Tag Archives: Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse by Marilyn Jaye Lewis

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*          *          *

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

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

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

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

*          *          *

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

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

*          *          *

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

Feeling off-balance is not erotic.

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

*          *          *

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

Oh, crap.

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

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

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

*          *          *

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

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

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

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

*          *          *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-uh,” she says. “Those, too.”

“But you’ve got your panties on.”

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

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

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

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

“I know,” she says.

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

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

“I thought you didn’t smoke?”

Why is she so full of lies?

*          *          *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who am I? Besides lonely. And overworked.

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

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

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

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

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

*          *          *

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

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

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

*          *          *

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


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

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

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

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

*          *          *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*          *          *

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

“Come get me,” she says plaintively.

“Where are you?”

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

Oh my god.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please, she’s whispering. Come on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She answers yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want it, though, right?”

*          *          *

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

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

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

In my opinion, anyway.

She seemed to agree.

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

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

*          *          *

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

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

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

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

All the Sweet Things A Girl Remembers

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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







Bunny taking a break from playing the piano in 2014







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








Moments later… (New Year’s Day 2014)









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

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

“She’s Got You”

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

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

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

c – 1961 Hank Cochran

I Just Don’t Know What to do With Myself — Besides Laundry!!

YES!! You heard it here first!! I am currently not under a deadline!!

First time since last September that I have not had a writing deadline of some sort looming over me!

I still have stuff I’m writing — pulling them slowly to the front burner for now. And I will eventually have drastic rewrites for the other play Sandra and I are doing, but for right this very minute? I actually don’t even know what to do with myself!

I do know that my mom (birth mom) is coming to stay at the house next week to look after my cats while I’m in NYC. And this house is a complete tsunami of cat hair and dust. So I gotta deal with that. And wash all the bed sheets and towels and all those things that sit in a linen closet and start to take on the inner characteristics of said (118-year-old) closet. So I’m starting with that — the laundry.

Last November, when my mom was here visiting, I forced her to eat leftover Halloween candy because I had a ton of it. Loyal readers perhaps recall that I had a crucial electrical fire-hazard emergency problem here last Halloween, and so the entire house was in darkness as the electricians repaired the wiring and when the kids were out trick-or-treating they assumed  that no one in the dark house was home. It left me with a ton of candy. And I don’t actually eat candy. So I told my mother that any candy she didn’t eat last time would only be waiting for her the next time she came to visit. And guess what??!! My threat was good!

Yeah, she’s gonna have a ton of one-year-old candy; it’s all still sitting here in air-tight apothecary jars…

I will get around to actual housecleaning really, really soon. First, I’m gonna work on that Letter #3 for Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse (aka “Baltimore”)! It’s been pushing itself out of me for a few days already. (Isn’t that a visual?) And now that I can give it my complete attention, I want to get back at it.

I am so happy with the play! Although I’m at that point where I’ve been so deep into it that now I need to set it down and walk away in order to have a fresh perspective on it. I’m sure it will need more (hopefully minor) revisions as the rehearsals ensue, but at least the major stuff is finally done.

However, on my actual desk, in various stages of completion, I still have:

  • In the Shadow of Narcissa (memoir)
  • Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse (letters/memoir)
  • Whatever rewrites await on The Guide to Being Fabulous (theater)
  • In the Days of the Flesh: The Gospel According to Caiaphas (theater)
  • Down to the Meadows of Sleep: The Hurley Falls Mystery (murder mystery)
  • Dirty Girl, Beautiful Mind (memoir)

And then the TV projects:

  • Cleveland’s Burning (perpetually in development)
  • The Tea Cozy Murder Club: A Murder at Parsons Ridge (murder mystery/TV pilot)
  • Freak Parade (limited streaming adaptation)

So, I think I’ll just kind of enjoy this day!!

It’s sunny and hot here again. Probably summer’s last hurrah. I am really savoring it.  Who knows what next summer will bring? Since last summer, I lost 2 cats — one, Daddycakes, was actually part of my household; the other was a stray ginger tom who came to visit and get breakfast every morning. I named him Henry. He died during the winter. I hope I don’t have to contend with that again, anytime soon.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog perhaps recall Buster, Bunny, and Fluffy. They each died in September, various years:

Buster 2002-2013
Bunny (2002-2016) as painted by Valerie in Brooklyn
Fluffy (2006-2016)

And let’s not forget Brad!!! The enormous spider who lived next to my bed in the old house who used to just freak me the fuck out, so I had to name him Brad in order to not feel so freaked out by his constant presence in my most intimate space…

Brad (2014 – 2014)

Okay, gang!! I’m gonna scoot.

Have a terrific Wednesday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting. I leave you with “Ode to Brad”!! (aka “You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me” by Dusty Springfield.) I love you guys, See ya!

“You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me” (“Ode to Brad”)

When I said I needed you
You said you would always stay
It wasn’t me who changed but you
And now you’ve gone away

Don’t you see that now you’re gone
And I’m left here on my own
That I have to follow you
And beg you to come home

You don’t have to say you love me
Just be close at hand
You don’t have to stay forever
I will understand
Believe me believe me
I can’t help but love you
But believe I will never tie you down

Left alone with your memory
Life seems dead and so do we
All that’s left is loneliness
There’s nothing left to feel

You don’t have to say you love me
Just be close at hand
You don’t have to stay forever
I will understand
Believe me believe me
I can’t help but love you
But believe I will never tie you down

You don’t have to say you love me
Just be close at hand
You don’t have to stay forever
I will understand
Believe me believe me
I can’t help but love you
But believe I will never tie you down


Memory on top of a Memory

I am working on Letter #3 in Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. The letter is titled, “Baltimore,” because, oddly enough, it’s about something (or someone) that happened to me in Baltimore.

Something I had actually forgotten about until the story started to come out of me.

The result of that tryst, in a round about way, led to me writing the short story, “The Insomniac’s Tale,” which was my version of what happened to Edgar Allan Poe — why he died so mysteriously in Baltimore, in a charity ward even though he was already famous.

So, in anticipation of the wildly different erotic piece, “Baltimore,” I give you “The Insomniac’s Tale.”

*   *   *

“The Insomniac’s Tale” originally appeared in 2001 on Mindcaviar.com; in 2002 on Eros-Noir.com; in 2004 in Lust: Bisexual Erotica by Marilyn Jaye Lewis, pub. Alyson Books; and in 2012 in The Muse Revisited, Vol. 3 by Marilyn Jaye Lewis, pub. by Marilyn Jaye Lewis

The following contains sexually graphic content, including depictions of necrophilia. Readers are strongly cautioned. (Approx. 7 pages)

The Insomniac’s Tale 

Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence, whether much that is glorious, whether all that is profound, does not spring from disease of thought… Edgar Allan Poe

Curiously, as I lay here dying in the anonymity of a Baltimore charity ward, trapped in the watchful gaze of a stalwart nurse who seems, from time to time, to regard me as if I’m already dead, I find I have not a shred of remorse. In fact, if my vocal cords, if my entire larynx weren’t paralyzed by my rapidly deteriorating condition, I would even go so far as to confess to my warden-nurse what my true motivation had been. Why I’d departed—no, fled—the train when it reached Baltimore, never proceeding to Richmond where I was to wed Eloise Whitmore within the next fortnight. I’ve ceased to feel shame over any of it, yet I can’t recollect when the shame abandoned me. For the longest time, since the death of my first wife seven years ago, it seemed the shame was my sole companion. When did it leave? Why is it gone so suddenly?

I’ve no doubt now that somewhere during my debauched excursion along the wharves of Baltimore this very weekend, I ingested a large quantity of poison. Whether it was in the opium or the cocaine, who gave it to me, and whether or not any of the prostitutes I’d paid handsomely during the course of my debauch, who’d perhaps watched me consume my fatal indulgence, knew about the poison – well, these are the final mysteries I’ll be taking with me to the grave.

