Listen up, you cats & kittens!

UPDATE: There were some formatting errors in The Muse Revisited Volume II: Erotic Novellas & Longer Works, specifically in Necessary to her Good and A Picture in a Frame. If you are having trouble downloading this volume, please try again later today.

 For anyone who already downloaded this title and wants the corrected version, this title will remain free for one more week.

This is it, gang. The final countdown. You have until midnight tonight, Pacific Time, to download any/all of my eBooks that are published on Smashwords — for FREE.

After that, you will have to cough up at least three — and often as much as FOUR — whole dollars to download those same eBooks! (Or, of course, wait until the Winter Sale, where everything becomes free again…) (Its no wonder I never make any money, is it??)

However, that said… I really appreciate that so many of you have taken the time to download my books.  Here, again, are the direct links. And, as always, here is my Extreme Cautionary Warning to those readers who have only known me as an (award-winning!!) script writer:

Freak Parade and The Muse Revisited Volumes 1-3 are exceptionally explicit (award-winning!) literary erotica, often with bisexual BDSM themes and with overtones of what is now termed  “questionable consent”. These titles are not aimed at the average reader and could be considered upsetting or extremely offensive.

However, Twilight of the Immortal is historical fiction, not literary erotica.

If you’d like to know more about any of these titles before downloading, use the drop down menu on the  upper right of this page, under “About Marilyn Jaye Lewis”.

Here are the links to my titles on Smashwords:

Okay, thanks for visiting! See ya!


A wide open valley under a thousand stars

I hate to sound like I’m repeating myself, but last night was intense.

Not the same kind of intensity of the intense day that came before it. A whole different kind of intense.

A few nights a week, I work at a really old, expensive historic inn in the Hinterlands. I love working there because, architecturally, it is so lovely, and because it also held very tender memories for Gus Van Sant, Sr, an incredible man with whom I worked for several years when I worked for Gus Van Sant Jr’s movie company.

It is the easiest job I ever had in my life and it pays good, so a few hours a week can help me pay the bills while giving me tons of time to write.

Literally 95% of the people I work with at the inn are younger than me and most of them, a lot younger than me. I love being around their energy, even though I am often really alarmed by how different their lives are, at such an awesome age, than mine was. If they are consumed with sex & art at all, you’d never know it because they always seem to be on their darn phones. For all I know, they’re texting one another and saying really filthy & profound things, but I kind of doubt it.

When I was in my 20s, I lived in New York City and it was the 1980s. just before and then during the explosion of AIDS. Our world was intense. To us, at that age, nothing was more important than art (music, writing, movies, film, painting, poetry, theater) and sex. The only phones we had were at home, attached to the wall, so what we did was interacted very intensely with each other, constantly.  And we were always having some kind of/any kind of sex, whenever we could, even during work.

One  crazy & intense restaurant in Times Square that I was the Manager of when I was all of 22 (!!), even had a tube of Vaseline in the top drawer by the time clock that the gay guys would grab on their way to a “bathroom break.” There were no cigarette breaks back then because you could smoke anywhere… The girls suffered most in that scenario, since we have bladders the size of a mustard seed. If you had to wait a really long time for the bathroom to become available, it usually meant a couple of guys were in their having anal sex.  Bang bang bang on the door. “Come on, you guys! I’ve gotta pee!” Then out they would eventually stroll and get right back to work.

I remember, when I worked at MoMA, disappearing a few times with my girlfriend, Valerie, into a bathroom stall in the bar next to the museum,  and making out really hot & heavy because we were killing time between work shifts and just ridiculously horny.  We would actually have orgasms in a public bathroom, then go back out and join our co-workers who were sitting at the bar; we’d drink straight bourbon and smoke cigarettes, chatter on like fools about every topic under the sun, and wait for our shifts to start again. The General Manager, our boss, a very serious-minded, Le Cordon Bleu-trained Executive Chef from Alsace, France, would sometimes walk by outside the bar and toss a polite wave at us through the huge plate-glass window as he headed back into the museum.  Once, he even had a particular sort of smile on his face so we assumed he’d been with a pretty woman who had an apartment near by. Nobody gave a shit because the work got done and the places made money.

