Buona giornata!

It was another one of those incredibly beautiful mornings around here, gang.

I awoke at 5am to that mighty chorus of Muskingum County birds!  All the windows were open, a warm breeze was filling the house. My bed was so incredibly comfortable, and I was, like, totally aroused. Like, for real.

I’m not gonna complain or anything. Because I’d rather spring from the depths of sleep totally ready to make love, than, you know, wake up and think, oh crap, it’s another day.

Still. I’m just not sure where that’s coming from and it’s happening a lot lately.  And it wasn’t because of my dream. I  remembered my dream and it was interesting & complex, but it certainly wasn’t anything that could be considered even remotely erotic.

So who knows. But it’s a wonderful way to wake up. And it’s happening a lot now.

It was a great day yesterday. I made good progress with Chapter 22 of Blessed By Light.  Made good progress in both the Italian lessons and learning the new guitar material, too.

Oh, and I stopped in at the hardware store in town and bought a small pair of wire cutters.  I guess I’m committed to becoming the Queen of Guitar String-Changers in Muskingum County now…

So it was just a really good day.

I guess loyal readers of this lofty blog know that I’m on Instagram. I actually joined Instagram when it very first launched, but I hate social media, so I never did anything with it. Until Sandra forced me to get active on Instagram for the sole reason that she didn’t want to.

She hates social media worse than I do.  But since I write for her and, in some ways, work for her,  I agreed to do it.  Mostly to promote her projects.  But once I really got on Instagram, I started to just love it.

So I’m on it a lot. But 95% of the people I’m following – I have no clue who they are. Not even the tiniest clue. I mostly follow painters, photographers, and musicians from all over the world.  And a lot of the people I follow are extremely famous, and yet I still have no clue who they are. I can tell by their photos that a heck of a lot of people in the world do know who they are, but not me.  But I still enjoy looking at their photos. Each photo is a little life story unto itself.

And when it comes to the 4% of people that I follow on Instagram who are famous and I do know who they are, well, as you know already, I get totally pulled in to their photos.  And some of those photos make me seriously ponder. Some times it’s what they’re not saying that just astounds me. And so I ponder.

I’m a top-notch ponderer.

Dana Petty (Tom’s widow) doesn’t post very often and when she does it’s usually short videos of butterflies in her garden or something like that. But this past week, she’s been posting more personal stuff about Tom and the past and the loss. And posting at weird times – like at 3am. And I could tell she was grieving. Plus she was having a birthday.

Yesterday, she posted a photo of herself and her immediate family, out to dinner in LA, celebrating her birthday. And she looked positively ethereal. Really just ageless and just so pretty.  All that long, straight  blonde hair. And she never seems to wear much make-up. She’s just this genuinely pretty woman, who looked about 17 on her birthday. Honestly.  So I wrote something to her about that.

And what she wrote back really gave me pause, you know?  It is so clear that none of this is easy for her, at all. That she’s trying really, really hard to just keep on “keeping on”.

Instagram can be just so revelatory in that way.

I follow his daughters, too.  From a distance. It makes me feel kind of creepy to do that. To “follow” people’s children.  I mean, they’re grown women, both artists, and both so much like they’re dad as far as they’re temperaments, and their politics. They’re outspoken and sort of iconoclastic.

But I try to stay clear of people’s kids. And famous people’s kids are all over Instagram. But something about it just strikes me as so strange. Inherited fame, I mean. And being on Instagram because of that.

One famous kid of a famous person that I absolutely adore is Theodora Richards. I truly adore her, but I still won’t follow her because I think it’s creepy. I follow her dad, of course, because I’ve been in love with Keith since I was 12 years old.

But Theodora is just like Keith. Like, seriously. She’s really pretty, but looks more like Keith than like Patti, and has this awesome mind of her own. She doesn’t seem to give much of a fuck about what anybody thinks about anything. Plus, she does stuff. Actual stuff. She doesn’t just “model” – Keith has a seriously huge contingent of models in his sphere.  Successful models. Super models, even.

I have nothing against models, you know. But they just don’t interest me.  I was a professional model in my late teens, before moving to New York, so I know that it’s hard work and hard to be a really good model.  You have to figure out how to become a complete blank so that whatever you’re wearing takes over you, and not the other way around. Designers don’t want your personality; they want their designs or their ideas to become your personality.

So if you have a lot of thoughts in your head that are of interest to you, you might not want to become a model.

This is an actual conversation I had with my agent – my last conversation with him – when I was a professional model. I was 19:

HIM (matter-of-factly): “No one gives a fuck what you think. You’re not being paid to think. You’re a piece of meat, and if that bothers you, then you’re in the wrong business and you better get out.”

ME: (Said nothing. Turned around. Left. Got out.)

The entire agency tried to apologize for him, and kept calling, wanting me to come back. But, honestly, I was a writer.  It just wasn’t for me.

Theodora Richards is not a good model, because her attitude and unruly personality take over everything in the picture. Even though all she’s doing is just standing there.  Her attitude is larger than life and it’s all you can see in the shot, and that’s definitely not what a designer wants. I’ve noticed, though, that when she does do some modeling, she’s always almost entirely naked, which I think is a really good indicator that she doesn’t give a fuck what other people might want her to wear.

Anyway, I love her! But I refuse to follow her on Instagram. She bleeds over sometimes into Keith’s feed, but that’s as far as I go.

Okay!! I leave you with 2 things today. Some of what I wrote yesterday in Blessed By Light. And then what I was listening to at breakfast today,  Good Good Day, by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.

So have a good, good day, wherever you are in the world! Thanks for visiting. I love you, guys! See ya.

[Excerpted from Chapter 22, Blessed By Light.  He's just survived a heart attack, his best friend has been killed, he's been forced to quit smoking after nearly 60 years of being a smoker, and now the press has found out who his new girlfriend is and where he's living. He's trying to stop taking it out on her and just make love.]

I love you, okay?

Let’s just start there. And then build on it, go places with it. Find a rhythm with our bodies that puts us in sync with ourselves and with everything that we call sacred in this world, this life, and what we’ve come to know about each other. And let’s make love.

It’s so fragile, honey; all of it. In a heartbeat, a gunshot, or a darting stray cat on the road, it’s all over.

And, yes, there’s the Light. And, yes, it blesses us, all of us, ultimately. I know this for sure. But here we are for now. Still among the living. Staking our claim in it, together. In life and in love.

Come here. Right now.

Lie on top of me. 

You look so beautiful when you’re naked.


Who are we now? When I hold you in my arms like this, who are we? We were once naked strangers together, remember that, honey? It wasn’t so long ago, either.

Now I know every curve of you, every round or flat or secret place, and every sound you make that goes along with it, with touching you there.

I thank God that we are never again gonna be strangers to each other. We are eternally connected now. Here or in the hereafter, honey, there is always gonna be a part of you that belongs to me. You’re my girl.

And I’ll never forget that night when you were astride me, my arms full of you; your breasts pressing against my chest, and my cock all the way up in you. George was with us. But, for a change, he was the one sitting it out. He was right next to us on the bed, though.

But in that moment, you were all mine and I was all yours and you looked down into my face, your hair hanging loose, falling so soft all over me. Candle light dancing in the room.

And you said to me, so quietly that I almost didn’t hear you at first, “You’re mine,” you said. “Mine.”

And I could see in your eyes where you were speaking from – that fully aroused place.  I couldn’t have filled you up fuller if I tried. You were right down on me, taking every inch of me up inside you, which is usually not easy for you to do.

I was overwhelmed by you that night.

Your arms at either side of my head. You were completely surrounding me, and you kept whispering it right in my face. “Mine,” you said. “You’re mine.”

I didn’t know if George heard you. It didn’t matter. He probably did. But what I really heard, and maybe what he really heard, too, since he knew me so well for so long, was that you knew by then that, except for that wife I had loved more than life itself, there had been way too many girls.

