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

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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

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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

 

 

 

Mia Loves Henry Miller – Letter 53 – Autumn Rain, Anaïs Nin and Wet Dreams

This photo was taken by photographer, Corrine Standish at Dr. Farrago's Burlesque Theater, October, 2013

This photo was taken by photographer, Corrine Standish at Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater, October, 2013

Mia Loves Henry Miller – Letter 53 – Autumn Rain, Anais Nin and Wet Dreams

“When she closed her eyes she felt he had many hands, which touched her everywhere, and many mouths, which passed so swiftly over her, and with a wolf like sharpness, his teeth sank into her fleshiest parts. Naked now, he lay his full length over her. She enjoyed his weight on her, enjoyed being crushed under his body. She wanted him soldered to her, from mouth to feet. Shivers passed through her body.” –Anais Nin, Delta of Venus

Dear Henry,

I had difficulty falling asleep last night. The autumn rain was pounding on the roof top of our suburban home, the trees swayed to and fro in rapid motion by wild wind, and the temperature of the night was dropping quickly, degree by degree. My temples were pounding profusely in tormented rhythm with the rain. My heart was thumping from the torture of my headache. I could find no relief. My dreams were delayed by my suffering and the stress of my lack of financial resources, my children, and my inability to write to you on a regular basis, because of my responsibilities of taking care of Little Miss M.

I never thought that I would be at war with my youngest daughter, Little Miss M’s mother. I would never tolerate a friend who treated me the way that she has. She has been living in a crazy world ever since the death of her boyfriend.  She’s doing everything that she can to destroy my contentment. I had just read the court papers which my daughter has filed against me, which was sent to me via snail mail, stating that I had to return to court to fight for Little Miss M’s guardianship and safety, moments before I went to bed. I fumed with frustration, I wept with sadness, I felt bitter with betrayal, and I simmered with anger. My daughter has stated in the court papers that I am slandering her.  I am sure that she will think I am slandering her again by writing this letter to you, telling the truth of my life.  She has accused me of slander for setting up a trust account to help pay for the care of Little Miss M.  I am being honest, typing words of truth, bearing my soul, in hopes for financial assistance, and that other mothers can possibly relate to the difficulties which they may have to battle with their own daughters.  I am sure that I am not the only one feeling heartbroken due to the massive cracks in our mother – daughter relationship.  I am bearing my soul because if I did not relieve myself with writing this letter to you, I will explode from stress and agitation. I do not believe that writing the truth is an act of slander. My daughter is mentally ill.  There is nothing that I can do until she chooses to get help. I used to talk to my youngest daughter by phone five to six times per day.  For the past four months, we have not spoken a word to each other. It genuinely breaks my heart.

It was past one o’clock in the morning when I finally drifted off to sleep, escaping into a world which consisted of a multitude of flashing dreams.  My inner turmoil was transcending into an erotic dreamscape.  The first episode of dreams traveled me back in time, reuniting me with my best friend from high school.  It felt comforting to spend time with someone who I had entrusted with my friendship, my inner demons, and listened to my confessions of an adolescent drama queen.  Eventually my chimera eclipsed into a flight of fancy where it was a hot midsummer’s night. I saw visions of myself, side by side with a high school lover, embracing each other, naked in a lush and cool grassy park.  Sometime during the night, I found myself roaming like a specter in my dreams.  I was now in Paris with Anaïs Nin and you, Henry.  Anaïs appeared so beautiful, alluring, and provocative, wearing a colorful, long, silk, 1920’s caftan robe, as she lay like a cat in heat on her gorgeous bed. Her milky white skin was exposed from the front opening of her colorful garment slipping open. Her female essence mesmerized me like a snake charmer does a serpent.  Her silky skin enticed me even more, which her slipping caftan was now exposing her beautiful thighs. Her raven hair was long and loose. Her skin appeared delicate, soft and creamy white, much like a porcelain doll.  Her lips were stained – red as roses. I observed her like a phantom from another world through an ethereal veil.

Anaïs’ erotic escapades began by making love to you, Henry. Your robust hands roamed upon her lovely breasts, squeezing her perky mounds of firm flesh, your fingertips grip her nipples like a vice and then rolled them between your fingertips. Anaïs throat hummed gratifying moans. Her delicate toes curled and uncurled as ecstasy rushed through her blood. Your traversing lips kissed her mouth, neck and breasts with a voracious appetite. Your lips suckled upon her erect nipples. Anaïs’ breath was jagged, her enchanting mouth was open wide, her exotic eyes closed in rhapsody, her mind sensing and absorbing every touch, thrust and wiggle. Your virile hands pushed her silky thighs far apart, causing Anaïs to moan with extreme arousal. Your fingers slicked upon her glossy, swollen labia, tickled and glided upon her arduous clitoris, and delve deep inside her honey hole, her body now writhing in a state of bawdy delirium.

I gasped with envy when your head vanished between Anaïs’ thighs. Your tongue lapping at her fruit like an over anxious child devouring an ice cream cone on hot, summer day.  Anaïs’ moans escalated higher, rapidly becoming more frenzied. The memory of her thick, sultry cream abandoned upon your upper lip, when your head bobbed up for air, stained my brain, haunting me in the morning, hours after I had awoken.

I recall an eerie feeling as if I was being watched, when you and Anaïs peered in my direction. You depart Anaïs’ trembling body, and walk, muscular and naked, your skin glowing with sweat, towards the ethereal veil which I had assumed shielded me from your sight. I softly shriek with shocked disbelief when your hand firmly grabs my wrist, pulling me into your fantasia world.

“Bring her to me,” Anaïs pleaded with a lusty, moaning whisper.  I witnessed her expose more of her thighs, slipping the silky caftan off her buttery skin.  You pulled me completely through my ethereal veil.  I was no longer a pellucid spirit in the night. I was a red, hot blooded woman, pulsing with fervid vitality. I could feel my ardent lust pump hard between my legs. The ache was so agonizing, I could hardly walk. When I looked down at my body, my nightgown had vanished.  I was completely vulnerable and naked.

It was difficult to breathe when you guided my body towards Anaïs. I sucked down a large doze of fresh air before you pushed my head in between Anaïs’ thighs which quivered with anticipation.

“Taste her,” you spoke with a clear dominant tone.

Her love juice poured hotly from her sex – thick, creamy and wet.  Her flavor pleased me – sweet and salty.  My head was buried between her luscious thighs, my long, raven hair caressing upon the top of her bare legs. My back arched like a cat in heat, my buttocks rising higher in the air, anticipating your hand to strike hard upon my aroused flesh and your fingers to deeply explore within me.  My titillating moans were muffled by Anaïs’ fleshy, pink folds of skin, when I finally received what I so desperately wanted from you.  The strikes upon my glowing pink buttocks crashed like cymbals when your hand collided with my naked, firm skin. The music of sensuality penetrated the air. Our moans were sung like a choir, in tones of tenor, muffled alto, and high pitched soprano screams. My ass jutted further backwards to plunge your fingers deep inside me. My head arched backwards, my mouth briefly gasped for air before my tongue was wiggling faster and plunging deeper and more desperate into my beautiful lover.  Anaïs was screaming with blissful passion.  I felt so loved when she compassionately stroked my long, raven hair, while I licked her swollen clitoris, and plunged my tongue into her honey hole, as she comforted me like a mother would her child. My glossy, wet, stem of flesh stiffened, my sex ached more profusely, and my flowing lust dripped rapidly onto your fingers, knuckles and wrist.

Suddenly, my dream rapidly flashes forward in time. Anaïs, you and I are collapsed upon Anaïs’ large bed. Our bodies are entangled together.  Musk permeates the air.  I suddenly notice that all the erotic paintings hung on Anaïs’ bedroom wall, were painted by me. You are telling me in soft, raspy whispers, why you like my paintings so much, as your naked, muscular chest heaves up and down, attempting to catch your breath.  I don’t remember painting them.  I am astounding by the curves, the colors and the eroticism in this collection of artistic portraits. I quickly attempt to record the erotic images of art deep inside my brain, so that I can hopefully find the time to paint them when I awaken from this lascivious dream.

Eventually, I faded from this erogenous reverie , and was briskly dragged back into reality.  The dawn was approaching.  My loins continued to ache.  My panties were soaked with moist lust. I could hear Little Miss M stirring in her bed.  I closed my eyes tightly, wishing that Little Miss M would sleep just a little bit longer, so I could remain mesmerized and entertained by my sexual chimera.  Soon, I heard her tiny feet shuffle across the hardwood floors and her little body, invading my side of the bed, pushing me closer to Mr. C.  When my body presses tightly against my husband’s warm body, a surge of erotic energy tingled up and down my spine.  I desperately wished that it was just him and me in the bed together. Unfortunately, this was not the case. I had to contain my sexual energy, slightly awaken from my lust-filled dreams, and attempt to find comfort in a crowded bed.

Finding comfort in a crowded bed never occurred. I was forced to completely wake up from this sensual dream and start my day taking care of Little Miss M.  I have not felt the glorious emotion of sexual satisfaction for numerous months.  Mr. C and I did not have the opportunity be intimate with each other on our wedding anniversary, due to taking care of Little Miss M.  I have not had the opportunity to self – satisfy myself. I feel like I am going to explode into a million pieces soon, if I can’t find a way to relieve my sexual tension and escape from my daily stress.

