mia loves henry miller Letter 6 – He’s Married to a Mafia Princess, Crazy Cunnilingus, and Extreme Intoxication at the Palomino Club

(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

 

Dear Henry,

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,

Mia

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Mia Loves Henry Miller – My Mary Godmother, Mistress Jeaninstein, Shegor, and Halloween Skits at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis

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(These letters are in raw – rough draft format – please pardon errors…Oh well ;)…thanks for being a patient supporter if you don’t really give a shit… enjoy the read. I’m getting ready to release my first 15 letters in sequence. Many are letters that have never been published online. I hope to publish near the end of January 2017 – Thank you again for your support – Mia)

 

 

10/29/16

 

Dear Henry-

People living deeply have no fear of death.- Anais Nin

 

There are two seasons in Minnesota which I generally enjoy – the spring and the autumn season.   What’s ironic about these two seasons is that the temperature outside does tricks with a Minnesotan brain. When it is spring and 50 degrees outside, we wear spring coats, shorts and t-shirts, relishing in the warmth. When it is autumn and 50 degrees out, we put on our winter coats – shivering from being so cold.

I enjoy observing new life bloom in the spring – witnessing all of the vibrant, new colors blanketing the thawing earth as if it were a painting that is coming alive.  In the fall, the ground and trees appear as if they are on fire, blazing with orange, yellow and reds, right before death – when the sadistic, winter blankets our state with thick sheets of frozen, white snow.

Indian Summer

The earth is dying while I witness

Leaves falling from the trees

The Northwinds kiss the southern

Which chills my trembling knees

The October wind is howling

The Universe closes begins to close its eyes

Until the sun starts to beam again

For Indian Summer’s on the rise

The Earth re-awakens

Yet, only for awhile

The sun offers its last rays of warmth

In gratitude I smile

The bees are buzzin’ before the winter

The flowers bloom one last time

Before the northwinds kiss again the southern

And the sun no longer shines. – Mia Malone-Jennings – Whispers of Gold

Halloween used to be my favorite holiday – before I decided that dressing up, pretending to be anyone I want for one day is over rated. I want to dress up on any day of the year, and be who ever I wish to be.  I want to grow up to be much like the fashion icon – Iris Apfel.  I bet that I sound like Mrs. Curmudgeon…right?  I actually stopped celebrating Halloween when I stopped being a Go-Go Dancer at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis, and a Burlesque Performer/Show Producer.  It’s been numerous years after my departure and I still haven’t really felt like celebrating one of the best American holidays of the year.

I recall the years when I couldn’t wait for Halloween to arrive.  My dearest friend – who I nickname my Mary Godmother owns a costume store in a suburb of Minneapolis, where I love to spend any extra cash and time.  I would pick out my costume at the costume shop usually in July when the Halloween shipments first come into the store and put my elaborate costume on the layaway plan.  My first costume was a white and gold, Greek Goddess gown.  It took me five weeks to pay for it – paying a sum of 25 dollars each installment.

I call the store owner my Mary Godmother because she has supplied me with the most gorgeous Go- Go and burlesque costumes for over a decade – making me always feel like Miarella.  Some girls only dream of having a Fairy Godmother.  I’ve had the real deal.  This woman has been a mother figure to me.  She is my mentor and one of my dearest friends. I can count on this female friendship to always last.  My Mary Godmother is always there for me, never judging how I live my life.  She is there for me- always. I am lucky for have such a wonderful person in my life.  I will write more about her later.

I wore my Greek Goddess costume on the evening I performed in my very first Ground Zero Halloween Skit at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis.  There are two notorious Gothic nightclubs in Minneapolis – First Avenue Nightclub and Ground Zero Nightclub.  I’ve performed at both and love them dearly.  I have a fondness for Ground Zero. It’s my home, where I loved to dance and perform as a submissive. My name’s even immortalized on their nightclub wall and in the dressing room.  However, First Avenue is where I got my start in fashion design (upcycling clothing) and Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater.

Back in the day, GZ was notorious for their Halloween Extravaganza’s and the skits produced by the owner, MW.  I had been performing as a Bondage A-Go – Go Dancer for at least two years. I believe this is the very first skit I performed in and I was so fucking nervous.  It felt as if a dozen bats were set loose in the pits of my bowels, fluttering their creepy wings deep inside my lower belly.  My anxiety rose like vomit up my stomach and esophagus, but I swallowed it down as I read the intricate, short, skit that the owner wrote.  I was not good at recalling the exact details of the skit in a very short amount of time. I had about 20 minutes to digest it. I feared that I would disappoint everyone because I had one of the main characters – Shegor.  I was re-creating Mistress Jeanenstein.

I’m going to try to recall the precise sequence of events during this gruesome, electrifying Halloween skit. It’s been a very long time since I performed it onstage. I remember how my heart raced so fast – my thoughts whirled inside my brain, nervously attempting to memorize the order of the script I was reading during rehearsal.  The stage looked eerie and amazing.  An evil genius named Sparky and the owner designed the set – appearing as if a dark and creepy laboratory.  There was even an electrifying Jacob’s Ladder – created by Sparky, and a medical gurney with a tray of gruesome, female, body parts made of rubber behind a white screen.

An hour prior to Ground Zero’s doors opening for patrons, permitting them to enter the nightclub’s big Halloween extravaganza, we rehearsed the skit.  As we ended it in rehearsal, and I was pretending to do naughty things to Mistress Jeaninstein –  the bra she wore pierced through my cheek, causing real blood to drip down my body and onto the stage floor.   Her bra wasn’t any ordinary bra. It had been made for MJ by a person who welded it for her. It was made of iron. Each cup had several points which were very sharp.  MJ’s bra appeared gorgeous but was dangerous if anyone got too close to it.

On very special nights at Ground Zero, such as Halloween, New Years, and the infamous Rubber Balls, the DJ always played the very best of Electronic Dance Music.  I was always the first performer to begin dancing on the catwalk, or stair landing and the last one to finish at the end of the night.  I had passion, a creative soul and stamina.  I lived breathed and dreamed of music and dancing.  On nights like Halloween, I fed off the high energy of the crowds like a vampire does on blood – especially when these patrons were just as excited about Halloween as I was, cloaked in the most creative costumes.  The people who attended Ground Zero on Halloween loved the holiday as much as I did. They didn’t give a shit about a costume contest – as long as they could dress up. GZ never hosted any Halloween costume contests when I performed at this nightclub as a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer.  People arrived dressed in the most wicked, creative costumes – arriving for the dancing and to see the midnight stage show, which was always spectacular.

It was most likely near midnight when I finished performing with MJ as her submissive upstairs in the loft. I scurried down the steps in a pair of black, thong panties and black, electrical tape covering my large, round, brownish-pink nipples. My ass was flaming red from the spankings I had just received.  It kept my body warm and my blood tingling with a mad rush of endorphins.  I felt high on pure adrenaline.

“It’s time to get ready for the skit,” I heard someone tell me when I entered the dressing room which was scattered with numerous duffle bags and little suitcases which carried their costumes for the night, an array of cosmetics bags, boxes, stage make up, fake blood, curling irons, hot curlers, and cheap plastic glasses that were partially filled of alcoholic drinks.

“Shit!” I exclaimed to MJ as I put on some small, black, fancy lingerie, a corset, and a white lab coat.  “What if I don’t recall the exact sequence of how to put you back together again?”

“Don’t worry,” MJ responded wearing a small pair of black, thong panties, with an overlay of pointed metal panties,  as well as the beautifully welded bra and panties a patron of the club had made for her, months prior.  I feared her bra because the side of my cheek still throbbed from where it had pierced through it during rehearsal.  “I’ll be behind the screen.  If you forget, just ask me.  Just go with the flow. You’ll figure out what to do.  I always do.”

“Who is this Shegor character anyways? “ I was so nervous and full of apprehension that I pronounced Shegor as Shygor inside my head during rehearsal.  I had no clue I was playing the female equivalent to Egor – the mad scientist’s assistant.  This could’ve ruined the entire skit.  But, because I didn’t know, I added my own style to this version of Shegor.  I was supposed to wear my hair all messy and perform with a bad limp.  I couldn’t afford wigs at the time and my hair was too thick to put under it.  My hair was too dense to keep it appearing messed up with hairspray.  Back then, I had the Bettie Page hairstyle.  I didn’t know that I was the equivalent to Egor, hence no bad limp either – just sexy hip bumping, hip grinding and hip gyrating.  It was so much fun! (There are times when I’m grateful to be an idiot savant)

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“Art teaches nothing, except for the significance in life.”—Henry Miller

When the curtain went up at midnight and the naughty, eerie, sexy skit started, everything became a dreamy blur.  I was so nervous I wanted to puke on stage.  But, soon, Shegor became my own creation.  I was grateful that I was too busy to stop to get something to eat on the way to GZ. I wasn’t going to puke a hamburger and fries all over the stage.  That would’ve been disgusting.