All those years of me living my life without you in it.

Until that first night I saw you, when my heart was pulled right up into you from out of nowhere.

Honestly, I did not know I was gonna stay. I was taking each day as it came. I thought you were, too, but I really didn’t know and didn’t ask.

And then you said: Mine.

And I surrendered to you. Right then. To that word. I became yours. Although you didn’t know it for sure because I didn’t say it. But my heart surrendered to that sound: Mine.

And I thought to myself, Okay, baby. Forever, and always, and only.

You don’t ever talk about getting married. I don’t think you want that. I don’t know if I wanna take that road anymore, either. But I belong to you. I know that for sure.

And I know for sure that it’s what I want.

Move over, come on.

Lie back.

I wanna get on top of you, and get all the way in.

Honey, do that thing you do with your legs up over my shoulders.

I wanna listen to those cries you make, those tiny whimpering sounds that make you sound like such a grown up girl. I need to hear that right up close to my ear, honey. Right now.

Oh fuck.

I love it when you make that sound.

Hold on to me. This is where the rhythm comes in for real.

And I have never missed a beat.

Jesus Christ. Who the hell is at the front door?


It’s my girls.

What are they doing here at this hour? Why the hell didn’t they call first? Or at least send me one of those angry-daughter texts that they’re both getting so damn good at.


You just stay here. Let me find out what’s going on. The two of them together. It can’t be good. They’ve definitely come loaded for bear.

© - 2019 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

See the little cloud up in the sky
It’s a good good day today
See the little cloud pass on by
It’s a good good day today
Mary comes now, let Mary be
Can you see her down on the street?
Mary’s laughing ’cause Mary sees
That she’s a-wearin’ that dress for me

There can be times
Yeah… When all things come together
Yeah… Under a clear sky and you can believe
Yeah… You hold your breath for this moment
Yeah… But do not breathe for this day I know
Is a good day, yes I know
It’s a good day, yeah I know
Hear her feet skipping up the stairs
It’s a good good day today
She is the answer to all of my prayers
It’s a good good day today
Mary comes now, she don’t knock
‘Cause she’s runnin’ on her own little clock
Mary’s laughing ’cause Mary knows
That this day was made for us
And any fool knows… yeah
And any fool sees
That the future… yeah
Is a-down on its knees
But let ’em all cry, let ’em weep
Let those tears roll down their cheeks

‘Cause I can believe in the one
That is standing in front of me
Oh this day, don’t you know
Is a good day, yes I know
It’s a good day, I told you so
See her breasts how they rise and fall
It’s a good good day today
And she knows I’ve used that line before
It’s a good good day today
Mary’s laughing, she don’t mind
‘Cause she knows she’s one of a kind
Mary’s happy just to be
Standing next to me
And any fool knows
That the wind always blows
Something to someone
Once in a while, so let it rain, let it fall
Let the wind howl through your door
‘Cause right now for this moment
I’ll forever be
Standing next to her
On this day, which I know
Is a good day, yeah I know
Oh, it’s a good day, I told you so

c- Nick Cave

Watch Out! Here Comes Trouble!

I didn’t move much from the desk yesterday,  but oddly enough, instead of having more sentences in Chapter 22, I now have noticeably fewer.

It was just one of those days.

I stared at the manuscript. Read it. Re-read it. Re-read it, yet again and then still more. Stared at it some more, too. Wrote some stuff. Deleted it.  Wrote some other stuff. Deleted that, too.

And then realized that the sentence that had come before it was the real culprit and had to go. And then on & on, until I now have a 5-sentence opening paragraph left for Chapter 22 and that’s it.

10 hours at the desk yesterday yielded less than I’d started out with.

But the good news is that I didn’t fuck up the coffee today! It looks just like coffee’s supposed to look and tastes like coffee’s supposed to taste.  And I’m feeling really confident about the prospects for Chapter 22’s growth this morning. I know the Muse is hanging around. I can feel him.

I just have to make that 20-mile trek into town and buy food and then we’ll be good to go around here.

I had my first quiz in Italian last night! And I didn’t do so terrible!

I did okay, actually. But I think that, for now, most of my correct answers were just subconscious guesses based on the similarities between Italian and French and I know French pretty well. But it was only my first week.  And I have a year to learn Italian. Plus the app is still really fun. I still look forward to doing it every day and feel a little disappointed when the daily lesson is over. So that says a lot right there.

And I worked for a couple of hours on the guitar last night. I still have a lot of ground to cover in the new material before I can incorporate it in to teaching piano.  So I have to sort of absorb it at breakneck speed. But it really is fun.

Sadly, though, I have to confront the fact that I need new strings.  I have been playing guitar for [heavy sigh] 50 years. And I still hate changing the strings. I usually don’t ever pull the “helpless girl” card in any area of my life.  I take care of myself, come what may in this world.


When it comes to changing my guitar strings, I go from this gal:

To this gal:

Image result for vintage illustrations of helpless little girl

And I live completely alone now in the middle of fucking nowhere. Who’s gonna help me change my guitar strings??!!

When I played professionally in NY,  my bands consisted almost exclusively of guys. And I don’t know what it is, but they seem to change guitar strings like they’re in a pit crew for NASCAR or something. They do it so fucking fast, it’s ridiculous.

I would always try to change my own strings, but they would have to just stand there and smoke, like, an entire pack of cigarettes and I’d still be trying to change the one string. Until, finally, one of them would just go insane and grab my guitar and say, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, just let me do that for you!”

And then the string would be changed, snipped, and in tune in a nanosecond.

So I got used to guys changing my guitar strings. Even though, in the rest of my world, I’m perfectly capable of, you know, doing stuff.

However, the time has come where I have had to face the fact that I really need new strings.  Since the guitar store is 20 miles away and (I’ve discovered) really easily avoided, I forced myself to order some Black Diamond silver strings online. They should arrive momentarily.

And if the UPS driver doesn’t happen to play guitar…

Well, all in all, this is going to be a really big year for me, all the way around!

All righty.

Well, I’m learning new stuff every day. And yesterday, I discovered that people in Copenhagen prefer not to post to Instagram in English. So I’m only making an educated guess when I say that they all seemed to love Nick Cave’s Conversation last night!

However, what they do do, is post photos in color! None of this artsy black & white stuff, like the diabolical Norwegians did.  So now I’ve discovered that the very same suit in all these different photos from last night – yes, from one concert – can look either olive green-ish, gray, or beige-ish/tan.

So, clearly, me and this obsession with Nick Cave’s oddly colorless suit, that I don’t even understand how it got started anymore. Well, clearly, since this tour is going to go on for most of the summer, and since I have a ton of fucking stuff in my brain already, I need to stop obsessing about his suit; stop pondering it so intensely on my phone and stop trying to figure out what color it actually is.

Clearly,  that way madness lies; let me shun that!!

Okay!! (Methinks I’m probably still gonna obsess about that darn suit, but we’ll just see.)

Meanwhile, gang, have a wonderful Wednesday, wherever you are in the world!! I leave you with this!! My breakfast-listening music from the past couple mornings. Johnny Cash singing The Long Black Veil. Thanks for visiting. I love you, guys! See ya!

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?!

Well, for starters:  the coffee. But I think that’s the only thing I’m gonna screw up today!

I think my mind was wandering when I was setting up the percolator last night because  the coffee came out looking almost like water this morning. Unfortunately, I slept in until 6:15am today, so rather than be patient and wait and make a whole new pot, I opted for those caffeine drops in a glass of water and off we go.

I am so sensitive to caffeine, though, that those drops will either make me hone in on my laptop for hours and write THE most amazing chapter in Blessed By Light today, or I’ll vacuum the entire house and then maybe go outside and rake leaves or something!