The sensual images of my dream linger inside my mind throughout my day. The ache between my thighs haunted me.  I daydream for time alone with Mr. C – or for time alone with myself.  Unfortunately, I do not know when that will happen. Our nights and days continue to be occupied with the responsibilities of being a guardian of a small child.  For now, my sexual escapades are contained deep inside my dreams.

My life is not always full of eroticism, glamour or excitement. I don’t always have a dazzling life as a burlesque star, a magician, an artist and an erotic writer. When I am not producing a burlesque show or slowly slipping off my elegant, glittering costumes, nylons and lingerie on stage, when I am not writing erotic letters to you, Henry, when I am not traveling to exotic or adventurous cities, such as Manhattan, San Francisco or Paris, I am living an ordinary life. I do not have the magic answers on how to publish the great American, romance novel. I do not have the correct answers on how to become a famous artist or to produce a successful burlesque show.  I can only wing it as I move forward in life and hope that success will follow.  Today, I am just a woman who is starting her life over, becoming a guardian to a very special child, who I love dearly. I will protect her and love her as best as I can, even if that means that I sacrifice my dreams.

For many years I have fantasized about becoming a published author, touring the world on a successful book tour. I have dreamed of observing my art work on famous gallery walls. I have worked hard, and more often than not, I have worked for free to build my career and my name, hoping that it would lead to something fantastic and financially rewarding someday.  I have dreamed of a romantic, sexual life with Mr. C and that we would travel the world together, creating new adventures and erotic memories as we grow older in our lives. However, my road in life has drastically changed, since the death of Little Miss M’s father. I honestly don’t know if I will ever see my dreams materialize. All that I know is that I still have a loving, patient, understanding husband, a beautiful granddaughter, loving stepchildren, and close friends, who I hold near and dear to my heart.

The number thirteen has always been a magic number for Mr. C and me.  We met on Friday, March 13, 1998.  I imagined publishing the first book of fifty letters written to you, Henry, this year – 2013.  I have been diligently writing this blog for almost two years. I still have a lot of re-editing to do, in order to get the first fifty letters ready for publishing.  I have almost 18,000 hits on my blog. I expected my life to magically change for the better at the age of forty-five, when my children had become young adults. However, with the overwhelming responsibilities of taking care of Little Miss M, who has suddenly come into my life, and enduring the traumatic war between my youngest daughter and me, I do not know if my dreams will ever materialize. I often wish for a fairy Godmother to swish her magic wand to transform my life and manifest my dreams. It feels like all of my hard work, over the course of many years, has been for nothing.  Presently, my days are now spent helping Little Miss M grow and develop into a fabulous, beautiful, stable, successful woman. I can only hope that I can make that happen, and that all of my sacrifices in my life to do so, are worthwhile.

Today, I feel extreme sadness that my life has not gone as I had originally planned.  I try to flow like water down a raging river, with all of the changes and obstacles which have recently come into my life, as best as possible.  Maybe my first book of fifty letters written to you, Henry Miller, will someday be published and maybe it won’t.  But, I refused to give up. I have to keep trying to manifest my dreams, even if the process is slow and the outcome is unexpected.

I know deep in my soul that I was born to become a successful writer and artist.  I was also created to be a maternal figure for others – to love and to cherish them, regardless if they hate me in the end. Sometimes we don’t always get what we desire.  I have always done my best to be a good person, a good mother, and a good friend.  I cannot do any better than I already have done.  At least I have had the ability to travel in my life through literature, dreams, fantasies and real life experiences, prior to Little Miss M coming into my life.  I am grateful that I have journeyed onward with my life with the gift of your numerous books depicting your sexual and enlightening life, Henry.  I am definitely not an expert in life. I am just a woman trying to do the best I can to live each minute of my days as best as possible.  It has been gratifying to experience the adventures which I have already journeyed, whether they have consisted of good or bad experiences.  My life is an amazing, emotional roller coaster ride, full of climaxes and down slopes. I am left in this moment in my life, ready to uncover whatever mysteries are in my future.  I will never give up on my dreams, regardless of what comes my way.  I am not ashamed to be the sexually enlightened woman that I have become.  I will not apologize to others. Nor will I feel shame for what my family members may think of me as I continue to slowly compose these letters to you, Henry. I have never required expensive, lavish, name brand fashions, a fancy house, a luxurious sports car, and a glamorous, rich life. I have only required your wisdom and guidance through the literature which you have left behind in your myriad of books, to help guide me as I continue onward to live my life.  I have to believe that my investment in purchasing your books and my time reading them will eventually pay off.  I have sacrificed so much of my life, contributing my time to reading, writing, art work, and taking care of my family.  At this moment in my life, I feel that my dreams may never prosper.  I have to hang onto a small thread of faith.  I cannot believe that my efforts will be for nothing.

I must end this letter Henry, Little Miss M is full of mayhem today.  It makes it difficult to write.

Bisous, Mon Amour,

Mia

“I had a feeling that Pandora’s box contained the mysteries of woman’s sensuality, so different from a man’s and for which man’s language was so inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored.”  – Anais Nin, Delta of Venus

1st editions

1st editions (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mia Loves Henry Miller – Letter 52 – A New Path in Life, Wedding Anniversaries, and Wonderful Memories

Mia Loves Henry Miller – Letter 52 –  A New Path in Life, Wedding Anniversaries, and Wonderful Memories

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                                 Photo of Me and my monkey named after Henry Miller doing a kinky, burlesque number

Dear Henry,

My grandchildren are fabulous and funny. – Erica Jong

My life has drastically changed ever since my granddaughter’s father passed away on Mother’s Day, 2013.  My husband and I now have Little Miss M in our custody.  Sometimes she is pure joy and other times she is full of mess and mischief.  She is at daycare today.  I finally have the time to write to you without any interruptions.  Over the past five months, my life has been turned upside down.  I never thought that I would be a guardian of a cute, charismatic toddler at my age.  I don’t get the time to do the things that make me truly happy, like writing on a regular basis, re-editing my first fifty letters to you, or painting at my nice, quiet artist loft in the cities, which I no longer have.  However, I cannot imagine my life without Little Miss M, even though she can drive me nuts with her constant alien chatter, her cute yet mischievous ways, and her continuous movement.  She also showers me with so much love and affection. It melts my heart and turns me into Mia Mush. Little Miss M kisses me until my breath is completely depleted.  She makes me laugh even when I want to cry with frustration, because she is so adorable and charismatic.  I watch her with joy and amusement.  She does such silly things like dance, whenever she hears music.  She’s very entertaining, with a natural rhythm born in her soul.

Last night, an hour before our bed time, I was in the kitchen.  Little Miss M and Mr. C were in the living room watching cartoons.  I am getting sick of Curious George.  I will scream with madness if I have to watch another episode on Netflix.

“Are you pooping?” I heard my husband ask Little Miss M, as I peered into our living room and observed Little Miss M squatting in the corner where her toys are located.

“Go away,” Little Miss M ordered my husband, waving her tiny hand at him with annoyance.

“Are you pooping?” He asked again, as I wiped the kitchen counter top clean.  I smirk with delight for a brief second and squish my noise up in disgust, knowing that I am going to have to change her diaper soon.

“I’m bine (fine),” Little Miss M demands, in her own, unrefined, toddler language. “Top (stop) it Bampa (grandpa),” She yells in irritation to Mr. C, once again waving her tiny hand at him.

“Are you pooping?” My husband asks again, peering over the rim his glasses, unable to conceal the smirk of beguilement on his distinguished face.

“Go away,” Little Miss M insists again, shaking her head from side to side, her honey blonde wave of curls swishes from side to side. “No, I’m bine (fine).  I’m not pooping,” even though she was.  Over the past several months we have come to learn well when Little Miss M is pooping.

“Come here, Little Miss Poopy Pants,” I demanded after entering the living room, strutting in Little Miss M’s direction, gulping down a lump of repugnance.  I was not looking forward to changing another shitty diaper.

“I cannot wait until she is fully potty trained.” I muttered softly to myself.  We have been working on potty training Little Miss M for several months.

“No, I’m bine (fine). I’m bine,” Little Miss M insists that her diaper is not full of smelly, stinky poop as I swoop her up in my arms and sniff at her butt like a mother dog.

“Yes, you were pooping,” I reply, attempting not to giggle. “Let’s go change your diaper.  How come you did not tell me you needed to use the potty?” I ask, grinning largely, tickling Little Miss M’s belly.

“I’m bine. I’m bine.” She repeats, giggling loudly as I carry her off to the bedroom to change her dirty, smelly diaper.  Little Miss M cannot stand the smell of her own shit.  I always laugh when she gags profoundly when I am changing one of her dirty diapers.  It gives me a little bit of satisfaction for having to do such a gross job.  I should be gagging more than her, because I am downwind when I am changing Little Miss M’s diaper.

“I will not change poopy diapers,” Mr. C seriously stated a few days after Little Miss M came to live with us.

“Pussy,” I thought inside my head, knowing that the dirty jobs like puking or pooping would always be my responsibility.

Most of my days are spent with Little Miss M.  I am forever chasing after her, screaming or chanting the word, “no,” as she discovers the cardboard box containing my Bristol Paper, Sharpie pens/markers and Prisma Color Markers, which I use to create art, or when she feeds her cupcakes to the dogs, or pulls them tortuously around the living room by their collars.  Sometimes, it is not until hours afterwards when I bust my gut laughing at all the naughty things Little Miss Mel has done during our days together.