On stage there was a gruesome table full of rubberized, female body parts, soaked in fake blood.  I pretended I was evil and very interested in each piece.  I started with the hands and feet, strutted and dancing naughtily, until it was time to take them back behind the screen.  MJ’s body was silhouetted by dim light behind the large white screen. The borders facing the audience flickered with electric lights. The patrons can visually see me piecing this gorgeous creature together again behind the screen.  When it came time to put Mistress Jeaninstein’s va-jay-jay back inside of MJ – I strutted on stage sexily, before creeping behind the screen, teasing all the girls who plastered their bodies against the stage.  They stared at me with starry eyes when I demonstrated how my fingers would tease and taunt a pretty pussy like the eerie, bloody one I was handling.   I believe that was my favorite part of the skit.  I love to make others feel something when I’m dancing on stage, in a cage, or high on a catwalk.  I love to make others feel something when I’m creating art, sewing, sculpting, writing, or performing on stage.  It’s a large rush for me. It’s the reason I am an artist.  I definitely didn’t do it for the money.

No one had any clue that MJ had been talking to me behind the silhouetted screen, telling me which order the body parts go into her.  I had never acted on stage before, nor given a complex script which I had to memorize in about fifteen minutes.  I was pretty much performing with an impromptu spirit – going with the flow when I forgot how the script went. The Halloween skits each year, only lasted approximately ten minutes, so I didn’t have a lot to recall.  However, to me those ten panicked moments felt like an hour.  However, once I found my zone – abandoning every my sense of my nervousness, I discovered my theatrical flow and went with it. Once I did, time flew past quickly.

Soon, Mistress Jeanenstein had been recreated.  Shegor beamed with pride when she led her new, lovely creation out from behind the screen.  Moments later – Shegor and her monster were lasciviously bonding on stage.  This time, no one’s cheek was pierced by the monster’s pointing, metal bra.

The curtain comes down – lights go dark – dance music begins to play- end of skit.

I must admit that it was the skits that interested me the most at Ground Zero Nightclub.  I arrived as a Dancer/submissive when the GZ players performed a skit every Thursday night.  I adore dancing.  Yet, it was the naughty skits produced on stage that made me a dedicated performer for so many years. It took two years of dedicated Go-Go dancing and being a performance submissive, much like the character, Mimi, in the infamous book by Steig Larson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, to get to perform in my very first skit.  If I hadn’t befriended the notorious Jean Bardot, I do not think my time at GZ would’ve been so eventful.

I wish I could go back in time – stop it for a decade – when I could remain in my 30’s forever.   If you are a young woman reading this – live your thirties well.  Make the memories last forever.

Actually we are a vulgar, pushing mob whose passions are easily mobilized by demagogues, newspaper men, religious quacks, agitators and such like. To call this a society of free peoples is blasphemous. What have we to offer the world besides the superabundant loot which we recklessly plunder from the earth under the maniacal delusion that this insane activity represents progress and enlightenment? —Henry Miller

 

 

 

Love Letters, Midnight in Paris, Erotic Fantasies, and the Roaring Twenties

(Dear Blog Readers

I am re-posting some old letters that have been revised for my upcoming book – ebook.

I thought that I’d give new readers a look into the very first letter I wrote to Henry Miller. I also wanted to re-fresh old readers by bringing them back to the beginning of my blog. I hope that you enjoy reading this letter as much as I enjoyed writing it.  Sincerely, Mia)8S2A8984

 “That night I was going to hear Henry Miller speak at an acting class, my house burned down.  I didn’t go to the lecture, but a few weeks later I still wanted to meet him.  I began to ask around for his address so I could write to him.  At the same time, I was trying to refurnish my home.  At an estate auction I discovered a first edition set of books titled Women through the Ages.  I took out one of the volumes, and there folded inside was a letter from Henry Miller to a woman.  How could I not bid on the books? Three thousand dollars later I owned them and had Miller’s address.  I wrote him, enclosing the letter I had found, as well as a few “actress” photographs of myself that I thought might pique his curiosity.  A few days later, Henry sent the first of fifteen hundred letters he was to write to me.  We became good friends and, perhaps, even more.” –Brenda Venus, Dear, Dear Brenda

Dear Henry,

I genuinely wish that I would’ve been able to communicate to you via letters when you were alive.  I would have savored and cherished the words you might have written upon paper to me in reply. Your past lovers, Brenda Venus, Hoki Tokunda, and Anaïs Nin were lucky to possess a bit of your soul, capturing your spirit with the words you once wrote to them in numerous letters. The great passion you possessed when you were alive must have bled into the ink like deep, flowing blood.  If there is a life after death – I fantasize that you are enjoying these letters.

 

I know time travel is impossible.  To satisfy my yearning to transport myself into the past, to spend time with you, I made do by slowly, over the course of many years, purchasing a vast collection of your books, reading them whenever I found a spare moment in my busy schedule.  You speak to me from another space and time, another era or realm, through your written words – through the books you have left behind.  I have an obsessive need to speak back to you from my mortal plane to your immortal plane, through my erotic, personal letters written to you, hoping to connect with you on a deep, spiritual level, beyond the limits of the physical body.

I recently watched the Woody Allen movie starring Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdams, Midnight in Paris – wonderful movie, especially for writers.  I really enjoyed it – except that they didn’t include you or Anaïs Nin in the mix of great writers living in Paris during those times.  The movie reminds me of you, and writers like me.  Owen Wilson, the main character, (Gil) is a striving, aspiring author, who loved to walk the streets of Paris at night.  At midnight, he escapes, lured by several high-spirited, inebriated people, in a fancy, slick, vintage automobile, driving into the night, into another dimension in time and space – into a vintage world – the Roaring Twenties.

In this strange world, Gil meets legendary writers Hemingway, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and artists like Picasso and Salvador Dali.  He also meets a very beautiful woman named Adriana – who had been a lover to Picasso and Hemingway, and whom Gil starts to fall in love with…

I can’t slip through a magic dimension in space and time, like Gil did in this romantic movie – to travel back to Paris, to the exciting and exuberant era when you were living there.  When you were barely surviving financially, and writing during your days and nights.  When you strolled silently, deep in thought, upon the idyllic boulevards of Paris at night – when you were making love to Anaïs, or fucking June when she visited, or when you were bedding pretty whores at naughty French brothels.

My imagination and writing is my only transport to the past, to you, in Paris.  It permits me to teleport back in time with my imagination, when you were a young, vital, hungry writer, who was full of life and passion.  I can almost see the Eiffel Tower, taste the delicious French pastries, sip indulgently upon the savory wine, experience myriad cheeses melt upon my tongue, hear the romantic melodies of Parisian people speaking the language of love, see the newest fashions, hear the tranquil current of the River Seine, and listen the cathedral bells ringing every fifteen minutes at Notre Dame.

I’m going to use my imagination, Henry, pretending that we’ve entered through a mystical door in time and space:  We are in 1920’s Paris.  I am a young, beautiful French girl, named Fifi Marie, working at a moderately priced Parisian brothel, as a prostitute.  Fifi is very passionate about life, sex, literature, art, poetry, and writing.  The only way Fifi can experience life and survive as an artist, during the Great Depression, is to make love to men and women for a living – an occupation where I can make good money for a short amount of my time, so that I can purchase books, paints, canvas, brushes, ink and paper to write on. and have enough time in my day to paint, to read, or to write.

In this fantasy, I am playing the part of  a woman, who is sexually enlightened and liberated. Fifi Marie feels no shame for her profession as a prostitute.  I’m not forced to do this. I do it because I like to do it.  I do it because I feel an intense rush to make someone feel good.  The profession was different than I initially expected.  I wasn’t so sure that I could connect with others so quickly and intimately.  After a few weeks, I find it completely invigorating and intriguing.  I think being a paid lover is a beautiful art form. It offers me great satisfaction to please someone – to sense their powerful release.  The sensation charges me like buzz from a tall can of Red Bull.  In this imaginary world, I like being with the other girls at this brothel and a part of Madame Cherie’s family.  Fifi Marie feels no remorse for her sins.

One night, after midnight, you find me at a Madame Cherie’s brothel, where you are well known.  Many of the girls at this brothel talk about you, Henry – all good things about the way you fuck.  They also say that you can be an insensitive pig.  Anaïs has just mailed you some money, which she snuck from Hugo’s wallet while he was sleeping. You are supposed to buy food and writing supplies – but you must have felt me thinking about you, my voice calling you in the night – to come to me – to share my world for awhile.

We had met once before, months ago, in the brothel’s lineup.  You probably don’t remember me – you didn’t choose me, you chose Bella.  She’s a wonderful choice – a very beautiful and an amazing lover – this I know personally.  But, it’s not her that I yearn for.  It’s you, ever since the first time I saw you and heard you passionately fucking Bella in her bedroom, which is right next to mine. The walls are old and thin with barely any insulation.

On the evening on which you pick me from the lineup, I am wearing black fishnet stockings with a tight, blood-red satin corset, shiny black pumps, and very feminine, black lace silk bloomers.  Over this I’m wearing an elegant, long sheer, black caftan, tied casually at my waist.  My hair is short, raven black in a dramatic 1920’s finger-wave style – my lips are painted a glossy ruby red – my eye make-up dark, bordered by artistic lines of charcoal black.  You immediately pick me out of the lineup, wasting no time.  You tell me on the way upstairs that I remind you of your French lover, Anaïs Nin.  She sounds beautiful and intriguing.

