Mialoveshenrymiller – Letter 50 – Je T’aime Mon Amour, Henry Miller – Journeys and Mysteries

Mialoveshenrymiller – Letter 50 – Je T’aime Mon Amour, Henry Miller – Journeys and Mysteries


(This is the last letter in my first book of letters to Henry Miller)

I am writing this letter at 12/10/2012 at 3:06 PM

Dear Henry,

“One thing I learned as a writer,” I charged at Victor, “is to be unyielding true to myself and my characters.  An author should write for his conscience alone with a sense of eternity, as if he were writing his testament. There will always be an audience—bigger than you think—for those you suggest I should suppress, the honest reader will appreciate me for.” – Corneliu Mitrache, A Marquise Of Our Time.


I apologize for not writing sooner, Henry. I have felt lost inside the metaphorical world of Dante’s Aligheri’s blazing Inferno.  My inner demons have been nightmarish – my nights and days happened to be filled with heartache and intense headaches that made me feel dead to the world.  I have felt this way for more than six months. This is why my letters to you are not consistent.  I have roamed aimlessly through midnight dark, frightening forests and the poetic nine circles of Hell.  I am now finding Dante’s Paradiso, slowly minute by minute and day by day.  If I had the time to paint, I would create a portrait of the angel Beatrice, who would be guiding me out of my agonizing darkness.  For many months, weeks, days and minutes, I refused to write to you until I had something worth writing about.  I wanted to end this book with a positive ending.


After trying many headache medications, over the course of many months, I found one that would permit me to live a quality of life.  It’s a seizure med that dulls my physical pain, keeping me feeling alert and non-foggy.  If I remain active, I feel relief.  My days are now filled with Tai Chi and physical therapy and multiple Tens Units glued and pulsing like electronic drums upon my body.  My soul feels reawakened.  I am happy and dancing burlesque again on Ground Zero Night Club’s stage.  To me, it feels sensational to my mind, body and spirit.  As long as I keep moving forward, I feel better, minute by minute.  As long as I look towards the future, or simply remain quiet in the moment, instead of revisiting the past, I instinctively know that I will find more adventures and eroticism, moving onward and upward as I forge forward upon my path in life.  I am fighting for life once again – this time with extreme determination and my utmost passion.


I never imagined writing this last letter to you would be so difficult.  It is time for me to let you go for awhile, and move onward, step by step to finish this book.  I still have much to do.  Would you believe that this is the fourth attempt for me to compose this letter to you?  It has been way to long since I last wrote to you. (My sincere apologies to my readers who follow this blog) I have missed you, Henry.  After my sudden break up with Mr. B. – I have existed in a hopeless, dark and dreary season that lasted for many months, as if I lived in Seattle in the rain –  I am grateful to have Mr. C to love me unconditionally and help me pick up the pieces after the break- up of a long, polyamorous love affair, and understand my bereavement.

Before I became so lost in the depths of the Inferno, Mr. C tugged me out of the darkness before I withered like a flower out of bloom.  There was the point in my life, during the last few weeks of my utmost darkness, when I was attempting to fight my way out of Hell and push onward through Purgatory, when my husband demonstrated his genuine love for me.

He said with strength, love, confidence, conviction and understanding, “Enough Mia, you are no longer you.  I love your passion to live.  It is time for you to live your life with passion, once again. Move forward baby.  Move forward. I want my Mia back.”

Prior to that specific moment in time, for many days and nights, I was plummeting into a dim, Aligherian world.  My soul was tossed into the blazing Inferno, unexpectedly.  There were many days of roaming in fear inside dark forests.  I had to find my inner strength to slay my emotional and metaphorical demons. For over fifteen years, I have always tried to live my life to the fullest, regardless of what comes my way.  I have never imagined to surrender to weakness because I had to overcome so many emotional dramas and obstacles that I have recently encountered, as I neared the end of writing this first collection of letters to you.

I have always imagined you, Henry Miller, fitting somewhere into my life as if it was destiny.  I fantasized every moment of my waking day about writing this book of letters to you for more than one decade.  I could not get you out of my blood, my mind, and from the depths of my soul.  Regardless of what people may think of me as share my liberated experiences with the world, I honestly do not care.  I had to write this book – I have been captivated by an erotic spell.  I have greatly desired to write these honest and open letters to you about my amorous life, for a very long time.  I have traveled with you, within my heart, soul and imagination for over a year now – writing and documenting my past and present memories, and telling you with written words about my provocative life, whenever I found the time.  I wanted to fulfill your wish for letters which derive from pretty Asian woman.

Happy Anniversary Vintage Card Front Preview

Happy Belated Anniversary Henry!   I started writing you letters on December 4th, 2011.  That is when I began this blog.  I was encouraged by my step daughter to start a blog and to write about what I know. Please pardon me from being so late to write to you my last letter in this book. I never believed that my past one year of writing fifty letters to you, would have me climbing large, metaphorical rocky mountains, lowering my soul into the depths of darkness and uncertainty.  I have journeyed upon the paths of life’s unexplored valleys, and learned to walk peacefully on mid – level terrains.  I have fallen in love with my unexpected dramas and the erotic escapades that I have explored and which I have experienced as I have lived my life as a strong, confident, liberated, and passionate woman.  (We also have over ten thousand hits on our blog in just one year – I feel so lucky!)

I say (we) because it is what you have left behind in your enlightening literature, your sexual books, and your words written in letters to your friends around the world and America.  You have inspired me to write these letters to you, about my dramatic life.  Anais Nin was a great influence to me, as well as many other prolific authors.  Thank you for being my muse and departing behind beautiful, wise written pages about your journeys, adventures, erotic escapades, your life’s mysteries, your knowledge and sharing your merry and bright mind, soul, and heart.  I have learned so much from you, Henry Miller.  I have fantasized for a long time that you and I would exchange our energy, knowledge, incite and erotogenic visions, choreographed with written words, from one cosmic plane to the other.   What would living be like if we did not use our imaginations?

Your spirit often reminds me of a poem which I wrote a very long time ago.  It reminds me of you, because your spirit is like wind.  I can feel you, but I cannot see you.   I hope that you will like it.


They Call Her Wind

She whistles when aurora crawls upon a pink horizon

She caresses when the night licks upon a starry eventide

Her airy kiss hithers when she dances passed Orion

An existence with a name

Yet, her presence hides.

She moves a tree’s leafy arms with her fluttered breath

She moves through my hair with a whirlwind breeze

She feeds the earth with Mother Nature’s Chinook breasts

She talks in whispers to the willow tree.

At times her temper rattles upon a window pane

Her anguish can scream upon vast prairie land

You cannot see her

Yet, you may feel her pain

They call her Wind

And she’ll touch you with a tempest hand.

You’ve never seen her

Yet you feel her near

Her breath touches you most of time

She’s an existence who has a name

But no face

To the eyes invisible

Yet, to the heart sublime. – Mia

I started reading another one of your books this morning while I was taking a long, hot bath, The Air Conditioned Nightmare. I am finished with CM’s book, A Marquise Of Our Time.  The poor book appears abused, but remains close by me.  I want to feel the energy of this author’s imagination and visually see how I devoured his story word for word.


I am at my artist loft, lavishing in silence and self reflection.  I have been here for a couple of days.  I fondly think of your past charisma, your wisdom, your bravery, and the acquiescing trust which you possessed when you and your artist friend, Abe Rattner, began your adventure upon the black tarry roads, barely knowing how to drive, with hardly any money in your shallow pockets, and daringly began your American Adventures.  Your words are significant and profound to me.  I can trust moving forward in life, even if I have no clue how I will make my dreams materialize.  I just have to believe in my purpose and acquiesce to life as it moves so quickly forward.  I will just do it and permit the Universe to find a way to give me what I require, in some kind of way via object, book, or a  life experience.  I might make a warm connection and absorb the knowledge which I learn from another person.  A friendships might be bonded, if only for short moment.  And, if I am aware enough, I might be capable of experiencing the love from another human being –  and make a deep connection.  I want to remain open to life and to whatever might cross my path as I move forward.

I find the beginning of your book intriguing and hypnotic.  I crave to take a hot bath all day long, just so that I can enthrall myself into your story and rattling opinions.  To me, your written words have a strong voice.  Your words captivate my soul, mind and heart.  I read about your bitter sweet moments, as I travel across America with you.  Your words and phrases and long running paragraphs are full of passion, opinion and honesty.  That is what I like most about your writing.  I love how you openly love and you hate America.  I get it.  The United States are not perfect, but we do have our good moments and people.  We are all not wasteful, egotistical idiots.   Some of us do live life to the fullest.  Mr. C and I are all about making our lives count.  We don’t get much quality time for each other, yet we have the liberation to live our lives the way we were intended to live – happily, passionately, and intensely.  We feel it is important to have purpose and love what you do in life – this is the only life you have at this particular moment in time.


I felt your panic as you wrote about how wanted to run away from your fears and flee to Paris once more – in a city that intoxicated you.  I often loathe that state of Minnesota, especially the hard winters and I do love NYC, while you hated that city.  We all see life differently.  And if you step back far enough, you see everything as a Universal whole.   I love much of the U.S. and I love to take road trips – especially with Mr. C.  Where was your sense to let go and just enjoy your adventure, and view it like the artist you were?  Henry, America may suck.  But for me, it is better than living in the severity, control, hate and bitterness of North Korea.  I love what I see, regardless of the ignorance of some people and how they see minorities.  Every part of the world has its flaws and perfections.  Every piece and imperfection fits somewhere upon an over sized piece of canvas.  There are so many intricate sizes, shapes, forms, depths, shades, colors, and images artistically choreographed and created with great, human imagination.  Where you see ugliness in America, I see things as they are, nothing more, nothing less.  I see the beauty and the ugliness.  We see it everywhere we travel. It is life and life is drama. I learn to love everything just the way it is, much like I view every kind of person.