Things are so different now. And not just the phones. For instance, the inn where I work has a policy of Zero Tolerance for sexual harassment — and it is staggering what comes under the banner of sexual harassment.  And any co-worker at all can file a complaint against you and you can be out of job in a nanosecond. It has already happened there twice in the past year.

I keep my private life and my career extremely private from everybody I work with.  It is too scary for me, otherwise. Several months ago, a 17-year-old busboy came into the kitchen and announced to me, “I found your Wikipedia page!” My eyes sprang open and my heart stopped, until he said, “I didn’t know you were ever a singer in New York! That’s so cool.”

Thank god.  Because if you look hard enough at that Wikipedia page, you can discover that, for most of my life, I was a pornographer. And a really well known one, at that. A wonderful career that spiraled down into something frightening when the Government began to get out of control. Not just the FBI popping up and letting me know they had their eye on me, but also the Attorney General of the United States. I went from being a really respected sex writer, editor, producer, web developer and art curator, to also being a book publisher, who was suddenly looking at a 10-year prison term and fines I could never have afforded to pay.  All because I had chosen, of my own free will, to publish wonderfully written filthy books that the Government decided were harmful to children (who hadn’t yet even discovered them) because they were sold by my own publishing company on the Internet.

Trust me, I was willing to close down my business and just walk away, but the ACLU gently, consistently, relentlessly asked me to fight it. My mom flew with me to the Federal Court in Philadelphia because I was so terrified. The Federal Prosecutor was gunning for my self-esteem. In the courtroom, he had a big screen set up. Projected onto the screen was an incredibly filthy extended passage of meticulously detailed anal sex that appeared in a book I had published, written by Michael Hemmingson. The Federal Prosecutor made me read it aloud in the courtroom to the Federal Judge — the Prosecutor stopping me early on and saying, “Why don’t you start again? And could you speak up, please? We want to make sure your Mom at the back of the courtroom is able to hear what you’re reading — this book that you think is such a valuable piece of literature, worthy of the Constitution’s protection.”

I testified. We won. But I closed down my business. And then afterwards I had a particularly scary encounter with Security Officials in a small airport in Exeter, England. They questioned me at length, wanting to know why I had flown in from Paris to such a small airport in England: What kind of writer are you? they kept asking me, over & over & over. And I kept lying through my teeth because I didn’t want to admit who I was; I was terrified. My friends in Bristol assured me that their Government was probably watching me, following everything I’d done since I left the airport in Exeter, everyone I spoke to or hung out with, on those Closed Circuit TV cameras that are all over England. After that,  I insulated myself. I withdrew. I became simply “a writer.” I tried not to make any more trouble. I vowed never to go back to Europe.

So things like a 17-year-old boy in a work place that has a policy of zero tolerance for sexual harassment, triggers all the wrong buttons for me, but I try to just stay calm, to keep going.

I think that because of the full moon and that lunar eclipse, the hormones among my co-workers at work have been sort of flying. I, of course, have my own hormones to deal with, regardless of any full moons. But it got intense in that kitchen, even for me. There is this really gorgeous guy I work with, who is really young, really smart, in a relationship. He did this thing that anyone working in a kitchen will do a hundred times a day, but I glanced over at him, doing this thing, and it suddenly struck me — a sexual submissive — as really provocative.  And I wondered, how come, right this minute, that looks extremely sexual to me? And I looked up at his face and he was looking right at me. I laughed nervously and looked away, walked away; I didn’t want to give myself away.

A while later, I glanced over again and he was doing that same thing, and, again, I responded in the same suddenly sexual way. And I looked up at him again and again he was looking right at me — like, in my eyes. I thought, Oh my god, he’s not really that young, is he? I think he’s a Top.

