Tag Archives: #MarilynJayeLewis

2nd Attempt to get Tuesday Right!

Yep, we’re gonna give it a go. Try to see if this week’s version of Tuesday will not be a day from Hell.

Diane is here. She spent the night. Shortly, we will attempt to get in the sporty Honda Fit and go retrieve her car from the auto body shop that is far, far, FAR, so FUCKING FAR away!!! I’m hoping that now that I actually know where it’s located, and since she will be in the car with me, last week’s descent into madness will not return.

You know, also re: last Tuesday (post is below). After giving it some honest thought – because, actually, all week, I couldn’t stop thinking about how mean I had been to my friend – I realized that what I put in my post was not true. It wasn’t that the mean thing I’d said was out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. The truth was that I knew exactly what I was saying. I knew it was mean and manipulative, and I said it anyway because I was feeling incredibly insecure, and then I only REGRETTED saying it because he wouldn’t let me off the hook and it started this huge bunch of awfulness between us, and by nightfall, he didn’t want to be my friend anymore and I had to beg him to re-think that and I apologized profusely for being such a bitch.  He did forgive me, thank god. But he also did say he forgave me about 20 times before I actually felt like he meant it.

Needless to say, after really looking at it, I did feel just terrible about me and my damn mouth. And my relentless insecurities. And what it started with someone I really love.

Not sure why, suddenly, I’ve started to be so honest with myself. I really like various other versions of myself a lot better. But I guess, in the long run, it’s best to just be honest and try like hell to change.

My conference call with Peitor went so great.  He gave me really good insights into how best to handle the stage adaptation of the Helen LaFrance piece for Sandra.  It will be much more challenging for me as a writer, but it’s a type of writing I’m better suited for. So we’ll see.

But during our conversation, I told Peitor about what’s been happening with me and my mouth (other things happened last week having to do with things I actually did say by accident that were not good, including but not limited to, telling a supervisor at my much-needed part-time job: “fuck you.”  And that truly was a mistake.  I did not expect that to come out of my mouth, I was just so stressed.  And I was, like, “Oh my god, oh my god, I take that back, I take that back, I take that back!!!”) Anyway, Peitor said, “Wow, Marilyn, you’re sort of like a garden hose; fix one leak, and the water springs out somewhere else.” Too funny, and too true.

On Sunday, I not only renewed my vows to Christ in Holy Communion – you know, to try to not be the lamest excuse for a minister on planet Earth. We’ll see how that goes. But I also made incredibly great progress on the revisions I need for the CLEVELAND TV pilot.

In response to all this, though, I am taking all of next week OFF. Just gonna stay home and work on the novels. Get some rest.  Steer clear of all my fellow human beings for a few days.  And then hopefully re-emerge all bright and new.

On that happy note, have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world.  I gotta scoot and go get Diane’s car. Thanks for visiting! See ya.

Image result for vintage images bad little girls

 

 

Still Learning How to be Human

Tuesday turned out to be sort of a day from Hell.

Peitor woke up with a raging migraine, so we postponed our conference call until later today. Disappointing, but it suddenly freed up my schedule to run an urgent errand for Diane.  Her car broke down and the auto body guy wouldn’t begin repairs until she gave him a rather substantial deposit. So off I tootled in my little Honda Fit, to bring the guy a couple hundred bucks.

Well, I could not find the fucking place. One thing about living way, way out here in the Hinterlands, places you need to get to can be several counties away. It took me 2 hours to find the guy. And it would have been a really lovely drive — all full of farmland and hills and lovely green trees and such — but I was getting steadily deeper into this weird mental place, suddenly doubting my ability to recognize chronological addresses because I just could not find this auto body shop . I drove up & down State Route 668 S, a million times, not realizing that I still was not even in the right county yet.

Well, after – yes – eleven (!!) phone calls to Diane, I finally found it. Then I got home, tried to just get to the laptop and start writing, but inadvertently said something indescribably mean to a really, really dear friend. It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying, and then couldn’t take it back. You know, he was so pissed off, hurt, astounded that I would say something like that to him. He forgave me but it still, well, you know, I really need to watch my mouth. Then the rest of the day I could get no writing done because I felt terrible about myself. And on into the night I felt like I was on Mars.

