Tag Archives: #MarilynJayeLewis

The REAL Thrill of it All! Revealed!!

Yesterday morning, I wound up getting another one of those annoying eye migraines, so rather than pretend it would either go away by itself or simply never materialize into the full-blown headache, I took Ibuprofen the moment I saw the bright shapes in my left eye. And then I set aside any hopes of doing any sort of writing yesterday at all.

Instead — I cleaned!! Yay.

I caught the headache before it had a chance to really blossom into anything too painful. I went from minor headache into complete exhaustion, and just skipped the middle part. So that was sort of good.

And I finally got the house clean.  I even did a lot more dusting than I thought I was going to do, so I felt really good about that, too.

Today is all about washing the hair, painting the toenails (winter, spring, summer, fall, it is always Sally Hansen’s Flashy Fuschia; for some reason, it is the only color I like), doing yoga and then working on a new segment of In the Shadow of Narcissa.

I’m still not 100% certain what that segment is going to be about. I keep coming back to the idea of my name — my adoptive name, that is. When I was born, my birth mom named me Dory. I had that name for a few weeks, and then I was put out for adoption, and my adoptive parents (my dad, specifically) named me Marilyn.

My adoptive brother’s name was Adam and when he was about 4, he learned how to write his name, and so I wanted to learn how to write my name, too.

You can imagine how appalled I was to discover that I had this truly laborious name. It kind of wasn’t fair. Not only did my brother’s name have only 4 letters, but also, 2 of those letters were the same! Although one was upper case and one was lower case, but still!! My name had 7 letters, none of which were the same.

I can remember clearly, sitting at the breakfast counter in the kitchen and my mom spelling out my name for me on a piece of paper. Then it was up to me to try to figure out how to duplicate all the letters by myself.

I have no memory of whether or not I was able to do that. I’m guessing, not. Because I was a very slow learner in that regard. I was 6 before I learned how to read and write. (Although I was 4 when I learned the Hebrew alphabet, so that’s sort of strange.)

But my mind just definitely wanted to do whatever it wanted to do and I only learned certain things when I was literally forced to learn something in school. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy learning how to read and write, once I was seriously focused on the task. It’s just that, what I preferred doing — endlessly — was listening to either Julie Andrews or Mary Martin sing.

And I do not exaggerate when I say that I never got tired of that.

We had a reasonably nice record player in the playroom and since my dad had been an accountant for Columbia Records in Cleveland, he would bring home a lot of records. I will never forget the day that he brought home the Original Broadway Cast recording of My Fair Lady, starring Julie Andrews and Rex Harrison.

He came into the playroom and put the record on the record player for me and said, “I think you’re really going to like this.” And then I sat in my favorite rocking chair, rocking away while listening to all those songs from My Fair Lady and, boy, was my dad correct! I fucking loved that thing. Oh my god.  For a really long time, I never stopped playing it.

It’s funny, in retrospect, to think of me being 4 and knowing all the words to all the songs in My Fair Lady because they’re pretty sophisticated songs. Of course, I had no idea what the songs were about because I didn’t know the story. I only knew the songs. My favorites were “I Could Have Danced All Night” and “On the Street Where You Live.” I would sit in that rocking chair (which was huge, actually. It was for adults. It wasn’t a little kid’s rocking chair.  It was upholstered in white leather and it had very modern lines. Not sure that is was really Danish Modern, but most of my parents’ furniture at that time was Danish Modern.) Anyway, I’d sit in this huge rocking chair, rock furiously away and sing along to all the songs.

At some point, Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins and Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music came along, too — my god, I just loved her. (And, yes! I follow her on Instagram!) Somewhere in all that, my mom also bought me the Original Broadway Cast recording of Peter Pan, starring Mary Martin and for awhile, that was  my favorite.