I can see rapacious lust filling your deep, penetrating eyes, whenever you steal quick glances at me through your round, black rimmed glasses.  Your sexual appetite is awakening as we near my room.  So is mine.  My heart is racing with apprehension, which I most often do not feel before a visit from a gentleman.  You are different, Henry.  I can feel your virility – taste your dominance in the air.   I must admit, I am apprehensive– but, my curiosity is so much stronger.

Seconds after I shut my door, you grab my arms tightly, thrusting me closer to you.  Your face nears mine, your intellectual eyes lock with my eyes, your mouth exhales heavy breaths of testosterone and lechery.  An animalistic ache penetrates my hot and sultry loins when your lips near mine and your arms embrace my feverish body. I tingle with anticipation.  I gasp softly when your confident arms grip firmly around my narrow waist. My breath rate becomes faster.  My heart beat races.  I can hardly catch my breath.  My nipples perk and harden when your body presses ardently onto mine. My knees weaken as I permit you to pilot the way in our fervid encounter.  A flush of warmth pervades every inch of my soul. My blood becomes warmer and warmer, moment to moment until I feel completely hypnotized.  Every cell in my body tingles when your mouth opens with voracity, lust and eagerness.  My toes curl when your tongue plunges and then deeply explores the depths inside my mouth, when you suck the tip of my tongue as if it were my clitoris. Your fervor grows long, thick and stiff beneath your pants.  In a carnal frenzy, my hands help you out of your trousers and undergarment.  Soon I am stroking your hot, pulsing, hard shaft a few times, squeezing it inside the palm of my hot and sweaty hand, feeling it grow harder, hotter and more erect.  I am pleased with your arousal.  I do a slow strip tease to tantalize your senses like a classic burlesque girl would. You race to unbutton your shirt, removing it rapidly, tossing it onto the floor, alongside my robe, corset, garter, stockings and bloomers.

Without speaking, you firmly guide my body until I am on my knees, sternly grabbing the back of my hair, forcing my mouth near your hardness, which drips slow and thick with arousal.  Your other hand softly stroking the side of my face, “Good girl,” you whisper down to me, praising me, “good girl.”  I am comforted, briefly.  Next, you position my face closer to your hardness, pushing it beyond my lips, deep into my mouth.  Your hand continues to tightly grip the back of my hair, pushing my head firmly downward – you enter much deeper towards the back of my throat.  My lips tightly encompass your raging hard on – my mouth sucks greedily like a newborn baby to her mother’s full, swollen breast.

I’m not used to such aggressive lovers.  I’m an inexperienced whore who is still learning her trade. Your rough demeanor is alarming as well as titillating. Your dominance excites me. Yet, it’s frightening.  This spicy flavor of sex is also enticing, intriguing, arousing, and lecherous.  I’m very wet.  There is no way that I can fake this kind of arousal, Henry.

I gasp for breath again, my eyes open wide with surprise, when you throw me down upon my freshly made bed. The Madame is strict about housekeeping.  My clean, crisp, cotton sheets are aromatic with the scent of sunshine and fresh, Parisian air.  Your red-blooded force surprises me.  Suddenly, I exhale loudly, the sounds of my hot breath echoing in the twilight air.  The illuminating rays from the full moon softly shine through my window.  Our lips collide in the night, in the beams of white heat and dancing dust, illuminating our entangled bodies.  Our tongues taste and entangle together like sinful serpents in the deep blue sea.  The flavor of your heated virility knocks the wind out of me.  I can hardly breathe when our naked bodies finally press tightly together and our hearts beat together to a hedonistic rhythm.  Immediately, I attempt to catch my breath.  I feel dizzy.  My sex aches with insane lust.  My swollen, glossy stem of pink flesh throbs profusely.  My rapacious aperture of love rains with lusty, humid moisture.

My heart beat races fast when your lips spread upward in merriment.  Your kind, inquisitive eyes remain connected with mine as your body slithers down my arching body.  Your quick yet sensual lips kiss roughly and hungrily upon my neck, my breasts, my belly, and at the “Y” between my firm thighs.  I permit you to inspect my female fruit like a curious child.  I say nothing.  My bosoms heave – my breath rate quickens. My body quivers with anticipation and avidity.  My back arches high when your fingers tickle my glistening slit and play with my little man in the boat, who is drowning with my wetness.   Each one of your fingers has its fated place and moment. They strike and dance upon my oyster shell keys, playing me like a grand piano.  I thrust my hips upon your rhythmic touch, seeking pleasure, attempting to capture each moment, and to make it last forever.  Your deft fingers continue to dip and culminate inside my constricting walls of flesh, and your soul is deep inside the zone.  Your body moves through time and space, playing an erotic melody of your own.

I exhale a long sigh when your salacious song suddenly ceases.  I melt within, feeling secure and safe, when you joyously kiss my nose, my flushed cheeks and my soft lips.  My body arches with utmost yearning.  I emit a low and voracious moan when your hand reaches for my left bosom, and your fingers grasp upon my large nipple, fondling it gently with a soft and soothing hand.  My temperature escalates higher when your fingers pull and twist my nipples with mounting pressure.  My fervid blood rushes like a mad fever to my clitoris, as if the erotic sensation in my nipple is somehow connected deeply inside me, to my stiff, wet clit.  Suddenly, you release it – my blood rushes back into the tip of my nipple – my toes now curl with scandalous rapture.

Your strong, vital force intoxicates me like a full glass of expensive champagne.  I gasp for air when two of your virile fingers plunge deeply into me, offering me a slight bit of relief – giving a small morsel to the voracious, sex demon inside me.  You enjoy observing my face, to see if I find pleasure in what you offer – to make sure that I am pleased with your deft hands and your overriding, erotic torture.  I can hardly stare back at you – I’m intimidated, I’m submissive, I’m highly stimulated and I’m absolutely euphoric from the race of endorphins beneath my skin.  I feel bewildered and lightheaded. My world is spinning.

Prior to your visit with me at Madame Cherie’s brothel, I had been with various well-paying gentlemen – none of them had been brave enough to seduce me with their strong hands and their commanding aura.  Most often, I can easily seduce them into tame, harmless beasts with just one kiss, with just one stroke from my soft yet firm hand, or with just one slide of my wet, silky tongue upon their long, hard shaft.  But you are different, Henry.  I sensed that right away.  Our passion as writers and artists explodes with carnal instincts and inflamed desires.  We live in the moment, letting the erotic drama unfold…your carnal bites with your mouth and teeth nibbling voraciously upon my stiff nipples.   I scream and moan when I feel three of your fingers plowing deeply into me, curling, wiggling, and dancing inside of my plush, velvet walls, as if a great puppeteer, making my body do things I had never imagined.

I am in “La La” Land, forgetting that you only paid for one hour of my time and attention – I’ll have to make up some kind of lie to tell Madame Cherie.  Our time together is running well over an hour.  I don’t want this to end.  I forget about the minutes on the clock.  Vehemently you fuck me like a wild beast, in a variety of lecherous ways.  You prime my pump, beginning with missionary style – your esurient teeth are scraping against my pulsing throat, like a hungry wolf upon its prey, nibbling my flesh with demand and desire.  I groan softly when you delicately bite the sensitive skin on the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.  I’m breathless.  My quim quivers hot and moist.  I can hear laughter downstairs. Bella is fucking some guy in the room next to mine.  Her headboard is banging against my wall at a fast and furious pace. She’s very vocal about her erotic pleasure.  I let her arousal heighten mine until I push the noise out of my mind, concentrating upon your rhythm as if we were intimately and passionately dancing.

 

Both of my hands tightly grip your small, white ass wishing it would pump harder and faster.  Slowly, your hips pumps up and down, up and down, picking up pace like a locomotive departing a train station.  Your hand, gripping and pulling the back of my hair, hard, until my face winces in pain, when we fuck like beasts, doggie style – your hips thrust rapidly in fervor, crashing hard into my ass, which lunges to meet your cock, plunging it deeper inside of me. Pain and pleasure mix so divinely.  I’m thrilled beyond words.  I scream with pleasure when your hand spanks my firm ass, abandoning hot tingles.  My eyes widen, my voice is muffled when your hand quiets my moans when you cover my mouth with it.  You are driving me fucking wild, Henry.

The pleasure I imagine in my fantasy is so primal and exquisite.  I’m deeply inhaling for air, when you hand finally uncovers my mouth.  My eyes are staring at your face, which is now full of concentration.  I am admiring your self control when you suddenly cease fucking me, without ejaculating.  My voice shrills with surprise when your strong hands firmly flip me upon my back, prying my legs apart, spreading them as far as they will go.  My lascivious moans begin to escalate again when your tongue sensuously slides down my body, once more, southward, towards the hottest and wettest part of my body.  My eyes flutter and roll upwards, towards the back of my head, relishing the ecstasy when you go down on me, forever licking my clitoris and insatiable cunt.