Yesterday was really good, though. I got great writing done on both of the new novels. (And I finally felt forgiven by my friend because I asked him probably 20 times if he would please forgive me. And even though he kept saying he forgave me, he finally just really yelled at me and said “don’t ever, ever, ever talk to me like that again,” and at last I felt forgiven. )

And also yesterday, an angel appeared in my yard! By that, I mean, one of the guys who takes care of cutting my lawn.  He’s in his 60s but he looks about 102 years old. Covered in tattoos, long white hair, beard, etc. Overalls. Unbelievably nice. Retired. Used to build pole barns for a living. Anyway, he told me that for $75 he would tear down the old rotting fence in my backyard, saw down all the posts, and haul all the wood away! I was speechless.  I was, like, oh dear God, thank you! That fence really, really needs to come down but it was taking me forever to get the money together to have it done. He also told me he’d scrape & repaint the barn for a good price, then repair the roof on the barn with used tin instead of brand new tin, and it would save me a fortune.

Wow, I just felt so blessed.  I’m hoping to at least have the fence removed before this happens:

The grown woman was my biological grandmother, Louise. She died a couple years ago. We didn’t always get along. You’d never guess, but often my obstinate, stubborn, bullheadedness and unstoppable mouth would get on her nerves. Go figure! (She’d frequently say things to me like, “Missy, you’ve really opened a can of worms this time!” And then follow that with not speaking to me for a while.)

But the baby girl in the photo is Cherie. My birth mother. She’s coming to visit for a few days, once the leaves start changing. I can’t wait. I have not had time alone with my mother in I don’t know how long. (This is not the mother who raised me; this is the mother who was forced by my grandfather to give me up for adoption when I was a couple weeks old, because, sadly, she was only 13 when I was born, and my grandfather finally said, “I’m sorry, but this is just not happening. The baby’s gotta go.” So out I went.)

Over the last several years, I’ve only seen her at funerals, really. Well, not really, but I haven’t spent as much time with her as I used to do when I was in my 20s and 30s, and just getting to know her.

She’s 71 now, retired and living on a farm with both of my half-sisters.  Yes, my mom & dad (she 13 & he 15 when I was born) were both from way, way out in the Hinterlands of Ohio; grew up on farms.  It’s not really that strange, is it? That even though I love NYC, I wound up way back out here, nestled amid farmlands in the Hinterlands, and love it so much. It’s just in my bones, I guess.

My mother and I are so similar, it is almost like we are slightly different versions of the same person. It’s uncanny.  It’s not that easy to talk to her. She’s very quiet. Very private. She’s had a really, really hard life. But I can write her letters and tell her everything. Just everything about myself. Things that confuse me, confound me, upset me about myself. Things it’s not easy to tell anyone else. And she’ll say, “The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree with you. You’re just like me.” And then say nothing else.

But, that actually says a lot, doesn’t it?

The Proverbial Cow/Milk Analogy

Yeah, well.

First of all, a personal thank-you to all of the total strangers who came from all over the world to look at a really terrible photo of me in my underwear! Too funny. I mean,  I’m used to a certain number of people checking out my blog each day, and I know they come from specific countries. But put up a blurry photo of me in black stockings and write a simple paragraph about a pair of 41-year-old fetish shoes and people flock from all over the world. Just too funny.

So, anyway. No, J. (aka MG #2) was not at all satisfied with that photo and I knew he wouldn’t be. “I can’t see your legs. Take that robe off and send me another one!” No. It’s a really, really pretty robe. And actually it gets prettier, if not even more see-through-ier, the higher up it goes.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen my legs a bazillion times, but still. I refuse to send photos that satisfy! You know, why buy the cow if you’re getting the milk for free…( Isn’t that a truly lovely analogy about female sexuality?) (And what is this idea about getting purchased somehow? Buying a cow = getting married. And buying a cow = giving up your pussy. Yes, by golly, it is really fun being a girl…)

I can’t tarry here today because in about an hour, I have a phone conference with Peitor Angell to get some work done on the Helen LaFrance stage adaptation. He is at the Toronto Film Festival right now so he is actually in my time zone! And I have to catch him early, before he goes off to see a zillion films with his husband who is a Canadian movie producer.