Funny how, normally, I’ll pounce on a good mystery, unable to leave it be until I’ve worried it like a bone, picked it clean and solved it. Now, as the end arrives, I find I’m oddly ambivalent. These last mysteries are too meager, too petty to trifle over when compared with the grander mystery that always fueled my life: my unconquerable and insufferable destiny.

Every muscle in my face has now grown rigid with paralysis. I can’t so much as blink an eye. I’m terrorized by thoughts that I will die with my eyes open. What horror will I see as one light dims and perhaps the fires of Hell emerge? Whose face will be my final vision as I pass over to the next realm? If God were merciful, it would not be this dour face of my warden-nurse, a memento only of this wretched charity ward. It would instead be the face of an angel, my child-wife, a reminder of the beauty that could have been Life had I been born to a more regal fate. I fear I’ll know the extent of God’s mercy soon enough. As it is surely imminent, my release from the fever of living.

I lay here unable to move as the paralysis creeps slowly through me. How many hours has it been? When did they bring me here? I no longer know. There’s a certain timeless euphoria brought on by abject misery. Meaning, time passes strangely, an hour becoming an unfathomable depth. In a way, life has always been a one-way tunnel. Still it never seemed quite as linear as this certain encroachment of death. Deeper into the tunnel I’m drawn, though, helpless to fight death’s pull. My mouth brimming with a bitter, corrosive taste. Not just from the hours spent vomiting up poison down by the docks, but the bitterness of a final acceptance, a reluctant understanding. A bleak awakening, if you will, to a truth too unnerving to allow me ever again to know the blessing of sleep.

Had I been courageous enough to carry through on my vow to marry Eloise Whitmore, had I proceeded on the train to Richmond, done the honorable thing, I wouldn’t be in this hideous predicament. I know that. I’m always well aware of my failings. However, the drive to satiate my deeper urges pushed me from that train.

The youngest, freshest girls one can hope for often begin their lives of ill repute along those dank, rotting wharves of Baltimore. Some girls so fresh, they still carry the scent of home in their undergarments. To me, it matters little—their inexperience in the varied tastes of carnal lust. I’ve long since tired of the meaningless couplings of body touching body. What I’ve come to seek is a peculiar sin, cultivated from the emptiness of too many years. A sin I can only re-enact with the youngest of women, for I was with a young woman when my need first began.

My now-dead wife, once the love of my life, was a child of thirteen when I married her, though her mother had given us her full consent to wed. Then, I was a man of twenty-four. Unlucky in my studies and my military career; unlucky in much of what had already passed as ‘my life.’ Yet my literary prowess had begun to emerge. From the meager earnings I secured with my writing, I supported my child-wife and her mother, and we persevered. Hiding—successfully, I should add—a certain secret from the world.

In Boston, where I was born, I had been orphaned at the age of two. Years later in New York, no one I knew had ever known my mother, or knew that my mother-in-law had been my mother’s sister. That she was indeed my aunt; and my child-wife, my cousin. But how I cherished the young girl I had taken for my bride. Not to marry would have been unthinkable. Never to join her, flesh pressed to flesh in the conjugal bed seemed a fate unendurable to us both. But my aunt had a romantic and sympathetic heart of the most charitable nature so she agreed to let us marry. In that, my bride and I were blessed. And in the facelessness of a bustling city such as New York, our sin – the incestuous nature of our marriage – was easily concealed. For a time, we even thrived.

In the beginning, yes, she was delicate, my wife. But she did not seem frail. Though her skin was so sheer, so translucent that its pallor was decidedly tinted by the underlying blueness of her veins. Everywhere I touched her, she seemed impossibly soft—an unimaginable velvet—and too yielding to the merest caress.

It was hard to keep my thoughts fully centered on my work. I developed literary theories, wrote moody, atmospheric poems, which helped me to secure a certain fame, if not fortune, along the eastern coast. But always, the larger portion of my thoughts were devoted to (should I say, tormented by) my enchanting wife.

Her modesty was such that throughout the course of our brief marriage, I never saw her by daylight entirely undressed. On occasion when we were alone, she might lift her skirt for me, or lower her blouse to bare her breasts. When under cover of darkness, or with luck, if a slash of moonlight would cut through the grimy windowpane at night and reveal her youthful wantonness sans nightclothes beside me in the bed, my eyes would desperately drink in the dim vision of her beauty. My other senses were then driven to overcompensate for the sight of heaven of which my eyes were so deprived. The feel of her in my arms, her downy skin; her soft, tumbling tresses spilling across my chest; the flit of her feathery lashes against my cheek. Or the scent of her, her taste on my lips, the sounds of her awakening desire while we kissed—this was how my heart created its intimate portrait of her. How it aroused me. It was unspeakable. For there was yet another sweet agony I endured: my wife was still a child. Her womb had not yet reached womanhood. It lagged behind our eager needs. Our conjugal bliss was to be left unconsummated for two seemingly endless years. Until she reached the age of fifteen, when quite early on a stifling summer morning, the blood finally came.

It’s hard to believe, as I lay here, the paralysis approaching my lungs, my chest tightening; my heart, a thin, miserable throb; that I could have once known such unbridled joy as the night my beloved wife and I endeavored to explore at last the full sanctity of our union. She was sweet, but not coy. Determined to let me enter her as many times, and in as many positions, as I desired.

It seemed we were finally ready to face life, to stake our claim in the future. We had spent two years always moving, moving. I chased after employment with first one magazine then another, achieving more fame but still struggling to keep my little family from the jaws of poverty and hunger. But soon enough, it was clear I would remain unlucky in this endeavor, as well. My dear little girl, my wife, suddenly fell ill. Before long, we knew it was consumption. That lingering, wretched disease for which there is no cure. Malnourishment—a result of the poverty I alone had placed her in—aggravated her suffering. Seven times, she slipped down to the worst depths of the disease. Only six times did she rally. With each of her slides down to the rim of death’s abyss, I railed at the night and lost myself in drink. Turning also to the comfort of opium or cocaine. Behaving disgracefully around my peers. My public drunkenness, severely damaging my hard-won reputation at banquets meant to honor me and my celebrated oeuvre.

Still, it was during these terrors, as I helplessly watched my poor wife wither, as I heard her cough and choke on her very blood, and knew without doubt that her release from suffering could come only with our final parting on this gruesome plane, that I wrote my finest tales of sheer horror – stories that sealed my fate in the pantheon of literature even while fortune continued to elude me.

It was upon my wife’s death that my taste for the peculiar sin I earlier mentioned, emerged. I was unable to escape its grasp. While it brought me a few moments of carnal pleasure, it brought me more an abundance of shame. A shame I could never retreat from, nor pacify once my sin had been unleashed.

My wife’s mother and I were both at her side when my wife finally expired. My mother-in-law tenderly wiped the traces of blood from my wife’s lips, and then attempted to remove the soiled dressing gown from my wife’s limp form.

“No,” I insisted. “I want to be alone with her. You’ve nursed her all these years. Let me tend to her now.”

When my mother-in-law left the room and I eased my wife’s thin, lifeless body from the nearly threadbare chemise, my eyes weren’t prepared to behold the heartbreaking beauty of her nakedness. A sight I had been deprived of throughout my marriage. How exquisite she was. Dear reader, I know you will be shocked by where my longings urged me! You, who have not known such bereaved misery as mine; you could not be expected to comprehend the brutal power of love’s erotic pull, even after death. I admit it plainly now. As I near death myself, I have no remorse. I hungered to know my wife’s body in intercourse one final time. But could I dare it?

At first, I thought no. I let my mind become submerged in the details of the task before me, attempting to let reason override the mounting pressure of my longing. I filled the wash basin and bathed the remnants of sweat from her once fevered brow. Faithfully, I combed my wife’s still silken tresses. I sponged the length of her young body clean. Then I anointed her breasts with lavender and rose water.

