Excerpt from Blessed By Light

For today’s actual blog post, please scroll down!

Meanwhile, here is the latest excerpt from my new novel, Blessed By Light. Chapter 15 -17, approximately 10 pages. Contains sexually explicit material.


Selling the House of Love

WE LOOK GOOD TOGETHER, don’t you think? Me, so much older than I ever was but still seeming 30 in my mind; and you, timeless now. To me, anyway. From now on, for me, you will never age.

Yes, I said that. And I meant it. Too sentimental sometimes, I know. But don’t start doubting me again, honey. You’ve been doing so good. Just so good.

However, now it’s my turn.

Doubt. The Devil with that awful name.

I need to talk to you about this, honey, because there is no one else on Earth now who can really hear me. That second wife. How much I loved her. Love her still. But I am putting that house of love up for sale. That home she and I made so much love in.

I walked through those rooms today – empty, though still filled with all that furniture – and I could still feel her around the edges. Could feel her in every room.

She was so young when she came there to live with me, to be my wife at last, after I’d pursued her and pursued her and bought that whole house just for her. And then she was like that proverbial fine wine – she aged so gracefully. Just so gracefully, and I thought she was going to be mine forever; to outlive me – me; who was so much older than she was. But she died.

And now there is a house sitting there that is a ghost of a home. The echoes of love are contained within its walls; I can still feel her in there. I know she listens to me. I walked through all those rooms today, trying to find a way to tell her that I’m putting our home up for sale – our lives and all the things we were for each other while we were together.

Soon even the echoes will be gone, the walls will be owned by someone else, and there will be only memories left for me, with no anchor of “home” to know them in.

How will I stand that?

Will she feel betrayed?

I’m sure she knows already what I’ve decided to do, even though I couldn’t say it.

I feel desolation within her – if that’s possible. I don’t know if my conscience is playing tricks on me or what. But I feel a sorrow so much greater than anything my own heart could pour out on its own. It must be coming from her heart, as well.

This twin sorrow that weighs just so heavy on me. It’s hers, too. I’m sure of it.

Does she blame me? Is that what this heavy weight is all about?

Whatever it is, I just can’t carry it. I can’t. It’ll break me. Honey, I’m gonna break.


You’ve said that no one was ever there for you so you learned how to count on the angels to carry you.

But this is new to me. I don’t know how to do it, how to depend on them. But I need to be carried now. That’s for sure.


I called my oldest girl first. She’s easier to talk to. It took her by surprise – all this. I know it did.

I asked her not to call you, though. And not to blame you. To keep you out of this equation. That the house going up for sale has nothing to do with you.

Of course, it has everything to do with you. I just meant it was my decision. I’m not some old rich man being coerced by a stranger. No one’s inheritance is going out the window.

She called my younger daughter, of course, and now it’s devolved into her histrionics. Furious texting and then that angry face-time thing.

I’ve given them both so much of my money already. But this can’t be a discussion about my money. This is love I’m talking about.

I need them to see that. And if they can’t see it, I need everyone to just be quiet for now. Just shut up and be quiet.

Yes. I know it’s redundant.

But if I hear one more word about my money – well. Everyone’s too old to go across my knee anymore, so everyone’s just gonna go to their rooms. Including me. I’ve had it.


Yes, I know it’s your room.

You’re cute, honey. You make me smile even while I’m so angry with those two. Those girls. Those girls I gave so much life to – the girls I helped teach how to talk – which I regret now. And how to type. That younger one keeps texting me, even though I told her to let it rest for tonight.

I turned the sound off on my phone so that she wouldn’t keep pinging at me. But I keep seeing those little streams of text springing up, assaulting my eyes and then my intelligence.

When I married my second wife, I had to coax those girls into liking her; into coming around to meet her, into being polite. I don’t want to trivialize it now, because it meant so much to me that they all eventually got along. More than just “got along,” they acted warm together – like family, you know? Family on a real good day.

She was a wonderful woman and they loved her, and that meant the world to me. It gave me a second chance with those girls, you know? I could try to repair some stuff among us – make us sort of like a family again. A new family. They still had their mother, of course, but my second wife was there for them, emotionally. Without the baggage of real motherhood. It worked so well. Especially holidays – Christmas. It was always so nice. No screaming. No cocaine. No memories of cocaine, even. Just kindness and people being nice.

At moments like this it’s as if they’re forgetting that I’m the one whose life was blown open, whose heart was shattered most when she died. My conversations ended. My need to know what her plans were for the day; what were we having for dinner or did she want to go out? Did she want to make love, was she tired, did she feel good, did she sleep all right, who’s doing the laundry? Then: where the fuck did she keep everything that I couldn’t find anymore?

Fuck. My life ended when she died.

I bought that house for her to live in as my wife. What makes those girls think I could be so carefree or reckless about parting with it?