Then I was instantly wet between my legs, and really, really frustrated. I didn’t know what to do with myself or how to handle anything at all. The world is so different now. All last night, he was working right next to me and I was like Jell-O. Well, extremely frustrated, aroused, stupefyingly self-protective Jell-O.  I was really losing my mind. Every once in a while, I would steal a glance up at him to see if he was still looking at me, and he would be; he’d be looking right at me; in that relentless way a Top looks at a bottom and waits for her to tell him what she’s willing to let  him to do to her. I simply could not figure out if my mind was playing tricks on me.

At one point, he said, “I’ll be back in a minute.” I was secretly appalled that his energy was going to walk away from me for even an instant. I said, “Where are you going?” He said, “I have to go to the bathroom.” And I said — from somewhere primal and long, long ago — I said, “Which bathroom are you going to be in?” He kind of laughed and said, “Are you getting fresh with me?”

I could not believe I had said it. I was appalled at myself. I walked away, wondering, what is happening to me? what am I fucking doing?? He’s not available, he’s one of the supervisors, for godssakes,  and what about all this zero tolerance stuff? Not that I really think he would report me for sexually harassing him, but how humiliating: “She just acted really desperate and wanted to come into the bathroom with me.” Crap.

But I was totally swooning; aroused for the rest of the night. I had these pictures filling my head — thanks to that lovely Muse who seemed to have left my bedroom for once and followed me to work! He’s a man who is really into details; he wants everyone to follow the details, to do everything in a very specific way, even if it’s very complicated, because he wants a thing to be perfect. And I wanted to tell him, “You could come to my house, in the middle of nowhere, and think of some really complicated thing that you would have to teach me how to do, over & over, until I got it right; except that you would always change the rules halfway through it, so that I could never get it right, and then, of course, I’d have to be punished over & over for not paying attention…” That’s not cheating, I thought. That’s not sex. He wouldn’t be being unfaithful to anyone if he were just trying to teach me how to do something the right way and I was just sort of incapable of really learning… But of course, it’s cheating. I was just astounding myself with these crazy thought processes.

And then every time I looked at him, he’d be looking right at me.

At one point, he was leaning against the counter, doing some paperwork, and I walked up to him. He said, “Yes, Marilyn?” and I was going to blurt out, “I have a house in the middle of nowhere.” But, instead, I said, “Are you able to read minds?”

He said, “Sometimes, yeah, I can.”

I said, “Okay. That’s good.” And I started to walk away.

But he said, “Why? Do you want me to read yours right now?”

Surrendering, I said, “Yes, I sure do.”

Last night, when I got home, it was late and that full moon was shining down on that wide-open valley. The night for miles and miles was so black except for that moon, those stars, and I was outside of my house that is in the middle of nowhere. Out there in that crazy, quiet, ancient town, that doesn’t care who I am, where I’ve been, what I’m ever doing; that doesn’t pop up with some unexpected news that I might be going to prison for the thoughts that are in my head.

And I thought about that guy. That gorgeous, gorgeous guy who is so inappropriate for me in every way. And I thought about desire, how it can just spring up from who knows where and overpower me like that. I’m old enough to  know now that I will always be waiting for my Top, that man who can expertly cause me to submit and then punish me even when I get it right. That’s how I will always be and who I will always be waiting for, even though he never shows up.

I told the sky: my heart is an aching wound; my cunt is an aching wound, but my mind, with all its magnificent stories still bursting to get out of me– my mind is this wide-open valley, black as night, under a thousand shooting stars that are exploding all over the sky.  I will, indeed, hold out forever for Daddy to finally come and claim his little puta.


Only a broken heart

Yesterday was an intense day.

The Muse had my attention by 4:40 AM.  My eyes opened, and it felt like the Muse was filling up my whole room. I said to him (in my head): You can’t be serious.