I made the mistake of bringing a first edition of this book into the tub with me early this morning, as the sun was continuing to rising slowly upon the Midwestern sky…silly me….I won’t be ravishing the vintage book in the tub anymore.  I found another used copy of, The Air Conditioned Nightmare, sitting upon my IKEA book shelf in my loft.  It’s a book that I have permission to ravish, much like the younger gentleman from San Francisco, who erotically enraptured me for hours one winter evening in Downtown Minneapolis, many years ago, prior to giving me this book, and several others of your books, such as a First Edition copy of your book, Stand Still Like the Hummingbird, which he bought in a San Francisco book store, and then brought them to me in the Twin Cities, as gifts for me.  I will tell you more about this intriguing, stimulating encounter in upcoming letters.

I have not told you yet, that Mr. C bought me one of your rare books about a month ago.  It’s your book, “The Nightmare Notebook,” which is a book containing your notes before you wrote, The Air Conditioned Nightmare.  I love it because only 700 copies exist.  I always hunt for the HM books I don’t have.  I am so delighted when I do find one that I don’t already possess. In your book, The Nightmare Notebook, many of your words are ineligible  and written with sloppy, quick squiggled handwriting, much like my handwriting is, but there is a unique kind of energy to your book, when I hold it and delicately flip my fingertips through the vintage pages, trying to read a word, here and there, which you have scribbled down upon paper.  My impressions and emotions in regards to your book are difficult to explain in words.  It is a feeling – a nice, spine tingling sensation.  I know that I will cherish it because it was the beginning to your American journey.  I will also cherish it because it was a very romantic gesture from Mr. C.

I received your rare, limited edition book, as an anniversary gift from Mr. C. – the man whom I love deeply.  I think my husband is charming, handsome, sound, serene, intelligent, charismatic, and a wonderful man, who loves me and would do anything for me to make me happy.  I would gratefully do the same for him.   To me, my husband seems to me to be simular to Anais Nin’s husband, Hugo.  Mr. C has always been there for me, arriving right when I needed him the most, especially when a love affair with a rich, older man has abruptly ceased.  It reminds me of the end of the erotic movie, by Phillip Kaufman, Henry and June.  Only I don’t like to keep secrets from Mr. C.  I openly write these letters as he remains alive.  He gives me the greatest gift of all, love and liberation.  I don’t require a large diamond ring.  What Mr. C gives me is something that cannot be purchased with money, and I feel rich for the love and experience.  We have never had a monogamous marriage.  I have always been a free spirit.  And, I truly believe that Mr. C genuinely loves me for who I am.

“Midway in our life’s journey, I went astray

From the straight road I woke to find myself

Alone in a dark wood, how shall I say

What would that was! I never saw so drear

So rank, so arduous a wilderness!

Its very memory gives a shape to fear

Death could scarce, be more bitter than that place!

But, since it came to good, I will recount

All that I found revealed there, by God’s grace.” – Dante’s Inferno, Canto I, lines one through nine.

I recently finished the remarkable book, A Marquis Of Our Time, by Corneliu Mitrache.   I stretched out the last, several pages of his book for as long as I could confine my curiosity.  I did not want his story to end.  I adore his writing.  I ravished his book as I took many hot baths at my loft, twice per day, for several weeks, to sooth my aching feet after long hours of dance rehearsals for my burlesque shows.  The pages of CM’s book are badly water stained.  I feel almost ashamed about how bad I ruined this author’s book.  I could not help myself.  I loved the words, the phrases, the paragraphs and the chapters. Everything that I loved in this book, are now underlined in ink.  Even the front and back cover are severely curled.  The book looks like an artistic mess.  I call this piece, Ravished Upon Russian and Romanian Snow.  RavishedMarquiseonsnow03

I want to tell you how this passionate author has been like my Virgil – a guide in my poetic world – my metaphorical pilot with written words, to fly me out of Hell.  I felt CM’s spirit through his love story in Paris, as well as his prolific imagination. His phrases and poetic lines joined me on the river banks of Acheron, his Romanian heart and English words, leading me through the depths of darkness, fear, and fire.  However, due to heartache, I departed for awhile, taking the dismal ferry alone.  I paid my coin to Charon, floating and drifting in a foggy, painful existence, ignoring this author’s book for quite some time.  I weakly gave into self-pity.  I also felt too depressed to even send an email to my new, European, email friend.  I will explain more about this gentleman who I met upon my journey, as I was writing my letters to you in the next book.  I have met a wonderful friend as I journeyed with you over the past year.  I am grateful. We have been communicating to each other via email for many months.  He is also a writer like I am and loves the theater probably more than I do.


For many months, my soul was stuck in limbo, ignoring CM’s book as I continued to sulk in desperation and silence.  On the evening when my husband spoke his amorous words to me, I found the inner strength to grip onto life once again, and to plant my feet steadily in the dark, moist dirt of the earth.  I can recall falling deeper into the depths of Dante’s poetic world, and found a way to immerse myself in deep examination and self revelation.  After my bereavement ceased from my parting from Mr. B, which lasted for too many months, I took a self-inventory of myself and decided to fight for life again.  I did not want to live in the legendary Dante’s Inferno and poetic world any longer.  I screamed and searched for a metaphorical escape.  I picked up Corneliu Mitrache’s book once again and Virgil was at my side, leading me to the ninth circle of Hell – CM’s written words became my almighty sword to slay my inner-demons.

Here are the last emails Mr. B and I recently exchanged. We don’t communicate often.  He cut me off like an opiate.  I give you my sincerest apologies to you Henry and to my readers.   I cannot expose everything in these emails.  I need to keep the mystery in these letters.

December 6, 2012

Dear Mr. B.

Happy Holidays!  I wish you another successful and happy year!  I just wanted to let you know that I am feeling stronger and better every day.  My headaches are subsiding.  I am on a new medication that gives me a quality life that keeps me fairly pain free.  My headaches are minimal if I keep active.  I am eating again, trying to gain some weight. I am starting to feel like my darkness has ended and I am ready to kick ass on life and success.

Thank you so much for everything!  You will always have a special place in my heart!  Even though our ties are severed and our journey has ended.

I thank you so much for the wonderful, erotogenic excursion!  I thank you for everything you have given and offered me.  I thank you for loving me.

Very Sincerely,


I had to  mentally and emotionally say, “Goodbye,” to Mr. B, silently in my mind as I ended my email letter to him.  Slow and salty tears dripped with melancholy down my cheeks and the muscles in my jaws unconsciously trembled, twitched and tensed.  I could not get the muscles in my face to relax.  I could not halt my fleeting thoughts and emotions.  I had to find a way to surrender to the moment before a massive headache overwhelmed and exhausted me. I had to let it all go.  I finally came to terms with that there would no longer be an affair with Mr. B.

Mr. B’s Reply, Dec 6, 2012

Hi, Mia —

Happy holidays to you!  I’m so pleased you have found something that helps and you’re feeling stronger.  That’s the most important thing.

Thank you to all that you gave to me.  You will always be with me.

My life has changed a lot.  My sex drive has plummeted, as has my ability to perform.  I’m spending loads of time on work.  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx, blah blah blah blah.  But it’s good sweat.

I hope that you have a happy holiday season and get all of the success you deserve!


Mr. B


The charming father figure who I used to call, my Nabokov’s Humbert, had once filled my life with love and extreme eroticism.  Our torrid love affair has slipped away like water slipping through my hands.  It can never be re-lived.  The story has ended.  There is no sequel.  It was a nice, long, adventurous journey with Mr B.  It’s time that I put my passionate memories of our time together away, and tuck them deep inside a black velvet box.  I will put it away for awhile on a cosmic shelf somewhere high in the Universe.  After I put my love affair to rest, I found myself opening up like a flower in the early spring, welcoming the warmth and the sun. Soon, I became closer to my pen pal paramour.  The hundreds of words, phrases, paragraphs and sentences which he and I have privately sent in emails somehow had awoken me and now I presently observe my life differently.  I found myself purging some of my dark, childhood memories without an audience, to a man an ocean away.  I was personally slaying the monsters and inner demons in Dante’s Hellish dimension, which poetically floats like a fictional star in space and time.

I knew by my pen pal paramour’s written replies, as I neared the end of CM’s book, that I needed to let go of everything that I could not control in my life.  Once again Virgil, my guide in my Divine Comedy, was by my side, with the companionship of CM’s story and written words.  I was nearing the end of a beautiful, bitter sweet, Romanian/Russian/Parisian love story. His dramatic characters walked with me as I struggled through the marshes of the River Styx.  And they told me it was okay to let go and enjoy the bitter sweet in life.  To view all the emotions of an intense love affair which has abruptly ceased, much like a chapter in a book or an unexpected ending.  Basically, it has been said in many written novels and books that life is full of journeys and mysteries.  CM’s bitter sweet, straight to the heart story was written by a virile man who has lived an amazing life. (his bio is quite astounding) I admire him, as well as his work.  His charismatic story made me laugh, sigh and even cry, as I finished the very last page of, A Marquis Of Our Time.  My journey with this author has ended.  My journey across America with you Henry is a new beginning and another adventure.