You are relentless – devouring me intensely with your mouth.  My hands are tightly gripping at the bed sheets, wrinkling them with the dampness of my sweaty hands.  My amorous moans escalate, increasing in volume, second by second. My voice sounds raspy, my mouth and throat feel dry from panting so heavily.  My head thrashes from side to side. You play my naked body like a symphonic instrument.  My ecstasy is soaring me to the high notes, plunging me to the low notes, maintaining my pleasure with the in-between notes, and shattering my world with the ultimate, clitoral climax!

“You’re a naughty, fucking whore,” I can hear your voice chant repetitively.  I feel no shame.  Your words defile and thrill me!  My legs are flung over your shoulders, trembling, and my mind is floating inside a world of mad, spinning passion.  You thrust your virile hips, slapping your skin upon my tight, firm bum of flesh. Our bodies collide in a luscious rhapsody.   My heart is pumping faster.  I can hardly breathe.  With a melodic force, I open my mouth wide, expelling a string of sated moans.  You are fucking me deeper and faster.   Our skin crashes together, h arder and faster. Voraciously, I take all of you inside of me, constricting and releasing my sexual walls of flesh.  My raspy voice is erotically moaning into the Parisian twilight. I’m sure that the entire brothel can hear me my sensual song of satisfaction.  I desperately desire a drink of water, wine, or champagne to quench my thirst derived from so much fire and passion.  In this significant place in time and space, we are two lovers, meeting in Paris after Midnight.  Our night is raw and brutal, devouring and demanding, sensuous and satisfying.

“Oh yes, Henry…just like that, Henry…Please, I want more, please Henry…” I chant in hot whispers like an eastern mantra – my eyes rolling again towards the top of my head, my eyelashes fluttering fast and uncontrollably.  Only the whites of my eyes are exposed. You continue to ram your carnal hips down upon me, harder, deeper, and faster – my back is pressed deep into my mattress, my head is thrashing rapidly from side to side.  I can hardly withstand the tsunami waves of erotic bliss.  Suddenly, silent screams hiss hotly at the back of my throat, rolling off my tongue, exhaling into the room as if an extremely long, loud, scorching whisper.  My body shudders prior to releasing everything that I have inside of me – my entire body shakes hard from a peaking orgasm.  My red painted fingernails dig into your rugged, vanilla skin.  My vaginal walls are now constricting, more rapidly, releasing, and gripping around your hard, throbbing cock. Your virile hips thrust at a more feverish, frantic, rapid pace – your cock’s thrusting deeper and harder into me, driving me further into a mind blowing realm.  I cannot believe that I’m going to climax again, as you continue to pump and grind your hips between my trembling thighs, pounding your cock into me, faster and harder than ever before.

Our sexual energy passionately entangles, escalating our pleasure higher and higher until I feel the intensity of your orgasmic energy – your scorching hot, white liquid spraying my sexual walls.  I relish in the hot liquid which sprays my tunnel of lust, which tighten like a vice grip on your cock, my titillation splashes upon your flesh like a tidal wave when my body eventually explodes with multiple orgasms.  You wait until my last shudder before you dismount me, flopping with exhaustion upon my bed.  I turn my head to observe you resting upon your back, your chest heaving, attempting to catch your breath.  I smile with satisfaction as your hand wipes the salty sweat away from your eyes.  My smile grows larger when I witness the sinful smile of satisfaction upon your face.   Your eyes are twinkling in the moonlight – merry and bright.

Suddenly, there is a knock upon the door.  Our bodies jolt from our sleepy, satiated state, our muscles stiffening with alarm when we hear Madame Cherie sternly ask, “Fifi…are you still in there with Henry?” She knocks harder upon the door, “Henry! If you are in there, you penniless writer, I’m going to ban you from this brothel immediately!”

You suppress your laughter with a smile and naughty twinkle in your eyes, as you quietly put on your round, black-rimmed glasses before getting out of my messy bed, and slipping on your under garment, trousers, stained white shirt, faded black suit coat and matching fedora hat.  Your cock is still drenched with my sexual juice.  “Fifi Marie, the extra time you spent with Henry is coming out of your share of the pay! Don’t make me have to punish you! Henry, I know that you are in there with Fifi, you do this all the time to my girls – seduce them into extra time…you freeloading pig!   I don’t know why I put up with you!  I highly suggest that you get dressed and go! Don’t return to my brothel for a very long time…you understand?” She hollered with a stern maternal tone through my bedroom door.

“Oui, Madame Cherie,” you say, slowly opening my bedroom door, looking sheepishly downward at the worn, faded hardwood floors, departing my room, closing the door behind you. You politely tip your hat to Madame Cherie, escaping through the brothel’s front door as fast as you can.  You enter into the Parisian night with a light step, whistling a French tune which Anaïs Nin has recently taught you.  Your smile is large, happy for the great fuck, while walking under the illuminating moon and glittering stars upon the vintage boulevards of Paris.

End of fantasy…

I must say good night Henry.

Bisous, Mon Amour

Mia

 

A Box of Chocolates for my Mistress – A Mouthful of Grossness for Her Submissive

October 29, 2016

Dear Henry,

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing. – Anais Nin

whitmanchocolates01

I want to tell you about a hilarious time when I brought my Mistress at Ground Zero Nightclub a big, yellow box of Whitman chocolates.  I was feeling very naughty. I felt the desperate need to prove just how much I wanted to get into trouble.

(Many of my readers have been following my blog for a very long time. Some of you are familiar with my years as a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis.  I used to write about my experiences for a column called the Lady M diaries at MindCaviar.com( Jamie Joy Gotto Houck). I used to create all of the erotic art for this e-zine and for Peacock Blue (Oceania) and Custom Erotic Source – which was owned by Sage Vivant.

I was a performance submissive at Ground Zero Nightclub. I began submitting to a Dominant named Daddy on the main stage, before becoming Mistress Jean’s aka International Fetish Models Jean Bardot’s submissive in her torturous lair in the upstairs loft. It’s been a very long time, since I’ve performed at Ground Zero as a submissive.  Please forgive me if my details are foggy and laced with fiction.  I’m sewing fact and fiction together to create a memorable story as content for my blog.  My letters are raw – these are rough drafts for upcoming books.  I like to think of them as raw journals or diaries.  I’m catching glimpses of time before they slip completely away from my memory.  These letters are more for me than for my readers. If you enjoy reading them  – it’s a bonus for me.

Because it’s near Halloween,   I thought of candy.  I’m hoping to post memories of some of the great Halloween skits that I’ve performed in at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis very soon.)

 

“Life is a box of chocolates – you never know what you are going to get.” – Forrest Gump

whitmanchocolates02

 

I had been a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer at GZ for approximately two years prior to becoming Mistress Jean’s submissive, who performed regularly upstairs in the loft.  Today, the loft no longer exists.  I didn’t really know any of the performers until MJ befriended me, taking me under her wings and making me the submissive she opened her show with every night GZ hosted its Bondage A-Go-Go nights.  I hadn’t been Mistress Jean’s submissive for long before I trusted her enough to do something that might get me into serious trouble.

“I’m feeling really naughty tonight,” I said to my husband, Mr. C, sitting in the passenger seat of our vehicle, on our way to the nightclub. “Can we stop and get a box of chocolates on our way to the nightclub? I have a sinister idea.”

The cold, frigid, Minnesota Fall weather had my body feeling achy and tired. The muscles in my low back and neck screamed in pain and my nerves felt like they were on fire.  I wanted to do something that would get me in big trouble with my Mistress. I craved for a large, endorphin rush created by punishment.  My sick mind required more physical pain than what was normally inflicted upon me by MJ on a normal GZ night.

“I thought you were giving that box of Whitman Chocolates to your Mistress?” My husband asked after we exited Walmart – entered our car again, finishing our journey to the nightclub.  I had removed the cellophane wrapper and opened the top of the large, yellow box.

“I am,” I replied, poking my fingers into the yucky chocolates, taking half bites out of some of them, and spitting them back out onto a paper napkin.

“Why are you destroying all the chocolates which you don’t like? I don’t think it’s a very good idea.

“It’s part of my plan.” I smiled wickedly.  “I feel so naughty tonight. I’m itching for trouble.”

We both laughed.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Mr. C interrupted – his voice now sounding more serious than ever. My wicked laughter trailed off into nervous giggles.  Yet, I’m still headstrong and go forward with my nefarious idea.

It was close to midnight when I brought them upstairs to MJ torturous lair at GZ. It was the time she generally summoned me upstairs to begin the BDSM show.  This is when numerous patrons would flee upstairs to see me get punished by Mistress Jean.  We always had a large audience for the opening BDSM act of the night.

“I brought you a gift,” I told my Mistress, presenting her with an opened box of Whitman chocolates.

MJ appeared happy and pleased when I presented her with my box of destroyed chocolates, until she opened the lid. I recall hearing MJ expel one of her wicked laughs that sent chills down my spine.

“Mia, why is there chocolates that look as if you poked the bottoms out with your finger or some that appear as if you took a bit out of it?”

I shrugged my shoulders as if I knew nothing. My lips curled upward in a naughty grin.  I quickly averted my eyes away from hers, peering down towards the floor.

“Sit down.”

I nervously gulped down air as I sat down upon the tortuous, vintage, dentist chair.