Yes, I know it’s the height of Spring! But a heck of a lot of dead fall leaves are still in my front yard and on my front porch and in heaps in my front garden and also strewn heavily about on my front sidewalk. And if you’re curious – yes! I am the only one on the whole block who still has dead leaves hanging around, and quite a prodigious amount, at that.

I do have lawn care guys all summer, but so far it’s only been one guy who’s come this month and he’s had his hands full just trying to contend with the staggering amount of weeds around here that we affectionately refer to as “my backyard.”

The other lawn care guy, who is of Native American ancestral heritage, has been in the wilds of incredibly beautiful Coshocton County at a Pow Wow (which I think means bonfires and a lot of drums and smoking a lot of weed, but I’m not 100% positive about that) and he won’t be coming around to help until next week – wherein, I imagine this place is going to start looking really nice because Memorial Day weekend is when I always plant all the flowers in the flower boxes and the outside of the house starts to look so pretty that all the neighbors overlook my absolute inability to give a fuck about raking my leaves in November when everybody else gets out there and does it.

(Another thing I refuse to do is shovel snow. And the minute it snows, all my neighbors are out there, dutifully shoveling their 2 feet of fucking sidewalk! But I refuse to be drawn in to their guilt trips because I have an enormous amount of sidewalk. Not just in front of my (dead-leaf-strewn) house, but I have a corner lot and the sidewalk along the side of my house goes clear past my barn to the alley in back.  In case you’re curious, that’s far. It’s just not fair. It’s way more work than any of my neighbors have to do so I just refuse to do it. I’ve noticed that the snow always eventually melts anyway.)

Yes, me. Homeowner extraordinaire!


Well, yesterday was so cool! Not only am I making actual progress with my studies of Italian this time around, but in an effort to help the guy learn piano without  teaching him how to read music (which is something he doesn’t want to learn), I was investigating teaching methods that rely on improvisation and that dispense with music notes, theory & composition entirely.

(I’m glad I know how to read music. However, Music Theory & Composition, in case you were curious, gang, will just kill you. It will just turn you into a flat dead thing inside. It will pulverize your brain with a heavy wooden meat mallet and it will take a pair of wire cutters to your musical imagination and snip it right off. I took 2 grueling years of Theory & Composition many, many, many moons ago so I know whence I speak.)

But I found a teaching system that is just awesome, gang. I spent a few hours going over it last night. I only spent a handful of minutes (so far) going over the piano stuff, but the guitar stuff was  too cool. It is so different from anything I was ever taught by a bazillion guitar teachers when I was growing up and it was really interesting. I got my guitar out and was practicing that stuff for a couple of hours last night. It’s all just fret work, but it’s a whole different approach to it.

I spent enough time looking over the piano stuff to know that I am going to have a whole new way of relating to the piano, too, when all of this is said and done. So it was just really cool.

Between this new way of learning Italian and this new approach to music, it just shows you that if you live long enough, new things come into your consciousness that erase anything old that was really bad.

But the flip-side of that sentiment… I was also thinking a  lot last night about Nick the hit man for the Mob; still just thinking about all the probabilities and probable outcomes that I had never considered before. And up until last night, my conscience had taken solace in the fact that he would have been about 80 now anyway and I liked to imagine that he wasn’t even still alive.

Until I googled him.

Alas, he’s alive & well and still living in Manhattan. Shit, you know? That doesn’t help my conscience at all. That horrible last time I saw him, when he wanted to have “a little chat with me”, and he picked me up in a limo and we drove about half a block to an “Italian” restaurant in Midtown, mob guys everywhere. I was still just 20 years old and absolutely terrified and he, in essence, tore me a new one for killing his baby.

At the time, even though I was too scared to say anything, it made me angry because it was my baby, too, and it was not a decision I had really wanted to make. It was horrible. When I had come out of the anesthesia in the recovery room, there was a radio playing and – I kid you not – Queen was singing “Another One Bites the Dust.” And they were actually singing the chorus when I came out from under and heard it. I sobbed uncontrollably.  The irony was just so not funny.

I cried when they were putting me under and sobbed when I came out from it, because I really wanted my baby but I thought it was the right thing. I couldn’t in good conscience have a kid whose father was a paid killer, right?

And yet, when I was 28 and finally met my own real dad –  a man I absolutely worshiped… He’d been a Navy SEAL in Viet Nam from 1965 until 1975, when Saigon fell. And he killed more people in those ten years than you and I can possibly imagine. More than he even remembered. And he was paid to do that.

What is the real difference there?

But I totally adored him and he loved me like nobody’s business. More than anyone in my life had ever loved me.

And I deprived 2 people of that potential because I guess I thought I knew everything.

I’m not sure yet how to get my conscience to calm the fuck down, but life does indeed go on.

Okay. I’m gonna get started on the novel here now.  And then I’m gonna practice my Italian, then practice my guitar, and wait for the Instagram photos to come in from Copenhagen, where Nick Cave is having a Conversation tonight. And I’m just gonna let everything be all right. It was all such a long time ago.

Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you, See ya.

A Little Work Won’t Kill Ya!

One thing about Peitor is that once he’s in England , it’s really hard to get him to come home. He really loves it there.

He went there this weekend because of the death of his father-in-law, and we were supposed to do some work over the phone while he was on some sort of airport layover on Wednesday.

All of his plans have changed now, though, and he’s taken an Air BNB in a little town on the English Channel, where he’s planning to go and stay, alone, as soon as all the memorial/funeral things are over.   His husband will be flying back to Los Angeles on schedule, without him.

And so that is where Peitor will be when we, of course, work together over the phone  some time this week.

God forbid we miss an opportunity to work together over the phone.  In addition to the scripts we’re writing for Abstract Absurdity, he also has written a (really cool) book that I’ve been editing for him and we very often do that work over the phone, too.

I’ve done a lot of work with him over the phone, over the years, while he’s been in really gorgeous locations with stunning vistas.  He constantly texts me photos of where he’s calling from while we’re working together over the phone.

It’s really just so weird how much time we’ve spent working with each other over the phone… You’d think that he’d rather just sit there and enjoy the stunning vistas from time to time.

Not that there are stunning vistas at the Algonquin Hotel – it’s in Midtown Manhattan. Still, I’m not planning on working with anyone over the phone while I’m there.

(And in all seriousness, I’m really, really hoping, gang, that I’m going to somehow manage to take care of all the tech rehearsals & any needed re-writes for the play and still make it to both of those Nick Cave shows in NYC without inconveniencing anyone. It’s that show at Lincoln Center that will be the hardest one to manage, schedule-wise, and that’s the one I really don’t want to miss. Not just because I got a great seat; it looks like it’s the kind of theater where you can’t really get a bad seat. But I think the acoustics in that theater are going to be amazing and I just don’t want to miss it, but I also don’t want to seem like some sort of weirdly obsessive person, or anything. )

(YES, I KNOW! I am a weirdly obsessive person! Thank you very much for pointing that out! But I just don’t want people that I’m working with professionally to find that out right away. I want them to get a little deeper in before they find that out…)

But I digress. Parenthetically.

You know, Peitor and I have actually spent a lot of time together, in person, not working. And when we’re doing the “not working” thing, we’re usually laughing really hard. And he has this incredibly good memory, so, often he will text me photos of places in NYC or LA or Palm Springs, where at some point we were together, not working and laughing really hard.

Okay. So speaking of working…

No, I didn’t get any work done on the novel yesterday and I didn’t even try. I could tell my mood was not conducive to writing.

I did do a lot of crying yesterday, though. Throughout the day. I really think it had something to do with that full moon, because I would suddenly find myself thinking about really unexpected things and then just crying. You know, just really short sort of tear-bursts and then I’d stop, but the things I found myself thinking about hurt really deep.

