(I am re-posting an old letter that has been greatly edited. I believe I posted this letter once before – years ago – on my blog – I’m getting ready to publish an e-book soon. I hope that you will enjoy reading this particular letter if you are a new reader. If you are a long time follower – be patient – I’m working on some new letters and will post some in the near future.) Thank you. – Sincerely, Mia Malone-Jennings
“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
Today, I’ve been painting relentlessly for an upcoming art show at a Minneapolis art gallery. As I paint I have been listening to one of my favorite authors, J.D. Robb’s Timeless in Death, 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 her talent and the person who reads her 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.
What I love most about the fictional character, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, is that she’s a survivor in life. Eve’s my fictional hero. She talks straight from the heart and gut. She is straight to the point. Lieutenant Eve Dallas is direct and not afraid to be herself, regardless of her flaws. I’m not afraid to live my life as myself, 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 a fictional, futuristic world of 2059.
I’m going to be spending some long nights at the loft, painting, over the next few weeks. I’ve already been here for several days. In this letter I wanted to tell you about an awkward moment in my life, when I was dating, before meeting my second husband, Mr. C. It was over fifteen years ago when I used to chat in the evenings online and I met this gentleman from Long Island, New York several months after I returned from California and experienced my adulterous affair with Mr. California Man. I will name this gentleman, Mr. Mafia Man. We began by conversing in an IRC chat room 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 singles events. At the beginning of my separation from my ex-husband, cyber-sex felt safer for me to explore. I love to arouse the male senses with erotic words. It gives me quite the rush. To me, it is great masturbation material.
Soon after Mr. Mafia Man and I discovered our comfort zone via online chat and private emails, we eased our way to talking on the telephone. We conversed with each other almost every afternoon for several months. I loved listening to his thick New York accent. He pronounced the words, coffee (cawfee) cigars (cigahs), and water (watah). I remember back then how much I longed for New York City, even though visiting this magnificent city was then only a dream for me. I felt intoxicated by Mr. 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 extremely aroused and my black lace panties very wet.
Our telephone conversations, heavily laced with phone sex, eventually led to 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 thick, black straps elegantly crisscrossing in the back. I put my hair up in an elegant up do to accentuate my smooth bare shoulders. Mr. Mafia Man was running late. I grew impatient after ordering a Perrier on ice, waiting for this mystery man at an upscale hotel’s bar. As the minutes ticked by, I pondered if this man was for real. “What if this was all a joke – and I’m waiting for no one?” I thought, frustrated, impatient and bewildered. Suddenly, my eyes narrowed in upon a tall, bulky gentleman walking into the fancy hotel bar, with a dozen white roses gripped in his hands. I was a little dumbfounded because he wasn’t as handsome as I had imagined him to be. But he did recall that I like white roses. I had to give him a plus for thoughtfulness. I thought Mafia Man’s appearance was a bit awkward and he appeared to me a bit like the cartoon character, 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. Yet, I was intrigued enough by his initial charisma to remain on this date and discover more about this new person in my life.
“My apologies for being late,” Mr. Mafia Man introduced himself to me, appearing genuine, flashing an apologetic smile. Next, he astounded my naïve eyes by doing a quick, yet simple magic trick for me. I felt like a little girl again when he made 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 inside Minneapolis bar establishments.
“You have a certain je ne sais quoi,” he told me after he brushed the ashes from the palm of my hand, turned it over and kissed the back of my hand like a gentleman, causing my face to flush, hot and pink. At that time in my young, naïve life, I was unfamiliar with the French language, so I stared blankly at his statement. I did not know if what he said was a good 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.
After our introduction, Mr. Mafia Man indulged in a strong alcoholic drink at the bar. I ordered another Perrier, sipping on ice cold bubbly water as we talked, before he invited me to his room. I thought to myself, “What the hell? I haven’t been intimate with anyone in 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?”
“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.” Mr. Mafia Man told me just as we entered his elegant hotel room.