I love you. With you, I’m alive again. I got my life back. I might be dying, yes, thank you, girls; I know that. And I have to be more mindful. But I got my goddamn life back. Why do I have to justify that to two little girls who were so helpless without me? Whose mother was so strung out on drugs when they were barely adolescents that I had to try my best to be both a father and a mother to them when I wasn’t thousands of miles away from them, on the road, making that stupid crazy fortune that they’re freaking out about now.

It’s none of their business if I want to sell that fucking house. It wasn’t their home, it was mine. Mine and my wife’s. They were grown already. They had homes of their own – that I paid for. Christ.

And it’s not that house. It’s you. That’s what’s freaking them out. You. Where did you come from?

Of course I saw it coming. Of course, I did.

I know my girls.

They make it sound like they’re worried about my money. But it’s you.

They’re worried about having to be sectioned off inside my heart again. Me and one more woman, getting all my love. But it isn’t like that. There are permanent places inside my heart for each of my daughters. I’ll take those loving places with me to the grave and far beyond the grave. I’m gonna love them forever. I’m gonna be there for them in spirit, always – when it comes to that. I’m gonna watch out for them. Always. They’re my girls. They’re my great big grown up women who are still and who always will be my girls.

I wish they could see that.

I hope I don’t have to die for them to see that.


The Profane

THAT’S ALL I’M ASKING you. Just try to see this how I see it and it won’t scare you. George’ll be driving.

He’s a good driver. He can handle a fast car. The only thing we have to be careful about is the Highway Patrol. We don’t want to get caught going 200 mph in the middle of the night. Then everybody’s gonna know you’re name, honey, but only as the girl who was naked in the backseat of that speeding car with two fully-clothed famous guys.

And depending on which Statelines we’ve crossed, we might even be called fornicators. But that’ll just be the icing on our cake, won’t it?

No, we aren’t gonna cross any Statelines. I was just saying that to be funny. We’re not gonna go far. We’re just gonna go fast. In the dark. On the freeway. All that motion, those wheels taking us to the edge.

Everyone likes to have sex in a moving vehicle – once you’ve already had it, that is. There’s nothing else like it. I used to love making love with that first wife on my bus, when the girls were so little and sometimes they’d all come out with me on the road for a few shows out there in the middle of America. Summertime. School was out. All of us were happy.

There is something about those tires zooming, the road flying by underneath you. Streetlights, headlights, taillights. All of it cradled in darkness that expands into nowhere while you sail through it. And preferably with a naked girl under you. Or in your case, a man – me – on top of you; my cock taking you all the way home.

The road at night is the motion of sex. It is, honey. Even those little girls of mine – I knew what was going on with those two; in that bunk they shared on that bus. All that giggling under the sheets. All that summertime in their heads. I acted like I didn’t know what they were doing. Let them have their once-in-a-lifetime world together, you know? The childhood thrills of everything new. It all goes by so fast. Just so fast.

Even back then, I knew their worlds were flying away from me, seeking their own directions.

Somedays, though, it was all just too good. It was impossible to be melancholy. There were fireworks filling the sky at night, every night; falling in that cascade of diamonds and fire. Sometimes that feels like what America is in the summer: Fireworks at night. A boom of noise and the feeling like we’re poised on the edge of something breathless. Bodies alive with promise. With hope – and a little bit of that Eros. No matter how young you are or how old.

All of that is the motion of the road.

When you’re in love. And so happy.


Yeah, it’s called a Hellcat. Expect a fast ride, honey, but don’t expect it to be comfortable. And just hold on.

No, not to me. To the backseat here. Somehow. I don’t know how. Just somehow. Because we’re gonna go – zero to, whoa, sixty in, like, 3 seconds – shit.


I have no clue what prompted George to lower those windows but it sure is adding to the thrill of this thing. That rush of wind. That cold roar. That feeling like the stars must be exploding out there in that black sky over the freeway because in here, in this backseat with you, honey, the noise, the power, the speed, my cock inside you, and those sounds you’re making. Good lord. Can anything really be this fun? I feel like a goddamn kid again. Jesus.


When I was a little boy, for the most part the world was a quieter place. Not so much inside my house because you know my dad was a drunk, but the world, just in general. It felt so much more predictable. Even the thrills were quieter, more common place, but still such fun.

Just riding my bike. Or chasing my brother around the yard with that garden hose, spraying ice cold water on him on a hot summer day. Then learning how to play a guitar. Then playing it for people who liked to hear me play. Hell, even smoking a cigarette back then – it was a thrill, because I was just a kid, getting away with something I knew I wasn’t supposed to do.

Then standing back in all my shyness, watching the girls go by; that thrill turned into something mighty, I can tell you. It propelled me out into the world and gave me something to strive for. To leave home for. My girl and my guitar – out into the world we went.

It was almost all about the sex then. The music and the sex. Music first; sex a very, very close second. You almost couldn’t see the difference, some nights. We were just so young.


Look at me, honey. Just let me look into your eyes. Who knows when we might get a thrill like this again? So much of life is already behind us. In that rearview mirror, don’t you see? Images to remember now; not to be truly felt anymore. Let’s take this one moment. Let me see your face, alive with life, with lust, with urgency and grace. Your eyes that I will never forget; the beauty in them that I will take with me to that higher place.