As you can guess, I loved Broadway musicals. That whole style of songwriting and singing. And when I was old enough to start going to see movies, my grandma took me to a lot of musicals. My grandpa had died right before I was adopted, but he had owned the neighborhood movie theater as well as a drive-in movie theater, out of town a ways. Even though the neighborhood theater was now run by other people, my grandma would still take me there a lot. (My dad and my uncle continued to run the drive-in, though, for a couple of decades after my grandpa died.)

I will NEVER forget when my grandma took me to see The King and I. It had been re-released in theaters for some reason, when I was 4.  It starred Deborah Kerr and Yul Brynner. I was watching the movie and really loving it, you know. And then halfway through the movie, the bad slave girl gets a whipping from Yul Brynner! He has her top ripped open, and then has her thrown down to the floor by two slave guys, and then he prepares to whip her (sort of) bare back — WOW. It was the most exciting thing I had ever seen in my life! I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the first time that I was responding sexually to anything, ever. Sadly, though, right at the moment when the slave girl is going to get her whipping from the stupefyingly masculine king for being so bad, my grandma scooped me up out of my seat and whisked me right out of the theater!

I’m so serious. I was, like, “No, Grandma!! I want to see that!” And my grandma said I was too young to see it. We got right in the car and drove home. And so it was years and years and years later before I ever saw the ending to The King and I.

(This is the only still I could find of that scene. But trust me, on the big screen, it was overwhelming to a little 4-year-old white girl in Cleveland  — and in the very best way!!)

Anyway. My point is that, when things had my attention, they had my complete attention. And I simply wasn’t interested in learning how to read and write until I was forced to really focus on it in school, in the first grade. So I’m guessing, that’s when I really learned how to write my long, laborious, complicated name.

Okay! On that delightful note, I’m gonna go wash my hair, paint my toenails, get started on In the Shadow of Narcissa… have a great Monday, wherever you are in the world!!

Thanks for visiting, gang. I leave you with the obvious — “My Lord and Master” from The King and I! Yippee ki yi yay!

All righty. I love you, guys! See ya!

How Nice!! My Brain Returned!!

That’s good news, right? I woke up this morning and had a functioning human brain again!

Of course, the slightly bad news is that I still can’t wrap my mind around those extensive notes for the ending segment of Tell My Bones, and my mind seems to be leaning toward writing the next installment of In the Shadow of Narcissa this morning anyway. So I’m getting the feeling that I’m gonna do that.

And then maybe vacuum the house…

And then maybe sit and think about the play…

Sandra finally texted yesterday that she liked the new version but wasn’t understanding how we were going to do a staged reading of it because it now feels so cinematic.


I totally forgot that I have to completely rewrite the staged reading version of the play now, too. (And if you’re deranged enough to be following the progress of all of my far-flung projects, you might recall that I have yet to revise the show bible for Cleveland’s Burning since I did the 4th draft of it back in October…) (And the veteran African-American television actor who was negotiating with me to attach  himself to the TV pilot to play the grandfather role, decided to die the other day. Literally. Peitor texted me from Italy on Friday saying only: “John died.” Oh fuck, now that’s good news…) (And all of my own selfish needs aside; that guy was a really, really nice man.)


I cannot even begin to comprehend how to write the staged reading version of Tell My Bones at this point, without the director basically drawing me a detailed blue print & map. Either that, or I’ll just shoot myself and hope for a better, non-writing, life next time around.

Honestly. I cannot even begin to imagine what the staged reading of this version of the play is gonna look like. I simply cannot.

However, what I told Sandra is: no worries, we all just need to have a chat about it in person once I get there, figure it all out! She texted back a cheery “thumb’s up.”

So we’ll just see what the heck the future brings re: this amazing play because I sure as hell cannot figure it out.

I actually can’t figure anything out. To be honest, way down deep at the core of everything, I don’t even know what Life is or why I exist. I’m just wingin’ it on every level, pretty much every day.