My wife was just shy of  sixteen the afternoon she died. The spectre of her purity, even in death, proved to be my undoing. Though I’d gone so far as to wrap my wife in her funeral shroud, when her mother knocked gently at the bedroom door, I refused to let her re-enter.

“I need to pray,” I explained feebly. Then I turned the key in the lock, shutting out my last hope of sanity.

Had I known where it would lead me – the dark alleyways, the rotting wharves, the foul-smelling mattresses in vermin-infested rooms – had I known these curses would come closely on the heels of my indiscretion, would I have unwrapped my wife’s still supple body from the winding sheet? Would I have allowed my mouth to kiss hers as if she were still full of life and able to offer her lips to me? Would I have deliberately used that kiss as my invitation to cup the fullness of her breasts, then to enter her? And not just enter her, but part her legs garishly and watch my thick member violate her repeatedly as I pretended she willingly obliged me.

This is why the young whores of Baltimore are so well suited to my proclivity. I don’t need experienced, licentious advances. I don’t want vulgar women, whose very sexual openings are so well used as to seem lewd in how they gape. Though they needn’t be virgins, I need fresh girls with a willingness to say “yes.” To lay motionless and unstirred while I fondle and explore their secret places, first with my often trembling fingers, then with the more erotic caresses of my tongue.

Not that I had had nerve enough to know my wife’s lifeless body in that intimate a manner. No, in the moments of my disgraceful assault on her, my mind was clouded with fever. I was fearful of being discovered at any moment by my wife’s mother—my aunt, my own mother’s sister; a witness to my debasement of her only child! Even while I knew the door was locked, in my mind it did not seem secure enough. An iron key in a simple hole did not seem an impenetrable barrier to the towering grotesqueness of the deed I was perpetrating. I kissed my wife’s mouth, yes. And I squeezed her breasts which were hardly warm. Yet when my erect manhood, seemingly of its own volition, proceeded on its mission to penetrate her, it was a deed I undertook in haste.

The sweeter subtleties of lovemaking, the gentler acts of fondling and caressing were not part of my assault. Not until the black midnight after my wife’s burial, as I lay awake alone in bed, my thoughts tormented by the fresh memory of what I’d done to her, did my imagination give birth to its hideous cravings.

The sorrow of my loss was inexpressible. How I ached to have my wife alive again beside me. How I scourged myself for my financial impotence; my inability to lift her above the crush of poverty and the ravaging disease it delivered to her. It was in this swell of sadness that I began to regret not having lingered longer over her young healthy body when it had still been a living, breathing vessel next to me; a body full of warmth and eager curiosity. As in the first days of our marriage, when every nuance of physical love was new to her, and each intimate exploration, a delight. Those early days when she was still too young for intercourse, when our nights were spent in ecstasy just the same.

Before my marriage, I had known many women—mostly the sort of women one pays. And I wasn’t ashamed of this. In my years of approaching manhood, I learned what I would be expected to teach my wife about lovemaking, and I learned the more carnal aspects of it that I would be expected to shield her from. It was my duty to her and it was perhaps the only duty in which I served her well.

To ready a young woman’s body for what will be the more demanding encounter of sexual penetration requires patience. But more, it requires dedication. I dedicated myself to my wife, to awakening her to her own capacity for sexual desire so that she would one day be ready for her final step into womanhood.

Yet how do I describe it, the veritable anguish of my desire? The nearly unbearable restraint I managed, as I explored her youthful body in our bed, her nightclothes lifted for me, her legs eagerly raised and parted but her modesty prohibiting me from seeing her even in the glow of firelight. Her labial folds swelling under the touch of my fingers. My ears filling with the sounds of her passionate moans, her gentle cries, as my mouth between her spread legs urged her deeper and deeper into her own erotic abandon. Never to see her, to truly see her to my heart’s content, in the usual female postures of lascivious invitation. Think of it! It must have been what drove me to do the unthinkable when my eyes were finally granted the full sight of her nakedness so soon after she expired.

Yes, it was ghoulish, how the force of my thrusting member so disturbed and rattled her lifeless form. But my eyes shut it out. In the delirium of my sin, my eyes could only take in the beauty of her feminine secret; her vulva, at last exposed, revealed in the light of day.

After my wife was buried, the fevered thoughts that I’d assumed were satiated, regrettably returned. I pictured it over and over in the dark: my thick and aching manhood glistening with my own spit as it pummeled into my wife’s snug hole. My thoughts became diseased, replacing ideas of a more rational sexual fulfillment with notions of perverse lust. I berated myself for not having had the presence of mind to take more advantages with my wife’s dead body while I’d been alone with it. Time and again, I brought myself to ejaculation from the overwhelming erotic power of the vile urges that were in my head.

I became confused by the intimacy I’d experienced with my wife during our marriage and the foul deed I’d done to her after her death. I wanted to relive it all, but memory and fantasy became jumbled. I wanted my mouth again on her slick, swollen labia with her stiff clitoris, the tiny captive of my tongue. Or my fingers pushing deep into her secret holes. I even wanted the tighter posterior one, a thing I would never have asked from her in life. I wanted to “relive” things I’d never done with her! I wanted to experience that torrid liberation that I knew only briefly, the feeling that her body belonged solely to my lust, that I could do with it as I wished for she was dead and couldn’t deny me.

Soon enough, the intensity of my passion increased. I started to seek the company of young whores in an effort to find release. “Just lay there, you understand?” I would say. “Don’t move. Remain motionless while I undress you. Make as if you’re dead. Then I want to do things to your body but you mustn’t make a sound.” At first, each woman would balk at my unexpected request.

I knew I must have sounded mad, as if I meant to jeopardize their bodily safety. I learned to pay the women their money in advance, while making it clear there was more money to be made if they could follow my instructions to the letter.

“You mean you expect me to lay here and let you have your way with me?” each young woman I propositioned would scoff while always, without fail, eyeing the additional money.

“Yes,” I would insist. “Don’t move and don’t make a sound.”

In the ensuing silence of the girl’s dank, putrid room, I would block out all things of the more rational world and allow my dark imagination free rein.

My literary pursuits, at long last, started to amass me a modest fortune. It was during a particularly bright period in my career that I met Eloise Whitmore. She was a decent, loving woman who was more my age, a woman who’d been tragically widowed in Richmond, and the younger sister of a writer I greatly admired. During a weekend visit to the writer’s family estate, he introduced me to Eloise.

It wasn’t long before a mutual spark of love ignited between Eloise and myself. For a time, her gentle dignity brought out the best in me. I proposed marriage. On the weekend that she accepted my hand, I fooled myself into believing I was a changed man. I was now engaged in more noble endeavors. I was through with my sickening preoccupations. No more time would I waste propositioning whores.

Though Eloise was an upstanding lady, the fact remained she was also a widow—a grown woman, well acquainted with the delights of the marriage bed. In what seemed at the time a harmless tryst—for it was understood we were soon to be married—Eloise and I decided to make love. I stole into her room late one night, where she eagerly awaited me in her bed. The rest of the household had long said goodnight. The entire house was in darkness.

In Eloise’s room, the lamp was still lit. She lay naked in among the sheets and the eiderdown. She had a robust, womanly figure that surprised and excited me. Full breasts, a voluptuous ass – so different from the young bodies to which I had become addicted. I slid into the bed beside her, kissing her ardently, entranced by her naked splendor.

She put a delicate finger to my lips to hush me. “Remember, we mustn’t lose ourselves tonight,” she whispered. “We have to be very careful. My brother’s room is right next door. We don’t want him to hear us.” Then she proceeded to accept my unbridled sexual advances. Allowing me to know her in every position, including her mouth, but keeping silent the entire time.