Most often, on the weekends, Mr. C and I take Little Miss Mel on an adventure.  Sometimes it is the zoo, sometimes it is walking around the Minneapolis Lakes, sometimes it is driving to Duluth for Russ Kendall’s Smoked Fish, and one of Betty’s delicious Pies. Sometimes we visit the nearby park or go to the Mall of America.  We took Little Miss M to the Minnesota State Fair this past August.  It was fun to watch her enjoy some of the foods, like the deep fried cheese curds and pronto pups covered with large blobs of ketchup.  Mr. C and I also love to observe people.  My husband is a private detective and I have always been a writer, so observing others is something that we both enjoy doing together, ever since we first met.  On the day we visited the Minnesota State Fair, the weather was extremely hot and humid, walking through thick crowds and observing extremely thick people shoveling fried food into their mouths, as if they had not eaten for days.

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I love it when funny or peculiar events occur that stain the memories of that moment in time, inside my brain. An hour after we arrived at the State Fair, Mr. C, Little Miss M and I took retreat in the shade to rest for a bit. We walked past a very frustrated father and his two, naughty boys. The boys had been buckled into a large, double stroller designed to fit two children, until one of them escaped.  His name was Archer.  As Archer was running as fast as he could, away from his father and his brother who was still buckled into the stroller, I could hear his father yell, “Archer, get back here.”  The other brother had very light blond hair and wore black rimmed glasses, reminding me of the boy, Ralphie, from the classic movie, A Christmas Story, as he cheered Archer on. “Run Archer Run! Faster! Faster!”  Soon, Archer was running even faster as his father chased after him. The chase ceased when the father heard his other son cheer Archer on.  Suddenly he stopped and turned around, huffing and puffing. His face glowed red with frustration. The father was fuming with anger, stomping his feet in long, hurried strides towards the smirking boy in the over sized stroller.

The blonde boy with the black rimmed glasses immediately knew that he was in trouble.  His pernicious smirk quickly fades when his father approaches the stroller, yelling and shaking the blonde boy with the black rimmed glasses. I thought to myself as I observed from a distance, “Now, that is a parent who does not sugar coat his discipline with calm, nauseating words. He is definitely old school.  I also wondered why he did not continue to chase Archer who was now swallowed up by the large, flowing crowd.  Where was Archer’s mother?”

Before the father could loosen his grip on his mouthy child to scurry himself back into the crowd to find Archer, we hear frantic, female screams, who we assumed was Archer’s mother, slicing through the thick crowd of people, and hot humid air.  Her screams quickly escalated higher, transcending into a frantic pitch.  “Archer! Archer! ARCHER! ARCHER!”

Mr. C and I turned our heads to look at one another. Our eyebrows are raised with disbelief at the family fiasco we observed. Our mouths were shaped like surprised little O’s. Eventually, Archer was found. We witnessed his mother tugging hard upon Archer’s ear, escorting her son back to the double seated stroller. Eventually Archer was buckled alongside his brother in the double stroller and his family disappeared into the flowing sea of people.

Mr. C pushed Little Miss M in her pink stroller, after our rest in the shade. We slowly made our way through the crowd of slow walking people.  I was shocked at the people who walked against the crowd and stared them down with an evil stare when they would not get out of our way.  At one point, I thought Mr. C was going to crash Little Miss M’s stroller into a tall, fat, intoxicated man who would not move aside, as we continued to try to push our way through the herd of people. Mr. C grumbled with discontent.  He mumbled under his breath a long string of rude comments directed at the intoxicated dumb ass; as we pushed our way past him. Little Miss M did not mind the crowd or the stupid, drunk people.  She loves to be the center of attention.  She smiled at everyone who passed us, waving her little, dainty hand like a princess on a parade float, saying, “hi,” to everyone she saw, with bright eyes and an adorable smile.

Later, in the afternoon, we stopped near a bandstand where upbeat music was playing.  I needed to change Little Miss M’s soaking wet diaper. The restrooms were full, so we found a shady, discrete place in the park, not too far from the band stand.

“Hurry,” Mr. C told me in an over protective tone, “I don’t want any perverts staring at Little Miss M.”

I did my best to change her diaper as quickly as I could.  It was impossible. Little Miss M loves music, she loves to dance, and she loves to be the center of attention.  When the cool breeze evaporated the wetness on Little Miss M’s bare, little bottom, she quickly stood up and began to dance to the upbeat music.  Her little feet shuffled, dancing quickly away from Mr. C and me.  She moved so rapidly, I could not get a dry diaper on Little Miss M fast enough.  It was a struggle to get Little Miss M back onto the blanket which we had spread out on the grass to change her diaper.  Little Miss M continued to dance and wave at everyone nearby with her bare bottom exposed to everyone she greeted. She was definitely comfortable in her own skin.

When I finally put a dry diaper on Little Miss M, and her denim shorts back on, I shrugged my shoulders, grinning with embarrassment and said to Mr. C, who was very red in the face, “She’s definitely a future burlesque star.”  We both laughed as we buckled Little Miss M back into her stroller, pushing our way through the crowd again. Little Miss M’s head was bobbing up and down to the beat of the music, which continued to play at the bandstand.  As it faded from our ears, Little Miss M continued to wave her hand, sitting in her stroller, smiling and greeting the people we passed in the hot, smelly crowd.  Fried food lingered on people’s breath and expelled a foul order from their dripping sweat.  I often feel blessed that Little Miss M spices up our life.  Our trip to the fair might have been dull without observing Little Miss M’s reaction with the crowd.

In the beginning of Little Miss M’s stay with us, I fought tooth and nail about having to be the guardian of a small child at my age. I had already gone through the growing pains of raising my children. It was like I was fighting to remain a float upon a torrential wave of unsettling emotions. The strong current of fight and resistance tugged me downward to drown in a hopeless sea. I did not want to sacrifice all that I have worked hard for, ever since my children became young adults. I fought the thoughts of having to possibly give up writing, art work, magic and burlesque.  It was not until I finally surrendered to the moment, learning to enjoy my time with Little Miss M, when I discovered how to float and survive each minute in life.  When I acquiesced to this new journey in my life, I felt more serene and stable.

Art created by Mia Malone-Jennings, inspired by the late, great pin-up artist, Bill Ward

Art created by Mia Malone-Jennings, inspired by the late, great pin-up artist, Bill Ward

In the beginning weeks of my new adventure with Little Miss M, I thought that I had to give up writing letters to you, my artwork and burlesque show, in order dedicate my time to care for Little Miss M.  During the past several months I have learned to be creative in other ways, like creating homemade beads to create jewelry at a minimal cost, bake cupcakes, and sometimes find time to create a new art portrait, or write my letters to you, in small increments of my time.  It may take me longer to create a new art piece or write a letter to you, Henry, but, eventually I complete a new art portrait, another letter, produce another burlesque show, and re-edit a few of the first fifty letters to you, so that I can eventually published it as a book.  My projects often appears as a large task to me.  I figure that if I can move a little bit further on a project whenever I find the time, it is better than wasting the moment doing something non-productive.  Today, I feel joy again, as Little Miss M’s in daycare for today, I have the silence of my day to serenade me like peaceful music as my fingers float quickly across my keyboard, writing this letter to you.  I love the sensual sounds of the click-clack-clicks, when my fingers type fast sentences and quick paragraphs.

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Fourteen years ago today, October 8, 2013, I wed my soul mate, Mr. C in Sin City.  My divorce from Mr. D.A. had just been signed and finalized three days prior to us leaving for Last Vegas. I had been separated from my first husband for three years.  He dragged his feet, consenting to a divorce. Mr. C and I originally had plans for a small wedding in the backyard of our beautiful, country home. Unfortunately, Mr. C was in a terrible car accident a few weeks before we were to be married.  He was hit by a drunk driver.  His injuries consisted of several ruptured disks in his neck and three broken ribs. Since I loved the city of Las Vegas and Mr. C had never traveled there, we decided to have an intimate wedding in Nevada.

“Why should we spend all of our money on feeding guests, pleasing friends and family, when we can go to Las Vegas and try to have a wonderful time and an intimate wedding, “ I said to Mr. C,  several days after his car accident, as he suffered in silence, watching television on the living room sofa. “I had a big wedding with Mr. D.A. and it was a disaster.  I don’t think that I can endure another disastrous wedding.  You will love Las Vegas. Our time will be spent together, alone. We won’t be worrying about pleasing everyone.  It will be exciting and romantic.”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied, “I think your idea sounds wonderful.”

“We have to celebrate life,” I softly spoke, sitting next to the man I loved so deeply on the sofa.  “Your life was almost taken in that accident.  I don’t know what I would do without you in my life.  On the day we get married, I want you all to myself.  I don’t want to share you with anyone.”  I kissed Mr. C lovingly, passionately, and softly upon his lips.

“Your life could have been taken as well, “Mr. C replied. “On the night of the car accident, if you were not at home beading your wedding dress, and would have come a long with me when I picked my son up from the roller skating rink, you might be dead. The drunken asshole totally demolished the passenger side of the Time Machine. (That is what we called our Ford Tempo at the time).  I don’t think you would have lived through the accident.  I am lucky to be alive.  I am lucky to have you still in my life, darling.”

