to their home in a matter of five to ten minutes.  My grandmother meant the world to me!

My grandparents bathed me with so much love and attention, which my mother often resented. There were times as I was growing up, when I felt as if a bitter cold wind tore through the middle of my soul. I don’t want to go into too much detail right now.  I’d hate to hurt what relationship I do have presently with my parents, should they ever read my work.  I don’t believe they will, because of all the highly sexual, kinky content.  However, I’m in enough emotional pain as it is, with my break up with Mr. B and saying goodbye to my son.  I don’t want to start bringing up my dark, nightmarish past.  I do not regret my journey in life, even in the darkest times, because it has made me into who I am today.  I love who I am. I know that I am strong and that I am resilient.  And I was blessed with genuine empathy for others.  I make my life better from my struggles and heartache.  I don’t cry, “why me?”  I move forward bravely and do my very best to leave my emotional baggage behind.

The reason that I revealed so much about my past is because I want you to understand why Mr. B seemed so important to me and essential to my mind, my body, my heart and my soul.  Mr. B was a father figure in my life for a little over six years.  He has no children of his own.  He has no family either, except for his devoted wife.  I wanted to experience Mr. B’s attention and nurturing.  I wanted to lavish myself in his love, as if it were a luxury bubble bath containing the finest salts and oils.  I cannot change the cruelness of my childhood, but I can fulfill the emptiness I felt for so many years, with what Mr. B had lavished upon me.

“Life is short. From here to that old car you know so well there is a stretch of twenty, twenty-five paces. It is a very short walk. Make those twenty-five steps. Now. Right now. Come just as you are. And we shall live happily ever after.” –Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

Mr. B was my Humbert, and I his Lolita.  And we lived part of our lives together in a Nabokov fantasy.  Mr. B is approximately 20 years older than I.  He’s very close to my father’s age. He offered me the love, nurturing, kinky sex and financial security which felt scary and foreign to me at first.  In the beginning of our relationship I held Mr. B at an arm’s distance, much like I did with Mr. C in the beginning of  my relationship with him. I did not really know how to love or open myself up to love, prior to both of them entering my life.  They both taught me that I was beautiful and worthy of love.  They also taught me how to love myself.  Some might think that this breakup would send me down a path of self – destruction.  But, because I have a large reserve of self-love for myself, I don’t really see myself self-destructing due to heartache and sorrow.  I plan on using this heartache as fuel to move me forward – as fuel to finish this first book of letters to you.

Ever since Mr. B sent me an email, ending our affair, I have kept my chin up and continue to try and distract myself with healthy, healing, self-indulgences such as writing, reading and painting.  I don’t want the time to feel the emptiness and heartache from not having Mr. B in my life any longer.  Yet, I must admit, that it seeps into my soul minute by minute.  And then I cry for awhile.  Afterwards, I dry my eyes, inhale a deep, cleansing breath, exhale slowly, and find my center, focusing myself to write a few more sentences to you.  You are my salvation right now, Henry.  Thank you for being with me in spirit.

“At 3 A.M., when you’re desperately in love and you’re too proud to use the telephone, particularly when you suspect she is not there, you are apt to turn upon yourself and stab yourself, like the scorpion.  Or, you write her letters you never mail, or you pace the floor, curse and pray, get drunk, or pretend you will kill yourself.” –Henry Miller, Insomnia or The Devil at Large

What I would really like to do is lie down, snuggle beneath a plush duvet and sleep my days away.  I want to go to the surreal realm where bad things like sadness and heartache cannot find me.  I know that it’s not in my best interest to hide myself inside of a dreamy, sleeping world.  So, I’m forcing myself to continue on with this letter, instead of nodding off into dreamland.  It comforts me to have you to write to.

“A true friend is one who picks up right where you left off, whether it’s been a week, a month, or twenty years.” –Henry Miller, Book of Friends: A Trilogy

Yesterday, I visited my good friend, Miss Sexy at her house.  She recently broke up with a wonderful, creative gentleman, who was also married to another woman.  She offered me comfort, understanding, a listening ear, advice, a shoulder to cry on, and unconditional love.  She made me very grateful to have a friend like her.  We talked, we laughed, we cried, and we even rented a small paddle boat to use on Lake Calhoun.  It was so much fun!!  Sometimes, it’s the most difficult times in my life, when I find out who my real friends are.  Afterwards, I had dinner with my stepdaughter and my husband.  Again, I felt gratitude for the important people in my life.  They offer me the support when I feel like I’m crumbling into a million pieces.

