I Wish I Could Just Hire Somebody to Be Me! Indefinitely!

Life does indeed go on, doesn’t it, gang?

I have to leave here in a couple hours to go get my mom. She lives on my sister’s farm a couple of hours from here. Both of my sisters actually live on the farm, in different houses, and now my mom is retired and lives there, too. (She was a waitress and a cook.)

I haven’t been out to the farm in probably 25 years. My one sister actually grew up on that farm, then inherited it, then invited my other sister to come live out there with her.

That one sister who now owns the farm is not the sister that I get along with, hence, I never go out to that farm. That sister is 2 years younger than me, but she acts like she’s about 20 years older than I am. Not that she’s bossy or anything, but apparently she also thinks that I am still 12 years old and it frustrates the heck out of her and so she has little patience with me whenever I’m in the same room with her.

My other sister and I are extremely close. She’s 8 years younger than me and also treats me like I’m 12 years old, but in a really, really nice way. For instance, she just this second texted me, saying, I left you gas money on the kitchen table. Drive safe. I just love that!! Because, honestly, I am only just barely able to take care of myself. It’s a wonder that anyone allowed me to have such a grown up thing as a house… let alone this intensely grown-up car.

I was talking on the phone with Valerie out in Brooklyn yesterday, because I had gotten extremely depressed. And I was lamenting having to do all this driving by myself, and even though I’ve made this drive to NY from here I don’t know how many times, I am now suddenly feeling overwhelmed by all the driving ahead of me. Especially the 2 hour drive from here up to northern Ohio, where I then cross over into Pennsylvania — those 2 hours have a lot of confusing highway changes, and now that I have no CD player in my car, I have to listen to all my music on my phone.

She reminded me that I have a grown-up car now and that it has a really good navigation system. I totally forgot!!  (This is one of the many reasons why I need a keeper, 24/7.) So now, I have the navigation system; that cruise control thing that slows down & speeds up depending on the car in front of me; it brakes by itself; it stays in the lane; and it drives by itself for 10 seconds — so, basically, I can just hang out in the backseat, chew gum and play records! Yay!

I wish.

Yesterday evening, I ran into this elderly man (I’ve posted about him on the blog before – his wife recently died from Alzheimer’s and I had told him he could move in with me if he wanted to, and even though I could tell by his expression that he really, really wanted to, he refused to reply. ) Anyway. I saw him yesterday.  He said, “You always look so happy!” (Which is just bizarre, since I’m always in the throes of some sort of suicidal swoon, but that’s not the point…) For some reason, I told him I was going to NYC and I told him about the progress with the 2 plays with Sandra.

I usually do not talk about my private life — ever. I just don’t talk about it or myself. I smile. I’m friendly, but I am usually an absolute closed steel door. Thanks to google, as soon as neighbors find out I’m a writer, they google me, and it is usually not too long before people start asking me to come over and have sex with them, their girlfriends, with everybody.  (I’m not kidding. I’m actually serious.) Flattering as it may well be, I always politely decline. And then move farther away…

Anyway, for some reason, I told this man about the plays, and of course he didn’t know I was a writer. And it turns out he’s from NYC, too, and moved away shortly after 9/11. Too weird, right? Another New Yorker. (My friend Kara, whom I’ve gotten so close with over the last several months, was also born and raised in NY and I didn’t know this until well after we initially met.)

I guess we have these inner homing devices, or something.  Psychically picking up on this signal from “home.”

I am really digressing here, sorry. My point is that this man wants to introduce me to a female friend of his who also writes. And then he said that she now writes full time and added, “well, of course, she has a husband who takes care of her.” And then he back-pedaled and added, “not that that’s a bad thing.”

Just a really interesting piece of dialogue there, you know? Mostly, he was flattering me, implying that I do what I want and take care of myself, without relying on a man.  I think I said something like, “oh, I see.”

But I was thinking how this idea that I “take care of myself” is just so loosely defined. It’s just funny, people thinking that I do what I want and I take care of myself, as if I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world, assuming I could actually get along indefinitely with some guy I was in love with???  And then I immediately thought about the endless drive ahead of me, and then the drive back. And always traveling everywhere alone. Always working, always writing. Always, always. Alone. It just got a little depressing.

And I got nothing done on In the Shadow of Narcissa because nothing productive would come to me yesterday. But I might actually write while I’m away. Like, on paper — the old-fashioned way. I will be posting to the blog, though, but from my phone, so it won’t be my usual stuff, but I’m still gonna post!

Okay. I gotta scoot. Gotta leave here in a bit and go make the trek out to the farm to get my mom… Have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world and whatever you’re doing!! Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys! See ya!

(A great favorite from my wee bonny girlhood!! Who knew that the only man I would wind up getting along with indefinitely would be Jesus??!!) (See ya!!!) 🙂

The REAL Thrill of it All! Revealed!!

Yesterday morning, I wound up getting another one of those annoying eye migraines, so rather than pretend it would either go away by itself or simply never materialize into the full-blown headache, I took Ibuprofen the moment I saw the bright shapes in my left eye. And then I set aside any hopes of doing any sort of writing yesterday at all.

Instead — I cleaned!! Yay.

I caught the headache before it had a chance to really blossom into anything too painful. I went from minor headache into complete exhaustion, and just skipped the middle part. So that was sort of good.

And I finally got the house clean.  I even did a lot more dusting than I thought I was going to do, so I felt really good about that, too.