I was facing one of my big bedroom windows, all of which are now always open, the blinds always raised. I was looking right at the huge maple tree. I could see that it was going to be a beautiful morning.  Just the kind of morning I would want to be awake for — but the Muse had kept me up until 1 AM. I’d hardly slept. I’d forgotten how, when the Muse is in my life, I hardly eat, I hardly sleep.

I know that some artists are practically haunted by the Muse. Van Gogh, of course, springs to mind.  I don’t feel haunted; but I do become sort of enveloped by a euphoric swoon. The Muse has its own energy. I feel it when it flows in — almost like a tide– and when it recedes. And when it does flow in, it is the most beautiful thing. It’s the essence of true inspiration  — as if it’s breathed into me by an angel on a mission from the Divine.

Ideas will come that seem heightened somehow; visions come that have a peculiar clarity or quality of color. And then certain words come; words that have a more intense feeling about them over other words, and I know that if I put those specific words together in a particular sentence, form paragraphs that turn into pages — I know that at that point, I can make love to the whole world.

If you aren’t a writer, this probably isn’t making any sense at all.  But it is the most beautiful feeling. And for me, the Muse always takes up residence in my bedroom, which is why I always end up with my writing desk in my room — try as I did, in the past, to keep my writing life separate from my bedroom. Eventually I just gave up, because I need my desk to be wherever the energy is. But then all my papers, all my notes, research books, photos, whatever, makes its way into my room , as well, since it becomes the only place where I can tap into the Muse. My room always ends up looking like a cyclone hit it, but it isn’t my fault. I want to tell people, “I didn’t make this crazy mess, the Muse did that!”

When writers sit and stare, seemingly for hours, it always looks to outsiders as if they aren’t doing anything at all. But, actually, when a writer sits and stares, the creative act is in process.  For the past 2 days, I have sat and stared a lot, deep in that euphoric swoon. It’s why I can’t sleep and why I forget to eat — I can’t tear myself away from my room and from how fucking beautiful everything in the world seems when I’m awake and in there.

For me, those beautiful images have to build up, until they burst through the barricade between that nonphysical place into the physical, where the words then, finally, pour out all over the page.

But while the images are building, while I’m stuck in that euphoria, life still happens. I still have to sort of “tend to things,” but it’s all filtered through that intensity and it makes my life feel very keen– aching, bittersweet.  All-consuming.  Simple things take on a momentous depth.  For instance: A birthday present arrived in the mail from one of my ex-husbands yesterday.

BTW, I am totally blessed. I have 2 ex-husbands, both of whom called me on my birthday to wish me all kinds of good things. If you consider just this blog post alone, you can readily see how being married to me is not any kind of a picnic. And if you factor in other blog posts, or most of what I’ve written in my entire life, well, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that I had a serious problem in the fidelity department. And my 2nd ex-husband endured the worst of it. He had an inkling of what I was like before we actually got legally married, but I don’t think he was prepared at all for the complete maelstrom of my personality and for everything else that came along with being married to me.

In fact, it took the guy who came after my 2nd husband for me to finally figure out that not everyone was going to put up with my shit. I was already 40!! — it took me that long to grow up. That guy and I fell in love the night we met — on a crowded dance floor in a tiny Puerto Rican hole-in-wall in lower Manhattan — and by our second meeting, he had me figured out. He said, “I really want you for my girl, Marilyn, but if you play me and start fucking around with dykes, I am going to mess you up. Do you understand me?” Whoa. Yes I did. (And my novel Freak Parade was born, gang. Currently free to download from Smashwords until July 31st! )

It was from my 2nd ex-husband that this birthday gift had been sent. It was a tee shirt he’d had designed specifically for me.  Neptune & Surf was my first book, and while I love pretty much everything I’ve ever had published, Neptune & Surf is my baby, my pearl, my gem. I love that book so much. And I am so grateful to the Universe that it has remained in print for 19 years already. A book that no one on Earth thought I could ever get published because they thought it was filthy porn. But I did get it published, to glowing reviews, in fact, all over the world. Neptune & Surf had been inspired by Hubert Selby Jr’s infamous novel, Last Exit to Brooklyn. I loved that book, and Neptune & Surf (named after 2 main avenues in Coney Island, in Brooklyn, NY) was a decidedly X-rated homage to that novel.