I must end this letter for now, Henry.  I will write as soon as I can.

I’m resuming this letter on 6/29/2012 at 3:26 p.m.

“Love must not entreat or demand…” –Herman Hesse

“It’s like asking someone to climb a ladder with hands and feet.  You have to go through agony before you can accept such sublime truth.  The cynic will say it’s meant for saints or angels, not mortal human beings.” –Henry Miller Insomnia or The Devil at Large

What will I do without Mr. B in my life?  Will I adventure into another polyamorous relationship?  Or, will I stay clear of it, in fear of all the bittersweet emotions that a polyamorous relationship can conjure up?  I love to experiment in life and intimately engage and connect with other people.  I genuinely enjoy the act of sexual contact with men and women.  To me, a long string of therapeutic orgasms keeps my mind, body and soul in tune.  Will it be a solo act for me and my Hitatchi Wand in the forthcoming months?  Lately, Mr. C is always working.  He barely has time to take a breath before he is off to work again.  Will I ever feel the intense, orgasmic sensation of fucking again?  I don’t know Henry.  I don’t know.  A girl like me can only hope so.

My emotions are a mess and I feel a bit lost.  In between writing sentences and paragraphs of this letter, I am reading your book, Insomnia or The Devil at Large, as well as A Marquis Of Our Time, by Corneliu Mitrache.  The words both you and he write are filled with a deep passion for life and experience.  Both of your words comfort me through my darkest hours, drifting me into a fictional world, a place where I can escape my emotions.  I’m grateful and I’m feeling emotionally stronger today than I did yesterday.  My mind is clearer even though I’ve had an awful headache for past few days.  My emotional stress is causing me to clench my jaws, which triggers the headaches.  But, I refuse to let the pain win and sleep my day away.  I feel that life is too precious to waste.

Shall I change the topic and tell you about my next adventure in NYC with Mr. Shrink Man????

Several months after my trip with Mr. Shrink Man in San Francisco, my husband and I drove to Manhattan.  We love taking road trips together.  We try to go somewhere new each year, to celebrate our wedding anniversary and to indulge in kinky sex.  Mr. C had never been to NYC before.  I had already visited NYC many times with Mr. B, and was already deeply in love with the city.  Mr. C immediately fell in love with New York City the minute we arrived.  I was hoping that he would love the city as much as I.  Mr. C loves to people watch as much as I do.  And Manhattan is the perfect place for people watching.  It’s one of our favorite things to do together.  We walked hand in hand all day, walking from one end of Manhattan to the other, indulging our eyes to all the sights, sounds and sensations of this remarkable city.  I probably love Manhattan about as much as I love you Henry.  I am sorry to say that.  I don’t know why I am so bewitched by this grand, American city.  But I am and I can’t help it.  I always feel a sense of solace when I am there.  I always feel at home, as if I had lived in NYC in another lifetime.  Mr. C feels the same way.

Three days into my vacation to NYC with Mr. C, I met Mr. Shrink Man by myself for an upscale dinner on Irving Place.  I was curious about this new girl he now calls his mistress.  I genuinely enjoy the erotic sensation of intimately engaging with another female, which is one of the main reasons I accepted this invitation to dinner and some erogenous fun afterwards.  Mr. C and a good friend of ours, Miss D, who flew to NYC, to join Mr. C and me, to see the Broadway production of Chicago, guest staring Usher, who was playing Billy, the lawyer, wandered around Manhattan together until I was finished with my engagement with Mr. Shrink Man and his mistress.

It was a gorgeous, late September evening. The crisp autumn air had a slight chill in it.  I wore a black and white, 1950’s classic dress.  My long hair was artfully styled with a retro up do.  I carried a thin, white, cotton sweater over my arm, just in case I needed it.  I stared with perplexity at a small piece of paper, which had the address and directions to the fancy, quaint hotel.  It was near the upscale restaurant we were having dinner at.  The place I was supposed to meet Mr. Shrink Man at could have possibly been an upscale bed and breakfast or a very quaint, lavish Inn.  I wasn’t quite sure.  To me, it appeared like a fancy, small, intimate brownstone.  I’m unsure what to call it, because when I finally found it and entered, it had a genuine home-y feel to it.  The décor was rich, extravagant, sophisticated and simple.