Today is all about washing the hair, painting the toenails (winter, spring, summer, fall, it is always Sally Hansen’s Flashy Fuschia; for some reason, it is the only color I like), doing yoga and then working on a new segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa.

I’m still not 100% certain what that segment is going to be about. I keep coming back to the idea of my name — my adoptive name, that is. When I was born, my birth mom named me Dory. I had that name for a few weeks, and then I was put out for adoption, and my adoptive parents (my dad, specifically) named me Marilyn.

My adoptive brother’s name was Adam and when he was about 4, he learned how to write his name, and so I wanted to learn how to write my name, too.

You can imagine how appalled I was to discover that I had this truly laborious name. It kind of wasn’t fair. Not only did my brother’s name have only 4 letters, but also, 2 of those letters were the same! Although one was upper case and one was lower case, but still!! My name had 7 letters, none of which were the same.

I can remember clearly, sitting at the breakfast counter in the kitchen and my mom spelling out my name for me on a piece of paper. Then it was up to me to try to figure out how to duplicate all the letters by myself.

I have no memory of whether or not I was able to do that. I’m guessing, not. Because I was a very slow learner in that regard. I was 6 before I learned how to read and write. (Although I was 4 when I learned the Hebrew alphabet, so that’s sort of strange.)

But my mind just definitely wanted to do whatever it wanted to do and I only learned certain things when I was literally forced to learn something in school. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy learning how to read and write, once I was seriously focused on the task. It’s just that, what I preferred doing — endlessly — was listening to either Julie Andrews or Mary Martin sing.

And I do not exaggerate when I say that I never got tired of that.

We had a reasonably nice record player in the playroom and since my dad had been an accountant for Columbia Records in Cleveland, he would bring home a lot of records. I will never forget the day that he brought home the Original Broadway Cast recording of My Fair Lady, starring Julie Andrews and Rex Harrison.

He came into the playroom and put the record on the record player for me and said, “I think you’re really going to like this.” And then I sat in my favorite rocking chair, rocking away while listening to all those songs from My Fair Lady and, boy, was my dad correct! I fucking loved that thing. Oh my god.  For a really long time, I never stopped playing it.

It’s funny, in retrospect, to think of me being 4 and knowing all the words to all the songs in My Fair Lady because they’re pretty sophisticated songs. Of course, I had no idea what the songs were about because I didn’t know the story. I only knew the songs. My favorites were “I Could Have Danced All Night” and “On the Street Where You Live.” I would sit in that rocking chair (which was huge, actually. It was for adults. It wasn’t a little kid’s rocking chair.  It was upholstered in white leather and it had very modern lines. Not sure that is was really Danish Modern, but most of my parents’ furniture at that time was Danish Modern.) Anyway, I’d sit in this huge rocking chair, rock furiously away and sing along to all the songs.

At some point, Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins and Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music came along, too — my god, I just loved her. (And, yes! I follow her on Instagram!) Somewhere in all that, my mom also bought me the Original Broadway Cast recording of Peter Pan, starring Mary Martin and for awhile, that was  my favorite.

As you can guess, I loved Broadway musicals. That whole style of songwriting and singing. And when I was old enough to start going to see movies, my grandma took me to a lot of musicals. My grandpa had died right before I was adopted, but he had owned the neighborhood movie theater as well as a drive-in movie theater, out of town a ways. Even though the neighborhood theater was now run by other people, my grandma would still take me there a lot. (My dad and my uncle continued to run the drive-in, though, for a couple of decades after my grandpa died.)

I will NEVER forget when my grandma took me to see The King and I. It had been re-released in theaters for some reason, when I was 4.  It starred Deborah Kerr and Yul Brynner. I was watching the movie and really loving it, you know. And then halfway through the movie, the bad slave girl gets a whipping from Yul Brynner! He has her top ripped open, and then has her thrown down to the floor by two slave guys, and then he prepares to whip her (sort of) bare back — WOW. It was the most exciting thing I had ever seen in my life! I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the first time that I was responding sexually to anything, ever. Sadly, though, right at the moment when the slave girl is going to get her whipping from the stupefyingly masculine king for being so bad, my grandma scooped me up out of my seat and whisked me right out of the theater!

I’m so serious. I was, like, “No, Grandma!! I want to see that!” And my grandma said I was too young to see it. We got right in the car and drove home. And so it was years and years and years later before I ever saw the ending to The King and I.

(This is the only still I could find of that scene. But trust me, on the big screen, it was overwhelming to a little 4-year-old white girl in Cleveland  — and in the very best way!!)

Anyway. My point is that, when things had my attention, they had my complete attention. And I simply wasn’t interested in learning how to read and write until I was forced to really focus on it in school, in the first grade. So I’m guessing, that’s when I really learned how to write my long, laborious, complicated name.

Okay! On that delightful note, I’m gonna go wash my hair, paint my toenails, get started on In the Shadow of Narcissa… have a great Monday, wherever you are in the world!!

Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with the obvious — “My Lord and Master” from The King and I! Yippee ki yi yay!

All righty. I love you, guys! See ya!

How Nice!! My Brain Returned!!

That’s good news, right? I woke up this morning and had a functioning human brain again!

Of course, the slightly bad news is that I still can’t wrap my mind around those extensive notes for the ending segment of Tell My Bones, and my mind seems to be leaning toward writing the next installment of In the Shadow of Narcissa this morning anyway. So I’m getting the feeling that I’m gonna do that.

And then maybe vacuum the house…

And then maybe sit and think about the play…

Sandra finally texted yesterday that she liked the new version but wasn’t understanding how we were going to do a staged reading of it because it now feels so cinematic.