“Open your mouth.”

I reluctantly did as I was told.

“Why are all the chocolates in this box ruined?” MJ appeared tall and gorgeous wearing a tight black corset, a small pair of black panties, a beautiful black bra, fishnet stockings and gorgeous, black, fetish boots.

“Because I wanted to find out what chocolates were good and which ones were bad.” I replied sheepishly.  My heart pounded with apprehension as MJ began to shove all of the gross chocolates into my mouth one my one.  My mouth filled with sugar, caramel and other gross goo like cherry and walnut cream – Gross.  I gagged as a multitude of gross chocolates were being shoved into my mouth.  I didn’t want to swallow.

Not too many people know that the worst kind of punishment for me is having sugar on my teeth and being tickled.  I welcomed physical pain, but sugar on my teeth and tickling could make me cry.  I also hate having food in my mouth that I don’t like.  To me it’s like having an uncircumcised cock in my mouth that hasn’t been washed for a month.  My plan for receiving intense, physical pain back fired.

I had to sit with melting chocolate in my mouth for what appeared to me to be a long time.  I appeared like a hamster with its cheeks stuffed full of food. Regardless of how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself swallow the goo and sugary substance down.   I could tell that MJ and Mr. C were enjoying that my evil, wicked plan to bring MJ chocolates on this night didn’t work the way I intended. They both were hiding their sadistic grins as sheer panic widened my eyes and disgust deformed my face.  I recall how the chocolate, caramel, and other grossly filled chocolate irritated my teeth.  The sweetness of numerous gross chocolates mixed in my mouth made me want to violently vomit all over my Mistress’ gorgeous shoes. I knew if I did this vile, horrible act, my little joke would become a terrifying nightmare.

To me, it seemed to take forever to swallow them down my constricting throat.  I wished for a glass of water to help dissolve the sugar in my mouth.  My stomach wanted to regurgitate, my face cringed, and my heart beat raced with fear and disgust.  My mouth felt slimy with chocolate, caramel and crème goo when MJ secured my hands in leather cuffs, bounding them above my head.  It would’ve been the same if I had a month worth of spoiled, rotten cum in my mouth.  I pushed my discomfort from my mind as I jutted my buttocks outward, anticipating my punishment.  It was difficult to grunt, groan and moan with a slimy, sugary bunch of chocolate in my mouth.  This was the worst of the punishment.  I could hardly enjoy the spanking part because my mind was so obsessed with washing my mouth out with water and brushing my teeth. I couldn’t slip into the zone.  I couldn’t focus. My naughty plan backfired on me. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t slip into a calm, surreal subspace as my ass was being beat by a sturdy wooden paddle.

This was the last time I thought of purposely getting into trouble with my Mistress by bringing her a box of ruined chocolates during my long duration as a submissive at Ground Zero.  My idea to be punished severely back fired.  I couldn’t really enjoy the spankings, but MJ and Mr. C sure enjoyed my suffering, chuckling to themselves after I was liberated from my punishment – grateful that I pack a toothbrush in my purse.

We laughed for years after this crazy dilemma I got myself into.  I never have truly enjoyed eating chocolates every since.

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Everyone has his own reality in which, if one is not too cautious, timid or frightened, one swims. This is the only reality there is.”
― Henry MillerStand Still Like the Hummingbird

 

 

 

Weird, Awkward Moments Attending High School Reunions

7/27/2016

Dear Henry,

I was recently invited to my High School Reunion. I am not going to tell you which reunion we just celebrated. It will date me. I chose not to go. I had other business to attend to.  The strangest thing happened to me when I attended my ten year high school reunion. I attended it alone. I left my ex-husband at home.  I felt good about attending, wearing a slimming, tight, black cocktail dress.

I enjoyed talking to old classmates and catching up. It wasn’t very long into the evening when I ran into two, old friends.  They married soon after High School. I had been friends with the wife and had a crush on the husband when I was in High School. During the middle of the evening, they bought me drinks. I didn’t want to indulge because I had to drive a long distance home.

“Come on… have a drink, “My old classmate, nicknamed Mr. Drunky Mc Glow, encouraged me.

“Yea,” his wife, the woman who had always been known as a rebel, boomed in, “You can stay at my house, if you don’t want to drive home tonight.”

I believe I drank a small amount of Captain Morgan and Coke shortly after this couple persuaded me to join them for a drink.  I don’t like the taste or effects of alcohol, so I sipped slowly, cringing when I swallowed. My head was dizzy – my judgment felt impaired, as I rode as a passenger in the backseat of this couple’s vehicle after the reunion was over. I am sure that they had consumed more alcohol than I, but were used to the effects of alcohol. I wasn’t.

After we arrived to this couple’s home, said goodnight, I drifted off to fall sleep on their large, living room couch shortly after we arrived at their suburban home. They had three to four children who were sleeping in their bedrooms.  I can’t recall the exact count. My head was light and airy from the alcohol. The room was spinning madly.  I wanted to barf, which I did in the bathroom, moments after lying down.  I felt miserable. Suddenly I was jolted awake and alert when I heard Mr. Drunky Mc Glow exit his bedroom. His middle aged body was so white that he glowed in the dark.  My heart beat like a wild rabbit in hiding from a fox, when I heard him stumble up the steps to the second landing of his home.

“This cannot be fucking happening!” I think to myself. “Shit!”

Soon I feel him slide his body next to mine on the couch.

“Give me a blow job,” Potent fumes of alcohol permeate his intoxicated request.

“I don’t even suck my husband’s cock, what makes you think I’m going to suck yours?” I replied. I was married to Mr. D.A. who loved to push sex upon me as I slept – relentlessly.  He only cared about his needs. I wasn’t going to suck a man’s dick who has does nothing in return for it and was completely disrespectful.

Mr. Drunky Mc Glow was not offering me anything. He just wanted his dick sucked. He wouldn’t leave me alone. He was an alcoholic mess. I had to push Mr. Drunky McGlow’s body off of me, get off the couch, go downstairs, and wake up his wife.

“I’m not sucking your husband’s cock. You need to get him off the couch.” I insisted with irritation scratching my throat and urgency pushing my words upwards like surges of vile vomit.  Mrs. Drunky McGlow is in a drunken haze, but irritated.

“You dumb shit!” I heard her scream with vengeance, stumbling up the steps. “I told you that Mia wouldn’t suck your dick. Get back in bed. She told me that she won’t even suck her husband’s dick. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I don’t mind sucking an appreciative, stiff dick. I enjoy giving oral stimulation very much when someone shows me respect and that they intensely enjoy my talent. It’s quite the powerful sensation to make someone feel amazing. I still refuse to suck a man’s dick if he does not earn my respect.  It takes all the fun out of doing it.

After I managed to get Mr. Drunky McGlow off the couch, returned to his bedroom, and my pulse slowed down, I finally drift off to sleep again.  I was awakened very early in the morning with loud cartoons blaring on the television and several, small children with messy hair and faces, who were fighting over which cartoons they should watch and what dry, sugary cereal to eat. It was a rude awakening observing them a few feet away from me.  I couldn’t leave until the parents woke up to drive me to my vehicle.  I was stuck with the kids for a few hours. This weird, very strange experience, attending this class reunion was definitely a memorable one.

I did something terrible in high school. I was fearful of gay people. It was the 1980’s.  The fear of AIDS lingered like thick fog in the air.  I had been freaked out because I had gym class with a girl who appeared like a boy. I had no idea that I’d grow up to adore butch girls when I was fifteen. I didn’t understand my hate and anger I had towards this person who did nothing to me. She only appeared different in a way I misunderstood.

I bullied this poor girl. I chased her in the hallways. I waited for her to exit class and I beat her up. I felt awful about my horrible behavior as I began to understand and feel comfortable with being bi-sexual, numerous years after high school.

I attended my last high school reunion, five years ago.  I met up with a childhood friend I had known since elementary school.  I sat with her as we ate dinner.  I felt like a jack ass when I saw the butch appearing girl I had beat up in High School, sitting across from me. She was friends with my childhood friend.  I wanted to apologize right away, but new that it was not an appropriate time. I felt like an idiot.  Afterwards, I discovered this person on Facebook, sending her a long apology letter and explained why I had targeted her.  This woman became a very reputable, highly talented, LGBT Mystery writer. I was impressed at her accomplishments, as well as her ability to accept my apology and move beyond the hate I had once exhibited towards her.  Mystery/Detective novels are one of my favorite genres to indulge in.  If only I had a crystal ball in high school to foresee my future. I would’ve behaved differently.

I’m at a comfortable stage in my life where I don’t feel the need to impress anyone.  It was one of the big reasons I didn’t attend this last reunion, which was a few weekends ago. It wasn’t important to me. I wanted to use my time towards making my dreams materialize, as well as using the money I would’ve used to attend, to get me closer to achieving what I desire.  It feels great to be at this stage in my life – even when I feel I’m hurdling some of the most difficult obstacles in my life.

I will write soon to tell you about the Picasso Project, why it halted, and finding my ability and inner strength to hurdle obstacles.