It was her silence that unnerved me. It was her silence that baited me, even while I understood its necessity. It triggered the dark passion in me and provoked me to challenge her. I began to put her through her paces roughly, to see if I might elicit so much as a moan from her lips. She endured all my brutish passion with a compliance that bordered on subservience. Relentlessly, I drove the thick power of my manhood into her. She accepted its full force without a whimper. I even put her through the unthinkable—introducing my member to her anally. She struggled only briefly, then acquiesced.

It soon became apparent to me that even without the formality of the marriage vows Eloise regarded me already as her lord and master. It was a heady feeling; one I hadn’t known since my first wife had died. It made Eloise Whitmore more enticing than ever. At the end of that weekend, I couldn’t wait for Eloise to be my bride.

Why then, you must be asking, did it come to this, my imminent death by poison in a charity ward when I should be enjoying my most celebrated period of literary fame? And why my inability to resist the drink, the opiates, and the lurid pull of the young whores of Baltimore, when a woman of substance, of good breeding and a respected family, was waiting in Richmond to be my devoted wife?

The paralysis now squeezes hard about my lungs, shredding my final breaths. My warden-nurse has taken my right hand in hers, her fingers pressing firmly against the faint pulse in my wrist. As my eyes remain frozen garishly open, surely lending a mask of obscene horror to my face, I know now that God will have little mercy on me after all as I depart this miserable plane.

“It was to save her, you see!” I try vainly to scream at my nurse. But no sounds come. My mouth won’t move and my tongue seems gone. My thoughts are wedged tight against the thin ledge at the back of my barely sighted eyes.

It was to save Eloise Whitmore, who was so full of life, from ever discovering what I knew I would always hunger for.

Who is it who comes now? A sudden face when all around has drifted into darkness. Listen to my tale, whoever you are. It was the body of a dead girl I cherished! It was the world between her legs! Not to marry would have been unthinkable and so I took my cousin to be my child-bride.

© – 2001 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Everything Old is New Again

I know, I should be excited this morning because in a couple of hours, I’ll have a brand new car. However, I woke up battling a huge bunch of sadness today, instead.

Part of it is because I’m still not quite believing that I’m the kind of girl who will be driving a Honda Civic. I know it’s a great car. But I would be more excited if I were driving a Hellcat. My dream car.

The other part of my sadness stems from this business of it being September. The cooler weather; this closing-of-the-windows business. The birds leaving for warmer climes.

I used to love September. I used to love fall. I guess since I wrote about this in Letter #2 of Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse, I can just go ahead and write about it here.

(And as an aside, Letter #3 began coming out yesterday, entirely unexpectedly and all of its own accord. It appears to be titled, “Baltimore.”)

Anyway, in Letter #2, “A Beach to His Waves,” I wrote about an older man who died, but who managed to thoroughly change my life before he left.

I knew him for less than 4 months, but they were the most intense, amazing, beautiful, magical 4 months I ever lived. He was terminal, with cancer, but wound up dying very suddenly from a heart attack instead.

He was in his early 70s, extremely happily married — kids, grandchildren. He’d had a really successful career.  But his wife and his kids were absolutely devastated by the fact that he was dying, incurable, and we met honestly by sheer accident, but it then did seem like it was no accident — it was some miraculous type of fate, or destiny, or something. But we did indeed meet, we were pulled together. And he just wanted to be with someone who didn’t treat him like he was fragile, and who didn’t treat him with kid gloves, and who wasn’t crying all the time. Even though he really did love those people, his wife and family, without doubt.

It just happened, we became lovers, and then it took over my life for just under 4 months. Not only was it the most amazing sex, he also taught me, for the first time in my life, how to accept being loved.  As far as I knew (or even know still today), I was never really loved when I was growing up. My (adoptive) mother told me point blank that I was not loved. My (adoptive) father told me the same thing, in different ways.

At best, I was tolerated, and usually just barely, since throughout my years of growing up, I was relentlessly abused.  A large part of it was the fact that I was adopted so I had nothing whatsoever in common with the people who adopted me. Nothing. I couldn’t have been more different if I were trying. And on top of it, I was very smart, very sexual, very psychic, very creative. Just this weird little kid from Jupiter and they really, really didn’t want to deal with me. Both parents eventually told me that they regretted adopting me and wanted me to just go away.

Anyway, I don’t want to drag all that up now, it is sufficient to say that I have never felt loved and never took it as a given that I ever would be loved, even though I am intensely loving on the giving side of that one-sided equation. (And of course went into the Ministry because of my relationship with Christ and his love, and my understanding that I was capable of being an endless supply of giving love to others.)

But this man, he changed all of that for me. He had been raised by a mother who had truly loved him. His whole life had been surrounded by love, so he could not even believe that anyone (me) could be coming from a place of never having been loved.  Felt loved, Even felt deserving of love. Any of it. And that put us in the curious position of him having fallen in love with me, and needing me to accept that love because he knew he was dying and didn’t want to leave life feeling like I was refusing to accept his love.

He managed to get through to me, you know. It wasn’t easy. But it did happen. And it changed my whole life. Everything about how I saw life, and felt life, and all of that. And what I allowed myself to feel, for the first time ever, was pretty staggering. I mean, I was already well into my 50s.

So, of course, he died. And it was quite sudden when he did. And I couldn’t go to the funeral or anything like that, because I didn’t officially exist.  He was married and all that. So my grief was very private, and very intense. But what got me through it was knowing that he didn’t want me to be sad. And I also immediately felt his true presence visiting me from the other side.  And he helped me find my way through my grief.

He doesn’t visit me every day anymore, but for awhile he did. He was with me constantly in spirit. I couldn’t see him or hear him, but inside my head, I heard him perfectly. He was there.

Well, my main point is that he died in early September. So there you have it. My inability to let summer go anymore. (And then Tom Petty also dying suddenly of a heart attack, and dying at the begininng of October — that stuff didn’t help me deal with my private loss.)

And until the Muse came into my life last fall, I really thought I was done with living. I didn’t want to kill myself or anything, but I really, really wanted to cross over that great divide and go be with that guy again, for eternity, even though I knew he had felt that his wife was his soul mate. So I wasn’t (am still not) really sure where that leaves me for eternity. But, the Muse came and suddenly all this writing came out of me. Just pouring out. Planting me really solidly within Life again. In a really joyful way. Still, when I wake up in the morning and realize it’s September now, that fall is coming, it is a battle not to get sad.

This morning I just felt overwhelmed by it.  Just too many question marks right now in my life — about both plays, about my novel, other projects that are still un-anchored anywhere, needing a firm home. You know. Just too many projects I’m generating that are not anchored anywhere yet. And still more projects on the back burner, waiting for my complete attention.

It was all I could do this morning to get through my meditation, then my Inner Being journaling thing, anything to just hold on and not feel so incredibly sad.

So. I’ll head out and get my new Honda Civic and not think about the Hellcat that perhaps deep in my heart, I would rather have. And you know, in terms of signs — how when someone you love dies, you long for signs that they are still with you? With him, early on, I once asked him to please show me a sign, and then he unleashed just a barrage of signs, until I was finally shouting out loud, “Okay STOP!!” because it was freaking me out. All the sudden signs that he was with me in spirit.

But a few months ago, out of the blue, I had to drive into the city and deal with all that horrible ugly traffic that I hate, in a city that I also hate, and suddenly, there on the freeway, moving into my lane, was a purple Hellcat. My dream car. I never actually see Hellcats on the road, only Dodge Challengers. Hellcats are pretty expensive. And this one was purple — the exact car I wanted. And the license plate is what told me it was his sign of signs for me. When he was a little boy, he had loved Elvis. Just worshiped him. And the license plate on the Hellcat read: ELV1S. So not just “Elvis” but that Elvis was #1. And then there was also a picture of a rocket blasting off on the license plate, too, which to me was symbolic of what he had done for a living (aeronautics).