I totally forgot that I have to completely rewrite the staged reading version of the play now, too. (And if you’re deranged enough to be following the progress of all of my far-flung projects, you might recall that I have yet to revise the show bible for Cleveland’s Burning since I did the 4th draft of it back in October…) (And the veteran African-American television actor who was negotiating with me to attach  himself to the TV pilot to play the grandfather role, decided to die the other day. Literally. Peitor texted me from Italy on Friday saying only: “John died.” Oh fuck, now that’s good news…) (And all of my own selfish needs aside; that guy was a really, really nice man.)


I cannot even begin to comprehend how to write the staged reading version of Tell My Bones at this point, without the director basically drawing me a detailed blue print & map. Either that, or I’ll just shoot myself and hope for a better, non-writing, life next time around.

Honestly. I cannot even begin to imagine what the staged reading of this version of the play is gonna look like. I simply cannot.

However, what I told Sandra is: no worries, we all just need to have a chat about it in person once I get there, figure it all out! She texted back a cheery “thumb’s up.”

So we’ll just see what the heck the future brings re: this amazing play because I sure as hell cannot figure it out.

I actually can’t figure anything out. To be honest, way down deep at the core of everything, I don’t even know what Life is or why I exist. I’m just wingin’ it on every level, pretty much every day.

Before I forget — please be on the lookout for the upcoming Fall Issue of the Exterminating Angel Press Magazine (online) because they have an excerpt of my new novel, Blessed By Light, in there!! They’re printing Chapter 18, which is titled, “The Guitar Hero Goes Home.” I will, of course, keep you posted.

All righty. That said, while I still have a functioning brain around here today, I’m gonna scoot and take a look at how I feel about writing a new segment for In the Shadow of Narcissa. And then, depending on how I end up feeling about that, I’ll either write or vacuum. And try not to think about this indescribably stressful trip that is now looming — 3 days away. (And why I decided not to fly… I just don’t understand me sometimes.) (And my TSA Precheck number arrived yesterday — in plenty of time for that flight I’m now not taking.)

Okay. Have a beautiful Sunday, wherever you are in the world. And if you’d like to apply for the job of being my BRAIN, do get in touch. God knows there is often a vacancy there. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys! See ya!

Oh, and the Stateside leg of the Conversations with Nick Cave (aka In Conversation, and Words + Music) begins in, like 5 days….. Can you believe that?  Where is the time fucking going??!!.

Okay. I leave you with this! (Yes, more soul-wreching Dalida! Always a good indication that my sanity is sort of sliding away… Enjoy, gang!)

“La petite maison bleue”

La petite maison bleue
Est envahie de silence
La maison de mon enfance
Me fait mal quand je la voisC’est pourtant plus fort que moi
J’y retournerai sans doute
Je reprendrai cette route
Qui mène à mes souvenirs

C’est ici que j’ai grandi
Que j’ai découvert la vie
Ces beaux jours s’enfuient déjà
Revibrant toujours en moi

La petite maison bleue
A mes yeux reste la même
C’est ici que ceux que j’aime
Ont connu des jours heureux

Ma jeunesse est restée là
Au détour de ce chemin
Ma jeunesse est restée là
Quelquepart dans ce jardin

La petite maison bleue
Est envahie de tristesse
Mais elle est pour moi quand même
La maison des jours heureux

La maison des jours heureux

c – 1968 Detto Mariano, Don Backy, Michel Jourdan

Those Furry Things Have Gotta Go!!!

Not a single solitary one of them has done any housework in weeks. And I have to say I can’t stand for it anymore. You know, they don’t even try to win me over with coy affection. Don’t sidle up to me, don’t entwine sensuously, don’t purr seductively in my face and whisper things like, ” I’m too pretty to clean.” (And trust me, you can get a lot of mileage out of that with me!!)

No. They don’t do anything close to that. They just fucking ignore me.

I am absolutely exhausted, gang. And I mean that in the most crucial way.

I cannot imagine how I am going to get my house clean before my mom gets here. On Tuesday morning, I have to drive over and get her and then bring her here — that’s two hours each way, so that gives me two hours in the car to explain to her why my house is sort of a mess.

I’m going to clean the bathrooms and vacuum and I think that’s going to be it. Dust is going to have to remain. Everywhere. Because I received some extensive notes from the director last night re: the ending section of Tell My Bones — more rewrites that I need to do before I get to NYC.

How I’m going to do this is a question that’s right up there with all the unanswerable questions that Man has conjured since Time began. Because my brain is absolutely fried right now. I only have enough brain power left to clean the house — however, it turns out that I can’t really do that right now. I have to revise the endless play instead.

If I were flying, I could write on the plane, and during the endless layover in Philadelphia, but I decided to drive instead. I’m starting to think that maybe driving there this time was a bad idea because I am just exhausted — not even factoring in the new needed rewrites. I’m starting to think I should have went for a non-stop flight to JFK, which would have been lots better than the convoluted plane trip to Stewart International which had the ridiculously long layover in Philadelphia to start with. I’m starting to think that every single thought I have, and every decision I come to, is just deranged and unhinged.

I wish I could hire someone to think for me from here on out. (And clean for me, too, although that’s just stupid because I am totally capable of cleaning my own house — when I’m not spending my entire life at my desk.)