For instance, loyal readers of this lofty blog will no doubt recall that last August, I wrote a post called Mob Guys, Part 1.  Wherein I talked about being 20 years old and moving to NYC and within about 17 seconds of moving there, getting pregnant. And really, really, really wanting that baby, but then finding out that the father (the 40-year-old man that really, really wanted to marry me) was a hit man for the Mob.

And I was so freaked out by this – that he killed people for a living – that I wound up becoming a killer, too, and killing a baby I really, really wanted. Which then enraged him because he really, really wanted that baby, too.

Yesterday, just sort of by chance, I saw this girl. She was wearing black Converse high-tops and a short black sundress. She was all legs. And had really long, straight brown hair. She couldn’t have been more than 17 years old. And there was just something about her that made me think that my kid would have been just like her.

And it started a whole ball of “what ifs?” rolling in my head. Would I have married my first husband if I’d had the baby? Probably not. Would I have eventually married Nick instead (the man in the Mob)? I doubt it, but he certainly would have stayed in my life. And I probably would have never moved away from NYC.

The “what ifs?” really escalated in my head; all the probabilities playing out in my mind. Probabilities that had never occurred to me before, even though I often think about that daughter I didn’t have & I miss her.

And it wasn’t so much the loss of her last night that really got to me, it was the sudden realization that Nick would have made a really great dad. I was completely certain of it, all of the sudden. And that thought had never once occurred to me  before.

As the decades unfolded for me in NYC, the Mob was in my life to varying degrees, over and over. And not to overlook the very real fact that some of those guys do kill people, they also have families that mean the world to them. It is part & parcel of who they are; their love for their families defines them.

When I was 20, and fresh from Ohio, and the Mafia was terrifying to me, I didn’t know any of that stuff. I made the decision based mostly on the fact that I knew I would be a terrible mother at that age. And also because I had been illegitimate when I was born and I hated that fact about me and I didn’t want to pass it along to my own kid. And then, overriding that, was my fear of the Mob.

So, last night, remembering how angry Nick was when he found out that I killed his baby – a baby he really, really, really wanted (I can’t stress that enough, unfortunately); and when it finally occurred to me: Oh, man, he would have made a great dad; he would have loved that kid to the moon and back.

Well, deciding to judge him when I was 20 years old, and deciding to play God, as it were,  without thinking of anybody, really, but myself – realizing all of that 38 years later; that was the hardest part of last night.

I don’t wish that kind of awakening on anybody, gang.

Have a Happy Sunday, If You Dare!

Gosh, it’s a beautiful day here, people.  Just perfect.

All the windows are wide open, and they were like that all through the night (21 windows here). So when I awoke at 5am, I was already in an erotic swoon.

The house was filled with the sounds of the birds singing. I think I could hear every bird in all of Muskingum County! And there was a hint of a breeze. The sun was just starting to come up.  And the magnificent silver maple that’s right outside my 2 front windows creates a sort of sanctuary for me in my room, so it was just so erotic to lie there in my indescribably soft & comfortable bed, sort of surrounded by the amazing leaves on that tree, and the sound of all those birds. I’m not sure why that’s erotic to me, but it is. All that energy of life was just sort of pulsing through me.

That silver maple is an enormous old tree – twice as tall as my 2-story house. And, yes, it’s very, very close to my house and is very, very old.  I love this tree. It has made an enormous difference in how my mind works, you know? It shelters me, in a way – in a sort of “psychic” way. But it also just engages me with so much life, so much energy. And I am praying that the tree is gonna outlive me.

(Most of the Home Insurance people I contacted, however, did not want to bank on the tree outliving me and most of them refused to insure my home because of that tree being so old and so “right on top of my house”.  But we won’t go there right now.)

[UPDATE: Here is a view from my bed, although it’s no longer before dawn, obviously. – Ed.]

My bedroom windows – the view from my bed. All those leaves are from the one maple tree.

I’m not sure if I’m going to work on the novel today or not. I’m kind of in a dreamy mood here, which usually doesn’t bode well for “focusing.”

It’s just sort of a weird energy day – maybe the full moon is involved, I don’t know. But I’ve been out of bed for 2 hours and I’ve changed my shirt 6 times! I’ve had 6 different shirts on in 2 hours.  (For some reason, I’m okay with the bottom half of what I’m wearing today, but I can’t decide on a tee shirt that doesn’t make me crazy.) (Oh, and I officially have Old-Lady Arms!! I briefly put on a black tank top and there they were; after having been so good to me for nearly 59 years, my upper arms are now wrinkly, old lady arms!! Alas, it’s going to be a cold day in Hell before I put on that tank top again…)

And speaking of clothing that makes me crazy, Norwegians are diabolical!

The first Instagram post from the Conversations with Nick Cave out of Oslo last night was in full color and clearly shows Nick Cave wearing either a black suit or maybe a dark blue suit. I can’t tell for sure, but it’s definitely not the beige-ish one.  However, he’s not on stage, he seems to be maybe outside the stage door? So it doesn’t count. So I waited for other posts to come in from Oslo last night, and every one of those diabolical Norwegians posted their Instagram photos in black & white!!! What the fuck is that, you know? How can I possibly tell what color that other suit is?

It was just too funny. Why the fuck do I have to get so obsessed with this fucking suit?! I was actually doing just fine until I saw all the black & white photos, and then it was, like: okay, you’re doing this on purpose. All of Oslo is just fucking with me…

All righty!

Jack White and the Raconteurs have a new album coming out in a few weeks, and the song they dropped on Friday, “Help Me Stranger,” is really catchy and addictive. I love it! But don’t just take my word for it – try it out on your own wee bonny ears and see what you think!

But, alas, as catchy as that song is, that’s not what I was singing this morning as I was lying there in my little swoon in my tree-protected bed! No, not at all!  I was singing about gamboling lambs and babbling brooks!! So I also leave you with “Breathless”. (I love the little bunnies in this video, gang. They’re too cute.)

And on that happy note…

Have a really happy Sunday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting,! I love you guys. See ya.

What Will I Do with Myself?!

Peitor and I won’t be having our usual Saturday morning conference call to work on the micro-short film scripts today.

His father-in-law in England died. So he’s off to London. But he has some sort of airport layover for several hours on Wednesday, so we’re going to work then. While he’s in the airport.  I don’t know if I will regale him yet with my newfound mastery of Italian.

We’re such workaholics. God forbid we just take a week off. If we didn’t have so much fun working together, we probably would. Plus, I get the feeling that he prefers to not sit in an airport for hours, talking to his husband. He’d rather be distracted.

It’s funny, but even though my second marriage was just bursting with all sorts of dysfunctional issues (and I mean bursting), we always traveled well together. When we were traveling, we always had a good time.  We talked a lot; we laughed a lot together.

Until Copenhagen.

Overall, we had a good time in Copenhagen, but in the hotel room, we were talking about something. He was sitting on the bed, I was standing over by the closet. It was the middle of the afternoon.  I don’t recall what we were talking about, but I suddenly felt buried alive in an avalanche of ennui and I thought to myself, I’ve got to get a divorce.

It was really sad, but at that moment, it was over for me. It took me a couple more months to actually say it out loud. I can fight off pretty much anything except ennui. I can find all sorts of reasons for staying with someone if my mind is still actively engaged.

Of course, in the middle of all that ennui, I had met Mikey Rivera.  And I was trying really, really, REALLY hard not to fall in love with him. Well, I was already in love with him because it was love at first sight for both of us, but I was trying really hard not to do anything about it.

And he, Mikey, was being very restrained and respectful because of course he knew I was married.  But he would call me on my private number and say, “Just coffee, come on. I gotta see you. We’ll just have a cup of coffee.”