When my book came out, I sent a copy of it, along with a fan letter, to Hubert Selby Jr (nicknamed “Cubby”), out in LA. And not only did he write me back with a truly glowing opinion of Neptune & Surf, he told me that when I was out in LA again, to call him and we would have lunch.

When I was next out in LA, it was a truly high point in my life, in my career.  All the book stores there were carrying Neptune & Surfmy book, my filthy pornographic book — including Tower Books, right there on Sunset Boulevard. And with the cover facing front, not just the spine of the book showing among a million other books. I did call Cubby and he took my call right away. He was so enthusiastic about getting together. He said, “Meet me at the House of Pies.” So I did. We wound up keeping in touch until he died in 2004.

Well, this tee shirt my ex had designed for me had a picture of Cubby’s face on the front of it, and it said “Meet me at the House of Pies” and on the back, it says: Last Exit to Brooklyn.

I nearly cried. It meant so much to me. I called him right away to thank him, to tell him how much I loved it.  He said, “I’m glad. Be well, Marilyn. Work hard, okay? Keep writing. I want you to have a really good year.”

All of this happened while the Muse was hanging out with me, so my feelings about all of it swelled into a sort of fever. It felt staggering, really, that my ex could still care that much about me. That instead of dwelling on the really horrible times — things like throwing the phone at me in our beautiful Upper West Side apartment and shouting, “If you don’t call her right now and tell her it’s over, that you’re never fucking her again, you are out on your ass tomorrow” — instead of all those kinds of memories that, unfortunately, I remember really well and am not proud of; instead of that, he chose to remember one of the happiest moments in my life and to celebrate that for me.

I spent the rest of the day listening to Only A Broken Heart. I had it on repeat, and streamed it over & over & over, literally for hours, long into the night. Such a simple yet devastating song. I hung out with the Muse and just sort of looked at the truth of myself, at that marriage, and seeing finally how hard he had tried to take care of me, and how after 15 years, he just couldn’t put up with any more of my shit. Intense day.

Here comes that feeling I’ve seen in your eyes
Back in the old days before the hard times
But I’m not afraid anymore
It’s only a broken heart

I know the place where you keep your secrets
Out of the sunshine, down in the Valley
But I’m not afraid anymore
It’s only a broken heart

What would I give to start all over again
To clean up my mistakes

Stand in the moonlight, stand under heaven
Wait for an answer, hold out forever
But don’t be afraid anymore
It’s only a broken heart

What would I give to start all over again
To clean up my mistakes

I know your weakness, you’ve seen my dark side
The end of the rainbow is always a long ride
But don’t be afraid anymore
It’s only a broken heart

“Only a Broken Heart”  by Tom Petty,

© Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

Thoughts in my car on Black Run Road

My birthday was beautiful. By dinnertime, when I was heading out to see the Mormons, it rained one of those really lovely summer rains, which makes everything that’s green look really, really green.

I took the back roads out of my little town, in a direction that I never go in, because it only leads deep into farmlands — or, to the Latter Day Saints Church. Nothing else is out that way, but, wow, is it gorgeous. So many trees, so many tall green cornfields. An old cemetery, a bunch of really old barns. The remains of the old Erie Canal here and there.

Dinner with the Mormon elders was  wonderful, and they readily accommodated my being a vegetarian. The dinner they made for me was so incredibly good.  Most of the conversation was about local archeological finds. I won’t go into the details of that now. But I’ll say that these Mormons are so kind, so knowledgeable, and what we discuss is, truly, quite fascinating to me — and something I know a lot about.

The missionaries are gone now, so it is only the elders. They did not say, “When are you going to join us and get baptized (as a Latter Day Saint)?” Instead, they say, “When can you come see us again? We’ll talk some more.” They are so loving, so patient; they have all of eternity, really, to get me to repent.