Here in Crazeysburg, it is almost 1 o’clock in the afternoon and I am just now sort of getting out of bed. I’ve been awake since 4am, and have gotten in and out of bed a number of times, but the “getting back into bed” part has remained infinitely more attractive throughout the entire morning. I am still only loosely committed to this idea of finally starting the day.

You know, I printed out all of the director’s notes so that I could walk away from the desk and sort of focus and study them. And while I agree with them, and I understand his points, and I trust that his comments will lead to that coveted Pulitzer — I look at those notes at this point, and my poor brain is so over-extended, that I can’t process any of the words that are on the page.

I’m guessing this is only a temporary condition. And that maybe by as soon as tomorrow, I will be back to comprehending the English language once again. Today, I think, is going to be a complete washout.

I think I’ll just go back to bed and stare for awhile and see if anything whatsoever springs into my brain and motivates me. We shall see. Meanwhile, gang, enjoy your Saturday, wherever it finds you! Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.

(PS: It’s been a week now, and I’m actually loving my new grown-up car. It’s a fast little motherfucker…)


[Verse 1]
Well she got her daddy’s car and she cruised to the hamburger stand, now
Seems she forgot all about the library like she told her old man, now
But with the radio blasting goes cruising just as fast as she can now
And she’ll have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away
(fun, fun, fun, ’till her daddy takes the T-bird away)

[Verse 2]
Well the girls can’t stand her cause she walks, looks and drives like an Ace, now
(You walk like an ace now, you walk like an ace)
She makes the Indy 500 look like a Roman chariot race, now
(You look like an ace now, you look like an ace)
A lot of guys try to catch her, but she leads them on a wild goose chase, now
And she’ll have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away
(fun, fun, fun, ’till her daddy takes the T-bird away)

[Verse 3]
Well you knew all along that your dad was getting wise to you, now
(You shouldn’t have lied now, you shouldn’t have lied)
And since he took your set of keys you’ve been thinking that your fun is all through, now
(You shouldn’t have lied now, you shouldn’t have lied)

But you can come along with me cause we’ve got a lot of things to do, now
(You shouldn’t have lied now, you shouldn’t have lied)
And we’ll have fun, fun, fun now that daddy took the T-bird away
(fun, fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)
And we’ll have fun, fun, fun now that daddy took the T-bird away
(fun, fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)

(fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away
Fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)
(fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away
Fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)
(fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away
Fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)

c -1964 Brian Wilson, Mike Love

Excerpt #3: Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse

(The following is Letter #3 from Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. It contains sexually graphic content and will not be suitable for all readers. Approx. 9 pages. Thanks!!!)


Alone on a train to Baltimore in broad daylight. A beautiful autumn afternoon. The sunny miles hurtle past outside the window. On the train, I’m thinking about Edgar Allan Poe’s mysterious demise – why Baltimore? And why did he die in obscurity – he was famous.

I’m heading to a hotel on the waterfront where I’ve booked a suite.

It’s another gal in television; yet another executive in TV. I would say that I attract them like flies, but you know what that would be saying about me, and, frankly, I smell a lot prettier than that: aside from daily bathing, I always wear Coco by Chanel. But they do have an uncanny way of honing in on me, these TV gals.

Again, this one’s older than me but for a complete change of pace, she’s submissive. Or so she says. She’s looking to get spanked; to be forced outside of her executive comfort zone with old-fashioned OTKs; panties pulled down. In a room in a hotel in Baltimore – a town she chose, that’s far from anybody she knows. It’s imperative to her that no one finds out about these longings of hers, her need to get spanked.

She’s just lost her beloved dog. Had to have it put down. She’s grieving. And worse, she’s had “female trouble” recently and had to have surgery. She’s at odds with herself, at who she’s becoming; who she is now that half of her female organs are gone. I feel like this can’t be good – we should wait. But we’re going through with it because she’s so horny; she’s so insistent. She’s gotta get spanked or she’s gonna die.

I check into my suite and then wait for her down in the lobby. We’ve never met in person; just online and over the phone. She began emailing me after she’d read one of my erotic novellas – the one where the ex-nun relentlessly thrashes the panty-less submissive girl. She wants to be lovers with me and I’m okay with that, but I’m worried that she’s in a bad place in her head right now and won’t really be up for the kind of sex she’s thinking about.

We should wait, I say. So that you know for sure what you want. I know how to spank a submissive because I am one. It seems harmless but it can go down some dark paths. All that humiliation, building and barreling toward the orgasm, but then what? The hormones level off and it’s just humiliation: A humiliated girl with her panties down.

No, she says over the anonymous phone. She whispers it, really. She’s playing me. I can’t wait.

When she shows up in the lobby of the Marriott, it’s so obvious that she’s a Top. An absolute Top. And there aren’t many gals more submissive than I am; I was born to serve the Top. What the hell – right? She lied.

*          *          *

I wear the ubiquitous little black sheath everywhere I go. It’s chic and hits right at the knee. And I always wear black leather Italian pumps with impossibly pointed toes and spiked but low heels – c’est la mode. I’m still a brunette; poker-straight brown hair that hits just below my shoulders.  Especially when I wear my sunglasses, I look like the flipside of Jackie O – like Jackie in Wonderland.

Me, at 40. I’m just tired. So tired of everything. Worn out and uncertain of what life’s really supposed to mean anymore and finally realizing that I never knew.