A true SIgn of Signs, in my opinion. I followed that car for quite a while that day, until it sped off onto another highway.

Well, I got out of bed this morning crying, but determined to somehow save this day from the oblivion of my sorrow, you know? I’ll go get my new car. I’m sure I’ll be really happy once I’m driving it way too fast in Muskingum County.

It looks like it’s going to be another stunning day. I have to say, I don’t understand any of it.  Life, death, grief, joy, love, sex.  None of it. I don’t understand it. But I still choose to feel all of it.

Okay, so, have a great Friday, wherever you are and wherever it takes you. Thanks for visiting. Oh, and Iggy Pop’s new album Free, is very interesting. I haven’t heard the whole thing yet, but it does fill me with a lot to ponder — this aging thing.  Iggy Pop is managing to grow older quite gracefully. It is so interesting to me. Okay. I leave you with the song that came into my head the moment I came out of meditation and saw that dawn was approaching, and I was determined to stop crying and somehow face this too beautiful September day. I love you guys. See ya.

“Here Comes The Sun”

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it’s all rightLittle darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it’s all rightLittle darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it’s all right

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it’s all right
It’s all right

c – 1969 George Harrison

Excerpt 2. Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse

Okay, so, that Conversation Nick Cave had again in Helsinki last night looked like it was just incredible.

Even though people were clearly stating that they weren’t permitted to use their phones during the show, several of them just seemed overcome and like they just had to do it, you know?

I, for one, don’t like to encourage bad behavior, but, wow, I was thrilled that some of them broke some of those rules. He did an amazing version of “Stagger Lee.” I got to hear about 40 seconds of it on Instagram. And then he sang “Mermaids” to this young girl who had a bow in her hair and who sat next to him on the piano bench!!!! (“Mermaids”? Really? We’re going there, and she’s still young enough to have a bow in her hair?? I loved it.)

Next is Norway, I think. (I think it was the Norwegians who were diabolical last time and posted all their Instagram photos in black & white, making me fitfully unable to figure out what color his suit was. But I’ve moved on. I’ve accepted it. For whatever reason, he steadfastly refuses to where that beautiful blue suit when he’s in Conversation. He does the tan-grey-brown thing, instead.)

Okay. I’ve been working on the 2nd Letter for my memoir-in-progress,  Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. It’s posted below. It’s a work-in-progress, gang, so please overlook any typos or anything. And now I must get back to revisions of Tell My Bones. I will be in NYC in 21 days… Right.

I love you guys! Thanks for visiting. See ya!

(Excerpt from Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. Contains sexually graphic material and won’t be appropriate for all readers.)

A Beach to His Waves

Ten plus three; I see now that it’s only a handful of years. It was how long I waited. Thirteen years. I don’t know where you were or what you were doing when I was thirteen, but I was in a heck of a panic. I was in love with a boy who wanted to have intercourse and I did not know what it was. I did not know what that meant – to “fuck.”

I was naïve. And that made him impatient with me.

That summer afternoon, he walked off in a huff; fed up with me. My pants were still down around my knees. I did not know what I was supposed to do, what it was he wanted – this thing that I knew darn well other older girls were doing with him.

In a sleeping bag, after midnight in someone’s backyard, for instance. I heard those girls talking on the school bus.

That boy I loved was so beautiful that those girls on the bus were jealous of the girl who’d been in the sleeping bag. They were all older girls; they didn’t even know I existed or that I was listening to them. They had no clue that he was spending any time with me.

I wanted to be that girl he’d been with in the sleeping bag, but I didn’t understand anything. “You’re too young,” he snapped at me when he realized I did not even know what an erection was for and so he put it back in his jeans.

Still, in that way I had of loving back then, and now always will love, I wanted to give to that boy whatever it was he wanted. I just needed to figure out what that was.

*          *          *

You should have seen her. My best friend’s older sister. She was the sweetest, prettiest girl you’ve ever laid eyes on. She was 15; she had tits & hips to die for, to envy whenever she showed up at the local swimming pool in her snow-white bikini and all the boys went haywire.

She had already gone with a couple of them to that grassy lot behind the movie theater, after dark on Saturday nights, so I knew she would be the one who could tell me what it was I needed to know.

She told me, all right. I could not believe my ears. That thing’s gonna go where? How? 

She had the prettiest smile; to see it could make you light up inside. She laughed at me. She said, “Don’t worry. You get wet – you know? It’ll all work out.”

That part I did know, that getting wet business. I didn’t understand that at all, either.  But it was a relief to know that somehow, she knew.

*           *          *

That summer, the boy taught me how to play euchre, and how to play poker, and we drank whisky and played records and smoked cigarettes together.  Sometimes we smoked weed with other boys he knew, and one evening, a sixteen-year-old threw himself on top of me and tried to fondle me, with force. The boy pulled him off and said, “Stop it, you’re hurting her!”

And in private, when I would hope he’d touch me again, he still told me I was too young.  But if he wouldn’t even try, how was I ever going to learn? And I wanted to make him happy, so that he wouldn’t go off with the older girls.

So, I found an older guy – a grown man, in fact – who was willing to help. I was tall. He thought I was seventeen; old enough to have what it was I wanted.

When he found out I was thirteen, we were naked on his bed and his dick was getting ready to go in.

What the hell? He was stunned when he found out how old I was. He told me to go home.

I hadn’t meant to deceive him. It just hadn’t come up – my age. “No! Please please please, don’t make me leave. I need you to show me how to do this thing. I really really need your help.”

I literally begged him. So he showed me how it was done and it was the last time I had to beg a man to do it.

*          *          *

From the beginning, I didn’t like intercourse. I could not understand what the big deal was. It hurt and that was about it. But the boy really liked it and that made me happy, to finally be able to do that for him, and so we became inseparable.

Until he died. Later that summer.

After him, it was just fucking. For the longest time.

*          *          *

I remember all the guys I fucked, of various ages, when I was a teenager (8). I remember the guys from the high school who raped me (2). I don’t really remember all those guys who assaulted me after school, that autumn in the woods after the boy died, because there were too many in that pack – I only remember that, at the time, I knew every one of them.

I remember every girl I kissed (4), and the ones who kissed me – really kissed me – back (2).

I remember the girl with the long red hair, who was covered in freckles, who begged me not to leave her bed when we were in college. That narrow, single bed we tried to sleep in together. Luckily, we were both skinny. But I had a broken heart. Another girl, one I had loved, had turned on me – one of the ones who wouldn’t kiss me back.

That was all by the time I was eighteen.

I remember a full moon in February that shown down on the frozen snow the following year, and the trap that was laid for me that night. An urgent phone call from my mother’s boyfriend: he needed to tell me something important about my mother. He was crying. A grown man, crying on the phone. I was alarmed. I met him in a parking lot that he had picked out and I got into his truck. We drove and drove and drove, while he told me his sad story. He took me to a farm in the moonlight. In the old farmhouse, he offered me something to drink so I took it. He’d drugged me; just that quick. Then stripped me out of my clothes. Raped me for 8 hours, on the cold floor in that old house on the moonlit farm in the snow. I still have no idea where we were. And everyone said I’d seduced him, even my friends said that.

So I left Ohio and I went to New York, where people defined that word seduction very differently.

*          *          *

“Aren’t you afraid of going to New York City all alone; a girl like you?”

Everyone asked me that, as I was packing to leave.

I was more afraid of staying in Ohio.

*          *          *

The men in New York. They did Life in a whole different way. Kinky ways. Inviting ways. And sometimes things that sounded brutal to me at first, ended up being really fun. A lot of the men even made love and that was something I’d never experienced before; real lovemaking. Sophisticated stuff.