However, I have to say, “focusing” is becoming a  real issue for me. Too many writing projects going full-steam ahead and I have to keep switching mental gears because each project is so different. Keep working, keep not sleeping, keep eating very, very strangely because I don’t take time to actually cook anything. I’m actually making myself sick again, but I don’t give a fuck, frankly.  If the words are coming out of me, the words are coming out of me. I’ve gotta catch them or they’ll be gone forever.

And then every few days, a phone call with J. and that always makes  me happy, too.  It’s funny, you know, we used to argue a lot. But I’m realizing that being on a phone with someone (and I refuse to do facetime with him, either, so it’s just a regular phone call), weeds out a whole lot of other stimuli. You’re just getting the voice and vocal inflections and that’s it. It’s so different from talking to someone in person, being with that person, and being bombarded with other stimuli that create expectations. And so now, as we talk, it’s just the intimacy of our voices talking, and  I notice all the old trigger points in our conversations that used to make me start an argument with him, but now I can just let it go. Just let it go, Marilyn; he’s just wanting to tell you something. All of reality does not hinge on what he’s thinking about.

I really just used to be so argumentative.  Mostly because, you know, he is on this whole other planet and I guess, back then, I would have preferred he be on my planet, instead.  And he would pretty much let me be argumentative and just let it roll off his back.  He was heavily involved in mob stuff back then, 24/7, and so my little angriness was sort of “pesky  gnat-like” in the scheme of things. He was also going through a divorce back then and his estranged wife was making him nuts, so , in comparison with her and the mob, my nonsense could roll off his back. It took a lot for him to get really angry with me.  But when he would, wow. Jeepers McCreepers. His vocabulary became quite visual.  He was never violent with me, ever. But, boy, did he say stuff to me that no one else had ever said to me before. And a lot of it seemed to be based on how I really was, so it hurt, as the truth so often does, gentle readers.  And even though he would always eventually apologize — in writing, no less — I don’t really need to go there again.

He’s coming to visit soon, you know. Going to stay for several days, so we’ll see if I can park all my insecurities in some far away parking garage and not let them swoop down into the house while he’s here. I don’t want to argue at all.  I just want to be nice, and see how that works out.

All righty, gang. I gotta scoot! Need some more coffee. Need to switch those mind gears. Thanks for visiting. Have a terrific Tuesday! See ya!

okay, don’t get used to it

And, yes, I am the world’s WORST photographer. But looking okay for 58. (Yes I took this for J.  He only wanted to see the legs. And true to my obstinate nature, you can’t really see them too well, can you?)

I draw your attention to the shoes, though — if you can make them out at all. They are black leather, open-toed, ankle straps, 4 1/2 inch spiked heel…. they are 41 years old!! I bought them in London, in August 1977. Yes, I was 17 years old. And yes, my mom let me buy them. They cost 60 BPS — which, back then was $120. I will never forget that amount bc I was so excited that my mom let me buy them. I don’t think either one of us ever dreamed they were fetish shoes…

Ah well.  I have taken very, very good care of them.

I am actually writing TWO novels at once, right now. The Hurley Falls Mysteries and another new one, titled Blessed By Light. And beginning Monday, I start back to (long-distance) work with Peitor on the Helen LaFrance stage adaptation, and still need to finish the revision of the CLEVELAND TV pilot, so gang, I am just super busy right now. But have a super Saturday, wherever you are in the world!! Thanks for visiting. See ya.

Me + Reality = Never a good combination

One thing I’ve realized that is so cool: now that I only get about 4-5 hours of sleep a night, I have increased my waking time by 672- 1008 additional hours a year.

This means I get so much more time to write. I can finally be like Michael Hemmingson and start blasting out a ton of projects every year!

Long-time followers of my career know that Michael Hemmingson was a very dear colleague of mine for many years. He was a prolific writer. For every sentence I wrote, he wrote an entire novel and had it turned into the publisher.

People who live in the real world (this does not include me in any way whatsoever), seem to think that Michael Hemmingson died over 4 years ago.