“We need to celebrate life and buy our airline tickets as soon as possible,” I replied as I got off the sofa, and began heading upstairs to use the land line in our office to call our friends and family to inform them about the change in our wedding plans. “I am going to need to buy a new, wedding dress.  The hundreds of beads on the dress that I was diligently designing broke on the evening of your accident.  It took me forever to sweep up all of those tiny beads. I can’t believe that I had spent the last three months of my life creating that dress.  It kind of sucks it did not turn out.  I am pretty sure that I can purchase an inexpensive, beautiful dress in less than a week. Do we have the cash?”

Over the next week, I searched all over the Twin Cities to purchase an inexpensive, yet beautiful wedding dress.  I wanted it to be off white.  I kept a positive attitude during my shopping excursion. Since I have always had to live with having a small, financial budget, especially for clothing, I always came across the right garment for the right price.  Sometimes I designed and sewed my own clothing.  I was confident that I would discover the perfect, wedding dress in a second hand boutique, which I eventually discovered on Excelsior Boulevard.  It was the color of champagne. The bust of this dress shimmered with beautiful beading.  The back of the dress had numerous, satin covered buttons down the back of the dress, and a gorgeous, long train.  It looked like a dress from a Cinderella story.  I was grateful for the cost of this exquisite dress – $100.00.  I love finding new treasures at a magical price.

We spent our first day in Las Vegas visiting all the Casinos on the strip, got our marriage license from the Clark County Courthouse, and was entertained in the evening with an elegant, erotic show at the Stardust Casino. As we toured Las Vegas, I loved witnessing the thrilled look in Mr. C’s eyes as he observed Sin City for the first time.  We stayed at the Golden Nugget Casino located on Fremont Street.  It was close to the court house.  Mr. C was excruciating pain due to his broken ribs, but he refused to permit his pain override his excitement.  During the afternoon on our second day in Las Vegas I went to the Golden Nugget’s Salon. I wanted my hair styled in an elegant, classic up do, before we got married.  I felt like a sparkling Princess when the talented, hair dresser finally finished my hair, sprinkling a small amount of white glitter upon my barrel curls, and then lavished several of the bobby pins, which kept my smooth, neat, barrel curls in place, with white, iridescent pearls.

“I have an elaborate wedding dress with a lot of buttons on the back. Is there anyone in this casino who could help me button up my dress before my wedding ceremony?” I asked my hair dresser after I paid her for her service and tipped her very well.

An hour before we left for the wedding chapel, there was a knock on my door.

“Hello, Ma’am, I am here to button up your wedding dress,” greeted a plump, hotel maid. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate. Her teeth glowed bright white.  Her short, black, curly hair was sprinkled with grey.

“Come on in,” I smiled. “Thank you so much for helping me,” I said graciously, sighing with relief as I let the hotel maid in and closed the door behind her.

I had my dress on before she arrived.  The only task for the hotel maid was to button the back of my dress.  I felt a deep sense of love for my groom, and gratitude for the help I was receiving from the hotel maid as she started buttoning up the back of my wedding dress. I could not move. I could only observe Mr. C getting dressed into a pair of sharp, black dress pants, black suspenders, an off white dress shirt, and fancy black silk tie through a small crack in the bathroom door.  When my dress was finally buttoned, and the long train on my dress was securely bustled up, Mr. C tipped the hotel maid well, for her assistance, prior to her walking out our hotel room door.  She added magic to the beginning of our wedding night, creating a warm, kind, and maternal memory for me.

The first time I got married, I had to wear two wedding gowns – an American one, and a Korean one. I found it stressful to quickly change from one dress with another. It slowed down our wedding. By the time I had reached our wedding reception, the food had already been served to our guests and my wedding cake had been cut. I cried in the bathroom for almost an hour.  On the day I wed my second husband, I felt no distress getting into this fairy tale gown.  The hotel maid’s aura was peaceful, kind and maternal.  She made me feel serene and well taken care of.

My heart beat fast as I held Mr. C’s hand in the elevator.  I could hardly breathe. My palms were sweaty from nervousness.

“You have a beautiful bride.”

“Thank you,” I replied, to the middle – age gentleman who shared the elevator with us, blushing with abashment until we reached the hotel lobby.  A shiny, black, four door Sedan was waiting for us, outside the glass front door of our hotel, to take us to the Chapel near the Riviera Casino. I had read on the internet that Whoopi Goldberg had been wed in this chapel.  I love Whoopi Goldberg.  I felt that this was our lucky chapel to be wedded in.

Our ceremony was quaint, classic, and exquisite.  It did not feel like a cheesy, wedding ceremony on the Las Vegas’ strip.  It was romantic, uncomplicated and very intimate.  Joyous tears pooled in Mr. C’s and my eyes, as I walked calmly, elegantly, and slowly down the aisle towards him at the altar. I stared at his handsome face with love struck eyes as if he was were my main focal point while giving birth to a child.  I felt hypnotized with every step I took closer to my groom, serenaded by the beautiful song composed and sung by Savage Garden, Truly, Madly, Deeply.  When I arrived at Mr. C’s side, the timeless melody of Jim Croce song, “Time in a bottle, projected from the stereo speakers. Mr. C firmly held my hand as we stared deeply and lovingly into each other’s eyes until the beautiful song ended. When our short wedding ceremony was finished, Mr. C and I kissed each other with undying passion, projecting energy from the depths of our love, and our souls.  On that afternoon, at the altar, we kissed – truly, madly, deeply.

When we returned to our hotel room, Mr. C helped me unbutton my dress and remove it, exposing my white laced lingerie.  His kiss was warm, passionate and loving, when he gently reclined my body onto our hotel bed.  We made love to each other for hours, despite the agony of Mr. C’s broken ribs.  I was pleasured with foreplay for a very long time, until Mr. C’s diamond hard shaft drove deep within me, and we exploded with combustible rapture – our climax was mind-blowing. When our naked bodies unlocked from our embrace, my body immediately went weak, collapsing upon the bed.  My soul felt electrified.  My blood stream was hot and racy.  My grin was so large, feeling like the luckiest woman alive.  I knew that I would and could love Mr. C for the rest of my life – truly, madly, deeply.  After we recovered, we fed each other wedding cake. It was incredibly romantic.

I brought two dresses to wear on my wedding day and night in Las Vegas.  After we made love,  I no longer looked like a fairy tale princess.  I appeared like a vixen cloaked in a sexy, short, black leather skirt and jacket, black, thigh high, fishnet stockings, a black garter and matching bra, as well as knee high, black leather boots.  Mr. C wore faded Levi’s, and the off white dress shirt he wore at our wedding ceremony.  When we walked outside of our hotel we were astounded by the light show on Fremont Avenue.  The walk ways on Fremont Avenue was crowded, full of tourists, the homeless, scam artists and soulful musicians.  Mr. C and I watched in awe at the assortment of people. It was a wonderful way to start our new life together as man and wife.

Our Wedding Night

I remember it well beneath the Vegas lights,

It was mid October when we two lovers wed,

Thereafter we made love upon our hotel bed,

O’ how he made sweet love to me!

I remember it all so well-our fairytale like night.

It was simple, yet, so perfect, as if wedded in a dream.

My pulse quickened standing at the altar, hand in hand,

My hand wrapped in his hand,

His hand held by my hand,

It was there upon my lips he kissed me,

In silence we stood as if frozen, hour glass sand,

And time stood still upon this dreamy scene.

Before him I stood with pearls in my hair,

Laced within my tresses of auburn hair,

So love struck in his eyes I stared,

“I Do,” I heard his heart confess to me,

“My darling,” I said touching his face with care,

“My heart will be yours for eternity.”

We whispered our vows beneath the Vegas lights,

Thereafter we watched the Fremont Show of lights

Together we stood hand in hand in love, that special night

Husband and wife, him and me

I’ll never forget that romantic, desert night

It was as if it were a fairytale in some kind of dream.

                                                                                       Author, Mia

On the last day in Las Vegas we visited the MGM Grand Hotel. I have always enjoyed Frank Baum’s legendary story, The Wizard of Oz.  The gift shop was full of memorabilia from the movie.  I have always been a book lover and squealed with delight when I saw the hardcover book, authored by Frank Baum’s great grandson, Roger S. Baum, The Lion of Oz and the Badge of Courage.  When I saw Roger S. Baum autographing his book for a few other fans, I knew that I had to purchase a copy.  I was overjoyed that I was going to get an autographed copy.  Ever since Mr. C and I met, our lives were like magic.  We were always in the right place at the right time.  The author projected a warm aura as I told him how important the metaphorical messages from the story, The Wizard of Oz, had impacted my life at a young age.  I told him that I even had a dog named Toto when I was very young. We talked for awhile about writing, poetry and life experiences.  Roger S. Baum was down the earth, warm and friendly.  I loved my visit with him.