I’ve just curated two back-to-back international erotic art exhibits in New York City and co-edited what immediately becomes a top-selling international erotic art book to go along with them. Wrote and sold a ton of solicited erotic short stories in the space of a few months – one that then gets picked up for an Italian translation, a couple for French translations, and one for translation into Japanese. I don’t work with an agent or a lawyer; I do everything myself. I don’t know how to not do everything myself. I’m a multi-media producer, too, and I oversee 4 massive erotic multi-media websites, 24/7. The lines of my world are blurring at warp speed as my professional life now spills into the worlds of hardcore pornographers and the Italian Mob. I’m learning things I never wanted to know; seeing things I try not to look at.

I’m still married but you would never ever guess it by observing me when I’m not at home. I’m spread so thin that my mind is unraveling; one doctor thinks that, based on my symptoms, I might have MS; another one thinks it’s just stress. Oddly enough, sex is my only respite from all the sex-related things I oversee all day and now I see that I have to try to top a Top for the first time in my life or any hope of sex in Baltimore will be a bust.

*          *          *

Baltimore has a very dicey reputation and, based strictly on its lovely, sunny waterfront, I don’t think it deserves it. I think Baltimore is pretty cool.

We’re outside on some patio thing on the water because she’s hungry and wants to eat before dinner. That strikes me as a little weird, but whatever she wants.  She’s already topping me through her language – her tone of voice, her choice of words. She’s annoying me. She doesn’t shut up. She’s pushing all my submissive buttons – or at least she’s trying to. I’m smoking a cigarette, to keep my mouth busy, to say nothing. Every inhale gives me time to erect a mini mental barricade against her dominant nature.

*          *          *

Why did she have to lie, I wonder? Now she’s got me off-balance.

Feeling off-balance is not erotic.

I make up my mind to submit. It’s all I really know how to do.

*          *          *

Since we’ve never actually met before, she’s booked a room of her own. Just in case we don’t get along. But she didn’t get a suite, just a regular room, several stories down from mine. And she needs a special cardkey and passcode to use the private elevator to get to my suite. So I have to go down to her floor and get her, to escort her up.

Just another sign that the whole damn weekend is gonna get complicated. I’ve brought along all the de rigueur black underwear that she insisted I bring. The black seamed stockings that must be rolled up meticulously or the seams will be crooked; the black waist-cincher with no less than 30 tiny hooks & eyes down the back; the steam-punk black garter belt with 5 additional hooks & eyes and 8 shiny metal clasps to hold up the stockings; the black push-up bra – 4 more hooks & eyes; and finally, the 4-inch spiked leather high heels with the open toes and the ankle straps – the shoes alone scream nothing but sex. And maybe like I’m even for hire. How am I supposed to wear that in an elevator? I can’t. So this means I’ll have to change any time she needs to fetch something from her room, and that kind of underwear, well, you don’t just throw it on & off.

“Why didn’t you get a suite?” I asked her. “You knew I was getting one.”

“I’m not as extravagant as you are.” Her tone already implies that she wants to spank me for spending too much money – money that’s not even hers.

“It’s not extravagant. It’s the fucking Marriott – in Baltimore.”

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

Oh, crap.

“This is not going on my expense account,” she continues sharply.  “I don’t want anyone tracing this trip.”

“All right,” I say just as sharply. It’s not going on my expense account, either – because it doesn’t exist. I just pay for what I want and then look for ways to deduct it from my taxes, but pointing that out to her would only sound petulant.

I call room service and order dinner. I charge everything to my room. Because I’m extravagant, I guess, and I need to be spanked.

*          *          *

I have a non-smoking suite. While we wait the interminable hour for dinner to be delivered, I sit in the open window, still dressed in normal clothes, and I smoke. The wine won’t arrive until the dinner does. I’m not sure I can last an hour with her and no alcohol.

The sun is going down. It looks beautiful out – an autumn evening on the water.

Suddenly, she’s standing next to me and all she’s wearing is a pair of panties. She’s got the prettiest tits I’ve seen in a long time. Even though we’re now both framed in the open window, easy to see if anyone happens to look, I pull her right up next to me and kiss her breasts, suck on her nipples, worship those gorgeous tits.

She finally stops being so mean. I’m instantly wet. Her tits are truly that spectacular.

*          *          *

She seems to like being on public display – which I guess is why she needed to come all the way to Baltimore; so that no one she knew would see her naked in an open window at the Marriott. I, however, am not an exhibitionist. But she insists that I strip out of my clothes, too, so that we can sit in the window and make-out. “It’ll be fun.”

The thing I hate about being a born submissive, is that the word “no” is way, way, way down at the bottom of the list of words I know how to say.

She further insists I undress while remaining seated in the open window, but I don’t want to do that. It feels awkward. “Come on,” she says. “No one’s looking.”

I look down below us and see that, for at least this very moment, she’s right. Not a soul is around.

She takes my cigarette and holds it for me but has the lit side aimed inside the room. It could set off the smoke alarm.

“Don’t do that,” I say. “This is my room. I’m the one who’ll get kicked out for smoking.”

“Take off your clothes and you can have your cigarette back.”

I get undressed while seated in the open window. I keep my panties on, though.

“Uh-uh,” she says. “Those, too.”

“But you’ve got your panties on.”

“So what?” she says, holding the lit cigarette well inside the room. “I don’t smoke. And I’ve got my own room.”

The implication is plain enough: She’s topping me and I have to do what she says or she’s likely to hold the lit cigarette right under the smoke detector. So my panties come off, too, and I get my cigarette back. We sit together and kiss in the open window for a mere moment; I’m pissed-off at her again.

“You’re being a baby, you know that?” she says.

“I didn’t come her to be topped by you.”

“I know,” she says.