And that’s all it would be, just coffee. But always the most intense cup of coffee known to man. Because I was trying so hard to figure out what the hell I was going to do about my marriage, while staring across at Mikey from the safety of my fully clothed cup of coffee. And Mikey was sort of, you know, sitting across from me, patiently thinking: There has never been a woman on Earth who has ever NOT fucked me, so I have all the time in the world.

He was a walking Latino sex machine. And we used to listen to Tom Jones records all the time. His Greatest Hits. We each bought a copy of the same CD and played it constantly when we were apart.

My advice to you is that if you’re trying really hard to not have sex with somebody whose sole reason for being on the planet is to have sex with you, DON’T listen to Tom Jones, for Christ’s sake.

And then it seemed like everywhere I went, a Tom Jones song would suddenly spring from some sort of sound system. When I was in London, getting that award for Neptune & Surf, “It’s Not Unusual” came springing from some sort of muzak in a clothing store and the song literally overwhelmed me and I knew at that moment that I was going straight back to New York to fuck Mikey Rivera…

Which I did, finally. We went to one of those glamorous “fuck motels”, which were all over New York back then – you rent a room for 4 hours and your marriage is pulverized by the time they want the room back.

I totally blame Tom Jones for making Mikey Rivera impossible to resist. (And never mind his Greatest Hits, but his versions of “She Drives Me Crazy” and “Sex Bomb” were all over the sound systems in NYC back then. It was just a losing battle.) (Yes, if you’ve read my novel Freak Parade, then you recognize all of this; this is where all of that came from.)

Okay, well. since I’m not working with Peitor today, I’m just gonna hang out and work on Blessed By Light.

And btw, my obsession with Nick Cave’s suit seems to have subsided. Now I’m trying to figure out if I should give one of those tickets away.  Mostly because I still find it so baffling that I now have tickets to 2 shows. And I’m going to be up to my eyeballs in rehearsals for my play. And I feel like everyone, especially Sandra, is going to think I’m insane.

ME: “Okay! I’m outta here! Just carry on without me.”

THEM: “Where are you going this time?!”

ME: “To go listen to total strangers ask Nick Cave a bunch of questions.”

THEM: “But didn’t you just do that?!”

ME: “Um… yes, I did.”

So I keep thinking I should give one of the tickets away. But there’s no way I’m giving away the Lincoln Center ticket, because not only is it an incredible seat, but the theater itself is unbelievable! But if I give away the ticket to Town Hall then what do I do about my suite at the Algonquin Hotel?  That suite costs 17 thousand dollars a night! Am I gonna just go and sit there?

THEM: “Where are you going now?!”

ME: “I have a suite at the Algonquin Hotel.”

THEM (curious and intrigued; their prurient interests peaked): “Really?! Are you having a sexy rendez-vous?”

ME: “No, I’m just gonna sit there. And be unmarried.”

THEM: “But, haven’t you been unmarried for, like, 17 years already?!”

ME: “Yes, but not at the Algonquin.”

Well, something like that… Anyway. I really, really want that room, you know? So then I think that I ‘ll keep both tickets and go to both shows and have my fucking room, finally.

Plus, I really wanna see Nick Cave.

It’s not like it’s my fault or anything that I have this embarrassment of riches right now.

Okay!! Let’s get Saturday happening around here, gang! I hope it’s a good one, wherever you are in the world. I leave you with this! Something to end your marriage by, if indeed, that’s on your list of things to do today! Thanks for visiting! I love you guys. See ya!

Me, again

Well, this is just weird and I feel terribly guilty about it. But it was just too weird.

I wanted to see how that Town Hall theater in Dusseldorf was spelled, so I went to the LIVE section of the Nick Cave web site but the Dusseldorf event was gone, and then I saw, by chance or whatever you call it, that another show had been added in NYC, at Lincoln Center, for Saturday 9/21, when I will already be there in town.

So I clicked on it and saw that tickets were going to go on sale in 3 minutes. So for some reason, I clicked on the “tickets” button anyway, and the tickets were already on sale. And there before me was a little link that said: Get the best seat available, and so, out of curiosity, I thought, well, what is the best seat available? And so I clicked that link, too.

And it was like the best fucking seat. And it was available.  And it was just so weird.  No feeding frenzy. No nothing. Just an amazing seat in the 4th row of the Orchestra, sort of to the side.  And I thought, what the fuck is this? A moment before this, I didn’t even know the concert was even happening.

So I bought the ticket. I clicked the link and they basically said, Here you go! Here’s your ticket.

And it just didn’t seem real.

And now I feel terrible, because some person out there is going to want at least one ticket for either show, and I now have 2 good tickets for both shows.

And I don’t really even understand how that happened.

All the Stars in their Courses

Yesterday was a good day.

I finally finished Chapter 21 in Blessed By Light and also saw the breakdown for Chapter 22 in my head.  It’s going to be another one of those chapters that gets broken down into a/b/c/d. And the titles will be:

  • Sinners
  • Infidels
  • Compadres
  • Diamonds in the Fire

And I think there’s going to be a great big bunch of sex, with his daughters coming to visit unannounced in the middle of that. And, as usual, it won’t go well! Nothing having to do with his daughters seems to ever go well in this book, even though it’s so clear that he loves them. Or he’s trying to.

Anyway, I always get excited when a chapter is completed and I can also see the next one so clearly.

Also! Sandra called yesterday! Yes, when I had finally given up on ever hearing from her again… (not really)

We actually chatted for awhile. And it took a lot of that icky stress off my mind that was starting to accumulate there – you know, stress gathering in the corners.  So I have her pinned down for rehearsals with the director here in August for Tell My Bones, and then a whole week back in New York, with Nick Cave at Town Hall right in the middle of that. And she even thinks that those can be tech rehearsals with the musicians and singers, too.  (I’m of course hoping the director will agree.)

Which also means that my next trip to New York after that will be for the actual performances of the staged reading, and from there it goes to Florida.  So my life just got a whole lot easier, in terms of endlessly driving back & forth to New York.

Except that she also said she’s planning on doing a few staged musical pieces from The Guide to Being Fabulous in NYC (our other play), which I’m going to have to do some script re-writes for.  But it’s at a really high-profile Off-Broadway venue so I’m super excited about that, too. (The Guide to Being Fabulous is the same play we’ll be doing a first-run of in Toronto.)

I’m guessing that all this stuff will happen in early spring, at the same moment that I need to be in Italy, overseeing a writer’s retreat. In Italian.

(I’ll just say here that the folks in Dusseldorf posted a whole lot of photos on Instagram last night of Nick Cave at their Town Hall.  Wow, what a beautiful venue. Just a gorgeous theater. He wore the same suit, though.  Or perhaps he has 17 hundred that only look the same. But it was the same non-color thing.  But the lighting on the stages is always so beautiful, so maybe it’s all just part of the overall lighting/color thing. Or maybe it’s just his new favorite suit and he can’t imagine not wearing it right  now. I actually have no clue.) (I know, I’m obsessing about the suit. Honestly, his suit was the very first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning at 4:40am. I don’t know what’s going on with me and that suit.) (As always, though, the people in Dusseldorf were in heaven.) (Actually, I don’t know if the people in Dusseldorf are always in heaven. What I meant to say is that, like Nick Cave fans everywhere, their response on Instagram to the show last night was off the charts.)

Okay! Enough of the parenthetical intensity.

Monday, I start giving piano lessons! I’m really, really looking forward to that. although he swears up one wall and down the other that he doesn’t want to learn how to read music, just learn how to play the piano. I’ll tell you, though; when you’re just starting out on the piano, it is the easiest time to learn how to read music. It truly is. But whatever he wants, is cool. I certainly don’t want to be one of those Nazi-ish piano teachers.

I’ll say here, though, that most of my piano teachers were wonderful. It was only that one at the Conservatory who was so mean. I actually had a couple of piano teachers who really helped me stay sane, for awhile, anyway. The two teachers knew each other, actually. One of the teachers quit and so the other one took over.