As I was driving home, along Black Run Road, it had stopped raining but everything still had that early evening, summer-rained-on look. It was captivating. I was so grateful that God had finally brought me out to the Hinterlands, the only place that has ever felt like home to me.

And, as much as I enjoyed the evening, and as much love as these people have — these men who ask such seemingly casual questions, and then listen so intently to every word I say in reply; taking mental notes, looking for that way into me: “How can we get this girl to repent?” —  I know that what stands between me and every other sect of organized Christianity is: I refuse to repent. I’m a sinner and I thrive on being a sinner; it is the only kind of woman I know how to be.

But don’t be fooled. I don’t actually believe in sin. And yet I am an ordained minister. I studied hard to get my degree, to receive my ordination. I have all the framed documents on my wall, stating all the “things I am” in connection to Our Lord, Jesus Christ. I have my Authority to marry you, or to preside at your funeral. I have my accumulated credit hours that shows I can come visit you in the hospital or in Hospice; I can counsel you if your marriage is in trouble, or if you’re enduring an unspeakable loss.

And I take it seriously. If you come to me for spiritual help, I’m with you. I can help Jesus find you; but in his own time and at your own pace — assuming you want that kind of spiritual relationship. I am not here to condemn, or to cajole, or to even persuade. I’m only here to help you allow yourself to make room for whatever needs to come in.

Like any minister, I walk daily with Christ, hourly; and I take seriously his call to me to be one of his representatives here on Earth. And what Jesus has told me as we walk together, is that there is no such thing as sin. It’s a word we made up here in the physical, which has no meaning anywhere else.  Jesus tells me that not only are we born “forgiven,” there is nothing to forgive; ever. Because the God who dreamed us into being, loves us too much to ever condemn us for anything. It is we, the physical, who condemn each other and who create words & labels, concepts & ideas.

I don’t consider myself “a sinner,” but when I view myself from the outside, as a woman who is a minister somewhere in the overarching scope of Christianity, I know I am considered a sinner, based on the overarching understanding of what they think Christ taught: I am still a bisexual fetishist, who doesn’t believe in chastity by any stretch of any definition of that word. If I were to become a Latter Day Saint (not all followers of Joseph Smith are Latter Day Saints), unless I were to live a lie,  I would only wind up being excommunicated for my irredeemable behavior, eventually. After all the truly horrible shit I’ve endured in my life, do we really need to add a label like that to who I am — excommunicated for my sex life?

On the surface, I look redeemed.  I don’t smoke anymore, but that’s only because, several years ago, it became impossible to find Chesterfield cigarettes for sale anywhere. And they were the only brand I liked, so, true to my stubborn, obstinate nature, I chose to quit smoking rather than to change brands.

I don’t do recreational drugs anymore (haven’t for a long time) because I don’t enjoy them. I barely drink alcohol anymore because my life is so intensely beautiful now, that I don’t need a drink to filter my life through anymore. (I know — all you long-time loyal readers who know me so well, must now pick yourselves up off the floor! The shock that I no longer smoke Chesterfields, I no longer drink Wild Turkey…)

And if you do still do all these things, I don’t condemn it. You’re still welcome in my home.  I would never dream of getting you to repent; what I will always, always be “guilty” of, however,  is taking every chance I can find to lead you toward clarity about the nature of Love — love yourself; watch how you talk about yourself to yourself; use your mind and open it about who you really are: Love, in spirit form, taking on the guise of a human being. For now.

That is the kind of minister I am, because that is the kind of minister I truly believe Christ has asked me to be. I can go fuck my brains out, if I want to, with all my BDSM shenanigans (and without the benefit of marriage, and sometimes without the benefit of the “opposite” sex), but when someone is in pain, or doubt, or turmoil , or crisis, or despair, then it is my job to stop fucking around and to listen to your pain and to shout at you if I have to, to get you not to go down that road to despair; to wait for Love, because Love always, always comes. Often, in a nanosecond. Of course, it is my belief that Christ can bring you that kind of Love, if you want it from him.