The women in New York were the same way.  They were tough but they made love. And they owned fake dicks – in all shapes and sizes and colors. I’d never seen those before. At last, I learned to love intercourse – from being with women, even though their dicks were fake. They knew how to use them on a girl, and better than some of the guys I’d known who’d had real ones.

Intercourse is a strange thing. If you think about it too much, it can make you crazy. Why does the girl have that hole, and why does the guy put his thing in it? Who thought that up? It’s kind of creepy. And why do some women decide that they don’t need a man to do that and go buy something at the store instead?

Fill that hole. Why? And why does it suddenly feel so good once you finally learn how to like it?

*          *          *

For a long time, I was only comfortable doing it with men the way dogs did it – from behind. I needed sex; as much as I could get. But I didn’t want men getting too close – and intercourse, the sheer closeness of it? Too intimate. I needed men to keep their distance; stick to the other side of the barricade, please. I had a heart that was too breakable, secured precariously behind walls of steel.

Whenever possible, I’d turn my back on men when we fucked. It was the only way I could really relax about it.

By then, I didn’t really trust anybody.

Most of the men I was with were fun. I knew how to have a lot of sex without letting anything matter. Actually, I didn’t know how to let anything matter.

I didn’t know how to love men. As far as I could remember, I had never really been loved. Oh, maybe once, by a boy. But real love? That was a skill I had never been taught.

*          *          *

This is what sex looks like when you’ve made a career out of not being in love. And watch out, it’s coming right at you. Dirty words, patiently crafted, carefully chosen to assault your brain. Freeze it there, right on that filthy word. Vulva, in this instance.  Now that’s a weird word. No, it’s not. Look what it does when you touch it – your fingertips almost weightless upon it, just lightly petting over those impossibly soft lips once you’ve pulled her panties down just a little bit. She’s vulnerable like this, exposed from her hips to her knees, so you whisper in her ear and kiss her neck just below her earlobe, where you know she likes it. She smells good there. She did that for you, you know – made herself smell good where she knew you would probably kiss her. You’re gonna get her to agree to all sorts of naughty things now because of what you’re doing; kissing her, lightly stroking those pussy lips. She trusts you. And now she’s tugging her panties all the way off, kicking them to the floor and her thighs are parting. And that vulva, it spreads open for you; revealing that slippery world that sometimes seems so unfathomable with all its folds: lips engorged now with lust while she kisses you back – lust that you caused because you touched it, her secret place. There it is under your fingertips, her clit, slippery and stiff now, easy to find. Just wiggle it a little. It’s almost too responsive. The gasp that comes out of her mouth when you rub that stiff little thing sounds almost scary; it’s too breathless, too passionate as she holds you tight, her legs spread just for you, for your fingers. She sounds so much like a woman now, gasping right there in your ear – like maybe she’s gonna want you to marry her. But don’t fall for it. Your dick’s on a mission and we’re gonna get you there. Move you past her little piss hole that’s so easy to see now because she’s got her legs spread that wide, she’s that shameless, her knees to her tits, and so you can see everything, even that tiny piss hole that sometimes makes you wonder in your delirium what would it feel like if she planted her soaking pussy right on my mouth and just pissed in it? We won’t tell anybody you’re thinking that, though; this story is just between you and your brain. And now here’s the main hole, the hole your dick came for; it is wide open and waiting, that hole that dreams are made of. And she is fully aroused. She’s so wet, it’s dripping out of her. Your dick is gonna slide right in. Now she’s likely to do anything.

It pinches off your reason, those dirty words, while your dick just floods with it – pay dirt.

It’s not as immediate as a dirty picture. It’s not some girl with her shaved pussy spread open, getting stuffed for the camera. Words don’t jump right in your face. They inch in and make love to you, through neurons and synapses and – oh god, here they come – hormones. Now you’re in love. In love with yourself and with all those dirty pictures in your head that know just who you are and how you like it. What she’s willing to do when nobody else is around. She’s gonna take it where? It’s gonna feel how? They will make it feel smooth as silk – those dirty words that weave into pictures that nobody else but you can see.

Then it goes down a step deeper – dirtier words, forming sentences that are creating pictures that not even you can believe. Oh man, this girl’s really going for it, like some dog in heat.

No, she’s not. It’s just a picture in your head, but it feels so magnetic because it came from inside of you. That’s right, down inside of you. Where God lives.

But don’t try to touch me in real life. I don’t go there.

*          *          *

When I entered my fifties, I met a man who was getting ready to die. When we started having sex, he said, “I love you, Marilyn.”

I didn’t believe him, even though I wanted to.  I wanted to believe him but my brain was too filled with doubt; it was the one thing I knew how to feel towards a man. So I would just look away.

He said, “Look at me. No, just look at me for a minute. What’s with you? I love you, Marilyn. Why is it so hard for you to accept that?”

It just was. I didn’t want to tell him why. Who wants to talk about rape when a man is looking at you like he thinks you’re beautiful?

Look at me. I love you. Don’t turn away.”

But who was I to make eye contact? I still hadn’t conquered my fear of being held.

We had a lot of sex; a lot of it. Two, three times a day. Because he was going to die. And it was the best sex I’d ever had in my life. Just the best. Because he forced me to look him in the eye and really hear him when he told me that he loved me. Eventually, he had to shout at me; to demand that I be there with him in the intimate bond that his last understanding of physical life was depending on. And I finally heard. By then, I’d been having sex for nearly forty-five years, and my heart finally came into the bed.

It seemed like bookends, really: one boy was young and so full of life; I loved him innocently and he led me into sex and then died. The other was an older man, at the end of life. And he taught me how to accept sex that involved being loved, and then he died.

This is what I learned, finally: Love will save you. It’s that simple. Love will restore you to yourself. A man on top of me, a man in my arms, my legs wrapped around him as he has intercourse with me and if I allow myself to love him – it’s the best feeling there is.  I become a beach to his waves. A place that’s open and endless and taking that repeated pounding; those eternal waves of love.

*          *          *

When I was a young girl, love came so easily to me. I saw a boy and that was that. I loved him and I knew it. I was not plagued with doubt. I was in, sink or swim; a young beach to his waves without knowing it. And now, I see you and it feels just as easy. It has become simple again. I love you. I’m in, sink or swim. Ready for you, that wave of you, to crash into the depths of me.

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

6:15am — In Case You’re Curious!

Meaning, the exact time that the first bird starts singing around here in the mornings now.

A far cry from 4:15, which is when they would begin singing in late spring — that heady season when I felt like I had all the time in the world.

Even though the director texted me late last evening and relieved some of my pressure — saying that he really loved where the new pages in the play were heading,  giving me that insight I needed to give the section more emotional depth; none of it changes that the summer really is almost over and I have way too much of the play left to rewrite.

Not that it’s so many pages; it’s that the pages left are crucial ones that need an indescribably focused amount of my concentration.

However, this morning, when I awoke stressed at 4:28am, I realized that I needed to change everything. Well, not everything. I just needed to change the angle from which I was looking at my trip.

There’s just no way I can be in any kind of meaningful “rehearsals” by mid-September when I still have all this contractual stuff with the director to work out before hand, and now the budget is really huge so I have no clue what Sandra’s going to want to do regarding staged readings. So I decided to just let Cosmic Timing take over and step back and allow something higher to figure out my life and stop trying to constantly connect the dots.

And I decided I would talk to my sales rep at Honda and just let him decide if I should lease the new car before I went to NY or after I came back. I have to stop worrying about the car.  I’m turning it into a drama in my head and it just doesn’t need to be one.

And then I decided I want to get rid of that idea of staying in 2 different hotels when I’m in the city for Nick Cave, even though one of the hotels is the Algonquin. I decided to get an airbnb, instead, and just stay for 3 nights in a row — in Manhattan: Saturday, Sunday and Monday, and just hang out, have the meetings with Sandra and the director and then just do whatever I want. Not worry about going back and forth to Rhinebeck in the middle of those 2 Nick Cave shows. It just wasn’t making any sense to do that. It was making me nutty.