Since I was still a bit unfamiliar with Manhattan, I couldn’t find the place right away, so I called Mr. Shrink Man on his cell phone.  I told him that I was having difficulties finding his location.  Wishfully, I thought Mr. Shrink Man would be a gentleman and meet me outside the quaint, yet opulent establishment.  Mr. Shrink Man brazenly told me where he was at.  He impatiently gave me the address again, but I had no GPS on my phone.  I felt disconcerted, befuddled, and stymied.  I really did not want to feel like an idiot because I could not find the location where Mr. Shrink Man kept instructing me to go.

Eventually, with much determination, I found him.  The overwhelming sensation of rage bubbled within like hot lava from a slowly erupting volcano.  Because of the intimate size of this affluent establishment, Mr. Shrink Man could have easily walked out the front door, to physically show me where he was.  When I finally found Mr. Shrink Man, he was in his room, doing nothing important, as he waited for me to arrive.  And by the time all three of us, Mr. Shrink Man, I, and his Mistress, met at this copious restaurant, I was still fuming with agitation.  I sucked in deep breaths of air and exhaling slowly to calm myself down.  It was difficult, but I somehow managed to cool myself down enough, so that my agitation was unnoticeable.

It also felt a bit tense and awkward, because I had not seen Mr. Shrink Man ever since he yelled, “Fuck You,” and slammed our hotel door after he angrily exited it, in San Francisco.  I was also still a bit annoyed that he was not gentlemanly enough to make my hunt for his location easy.  I guess it was his way of exhibiting his ego driven style for power and control.   I’m spoiled by my husband.  Mr. C is always a gentleman.  He would not have sent me on a wild goose chase to find him.  Mr. C would have met me on the street before I even had to call him on his cell, to make sure that I could find the correct location.  He also would have been polite to the restaurant staff, insuring our good service from them.  I would not have felt even a hint of embarrassment, only pride and love.

When I eventually met Mr. Shrink Man’s mistress at the restaurant, I was actually quite surprised.  She was short and very petite and looked very young, like an adolescent child.  I thought she was very pretty.  Her eyes were dark brown and she had a glossy, short, black hairstyle, which framed her petite face nicely.   She was actually close to my age, and radiated with confidence and sensuality.  We were both in our thirties.  She seemed very nice.  I liked her energy.  She made it easy to befriend her.

I felt over dressed for our dinner engagement.  Mr. Shrink Man wore casual attire, and so did his mistress.  She was wearing a casual, light pink, cotton shirt and dark, skinny jeans.  Mr. Shrink Man wore casual, black slacks and a matching polo shirt.  As we waited for our food, we sipped on Pellegrino and Merlot, and conversed, getting to know each other better.  Mr. Shrink Man’s mistress, who I will name Miss M, stated that she had celiac disease and could only eat a gluten free diet.  I had never heard of her illness before until Miss M told me more about it, before we were interrupted by our waiter.  Miss M and Mr. Shrink Man ordered Steak Tar Tar and I ordered a filet mignon, well done.  Once again, Mr. Shrink Man was rude to the wait staff and was full of many brusque demands.  I kind of cringed when they both ordered Steak Tar Tar.  I wasn’t sure that I wanted to observe raw meat spit in my direction when Mr. Shrink Man talked with his mouth full.

I must end this letter for now, Henry.  I need a rest, and then I need to paint for awhile.  I will write soon.

I’m resuming this letter on 6/29/2012 at 8:01 P.M.

Earlier today, I returned to my loft hoping to work on the large portrait for the television mural project.  The deadline is July 17.  I still have so much to do.  There is a lot of intricate detailing in this portrait.  My heart was still feeling heavy with sadness and mourning.  I desperately needed to put my heartache into my painting.  And when I was finished painting, I wanted to soak into my deep bath tub, full of steamy hot water, and indulge in reading a hypnotizing novel, A Marquis of our Time, authored by Corneliu Mitrache.  I’ve been escaping my misery and finding comfort in this author’s mesmerizing story.  I really love the character named Ida.  She’s an artist as well as an erotic writer.  Ida intrigues me. Unfortunately, I was unable to indulge in a hot bath with my book.  I had to return to my suburban home last night.  I didn’t think much else could go wrong in my life this week, but…