Before I forget — please be on the lookout for the upcoming Fall Issue of the Exterminating Angel Press Magazine (online) because they have an excerpt of my new novel, Blessed By Light, in there!! They’re printing Chapter 18, which is titled, “The Guitar Hero Goes Home.” I will, of course, keep you posted.

All righty. That said, while I still have a functioning brain around here today, I’m gonna scoot and take a look at how I feel about writing a new segment for In the Shadow of Narcissa. And then, depending on how I end up feeling about that, I’ll either write or vacuum. And try not to think about this indescribably stressful trip that is now looming — 3 days away. (And why I decided not to fly… I just don’t understand me sometimes.) (And my TSA Precheck number arrived yesterday — in plenty of time for that flight I’m now not taking.)

Okay. Have a beautiful Sunday, wherever you are in the world. And if you’d like to apply for the job of being my BRAIN, do get in touch. God knows there is often a vacancy there. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys! See ya!

Oh, and the Stateside leg of the Conversations with Nick Cave (aka In Conversation, and Words + Music) begins in, like 5 days….. Can you believe that?  Where is the time fucking going??!!.

Okay. I leave you with this! (Yes, more soul-wreching Dalida! Always a good indication that my sanity is sort of sliding away… Enjoy, gang!)

“La petite maison bleue”

La petite maison bleue
Est envahie de silence
La maison de mon enfance
Me fait mal quand je la voisC’est pourtant plus fort que moi
J’y retournerai sans doute
Je reprendrai cette route
Qui mène à mes souvenirs

C’est ici que j’ai grandi
Que j’ai découvert la vie
Ces beaux jours s’enfuient déjà
Revibrant toujours en moi

La petite maison bleue
A mes yeux reste la même
C’est ici que ceux que j’aime
Ont connu des jours heureux

Ma jeunesse est restée là
Au détour de ce chemin
Ma jeunesse est restée là
Quelquepart dans ce jardin

La petite maison bleue
Est envahie de tristesse
Mais elle est pour moi quand même
La maison des jours heureux

La maison des jours heureux

c – 1968 Detto Mariano, Don Backy, Michel Jourdan

Those Furry Things Have Gotta Go!!!

Not a single solitary one of them has done any housework in weeks. And I have to say I can’t stand for it anymore. You know, they don’t even try to win me over with coy affection. Don’t sidle up to me, don’t entwine sensuously, don’t purr seductively in my face and whisper things like, ” I’m too pretty to clean.” (And trust me, you can get a lot of mileage out of that with me!!)

No. They don’t do anything close to that. They just fucking ignore me.

I am absolutely exhausted, gang. And I mean that in the most crucial way.

I cannot imagine how I am going to get my house clean before my mom gets here. On Tuesday morning, I have to drive over and get her and then bring her here — that’s two hours each way, so that gives me two hours in the car to explain to her why my house is sort of a mess.

I’m going to clean the bathrooms and vacuum and I think that’s going to be it. Dust is going to have to remain. Everywhere. Because I received some extensive notes from the director last night re: the ending section of Tell My Bones — more rewrites that I need to do before I get to NYC.

How I’m going to do this is a question that’s right up there with all the unanswerable questions that Man has conjured since Time began. Because my brain is absolutely fried right now. I only have enough brain power left to clean the house — however, it turns out that I can’t really do that right now. I have to revise the endless play instead.

If I were flying, I could write on the plane, and during the endless layover in Philadelphia, but I decided to drive instead. I’m starting to think that maybe driving there this time was a bad idea because I am just exhausted — not even factoring in the new needed rewrites. I’m starting to think I should have went for a non-stop flight to JFK, which would have been lots better than the convoluted plane trip to Stewart International which had the ridiculously long layover in Philadelphia to start with. I’m starting to think that every single thought I have, and every decision I come to, is just deranged and unhinged.

I wish I could hire someone to think for me from here on out. (And clean for me, too, although that’s just stupid because I am totally capable of cleaning my own house — when I’m not spending my entire life at my desk.)