So I just gave up trying to connect the dots. Just let life happen because it’s going to happen anyway.

I also decided that I’m not going to the cemetery today. It’s funny how, some years, I will just barely notice the anniversary of Greg’s death; and other years, it becomes very active in my memory; and sometimes I’ll go to the cemetery; other times, I don’t. I don’t know why that is.

I do know that going to the cemetery makes me sad because it always becomes so clear to me, when I’m there, that everybody else forgot about him a long, long time ago. No flowers there, ever. No nothing. Just grass growing. It has been just so many years. Life went on.

I have a hard time with certain aspects of that, even though, overall, I understand that’s just the way things are. I don’t want to get morbid about any of it. But sometimes life just confounds me. It doesn’t seem to make any sense. What the heck is it — life, I mean. You know? What is it?

Plus, I’m not ready to find out if his mom has died now, too. That would be sort of final, right? His long ago doorway into this world being gone forever now, too.

This summer, he has been all over my thoughts. I just don’t know why. Late yesterday afternoon, I decided to set Tell My Bones aside for a minute, get it out of my brain completely and work on one of the chapters in Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. They aren’t actually “chapters,” they really are more like letters; creative nonfiction memoir type letters. Anyway, the next “chapter” has been sitting on my desk, halfway finished for months now and it’s one that has a lot to do with Greg. It’s about sexual intercourse — the specific actual thing. It’s titled “A Beach to His Waves.” And while working on it for about 8 hours last night, it was funny to see how, when I am in love with a guy, I will just do anything for that guy.  Anything. My focus becomes like a laser beam and nothing peripheral exists, really, except my love for that guy.

I find that so curious since, when I don’t love a guy (which is almost all the time; I don’t fall in love easily), I am indescribably independent. Self-involved. Uninterested in anything besides the constant creative thoughts that are in my head. Live alone; die alone; just be a sort of constant, eternal loner. But, Jesus, fall in love with a guy? Suddenly it’s like: Oh, yeah; my very reason for being; I forgot I had one. And then almost nothing else matters but “the guy.”

Anyway, so I’m going to be working on that chapter again today, too — the 45th anniversary of his death.  Even though the chapter is only partly about him, it’s still kind of fitting.

There’s another Red Hand Files newsletter from Nick Cave in my inbox. It has something to do with PJ Harvey because I saw the picture at the top, but I haven’t read it yet.

And people in Helsinki like to post to Instagram!! Everybody loved the Conversation that Nick Cave had there last night. Even the ones who didn’t post in English — judging by the amount of exclamation points and the many rhapsodic emojis… Everyone seemed incredibly blissed out. And I mean incredibly. He is giving another one there tonight.

So, that’s me, for now. I gotta scoot. I’m just gonna let life happen to me today.  I’m just gonna write. Do yoga. Do laundry. Stop trying to figure everything out. It is utterly impossible anyway.

I leave you with this, it was my favorite record at the time of Greg’s death. He didn’t care one way or the other about David Bowie, but he didn’t mind that I played the record all the time. Obviously, since Greg had very long blond hair and blue eyes, you can guess why this song became really difficult for me after he died. But it’s still a really, really cool song.

Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you more than words can say, guys. See ya!

What Is It About Brides?!

I look good in the dress, you know.

I wear the wedding gown really well. But the moment it goes into storage…

Wow. I just don’t know what it is.

I’m bringing this up because yesterday was the 18th anniversary of Tom Petty’s marriage to Dana York and she posted video footage of their wedding on Instagram and those two looked happier than you can possibly imagine. (Second marriages for both of them.)

I was happier on my first wedding day than I was on my second, but that’s still not saying a whole bunch. (I guess it says that I can be persuaded to do just about anything – twice.)

I awoke at 3:46am today – yes, awash in those wonderful waves of Eros, yet again. But then the first thing I thought of was that video of Tom & Dana’s wedding and of how happy they were. And I began wondering what (if anything) was the matter with me.

I have just never been the kind of gal who thought much about the idea of getting married.  Partly because I was born in that part of the 20th Century where men still owned everything imaginable, and I thought of marriage as ownership. And I have never wanted to be owned. The thought of being an ornament on someone’s arm has always horrified me.

The other part was of course my sexuality. Even as a young teenager (when I started getting raped by guys from the outside world and then men from inside my loving home), I could already tell that my sexuality was more than most people could really deal with.

At least, in Ohio.

When I moved to NYC everything changed. It was so great, so liberating, in the truest sense of the word.  Because  NYC in the 1980s – well, my sexuality fit right in.  Everyone was off the charts. I think Manhattan was not only the casual sex capital of the world at that point, but also the extreme casual sex capital of the world.

Then, of course, most of the people I knew got AIDS and died. I was certainly spared in that regard, but it was just really stupid of me to think that I could squeeze myself down into something that could fit into a marriage.

I always wanted to have kids. Even back as a very little girl, I just assumed I was going to have a lot of children. I really, really wanted children. But I never really wanted to get married.

Instead, I got married twice and had no children.

The only marriage that ever truly appealed to me was the marriage between E.B. White and his wife, Katharine Sergeant Angell White.

E.B. White is probably my favorite essayist of all time. He also wrote children’s classics like Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little, but his essays are literary gems that struck chords really deep in me and have stayed with me forever. (“Once More to the Lake” is probably everybody’s heartbreaking favorite, but I also really love his essay “Goodbye to 48th Street,” among many others.)

His wife was a legendary fiction editor for The New Yorker when that magazine was in its literary golden age.  They met, fell in love, she left her husband, they got married, moved to Maine and bought a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. And then  seem to have done nothing but amazing things for each other’s literary lives.

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He was, of course, neurotic, and she was often the rudder keeping him pointed in the right direction.  But the part I always loved most about their marriage was that, in their house, they had offices across the hall from each other.  They’d each go into their offices in the morning, write all day, and then both emerge at 5 o’clock, have one martini and a cigarette, talk about what they’d written (or angst-ed over) and then have dinner together and go to bed. (Sadly, I don’t know what they did in bed, besides sleep, otherwise I would of course regale you with all those details here.)

To me, that has stuck with me as the idea of the most perfect (as well as unattainable) marriage.

Another “relationship” that has always really appealed to me was Lillian Hellman and Dashiell Hammett’s. But it seems to have involved tons more booze & cigarettes and a lot of shouting.  I’m not big on the shouting stuff.  And they did not get married, but stayed together for 30 years and wrote various masterpieces. And that appeals to me enormously.

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I guess you can see that I am all about the writing.

It’s not that I am not all about love, or not into love, or a disbeliever in love. Love is everything to me. But love is woven in there inextricably with my writing. I don’t know why I can’t separate it. And I guess it does make me very self-involved, although I don’t feel like I am. I feel like my love is enormous and spills over into everything, benefiting everyone – and yet, more importantly, love helps me write better. And that means everything to me and so I guess it makes me self-involved.

But it’s still all about love.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog are no doubt painfully aware that I am totally, 100%, thoroughly in love with my muse. He has changed my life – and so quickly, so unexpectedly. Came into my life on all cylinders, blasted open my writing and turned it completely around.

It’s not that he is my reason for being – the kind of thing that maybe people feel when they are wearing those beautiful clothes and having weddings; but he gives me clarity on my reason for being, which has wound up being the most amazing gift I could have ever hoped to receive.

Clarity on my reason for being.

I don’t know that I would have ever realized just how much I needed that if it hadn’t happened of its own accord.