 

Bisous, Mon Amour,

Mia

Never Give Up – Fraidy Frida Transforms into Fearless Frida

5-9-2016

Never Give Up – Fraidy Frida Transforms into Fearless Frida

*note – these letters are published on my blog in rough draft format. Please be kind when reading them. I’d rather start somewhere, correcting mistakes later, than not starting, fearing my blog posts won’t be perfect.

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Dear Henry –

Ever since I can recall I have been determined and a survivor.  I was born in Robbinsdale, Minnesota, weighing only four pounds. I spent the first month of my life in an incubator. I didn’t have the warm, nurturing touch from my mother. I felt the touch of machinery to keep me alive.  I was all alone, fighting for my life, inside of a glass container. My mother had lost a son, one year and two days prior to my birth due to a premature death. His name was Andrew and only lived for two days. My mother, who barely spoke English, was still grieving for her lost son.

I’ve always been the type of person that if I wanted something, I found a way to get it. Near the age of two, I wanted to get the fuck out of my crib.  I was inventive even when I couldn’t really understand the concept. I would twist the bars on my crib until they fell out – one by one. I was an escape artist at a very early age.  This continued to frustrate my parents, until one day my legs became trapped in those wooden bars, breaking both of the bones in my legs completely through.  I spent one month in the hospital – in traction. This was my first experience with bondage and restraint and I fucking hated it. I didn’t want to remain in one place for such a long period in time. I also didn’t like hospitals and still don’t.  I can recall how frustrated I felt by my situation, very easily, as if this tragedy occurred yesterday.

When I was finally discharged from my long stay at the hospital, the doctors put my legs in a cast, in crawling position. There was a spreader bar between my legs made from the cast materials. This was awkward – but workable. It was better than being in traction. If I wanted to get somewhere in my small home in Crystal, Minnesota, I would drag my body, from room to room, leaving a trail of chalk marks created from the cast on the carpet. I was unstoppable.

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When I was the age of four, I almost drown in my parent’s good friend’s pool in St. Louis Park, Minnesota.  Like I have told you in a previous letter, I have Forrest Gumped my way through life – which can be a good and a bad thing. I recall that the pool was filled with parents and neighborhood kids. Everyone was having fun, splashing, swimming, and tossing a large, beach ball to each other. I naively followed my father towards the deep end of the pool, without any fear. I didn’t know how to swim, but that didn’t stop me. Suddenly, I was submerged beneath water. I can still vision all of the activity below the surface as I struggled to get to the top for air. Before I completely sunk to the bottom of the pool, I felt my older brother, who was the age of seven, attempt to help me.  That’s when my fight for survival began. I didn’t care if he was my older brother – I wanted to live. I recall the horrific struggle beneath the surface of chlorinated water, as I pushed my brother’s body downward, fighting to the top for air. Before we both passed out from the lack of oxygen, my father rescued us. My parents never put too much attention on that horrifying afternoon. Because of this, I learned to swim in the pool that almost took my life.

Most often, I am grateful that I can live my life in a Forrest Gump kind of way. I have always had a large appetite and passion to experience life.  I participated in numerous, extracurricular activities in junior high school at Hosterman Junior High in New Hope, Minnesota. I was on the gymnastics team, participated in the drama and Spanish club, synchronized swimming, choir, and the basketball team.  I played the center on the B team. I wanted to be around my friends. I wasn’t super fond of basketball, but it was stimulation.  Half way through the season, Mr. Wall, our coach said to my good friend, Amy and I, “Girls, you aren’t very good…in fact, you are terrible. I suggest that you leave the team.”

At first I felt offended by his brutally, honest words, before my rebellious side took over. “He didn’t say that we had to quit,” I said to my friend, “Mr. Wall just said that he suggested that we leave the team.”

Amy and I finished out the season. We never gave up, holding our heads up high.

Fraidy Frida transforms into Fearless Frida –

I want to tell you about an itty – bitty, adorable Chihuahua who greatly inspires me every day.  I named her after Frida Kahlo – Frida Kahlo Malone.  Her brother from the same litter, Diego Rivera Malone (Diggy) is super huge. They are both approximately nine months old. They are freaks and I love them so much! I deal with physical pain on a continuous basis. My neck and spine are a mess and have been ever since I was young. My mother suffered through the nightmare of starvation when she was a young girl, escaping from North Korea to the South. She witnessed a man killing another man for the last bit of tree bark on a tree, because it was edible and they were starving. My older brother, my younger sister and I, all have issues with our spines. My mother does as well. I’m assuming it’s caused by the malnutrition my mother experienced growing up. My siblings have endured surgery. It didn’t help. I refuse to go through any more surgeries, so I deal with the intense pain. My little Chihuahua inspires to live each day to the fullest, much like Frida Kahlo.

Because little Frida is so tiny – much smaller than the average, tea cup Chihuahua, her world appears large.  She has been frightened to explore beyond two, small spaces.  For the first eight and a half months of her life she lived in a restricted, fear based world. She only felt comfortable remaining in my husband’s lazy boy chair, and the small area which she eats at and pees on a puppy pad.  Over the past two weeks, I have been pushing little, Fraidy Frida to move beyond her fears. I began taking her outside with the larger dogs, pushing her to move beyond what frightened her, every day. I almost gave up on her, assuming that she would need to be carried in a cute bag or puppy pouch for the rest of her life.

I’m glad that I’ve been persistent because Fraidy Frida proved me wrong. For the first few days outdoors, Frida quivered in fear like a vulnerable leaf in the wind, standing upon my paint stained, tennis shoes. Near the end of one week, she was walking in tiny circles around my feet. I continued to praise her each time she moved beyond what frightens her, encouraging with soft, soothing words. “You can do it. I know you can. You are so brave.”

Near the end of two weeks of continuous encouragement, Fraidy Frida has become Fearless Frida. Today, she presently hops fast and joyously, like a bunny through our tall, overgrown grass, with what appears to be a large grin on her face and her tongue hanging side ways out of her mouth. We are generally the last ones to mow our lawn in our suburban neighborhood, due to Mr. C’s busy work schedule. I’m sure that this pisses our neighbors off – the ones who use their yard to impress others. The more it angers the neighbors the more my husband and I leave our yard be as a way to say, “Fuck you, I’m glad my yard pisses you off. I hope it hurts your eyes and makes them bleed.”

On Mother’s Day, Frida and Diego had the opportunity to explore outside of our home and large yard. We took them and their Mama Chi Chi to Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis. It’s one of my favorite, Minnesota destinations. What a marvelous day!  My stepdaughter gifted me a great card, a picnic lunch from Lund’s in Uptown – Fried Chicken, mash potatoes, gravy, sliced mango, sliced watermelon, delicious, cole slaw and soft, sweet, Hawaiian buns.  I hadn’t had a hot meal like this is several months. I practically cried as I gobbled it down, sharing tiny pieces of chicken to the Chihuahuas.

My stepdaughter also purchased me a very cute, pink, puppy pouch to carry Frida in. I had asked for it when I thought Frida would never move beyond her fears.  I wanted to show Frida the world. I thought it was a shame that she had already lived eight and a half months constricted by fear. The day before Mother’s Day, Frida fell off my shoulder, where she loves to be, to observe life, as I was taking the big dogs out. She had the wind knocked out of her, remaining listless on the floor for quite some time with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. I bawled like a baby, willing Frida to survive her fall. I was so relieved that she was okay. The fall didn’t stop her from wanting to climb back on my shoulder – brave girl!

I love keeping Frida safe in the new, puppy pouch. I’m sure that she feels much more secure. She and her mother Chi Chi love being carried around in the puppy pouch, which they tested out at Lake Calhoun.  I wish Diego would fit in a small bag because he is really heavy to carry. He’s the size of a Jack Russell dog. He was very frightened by all of the stimulation on the walking path. I had to carry my big boy, so that he could enjoy the view of the lake without fear. He preferred to remain in the grass near my husband and stepdaughter by the shore to watch all of the flocks of ducks swim.

Frida explored the beach, experiencing sand beneath her paws for the very first time.  She appeared to enjoy the experience – more so than Diego, who definitely didn’t like the feel of warm sand beneath his paws. I have never heard Frida bark before. I’ve only heard her whine loudly when she wants Haagan Daz Ice Cream, which my husband shares with her after a long day at work.  When a large dog approached our picnic area, it was Frida who barked and growled protecting her family. Diego was scared.

When we returned home, Mr. C went next door to visit his friends who recently lost their mother, to console them on their loss, as they worked hard on Mother’s Day to clean up their mother’s home.  He let Frida roam the yard as he conversed with them.  Frida hopped like a quick bunny through the tall blades of grass.  At times, she was more than a football field away from him. I think that Frida feels more secure to roam when Mr. C is outside – she is his spoiled baby. He was in awe at how far Frida has come in such a short amount of time. It’s frightening to permit any of our dogs to roam freely in our backyard, due to the family of foxes, deer, and other wildlife, we share a small woods with. We fear they may run after them if they see them. We’ve always had them on leashes, grateful we haven’t encountered any wildlife as of yet.  I don’t let my dogs free of leashes at dawn and the early evening, when the chances of that might occur.