Here in Crazeysburg, it is almost 1 o’clock in the afternoon and I am just now sort of getting out of bed. I’ve been awake since 4am, and have gotten in and out of bed a number of times, but the “getting back into bed” part has remained infinitely more attractive throughout the entire morning. I am still only loosely committed to this idea of finally starting the day.

You know, I printed out all of the director’s notes so that I could walk away from the desk and sort of focus and study them. And while I agree with them, and I understand his points, and I trust that his comments will lead to that coveted Pulitzer — I look at those notes at this point, and my poor brain is so over-extended, that I can’t process any of the words that are on the page.

I’m guessing this is only a temporary condition. And that maybe by as soon as tomorrow, I will be back to comprehending the English language once again. Today, I think, is going to be a complete washout.

I think I’ll just go back to bed and stare for awhile and see if anything whatsoever springs into my brain and motivates me. We shall see. Meanwhile, gang, enjoy your Saturday, wherever it finds you! Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.

(PS: It’s been a week now, and I’m actually loving my new grown-up car. It’s a fast little motherfucker…)


[Verse 1]
Well she got her daddy’s car and she cruised to the hamburger stand, now
Seems she forgot all about the library like she told her old man, now
But with the radio blasting goes cruising just as fast as she can now
And she’ll have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away
(fun, fun, fun, ’till her daddy takes the T-bird away)

[Verse 2]
Well the girls can’t stand her cause she walks, looks and drives like an Ace, now
(You walk like an ace now, you walk like an ace)
She makes the Indy 500 look like a Roman chariot race, now
(You look like an ace now, you look like an ace)
A lot of guys try to catch her, but she leads them on a wild goose chase, now
And she’ll have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away
(fun, fun, fun, ’till her daddy takes the T-bird away)

[Verse 3]
Well you knew all along that your dad was getting wise to you, now
(You shouldn’t have lied now, you shouldn’t have lied)
And since he took your set of keys you’ve been thinking that your fun is all through, now
(You shouldn’t have lied now, you shouldn’t have lied)

But you can come along with me cause we’ve got a lot of things to do, now
(You shouldn’t have lied now, you shouldn’t have lied)
And we’ll have fun, fun, fun now that daddy took the T-bird away
(fun, fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)
And we’ll have fun, fun, fun now that daddy took the T-bird away
(fun, fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)

(fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away
Fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)
(fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away
Fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)
(fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away
Fun, fun, now her daddy took the T-bird away)

c -1964 Brian Wilson, Mike Love

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

Jubilation, Baby!! It’s Done!

Yes, I finished the rewrites of Tell My Bones last night, and I spent today, tweaking things here & there and searching for the elusive typos…

And I just now sent copies off to the director, and to Sandra, and to Gus Van Sant, Sr. And now I want to simply collapse.

No, actually what I want to do is have a cigarette and a beer or something, but that’s not what’s going to happen. I don’t think…

No, I’m certain that’s not going to happen because I gave all the beer to the lawn care guys this morning and I’m too fucking tired to even think about leaving the house.

So. Collapse beer-less and cigarette-less is how it’s gonna play out tonight!

Nick Cave sent out not one but two Red Hand Files newsletters today!! So that was pretty darned exciting. For me, anyway, since I would appreciate it if he could send out one or two every day. They were quite interesting. You can read them there at the link.


My big adventure today was that when I drove my brand new Honda Civic to town to go grocery shopping very early this morning, I discovered one of those green garden spiders clinging to the trunk of my car! So, rather than let him get crushed on the highway or in the parking lot, I put him in my trunk and drove him home. And then took him out of the trunk and put him on one of my many, many morning glory vines. And he seemed extremely happy. He was quite the adventurer. I found him so interesting — you know, do spiders create their own realities? Did he want to go for a ride on the outside of a new car? Did I disappoint him by putting him in the trunk? Was he relieved? Grateful? Just disoriented and confused by me??