I was just about to start painting.  For some odd reason, I opened my closet door.  I don’t recall why.  It appeared as if it was raining inside of my closet.  Everything was a soggy mess, my burlesque costumes, my paintings, my magic tricks, and so much more was soaking wet!  Even the long, white beaded dress, Mr. Shrink Man had purchased for me in San Francisco was drenched.  And there was still more water raining from my ceiling.  I wanted to kick scream and cry when I saw this wet disaster!  But, I was emotionally numb.  I had no more tears to shed and no more energy to make any new ones appear.  I did say shit! Fuck!! Shit!!! ALOT!!!  Eventually, I put myself on automatic pilot mode – a mode void of all emotion, and then quietly opened a large, black plastic garbage bag to begin throwing away all of the items which could not be salvage.  At one point, I had to giggle to myself, because as I was taking all of the soggy shit out of my closet, I must have pulled out at least six umbrellas.  The reason I have those umbrellas is because I use them for a magic act.  Now if only they could have performed magic and protected all of my important stuff, like a gazillion receipts for art supplies which I have purchased over the past five years!

Apparently there had been a leak in the building all week.  I hadn’t been at my loft.  The maintenance crew did not know where the leak was coming from.  Until, I told them.  It’s going to take a lot of work to repair my closet.  My artist loft was where Mr. B and I spent much of our time together, for several years.  It was like the loft was weeping for us, because we were no longer going to be fucking beneath it.

‘The greatest works of art were not created by spoiled brats.  They were born for the most part out of a sense of despair, and if not despair then just plain hard work.  Somewhere along the line the artist learns the art of transformation; how to celebrate his hungerings and sufferings, turning disappointment into something positive – a great book, a sonata, a film, a painting, or a dance.” –Henry Miller, Reflections

 Returning to the story of Mr. Shrink Man in Manhattan….

“Mia, “Mr. Shrink Man said, as we waited for our food to arrive at our table, “why don’t you tell ___________, about the book you are writing.”

Immediately my face turned red, the tips of my ears burned like fire.  I didn’t want to be in the conversational spot light.  I wanted to be quiet and observe.  Instinctively, I cleared my throat, took a sip from my fancy glass of cold and bubbly Pellegrino, “I’m thinking about writing a fictional book, involving fictitious letters to Henry Miller, about the life of a courtesan, who worked for the infamous Miss Nina Clifford, who was a notorious Madame  in St. Paul in the 1920’s and 30’s.  (For the past ten years, Henry, prior to the beginning of this collection of letters, I imagined many ways on how to write my book to you)

“Mia is very obsessed with the gangsters who hid out in St. Paul during those times,” Mr. Shrink Man interrupted my flow of conversation.  Bread crumbs sprayed from Mr. Shrink Man’s thick lipped mouth like sawdust from a mill wheel.

“Interesting, tell me more,” Miss M asked, turning to me, both of us attempting to ignore the bread crumbs spraying from Mr. Shrink Man’s mouth.

I went on to tell her about how all the legendary gangsters who used to hide out in St. Paul, Minnesota – notorious gangster like George, Machine Gun Kelly, Al Capone, Doc Barker, John Dillinger, and Alvin Creepy Karpis.  Even gangsters like Bugsy Siegel sought retreat in St. Paul.  I went on telling Miss M about my sexual attraction to John Dillinger’s girlfriend, Billie Frechette.  Miss M smiled very seductively at me, listening intently as I chattered on about my love for St. Paul during the 1920’s and 30’s era.

Suddenly the appearance of Miss M’s face halted my flow of conversation.  Her eyes were as wide as large, brown buttons.  I turned my head to observe where Miss M’s frightened eyes were directed and witnessed the waiter bringing our meal to our table.  Before they could arrive Miss M jumped out of her seat, striding fast towards the waiter.

“No, this won’t work! I cannot have white bread. I am on a gluten free diet!”  Every one seated nearby us stopped eating, drinking or talking, and stared in our direction, as Miss M began to take every single piece of small, oval toasted bread, which decoratively bordered the Steak Tar Tar, off of the large, white china plate, before the waiter could make his way to our table.  Now, it seemed as if everyone in the restaurant stopped talking at once and all the attention in the room was directed at this tiny woman quickly picking up the bread and handling it as if it were poison.  I wanted to slide under the table, hide, and never come out again.

After all the chaos, the wait staff finally made their way to our table to deliver our food.  People went back to eating, drinking or to their conversations.  I had this incessant urge to apologize to the young, handsome waiters, for my dinner guests causing such an inconvenience to them.  I no longer had much of an appetite.  I cut my steak into tiny pieces, smashed my fork many times into the whipped potatoes and basically picked at my food.  Miss M was still interested in conversing with me, which diverted my attention to her instead of Mr. Shrink Man.  It also kept him quiet, so he could chew his food and swallow it without me seeing it spray from his mouth, should he have had the opportunity to talk.