I still mourn the loss of my dog, Rudy Patootie. Observing Fraidy Frida transform into Fearless Frida in such a short amount of time is amazing.  Mama Mia beams with pride. She’s inspiration to me.  I’m glad that it distracts me from mourning the death of Rudy Patootie.

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I must end this letter and get some painting done. Before I say goodbye – I want to show you photos of the really great Mother’s Day Card I received from my stepdaughter on Mother’s Day….it’s an unconventional card for an unconventional mother with Tourettes. The first photo is the outside of the envelope. The second image is the outside of the card. The third image is the inside of the card.  I love my Stepdaughter! She knows what I like!

Bisous, Mon amour, Mia

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Greatness Hovers with the Stars above Washington and Idaho State

In Memory of Holger (Hal Jensen) Jensen – December 26- 2013 – RIP

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“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything – all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remember that you are going to die is the best way I know how to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.” – Steve Jobs.

5-7-2016

I met one of the most intriguing man with a warm heart in late, April 1987 – He was a groomsman in my wedding to Mr. D.A. (My first husband) – We were wed in a small, Minnesota town – 5-2-1987 – our marriage lasted a decade.

“How the Hell did you ever meet this girl?” My ex – husband’s uncle (Holger (Hal) Jensen) asked him. “What did you do to deserve her? She’s special, I can tell. You got lucky. She’s a feisty one.”

I knew right then that I liked this gentleman. Uncle Hal always treated me with kindness and deep respect, unlike his nephew. I didn’t see in myself what he saw in me, but I felt genuine warmth that was difficult to deny. I also felt a deep sense of greatness in him and observed kindness in his heart and eyes. If I did see myself as Uncle Hal did, I would never have married his nephew. That would’ve been a shame because I never would’ve met this fascinating, inspiring soul.

This letter’s difficult to write because I am over emotional and exhausted. I’ve been working hard for numerous months, without taking the time to rest. I have a severe, ear infection that I have been battling for months with a fever and chills. My energy’s low. I am in intense, physical pain. The drastic, fluctuating weather during the spring in Minnesota can be a bitch for people with old injuries. The medication prescribed is making me so drowsy and nauseous. I don’t like it. I want to create and to write. I don’t have any Mary Jane to help ease my pain and nausea. We can’t afford it. We are once again waiting for checks to clear the banks. Big companies don’t seem to empathize with the small, business owners who are attempting to strive, and sometimes take their time to send payment. I am hungry – cupboards are bare once again. Mr. C and I live one day at a time. We only think about the now – the present moment – in order to survive. We live our lives second by second in order to continue forward on our journey upwards towards success.

This afternoon, I felt like giving up on my dreams. When I feel this low – my flames of passion spark but never ignite. I feel grief for my best friend who passed away this week – my dog, the alpha of our dog pack, Rudy Patootie – my protector. I feel sorrow for the neighbor lady who passed away two days ago. I just found out this morning. She had been a dear friend of Mr. C’s mother for a very long time. Her sons played with my husband growing up. I can see them grieve today as they take care of her home and say goodbye to their mother. My empathetic soul feels their pain and loss – especially since tomorrow’s Mother’s Day. I also feel my husband’s sadness. The neighbor lady was one of the last, great women on our block who was here long before most of our neighborhood. Mr. C’s working a long day to distract himself from his melancholy. He’s been working very hard lately – his energy’s low like mine is. We need to rest, relax, have sex and recharge our batteries.

I’m trying to work, but it’s difficult to focus. My mind’s foggy. I wanted to paint beads for my Mary Godmother (I’ll tell you more about her later) who has supplied me with most of my beautifu,l burlesque costumes throughout my burlesque career ever since I began, making me feel like Cinderella at the ball. Tomorrow’s Mother’s day. My heart aches with anguish because my children don’t appreciate their mother and never really have. They call me a bitch. My son told me I was a fucking cunt in a text message many months ago because he didn’t get his way. I punished him with silence. We have not communicated for months. He doesn’t get why I won’t let him live with me. It’s unfortunate that both of my children feel this way. I’ve always attempted to do my best at raising them. I wasn’t a perfect mother, no one is, but I never gave up trying to be.

I feel my daughter’s pain because the love of her life tragically passed away on Mother’s Day 2013. I’m going to nick name him Mr. Motor Head, because he loved cars. Unfortunately, his life was cut short, because a car tragically fell on him as he was working on it. Because my daughter and I are not talking to each other, I can’t comfort her on the worst day of her life. I would think that she would learn NOT to treat the ones she loves like crap after he passed on, because she treated him poorly when he was alive. I know that she regrets it because she told me so on numerous occasions. Near the end of his life my daughter continuously complained about him, and all that was wrong with their relationship. She acted like a horrible, spoiled brat. She’d been searching for another relationship, hoping to move on. When this very special guy passed on, it was dramatic and the end of the world for her. I’ve told her repeatedly to never treat family or loved ones poorly because they are the only ones who will have her back when she needs them the most.

Mother’s Day will never be the same for me or my family. I cannot think of this day fondly. I spent the day with my stepchildren at Como Zoo when I received a horrific phone call from my daughter about this tragedy. She and Mr. Motor Head lived seven hours away near the South Dakota border. Mr. C and I abruptly left the zoo, rushing to get to her. It was a slow, agonizing, heart wrenching, road trip.

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A caterpillar named Victim inched his way through the tall, spring grass

Until a young boy scooped him up and placed him a tall jar made of glass

Victim cried out, “Woe is me – I’m so small –

If I didn’t have bad luck I’d have no luck at all.”

At the bottom of the jar the boy scattered tiny newsprint

Victim’s eyes caught one line no larger than a small piece of lint.

It read – one can change the way they think 

with just a nod and just a wink

Victim thought – “Why not?

My life couldn’t get worse than life in a jar

I’ll dream of wings and fly like a monarch.”

Transformed by thought the monarch bloomed

A glorious creature born from cocoon

Victor had bloomed from Victim’s circumstance

To soar high in the sky on the winds of chance. – Mia Malone – Jennings 2001 – Whispers of Gold.

I don’t believe in the Hallmark moment bullshit. I would appreciate it if my children showed me respect, love and appreciation on every day – not just a Hallmark holiday. My daughter wants a mother who will coddle her – especially when she complains about being a victim in life and how the world has done her wrong. I’m not a Leave it to Beaver type of mother. I’m not June Cleaver and I’m never going to be. My daughter doesn’t understand that I’ve had to be the maternal and paternal figure in her life, which is difficult to do and exhausting– especially when I was dealing with working three jobs, attending college full time and enduring many surgeries when I was her age.

Her father has Peter Pan Syndrome. I don’t think that he will ever grow up and become responsible for his life or his children. I don’t wait for him to do so. I have had to do whatever it takes to do make sure that my children survived when I was raising them during the early years in their lives. They have no clue what their mother is about. It’s a shame – maybe someday. Until then, I’m living my life.

I’m grateful for my stepchildren. My stepdaughter, is one of the closest people I hold near and dear to my heart. I admire her bold strength, uniqueness and intelligence. She’s in her early 30’s and a clone of Mr. C. She graduated from a top, Minnesota college and presently works for a great publishing company in Minneapolis. Sometimes she has to be the matriarch figure in her relationship with her mother. Neither of us have the perfect mother and daughter relationship with our blood relations, making us love, cherish, respect and appreciate each other much more. Our relationship’s deeper than blood, bonded by our love, not by relation. I think that she’s amazing –  a survivor and a great inspiration to me. She’s one of my heroes.

My stepson’s a lot like me – I’ve helped raise him since he was 13 years old. He’s a cancer survivor. He doesn’t have a college education like his sister does, but he works harder than anyone I know. He kicks ass. I’m so proud of him. They both demonstrate how much I mean to them all of the time through their actions and not words. They don’t wait for designated days to do so. They rock!

I get to spend Mother’s Day with them tomorrow with Mr. C and my fur babies – Mama Chi Chi – Little Frida and Diego (Daring Diggy). They are amazing chihuahua We are having a picnic at the Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis – one of my favorite destinations to have a picnic and enjoy the fresh air. In Minnesota, you learn to appreciate the warm, sunny days – never taking them for granted.

As I reflect upon my life while creating items for my upcoming boutique – during my long days and evenings, I think about people who reflect greatness inside of them, to keep me inspired. I think about Uncle Hal, recalling how excited he was about his career when I visited him in Everett, Washington. He spoke with excitement and great passion about his career as an engineer, showing me blueprints and explaining his intriguing occupation. He was influential in the Washington State Transportation System – appearing proud and passionate about it. I loved his energy and his enthusiastic spirit.

My best memory of him was when he introduced me to coffee lattes at an unfamiliar, coffee shop at the time – only heard of in Washington State – Starbucks. This is right before they were known throughout the United States. After one sip – I fell in love. Uncle Hal made me a coffee latte every morning during my stay with him. Unfortunately, my kidneys don’t like high, zipping doses of caffeine. He spoke with vivacious energy about all of his favorite places in Washington – taking me to his favorite destinations like the Victoria Islands, the Puget Sound and Friday Harbor. We dined at some of the best restaurants in Seattle. He pointed out destinations which he greatly influenced, by the work he did as a successful engineer.