I am unwilling to accept this, to process it, to believe it. I have not grieved Michael’s death because I have remained in denial about it this whole time. I prefer to believe he assumed a new identity and went to live abroad, indefinitely.

Michael always had very, very difficult politics. His non-writing world was actually a little frightening to me. He was always at odds with some very dangerous people, both here in the States and, more aggressively, in Tijuana, Mexico.

Michael was the one who warned me not to fuck around with the FBI when they came calling. I got on the phone with him — me, in NYC; Michael in San Diego. He told me to just walk away. I said, it was too late; that I couldn’t. They knew who I was, what I wrote, knew where I lived, had my private email address, they had Xeroxed copies of my short-story, The Urge Toward Jo, from the collections of various known pedophiles.  His advice was, “Well, just do what they want, then, and get it over with. Don’t provoke them.”

Crap. This was 20 years ago. I used to be really naive. I had no inkling that the FBI was at all sinister back then or anything. Don’t provoke them? Jesus. It was an eye-opener.

Michael lived in a whole different world from me, and in the various few fleeting moments when my brain tries to tell me that Michael really did die down there in Tijuana, the only way I can accept it, is to believe that he was murdered by one of the various drug cartel problems he had down there.

Michael tries to contact me from time to time, in spirit, and I block him. Only because if I don’t, it means I have to accept that he’s dead.  This morning, having coffee at my kitchen table, 6AM, Michael came through. I was well into a conversation with him about a new collection of erotic stories that I want to write that I know he would really enjoy, before I realized what was happening. Then I finally acquiesced and said to him (in spirit): I guess this means you’re really dead, doesn’t it?

Damn it.

Michael was probably my only male colleague back then who (like me) had huge quantities of extreme sex but who did not either try to have sex with me; ask me to have sex with him; suggest strongly I should have sex with him; try to coerce me to go to an extreme BDSM orgy with him, or put me in a position where it would seriously trash my career if I did not have sex with him in some way.

Michael and I were actually just friends. We could talk about anything, not just sex. He talked to me about his family, his parents, his childhood, how much he really, really wanted to have a daughter (which he eventually did have & he loved her like crazy). I really, really liked him a lot.  And I could confide in him about the others among our colleagues [who are obliquely mentioned above] who weren’t so savory, or who were downright sexually manipulative with me regarding my writing career.  I couldn’t talk to anyone else about that stuff, because I found it so humiliating. But for some reason, I could talk to Michael.

One thing that was true about 99% of the erotic writers I knew back then, was that we were all practicing the things we were writing about. We lived primarily in NYC, San Francisco, London, Paris, Boston, and LA. In those days (the 90s), we were a relatively small group of writers, and we were just constantly having sex. And many of my colleagues were having sex with each other.  Play parties were a huge thing. To me, it seemed really inadvisable to have all that unbridled orgy-type sex with a bunch of your colleagues. I just never could wrap my mind around that. I didn’t judge anyone else for doing it; I just never participated. I had one-on-one sex with one male writer/publisher, but it was a long-term relationship where we were lovers, we were extremely close for a very long time. But for the most part, my sex life involved people I didn’t work with. And Michael was the same way.

I was eventually put into a situation where I was pretty much forced to have sex with a publisher and it really, really made me sick. I worked well with him, thought that I really liked him, but I was never sexually attracted to him. But the day came where I was starting to get really well known, my career was on the brink, and my number came up, so to speak. I had to have sex with him or my career was not going to get to the next level.

He totally tricked me. You know, I was so naive. It was late afternoon in NYC, and we were on our way to a big press event for another writer, but an event where he knew all the important journalists who would be there and I knew none of them. I followed him, of my own accord, into his office “just to grab some paperwork”.  And as soon as he closed and locked the door, I thought: You have got to be kidding me. I just fucking walked right into this.

He very plainly told me what he wanted me to do. I’ll only say that it involved me having none of my clothes on and him staying completely dressed. His office had a private adjoining bathroom, so I said I had to pee. I went into the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror. Really looked at myself. I asked myself, are you really going to do this thing?