I have been reigniting my love life with Mr. C.  It feels good to occasionally fuck him and play our kinky, bondage games in the privacy of our loft!  We sometimes spend our nights there, our soul – mate bodies wrapped tightly around each other, our hearts beating upon each other’s naked, heaving chests, after experiencing intense, sexual activity.  And we still passionately embrace, after we have mind- blowing sex.  I sleep in his arms all night long without four dogs to crowd us. Our sexual life continues to be amazing.  I am grateful. I wish Mr. C and I had more time together.  My husband is still very busy with work, helping to build a global company.  I still have my loft in the city for the time being.  It is my private tower full of paint, books, canvas’, brushes, and a myriad of glorious pieces of vibrant art work decorating many of my walls.  And, I have my computer to use to write letters to you or do show business stuff, or to just watch a favorite movie.  I also have an abundance of light – rays of sunshine glimmering through my large, picturesque windows and a warm, welcoming fireplace.  Mr. C and I are only a few miles away from each other, as we each work throughout the day.   On a warm day, I will sometimes walk to his office to surprise him.  I’m looking forward to the light rail.  I wonder when it will be finished?

I am unsure if we will renew our loft’s lease for another year.  When I question Mr. C about it, he says with a smile in his eyes, “Mia, darling, I’m not saying at this point in time, that I want to give up the loft.”  There is a small flutter of hope in my heart.  There is a spark of happiness in my deep, chocolate brown eyes. I am savoring my pleasures of my loft, at this moment in time.  It’s sinful!  In this very minute, I am so happy!  My future is a mystery as I continue forward with my life.  I love mysteries and I love being married to my private gumshoe.

My artist loft is deeply loved; it’s my intimate love nest, my serene sanctuary, my own art space, a private place to share with my husband, or to possibly share with an intimate lover.  It’s a place where I can bask in bright rays of sunlight.  I am aware of the sounds of the city down below, which enlivens me like caffeine charging through my soul.  My heart pounds hard for the future – as if a wild herd of buffalo charging over the Dakota Mountains.


We had an amazing burlesque show this past Friday Night – 12-7-12 – at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis.  We had a high energy, appreciative crowd. THANKS TO ALL OF OUR BELOVED FANS! I love nights like this.  Our show was full of entertaining talent and sizzling hot, sexy drama and passionate energy!  I love that stage more than anything!  I love the messy dressing room, the burly- girl drama, the hard work, the creativity and the amazing passion, which is produced onstage one time per month by a cast of many talents!  I don’t have a car. I don’t go shopping.  But, I have invested in an adventure.  I have a story to tell.  I have experienced producing a quality burlesque show on a large, familiar stage, which I had fantasized about for many years as I danced my nights away high on a catwalk inside Ground Zero Nightclub.  I will not give up just yet.  I look hopefully to the future that my show will continue on.


I wanted to share an email I sent to my pen pal paramour, after the show.  I felt so high afterwards – I could not sleep. I had the incessant urge to write to my European confidante.  Every performer appeared on top of their game, and a high profile, Twin Cities Entertainment Magazine, The City Pages, came to photograph behind the scenes of our show, as well as what was being performed on stage.  They graciously exploited Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater with a gorgeous internet slide show, compliments of RMD from B-Fresh Photography.  It makes for a nice, happy ending to this book – a little taste of success can go a long ways.  It is encouraging to me.

(To my readers of this blog – if you would like to see a slide show of our cast and Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater show…Please check out this slide show.  Photography done my RMD at B-Fresh Photography –

Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater: Behind-the-Scenes [NSFW], 12/7/12 – Minneapolis – Slideshows

For MJ’s Milk -n- Glitter Number, which I am describing below in an email letter to my pen pal paramour, at 3:30 am, after I took a shower to remove the glitter and milk from my body)


MJ is quite the woman! I laugh and I’m entertained as she enters back stage, beautiful and larger than life.  She brings a huge blow up; kiddie pool to the burlesque show last night, arriving after cast call, gives it to my stage managers and says, “Blow this up.”  I can’t believe that several of the guys backstage accomplished this enormous task by the end of the night. MJ’s number was the last number on the show roster.  She and HZ and CS, had performed the cutest number to the song, Coin Operated Boy, earlier in the show. I was highly entertained.  It tickled me to see some of the performers in my old burlesque costumes, which I had passed down to some of the girls who I have known for a very long time.  MJ’s last performance was the finale of our show.  It took approximately three hours to blow up this inflatable, colorful, plastic pool by mouth and human breath.  I felt sorry for the guys who worked so hard to please and assist her.  However, her performances onstage tonight was memorable and astounding.   No one really seemed to mind.

 I admire how MJ is still so full of life.  My eyes can never tire of her stoic and graceful performances.  I love when she comes out on stage in a red Geisha robe and matching Asian parasol.  My eyes drink her in deeply – she is sensuous, intoxicating and sizzling hot!  Next, she undresses slowly and artistically.  Her robe falls like a silk fountain to the floor.  MJ is so bewitching as she dips herself gracefully and glamorously into the pool.   She’s now very scantily clad in black and red, Asian lingerie.  The crowd gasps as she finishes stripping.  Their eyes are wide and their mouths are open, cheering or gasping.  Some of the audience member’s are dropping their jaws, low and wide, because they are stuck in a state of awe.  Neither the audience’s eyes nor mine could stop from staring as she elegantly poured vintage, glass bottles of creamy white milk down her body slowly and provocatively.  MJ’s performance was flawless and entrancing. She appeared so sumptuous performing her Milk -n- Glitter number.  I never tire seeing her perform this.

Suddenly, the crowd grows wild.  A small crowd of happy people storm the front of the stage with tips of money waving in their titillated hands.  MJ desperately wants to please them, but continues on with her dance – to remain in cue with her music.  She has her own personal cues and her erotic music will end soon.  The people near the stage are MJ’s friends and they stretch their bodies as far as they could, mid-stage.  Anxious hands tug on the top of the colorful, kiddie – pool, which tips in their direction, splashing milk and saturating themselves and the Ground Zero stage.  MJ is laughing and hooting and giving the people near the stage the attention they seek and taking the time to take their tips, as graciously as she can.

When MJ quickly escapes her fans and friends, she eventually gets the opportunity to finish her number.  MJ dances and moves so lasciviously, pouring the remaining bottles of thick milk down her long, lean body.  Soon, it began to shower sparkles which appeared to flit in the air around her luscious body like happy, tiny fire flies.  A rain shower of sparkles poured over her glamorous, glimmering, wet, milk laden body, with a downfall of beautiful, shimmering, eye catching, gold glitter.

The music ends.  Her number is not finished. I can see on her face that MJ is not happy.  She is continuing onward with determination and disgust, pouring milk down her glossy black locks of glamorous hair.  Milk is dripping quickly downward and blinding MJ’s eyes.  Before she is completely canopied by what American Television ads and glossy, magazine ads portray as Milk – It Does a Body Good, she is glaring and snarling at the DJ booth hoping that they will re-start her music.  I am on the catwalk, where I used to Go-Go dance, dangling my head downward and staring so hard in the direction of the DJ booth, hoping that they could telepathically hear my thoughts, “RESTART THE MUSIC!”

Somehow MJ finds the energy and her zone to get past having to do the rest of her number in silence.  Suddenly, the roar of the crowd becomes her music and inspiration.  She appears so sexy when she finishes with a big finale, pouring the last bit of glitter down her tall, elegant, stoic, long and lean body.  The lighting is perfect!  Thank you to the GZ crew and my show manager!  I often think that the smoke machines smell gross, but the appearance of them appear as if come-hither like fog – as we all perform on stage.  It adds a sense of mystery to our show.  On this most recent show night, I thought MJ appeared so glamorous under the rays of well staged lighting and puffs of fake, chemical fog – the crowd grew so animated and enthralled!

When MJ’s act is finally finished, she is full of milk and glitter and she rubs her shimmering, wet body all over everyone who encounters her path, as she makes her way back stage, including my husband.  She and he are close.  I am okay with that.  He is generally the first to be inflicted by Milk –n- Glitter by her, and he always loves it.  He does not mind that he is now covered with an overload of gold sparkles, which plaster him from his black fedora, to his happy face, and upon his black leather coat.  Mr. C does not even mind  the small splashes of Milk –n- glitter upon his worn, black leather shoes.


When the show ended and I rushed offstage after curtain call, to remove the tables off the dance floor, run clear plastic cups, some still filled with melting ice, diluted liquor, and thin, colorful, plastic straws, to the bar.  Rapidly, I was assisting my show staff with the large task of removing our red table cloths, which we have to pull quickly from each table.  The red table clothes, which took Mr. C hours to launder while I rehearsed at the loft for several weeks.  After cast call, I recall my mind and body rushing like a Greyhound dog chasing a mechanical rabbit around a race track.  I was in such a hurry.  I helped some faithful staff refold them, so that we put them away in a large storage container.  The night club employees and the Farrago staff are often rushed after a show, removing the tables as rapidly as we can, so that the remaining guests can dance, until the night club closes.  When I was done with clearing the floor and packing up my stuff, I practically crawled up the stage steps, entering the back stage area.  My legs trembled as I descended the back stage, dressing room steps.   I still had much to do.  My night was not over and my mind was racing with my internal task list, which I need to remember in order to end my show and send my tired cast home.

 Suddenly I was spellbound.  Before I knew it I was trapped like a glamorous spider catches a vulnerable fly.  I was hypnotized, strolling past MJ, who shimmered so brightly in gold glitter that it hurt my eyes.  She is appearing frisky and fierce in her simple white cotton bath robe, hoping to contain her mess until she can take a shower.  She’s riding the high of her performances.  And she should!  I always love to see MJ perform.  She graces the stage with her unique energy, talent, and burlesque beauty.  She is a  Minneapolis, Burlesque legend.  She is the Queen of Ground Zero!  She and I were doing burlesque at GZ before the burlesque revival began in Minneapolis.