“You said you were a sub and wanted me to top you. I can’t top you if you don’t back down.”

She takes back what’s left of my cigarette and smokes it. “You just have to try harder. I’m not good at this.”

“I thought you didn’t smoke?”

Why is she so full of lies?

*          *          *

A lot of my readers write to me.  A seemingly disproportionate number of them are in prison. They don’t write because they get off on me sexually; they write because something in the stories connects to their humanness. The sexuality in my characters usually comes from the heart – that confused place where the simple quality of being human is inexplicable: the human being behaves and its behavior cannot be easily explained. The prisoners who write to me have their own sexualities under a microscope, either because they are deprived of the companionship of sex, or because they are being constantly raped.

It all torments me because I understand the men so well, their human needs, their confusion and desires, and yet there isn’t a thing I can do about their awful predicaments.

In the bathroom at my suite in the Marriott, I get into the complicated black underwear.  It’s been over an hour and room service has still not arrived, so we’ve started on the minibar and have undertaken something that sort of resembles sex, although sex with her is awkward as hell. The moment I try to move into a dominant headspace with her, she flips back into being the Top and metaphorically slaps me down.

Naked and on my knees on the plushily-carpeted floor, while she is naked and towering above me, I worship her clit with my mouth until she’s on the brink of coming. From that angle, her tits look even more spectacular. I could do that all weekend, frankly – worship her clit and those tits, and try like hell to disregard her intense personality.  But she still insists that it’s not what she wants – me being submissive with her on top.

She wants to submit. She wants to be punished. She wants to have fun.

She decides that all the black underwear might help her role play. So I’m in the bathroom, putting on the underwear, thinking of a prisoner who had recently written to me, and wondering why it is that my books seem to be so readily available in prison libraries while only one public library in all of the United States carries one copy of one of my books.

Who am I? Besides lonely. And overworked.

I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and have to confess that, at age 40, I’m really stunning, especially in all that black underwear. And in those high heels, I’m 6-feet, two-inches tall. But I am a seriously underappreciated writer. I get similar advances to midlist writers at impressive mainstream publishing houses, but my books sell out of their print-runs and earn back their advances; I can live off of my royalties. A whole lot of mainstream writers cannot say that.

Still, it’s only acceptable to appreciate me in certain dangerous places, like in prisons or on the old Lower East Side, or in dark areas of the human mind. Who do I get to write to who is ever going to understand the complicated humanness of my own sexuality, the often-tormenting contents of my own mind?

Not that TV Executive waiting for me to come out of the bathroom, that’s for sure.

Not my husband, either. With a stern face he’d told me that he hoped I would have a nice trip; that I’d get what I was looking for. Christ, really? Even I know that what I’m looking for is not in Baltimore.

It sounds adolescent to say it, but nobody understands me. Nobody has ever understood me – only you, and I can’t even prove that you do.

*          *          *

In the bathroom, dressed in a way that feels thoroughly un-dressed, I’m ready to go back into the fray of what I’d been hoping was going to be some really fun sex in Baltimore. I think about Edgar Allan Poe again, and I realize a short story about his own deep agony is taking shape in my mind – how it might have felt to him to fall in love with a 13-year-old girl, his cousin, no less, and to love her so deeply that he married her.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, 3 years later, that wife – his very reason for living – died.

Where did he go for comfort? His private letters reveal the answer: opium, cocaine, booze. Nobody understood him. Or so he insisted. Of course, I understand him – one hundred and fifty years too late.

*          *          *

Jesus Christ. The very moment I walk out of the bathroom, comes the long-awaited knock on the door. “Room service!”


She pulls on her dress; I go for the complimentary spa robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Oddly, though, what it conceals makes what’s left that much more revealing. I answer the door in the white terry cloth robe, in black seamed stockings and 4-inch-spiked-heel fetish shoes.

The young man who wheels in the room service cart discreetly takes in the scene; not only what we’re half-wearing, but we’ve also got scarves draped over the lamps – ambiance galore – and his face brightens. Even though he’s clearly half my age, he looks at me – specifically – like he just might possibly desire me. Immediately, I want to kick her out and ask him to stay. He seems lots less complicated.

Instead, I focus on signing my name to the room charge and trying to calculate the tip. “Ooh, you can’t have that,” he suddenly says.

I turn to look at what he’s pointing at and see that, unbeknownst to me, she’s brought along a little candle and has lit it – a fire hazard. In my suite. What the hell is her deal?

*          *          *

She didn’t like her dinner at all. She preferred mine and ate half of it. At that point, I didn’t even care. I was still in the fucking black underwear. I didn’t feel like eating dinner. I’d come to Baltimore to have sex and I wasn’t getting any.

“Come on,” I said, pouring her some more wine and pulling her away from the food. “What’s going on with you? Why did we come here?”

This is not a woman who is ever going to be put over anybody’s knee. She’s sort of un-spankable. Or at least it wouldn’t be very erotic. Her mind just won’t let her go there.

I suggest the strap-on. I’ve brought it along because she insisted on that, too. I’ve got fake dicks in my suitcase, in a couple of shapes and sizes.

She doesn’t want that, either, now. She explains that the surgery has left her too tight for intercourse. It’s just too painful.

Great. Okey-doke. “What would you really like to do?” I ask her. “Just tell me. You wanna top me, you can. We can go all out. I don’t mind. I just need to know what you want.”

It turns out that what she wants is to get dressed and go down to her room, alone.