Miss M went on to tell me more about Celiac Disease and how surgeons had removed much of her colon due to her illness.  Now, I was thinking about bowel movements and missing intestines.  It wasn’t the best discussion while having dinner.  But, it wasn’t any worse than seeing Steak Tar Tar shoot out of Mr. Shrink Man’s mouth, which I’m grateful I didn’t have to witness.

“Don’t you think you are over romanticizing the 1920’s and 30’s era in St. Paul?” Miss M asked me, before taking a bite of her raw meat.

“Is it wrong for me to be so intrigued by important history and enamored by gangsters and notorious Madams?” I replied, before taking another sip of Pellegrino, feeling a bit defensive.

“What would you think if I said that I want to write about the history of St. Paul and not romanticize it like you have?”

“Do what you like,” I replied, trying to hide the irritation in my voice, stabbing my fork into a tiny piece of steak and put it in my mouth so I would not say anything more.  As I chewed, I thought to myself that this woman was probably the type to talk about her dreams or goals and would never do anything to pursue them.  But, one never really knows.   Miss M had never even been to Minnesota.  Why would she have the passion to write about a topic she wasn’t fully familiar with?

After dinner, I was asked to wait outside the quaint hotel for awhile.  Miss M needed some time to change into something more intimate and take care of a few private matters.  I didn’t mind.  It offered me time to smoke a cigarette.  Mr. B stood outside with me, engaging in small talk.  There was still a little bit of tension in the air between us.  I tried to act as if nothing bad had ever occurred between us, which seemed to make Mr. Shrink Man more at ease.  I didn’t want him to think that I spent most of my time being pissed off at people, or that I was a woman who clung to resentments like tiny pieces of toilet paper clinging to the crack of an ass.  I try to accept people as they are – the good, the bad, and the ugly.  It was my good friend, MJ who taught me this.  She has a genuine love for the indifferent, the unique and the freaky.

When I returned, I had to use the bath room.  I gasped with alarm, grimaced with disgust and blinked with disbelief when I saw the largest piece of shit I have ever seen, floating in the toilet bowl.  I did not think that a woman as petite as Miss M could give birth to something that large from her asshole!  Why didn’t she flush?  I would have.  Especially if I was just about to have sex with someone who might see my grotesque, stinky, oversized turd!

I had to quickly delete the vision I had just witnessed, from my memory, as if it were annoying spam in my email inbox, as I quickly flushed the toilet and then retrieved my black corset from a large purse.  As quickly as I could, I stripped off my dress, and put on the beautiful black corset which Mr. Shrink Man had purchased for me when we first met.  I left the back untied, knowing that I would require some assistance with it.   The first thing I saw when I exited the bath room was Miss M.  I must admit, she looked very beautiful, making me forget about the large turd she just birthed from her tiny butt.   She was wearing a long, gorgeous, thin, sheer black nightgown.  I thought that her petite body was beautiful.  I couldn’t help myself from staring at her small, perky breasts.

I didn’t realize it was getting so late, Henry.  It’s almost midnight.  Good night, I will try and write soon.

I’m resuming this letter on 7/5/2012 at 12:05 P.M.

Hi Henry!   I’ve been working on a few new art pieces over the past few days, and the subject is you.  I find great delight in creating art in your image, with Sharpie pens and markers, as well as Prisma color markers on Bristol paper.  You inspire me. You make me want to wake up early to work on your portrait.  I still need to work on the large portrait for Television Mural Project.   I have twelve days to finish.  I’m hoping to finish it soon.  I brought the painting home with me, but because my suburban home is not my artist loft, I feel thrown off balance.  It makes me feel hesitant to start working on it.  I have to paint in the basement, because I wouldn’t want to get paint on the living room carpet.  The only light I would have, painting in the basement, would be artificial.  I also don’t have easy access to my audio books.  A majority of them are at the loft. Painting for long hours without an audio book is like a woman not having chocolate when she has PMS.  It feels weird to not be able to paint at my loft, where I have worked for the past few years.  I feel awkwardly misplaced, much like I feel from my break up with Mr. B.  I am hoping that the building maintenance at my loft is close to finishing fixing the leak in my ceiling and reconstructing my closet.  I want to get back to having solitude, privacy, and my audio books when I paint.   I want to pour my heartache into each drop of smooth, thick paint.  I want to be lost in the zone for hours.