What is it about making love with you – about fucking you so hard – that makes me want to carry your beauty inside me forever, sear the sight of your face into my memory for all time?

My cock going in you. You’re so hot, so wet – it takes over. It just takes over.

Hold tight to me, honey. This is a fast car. Such a fast car. We might even catch tomorrow at this speed and I don’t want to miss the thrill of you coming with me while I’ve got you in my arms.


You know what George said to me before – he’s such a tits guy. You know what he said? He always likes to fuck you missionary-style because those tits of yours bounce like crazy. He said that to me. Funny, isn’t it? That he trusts me enough to say a thing like that?

Like I won’t haul off and deck him for staring at my girl’s tits.

Like it’s okay to fuck you that hard.

To have a preference for how he likes to fuck you best.

And you’re my girl.

Oh god.

I love to fuck you. Jesus.

I love to fuck you.


Turn over.

I know. I know we’re going fast. Just try to.

I gotta have you that way, that’s all.

I gotta have you that way.

You’re my girl. You gotta let me fuck you like I say.

You’re my girl, honey. My girl.

Oh yeah. Oh man. Up a little. Lift up. Yeah.

That’s right. I wanna hear you say it. Tell me that you’re my girl; my dirty little soaking slutty girl. Say it. Say it just like that. Say it so I can hear you. No one else.

No, not with your face buried in the car seat. Turn this way a little, honey. I wanna hear you: You’re my soaking slutty dirty little girl.

And then I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’re gonna wish it was tomorrow already. But I won’t stop fucking you not even then. I won’t stop. I am just too goddamn hard. Jesus.

Not gonna let your pussy get away from me. Not now, not ever.

Your pussy is mine, hon. Don’t even try.


“Did you hear that, George? Can you hear me in all this – noise?

She’s mine – this conquered girl. Mine.”

Oh yeah.

This hot little pussy is all

All of it




You know what I like about fucking you, now that we’re old?

Okay – older.

I can come in you without worrying about having more mouths to feed.

You’re the best, honey. I love you. Thanks for that.

You’re so fun.


My second wife – she was so young. Not to make you feel old or anything. Because you’re perfect just at the age you are. But she was so young that we still had to worry about that.

Imagine me, at my age, with a brand new mouth to feed.

We just had to be careful. All the time.

Jesus, I cannot believe she’s gone.


I’m sorry I said that.

It just slipped out.

I didn’t mean to ruin your moment.

My moment.

My moment in your sun.

I’m so sorry I said it.


The Sacred

THIS IS WHAT GRIEF IS. AS SOON AS you think, I’m managing, I’m handling –bang – it’s right back. Loss, and all that it takes from you, robs you of.

Yes, loss is part of the flow of life. Nothing blooms all the time. Death comes. It’s just “transitioning” to something else. I know all this. I accept it and internalize it, and yet, grief still swoops down on me when I least expect it and commands my complete attention. Even when I’ve just been having the time of my life.

And still grief is sacred. Anything that pierces the heart has gotta be sacred, otherwise, how can you process such pain?

Let’s make it all sacred – all the things we can’t comprehend about being here. If it’s incomprehensible, let’s call it sacred, okay? That way, there’s less of a reason to shoot ourselves.

And you, being with you is sacred to me, too. Not because I find you incomprehensible. But because you give your love to me so readily, so easily. What other woman, of all the myriad women I have known, would agree to get into the backseat of some other guy’s car and take off all her clothes just because I wanted to go really fast while having sex with her on the freeway in the middle of the night?

It’s not just love, it’s your spirit. That’s what always calls me, frees me, keeps me wanting to be right here with you rather than anywhere else on Earth, even though everywhere else on Earth keeps calling to me, too, because the fans are everywhere now. Just everywhere.

And that’s sacred to me, too. Because that’s incomprehensible to me on so many levels – all those fans, some of whom don’t even speak my language but who understand the music – and music comes from the unknowable higher place, where language is not needed, and so this also tells me I’m blessed. Blessed down to my very soul.

Is this what it means to get old? I would not have expected to live this long in the first place. But now that I have, well, here it fucking is.

Crying one minute from so much loss.

Crying the next minute from too much joy.

Then lighting a cigarette, knowing that it’s killing me, but I have never been able to resist smoking a cigarette while sitting under a billion stars on a night so full of promise with a woman I so dearly love.

It took a lifetime to get just right here.

Let’s celebrate that, honey. You and me.

And George.

I forgot he was still here.


I think it’s cool that you wanna drive this thing. All this horsepower and just naked you, wrapped in your little blue trench coat. Not even any shoes on your feet.

Go for it, honey. It’s not called a Hellcat for nothing. And you sure know how to raise hell when you feel like it.

I think it’s cool that George is even letting you – he never lets me drive this thing.


Oh man, honey.

Something, it’s just not…


© 2018 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

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