*          *          *

At 3 a.m. my phone rings. I’ve been asleep for hours. I’m naked, sleeping alone, in a king-sized hotel room bed.

“Come get me,” she says plaintively.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the lobby. They won’t let me come up; you have to come down and get me.”

Oh my god.

“I want to be with you,” she quietly whines. “I don’t want to be alone.”

She sounds like a whole different woman now – in fact, she sounds like a helpless girl.

I get out of bed, get dressed, go out into the blindingly bright hallway, go down to the lobby and get her.

Back in my room, naked in the big bed in the dark, she’s clinging to me. She’s all over me. She wraps herself around me like a little child.

“Come on,” she begs me, softly. “Do something. Help me.”

Now she sounds more like who she’d been over the telephone, when we were first planning the trip to Baltimore.

I’m not going to spank her. It just doesn’t appeal to me. She’s put me through the wringer.  I’m not sure if I even like her.

Please, she’s whispering. Come on.

Her fingers are down between my legs. She’s found my clit, but I’m not aroused.

She pushes back the blankets, practically forces my legs apart and plants herself between them – her mouth on my clit now, instead. But it feels violating. She’s done nothing but fuck with my head. For hours, already. I’m worn out by her. Plus, I’d been sound asleep before she called me.

Don’t, I whisper back, gently pushing her head away.

Then what? she wants to know. Do something. I really want you to top me. Come on. You know how to do everything. Do something to me.

She’s lying next to me again as she whispers, trying to cuddle. I feel sort of heartless, but I’ve spent a lot of money; I’ve come all the way to Baltimore, and all she’s done is wasted my time. I could have stayed home and slept alone in a bed for free – my husband hasn’t slept in the same bed with me for nearly a year.

I don’t know what you want, I say quietly. I really don’t.

I want to submit – to something. She’s still whispering; wanting no one but me to hear her. I want to give up. Control, I mean. What do you like to do when you want to give up control?

I know exactly what I like to do. But I don’t want to rape her, even if we’d just be playing. I don’t want to force her to do anything, even if it’s just a scene. I don’t want to hurt her, or break her spirit. I just want to overwhelm her.

I look her in the face. It’s dark in the room but she can see my eyes. I say quietly: Get out from under the covers and lie down on your belly. And don’t move. Just lay there until I come back. She does it.

I go into the bathroom and strap on a fake dick. I choose one that will be memorable but not too challenging, and then I slide a lubed condom onto it.

I leave the bathroom light on and the bathroom door open. Then I find her panties that are in a little heap on the floor by the side of the bed.

I kneel down in front of her. She can easily see me now in the light spilling out from the bathroom. Don’t make a sound, I whisper to her, okay? This is my room and I don’t want to be asked to leave itDo you hear me?

She answers yes.

If you start making too much noise, I’m gonna stuff your panties into your mouth – do you understand what I mean?

She sees that I’m holding her panties. She says, yes, that she knows what I mean.

I’m not so sure she really does know. Girls who aren’t born to it, to be truly overwhelmed; to submit, to surrender, to go for it – sometimes those girls panic at a fraction of what I’m willing to endure. I whisper: Tell me what I mean. I want us to be clear, okay?

If I make a sound, you’re going to stuff my panties into my mouth.

She looks adorable when she says that. Why couldn’t she have been like this all evening? We could have had so much fun.

I add, you know this cock is going in your ass, right?

She looks at me, blankly. “No, I didn’t know.”

“You want it, though, right?”

*          *          *

I check out of the Marriott early. And I take an early train out of Baltimore. Again, it’s a beautiful autumn day. I’m leaving early because there’s nothing left to say. Nothing more I want to do. I got her where she needed to go.

And I played fair. I gave her every opportunity to say no.  I put it in her ass slowly, letting her accommodate it, but once we were in, I didn’t let go. I held her, impaled on that cock, all the way up, until she was begging me to fuck her with it – to really just fuck her.

She had never had it in the ass before. And she was well into her 40s. I find that kind of thing astonishing. I first had anal sex at 14. And I loved it even then. In fact, I liked it lots better than the regular way. Accommodating it is the hard part – opening up for it – and then the rest is pure ecstasy.

In my opinion, anyway.

She seemed to agree.

Before long, she was up on all fours, doing most of the work herself. Pounding herself onto it, her asshole really open; just taking it with ease. And I barely had to hold onto her. It was easy to reach under and find her clit. And when that happened, boy. She did that dog-thing that looks so hot. She went down to her elbows and her ass arched way up – she stopped moving then; she was just rigid; taking a serious pounding with that fake dick; her clit mashing down on my fingertips. I could see everything she had – the cock up her ass and her pussy wide open – and it looked so fucking hot. I fucked her as hard as I could.

But when she came, she went right back to being her complicated self. I could not figure out who she was. And I knew that now that she’d gotten what she’d wanted, it was okay for me to go home.

*          *          *

I’m thinking about Edgar Allan Poe again as the train leaves Baltimore. In fact, the words are already coming; I know a story is talking to me. At some deep level, he’s going to lend me his words, show me pictures for me to capture, put onto paper, share with the world. That world who only ever wants to be with me in private, in secret, in the hidden places.

Everyone will think I wrote the story. But he and I will know what really happened. Muses are like that. They ride in on that energy and free you from everything ordinary, from words that barely suffice and replace them with splendor; muses move through you with glorious precision and give the world something higher to reach for, even when it’s locked in some sort of prison.

It doesn’t matter that I got used in Baltimore. I found a story there, needing to be understood. And that was me; I was the one who helped it break free.