Ten years later, Mr. C and I returned to Las Vegas to celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary.  We stayed at the Hilton. After my divorce from Mr. D.A. (my first husband), my visit to Sam Dimas, California and meeting Mr. California Man, I was extremely passionate about the music from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s, The Phantom of the Opera.  I love to create art listening to the passionate, operatic music on several CD’s.  Before I met my second husband, Mr. C, I had told myself that I would marry the man who took me to see the production of The Phantom of the Opera.  A few months after Mr. C and I met, he surprised me with two tickets for The Phantom of the Opera, playing at the Orpheum Theater in Minneapolis.  He even searched every store in the Twin Cities to purchase my first pair of black satin, over the elbow, gloves which matched my long, black velvet evening dress.  I cried with joy during the entire production, because I could not believe that I was finally seeing The Phantom of the Opera for the first time in my life.  I had only dreamed about my seeing The Phantom of the Opera.

Mr. C treated me like a princess ever since we met.  He wanted to transcend each one of my life fantasies and erotic fantasies into a reality. The fingertips of my black satin gloves were damp from my tears when the curtain came down when the amazing production was finished. I had pools of tears in my eyes when we exited the Orpheum Theater and walked onto Hennepin Avenue. I was grateful for the warm, summer breeze, which quickly evaporated the tears which glistened with wetness on my cheeks.

On our ten year wedding anniversary, I had booked airline tickets to Las Vegas and VIP tickets to see the Phantom of the Opera at the Venetian Hotel.  We desperately needed to get away for some quality time together.  We were living with Mr. C’s mother, taking care of her needs prior to her death and living with my youngest, teenage daughter, who could be a whirlwind of stress and frustration.  Prior to seeing the show, Mr. C and I had amazing, mind blowing sex.  We spent a few hours in our hotel prior to getting ready to see The Phantom of the Opera.  My heart beat raced with escalating titillation.  I gasped with arousal and shocked surprise when Mr. C unexpectedly flipped my naked body onto the bed face down. My ass projected upward, anxious for a good spanking. My back curled with anticipation when I felt Mr. C pull the back of my long, black hair.  My head arched backwards and my mouth opened, exhaling a highly aroused moan.  My pants of hot, stimulated breath quickened, my erotogenic moans heightened, and my sex rained with hot moisture when Mr. C’s hand eventually spanked my bare buttocks several times. My ass jutted backwards in his direction, pleading for more kinky strikes of his hand.   After ten years of marriage, he knew how to inflict pain with a perfect rhythm and dominating firmness. I still get wet with arousal thinking about how his several of his fingers plowed into me after striking my ass, twisting, wiggling and thrusting deep with me.  My pink, swollen, wet walls of flesh tightened voraciously around my husband’s fingers.  I thrust my hips downward, plunging Mr. C’s fingers deeper into me.  My body tingled with electricity.  My mind buzzed with a stimulating high.  I could not contain my excitement or multiple orgasms.  My body convulsed and my chest heaved repetitiously.  I felt dizzy and delirious.  My wet, warm lust gushed like a fast running kitchen faucet onto Mr. C’s hands when his virile fingers curled and pressed up onto my eager g-spot.

“Oh My God, Oh My God, OH MY GOD! This feels so goddamn good!

As quick as a fox disappears into the woods when they see humans, my husband withdraws his fingers, increasing my desire for sexual satisfaction.  I sighed with discontent seconds before Mr. C quickly flips me onto my back and spread my legs far apart with his strong thighs.  I sucked in a mouthful of air.  I sounded like a boiling tea pot, exhaling hot hisses of lust when Mr. C firmly grabbed my wrists with his, forcing them above my head.  I surrender easily to his will.  I always surrendered to his will. I am a submissive slut.  My stomach flutters with anticipation when Mr. C’s mouth presses hard upon mine until it opens.  Our tongues twist together with erotic fervor and languished gluttony.  Our breath interlaces. Our souls intermingle.  Our heartbeats galloped with a unified, frenzied rhythm.

I loudly gasped for air once again, when Mr. C’s mouth traveled southward, halting at the Y between my legs.  His adept fingers spread my swollen labia far apart until he could locate the stiff stem inside my glistening, pink flower.  His tongue sucked and licked my clitoris – sometimes slow and soft – sometimes fast and hard. Sometimes my leg twitched from the intensity.  Raw, passionate electricity traveled up and down my spine like a Jacob’s ladder.  My toes curled and uncurled from the pleasure I was receiving.  My hips thrust downward when his tongue plunged into my soaking wet aperture.  I wanted to feel him deep within.  I covered my mouth with one of my hands to silence my screams of bliss, when his fingers replaced his tongue, reaching, thrusting, and exploring deep within me. Bolts of electricity overwhelmed my senses when his fingers pressed and wiggled hard upon my g-spot.  His tongue continued to tease and torture my clitoris as his fingers played a rapacious melody deep within me.  A deluge of my wetness gushes from my over stimulated sex, soaking Mr. C’s hand and face. His tongue continued lapping up my overheated liquid of lust.

“Fuck me please,” I desperately pleaded. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

Soon the headboard of the bed began to crash into the hotel wall.  Thump, thump, thump.  My legs were wrapped tightly around my husband’s body, guiding his thrusts deeper and faster into me.

“Oh God, this feels so fucking good,” I moaned.  The headboard continued to bump against the wall.  Thump! Thump! Thump! My eyes rolled upward with bliss. I felt intoxicated with rushing adrenaline.  My vision blurred.  My fingers gripped tighter upon the bed sheets. Mr. C is a fucking machine.  He does not orgasm easily.  Before Mr. C can ejaculate, I cannot hold back any longer, and I surrender to a divine string of long, hard, multiple orgasms. My body trembles like an earthquake’s aftershock. I cannot withstand the intensity any longer.  Mr. C continues to drive me insane, thrusting harder and harder into me.

“Please …stop.  I can’t take no more.  Please, please.”  But he does not hear my request.  Or, he is ignoring them. His cock plows deeper and faster inside me. This feels fucking fantastic.  However, the intensity is driving me completely mad.  My vaginal walls constrict and loosen around his hard shaft, over and over again.  I concentrate on my breathing to endure the pleasure which rapidly transcended into extreme agony.

“I want to suck your cock,” I begged, hoping this erotic torture will end soon. I did not think that I could withstand this blissful agony much longer.  I could hardly breathe.  I felt over stimulated and my muscles were weak like cooked noodles. My heart beat fast and furious. My senses were overwhelmed, on the verge of short circuiting.  Soon after Mr. C pushed my sexual limits way over the edge of insane ecstasy, his body dismounts me.  His overheated body collapsed with exhaustion upon our hotel bed.  His naked, muscular chest heaved up and down, glistening with beads of salty sweat, his mouth gasping for air, and his cock still hard and erect. I wanted him to feel as much pleasure as I had when I engulf his glossy, wet, erect shaft into my mouth. His musky order floated into my nostrils. The tip of his cock pushed against my tonsils. His salty excitement slipped down my throat.  My tongue glided the tip of his cock back to my wet lips. It slithered against his smooth tip for awhile before I swallowed him into my mouth again.  I shut my eyes, continuing to hypnotically retract and withdraw his cock in and out of my covetous mouth, until Mr. C’s finally ejaculated.  I smiled with satisfaction when the spout on the tip of his cock spurted with hot semen, as if a volcano erupting.

“You still have the magic touch, darling,” I uttered with raspy breath after collapsing upon the bed again. My limbs were still weak as I rested on my back. My body trembled with orgasmic aftershock. Mr. C and I were side by side, attempting to catch our breath. My naked, small and perk bosoms heaved up and down as my body tried to cool down. His penis withered and his muscular chest heaved up and down as well.

“I love you,” Mr. C replied before we drifted off to sleep for an hour.

Later that evening we took a taxi cab to the Venetian Hotel.  Mr. C was dressed in a sharp suit and I was wearing a black cocktail dress with excruciating, shiny, black high heeled pumps.  It was amazing to be seated in the second row, completely mesmerized by the astounding production.  The first time we saw the Phantom of the Opera, we could not afford seats so close to the stage.  I felt fortunate to be able to purchase VIP tickets. Once again, I was in awe and hypnotized by the passionate music and theatrical production.

Afterwards, we got to meet the Phantom back stage.  He was taking off his make-up when we entered his dressing room.  I was ecstatic to meet him and tour the stage.  After the actor playing the Phantom finished removing his make-up, we walked through the corridors back stage with a small group of people who also had purchased VIP tickets.  Many of them had brought cameras and wanted their photo taken with the talented, handsome actor.  It never crossed Mr. C’s and my mind to bring a camera.  The actor appeared disappointed that we did not want our photo taken with him.  He insisted that we take a photo with him with Mr. C’s camera on his new phone.  Mr. C works as an executive protection guard and we have met many big named celebrities.  We are not the type of people who are highly thrilled or in extreme awe of someone in the spotlight of fame.  We did not mean to insult the actor’s ego.

Phantom

However, I was in awe when we were on stage and saw all the trap doors and stage props and were told how they worked.  I have always loved the theater ever since I was a little girl. Having the opportunity to see the stage, trap doors and astounding props thrilled me.  Having VIP tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera was the perfect way to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary.  The memory of our vacation in Las Vegas will be remembered forever in my mind.  I love to live life and experience new places, creating new, marvelous memories.  I would prefer to spend my money on an experience rather than a material item.  For a writer such as myself; experiencing life and new adventures is like gold to me.

I must end this letter, Henry.  Little Miss M is begging me to take her to the park.