The reason why I am writing you all of these letters about my life experiences and the great people I have met during my amazing journey is because I need to reflect on my life and gather inspiration from all the fabulous people that I have met directly or indirectly. I am grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to get to know, Holger (Hal) Jensen, who is of Norwegian descent. His nephew – my ex-husband – didn’t have much inside of him to inspire me. He took a lot of my energy, devouring my soul like a vampire feeds on blood. I was exhausted a majority of my marriage to him. I was also extremely young and very rough around the edges. I didn’t become a more refined individual until I left my ex husband and turned the age of 30.

Uncle Hal didn’t live in Minnesota. He was much too smart to endure the crazy, brutally cold, Midwestern weather. He was originally born on a farm in Devil’s Lake, North Dakota and the youngest of nine siblings. From the moment I met this amazing person, I knew that his soul required more than an ordinary existence. I admired what appeared to me at this time early in my life, a high style, jet set life, whenever he would fly to Minnesota to visit and he’d speak about some of the exciting things he was doing in Washington State. He was much more refined than his relatives – his soul shone bright like a star. He was an important engineer in Washington State and Idaho. I say was, because he tragically passed away, December 26, 2013.

Near the end of Uncle Hal’s career he worked for the United States Bureau of Reclamation. He slipped on icy terrain at Pinto Dam, falling 35 ft to his death at the age of 62. I didn’t attend the funeral, my ex – husband did. I hadn’t been apart is his family for over a decade when this tragic accident occurred. It doesn’t matter because I don’t need to attend a funeral or visit a grave site to recall such a great man. He is with me in spirit whenever I think of him and how much he had to offer this world.

Hal left the Midwest to get away from icy conditions. It’s ironic how he died. I’m saddened by the way his life ended. I haven’t mourned his death until now, as I’m writing this letter. I miss him and his sister, who is living out the rest of her life in a nursing home. When I was married to Hal’s nephew, I never thought that I’d ever get to live an exciting life – so I admired him from a distance in a small, boring town in Minnesota. It wasn’t until I left my ex when I began to start living an adventurous life, never wasting a moment of my time.

Uncle Hal’s older sister – Bunny – was always good to me. She was my second mother – always thoughtful, kind and loving. She treated me like the daughter she never had. She always believed in my talent. It was her who had the patience to teach me to use a sewing machine. She told me that I could be a fashion designer if I put my heart, soul and talent into it. She spoiled my children with extreme love, possessing a warm, loving touch. It’s a shame that my children didn’t appreciate it, until she was unfortunately diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. My children lived with their grandparents, right before she began her slow descent into a horrible illness. They treated her poorly, throwing tantrums if they didn’t get their way – often physically hurting her and verbally abusing her. She was softer in the heart than I – more pliable and patient. I wouldn’t permit my children to treat me in the same way that they treated her and they think I am a bitch for that. She never gave up on them until she couldn’t recall who they were. She offered them so much and they took advantage of that.

She wasn’t as strong in spirit as I am. She lived her life in fear and regret, much of her life, relying on God and the Catholic church to save her soul. She often punished herself for having her son out of wedlock. She could be easily manipulated, which’s why my children didn’t want to live with me and their stepfather. They didn’t like structure or rules. It was easier for them to get their way with her. She spoiled them, giving them everything they asked for, and they repaid her with violent tantrums.  I continuously drilled into my children about the law of karma ever since they were young. When they did something wrong and I had to punish them, I would say, “What comes after action? Consequence comes after action – especially if it’s a negative action.” I hope someday, when my children are older, they read some of my letters written to you, Henry, and they really get to know who I am. I hope by telling you this story about their great uncle Hal that they’ll recognize that greatness runs deep in their bloodlines – and that it’ll inspire them to be great individuals who follow their passion. I wonder if my children will appreciate me after I pass on and regret all the time they wasted hating me when I was alive.

I can’t recall the year Mr. C took me took a great book store in Stillwater, Minnesota . It was on Mother’s Day, well over a decade ago, to purchase a first edition book of yours, Letters to Hoki.  This is where my journey with you began. I had recently watched the movie, Henry and June. I fell in love with your spirit – needing to learn more about you. My empathetic soul felt your pain when I read your letters to your fifth wife – Hoki – about how sad you felt whenever she didn’t write letters to you. After a few years, and several of your books later, especially the ones containing the letters you wrote to your lovers and friends, like Anais Nin and Lawrence Durrell, I was inspired to begin writing letters to you, telling you about my magnificent life. Thank you for the inspiration.

I didn’t have much respect for my ex husband, but I had a deep respect for some members of his family like his uncle Hal – Holger (Hal) Jensen and his older sister. As I read about him online today, I discovered more about his life and occupation which I was unaware of. His tragic death at Pinto Dam made me think about the magnificence of Hoover dam – the only dam that I’ve ever witnessed in real life. I’ve visited Hoover Dam numerous times. I’m always in awe at how something so magnificent and powerful was created during the depression. The dam inspires to me continue forward on my adventure, knowing that buried within the ashes of despair, great things can emerge and ignite. I can see that the area of Pinto Dam is gorgeous as I view images of it on Google. At least Uncle Hal departed this plane of existence at a gorgeous and powerful destination. The magnificent way that Holger (Hal) Jensen lived his life with purpose and passion inspires me to go after what I want and never stop.

“Washington is a marvelous state,” Uncle Hal said during my first visit to Washington. “Seattle’s awesome, if you ever get the opportunity, Mia, you should leave Minnesota and live here.”

Even though I love the state of Washington, I was never brave enough to make the move to another state that was located a long distance away. If I would’ve been aware of burlesque, its roots and Gypsy Rose Lee, I would’ve moved there in a heartbeat. But, if I did I would never discovered the importance of Minnesota’s burlesque legend, Lili St. Cyr. Several years ago – Mr. B – my past benefactor/lover took me to Seattle right before my granddaughter was born. I thought about how Uncle Hal had greatly influenced this city with his engineering talent as I explored it while Mr. B was attending business meetings.

I’m ending this letter, Henry. I will tell you about the first edition book of yours, Letters to Lawrence Durrell, that I put on layaway, when I purchased, Letter’s to Hoki.  This book contains something very special taped to the inside cover. It took me months to purchase it because it was expensive – more than I have ever spent on a book before. The tale that goes with it is a seductive adventure and the beginning of a wonderful journey with you. It’s an erotic tale about the gentleman who entered my life briefly, shortly after I read your book, Letters to Hoki.

Good night, Mon Amour – Bisous

Mia

RIP Holger (Hal) Jensen – Your spirit remains to be a part of me. It was wonderful to get to know a man of such greatness. Thank you for the inspiration and believing in me. Xoxo

To my blog readers – these letters are in rough draft format – please be kind when you are reading them. I’d rather start somewhere, correcting mistakes later, than never starting. Follow me on Instagram- Mia Malone-Jennings – to see progress on the projects I am creating for Mia Malone’s Shabby Chique Boutique & Thrift. Thank you for your support.

Former Everett man dies in fall at construction site near Ephrata

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Associated Press
Published: Thursday, December 26, 2013, 7:16 p.m.

 

BOISE, Idaho — Authorities have released the name of a Boise-based employee of the federal Bureau of Reclamation who fell to his death earlier this week at a dam in Washington state.


Holger “Hal” Jensen, formerly of Everett, apparently slipped Monday on icy concrete and fell about 35 feet onto concrete at a construction site at the Pinto Dam east of Ephrata.


Jensen, 62, was taken to Samaritan Healthcare in Moses Lake but died.


The Grant County sheriff’s office said this week the state Washington Labor and Industries will investigate.


Reclamation Commissioner Michael L. Connor said the agency’s “hearts are heavy” with this loss.


Jensen lived in Everett before moving to Idaho two years ago.


He’d worked for Reclamation as a construction inspector from 1972-80 and rejoined the agency full time in 2011.LOCAL NEWS

Local newsStory
THURSDAY, DEC. 26, 2013, 9:45 A.M.
Dam worker dies in fall near Ephrata
From staff reports
Holger “Hal” Jensen, 62, worked for Bureau of Reclamation

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A 62-year-old Bureau of Reclamations employee died Wednesday of head injuries sustained during a fall at Pinto Dam near Ephrata, according to a news release.

Holger “Hal” Jensen fell about 35 feet to the concrete at the facility, which forms Billy Clapp Lake in eastern Grant County. According to the Bureau, Jensen, a civil engineer, was examining construction at the dam that would enable the storage of more water when he fell.

A graduate of Washington State University in 1983, Jensen previously served with the Bureau before obtaining his degree in civil engineering and taking a job with a consulting firm in Everett, according to a news release. Jensen then moved to Idaho, and rejoined the Bureau in 2011.

In a statement, Lorri Lee, regional director of the Bureau in the Pacific Northwest, called the incident “heartbreaking.”

“Our thoughts and prayers go out to Hal’s family as they face such sadness especially at this time of year,” Lee said.

Jensen was being treated at Sacred Heart Medical Center, according to the release. The Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) was informed of the incident, and the Bureau is investigating the fall as an accident.