We had a soundproof music room in our house back then, which is where, of course, I had my lessons. And the first teacher, a man, told me, in that soundproof room, that he wasn’t going to be teaching me anymore. And he told me it was because of my mother (adoptive).  My mother was an abusive terror. And he actually told me that he was worried about me being in that kind of household, but that he couldn’t take it anymore and was sorry to be abandoning me, because he thought I was really talented.

That was a very hard thing to hear, and, obviously, it stuck with me. I was 12 at the time.

And then his friend, a woman, took over teaching me. She came into it knowing ahead of time the problems with my mother and so I guess she was able to handle it better. But still, you know, in that soundproof room, she would sometimes say, “Are you okay? You know, if you ever need anyone to talk to, I’m always here for you.”

I was still young, though, and had no clue I was in such an abusive home. I just assumed that all mothers were like that behind closed doors, wanting to smash you down and make you disappear.

However, both of my parents were really supportive of my music. Well, of me playing the piano. They were not thrilled at all when I went to New York with my guitar to be a singer-songwriter.

Anyway. I digress. A little.

I’m looking forward to giving piano lessons. In a small way, it will help me undo everything that ended up being so awful.

Okay, have a great Friday, gang! Wherever you are in the world. I’m gonna get crackin’ here on Blessed By Light – maybe even go so far as to wash my hair today!! You just never know.  Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.

Me at age 12. Quite the piano player by then.

Molto Bene!

Ciao, gang!

Yes, as of yesterday, I  began studying Italian again. It gives me about a year to get thoroughly, totally, and 100% fluent. Yay! We shall see!

Of course, I don’t need to be fluent.  I really only need to get from the Rome airport to the train that takes me to Perugia. Still, as long as I’m studying it, why not try to finally learn the language, right?

I bought the Mondly app. So far, it’s actually really fun. Yesterday, in addition to a bunch of other stuff they threw at me very quickly, I learned how to say: “This is my mother, this is my father, this is my sister, and this is my brother.”

I feel 100% certain that these are 4 sentences I will never need to say while in Italy, but for some reason, these sentences “took,” while the other stuff they went over yesterday, I have already forgotten. But it was only my first day…

And it actually is really fun. It’s set up like a game and it moves pretty fast, so you just sort of have to jump in and your brain starts clicking. It was a nice break from sitting, literally, for hours in front of Blessed By Light yesterday, with very little new stuff coming. I got, maybe, half a page and I was in front of the manuscript from  7am until 7pm.

I took a little time out, of course, to become fluent in Italian. And I also actually left the house yesterday!

Yes, I made myself go outside and take a walk.  It was a gorgeous day, so I made myself walk over to the cemetery. And once I was there, you know the views are so lovely. It’s on a hill looking over the valley, which is full of cornfields that are just now getting planted, with tons of gorgeous hills in the background, trees everywhere, and everything is just so green for miles and miles. And the sky was perfectly blue with those fluffy white clouds. So I stayed a little while before turning around and heading straight back to the cramped little desk.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that I always go to the part of the graveyard where all the founders of this village were buried, nearly 200 years ago. They have the best view of the valley, too.

I usually hang out and talk with them, because I’m writing a really fun & sexy murder mystery “starring” them as the frisky dead people who live in the fictional town of Hurley Falls and must solve a murder among the living, in my other novel-in-progress, Down to the Meadows of Sleep. But there were some people in the churchyard across the way, mowing the grounds, and I didn’t want them to think I was completely nuts so I didn’t speak to any of the gravestones yesterday. But it was a beautiful walk. It really helped me clear my head.

BTW, thanks for the really kind words yesterday re: the excerpt from Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. I definitely appreciate it.

Even though it’s presented as erotic love letters to the muse, it’s sort of an erotic memoir at the same time. I’m thinking it’s creative nonfiction. I’m only about 30 pages into it, because I’m juggling about 17 zillion projects at the same time and I really want Blessed By Light completed and off my desk as soon as possible.

I’m guessing that Sandra is still someplace really noisy because she has yet to call me re: rehearsals, and I am now resorting to texts that say things like, “Please let me know when you can chat,” “When can I call you?” “Please call me!”  – things like that. And still nothing. It gets frustrating because what I need to chat with her about will take about 5 minutes… I know she’s in rehearsals for something else right now, but it makes me antsy.  So that added to the fun of sitting at my desk and staring at a manuscript for 12 hours yesterday.

Also, I have to say that I’m really happy that so many people in Germany are posting photos on Instagram of the Conversations with Nick Cave going on over there right now. Everyone is totally, totally loving it. Mostly they’re saying this in German, which, as you now know, is a language I don’t wholly understand.  However, most people are using at least some English and it’s clear they’re loving it.

The only thing that perplexes me is that Nick Cave seems to be wearing a sort of beige-ish colored suit. He’s worn this, so far, at both shows. A sort of “absence” of color and I’m not understanding that. It seems like he usually wears black or this beautiful shade of blue.

So that gave me more to ponder as I sat and stared at the manuscript for 12 hours: Why is he wearing beige? What’s up with that? Is it really beige, or is it just the lighting? I actually asked myself that stuff many times yesterday even though I knew, for 100% sure, that no answers would be forthcoming.

Yes, I really am that nuts sometimes. I can’t stand when a manuscript refuses to write itself. It makes me crazy and my mind wanders.

But actually on a related note…

My replacement copy of B Sides & Rarities arrived in the mail yesterday. I discovered only recently that I accidentally gave that CD boxed set away to charity when I was selling the other house and putting a bunch of stuff into storage, thinking I was moving back to New York.

I was actually going through a lot of grief back then – meaning, I was grieving. Over a lot of things. A lot of loss. And I wasn’t thinking clearly. At all. And stuff that should have gone into the storage piles, went in the “give to charity” piles, and I actually accidentally gave away a lot of stuff I loved. And I didn’t discover this for a couple of years, when I finally bought this house here in Muskingum County and took everything out of storage.

First, I had to deal with the very sad and real fact that I gave away every single Tom Petty CD except for their Greatest Hits. You can imagine that this distressed me last year, when I had to confront what my mind had done. That it had lapsed like that (and that’s only part of the weird shit I was doing, but grief does that to you).  And then I had to go about buying them all over again.

It was only a couple weeks ago, when I went looking for B Sides & Rarities, to play in the car, when I discovered that it, too, was gone. And that was the original boxed set from when it first came out, about 15 years ago, or something like that. Plus, a lover had bought that for me. It had been a gift. He sent it to me from San Francisco right when it came out because he knew how badly I wanted it. It was so cool when it arrived in the mail, you know? I was so happy.

And I gave the fucking thing away.

Anyway. So I bought it again, too. But the cheaper version that doens’t have the box. And it arrived yesterday. And it made me think about how crazy I can be and I hope that it doesn’t happen again.

In honor of attempting to not be crazy, I took The Big Jangle out of the CD player in the kitchen, and listened instead to Nobody’s Children during breakfast. Granted, this is still from the Playback collection, and Tom Petty is still dead,  but this CD contains songs that were never released so they don’t bring back any sort of intense & beautiful memories from my fair and bonny girlhood.

(Frankly, Nobody’s Children has a lot of sort of “dirty” songs on it -sort of the “naughty” songs that were never released – and I’ve listened to it a lot while having great sex. Actually, not to insult anyone, but I think the CD itself caused the great sex, and that the sex would not have been as good had another CD been playing! Don’t take it personally, though!)

Well, it’s something that I can’t actually prove either way at this point, because all those lovers are gone from my life and I’m not gonna call them out of the blue now and ask them to come out to Crazeysbrug – a village that no one on Earth has ever heard of – so we can have sex while listening to something else and see if the sex is still as good; but the upshot is that when I play the CD, even during breakfast, there is a bit of the Pavlovian response… So that was frisky & fun at 5:33am.