You know, I watched that short video footage of Tom & Dana’s wedding on Instagram yesterday, over & over & over. And I was simply astounded by how happy they were. (Yes, I pondered it!)  And it wasn’t any kind of bullshit – those two were incredibly happy. You could just see it.  And I felt a little bit like a failure because I can only seem to feel that happy when I’m alone, finding the most perfect word.

So I don’t understand myself and my “alone-ness” any better than I ever did, but I still feel happier than I’ve ever been and just so blessed to have the most amazing muse.

It’s probably best to just not think about it too much. Because I think it’s going to end up being something good for the whole world; I really do.

Okay. I’ve got lunch today with the director of Tell My Bones at 12:30. So I’m gonna scoot now and try to get some writing done before that. I think today is going to be just another stunning day out there. I’m so looking forward to it.

I hope your Tuesday is just as splendid, wherever you are in the world.  I leave you with this, the song Tom Petty wrote for Dana, long before they were married, back when he was heading towards some real dark times, but (he has said repeatedly in interviews) he was already in love with her & waiting. Okay! Thanks for visiting! I love you guys, See ya.


I dreamed you
I saw your face
Cut my lifeline
Went floating through space
I saw an angel
I saw my fate
I can only thank God it was not too late

Over mountains
I floated away
‘Cross an ocean
I dreamed her name
I followed an angel
Down through the gates
I can only thank God it was not too late

Sing a little song of
Sing one to make me smile
Another round for everyone
I’m here for a little while

Now I’m walking
This street on my own
But she’s with me
Everywhere I go
Yeah, I found an angel
I found my place
I can only thank God it was not too late
I can only thank God it was not too late
I can only thank God it was not too late

c-1995 Tom Petty

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

Evolving Past This

I dropped off to sleep in very high spirits last night. And then awoke in this sort of “not good” place.

I think it’s an energy thing.

You know how it feels when you know you are evolving past things in your life? Not just outgrowing things, but you can sense that everything around you, the reality you’ve pulled together for yourself, is shifting. Maybe morphing into the next adventure, but you can’t completely see it yet.

That’s how I feel around here.  Things are changing. It’s not a bad thing but for some reason, I’m feeling blue and I’m trying to sort of tune my dial to a better feeling energy here this morning.

A really cool thing happened last night, though, as I was drifting off to sleep.  You know that very early place between awake and dreaming where you can become somewhat lucid? I suddenly realized that I was in a room with about maybe 20 people and they were sitting down, talking among themselves, as well as talking to me.

I awoke slightly and then realized that this is a potential version of that writer’s retreat I’ll be giving. Perhaps the “ghost” version, or the “as yet to be filled in by physical reality” version.  I was talking to an older woman and she was very passionate about something.

It was at that exact moment, while talking to her, that I became lucid and experienced myself talking to her. And quickly after that, I awoke.  And I realized that this is the other side of the equation. Meaning, I want to do things in life. I have dreams or goals. I know they always involve other people but it never occurred to me in such vividness how a goal or a dream that’s in the process of manifesting brings the energies of others to you as it’s in the process of manifesting. The energies, I guess, pull together until  an experience completely fills in and we then experience it as “real.”

I realized that this dream had been a gathering of potential co-creators who are all in the process of manifesting something in their lives that was going to be really joyful.  And that it centered around that writer’s retreat.

Over the years, I have taught some really gifted young writers. Writers who wanted to make that transition into being professional, selling their work, getting book deals or selling a screenplay, etc.  I know what they’re up against and I try to be realistic with them about rejection if only to give them some emotional armor,  but overall, I try to be as encouraging as I can possibly be. Because that part where you do have to be realistic is only the beginning part, and it is completely outweighed by what comes next, when things start to click and you do start to make sales, and get readers and start to develop relationships with publishers or producers or what have you.  It absolutely does happen, especially if you’re a gifted storyteller.  It absolutely will happen, if you stick with it.

And there is always that moment that arrives when, as a teacher, I cut them loose, because I know I’ve taught them what I could, that they need to go out and try their own wings, and that now I’ve become more of an editor than a teacher, and frankly I charge a whole lot more to edit you than to teach you. So off they go into the world.

I know they’re gifted. I know a gifted writer when I read one. I’ve worked with hundreds of writers over the years, and I’ve been blessed to have had so many close colleagues who were or are incredibly good writers. I can tell in less than a page of reading, if someone has the gift. But as far as younger students go, I have seen so many of them let the fear of failure that comes with those early rejection letters,  turn into “I have to have a job to pay the bills and I need to focus on that right now.”

And then I know, sad as it is, that it’s as good as over.  I don’t ever say it, but in my heart I know that they’ve opted for safety and conservatism because of fear. And now they’re going to get bogged down in responsibilities that will make everything about having a life of art be just that much more difficult.

I’ve never been about playing it safe, ever. I’ve always been wildly at the other end of that spectrum. I have lived most of my life in fear, things having nothing to do with my writing, but stemming from physical and sexual abuse, where I learned to feel that I was utterly alone and on my own from an early age. I can look on that as a gift now because it gave me stamina, and helped me develop a relationship with my idea of God that, in turn, taught me all about faith. The depths of faith. And also the depths of beauty in this world, and the blessings of kindness. And of course, underscoring all of that, the beauty of love among people who might not even know each other.

I have a deep appreciation for all those things about humanity because I’ve seen the other side of that and it’s just horrible. And so love and beauty and kindness become sacred, you know?

I really want to be in an atmosphere again where people are already in their craft, in that understanding of what they want to put into the world, past that point of fear or uncertainty, where art can really blossom or flow.  And it was beautiful last night to realize that I’m not the only one who still wants that. All I have to do is set out that beacon and the writers will come.

For most of my adult life, I had projects that involved bringing tons of talented writers and artists together. The advent of the Internet was instrumental in letting that happen so fluidly. Other-Rooms.com, MarilynsRoom.com, and certainly the EAA were incredibly successful ventures in that regard. But they took over my life. They grew to be 24/7 endeavors and I had next to no time left for me.  And certainly with the EAA, I came up against the laws and censorship stuff with this country’s Government. In the past, I had worked for publishers who either literally went to prison for publishing and distributing “pornography” or who’d had to spend a fortune fighting the Government in court. I know that it can happen and that was so much more than I’d bargained for, so I began to step back.

Even though the writer’s retreats will require a huge amount of work for me, since each separate retreat will also yield the publication of a book that I have to basically “curate” from start to finish, each retreat will be bracketed by “only 2 times a year,” at most. And I’ll still have the rest of the year for my own adventures. So I feel really, really excited about that.

Plus, I’m in the process of putting together with Valerie in Brooklyn some initial cover art for 2 of the books I have in progress right now (I do this to avoid, at all costs, any more covers that feature girls in their underwear.)  Here they are as they stand right now.

Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse is a book I began writing in January. This one is graphically erotic,  creative nonfiction. It pretty much is exactly what the title says it is.

Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse

And of course Blessed By Light. This is a novel about an aging, successful musician, grieving the unexpected death of his 2nd wife, falling in love again, revisiting the scope of his life and his career, and the specters of success, love, loss, despair, triumph  and redemption, and what that has done to his family and to himself. It’s almost finished. It has a lot of erotic elements in it, but it is literary fiction. The cover art is still in the creative process. No lettering yet.

Blessed By Light

All right. I’m gonna get going around here and try to turn the energy of this day around, posthaste. I see that there’s a Red Hand Files newsletter from Nick Cave in my inbox and those are always incredibly interesting.  Perhaps it will set the tone for his Conversation tonight in Hamburg, Germany! (Lucky Duck-sters!!)

Okay. Thanks for visiting, gang. I tried really hard not to listen to The Big Jangle this morning, in my efforts to adjust to this idea that Tom Petty is in fact dead. It was depressing – that absence of sound.  I’m gonna have to re-think all of it , the whole 9 yards.

But I love you guys! See ya.