“Oh shit,” I muttered in my head. My panic sped up my heartbeat, thumping fast and hard. My dark brown eyes suddenly went blank and then turned hazy with confusion. It took me a while to register what he was 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 saw nothing but the color of red before my eyes. Rage filled me. My youthful temper triggered easily. At that time in my life, I lived in a small Minnesota town and was lost in my own world of fiction and art a majority of the time. I didn’t get out often and I didn’t comprehend what Mr. Mafia man was telling me. This seemed too fictional to me. “No one really lives a life like that. Do they?” I thought, utterly perplexed.
“We have to keep our affair a secret. No one can know. Understand?”
I nodded my head, thinking that I did understand. But I didn’t. Not really.
“I want to take care of you and your children financially. 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 online 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.
I was shocked by Mr. Mafia Man’s offer. Shortly after we entered his exquisite 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. Mr. Mafia Man moved with a great sense of urgency, commanding me to spread my legs wide after I fell upon the plush, king size bed. He gripped my black lace panties, pulled them down, abandoning them to dangle upon my right ankle. He hiked up my short black dress high above my hips. His wanton tongue licked salaciously upon my stiff, saturated stem of pink flesh and 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 an incandescent energy. My soul was on fire! My eyes blurred and unfocused. My fingers gripped tightly at the soft bed sheets. My low, soft, sensual moans grew louder, transcending into desperate cries and ecstatic screams as he ate my apple like Adam devoured Eve’s in the Garden of Eden. My back arched high off the bed when Mr. Mafia Man sucked, nibbled and licked up and down my glossy, soaking wet clit like a rapacious wolf, who had not eaten in days – the sounds of his animalistic growling and moaning were muffled by my slick, quivering sex. I had to cover my mouth a few times, screaming into my hand, to soften my voice.
My body quivered in a lust-filled frenzy. My head wildly thrashed from side to side. My back arched high off the bed whenever his fingers deeply plowed into my convulsing slit. The sensual sensation curled my tingling toes. It felt so fucking good I could hardly withstand my mounting pleasure. My aroused hunger was being slaked. It had been a long time since I had felt this good. Mr. Mafia Man’s technique was not gentle and romantic. It was quick, mind-blowing, raw, animalistic and rough. Part of me enjoyed this, and another part of me was shocked with surprise. I was panting like a dog on a hot August afternoon. My tongue was parched. My throat was dry. I couldn’t believe that I was here, having my quim eaten by a man I hardly knew – a man with a dark, dangerous background. I had never been aroused to this level before with this kind of rough, indelicate skill.
When we finished with our sexual escapades, I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself with a white cotton washcloth, and matching soft hand towel. I winced, feeling sore between my legs, as I re-pinned and smoothed my hair. My hands and legs trembled after receiving such a hard and delicious orgasm.
When I exited the bathroom, I sat down on the messy bed, avoiding the wet spots, to relax and calm 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 full of premium weed. I didn’t realize that my date had taken a tranquilizer when he was on the plane, later mixing it with the strong alcoholic drink he had downstairs in the elegant hotel bar. I regretted smoking my pot with Mr. Mafia Man, who wasn’t a regular pot smoker, by the time we took the elevator to the hotel lobby and exited the large glass doors. Mr. Mafia Man was very euphoric and boisterous in the taxi. I could tell he was extremely intoxicated when we arrived at an upscale restaurant on Hennepin Avenue – The Palomino Club.
I had never been to this exquisite dinner club, above a micro-brewery on downtown Minneapolis’s Hennepin Avenue. Up until this point in my life, my budget never permitted me to enjoy this kind of extravagancy. The wording on this dinner club’s fancy menu appeared foreign and frightening to me. However, the peculiar behavior I was observing from Mr. Mafia Man was even more horrifying. He had just finished his second strong drink of alcohol, soon after we were seated at our table.
When we received our order, I cringed with distress, dropping my fancy salad fork, which dinged loudly upon my plate. A few heads rapidly turned in our direction and then went back to their conversations. I was shocked by total disbelief. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Mr. Mafia Man was transforming into the hilarious cartoon caricature, Fred Flintstone. His awkward, cartoonish mouth grimaced largely, and then he grossly spit out his salad as if his mouth was 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.