I had come up against this very thing in my music career. Back then, though, I had been 22 years old, unbelievably naive, and had not known what reality was all about yet. A very powerful man in the music business, in the genre of music I was in, wanted to have sex with me, assumed I would have sex with him, and when I declined him, literally overnight, the potential for my career evaporated. All the doors closed. The silence that followed my music career after that was deafening.

it took me so long to understand what had happened. I ask myself to this day, if I knew then what I know now — how, sleeping with him, even once, would have ensured that I became a famous singer-songwriter all over the world — would I have gone to bed with him?

Standing in that private bathroom and looking at myself in the mirror, remembering my music, my songs, the death of all that — well, my writing career meant everything to me. Everything.  It was my baby; my life. I knew full well what this man was capable of handing to me if he wanted to. I wasn’t sure he could destroy my career by then, because I was getting well known; however, I knew that with very little effort, he could put me right over the top. Open doors for me all over the world. Most “porn” writers don’t become famous.

So I took off all my clothes. I folded them into a neat little pile on the counter there, tried not to look at myself completely naked in the mirror, although I remember checking my hair, my make-up, and I went back out into that room. And what he did to me just degraded me so much. And the very worst part of it was that I had an orgasm. I could not help myself. I had no clue I was going to come; I suddenly just came. And I was, you know, privately horrified at myself for coming. And then he said, “I thought that would make you come.”

Wow. Talk about feeling completely, thoroughly, utterly humiliated.  He knew that was going to make me come?! I had no clear idea what that said about me, but I did not want to think about it. Still don’t, frankly.  But, then I got dressed. We went to the press party.  I felt completely demoralized for the rest of the evening. Smiled as I was introduced glowingly to everybody who was anybody. And pretty darn soon after that, I got famous.

How do you weigh that? I’m just not sure.

Not being a bitch pays off in spades!

Yesterday was kind of a milestone day for me.  It had its peaks and valleys. Okay, well, mostly peaks; one lowly valley. But I got to the end of last night really changed. A changed woman.

The day started out just great because I had a noon appointment to chat with MG#2, so I was feeling frisky. And work on the Hurley Falls Mysteries is going so great. I’m just so happy with how my writing is going these days. The Muse is just outdoing himself.

And then, to my surprise, 2 workmen show up to do some serious work on my furnace, and the vents, install a new thermostat. I wasn’t expecting them until September, but here they were.  And, lo & behold, the main guy, the guy in charge, could not be sexier or more good-looking if he tried. And he’s my age, to boot. Long curly silver hair in a pony tail.  I was floored. He was so my type, it was ridiculous.

I am absolutely not the kind of woman who would ever, in a million years, have sex with a repairman. Not happening in my world, ever.  To me, that’s just really tacky. But yesterday, I realized I have an odd definition of what’s tacky. I decided I wouldn’t so much as attempt to initiate anything but if for some weird reason, he asks me to fuck him, I’ll do it in a heart beat.

That’s not tacky at all.

At one point, they had to go to the hardware store to get some parts and I closed the basement door because I don’t want the cats getting down there, and then I realize that, if a person — a furnace repairman, let’s say — is coming up those basement stairs, they can’t help but see the built-in bookcase at the top of the steps and what the hell is sitting there, dead-center, going across instead of up & down, so it’s stupidly easy to notice, but a book that says BONDAGE in big letters and has a vintage b & w photo of a naked girl tied up with rope, right there on the spine of the book.

And I thought, well, that’s clever of me. Jesus. No wonder Gorgeous Furnace Repairman keeps smiling at me… But then I thought that if I moved the book at that point, it would be obvious that I’d moved it and would maybe make it look like I was preoccupied with something. So I just left it and decided to act like I had no clue it was there.

But then my eye caught sight of another book on the top shelf that said EROTICA on its spine, and I thought, what is that book anyway? I knew I had to have stories in it or it wouldn’t be in my collection at this point (I’ve had to purge hundreds and hundreds of books as I’ve kept moving over the past 15 years).  All of my own books, or books that I’ve contributed work to over the years, are in bookshelves upstairs, so I wasn’t sure why this one collection was not with the others. I took the book down and looked at it.