I often feel cosmically connected to MJ.  She’s been a huge inspiration for me for over a decade.  I often adore her.  On this night my passion and free spirit could not be confined.  I felt adoration as I observed MJ’s beautiful face sparkle with thick coat of gold glitter when I sauntered past her with aching legs and feet, so that I could talk with my dependable, show manager, J.M.  We needed to figure out our show payout.  It’s now after one a.m.  My performers are exhausted and are continuing to wait patiently to get paid.  The dressing room is full.  Without warning, MJ stretches out on the ragged couch back stage and grabs me firmly with her long, lean legs and holds my body tightly against hers.  Her skin, which is smooth as silk, peeks out from her white, cotton bathrobe.  My eyes sparkle like her gold glitter and my heart races with raw stimulation.  MJ’s determined and her strong legs are presently wrapped  salaciously around my fatigued body.  My rubbery legs and weak body attempt to struggle and fight for release – attempting to escape and move onward with show business.  However, her long, lean, muscular legs are strong and steel – like.  Her legs are a vicious weapon – an impossibly strong vice.  I cannot escape like Houdini from intricate handcuffs beneath water.

Once more, I observed my remaining cast who are impatient and want to be paid their small fee of 35 dollars per number. That is all that I can afford.  I actually gave them five dollars extra for the Holidays.  I normally can only afford to pay 30 dollars for one number, sometimes only 25 dollars for a majority of my cast.  I also pay for the crew, guest performers, higher paid performers with bigger names, and advertising out of my personal budget.  I sacrifice and work hard at what I do.  And I love living the life as a passionate woman who has lived some of her life on stage being a Minneapolis, burlesque star.  I’d rather have this experience than high fashion clothes and fast, fancy cars.  I am never bored.  I like life this way.

I’m returning to my story about MJ in the dressing room, backstage.  This amazing woman who is renown around the world as a top Dominatrix and an icon in the fetish film and photography industry, is down to earth tonight, and is suddenly extremely intimate with me.  Mr. C observes from the top of the back stage stairs, containing his hard-on with class and respect for MJ, whose behavior is much like a sensuous cat in heat.  I love to please him with unexpected, carnal visions.  I love MJ when she is larkish, wicked and insousiant.  On this particular evening, my body swooned with ardor and salacious energy, when I felt her playful hands press my body so firmly against hers.  I no longer cared about her Milk -n- Glitter mess.  I was in shock when she wantonly pressed my head so firmly and dominately to her glittering breasts.  I now have glitter in my eyes and in my mouth and it is inescapably in my ear canals and dark curly hair.  I daringly call her a bitch a few times as I try to escape…she is calm, yet stern.  I am pushing buttons I probably should not.  Impulsively, I bit her right nipple with  erotic instinct and human nature.  It was delicious.  I did not care if I would be punished.

Now her hands are firmly gripping my ass.  We stare at each other with female rapacity – the Dominant against the submissive.  My zipping atoms and rushing blood cells explode  inside my body with fervid emotions and unleashed desires. I felt an arousing sensation of warm, rushing tingles, when she tells me she has a new toy she wants to try on me.  I raise my eyebrows with curiosity and grin so naughtily.   Much of my cast is still waiting for pay and I can’t escape.  Eventually MJ releases me, bored I cannot provide any more entertainment for her.  I can’t go further, I have business to tend to.  I am no longer useful.  I am grateful and I rush off with a horny ache in between my fatigued, yet, overheated sex.  My black lace panties were soiled from this late night.  It was a titillating, fleeting moment with MJ.  I stain those moments into my memory when they occur.  I finally pay my cast and begin the large task of taking down the show, and out loading our equipment.  Yet, my aching feet floated on air with a large grin on my face, spreading from ear to ear.  I am so very high from show!  I absolutely LOVE nights like this.

Good night, Mon Ami, must sleep, Mia.


I must emphasize again, it was a great show to help make a happy ending to my book!  Prior to my reawakening, I went into recluse for many months, battling demons and monsters, moving beyond obstacles and climbing upwards again towards a new look on life.  My life is an amazing journey, which I may only have a short time to experience.  I intend to live intensely.  I refuse to give up living my life with purpose and passion.  I have passed this philosophy down to some of my children.  I feel good about that. I may not have the most glamorous attire, or fancy car, but I live a race-y, artsy, amorous and glamorous life!   I am looking forward to my next adventure.   I still have so many old adventures to tell you about my life, Henry.  My letters to you, ma chère Henry, are not over.  I am just taking a little repose, before I start Mia Loves Henry Miller, Book Number 2.  My life is all about journeys and mysteries.  I cannot wait for another mysterious adventure to begin.

As I have been re-reading the letters which I have been writing to you, getting them ready for editing,  I observe that I converse about my headaches often, or sometimes an illness.  I almost thought about deleting all of my sentences and paragraphs which communicate about the flaws in my body and portray only a perfect type of healthy woman.  After many hours of deep thought, I decided that I don’t want to be portrayed as perfect.  I just want to be portrayed as me – the real me.  We are all made of the good and the bad.  It’s what gives us character.  If my readers will step back far enough and really observe in their mind’s eye – they will see that I am like a beautiful, Frida Kahlo portrait, full of pain and pleasure.  frida-kahlo-the-two-fridas-c-1939

Now, that the show is over, my exhaustion overwhelms me.  My body aches and my feet throb uncomfortably.  I am soaking in a hot, bath tub, in the silence at my loft, a few days after our show.  I have another burlesque show to rehearse and perform in on this upcoming Thursday night.  It was nice to be invited by another local Burlesque troupe.  I’m in my artistic tower which crowds the Twin Cities’ skyline – my view is balancing between St. Paul and Minneapolis.  My thoughts often drift in between the pages of the book I am avidly reading.  Soon, I find myself drifting into a very nice day dream.  The hot waves of water are accompanied with large doses of Baking Soda to soothe my aches and pains from dancing and writing for long hours.  My body relaxes, submerged in water, and I imagine, “Paris 2013.”

I fantasize about getting off the plane at Charles De Gualle airport.  I feel a bit lost.  It’s been a long flight.  I am dressed comfortably in faded jeans, black, worn and comfortable, Nike tennis shoes, and a colorful layer of several shirts beneath a short, smooth, black leather coat.  I am trying to find my way to the luggage area, following people I do not know.  My eyes digest the assortment of people who are walking hypnotically, attired in a variety of American and European fashions.  French, the language of love is spoken all around me, echoing like poetry in my ears.  The myriad of people are in a hurry, their assortment of colorful, fashionable shoes shuffle, skip and scurry forward, as if they know where to go.  I follow them and I finally find my way to the luggage area.  And I wait for my bags to appear upon the airport carousel.

Prior to the plane landing, I had been reading a compelling story sent to me in a PDF file, which I had printed upon many sheets of paper, days prior to departing Minneapolis/St. Paul.  It was written by a good friend, whom I met upon this amazing, literary journey, as I was writing my letters to you, Henry. He is also a big fan of yours.  Everyone around the world seems to be.  You have departed wonderful literature behind, imprinting your soul into our future. This author’s story has completely entertained me upon my long flight, distracting the discomfort of sitting too long. My thoughts kept flashing to the main character in this story.  I’m intoxicated and I am enamored with this significant and prolific author’s written words.  I cannot escape how I feel.


Suddenly, an amorous whisper blows gently past my ear, and I hear a handsome gentleman softly speak with a European accent, “Bon Jour, Mon chère, Mia.

I turn slowly, inhaling the musky scent of Drakkar Noir. My heart races – it is him – my pen pal paramour.  I am breathless.  I want to fall into the depths of Paris’ artistic and literary world with him.  I want to breathe in his ingenuity and his passion for literature and theater.  He can show me things that I have always fantasized or read about in novels. I want to experience a journey filled with romance, if only for a small segment in time and space.  I desire to live my adventurous life for as long as I possibly can. Experiencing mystery and new journeys in life is what life should be! I am so glad that I am feeling stronger every day and my dark travels have ended.  I feel merry and bright for taking this journey over this past year with you, my spiritual paramour – my dear Henry Miller.  Thank you for your inspiration and this passionate, literary journey.

I must end this letter and take a long, hot bath.  It is now 11:41 p.m. on 12/11/12.  I feel a rush of accomplishment. This first collection of letters written to you, is finally complete!  My muscles are still sore from Friday night’s show and for writing for long hours over the past few days on your last letter.  I felt determined to live my dreams and finish this first book of letters, written to you,Henry. This past Friday night I danced onstage with great strength and new energy.  I feel balanced emotionally.  I am at peace again.  I look forward to performing my dance number again on Thursday evening for another burlesque show.  Your book, The Air Conditioned Nightmare, is waiting for me.  Are you ready for me to ravish your words?

I will miss you as I get this manuscript ready.  I will write ASAP.

Je T’aime Mon Amour, Henry Miller

Avec tout mon couer – with all of my heart

Mia catwomanmia02

  but mine were not the wings for such a flight.
Yet, as I wished, the truth I wished for came 

cleaving my mind in a great flash of light.

Here my powers rest from their high fantasy,
but already I could feel my being turned –
instinct and intellect balanced equally

as in a wheel whose motion nothing jars –
by the Love that moves the sun and other stars.