Bisous, Mon Amour

Mia

“Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection. “- Lawrence Durrell

Quick Letter to Henry – Sinful and Spooky Erotic Poem – Bane and Angelina

Belladonnawebcopy

Dear Henry,

I am continuing to work on Letter 52 – I am also still re-editing my first fifty letters to you.  Thank you to my blog readers for your patience.  Having custody of my granddaughter, makes it difficult to write on a regular basis.  I should have a new letter finished sometime next week.  I wanted to post a spooky and erotic poem which is published in Justus Roux’ anthology, Tales of the Paranormal.  I also recited this poem at Jamie Joy Houck Gatto’s event in NOLA, Eroticon 2002.

Bane and Angelina

Inside a castle far away the Prince of Darkness sleeps;

Locked with chains to a dungeon wall – a lady fair he keeps.

His soul is starved, his name is Bane, he’s a Vampire from legends told,

His lust is hot, his blood is thin, and his heart is icy cold.

Two nights ago when the moon was full he met his lady fair

On an empty street in Paris with white flowers in her hair.

Her name’s Angelina, her beauty glowed beneath moonlight,

With his eyes he hypnotized and drank her soul that night.

Bane doesn’t feast on human blood; but he feeds slowly on one’s soul;

He dines upon a lady’s love and the beauty which she holds.

He slowly drinks this woman’s soul, her spirit, and her vitality,

He parts her lips and takes a sip of her divinity.

Angelina’s a vision, a lovely portrait, one might say,

During the daylight hours she tries to get away.

Bane’s a handsome fellow; a charmer, one might speak,

She can’t escape his power for he keeps her soul so weak.

For two nights he’s idly feasted, made love to her a hundred times,

And each time he enters deep within, he draws upon her lifeline.

Angelina cannot resist Bane’s power, his charm, and his masculinity,

She melts within like winter snow when the season turns to Spring.

When she moans with pleasure, when she screams with utter fright,

She feeds him more her power and gives him more her light.

Angelina remains imprisoned, pressed naked against the wall,

She dangles weakly from her cuffs as the sun begins to fall.

When darkness veils the evening, when bats take wing this night,

Bane rises slowly from his coffin with a sinful appetite.

Angelina shivers, her body quakes against the dungeon wall,

Her breath rate starts to quicken, her bosoms rise and fall.

“Please, Monsieur, spare me?” Angelina faintly pleads;

But Bane shows to her no mercy; he grins at her with greed.

Into her ivory skin he digs with his razor sharp, fingertips,

Clawing deeply into her soul, drawing it upward between her lips.

Mouth to mouth he inhales Angelina’s light

Devours her heart as it beats furious with fright

She can’t escape his power, her sex drips vulnerable beneath his control,

Bane sucks upon her ripened fruit and sips with hunger upon her soul.

He probes her with his fingers, twists, and twirls with sheer delight,

He sucks upon her swollen breasts on this evil, wicked night.

He stabs her with his manhood; he thrusts into her his sword,

He devours her with greedy lust – this dark and needy Lord.

Angelina shudders… Angelina moans,

Angelina quivers… Angelina groans.

Sweet and Sour gather, Bitter and Sweet engage in dance,

Pain and Pleasure chatter, Dark and Light romance.

Angelina cries when she kisses his thirsty lips;

Bane’s lust inhales her soul as he takes his final sip.

Angelina’s spirit seeps slowly into him

Dissolving his icy heart which barely beats within.

All the stars and cosmos twist and turn above;

Bane’s no longer wicked, his spirit’s filled with love.

“Don’t leave me, Angelina,” He whispers to her desperately;

She barely has the strength to speak, her bosoms slowly heave.

“Don’t leave, my beloved,” Bane cries as the night gives way to dawn;

He truly loves this mortal one, now soon she will be gone.

Angelina had also fallen in love with this dark and evil man;

She couldn’t resist his tongue – nor the touch of his hands.

Angelina whispers faintly with her last breath of soul,

“Goodbye, my dearest Bane,” she exhales sweet and slow.

Waiting for her is another world, a sublime realm, both dark and light,

Soon her soul will vanish somewhere between the day and the night.

Angelina softly sighs, it’s the last sound from her Bane will ever hear;

She departs this world, roams anew, as daylight climbs the hemisphere.

Bane’s heart’s feeling heavy, tears of sorrow stroll down his cheeks,

Glints of sunlight threaten through a window in which it peeks.

Bane doesn’t retreat for cover; he remains, a victim to the light;

He prays for death, his heart’s forlorn; Goodbye, Prince of Night.

When the Angel of Death meets him, Angelina’s by his side

With a leash and collar, and desire burning in her eyes.

Bane no longer has the power; Angelina’s the Mistress in this world,

“Come, my pet!” She orders, with a toss of her auburn curls.

Sometimes, if you listen closely as you stroll upon the Paris streets,

You can hear them walk close behind with their ghostly feet.

Towards the moon she saunters, Bane follows close behind,

Two lovers roam in a distant realm beyond all space and time.

Bane and Angelina live together, forever in eternity

Two as one – beyond the sun – beyond mortality.

When you hear the wind howl – When you feel drops of rain

The two above are making love – with pleasure and with pain.

Author, Mia Malone-Jennings

Mia Loves Henry Miller – Letter 51 – Life – Tragedy – Death – Release – Living Moment to Moment – Just Breathe

Mia Loves Henry Miller – Letter 51 – Life – Tragedy – Death – Release – Living Moment to Moment – Just Breathe

Mia doing burlesque

Mia doing burlesque photo by Sybil Minelli

(To my readers of this blog –  these blog letters (letters 51-100) will be raw and unrefined, much like the first fifty, blog letters which I have written to Henry Miller during the year 2012-2013) I am presently continuing to edit and re-writing the first fifty letters, which were originally written in blog form, Mialoveshenrymiller.com.  Today, I intensely desire the ability to write to Henry Miller, in the present moment.  I cannot resist my temptation any longer.  I know that these blog letters will drastically change as I edit, re-write and refine these letters, prior to publishing my blog into book form.   I bare my soul, my feelings, my sexuality, and my imperfections in these letters to this late, great author and artist.

Dear Henry,

“The world is a mirror of myself dying.” – Henry Miller

It has been seven months since I wrote your last letter to you, Henry – Letter 50.  I did not want to write Letter 51 to you until I had completely finished editing and rewriting the first fifty letters to you, which has been a slow process due to many dramatic obstacles that I have had to hurdle in my personal life over the past several months.   I have felt tired, hopeless, depressed and isolated, which makes me sometimes makes me feel uninspired to write anything new to you.  I have greatly missed writing to you, Henry!  Sometimes writing to you is like a sharing several hours with a good friend.  I need a friend like you right now.   Lately, I have been inspired by watching three videos of you online about your adventurous life, which were highly recommended to me by other writers. I adore your warm, animated soul, listening to your wise and soothing voice as I see you speak about your life.  I am amused by your handsome face, your spirit and your hand gestures.  I felt as if your face and voice was daring me on – attempting to inspire me to write to you again.

I have watched two videos which were posted online, on YouTube, which focused on you and your beginnings in Paris.   A dear friend, who is Romanian, but lives in Paris, is connected with the Paris writers group.  His friend, Mary Duncan, who is also from the Paris Writers Group, posted these videos online –

I was very grateful and elated that Mr. Romanian Paris sent me the links to Mary Duncan’s videos, which I watched as soon as I had a spare moment.

Mr. Romanian Paris and I have barely communicated by email over the past several months due to my being busy with other projects and snagged into family drama.  However, just when I needed to hear your voice, Henry, and your words of inspiration, my wonderful friend, Mr. Romanian Paris, has been sharing your videos with me to watch online, via email.  So far, Mary Duncan has posted two video clips of your interview with Bradley Smith in 1969, describing your life with June in Paris when you first arrived. I have also watched another short film online called, The Henry Miller Odyssey, which I discovered in a blog on WordPress.com.  Lately, due to recent events in my life, my heart feels like it has been crushed into a million jagged pieces.  When I hear your vibrant voice and look at your handsome, animated spirit in these videos, it soothes my heartache.  It’s like invisible glue, which aids in piecing my broken heart back together again.

During the past few months my life has felt surreal and extremely distressing.  I often feel heavy in the heart and I feel a sense of great loss.  I have not had sex with anyone or even myself until recently.  My sadness has seemed to dull my sexual senses. I try to do my best living my life and to find peace within each one of my days, even when my life explodes with family tragedy and drama.  Over the past eight weeks I have carried heavy emotional baggage within me.  My frustration, worry and stress hisses like hot water which is near the boiling point, bubbling inside a metal, tea kettle.  My jaws are clenched tightly with stress for most of my days.  Yesterday, I finally found the energy to shake off my distress.  I had the house all to myself.  I felt well balanced, a complete sense of surrender, and the inspiration to write to you again. Prior to logging onto my computer laptop, to begin this letter to you, I needed to feel a sense of release and relaxation, so I finally went to my bedroom, which overlooks my large, wooded, backyard, and took out my beloved, diabolical, Hitachi Wand from my hiding place.  I satiated my longing for erotic pleasure, and to feel the relief after my recent weeks of distress from an intense climax.  I loved making myself orgasm.  I felt so relaxed afterwards. My tight muscles loosened their tense grip on me.  I don’t know why I don’t pleasure myself as often as I should.  It would most likely stabilize my moods. I must admit that I genuinely miss my weekly sexual escapades with my past lover and benefactor, Mr. B.   My husband, Mr. C, is usually busy with his work.  He is fatigued by the time he gets home.  Our intimate time together is not as often as I would prefer.