It was published 6 years ago, and it was the best of the best early erotica, from a British publisher. And the back cover copy said that these were early stories from “erotic masters” and there was my name, first, at the top of the list. Not alphabetized or anything. And I open the book and the entire 500-page book starts off with my story, Anal, followed by my story, Swingers. Almost as if to say that the sweeping trend of great erotica writing that occurred in the 1990s began with these 2 stories. I was, like, how come I never saw this book before?? How fucking flattering is this?? Was I really that caught up in my “next book sale and the next and the next” that I couldn’t even appreciate what might have been right in front of me??

Clearly, the answer was yes, on all counts. It was a strange feeling. I wished I could go back 6 years and been a little more appreciative to the publisher, for Christ’s sake.

I hadn’t read Anal in years. And my eye just sort of began reading the opening paragraph, and I was, like, oh my god; I forgot how funny this was. So I just kept reading and it was, you know, fucking hot. What a filthy, filthy story, you know? And then comes that totally typical Marilyn Jaye Lewis paragraph — that paragraph that goes for the heart strings and leaves the testosterone alone for one single moment; the paragraph about the first anal sex episode at 14, with the boy, in his father’s den, and skipping school, and then how the boy smells how all boys smelled back then; like mown grass and sweat and tobacco and spearmint gum.

Jesus. That paragraph was so erotic. So pure and sweet; you know, a reminder that sex is also about tender things like trust and love. It blew my mind, you know? I suddenly remembered how hard I had worked on writing that story Anal to get it just write.  Over 20 years ago.  And I was able to say, kind of with certainty, 20 years down the road, that I had done a good job.

At that point, the workmen were back from the hardware store, so I took the book up to my room and read Swingers, for the first time in, really, just years and years.  And years.  I knew it was  about a young single woman who ends up having sex with 2 older couples in NYC who are swingers. I knew it was funny. But I didn’t recall anything else about it, really.

Well, the opening line: “Friday night I went home with some married people,” suddenly reminded me that I had worked really, really hard on this story, too. You know? These stories didn’t just fly out of my pen or anything. I worked so hard at getting every sentence, every word just right. And as I read Swingers, I was kind of blown away by it, too. It is really funny, but it is also really erotic, in a really human sort of way. The pacing worked so well, and the interweaving of the sex and the humor worked well, too. But then I got to the final pages — a part of the story I’d forgotten completely about — and I literally could not believe how erotic it was. The pacing was spot on, and it was, of course, my own personal fantasy. My own personal, real-life daddy-issues in full flower in the backseat of a car, and after I read it, I was like, wow; I kind of just fucked myself from 20 years ago! You know, wrote something 20 years ago that managed to make me feel like I’d just had incredible sex with my own mind, 20 years later. It was incredible. Thank you!! I said to my 20-years-ago self. You totally nailed my very favorite daddy fantasy.

Then, of course, I immediately wondered if this was a short story my dad would have ever read, and it was such an uncomfortable question that I decided to tell myself: nah, no way would he have ever read this story that was read by thousands of people all over the world, published over and over and over again, and even published for free online… Crap.

Anyway. It was time for my appointed phone call with J. and so I picked up my phone and called him. And he answered right away, and I could tell something was not good.  I said, “Can you talk?” and in a clipped,  sort of angry way, he said. “No. I can’t talk . I’m busy. We’ll talk later.” Hang up.

Wow, was I pissed. And I immediately thought, yeah, we’ll talk later, pal, like next week later, next lifetime later… And I was just so pissed. I went down to the kitchen table to sit and stew, and there was Gorgeous Furnace Repairman working on installing my new digital thermostat. And even though he was still as good-looking as could be, I couldn’t even see him anymore, couldn’t focus. Because I was that pissed-off.

And then J.’s voice is in my head from a couple weeks ago, where he’s telling me, “Could you not get so pissed-off at me when things don’t always go your way, Marilyn?”

And then my voice was saying, “Yes, I’ll work on that. I don’t want to be that woman anymore. You’re right. I’m always doing that.” And it occurred to me that, even though I was still really angry, it was just me feeling very insecure and that this would be the ideal moment to step in and behave differently and just change my behavior for good — especially since he had no idea I was so angry, sitting there at my kitchen table, 500 miles from New York City. It was the prime moment to change.