The Divine Comedy

The Divine Comedy art work was created by Gustave Dore – 1832- 1883

Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater art work by the talented Timmah Pacello

Photography by Charles Jennings, Corrine Standish, and Rebecca McDonald from B-Fresh Photography.   Thank you City Pages!  We love your support!! ❤


mia loves henry miller – Letter 5 – Mr. C: Submission after Midnight

mia loves henry miller

mia loves henry miller

Letter 5 – Mr. C: Submission after Midnight

12-7-11 5:00 p.m.

“True strength lies in submission which permits one to dedicate his life, through devotion, to something beyond himself.”  —Henry Miller

Dear Henry Miller,

I never really knew the true meaning of submission until I met Mr. C.  I had always fantasized about being dominated by a strong male or female up until I had met my husband.  I was young when we first met in person.  I had just turned the age of 30.  I didn’t really know how to ask for what I wanted sexually.  I wasn’t very experienced.  I spent most of my life fearing sex and intimacy.  (I will explain more later).  Mr. C has always shown me so much love and respect, which has liberated me in so many ways.

We initially met on the internet via…

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mia loves henry miller – Letter 3 – Bondage A-Go-Go & Mindcaviar.com

mia loves henry miller – Letter 3 – Bondage A-Go-Go & Mindcaviar.com.

MialovesHenryMiller- Update to my blog readers.

To my readers:

“Imagination is the voice of daring.  If there is anything Godlike about God it is that.  He dared to imagine everything.” — Henry Miller

I have been working hard on choreographing a new burlesque number for the past two weeks, and I’m getting ready to produce a new burlesque/variety show on Friday 9/12/2012.  FYI – I am working on the last letter – Letter 50 (I appreciate your patience)

Saying goodbye to Henry is not easy…slowly but surely, during breaks in my rehearsals, I write a few sentences to Henry, throughout my day.  I am hoping to finish it sometime next week.   Some of my readers may not have started reading these letters written to Henry Miller, late author and artist, at the beginning.  Maybe there will be new readers, who might find my words titillating.  So I am going to re-post my letters, beginning with the first blog, very soon, so they are easier to access, instead of you having to dive into the archive files.  You can see, by the progression of my letters, how hesitant I was in the beginning to reveal so much of my provocative life, and then I let go of my fears and eventually warmed up, with the support and encouragement of my initial readers.  This is a blog is a raw draft of my upcoming book, Mia Loves Henry Miller, Book One.  I have truly loved this writing project.  It is not perfect in grammar and spelling.  I did the best I could in blog form.  After, I finish editing, I will decide how to publish, and move forward from there.  This first collection of fifty letters won’t always be on my blog site – Mialoveshenrymiller.com.  Eventually, these blogs will be transcended into a book, which I have thought and have dreamed about for over a decade.  The collection of the first fifty letters will be replaced by another fifty letters to Henry Miller.

Thank you to everyone who has offered me your support by reading these letters.  You have inspired me to fulfill a long time dream.   It is finally materializing like a new born child, and it wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for Word Press and the support of my family, friends and my readers.  I hope that you will follow me when I begin writing again, in the near future, Letter 51 – The Beginning of Mia Loves Henry Miller – Book 2.   I still have so much to say to Henry and new adventures to experience.  So, it won’t be long before you will see Letter 51, after the last letter in this first collection is finished.

Thank you again for your support and encouragement.   I will begin re-posting my blogs very soon.

Very Sincerely,


mia loves henry miller – Letter 36 – I Am the Succubus (another erotic story)

mia loves henry miller

Letter 36 – I Am the Succubus (another erotic story)

2/5/12 – 10:33 a.m.

Dear Henry Miller,

“Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.” —Henry Miller 

My burlesque show, Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater, was amazing this past Friday night!  I’m so glad that I didn’t cease our show after our big NYE production.  I knew that I was nearing close to the curve of success.  For numerous months, my goal has been to put 200 audience members into the house. I surpassed that number by 37.  It was so thrilling!  Mr. C was so pumped, reporting the door count to me every so often as it gradually increased.  Last year, we were only filling the house with approximately 40 people.  At this last show, we even had a very long line at the door, long before the club opened.  I haven’t observed the venue being this full in a very long time.  I could hardly walk through the large crowd.  The tables went fast until it was standing room only.  Everyone had their phone cameras out, shooting the performers in mid act.  Even City Pages, a highly respected Twin Cities publication, sent out a photographer to do an online, photo slide presentation of our show.  It will be posted on Monday.  ( http://www.citypages.com/slideshow/dr-farragos-burlesque-theater-at-ground-zero-36080787/)  It’s so exciting to see my dreams and goals materialize.   It’s been many years of hard work and persistence.

“Life is the messy bits.” –Claire, Letters to Juliet

Unfortunately, I am suffering with another Kidney stone.  I’ve been pacing the floors, night and day, in agony for almost a week.  I can hardly remain still.  I’m grateful the pain subsided for a few hours, and the potent pain meds kicked in during our show.  Today, I continue to run a low grade fever and my body is shaking from the pain. I hate to write about my physical ailments.  I’d rather not, and write about sex.  However, I need to give you a full picture of the obstacles I overcome in my daily life.  I need to express my life, as accurately as I can, in these letters.  My life consists of many wonderful, positive things.  But, much like everyone else, I have the negatives of living life as well – the obstacles to endure – the messy bits. Continue reading

mia loves henry miller – Letter 34 – That Night in Tintagel (erotic story)

mia loves henry miller

Letter 34 – That Night in Tintagel  (erotic story)

1/31/12 – 11:42 p.m.

Dear Henry Miller,

“I never did mind about the little things.” —Bridget Fonda, from the movie, Point of No Return 

I’m writing this letter on 1/31/12 at 11:42 p.m.

“I never did mind about the little things.” –Bridget Fonda, from the classic movie, Point of No Return

 Dear Henry,

I have had a very long day.  I’m exhausted. I have been dealing with show stuff all day – crazy drama burlesque show stuff.  My mantra with a forced smile is, “I never did mind about the little things.”

 Since I did not have the time to write a detailed letter today of an erotic or exciting event, I decided to go back through my archives of old, erotic stories.  One of my favorite books to read is the Merlin Trilogies, by Mary Stewart, which inspired this story.  I thought that maybe you’d like to read a bit of erotica, which I wrote so many years ago, shortly after I started with MindCaviar.com.   If you enjoy the days of King Arthur and Merlin, you might enjoy this story.

HMS Uther (P62)

HMS Uther (P62) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

That Night in Tintagel

“Welcome, my Lord,” I greeted confidently.  My chest felt as if an army of men galloped inside, charging for the unknown, as I stared down upon King Uther Pendragon, as if a vision were ascending the steps.  For months I’d longed for him while I was heavily protected by Cornwall guards inside the damp, cold walls of Tintagel Castle.  Tonight we will be united as one, fulfilling Destiny’s plan.

 My mind told me that my desire for the King was foolish, laced thick with adultery.  But my heart told me otherwise.  It whispered to the alcoves in my soul that this was a night fabricated by fMy breath lodged in my throat.  My heart thumped with guilt.  Fright and thrill danced closely together within, and my heart ceased beating while I waited for him in the open doorway on the second landing, trembling.  I stood there, nobly cloaked in a long, shimmering gown of white, with a soft dark blue mantle hanging Roman style over one shoulder, and jewels tucked decoratively within my long tresses of black hair.ate.  Merlin confirmed this for me as well, many weeks ago.  I could not deny my undying lust for Uther.  Yet, my mind kept swarming with thoughts about my matrimony to my husband, Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall.  Guilt stabbed at my conscience like a thousand sharp, pointed icicles, because King Uther now appeared in my husband’s image, disguised for our long awaited night, thanks to Merlin’s magic.

My head spun.  I felt lightheaded with dizziness, my heart raced wild, and my youthful body swooned with intoxication when Uther reached the second floor landing, took my hands eagerly in his, and then kissed me with the kind of passion that Gorlois could not render.  Please, don’t mistake my love for Gorlois.  He’s never bid me harm, only love.  It’s just that I was fated to be a royal Queen.  I’m a daughter of a King, and I come from a long line of royalty.  From the second I saw beguile in Uther’s eyes, the day of his crowning in London, I knew we were predestined for one another.

Uther Pendragon, of the TV show Merlin, is a N...

Uther Pendragon, of the TV show Merlin, is a Neocon (Photo credit: KAZVorpal)

Instantly a warm heat radiated through my tall, svelte body when Uther enfolded me within the thick material of his scarlet cloak, hiding my gown from the guards.  It felt as if I’d waited an eternity for his embrace, nuzzling my head into his masculine chest, listening to the robust beat of his heart.

 “Come,” Uther politely ordered, rushing to get behind my chamber door.  I attempted to conceal my zealousness, following him into my quarters. Our silhouettes danced closely upon the stone walls as our bodies intimately pressed together nearby the firelight, which flickered, swayed, and wafted the aroma of fresh apple wood.

“At last Lady Ygraine, our time has finally come.” The King breathlessly spoke before pressing his athirst lips upon my slightly parted mouth. My tongue could not wait for him to enter between my scarlet lips. With haste, I tossed my title of Lady out my window, plunging with force my taste buds into the King’s mouth, slithering sinfully deep inside, feverishly attempting to lick his sinful soul.  When our tongues unraveled, separating his lips from mine, I took his head and rested it within the crevice of my bosom.  Softly I stroked Uther’s gray painted hair with my hand, admiring how much he looked like a little boy craving for dessert, even disguised as the Duke of Cornwall.  My sex opened and shut, contracting like a beating heart, desirous for Uther to stroke it when I felt his breath pant puffs of hot, raw air upon my billowing chest, causing sparks to ignite between my thighs, setting my bloomers aflame.