Ever since this past Mother’s Day, my mind has been cluttered with heartache, turmoil, loss and worry. When I finally made myself orgasm yesterday, I could feel the melodramatic poison depart my mind, heart, and soul.  I needed it out of my bloodstream and my consciousness.  After experiencing my Mother’s Day tragedy, which happened many weeks ago, I finally feel peace and inner strength. The first part of this summer has been hot and miserable without the luxuries of air conditioning.  I no longer have my extravagant, artist loft in the cities to escape to and to cool down with a new air conditioner.  It’s difficult to believe that it has been one year since my benefactor, Mr. B and I broke up and have gone our separate ways.  I have learned to cherish the memories that we shared together for six, wonderful years and surrender my heartache for him.  I no longer want to carry sad memories inside of a large bag.  I moved out of my artist loft located in St. Paul, March 2013.  My memories were packed inside many cardboard boxes. I had finally succumbed to the decision that I could no longer afford the luxury of my artist loft.  I almost rented another place in NE Minneapolis, where I was going to teach burlesque and create a burlesque clothing boutique.  But, the place was a dump which required much work.  Due to my physical health and continuous headaches, which worsened during our long, drawn out winter, I decided to not lease another loft in NE Minneapolis.  I backed out before I was locked into a five year lease.  Presently, all that I have is my small, suburban home, fifteen minutes from the Twin cities.  I do not have much private space to lose myself with painting or writing.  I am doing my best to get by and find anywhere comfortable to write and paint.  I greatly miss my artist loft.

I will survive even though I miss my soothing, deep bathtub at my loft, my titillating, sexual encounters with Mr. B and with my husband, Mr. C. I will miss listening to my vast collection of audio books when I am painting day and night to get ready for an art showing.  I do not own a car and I no longer have the luxuries of walking in the cities or taking public transportation. I am stuck in the suburbs in a small home that I don’t really like.  It was Mr. C’s mother’s home before we inherited it after her death, two and a half years ago.  The atmosphere of our home is dull and lifeless. I will eventually hang some of my paintings to add vibrancy to my living space. I should be grateful for not having a mortgage payment, instead of experiencing a feeling a sense of depression as I live here on a permanent basis.  I have lived in Minnesota all of my life, in the city, in the country and in the suburbs.  I do not want to die in this fickle weathered state.  Someday, I want to live somewhere warmer, near the ocean surrounded by gorgeous, tropical scenery.  I want to experience more adventures in my life.   Yet, for the present time, the importance of my family is halting Mr. C and me from moving to a warmer climate at this time.  Especially after the devastating experience which demolished my youngest daughter, J-2’s vibrant spirit on Mother’s Day.  She is only twenty-two years old.

“There was a time in my life when it seemed as though I might go mad.  That was between 20 and 25 years of age.” Henry Miller – The Durrell-Miller Letters 1935-80

Late in the afternoon on Mother’s day,  I felt like an emotional storm ripped my soul into a million pieces, leaving me to scramble for emotional balance and survival when I received a hysterical phone call from my daughter, raising every hair on my body.  It was a heart breaking message that no mother should ever receive.  Prior to my phone call, Mr. C and my two, adult step children, took me to the classic, Como Zoo in St. Paul, MN for Mother’s Day.  It’s a place that I have loved ever since I was a young girl.  Afterwards, we were going to have lunch at the 50’s Grill in Brooklyn Park. But, lunch never happened.  Our day was cut short due to unexpected news.  Unfortunately, my youngest, blood daughter, J-2 could not attend with us.  My son, J-1, was busy with other obligations.  Until Mother’s Day, she lived a long distance away from the Twin Cities. Ever since she moved this past September, nine months prior to this phone call, we talked on the phone often.  Sometimes more than five times per day.  Before the tragedy in my daughter’s life began, she was the first child to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day on my Facebook page.  She posted her message before I woke up to start my day.  It was the first thing that I read which had greatly uplifted my spirit.  As I talked to my daughter on the telephone on the morning before I left for the zoo, I could hear her boyfriend “A” and my adorable granddaughter, Little Miss M, in the background, playing and talking.   I thought that they sounded happy and content.  “A” had just purchased a small, inflatable pool for my granddaughter, who he cared for and loved so deeply.  Earlier in the day, I felt so grateful for my wonderful family.

I must admit, that I was also wishing on this Mother’s Day weekend that I could be in Brooklyn, NY to see all the festivities which were dedicated to you, Henry.  How exciting and fascinating! They even made a Big Sur, Brooklyn Bridge sign in honor of you, because you grew up in Williamsburg.  Unfortunate, due to a shortage of monetary funds, I was unable to afford this trip to NYC.  I did not mind too much because I spent a wonderful day with my husband and his two children, who always show me that they respect and appreciate me as a mother figure.  While we were leaving the zoo after a really fun day, my youngest daughter called me.

“Hello,” I answered, “What’s the matter?” I asked, listening to her frantic screaming, delirious words and hysterical crying. “Calm down.  What’s wrong?” I attempted to sooth her, which did not help.  My daughter was too distraught.  I could not understand what she was saying.  She was frustrated that I could not decipher her over-wrought words and called me a “fucking bitch” before she threw her cell phone, and a paramedic picked it up and began speaking to me through my daughter’s phone.  Panic froze my blood when I heard the male paramedics voice.  Up until this point, I could not imagine why my daughter was so distraught.

“Hello, your daughter is too upset to talk,” I hear him speak with calm authority.  “Unfortunately, there has been a horrible accident.  Your daughter’s boyfriend was working on his car when it suddenly collapsed upon him.  I am sorry, but he is dead.”

Every inch of my blood drained from my face, dumping below my neck and into my chilled body.  My eyes were brimmed with glossy red and expelling a deluge of large tears. My throat and jaws trembled from my panicked state of mind.  “We are taking your daughter to a hospital an hour away.  She is too distraught.  Please arrive to the “M” hospital as soon as you can.  Your daughter needs you.”

When I hung up the phone, I wailed with utmost grief in the passenger seat of our car, for my daughter’s tragic loss, my granddaughter’s loss, my families’ loss, and the great loss for my daughter’s boyfriend’s beloved family and his friends. I really liked my daughter’s boyfriend. He had been part of our family for over two years. I could not stop crying as we drove to our suburban home.  My aching wails echoed out my window as we drove home.  My stepchildren tried to console me from the back seat.  All that I could think of was that I needed to get to my daughter ASAP!  The time it took to return home from the zoo, drop off my stepchildren and start our long journey to get my distraught daughter from the hospital could not move fast enough. My feelings of dismay and the large lump in my throat made it difficult for me to breathe. My heart ached profusely for my daughter’s loss.  My entire world felt like it had been turned upside down.

Mr. C. and I left the Twin Cities as soon as we could.  It was over a four hour drive get to the hospital.  This was the worst day in my daughter’s life.  She was angry and hysterical.  She was unable to deal with the stress of watching her boyfriend’s car collapse upon his vulnerable body and trapping him beneath the car when it fell upon him.  She observed his last moments on this earth.  Her boyfriend did not have any friends or family with him, to spot him as he worked on his car.  When my daughter found him trapped beneath the car, there was nothing that my daughter could do for him.  They lived in the country a few miles away from anyone. My daughter pulled every muscle in her back, attempting to lift the car off of her boyfriend.  She also called 911, which took over 30 minutes for an ambulance to arrive.  She called her roommates.  They did not answer the phone.  She called his parents who lived nearby, but they did not answer their phone.  My daughter had no body to help her as she observed the man she loved and the surrogate father to her child, die a slow, suffocating death.  My daughter was so delirious and suicidal that the “M” hospital had to transfer her to a psychiatric hospital in Sioux Falls, SD.  Once we arrived, I soothed her as much as I could.  It was late in the evening and she was sound asleep due to forced sedation by the medical staff.  I could not do anything until the next morning.  At 7 A.M. I was convincing the hospital staff to let me sign my daughter out of a 72 hold, so that she could grieve with her family.  As we drove to our suburban home, I did everything I could to console my daughter.  My empathetic heart broke as I observed her devastating heartache.

In just a few hours of time, my life had completely changed.  Suddenly I was attempting to console my daughter as best as I could, and take on the full time job of watching my precious grandchild, Little Miss M, who stole my heart the minute she was born.  I did not expect to be a grandmother so early in my life.  But, when my granddaughter was born, I did not care.  I was so smitten with her.  A week later we attended the funeral.  It was difficult to see my daughter’s boyfriend’s family treat my daughter so horribly.  Afterwards, my daughter isolated herself, drowning into a deep pool of depression.  She was barely home to help me take care of her child.  Her way of grieving and distracting herself was to be with her friends, sleeping or to be alone.  She could not halt the flashbacks of her boyfriend’s tragic death.

During the first couple weeks after my daughter moved in with my husband and me, I was the sole caregiver of my two year old granddaughter.  She’s irresistible, charismatic, and free-spirited.  She easily adapts to the changes in her young life.  At first, I was initially exhausted by the end of each day.  Prior to Mother’s Day, I was in the groove, re-editing and re-writing my first fifty letters to you, Henry. Suddenly, my life hit a wall and went a different direction.  I was transforming from an artist and writer, which requires much silence and seclusion, as well as being a burlesque/magic performer and a show director of a large, burlesque and variety show, into a full time caregiver of a small, active child.