And I asked myself, why am I so angry? It’s not like he’s with another woman, because if he were, he would tell me and probably text me a quick photo of whatever was going on. So, clearly, this was “business” stuff upsetting him and I had to just deal with it and trust that he would, indeed, call me later.

And he did. He called me later. We talked for 2 hours and had the best time. And he told me what had been going on when I had called earlier — something that was going to wind up costing him and his partners $50K.  Shit. That’s a lot of money to lose in a heartbeat, and I’d been sitting there in that stupid bitch-mode, at my kitchen table, with my feelings hurt because he couldn’t talk to me right at noon.

In fact, I think it was the best conversation we’ve actually ever had.  We talked about everything under the sun. Some of it disturbing, because some areas of his life are just disturbing, and some of it just cool and fun, and of course, some of it, really filthy. He told me about a woman he Topped on Monday. Just this past Monday. Just very matter-of-fact telling me all the details of Topping her, and I was just breathless. I couldn’t believe it, you know? I wasn’t even jealous of the girl, I just so wanted it to happen to me. I want to be Topped like that, too. In just that very, very same way. All my daddy issues in full flower again, only times ten.

And I said nothing, because, really, the pictures in my head took my breath away. And then he said, “Don’t worry, Marilyn. I’ll do it to you, too. And when you beg me stop, I’m not gonna.”

GOD, does it pay to not be my bitchy self.  My bitchy self would have sent that phone call in a whole other unpleasant direction from the get-go, and I never would have heard him say that to me — something I’ve wanted to hear a man say to me for my whole life. The man really makes me so happy.

What a gift

Yesterday, I was listening to an interview with a famous musician and he mentioned something about always having to play his biggest hits at his shows because fans can be really sentimental about certain songs, for instance, remembering that the” first time they fucked Susie, they were listening to such & such a song.”

Well, that really surprised me, because I thought he was going to say “the first time they ever had sex [at all, ever — as in losing one’s virginity].” But he didn’t.

And I realized that the guy (the famous musician) must be really faithful to his wife. Because, by that one comment, he’s implying that the guy went on to continue fucking Susie for a really long time, and how the memory of that first time still means so much.

Whereas my brain immediately goes to that very first time, ever, and then just forgets about everybody else involved — eternally.  I thought it was such an interesting differentiation.

But later in the day, I thought about that comment again, and something kind of magical happened.

As an aside, though, I do practically require music to be playing when I’m with somebody and having sex, and I’m really, really specific about what I want to hear at any given time, but I have no clear memory of a specific song playing when I was with a specific person, first time or not.

I do remember in the early 90s, that anytime I was with anybody in a  B&D scene, Enigma’s MCMXCa.D. had to be playing — loud. I think every New Yorker into BDSM in the early 90s played that CD during scenes. It was just too fucking phenomenal, how it felt to hear that CD, be overwhelmed by its pacing, and be sort of indescribably tied up and, well, I guess flogged for awhile, and then arrive at that plateau, then that really intense penetration  juncture with the person Topping you… (i.e.,  The Principles of Lust and Mea Culpa —  just super loud.) (In most B&D scenes, penetration doesn’t happen until way into the scene and then you are just sort of forced into this incredible energy-space that you can’t control because, well, you’re tied up.) (The Principles of Lust, wow. What a piece of music. Further proof that there is nothing better on earth than a highly intuitive Top. Pushing you, challenging you, taking you one step past what you think you can handle.)

(You know, I’m thinking this is why I never really responded much to  a date that consisted of “dinner and a movie”… I could do that all by myself; this other stuff — not so much.)

Wow. I do indeed digress.  Wasn’t expecting to go there at all. What I was going to say was a lot more vanilla. It was about Marc Anthony’s song, I Need to Know, and while I don’t remember any specific person I was with while playing this song, I do know that I’ve been with a number of people (in bed or in the vicinity of it) while playing this song. I don’t know, it just takes me to this zone. So amazing. Of course, you have to play it really loud and have it endlessly on repeat because the middle of it builds so awesomely, and you need that intensity to just keep on continuing. Or I guess I do. I’m all about the plateau.  (However, don’t take my word for any of this. Try it for yourself — you know; candlelight, bed or vicinity thereof, expensive French red, any person at all, and then play this song loudly, like, deafening, over & over, and see if that person doesn’t become your lover posthaste.)