“For weeks I’ve longed for this night,” Uther whispered, kissing softly the warm crevice between my heaving bosoms.

King Arthur’s Castle Off Tintagel Head, Cornwall

King Arthur’s Castle Off Tintagel Head, Cornwall (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“And I as well, my Lord,” breathlessly I replied, tipping my head back in rapture, closing my Celtic blue eyes, feeling his strong hands stroke upon my skin.  A lusty moan escaped me when I felt his large hands squeeze my breasts as if they were ripe melons, splashing waves of ecstatic pleasure through me, making my sense of anticipation feel like a tidal wave within.  Extremely titillated, I drew in my breath, exhaling ragged pants of passion.

Woman On Bed (2)

At first I was embarrassed for getting so aroused in front of Marcia, my oldest and most devout servant, who tended the fire, pretending not to look our way with scold inflaming her cold, grey eyes.  But I wasn’t going to let her disapproval halt this night.  Immediately I attempted to gather my self-confidence, remembering that I was the Lady and I need not explain my behavior to my domestic.  Yet, still I had to somehow gulp down my guilt like bitter tasting medicine, finding the strength to overcome my betrayal to Gorlois before I commanded to her, “Marcia, come here.  I need your assistance undressing. Now!” I didn’t want to wait for Uther to remove my robe, for I was unsure as to when my real husband, Gorlois the real Duke of Cornwall would return to me. I always wondered when he goes into battle, if he’ll ever return.  Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t. Will the God’s strike me down for thinking this way? Am I a demon in disguise?

 I glanced at the reproached flame in Marcia’s eyes when they transcended into wantonness, as she obediently strolled my way.  I didn’t see the wooden hairbrush in her right hand, which she carefully hid behind her back. Nor did I see her place it upon a pillow when she approached nearby me.  Marcia possessed the same look she gets when she bathes me. I believe it’s been years since her sexual appetite’s been fed.  She never speaks of a lover or husband.  I think the lust between Uther and I had set her bloomers aflame as much as mine.

 To be perfectly honest, her arousal fueled my fire even more.  She was the age of my mother; yet, I pined for her anyway.  I don’t know if it was her soft, yet stern, maternal touch which I desired – or, her discipline for coveting with Uther behind my husband, Gorlois’ back – maybe both.

 “Please, sit down,” I quietly told Uther, pointing to a finely crafted mahogany chair near my bed.  Quickly my blood rushed to my hot and humid sex.  A diabolic ache pounded on the tip of my pink, fleshy bulb.  An instinctual fervor submerged itself into the tiny knot, which aches profusely between my swollen petals of glossy flesh. My heart fluttered with anticipation and arousal when Marcia slipped my gown off my alabaster shoulders, which glistened in the flickering glow of firelight.  A roused shiver moved through me when she began untying my tightly laced corset.  My breath became more ragged and ravenous when my slip was removed, exposing my bare breasts before the King’s eyes, which now burned with carnal fever.

 My beautiful attire was messily strewn in various places upon the stone floor.  Relieved from my constrictive garment, I sighed, and then sucked in a deep breath, filling my lungs deep with oxygen.  I savored I felt an erotic shiver move through me.  It was a welcomed, yet, unfamiliar sensation.  My nipples erected when I felt the caress of a current of air which swirled within my chambers.  It decadently fondled my nakedness with its warm flames of airy breath.

 Suddenly it felt as if a thousand hot arrows had shot to my swollen, lady parts, piercing it with foment when Marcia’s arms embraced firmly around me from behind, her thumb and forefinger  fondly pinching my nipples, twisting and turning, shooting pure rapture into my veins as if an opiate.

 “Oh,” I lushly moaned, surprised by my delight. I had no idea I’d get so stimulated.  My vehement eyes locked with Uther’s. The King sat in silence, staring entranced with this scene. I don’t think he’d ever witnessed two women become so intimate with each other before.  I mischievously grinned, satisfied when I observed his loins grow hard beneath his finely tailored tunic and trousers.  Oh how I wanted his hard flesh to pound inside my wet, swollen sex!

taylors falls007

“You’re a very naughty woman!” Marcia chided, pinching my nipples even harder, as if she could hear my thoughts, making me almost wince with tears.  Yet, the heat between my legs persisted in rising as Marcia continued to reprimand, “If I didn’t know that it was the hand of fate playing out this night like the Devil hypnotically controlling its spawn, I’d punish you with much more than a mere spanking.”

My stomach churned with liquid fear, which hit my soul fast and hard, causing my adrenaline to rush fiercly.  My heart twittered with thrill when my head rapidly snapped over my left shoulder in Marcia’s direction.  My eyes are beholding the perverse glint in Marcia’s cold, gray eyes.  Just the thought of a spanking had set another burning blaze between my thighs.  Its flame pulsed high, lapping at my dripping flesh when Marcia gently removed the jewels from my hair, liberating my strands of raven silk to fall elegantly over my shoulders, its tips tickling the bare skin on my breasts, just above my areoles.  My bosoms swelled and my nipples erected harder when I felt the firm, wooden brush teasingly smooth my hair, birthing small goose bumps upon my skin, radiating warm tingles in the bottoms of my feet, curling my toes with hot anticipation.

“Bend over my knees, now!” Marcia demanded, spryly yanking my bloomers, soiled with my juice, down past my knees.  My craving for her was much too strong, so I abided.  With humility I bent over her knee as she instructed.  Shame flushed hot and red across my face, burning my cheeks, much like my bottom would soon feel, knowing Uther was intently observing.  Embarrassed tears escaped my eyes when I tightly shut them, awaiting the first strike upon my creamy white flesh.  I knew within I needed to submit – to cleanse my soul of my guilt, before I could permit the King to take me – all of me.  Although, I must confess that I feared my forthcoming pain.

“Please don–” my pleas for mercy were interrupted by the sound smack of Marcia’s brush colliding with my vulnerable bottom, drawing a painful, yet delicious cry from my mouth.  My body jolted forward from the unexpected force.  My hips unconsciously raised higher, ravenous to feel my sting increase.  However, Marcia didn’t lavish more pain upon me.  She teased me with the gentle massage of her hand, lightly rubbing in circles where it stung the most on my warm and pink buttocks.  My mind forgot about the King watching as my body melted into Marcia’s old, yet still strong legs.  Soon I was lost within the softness of her nurturing touch.

 My erogenous dew salaciously dripped from my torrid loins, as I rested upon Marcia’s knees. Instantly my eyes opened wide!  A yelp forced its way out of my throat when I abruptly felt the back side of the brush cut bitterly into my flesh, torturing the tender spots.  Thwap! Thwap!  Marcia’s brush continued on smacking the delicate curves of my buttocks, until they glowed with a vibrant red until my right arm instinctively reached behind to cease my punishment.

 As quick as a frog captures a fly, Marcia dominantly took hold of my wrist, preventing me from halting her blow.  My body writhed from the wretched pain.  My legs kicked at the air with frustration, my sobs became louder, yet my sex pulsated with wretched desire, overflowing with hot juice, dampening Marcia’s dull gray, full length skirt.  Marcia didn’t relent, she persisted in spanking my bottom until she heard King Uther beg her to stop; sitting completely naked in the mahogany chair, his eyes in a mesmerized glaze, his cloak, tunic, and trousers splayed in disheveled piles nearby.  I don’t know if he begged her to stop for fear of my anguish, or because his sword of flesh was solid with desire, lusting to plunge it into my wetness, to experience my constricting walls around his blade, to feel the exaltation as he pierced into the core of my existence.

taylors falls014

“Dine on her, my Lord,” Marcia tempted the King, with my flower in full bloom, her rigid fingers tightly stretching my petals apart, bravely daring him, knowing that she possessed what he yearned for.  Every so often Marcia would plunge two of her fingers deep into my entrance, wiggling, probing, and pressing my slippery wet walls, making such a delicious squish-squish sound.  When Uther stalked my way like a lion on the hunt, Marcia left my side to tend to the fire again and heat water for my sponge bath afterwards.

The coarseness of Uther’s beard scratched roughly at my thighs as he drew nearer to my vulva.  Deeply I inhaled, sensing his hot breath panting heavily upon my glossy bulb of stiff pink flesh, teasing it until it ached to be engulfed.  I eased myself downward on the bed. My moans of pleasure caught sideways in my throat when I felt Uther’s cunnilingus kiss.  I raggedly sighed when the fiery walls of Uther’s mouth encased my tingling flesh, sucking upon it like a candy, biting softly now and then, relishing my sweet, seductive flavor.

Arthur Uther Pendragon standing outside of the...

Arthur Uther Pendragon standing outside of the Stonehenge monument fence (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Urgently my hips thrust upward, pressing hard against Uther’s mouth.  I screamed with thrill when his tongue plunged into the depths of me.  My breath became spasmodic, like gales before a storm.  My body moved convulsively.  My legs spread further apart.  My passion roared with the thunderstorm outside the castle.  My eyes flickered upwards in my head like lightning in the sky, and my body quaked with ecstasy like the earth when thunder fiercely rumbles.

“Take me, Uther! ” I wailed with utmost need.  “Take me now! Please!”  Immediately Uther stopped lapping like a savaged wolf, but his thirst was not slaked.  I could tell he wanted more.  However, my clitoris raged with fire, burning out of control with desire.  My genitalia opened wide, seeking fulfillment.  I could tell by the insatiable gaze in Uther’s eyes that he wanted to feel my loins as much as I lusted to feel his.  My sex pulsed with an amatory greed and desire, observing him kneel upright, stroking his massive sword as if preparing for battle. I had never wanted a man to stab my sex as much as I did right now.