Sometimes my mind flashes back to Mr. B.  And when my mind wanders there, the ache in my heart chokes off the air in my throat.  Tears pool inside the brim of my eyes, sometimes one or two will escape and drip slowly down my cheeks. The feeling of my loss feels to me much like what an amputee might feel without their arm.  I often feel phantom pains in my soul, feeling as if Mr. B is still in my life.  I want to call him, to email him, or meet him and to cuddle up to him or to fuck him, and then I recall that we are no longer lovers, and then my heart gets heavy and the airways tighten, constricting the air flow in my throat.  My eyelids are heavy with tears of mourning and loss.  My heart feels heavy and it suffers with agony, when I realize and remember that Mr. B is not in my life anymore.

I fear as I near the end of this first book of letters to you, Henry, that I won’t have anything erotic to write to you about in my second book, if Mr. B will no longer be in my life.  My husband, Mr. C and I don’t have sex as often as I would like.  It’s wild and explosive when we do find the time to fuck, but it’s not often enough for me.  Will my erotic letters end, or will I find myself another lover?   Will I find someone who can fulfill me?  I am going to trust that I will find a companion who will satisfy my high libido and passionate, kinky desires.  I don’t want to view my break up with Mr. B as a loss.  I want to view it as a new beginning to a wonderful new adventure!

Mr. C and I were invited to MJ’s birthday party this past Sunday. Unfortunately, we were unable to attend. Mr. C worked most of the day, and he had to work later in the evening.  I took a long walk on Sunday afternoon.  The heat was overwhelming, but it felt good to meditate, purging my mind of negativity and dark erroneous emotions.  The humidity in the air was sticky, moist and stifling.  It felt as if I was walking through waist deep water, sweating so profusely that my hair stuck to my face, and my clothes stuck to my skin.  Despite my misery, the sauna like heat and moderate exercise felt almost as good as passionate sex.

Returning to the story about Mr. Shrink Man, Miss M, and Manhattan…

You know the head space I described earlier in my letter, about being in the zone – a place where I completely surrender – a place where I surrender my soul and go with the flow of the moment, digesting it, second by second?  Because I had been counting backwards from twenty-five in my head for most of my dining experience with Mr. Shrink Man and Miss M, so I wouldn’t feel too annoyed by both of their peculiar behaviors, I had surrendered myself completely to the moment.  My mind was no longer chattering about should I?  Shouldn’t I?  I can’t believe she just did that?  Did he really say that to the waiter?  Oh how I wish I was with Mr. C and Miss D right now.  I bet they are having more fun that I am.  Why did I agree to this encounter?  Because I am an experience junkie, that’s why.  Plus, I don’t get to play with other women very often.  I didn’t want to turn my back from this upcoming, erotic experience.

I had also been concentrating on the deep inhales and long exhales of my breath, much like I do when I am performing my morning routine of Tai Chi.  By doing this and counting backwards in my mind, I had placed myself into the zone and welcomed the unexpected in life.

“Mia, come here,” Miss M instructed me with a soft, alluring voice.  Mr. Shrink Man guided me with his large hand upon my shoulder, toward his mistress.  “Turn around,” She instructed.  As if I were caught inside a dreamy spell, I did as she asked.  I felt the strings on the back of my corset tighten.  She pulled on my corset strings so tight, it was difficult to breathe, which pulled me out of the tranquil zone I was in.

“Lie down on the bed Mia,” Miss M instructed after she finished tying my corset extremely tight, making sure that my two, small perky breasts were positioned over the top of my corset.  I complied in silence.  My worries, fears, insecurities, and doubts vanquished into the night.  I began to slip away, my body, my mind and my soul danced in silence with Surrender.  The room was quiet.  No one spoke while Mr. Shrink Man and Miss M applied a blindfold over my eyes and buckled four, thick leather cuffs on my ankles and wrists.  Intermittently, I could hear distant footsteps walking upon the glossy, dark, hardwood floors, in another room of this quaint establishment.  I continued to concentrate on my breath, which was now short and shallow, due to how tight my corset was.  I didn’t permit any other thoughts to enter my head.  I pushed away all of my thoughts about Mr. Shrink Man, and my inability to submit to him, the last time I saw him.  I had this calm, knowing feeling, deep in my gut, that the only person I needed to trust was Miss M.  I had to completely block Mr. Shrink Man from our ménage trios equation.  Even though Miss M was more eccentric than I, I knew deep down within that I could trust her.