It’s my job to try to get you to hear, but then it’s also my job to respect whatever voice you choose to follow.

So that was my beautiful birthday, gang, and my beautiful evening drive along Black Run Road after a summer rain. And, of course, I will see the Mormons again, because I really, really cherish them. And the rest of the time, I’m here in my beautiful old house in the Hinterlands, alone with my unbelievably erotic Muse, learning all I can about the redeeming power of Love — trying to keep up with what he teaches me; trying to write it all down.


Another birthday swings back around!

That’s right, I’m 58 years young today!!

For you really, really, REALLY long-time loyal readers, that makes 20 (yes, twenty) birthdays I’ve shared with you online. That’s right, I’ve been online continuously since 1998! (Boy, are my typing-fingers tired…)

I will be spending my birthday dinner tonight with the Elders of the local Latter Day Saints Church (Mormons). I’m looking forward to the discussion about Kirtland, because I have since managed to get up there and see the temple and it was quite an intense experience.  (A heck of a lot of really bad things happened to the Mormons there, in the 1830s.) Even though the temple was an amazing achievement, you can  still feel the desecration that happened there, and the energy of the atrocities.

But that’s tonight…

Today, I’ll be working on the new notes for the stage adaptation of Tell My Bones, and also doing so more research for a possible re-write of the Cleveland’s Burning TV pilot — just based on some really inspiring comments a producer in LA made about how he saw the story (not a producer who is involved in the script in any way).  I was actually extremely flattered that he had a vision for it at all. Wow.

When it’s my own birthday, I like to give gifts to others just for being super cool, and kind, and for hanging out with me since the last birthday came around, so here is my gift to you guys today!

An awesome photo!

There are only 2 women in my long and illustrious life who have really, really blown me away; who have meant the world to me; who have taught me a lot about my strengths and my weaknesses; who’ve been my muses indefinitely; who I have really, really loved. One of them is Val from Brooklyn, and the other is her:

Blare N. Bitch, from the road this past week

This is Blare N. Bitch, currently of Black Sabbitch. 

She was also a founding member of another LA-based, all-girl heavy metal band, Betty Blowtorch. (FYI, link is not G-rated)

Black Sabbitch are on the road this summer, out West. This photo was taken the other day.

I’ve known Blare since 1981, when we were both (incredibly different) musicians in downtown Manhattan. And she’s actually a year older than me. So, all you young gals out there reading this — don’t worry about getting old. You don’t have to if you don’t absolutely want to. You can just age, really awesomely, as that photo will attest.

Okay! I’m gonna get to the writing table down in my kitchen and get the birthday under way here.

I leave you with this. The trailer from a truly jaw-dropping documentary film that was made about the band, Betty Blowtorch, just before tragedy struck. I don’t know if you can find the movie online anymore, but it used to be free to watch on the Internet.

Okay, gang. have a bitchin’ day! Thanks for visiting. See ya.





The clock is ticking!!

There are only 12 days left to download for FREE all of my eBook titles that are published on Smashwords!

A ton of you (well, hundreds) have already taken full advantage of this opportunity in the last 20 days! There are only 12 days left to get over there and download for free.

If you’re new to the blog, or to my earlier career, Freak Parade and The Muse Revisited Volumes 1-3 are exceptionally explicit (award-winning!) literary erotica, often with bisexual BDSM themes and with overtones of what is now termed  “questionable consent”. These titles are not aimed at the average reader and could be considered upsetting or offensive.

However, Twilight of the Immortal is historical fiction, not literary erotica.

Here are the links to my titles on Smashwords:

Okay, thanks for visiting! Have a  wonderful weekend, wherever it takes you. See ya!