Okay, gang!! I’m hoping that the manuscript lurches ever onward towards its completion today. Meanwhile, I’m gonna leave you with all of this:

First, 3 sort of obscure-ish Nick Cave songs that I absolutely love. I think you could say that, technically, they weren’t released, either.

The first one is on B Sides & Rarities, the other two, I don’t know if you can actually get them anywhere but they’re on Youtube.

The last song is probably my very favorite Tom Petty song from the entire 6-CD Playback collection. It was never released, but it’s on Nobody’s Children. It’s a sexy little song with Lenny Kravitz providing bass and some backing vocals – as well as some very sexy little memories pour moi!

Okay! Enjoy your Thursday, wherever you are in the world!Thanks for visiting, gang! I love you guys. See ya.

Shoot Me Down

I’ve Got Another Woman Now, Dear

I Do, Dear, I Do

You Come Through

Excerpt from “Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse”

Here’s a new excerpt from one of my books-in-progress, Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse.  (It amounts to approx. 10 pages) As always, gang, this includes sexually graphic material that will be inappropriate and perhaps offensive to some readers, so please be forewarned. Thanks!


Plenty Of Rope

IN THOSE DAYS, THE DAYS BEFORE YOU, those days of lesser men long ago, I always had to take a lover on the side. Always. And almost always a woman. Because none but other women could keep up with my insatiable longings.

I was 35, for god’s sake. It was no longer just a question of transcending the scope of my erotic mind; it was hormones peaking. Plain and simple. Hormones at the gallop, trampling that open range in search of whatever else was out there and physical. It had become biological now. The human drive to create life for hour upon hour, out on that magnificent erotic plateau.

It had become a question of stamina. Who can go as long as I can while under this spell of galloping hormones? Whose pumping blood; whose beating heart and breathing lungs; whose bones and solid muscle can keep up with my need?

Who out there needs what I need for as long as I need it when I am 35?

Surely not a husband, who goes in and out of my days, barely glancing at me; he desires only to be left alone; to drink vodka out on the street and to passively admire the passing cleavage of undemanding women who are not his wife. He desires to pass his hours in drunken bliss and to not be trampled.

A lover is the one who sparks instead; she answers that clarion call.

The call to stamina. To unfiltered cigarettes. To a bottle of St. Estephe or St. Emilion. The call of the unholy tryst in the unbridled hours of a free afternoon.


The phone conversations were brief but sweaty – in the days when telephones were still connected to walls. When every breathless expression of a sordid desire might possibly be overheard by people who trusted other people not to be indiscreet.

Keep it short. Keep it quiet.

When can you meet? Where should we go this time? Which shoes should I bring? Can you get to a hardware store and buy a decent amount of good rope?

In those days before you, the galloping hormones craved the lasso.

Rein me in, they cried in chorus. Force me to be still. To endure your will over the unceasing call of my own.

It was the only rest I could get back then: Rope.

Please, please tie me up with some good quality rope.

Now have mercy, baby.

Stick something in.


Take my advice, dear, and don’t be deceived by girls. They are ruthless and cunning, hatching the eggs of Eros all their lives. They are fearless, wily creatures who lurk in the depths of women. French wine and cheap American cigarettes usually call them out.

Try it.

Like gangbusters, they will come. Ravening wolves they are, those girls.  Their kisses are not sweet – they taste like tobacco and complex wine.

Kissing the girls who lurk inside of women is asking for trouble. They come out to play with fully-formed vulvas that are swollen with lust. Dripping pussies, overheating, begging for all-comers to come on already. Stick something in.

That’s how an afternoon with a tied-up girl starts out – it starts with that kind of kiss when only her wrists are tied together in front of her and then it leads to that deafening sound –

oh my god, it says.

A breathless sound but overpowering nonetheless, as two fingers finally go up her soaking hole.

Tied as I am, my whole world becomes those two probing fingers.

I cannot push my hole open wide enough for them. They are strong fingers, going deep; feeling around in there as I’m bearing down. She’s very thorough. It feels so good.

“Turn over,” she says.

“I can’t,” I say. “You have to untie my hands.” But I don’t really want to be untied. I just want to lay there naked, flat on my back, with my knees to my tits, and her fingers stuck up me, working in my hole.

“No,” she says. “I wanna see you try. Turn over.”

So I try. I try turning over for her with my hands tied. It is a graceless feat, but I accomplish it. I do it because of her. She urges me on. Her fingers are still up in there, feeling around, feeling so good it’s making my eyes roll up in my head.

But now I’m face-down in the bed pillows, my tied hands are under me – my knees are, too. I’m stuck there, at her mercy, displayed – like some really pretty dog in heat that needs to be mounted in so many unflattering ways. And still I’m wondering how, in this submissive and conquered position, I’m ever going to get another glass of wine.

That’s my hedonism speaking – no, exploding. My hedonism shouts from every pore. It needs wine. It needs nicotine. It needs a pussy that is perilously stretched until it’s stuffed to bursting with anything that wants to get up in there. And it needs something rubbing against my clit. It needs something substantial in my ass – something it can really feel; something that stays up in there and doesn’t just pop back out. It needs to be filled; it needs to stay filled.  It needs all things. I am 35.

It’s the reason I need so much  rope.


Who am I? I am the girl full of stories. Dirty stories, naughty stories, frightening and challenging stories. I am going to beg you to look at yourself in my stories because I am so tired of this damn mirror.


We are in a motel. A very, very cheap one off the Cross Bronx Expressway. Not because it’s all we can afford, but because we are being tacky. We are cheaters who are only making it worse and wallowing in the depths of our crumbling vows.

Our shattered vows. Our vows crushed beneath the grimy tires of passing 18-wheelers, going nowhere and getting there fast.

Both of our marriages have an expiration date that is steadily coming towards us on a high wind, but we are oblivious to anything but our pussies. Our slick, soaking, hormone-engorged pussies. No one on planet Earth is hornier than we are, 24/7. Yes, we are both 35. I am married to a man; she is married to a woman. Soon enough, everyone is gonna get wise.

But for now, we light our cigarettes from the same Zippo lighter. We sit naked on the bed and smoke in our cheap motel room that still allows smoking; that allows free bad porn on its Mafia-owned TV circuit. We drink our expensive red wine without savoring it in any way. We have come only for our pussies; to try to get them to calm the fuck down.

In Health class, when you’re still in school – trusting, squirming, not really paying attention – they tell you that girls reach their sexual peaks in their mid-thirties. But in no way do they warn you what that will look like, or how it will feel, or what it truly means.

They don’t tell you to marry someone who can survive that with you or you will tear your marriage to pieces.

They don’t say: “On second thought, girls, just don’t get married until you’re maybe about 42. Oh heck, just don’t get married at all.”

They conceal it – what it will feel like to be a tiny, squiggling, ill-informed girl stuffed inside the bones of a 35-year-old, sex-crazed bisexual woman.

Don’t go gentle into that good night, they’ll whisper instead. But you gotta really listen in order to hear them. They’re telling you to wear some killer high-heels. That they’ll make your already long legs look great. That it’ll be worth the pain. You’ll look so good in the mirror when you’re coming all over some other girl’s face.

Or she’s coming all over yours.

Girls are messy, messy, messy. Their bodies dribble and drip and ooze and squirt.

They ought to warn you about that, too, but only because it’s so interesting. And so unexpected – when you’re that girl.


In the years before you… Oh my love, I wandered.

Lonely as a cloud? No. Feverish and impatient. Angry and short-sighted. Turning over every rock that sprang into my constantly expanding field of vision. Each rock yielding a new surprise but usually not a welcome one.

You were out there – yes you were. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know I was even looking for you. I only knew: EMPTY.