My ragged pants of aroused breath came fast and furious when Uther thrust into my dripping wet chasm with his hot, throbbing phallus.  Instantly my back arched high off the bed.  When I finally collapsed upon the bed, my hips impelled downward, attempting to swallow him deeper into me.  Tightly I clenched onto his manliness, attempting to capture this sensation, never to release it.  Stroke by sumptuous stroke our worlds unified and became magical, as if our lovemaking was a doorway into another dimension.


“Oh Lord yes! Yes! YES!” I cried out repetitiously, ascending my highest zenith.  My hair whipped from side to side with my head’s wild thrashing. My long fingernails embedded themselves into Uther’s sweaty flesh, attempting to hold on and sustain my ecstasy.  A long, gratifying string of orgasmic moans expelled from my parched lips while I intently observed Uther climb his pinnacle of ecstasy, rolling his eyes into the back of his head, indulging himself so deeply into our rhythmic pleasure.  Erotically I rode King Uther in the glow of firelight and silver moonbeams, reaching for his hands, placing them on my breasts, making him roughly fondle them, forcing him to please me.  His eyes widened as the rhythm of my ride increased with fury.  I felt like a half crazed maniac, screaming with ecstatic pleasure, drunk from my lust.  Suddenly every muscle in both of our bodies tensed like a corset pulled tight.  I shuddered with an orgasm when I felt King Uther’s semen spray hotly within, painting my walls a thick and creamy white.  Electricity surged from my soul to his.  Lightning flashed violently on the skyline.  A gust of wind whirled past, extinguishing our fire, now causing only the moonlight to illuminate our entwined bodies, as we panted, attempting to catch our breath, my body collapsed upon his, limp like a leaf in the rain.

Later, while Uther cuddled in my arms, I was alarmed by one of Gorlois’ men, who burst into my chambers, informing me my husband, the Duke was dead.  All words escaped me when I saw the shocked look on his face, witnessing Gorlois’ spitting image resting in my bed, naked near my side.  I couldn’t explain.  I tried to weep for my loss, yet my elation for Uther consumed me.  I felt torn with emotions.  Two weeks later I decided to wed Uther, and was crowned Queen as fate had foretold.

It’s been ten months since that stormy night.  I now cry with my handsome newborn son, Arthur cradled in my arms.  In one hour Marcia will be delivering him to Merlin.  I know I must do as I promised.  It is my payment for that enraptured night.  I know deep inside Arthur will grow to become a great man, inspiring many for thousands of years to come with his nobility, mysticism, and honorable ways.  He will be the light within the dark, fulfilling Destiny’s plan.  Merlin will protect him and teach him to be a brave, courageous, virile man.  Someday he’ll become King and fall in love with a beautiful Queen.  I can only hope she’s more faithful than I.  May he never learn of that torrid, adulterous night in Tintagel.

I hope that you enjoyed my story, Henry.  I must say goodbye for now.

Bisous, Mon Amour,


“When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I am bad, I am better.” –Mae West

Mae West posing in front of mirror for promotion

Mae West posing in front of mirror for promotion (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

mia loves henry miller – Letter 32 – To Love or Hate Him? Henry Miller, 50 Year Anniversary of Tropic of Cancer

mia loves henry miller

Letter 32 – To Love or Hate Him? Henry Miller, 50 Year Anniversary of Tropic of Cancer

1/29/12 – 2:06 p.m.

Dear Henry Miller,

“I’m not a saint, and probably never will be one. Though it occurs to me, as I make this assertion, that I have been called that more than once, and by individuals whom the court would never suspect capable of holding such an opinion. No, I’m not a saint, thank heavens! Nor even a propagandist of a new order. I am simply a man, a man born to write, who has taken as his theme the story of his life. A man who has made it clear, in the telling, that it was a good life, a rich life, a merry life, despite the ups and downs, despite the barriers and obstacles (many of his own making), despite the handicaps imposed by stupid codes and conventions, Indeed, I hope that I have made more than clear, because whatever I may say about my own life which is only a life, is merely a means of talking about life itself, and what I have tried, desperately sometimes, to make clear is this, that I look upon life as good, good no matter on what terms, that I believe it is we who make it unlivable, we, not the gods, not fate, not circumstances.” –Letter from Henry Miller to Trygve Hirsch

I have been doing some research on the internet regarding stories, blogs, and newspaper columns which have been written about you – especially the recent story published by the New York Times.  There’s been some press due to your 50 year anniversary of Tropic of Cancer.  Some people love you and some people hate you.  Some people love your writing and some people can’t stand it – especially many strong, opinionated, female activists.  I must admit, there are some of your books, I really don’t get sucked into, and then there are other books of yours which completely mesmerize me.

What I find so fucked up about critics or journalists trashing you in present time for something you daringly wrote many years ago, is that today, every movie, television show; magazine ad is full of sex or violence.  Everyone is pushing the limits, daring to go to the extreme.  Everything in our society is so laced with violence and sexuality.  I think people need to quit being so judgmental and hypocritical.  Sex is an amazing gift.  We find it more accepting to show murder and killing and beatings in our media than we do sex.  Sexuality is a beautiful thing and people need to quit being so damn uptight about it, as well as hypocritical.  We would not be born into this world without smut, sex, passion, love, heat and kink!  Our sexuality is a large drama of our lives.  Why do we try to hide and deny something that is so natural and good?  I don’t see the animal kingdom feeling shame for their acts of procreation.  Unless you are harming someone against their will sexually, it should not be looked upon as such a forbidden subject in the 20th century. Continue reading

mia loves henry miller – Letter 31 – Cher, Burlesque and Thin Air

mia loves henry miller

Letter 31 – Cher, Burlesque and Thin Air

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.” —George Bernard Shaw

mia loves henry miller

Letter 31 – Cher, Burlesque and Thin Air


I’m writing this letter on 1/28/12 at 7:12 p.m.

Dear Henry,

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.” –George Bernard Shaw

It’s the day after my birthday.  I feel sick, fever, chills and puking much of the day, and it’s not because I partied hard last night. I think I’m coming down with the flu and became over exhausted by doing so much to get ready to have a small get together at my loft last night.  I had a few family members, good friends and performers from the burlesque troupe over for dinner and cake at the loft.  I made a slow cooked roast beef, corn, mashed potatoes and gravy.  It was nice to celebrate with a small group of friends and loved ones.  But from now on – NO MORE PARTIES! NO MORE BIRTHDAYS! Both are over rated. I think that the only thing I like about having a birthday is reading all the birthday wishes from friends from all over the world, posted on my Facebook page.  I had so many Happy Birthday comments that it’s been hard to reply with a thank you to every birthday wish posted.

Are you aware Henry – that I was born on Mozart’s B-day, January 27.  I cannot play a musical instrument.  However, my computer keyboard is much like a piano to me.  I type fast and passionately when I write.  My fingers fly over the keyboards rapidly as if I were playing a great composition.  I adore the delicious sounds that my long, painted fingernails make when they are striking my keyboard.  It makes a rapid, click – clacking noise that is much like music to my ears and soul.  Sometimes, late at night, when I cannot sleep, I hear cadences and words obsessively playing in my mind, as if it were hypnotic notes of music.  It haunts me and will not stop until I compose a piece of poetry.

Phantom in My Soul

He comes in the night

On a beam of moonlight

He wakes me from my dreams


Surprised when he comes

At a quarter past one

Yet, I don’t even scream


He sings in my mind

Words laced with rhyme

He’s always there

Muse:  Sweet Poetess I’ve come

My poem’s just begun

I’m the spirit you breathe in the air


He speaks in my mind

Passionate rhyme

Spun from ancient lore


In visions we dine

Have a wonderful time

As we dance on Heaven’s floor


I feel when he’s near

Without pain or fear

I succumb to him

Muse:  Sweet Poetess your mine

My servant to rhyme

Submit to the phantom within


The more he whispers to me

His poetry

He draws me near


And when he chimes

Sweet rhythm and rhyme

His words are clear


Seduced by a voice

Without any choice

I listen to the phantom who speaks in my soul

Muse: You can’t escape my spell

To the Poetess I tell

My gift’s a bottomless hole


When he’s in my mind

He takes me beyond space and time

Into dimensions unknown



And then in that world

Emotions and poetry swirl

And somehow I’ve grown


But sometimes I cry

Because I’ve said goodbye

When I needed a break from my muse


Yet, what have I done?

He was the one

I didn’t want to lose


When he whispers no sound

I look all around

I miss him so much


I crave for his rhyme

Words so sublime

I yearn for his touch


Then he calls to me

With his poetry

Out of the blue

Muse:  Sweet poet of mine

Don’t shut me out of your mind

You need me as much as I need you

Soul: I’ve missed your words

And your poetry world

Please come back to me


Without you near

I don’t want to be here

Its misery


I feel so lost

At night turn and toss

I’ve missed you so much

Muse: Sweet Poetess of mine

You’re addicted to rhyme


Then deeply in my soul I felt his touch.- Mia

Burlesque (film)

Burlesque (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have less than one week before the production of our next burlesque show.  I feel anxiety as normal, wondering how I’m going to make the budget to pay for the show, hoping for a large enough audience, and that all my promotional work pays off.  I often wish that reality was like Hollywood movies, and that money would come from thin air and save my show.   I’ve been working hard, trying to finish enough letters written to you, to be able to publish this book, Mia Loves Henry Miller, Book Number One – Mysteries and Journeys, so that I can sell them at shows and other places online, book stores, adult toy Stores, boutiques, etc.  I’m anticipating publishing this provocative book, after I have written 50 letters to you, Henry.  I’m determined to make an abundance of money in my future with my writing my art and my burlesque show.  I deserve it!