Leaning into your Desires

Yesterday, I had to do a lot of driving around. A collected 2 hours’ worth of freeway traffic, which I hate, especially now that I live out here in the Hinterlands, where “rush-hour” means maybe 10 cars…

But because of that impending awfulness, I was hyper-selective about what music I wanted to listen to, and, out of the blue, I chose Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers’ Greatest Hits.

This collection has a lot of really early songs and, as each song’s intro would start playing, I was amazed by how familiar those intros were down in my very bones, and it would immediately take me back to my old apartments in NYC. I was so young.

When I  learned, back in October, that Tom Petty had died, I was shocked and really sad, but it wasn’t until yesterday, when I started listening to Free Fallin’ and then repeated it over & over & over for the rest of my driving around, that it really struck me that Tom Petty was dead and I had that keen sense of sadness that you finally get when you realize that someone you love is really gone now forever.

It was so sad — but then suddenly, I was struck by this overwhelming desire to make love to Tom Petty. This is not something I ever had the slightest desire to do while he was alive, so this was quite a huge and sudden step into the realm of utter impossibility.

And it was so vivid, if you know what I mean. I could actually see it in my mind, all this lovemaking with a decidedly not dead Tom Petty.

Certain meditation practices teach to ask yourself “What do I want?” and then to lean into your desires without supplying yourself with any answers.  Let the questions just “be there” and the answers eventually surface.

I don’t believe that any desire on earth is as keen as wanting to make love to somebody that you simply cannot have. And there’s that added edge of frustration when you never even realized you wanted to make love to that person until it was just too late.

I’m not saying that making love to Tom Petty was ever in the realm of my possibilities, I’m just saying how intense it was to suddenly be overwhelmed by these keen desires (and pictures in my head) that were utterly impossible to fulfill. Least of all, when I was driving around in a car, in 96-degree awfulness with unbearable humidity, in the middle of nowhere, 9 months after he was dead.

What’s also strange (I chalk this up to the Muse’s recent return into my creative life), is that I’m finding , to a much lesser extent, I’m having those feelings about a number of people. Total or near-total strangers. I’ll see a person and suddenly find that I’m really impressed with the beauty of their humanness and then I get the vague feeling that I want to make love to him or her. Not anything like what happened in the car yesterday; but more a deep appreciation of their humanity and their unique beauty, and then the response is “wanting to make love.”

My long-time readers obviously know that for many decades, my Muse was an incredibly erotic one (for instance: see everything I ever wrote between 1985 – 2010, including personal letters, private diaries, scribbles on scraps of paper, you name it.). So I guess that none of this sudden Eros should be surprising to me, and yet it kind of is. I seriously don’t want to spend the last half of my life walking around in that same cloying haze of relentless erotic desire that I spent the first half of my life in, thank you very much! It was certainly fruitful, but it was exhausting.

This morning, as I was getting ready to meditate, I decided to do a “What do I want?” meditation and lean into my new Tom Petty desire and see where the questions took me.

Part of my question was simply about loss and about “what is life, really?” and that kind of made me cry. At least, tears came.  The answer that also came was simple, but profound, I suppose. What all those years of writing erotica taught  me about the Muse, is that all of creation, and the creative process, comes from the Higher Source, a place of nearly indescribable love — the Muse is, in a spiritual sense, making love to you and then you conceive your creation from it — and therefore the creative process comes with an intensely erotic energy when you allow yourself to tune in it.

And I think that while I was driving yesterday, and zoning out on Free Fallin‘ and tapping into the entity that had been the physical Tom Petty, I was also tapping into the fact that he had been created at all, as a human being, and that he had been so creative while he lived — and so I’m guessing that in the after-world, his energy is just as creative, still.  The creative processes don’t stop just because you cross over to the nonphysical. I think I was tapping into the creative essence of Tom Petty that was simply eternal and that’s how the Muse chose to show it to me — with all those pictures in my head.

So beautiful.

Anyway, thanks for visiting, gang.  Have a beautiful, beautiful Tuesday, wherever the Muse takes you. See ya.