(You know, I’m just going to insert here that Mob Guy #2 is actually, literally, way more intense than me.  Hard to believe, isn’t it? Such a blessing.  A very mild example (HIM): “Why the fuck  are you wearing that? That’s not what I asked you to be wearing. You gotta change. Right now.”  ME: “But I wanted to lose, like, 5 pounds –” HIM: “No, uhn-uhn. Fuck the 5 pounds. You gotta wear it. Now. Go get it.”)

All right, anyway. The “magical thing” I mentioned, somewhere, way, way, way at the top of the page. It has to do with a blog post from July about me basically forcing that older guy to teach me how to have sex when I was 13. (Something about “throwing up” is in the title but vomiting has nothing whatsoever to do with him.)

Well, when I was with him in his room and had finally worn down his resistance (and I will stress again that he had no clue I was only 13), he wanted to pick the perfect music for my first sexual experience. He was a professional musician, a hippie — long blonde hair, beard, mustache, hash-smoking, anti-Nixon, really tall, super, super smart — but he was getting a PhD in classical music, violin. Music was very important to him. And for my grand deflowering, he chose Janis Joplin and Big Brother and the Holding Company. Cheap Thrills. Okay, not the most auspicious album title, but his focus was on Janis Joplin. I knew who she was. I knew she was dead. But I knew nothing about her beyond that. And he said, “I know you are going to like her.”

Well, I ask you, what could be more perfect than to be me at 13, losing my virginity to a guy I chose — this incredible guy that I would never lay eyes on again — and listening to this? (Yeah, listen if you dare. It only takes 8 minutes…).  Janis just seemed to me like the most powerful woman, ever. Even though I knew she had died from a heroin overdose in some cheap motel. She still seemed more powerful than anything I could ever contain.

He could have chosen a million other rock songs where women are portrayed as stupid, stupid girls, you know? There are so many songs like that. But he chose Janis, for me — for my memory of what was getting ready to happen to me.

And after that day, of course, I wanted to know everything about Janis. I already knew a few things about myself. One being that I knew I wanted to be a singer and a songwriter. I already played guitar, piano, violin. I had already written dozens and dozens of songs. I also knew I was bisexual by then. I didn’t talk about it much, but I also didn’t not talk about it. I was selective about who I talked about it with, but I knew I liked girls as much as i liked boys.

I found a book in the bookstore, called Going Down with Janis (first issued in 1973, link is a re-issue) and it was written by a woman who had been Janis’s lover. The book was about Janis and having sex with her. This book blew my mind because, when I was reading it, I felt totally, 100%, completely like I was okay. I didn’t often feel that way, I can guarantee you that. But by the time I was 13, I learned that Janis Joplin was one of the few people on earth (or in Heaven, as it were!), who made me feel like I was okay, just the way I was.

And then, of course, I fell in love with her for the rest of my life. She brought me to tears; she brought me to joy; she brought me an understanding of what it can be like to be a singer and be a girl (and go to New York and try to deal with the fucking music industry). In short: It can really suck. But try to make your life good, regardless, you know? Don’t give in to the cruelty and the crap and OD yourself on heroin in some cheap motel. Just don’t do it.

I worked with a VP at Columbia Records who had known Janis very well. He had really loved her. He also really loved my songwriting, seriously went to bat for me. There were a few amazing high points to my music career; he was one of them, but most of it turned my stomach.

Well.

So, yesterday, I thought about that guy who I “lost my virginity to”  — a guy I really have so much gratitude toward because I really, really did practically force him to do that to me, and he was really kind of not super happy when he found out how old I was, but it was too late. Anyway, he gave me that gift of music to go along with that ordeal of intercourse for the first time, and he chose so carefully. And Janis became this incredible gift to me, for decades, because of him.

How cool was that? Some men are really just awesome.