 I’m going to remain hopeful that luck is on my side and a miracle will appear much like it did for Cher in the movie, Burlesque, so that I can continue on with my dream, producing this astounding show.  However, if it does not pan out within a year, I’m afraid that I will have to possibly cease things.  I have been doing this over almost twelve years.  It costs me and my husband all of our savings to invest in performers, advertising, costumes, props, etc.  I sacrifice having a car, new clothes, new furniture, just to keep this show going, and I often wonder if I’m spinning my wheels in slick, wet mud.  I have to believe that with my determination and tenacity, that everything will work out.  I wish money would come from thin air like it did for Cher!  It seems like such a Hollywood fantasy.  I’m mostly an optimistic person. I’d like to believe the dreams really do come true.

 henry (1)

I started this show so I could use my creative license with music that I find passionate and inspiring, as well as use my creative license with my artistic, neo-style in my burlesque numbers.  I remember how much easier it was to just show up for a burlesque show, which someone else was producing, as a performer, and just do what I love to do on stage, without the work – administration, show and drama stuff.  But, then, I was stuck having to use music that did not inspire me, or perform in a style that the producer desired, and I did not.  I am a free spirit and I cannot change that.  Now, I’m so busy putting the show together that I hardly have the time to rehearse my own burlesque numbers.  I’m lucky if I can get enough time to rehearse my magic to perform with The Illusionettes.


“Nikki: I will not be upstaged by some slut with mutant lungs” –Movie, Burlesque

The task of running a show of this quality and size seems so overwhelming. Between booking acts, keeping the performers drama free during a show, and promoting and organizing the show, I may have lost the fun of performing.  I wish that I had someone to guide me, to tell me if I should continue to move forward or to cease it before I’m further in debt and another year older.  But, I’m afraid that if I quit now, there is no coming back.  I would lose all that I have worked for.  I could also be quitting right before turning the corner to financial success.

“A mother’s love is patient and forgiving when all others are forsaking, it never fails or falters, even though the heart is breaking.” –Helen Steiner Rice

Being the Matriarch of a burlesque troupe is often like being the mother of a large family.  It is often a thankless job.  I have to make difficult decisions that not everyone will like.  I have to make sure that I have the financial budget to support the show.  I have to remain strong, so that I can keep the order of the troupe, keep drama to a low level, and protect what I’ have built.  I have to do all the promotional work, because I have not found anyone that I can trust enough to follow through with the large task of promoting a show well.  At this point it seems easier for me to do it, than continuously nag the person I asked to do it. I also have to come up with a large budget to pay for performers, yet, I don’t receive any kind of pay for my efforts.  My performers always come first.  Instead of putting myself at the top of the pay list, I sacrifice my pay so another performer can have it and the opportunity to be showcased onstage.  Maybe that sounds fucked up, but I believe in treating my performers fairly.  I feel that if they work for me, they deserve to be paid for their time and talent.

 MiaBurlesquedress1 (2)

“Sean: [talking about the money Tess needs to save the club] It’s just money. It’s just a number.

Tess: I know, but… do you think I could do it?

[Sean shakes his head]

Tess: Tell me a lie.

Sean: I need your expert sewing skills.

Tess: Tell me a *new* lie.

Sean: I don’t love you.” – Movie, Burlesque

It’s been a long time since I’ve financially gained from producing a show.  What’s even more frustrating is that I have been loyal to the nightclub that we perform at for many years, devoting my blood, sweat, passion and tears as a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer.  This club has a large stage, a decent dressing room, and the ability to get away with stripping down to pasties, without the city of Minneapolis freaking out.  What’s a bitch is that I only get $3 dollars per person at the door. That is hardly enough to pay for a small core troupe of performers.  I have to pay for my stage production staff, advertising, and guest performers out of my personal budget.  I honestly do not know how much longer I can personally finance this burlesque show.  However, this night club’s stage is legendary and it is where my heart leads me.  It has everything that I require, including a consistent, monthly gig, which is important.  It’s where Mr. C and I have called home for more than a decade.  Even when I try to escape Ground Zero, it keeps calling me back.  I expect that before I give up, that I will come to some kind of agreement with the venue in regards to pay.  If not, I will have to say goodbye to a passionate love.  I really don’t want to say au revoir.

“People love burlesque today because it incorporates all the old-school glamour, satire and highlights the female form — it’s something that many women can actually see themselves doing.” –Baby Doe

What is a shame is that we have so many talented burlesque troupes in the Twin Cities, yet there are not enough venues that have the ability to support our art form with the appropriate city licenses, or a theater available who does not charge us a lot for rent on a Friday or Saturday night.  I can’t believe that someone with the financial backing has not come along to build or renovate a burlesque venue to support all of us.  Minneapolis has some amazing variety and burlesque talent with a huge, burlesque history.  It’s a shame that we all struggle to make it, doing something that we love to do.

“Keep your dreams alive. Understand to achieve anything requires faith and belief in yourself, vision, hard work, determination and dedication.  Remember all things are possible for those who believe.” –Gail Devers

Even though I don’t get to perform as much as I used to, I still get the high from producing an amazing, high quality show.  I also get a sense of family from all of my performers, for better or for worse.  It’s taken me over a decade to revise and revamp my burlesque/variety show up to this point.  Will all this hard work, blood, sweat, tears, and money eventually pay off??  I believe in karma.  I believe in the good in life.  I wish you were alive to reply to my letters.  I’m basically spilling my guts to thin air, desperately wishing for an answered prayer.

It’s getting late Henry.  I’m tired.  My parents are taking me out for breakfast in the morning for my birthday.  I hope that my stomach is feeling better and my fever is gone.

Bisous, Mon Amour,


“There’s an old joke that strippers work for money and burlesque dancers work for applause. For many of them, it’s not the way they make a living – they just do it because they like to do it.” –Eric Hall

mia loves henry miller – Letter 27 – Lesson in Trust with Mr. C

mia loves henry miller

Letter 27  Lesson in Trust with Mr. C

“Sure, what’s wrong with being mothered? I spoke of this in a piece I did about love a while back (MLLE, January, 1964) What’s a woman’s value, if it isn’t a force tying men to life, inspiring them to be vital and creative, soothing them when they came home, as they often do,  with their tails between their legs?  There’s something ridiculous about the way so many pompous men regard woman as helpless things who need protection from the world.  A real woman needs no protection.  She doesn’t live in a man’s shadow.  She turns on the light.  And having such an all-women women can make a life or death difference in the way a man lives.” –Henry Miller, Conversations with Henry Miller, Edited by Frank L. Kersnowski and Alice Hughes

1/16/12 – 9:41 a.m.

Dear Henry Miller,

Good Morning!

This weird fluctuating weather in Minnesota fucks me up.  It was freezing cold on Friday and warm again on Sunday, feeling like spring time. I’ve had a bad headache most of this weekend.  I feel fatigued from fighting the pain. But, I wanted to write, to hopefully forget about the agony from the headache that still remains in my skull like bruising, deep echo.

I was going through some of my old poetry, journals and notes on my computer, this past weekend, discovering new topics to write to you.  I found an old diary entry and want to share a salacious memory with you – one that remains fresh in my memory, as if it happened just yesterday.

“Henry glowed. When I said that I had to go, after we talked a long time, Henry took me into his room and began kissing me, and with Fred so very near, Fred the aristocrat and sensitive man, probably hurt. “I can’t let you go,” says Henry. “We’ll close the door.”  I gave myself to that moment with frenzy.” –Anais Nin, Henry and June Diary, 1931 to 1932

This erotic experience happened more than a decade ago, when Mr. C and I were first married, living at the five bedroom farm house, just outside of the suburbs.  It was in the summer – a very hot and humid day.  We didn’t have an air conditioner, but somehow we made it through, escaping the misery of the summer heat for several hours. Continue reading

mia loves henry miller – Letter 26 – Beauty in the Bathtub and an Erotic Thursday Night with Mr. B

mia loves henry miller

Letter 26 – Beauty in the Bathtub and an Erotic Thursday Night with Mr. B

“I’m dropping with fatigue.  Tomorrow I’ll wake up a new man.” —Henry Miller, A Literate Passion, Letter to Anais, Monday Night, November 18, 1932 – Clichy 

1/12/12- 5:57 p.m.

Mr. B will arrive shortly.  I just got out of the bath. I’m typing to you, sitting on my living room couch, in a thick towel that has just now, fallen down around my waist, exposing my bare upper body.  There is water from my wet hair dripping down upon my exposed breasts and smooth, naked skin.  I wanted to start this letter as I rested for a few minutes, before having to get dressed. The heat from the very hot, bath water made me feel dizzy and light headed.

1/12/12 – 6:05p.m.

Mr. B just called, said he was running late.  He’d been working diligently all day, revising several chapters of his new book.  He gets sucked into the zone so deeply – generally losing all track of time. I’m delighted to have more time to write to you and hopefully get the opportunity to read a little bit more of Anne Rice’s book, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, which I had been reading in the bathtub.  Anne’s words are like an aphrodisiac to me.  She makes me so wet!  I’m looking forward to Mr. B spending another night, even though I am a bit sore from last night’s playtime – I’m still aching with desire! Continue reading