Miss M’s sensual aura captivated me.  Her openness to being comfortable in her own skin, as well as her outgoing personality were like keys which unlocked the hidden doors I have within myself, to keep many others at an arm’s distance.  I felt an intense, sexual energy move between the two of us, attaching our souls together with an invisible piece of string.  Quietly, inside my mind, I counted backwards from twenty-five to keep all other thoughts away, concentrating on the sublime sensation of surrender, as Miss M and Mr. Shrink Man threaded thick rope inside the metal rings which were attached to my black leather cuffs.  “I surrender, I surrender, I surrender,” chanted like an eastern mantra in my mind, as they bound each of my limbs to the four corners of the large bed.  Deeper and deeper I permitted my spirit to fall further down the rabbit hole.  My breath rate quickened, and my chest heaved up and down at a quickening and anticipating pace, when the sensual sensation of Miss M’s hand softly stroked through my long, raven hair.  I could feel her luscious puffs of breath pant warmly upon my lips.  She was very close to my face.  So close that I could almost taste her lips and tongue.  And then I did when she finally kissed me.  Our female tongues sensually explored the insides of each other’s mouth – her breath and saliva mixing salaciously with mine.  I felt my heart beat move downward to the tip of my stiff, aching clit, which pulsated with a tingling, carnal heat.  My vaginal lips felt thick, swollen, moist, exposed and utterly vulnerable to Miss M and Mr. Shrink Man.  My hips gyrated upward, eager to feel something to satisfy the desperate ache between my thighs.  But, no relief came.  Not yet.

I’m sorry, Henry, I must end my letter for now.  I have art work I need to work on.  I will try and write soon.

I’m resuming this letter on 7/7/2012 at 10:02 a.m.

Good Morning Henry.  Mr. C is sleeping.  The house is quiet.  I thought that I would try and write to you again, before I have to start my day painting.

Returning to the story about Mr. Shrink Man, Miss M, and Manhattan…

My lascivious moans echoed through the small, decadent room when I felt Miss M’s small hands caress my sensitive breasts.  I sucked in a deep gulp of air when I felt her fingers twist and pull upon my nipples.  The erotogenic sensation zipped from my nipples straight to my clit. My back arched, attempting to swallow up the wanton sensation of Miss M’s hands.  Mr. Shrink Man was not a part of this equation.  I believe that he was standing a few feet away, observing us play.  This was an intimate, sensual dance between me and Miss M.  I slipped further into the zone, surrendering every inch of myself to this woman I hardly knew.

“You are very wet,” Miss M confirmed, after softly stroking my thick, glossy nether lips.  Her tiny fingers dipped deeply into the well of my quim.  Her voice sounded pleased, yet distant, because her petite body was now positioned between my firm thighs.  Every inch of my body quivered with lust and anticipation.  My hips hungrily gyrated.  My thoughts desperately wished that Miss M would stroke my cunt again and dip her fingers deeper into me.  Yet, she didn’t give me what I desperately desired.  She teased me, stroking her fingertips as light as a feather, upon my pink velvet flesh.

My moans became louder when I felt Miss M’s hot breath, pant hotly upon the wanton flesh between my thighs.  They escalated to a louder, higher pitch when Miss M’s hands and fingers pulled, pinched, stroked, glided, dipped, curled, flicked and wiggled, deep within my moist, intimate area of pink, velvet flesh.

“Shhhhhhhh,” Miss M exhaled, signaling to me to lower the volume on my amorous moans.  I had forgotten that we were inside a quaint and cozy, upscale establishment.  Warm shivers danced with delight up and down my spine, when I felt her hot breath pant upon my skin again, as she explored my vagina as if she were a kinky gynecologist.

“You have a pretty pussy,” Miss M commented in a low, hushed voice, which made me blush.  I gushed with wetness when heard the buzzing sound of a vibrator, which was soon pressed firmly to the tip of my aroused clit. This highly sensual sensation was much too overwhelming.  The ecstasy I was feeling quickly transcended into bittersweet agony.  It felt way too good!  Every muscle in my body tensed, attempting to deal with the sexual intensity I was experiencing.  My toes tightly curled from the erotogenic stimulation.  The bottoms of my feet tingled with warmth.  My impassioned moans increased in volume.   I had forgotten to keep my moans and voice low and quiet.

Mr. Shrink Man silenced my moans, which were increasing louder by the second, with a small, round, ball gag.  “So pretty,” he said, stroking the side of my face with the back of his hand, before backing away to continue to observe the sensual scene unfold between me and Miss M.