Mr. Mafia Man’s eyelids were extremely heavy and droopy. His eyes were tiny slits on his large face, appearing more like Mister Magoo than Fred Flintstone, as both of his large hands were shoveling food into his mouth. I can’t recall what he ordered, but it wasn’t finger food. My mind was screaming, “GROSS! REALLY?! Pinch me. Am I dreaming? This can’t be happening.”
I was feeling kind of buzzed from the marijuana which Mr. Mafia Man and I had smoked in his hotel room, and I was doing everything in my power to control the deep down, silent belly laugh, that trembled and quaked in my pit of my gut. I quickly sobered up when Mafia Man pushed himself away from the table and began to stray through the elegant restaurant. He had no balance as he clumsily walked, stumbling over his large feet. He appeared as if Barney Rubble has just hit this image of Fred Flintstone with Mr. Magoo’s eyes over the head with a large wooden prehistoric club. I imagined that I observed little cartoon birdies flying around his head as he stumbled in circles throughout the restaurant and the entrance area. It must have been the pot and my overactive imagination. I was seriously concerned and completely embarrassed.
I was grateful for my past experience in working with people who were severely mentally ill, and in detoxification centers with alcoholics and drug addicts. As quick as a fleeting second, I regained my composure and acted on impulse. I retrieved Mr. Mafia Man, who had been wandering the elegant mall area attached to the restaurant and guided him back to our table. He was still dazed and stumbling on our way to his seat. His large body slumped in his chair after I guided him down into his seat as best as I could. His head was bobbing up and down with sleepy nods. The mix of a tranquilizer, two strong drinks of alcohol and marijuana had pushed this dazed and confused man 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 didn’t understand why someone would mix alcohol, marijuana and a tranquilizer together, especially if you wanted to make a good impression on someone. Life is often full of funny, awkward moments. It definitely makes a humorous memory and great material for a hilarious story.
“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? Also, would you please call us a taxi? Thank you.” I smiled as graciously as I could, attempting to cover up my embarrassment, as Mr. 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. It was a sight to remember.
“Did that same tongue lick my ‘who–who’ just an hour ago? It doesn’t look so appealing now,” 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 which Mr. Mafia Man would pay for when he returned to Long Island. Honestly, I just wanted to get this date over with.
After I signed the bill, I managed to get Mr. Mafia Man back to his hotel via taxicab. His large unbalanced body kept wobbling back and forth and swaying in small circles. When we arrived at his hotel and were riding the elevator, I attempted to get my intoxicated date to remain still. I sheepishly looked to the three older ladies in the elevator. They appeared very conservative, high class and amused. Suddenly, I hear a loud, large “BURP!” expel from Mr. Mafia Man’s mouth. On impulse, I scolded him like a mother would her child, “Don’t be so rude!” Instantly, I heard the three older ladies burst out in laughter, which only made me join them. I almost fell on the floor from laughing so hard when the elevator door opened onto our floor. My maternal instincts kicked in again, guiding Mr. 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 that Mr. Mafia Man was in, and because I was still laughing pretty hard from the weird, humorous scene in the elevator and about how absurd this entire date had gone.
“Come on. You are almost there,” I encouraged Mr. Mafia Man, attempting to silence my laughter, as we entered his hotel room and I managed to get his slumping, limp, heavy body onto his hotel bed. My empathetic soul couldn’t leave him alone in this inebriated condition. He was a mess! So, I remained the night and slept upon a small decorative couch nearby his bed.
When I awoke the next morning, I was still angry and embarrassed.
“I don’t want your allowance, your Club Med, or college educations for my children.” I hissed at Mr. Mafia Man, whose thick, dark Italian hair was an absurd mess. My anger flashed dangerously in my eyes. “I won’t be your secret Mistress.” I would not listen to what Mr. Mafia Man was trying to say, as I packed my overnight bag and exited his hotel room. That was the last time I saw Mr. Mafia Man. He did call a few times after he made it home to Long Island, New York. He said that his wife, the Mafia princess, found out about our encounter and that two of 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. To me, it seems too absurd to believe. But it makes for a good story. Even if this man’s wife was not a Mafia princess, I enjoyed the belief of it being possible, and writing about my silly, sexy adventure.
Good night Henry. I have a busy day painting tomorrow.
Bisous, Mon Amour,