Mia Burlesque photo by Sybil Minelli

“An artist is always alone.  No, what the artist needs is loneliness.” – Henry Miller

I felt like I was dropped into another dimension in time and space, and was now the maternal caretaker for a confused, but resilient and adorable little girl.  I love my granddaughter so very much.  I did my best attempting to adapt to this new chapter in my life.  It takes a lot of energy to keep up with an active, two year old child, especially when I am experiencing a mind boggling headache.  The stress of my daughter’s loss and my new life as a full time caregiver was extremely stressful, causing my headaches to become more fierce and unforgiving.  After four weeks of mourning, my daughter still could not face taking care of her child.  She leaves all the responsibilities with me, my husband, as well as my ex-husband and his girlfriend, as she finds comfort in her friends.  It’s unfortunate that Little Miss M does not know that her father is dead.  And her mother’s spirit is trapped in mourning, loss, guilt, and most likely fear for her future.

After the first two, busy weeks taking care of Little Miss M, I am frazzled and exhausted.  Yet, I feel happy and full of loving energy for my granddaughter.  My heart still is breaking for my daughter’s loss and to see her suffering.   Eventually, I find myself greatly enjoying the long walks, pulling my granddaughter in a cute, pink wagon, and exploring new parks and beaches nearby my suburban home.  Somehow, I learned to adjust and find myself loving every single moment with my granddaughter.

I don’t know why mothers and daughters argue so passionately with one another.  I wish I had the magic formula on how to be the perfect mother.   Several weeks after my daughter’s boyfriend’s death, my daughter’s temper goes off like a time bomb and I am at the center of this explosion.  She assaults me by throwing a heavy, wet diaper at my head, screaming foul names at me.  She begins to destroy furniture in the living room and her daughter is cowering in a corner.  I think the edge of my computer hit Little Miss M’s left cheek, when my daughter tossed it across the room with utmost fury.

“You’re a fucking whore mom for writing your stupid letters to Henry Miller!” My daughter’s words hit me in the gut, until I am gasping for air.   The next hour was a blur.  Suddenly I register Mr. C escorting his furious stepdaughter out the door.  This incident felt like the last straw upon the camel’s back.  It completely shattered my heart.   Frustrated tears spill from my eyes and my throat trembles, attempting to contain my crying.  I felt some serious anger towards my daughter.  But, also a sense of sadness, because I know that she feels the world has taken everything she cared about from her. It’s difficult for me to see my daughter in such a painful state.  Her agony and heartache is an ocean deep.  Presently, I don’t think that my daughter will talk to me for a very long time.   Yet, each day I can still feel her pain, her sense of isolation, her heartache and the feeling of being lost.  I am an extremely empathetic person, especially with people who I care and love for deeply.  My heart feels extremely heavy.

For the past month, I have not seen my granddaughter or my daughter.  For the past month, Little Miss M has been staying at my ex-husband’s home in the country.  My daughter is staying with friends and punishing me and not letting me see my granddaughter.  I think about them every minute of the day.  My heart still feels crushed and I cry often for my loss.  Recently, I have put my distraught energy into writing to you again, re-editing my first fifty letters to you, and creating art.  I am also rehearsing for another burlesque show.  I have some amazing performers flying by airplane or driving a long distance to Minnesota, just to be a part of our August 2013 show.  My burlesque and variety show went on hiatus in July.  I am grateful for the rest during a difficult time in my life.  I am also very grateful and excited for this upcoming show.  For the first time in several weeks, I am distracted with my writing, rehearsals, promoting my upcoming burlesque show and being consumed with my art work.  I swallow my heartache, containing it deep within me.  Sometimes, when I am not doing anything, I think of the pain that my daughter is going through and wish there was something that I could do for her.  But, she hates me right now and does not want anything to do with me – it’s emotionally devastating to me.  I know that this will pass eventually and hopefully my relationship with my daughter will be mended.

I believe that being a mother or a parent is like riding an emotional roller coaster.  I have been through many emotional tragedies with all of my children – both my blood and stepchildren.  I have overcome so many devastating moments, like when my stepson was diagnosed with a serious form of cancer one month after he graduated high school.  I breathed a sigh of relief when his cancer finally went into remission.  I have had to let go of my blood children when they wanted to live with their father during their adolescent years, soon after my stepson was diagnosed with cancer.  I mourned the loss of my stepdaughter when she moved out of state, because she had difficulty dealing with her brother having cancer.  She did not leave until he was in remission.  Mr. C and I did not see her for a few years. I have stressed and worried myself with every scenario I have been objected to, as each of them grew up to become their own person.  I have experienced many highs and lows with all of my children and I have survived them all.  I will eventually overcome this recent tragedy and emotional blow-out with my daughter and become a stronger woman and mother.  I loathe the dips in parenthood and cherish the highs.  The only thing that I can do in this single moment, in regards to the anger my daughter has for me, is to simply let go and continue to live my life as best as I can in the moment.

It feels good to write this letter to you instead of doing nothing as I wait for my emotional storm to pass.  I love my daughter with all of my heart.  I hope that she will eventually find herself and a light to guide her in her darkest moments.  I hope that the right people cross her path at the right time, to help aid her through her heartache and loss.  I hope that she will know that I am always here for her, despite our anger and frustration with each other.

I am grateful for my husband’s emotional support. He does not like to see me so sad.  We have taken many weekend trips together this summer to ease my mind from my troubles.  We have traveled to the Black Hills in South Dakota two times already – the first time was just a few weeks after my daughter’s tragedy.  Mr. C and I traveled alone.  We only had two days together and did not get to see everything we wanted to see out west.  So, we traveled to the Black Hills a second time in mid-June with my stepdaughter and my granddaughter.  It’s one of my favorite places to travel.  I always feel something spiritual and cleansing whenever we visit.  Recently, Mr. C and I drove to Duluth and traveled to the North Shore to get away, clear our minds, and purchase delicious smoke salmon from Russ Kendall’s Smoke Fish House.  We also purchased a delicious bimbleberry pie from the infamous Bettie’s Pies.  Bimbleberry is a combination of wild berries which grow near the north shore.  Late in the afternoon, we ate a remarkable, picnic lunch at a beautiful, scenic rest stop on the Lake Superior’s north shore, even though it was raining.  The smoked salmon and bimble berry pie filled our hungry bellies as we sought cover from the rain in our car.  The open road always seems to hypnotize me, permitting me to purge my heartache and to clear my mind.  I always feel revived after a long road trip.

Recently, I have found the time to read one of your books – The Durrell – Miller Letters – 1935 -1980. In your fascinating letters, Durrell and you discuss the Hamlet letters often.  It makes me wish that I could locate the box of your books, which were at my artist loft, and are presently packed away somewhere in my crowded garage.  I would really like to read your book, The Hamlet Letters.  I can still recall how I received your book.  A young and handsome business man bought it for me in a San Francisco book shop and gave it to me as a gift when he came to visit Minneapolis. This was before my relationship with Mr. B.  He had to search hard for it, because copies of your book, The Hamlet Letters, are scarce.  I was so elated when I received your book.  So much so, that I showed this young and handsome gentleman my gratitude with hours of lovemaking in a luxurious, Minneapolis Hotel.  He definitely knew how to please me for several long, lascivious hours with his hands, tongue and his erect cock.  The passion we shared together after he gave me your book makes, The Hamlet Letters, even more special and memorable to me.

I must end this letter, Henry.  I am working on a vibrant piece of pin – up art work.  I want to submit it to a new and upcoming Minneapolis, pin up magazine.  I still have work to do to promote my burlesque show.  I also need to rehearse for our August 2nd show.  Minute by minute I am discovering the courage to put my heartache to rest and concentrate on living my life in the present moment.   Just because my daughter’s boyfriend died, and that my daughter does not want me in her life as she grieves, and I cannot see my granddaughter, it does not mean that I have to halt my life forever.  I have to still live my life moment to moment, day by day and to just breathe.   Presently, I chose to spend my days doing things that I love, such as writing and creating new art work.

My heart would sink like the infamous, lost ship, the Edmond Fitzgerald at the bottom of Lake Superior if I was to ever lose Mr. C to an unfortunate death.   The unexpected and tragic death of my daughter’s boyfriend reminds me to cherish every living moment that I have with my spouse.  If something happened to him, and things were not right between us, I would feel extreme guilt and shame for wasting our time together.  My daughter’s loss has taught me to cherish my time with the man I love, minute by minute.

Mia Burlesque Photo by Sybil Minelli

Bisous, Mon Amour,

Mia

“To be free, as I then knew myself to be, is to realize that all conquest is vain, even the conquest of self, which is the last act of egotism. To be joyous is to carry the ego to its last summit and to deliver it triumphantly. To know peace is total: it is the moment after, when the surrenderer is complete, when there is no longer even the consciousness of surrender. Peace is at the center and when it is attained the voice issues forth in praise and benediction. Then the voice carries far and wide, to the outermost limits of the universe. Then it heals, because it brings light and the warmth of compassion.” – Henry Miller