My body arched again as far as it could, while my limbs were still bound tightly to the bed when I felt Miss M’s fingers plunge deeply into me, one by one, until I felt the entirety of her small hand deep inside me.  Endorphins raced inside my blood stream as fast as grey hound dogs run around a race track.  A vivid flash of monochrome fireworks exploded in the darkness, behind my blindfold.  My slick, wet walls of pink flesh tightened around Miss M’s small hand, tensing and releasing, in hungry orgasmic waves of lascivious pleasure.  Miss M was controlling my body with her hand, as if I was a vulnerable puppet on strings.  She raised and lowered the levels of the blissful pleasure I was feeling with the various movements of her tiny fist.

In between my orgasmic rollercoaster ride, Miss M would press the intense vibrator firmly to my highly sensitive clit.  All of the energy in my body vibrated on high again.  I was pulsating at my maximum capacity before explosion.  Miss M’s tiny fist was pumping, thrusting, clenching, unclenching, wiggling and knuckling against my g-spot.  My adrenaline was pumping fast and furious.  I felt dizzy and drunk from so much sexual stimulation.  My body was balanced gracefully upon the sexual peak of an explosive orgasm.  Suddenly, everything stopped.

I no longer felt pressure deep within my carnal walls of flesh.  Miss M had removed her hand and left me briefly, to wash her hands.  I could hear water running in the bathroom.  No words were spoken as Miss M and Mr. Shrink Man began releasing me from the restraints.  I was dumbfounded and questioning inside my mind, “Why did everything stop?”

Before I could ask that question a loud, Miss M responded, “I want you to leave here with the incessant need to be fucked.  I want you to remember what I can do to you and what you will beg for the next time you are in New York.  I don’t want to give you everything you desire at once.  I want your desire for me to continue to linger.  Understand?”

I nodded my head before going to the bathroom to clean myself up.  I was still panting, over stimulated and overheated.  I splashed some cold water on my face, attempting to cool myself down.  There was an awkward silence in the air when I exited the bathroom.  I flashed Mr. Shrink Man a look which I hoped said to him, “I would have stayed longer, but Miss M wants me to leave.  I would have fucked you if you had desired it.”  The awkward silence still filled the air as I finished dressing, gathering up my sweater and large purse with my corset inside of it, and exited the small, extravagant Inn.

I was snapped back into reality when I felt the gritty, Manhattan, evening air swirl around me, as I walked out the front door, and slowly descended the front steps.  I inhaled a deep breath of crisp autumn air, awakening my senses, as I saw Mr. C and Miss D talking to each other across the street, smoking cigarettes. They were so engaged in their conversation, they didn’t see me approach.  My eyes were still glossy from the high I felt from my erogenous encounter and my endorphin rush.  I radiated with a carnal heat.  I felt good.  I felt revived.  I felt extremely horny.   And I felt disappointed, because Mr. C and I were sharing our hotel room with Miss D.  I knew that I wasn’t going to feel any sexual satisfaction any time soon.

That was the last time I saw Mr. Shrink Man and Miss M.  We didn’t remain in contact after our highly erotic encounter.  I always wonder if Mr. Shrink Man was angry with me because I didn’t fuck him, even though he had the opportunity to do so at our last rendezvous in New York.  It wasn’t my fault that Miss M abruptly ended our scene, leaving me feeling extremely horny.

It’s been approximately six years since we last met. I often wonder if Miss M and Mr. Shrink Man are still together, or, if Mr. Shrink Man still talks with food in his mouth.  I don’t really know why I was so persuaded to see Mr. Shrink Man again after our fiasco in San Francisco.  I guess it is because I have a weakness for indulging in the sensuality of another woman.  I’ve always desired a life where I can experience my fantasies and not just imagine it.  I learned early on to live life to the fullest.  To say no to opportunities as they arise, is like reading a book full of blank pages.

“Only where strict bodily discipline is observed, for the purpose of union or communion with God, has the subject of sex ever been faced squarely.  Those who have achieved emancipation by this route have, of course, not only liberated themselves from the tyranny of sex but from all other tyrannies of the flesh.” –Henry Miller, Remember to Remember

I must end this letter, Henry.  I have to paint; otherwise I will never meet my deadline.

Much Love,

Mia

2 responses to “mialoveshenrymiller – Letter 48 – B is for Broken Hearted, Break up Letters, Benefactor, Bereavement, Bondage and Books

  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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