Fill. Fill. Fill.


It’s that rope again. I feel so safe.

My wrists are tied behind me now.

It’s a whole new bed. A whole new girl. She’s much older than I am. Not married at all. An executive in TV, fresh from a cancelled show.

Boy, has she got time to kill. And she kills it with me.

I have found these impossibly sexy shoes. Black silk T-straps with a heel that’s straight out of 1922.

I’m slender. So straight up & down that I don’t wear a bra under my black gingham baby doll dress. I don’t need one. And I don’t wear panties, either. Or garters. I wear stay-put stockings that stay put religiously at the tops of my thighs. And it’s Spring!

Yes, I’ve come clear across Midtown Manhattan in a short black gingham baby doll dress and I wore no panties. All I lacked was a good strong wind to expose my final secret and make my whole life go up for grabs out there in the real world of New York City in broad daylight.

Yes, in those years before you, I was out of my mind. Nuts, they call it in the more colloquial fiction.

I once met a short-lived fiancée for brunch at a Polish diner wearing nothing but a pair of black leather flats and a plaid trench coat, buttoned all the way up and belted tight.

I was not an exhibitionist; I was not planning to publically disrobe. No, I’d come bearing gifts. Gifts for the imagination! Gifts of vulnerability! Gifts that promised a sexy good time after a hurried Sunday brunch.

When he learned I was naked under my coat, my gift was not met with merriment and delight. It was met with fear, outrage, disgust: “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

Well, yes. But that was beside the point.

Today, though, the TV gal meets me at her front door and is overwhelmed by the sexiness of the black silk T-strap shoes. She yanks me into her apartment and pushes me down onto a living room chair, shoving up my dress in full view of the open windows that look out over Second Avenue. Falling to her knees, she spreads my legs and licks my pussy – ardently, all over it; then sucks my clit until I come.

She does not care that I was naked under my very short dress. She doesn’t wonder if I’m out of my fucking mind. In fact, my wearing no panties has saved her the 4.6 seconds she would have wasted pulling my panties down. Time that wound up being more wisely spent sucking on my stiff little clit.

Although it by no means felt little to me.

My clit has always been the hardest thing to ignore in the picture, regardless of how it was framed. My clit is a scene-stealer. My clit is unruly, inciting the mob to riot. It’s as hard as a rock, too. A massive rock. As big as that asteroid that’s headed straight at us and that will one day collide with the Earth. POW! Right smack into everything we thought we knew. Oh the humanity! What a collision!

Or at least until I come. Then my clit is so quiet, you won’t even know it’s there.

But this is the story about the rope.

This is the story about my wrists tied behind me now and about how I feel so safe.

Yes, I’m still married. Yes, I’m still 35. And, no, I don’t mind confessing to you all the lurid details.

The TV gal was a strap-on queen.

She knew her way around a black leather harness and a flesh-colored silicone dick.

She always had me turn over on her bed, my face in her pillows, my knees under me, ass in the air. The rope was my idea but she went along with it because she knew how much it mattered to me to feel subdued. To feel reined-in. To feel choice-less, at her mercy in the matter, as she shoved that huge silicone dick into my slick pussy. Relentlessly. Ruthlessly. Always, always, always driving it home.

She was not satisfied until I cried out, cried out, and cried out: Oh god, it feels so good.

It felt so good. It felt so good to get fucked by her.

And I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t get away. My hands were tied. And that thick fake dick kept coming.

Slamming in. Pounding against that place inside my pussy flesh that simply could not yield another inch and so I would cry out.

Oh god, it felt so good. So good to be helpless to that unremitting cock-force as she held so tight to my hips.

She fucked me hard because she hated that I was married. She fucked me hard because she hated that I was pretty. She fucked me  hard because she hated that I refused to admit I was a dyke and not some lame marshmallow bisexual who always went off in the end with a man.

I didn’t care what she thought or how she felt; I just wanted to get seriously fucked by her.

And so it was written. And so it was done. And the cunnilingus wasn’t bad, either.

She had a perfect pussy.

She was much smaller than me and so always on top during 69. And I loved nothing better than to have her wet pussy in my face, my mouth all over that swelling mess of her slick, soaking lips, her open hole, her clit that tried to fight off my incessant tongue but would yield instead, making her grind down on me, her whole pussy right on my face, on my eager mouth, as she moaned deliriously, her own  hot tongue down there darting in and all over my own soaking hole – until we were two trapped clits climbing toward orgasms, clinging for dear life to each other’s naked thighs as the pleasures mounted and finally tripped the spring-door onto wide open ecstasy, hips bucking, muscles in spasms, cries of relentless female lust that were surely heard all up and down the Second Avenue night.

Her pussy in my face was indeed heaven.

I didn’t think I was a dyke, and I’d given it some very serious thought over the years. I did love women and sex with women, and I did sometimes choose the woman over the man. But I loved men, too and sex with men, too. And when I closed my eyes to the world and strove to find meaning in my being here and a way to connect, to create, to transcend – then there was always a man and only a man. A man of vision, of marvelous words. A man in the clouds. A man with an angry black heart and a streak of pure white joy.

In the years before you, I did not know this man could possibly be real.


What was it about bondage that I so much needed?

It started in my girlhood, then on into my teens. It plagued my conscience in my twenties. It sent me into rapture in my thirties. Then it hit the fine open road one early morning in my forties; headed steadily past the line of the horizon and, in essence, never really came back.

There were moments when lovers in my forties suggested I be tied up and I went along with it. It was fun, but nothing I truly needed.

Not anymore.

But as a young girl of 12, and then a growing girl, an aging girl, and then a girl who looked in the mirror and realized she was a woman and had been for some time – that girl needed the rope.

Plenty of rope.

I did not really know why. The simple fact of it alarmed me, humiliated me in my own thoughts, degraded me, scared and perplexed me. Until finally I was old enough to meet people who embraced the need for rope in me, who encouraged my need for bondage. And that’s when the lust came home to roost.

That’s when my erotic mind soared and welcomed in whoever it was I really was.

I hated leather restraints. I hated cold metal handcuffs. I hated certain types of unacceptable rope. But when the rope was right and the lover was right, my kisses were deeper than you can possibly know.

You can’t know those kisses because, like a fool, I gave them away.

Had I known you were out there; had I only known…

When I was blindfolded, naked and tied down tightly to the bed – but in a seated position; my legs spread wide, each ankle tied securely to the bedframe, a large dildo stuck up in me. In fact, I’ve been tied as tightly as I am to the bedframe to force me to sit all the way down on that dildo until it can go up me no farther. When my clit aches and can actually feel the base of the dildo that’s wedged up in me, it’s gone in that deep; when my hands are tied behind me and a warm hand finds my breast, gently tugs the erect nipple, sending me into ecstasy, my moans deep as I rock all over the thick fake dick wedged up inside me – at that moment, when he yanks my long hair back and leans over into my blindfolded darkness, into my ecstasy, and kisses my open mouth with his open mouth…

I would not have returned that kiss had I known you were anywhere out there, ever.

I would not have let that kiss be so deep.

I would not have allowed my soul to enter that equation, even though I was married to that man.

Had I known you were out there, I would have withheld. I would have waited.

I would have saved myself, my ecstasy.

For you.


Now I am grown. So grown that all that is left for me now is to recede.

Now I can stand alone out in the middle of an empty highway, look in all directions, not just ahead or behind, but all directions and I can see the sunrise inching its way up the incalculable distance of that road, from out of the East, from where miracles have always arrived. I can look out in that direction and know you are coming. You are out there. I can’t see you but I know you are there. Finally. You are there.

And I’m here. I’m waiting. I’m not tied down in any way, to anything, anymore. I’m simply waiting, for you. Of my own volition.

Please come.

© – 2019 Marilyn Jaye Lewis