© – 2019 Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse

All the Sweet Things A Girl Remembers

I didn’t make much headway in “Baltimore” yesterday (Letter #3 in Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse) because, frankly, I was absolutely exhausted.

I had the file open on the laptop all day, while my actual body was mostly collapsed on the bed all day! And I did do a little bit of laundry, but not much.

Today, I feel totally revived, though, and will work on “Baltimore”.

And yesterday afternoon, the first responses to the newly revised script for Tell My Bones came in and I could not have been happier with the comments. In all honesty, it made my day.  I feel like I achieved on paper what I was trying to accomplish, and I couldn’t have done it without the director’s complete emotional involvement and his really targeted notes. I know that whoever goes to see this play will not forget Helen LaFrance, her art or her life, ever.

So I’m taking some time here to just be really happy — before all the actual business part of it begins.

I’m hoping to finish “Baltimore” before I go get my mom, early next week. And I’m also hoping to get one more segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa written before that, too.  Of course, I will have some free time in that Airbnb to write, if I want to. I’m not sure what I’m going to really be doing all 3 of those days that I’ll be in the Airbnb — when I am not seeing/listening to Nick Cave converse with people at night. I know I’ll be having some sort of meetings re: the play, but certainly not on all 3 of the days, so we’ll see. I’m not planning on being too social, so only a couple of people know I’m even going to be in town (she says as she posts it to her fucking blog…).


Loyal readers of this lofty (fucking) blog will be happy to note that I have started a little pile of things that must accompany me on the trip and I managed to remember to put both tickets to see Nick Cave in that pile!! There is every indication that those tickets, that I’ve had for like 4 months already, will indeed make it with me to New York!! (Without me needing to actually staple them to my forehead.)

As my trip approaches, the very real drama of how my many intensely feral cats will deal with my going away again begins. Since we came to this house, they have gotten really weird about me going away. I’m hoping that had more to do with the previous cat sitter, and not with the actual cats. My mom is a huge lover of animals and has been around all kinds of animals her whole life — horses, donkeys, cows, pigs, dogs galore, and a ton of stray cats. So I’m hoping the cats will be cool with her energy being here.

When I went to LA for 5 days last December, the cats had an absolute field day pissing on my bed. It was absolutely unbelievable.  And I didn’t get home from the airport until about 3am that time, and to come in and find my bed like that — it was almost more than I could comprehend. It was saturated with cat piss. Pillows, bedspread, blankets, sheets — it soaked through two layers of foam mattress padding. It was just unreal.

Nothing says, “We are so fucking mad at you for leaving us with a stranger” than a queen-sized bed soaked in cat piss.

So I’m hoping for something less dramatic this time, even though I’ll actually be away for a longer time period. I’m putting my mom in my own bedroom, and letting the cats have the guestroom, which is where they like to sleep, so that they feel less disrupted.

I’m sort of hoping my mom doesn’t go through all my stuff but in all honesty, if she went away for a week and I was staying in her room, I’d probably go through all her stuff….

It’s not like she doesn’t already know I’m nuts so I guess it doesn’t really matter. She can go through my stuff if she feels like it.

Last night, I had the most amazing dream that Bunny, my sweet cat who died the morning after we moved to the rental house a couple years ago, had come back. I think she really was alive in my dream — meaning, she was there. She felt so real. God, it was so wonderful to hold her again.

She was such a sweet, compassionate cat. She started out as a semi-feral kitten. I got her and her brother, Buster, from a cat rescue in Times Square in NYC. They had been born behind a deli. Unlike these intensely feral cats I have now (I was supposed to only be fostering these ones I have now, but the cat rescue places got overloaded that year and so I wound up being their permanent home — and it’s not easy having a houseful of cats who won’t let you even touch them, and who run and hide whenever you walk into a room they’re in, and multiply that times 7 years already — it’s a wee bit alienating).

Anyway, Bunny became a really loving and demonstrative cat over time. I loved her so dearly. I woke from the dream feeling like I’ve somehow got to get her back. I miss her so much. But of course, it can’t happen. Still it was so wonderful to hang out with her in my dream.

Here’s some photos of her in the last house, before we got the rental. She moved 5 times with me, but the final move was so stressful on her that she suffered a heart attack.

Me and Bunny just chillin’ in my old bedroom in August 2013







Bunny taking a break from playing the piano in 2014







Bunny hanging with me on the couch, the first Christmas after her brother, Buster, died. (New Year’s Day 2014)








Moments later… (New Year’s Day 2014)









Okay, gang. On that note, I’m gonna scoot and get back to “Baltimore”!

I hope you have a terrific Thursday, wherever you are in the world! Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.

“She’s Got You”

I’ve got your picture that you gave to me
And it’s signed with love, just like it used to be
The only thing different, the only thing new
I’ve got your picture, she’s got you
I’ve got the records that we used to share
And they still sound the same as when you were here
The only thing different, the only thing new
I’ve got the records, she’s got you

I’ve got your memory or has it got me?
I really don’t know but I know it won’t let me be
I’ve got your class ring that proved you cared
And it still looks the same as when you gave it dear
The only thing different, the only thing new
I’ve got these little things, she’s got you

I’ve got your memory or has it got me?
I really don’t know but I know it won’t let me be
I’ve got your class ring that proved you cared
And it still looks the same as when you gave it dear
The only thing different, the only thing new
I’ve got these little things, she’s got you

c – 1961 Hank Cochran

The world of author Marilyn Jaye Lewis