I don’t know what it is about me and spiders, but I do have quite a number of them — all different kinds. As long as they aren’t big enough for me to see, like, every single one of their eyes, I’m cool with it.

Okay, gang. I am absolutely beat. I can barely even spell now so I’m gonna close! I hope you had a terrific Tuesday, wherever you were and whatever you did!! Thanks for visiting! I love you guys. See ya.

Me vs. Everything in the World!

I saw this illustration and it just felt like me as a reasonably happy little girl, and then, behind me in the bed, was everything else imaginable in the world that was waiting for me.

When I actually was a young girl, I never really related to the Little Red Riding Hood story. All the virginal symbolism of it and the whole “girl meets wolf” thing. It held no appeal to me.

The only fairy tales that I actually related to were Beauty and the Beast (the old, non-Disney version) because Love & Kindness trump everything else in the world always; and Rumpelstiltskin because the helpless girl was forced into that horrible situation, then became queen, and then, as queen, tricked that mean little guy and got to keep her baby. I liked that story a lot.

And I also loved the story Peter Pan. And I mean, I really loved that story — I loved Peter and totally related to him. (Perhaps that says a lot about the way I still live, I’m not sure. I sure as hell didn’t grow up — didn’t do the “Wendy” thing. So who knows.)

Well, anyway. I loved that photo of the moon last night, up over my barn (see post below). I just find this village so mysterious and magical. I really do. Loyal readers of this lofty blog perhaps recall that after my 4th weird near-death experience, which came just prior to meeting that older man who died (that I wrote about a couple days ago), my life seemed to change so dramatically that I began to wonder if I had actually died in the near-death experience and just hadn’t figured that out yet.

The man was still alive when I moved here, but not for long afterward. And I wondered if maybe he had only been sent into my life to help me cross over in some way. I often felt, when I first moved here, that the transition to this actual house, to this intensely spirit-filled town, was me moving into some sort of “between world” — no longer alive but not accepting death yet, but not knowing it. And readers perhaps recall that right after I moved here, the Latter Day Saints came into my world in the most amazingly joyful way. It only added to the intensity of me not feeling like I was alive anymore. (It is so hard to explain this if you don’t live in Muskingum County because it involves all these ancient burial mounds around here that are 2000 years old; they are considered sacred ground to the Mormons.)

To be honest, I still often feel that way — that I am not really alive anymore but haven’t figured out yet that I’m dead.  Mostly because there is no way to prove that it’s not true.  You know, there is no concrete way to prove I’m still alive and not actually dead, because everything could just be a sort of fake reality that I only think I’m perceiving.

When I saw that moon last night, and how amazing it looked over my barn, and how amazing this town feels at night — wondering why on Earth a woman like me, a woman who was always so intensely urban, who always wore a little black dress & black high heels everywhere she went, why she even has a barn; well, once again, it made me feel like I’m not really alive anymore. That I’m in some strange in-between place and I only think I’m still alive. Because I was just never, ever like this before.

Wherever this is, it’s really beautiful and I really love it here. But, wow, gang; I am really getting tired. I know it’s because I am doing so much writing; just nonstop — bringing everything from inside to the outside, nonstop for the last 12 months. Including the TV pilot (Cleveland’s Burning) that I went to LA about, which is still sitting in need of certain key people and very soon, I have to pitch that whole project to the Head of Programming of a huge streaming platform and I don’t have those key people in place that they asked for because I immediately wrote a novel, launched into that micro-video production company with Peitor, finished writing a play with Sandra, then wrote 2 entirely different versions of another play, became overwhelmed by the Girl in the Night  stories, and on and on…

Everything coming out of me and nothing has landed anywhere yet. And now the trip back to NYC is looming next week. It’s exhausting. So  much “outgoing” and absolutely no incoming. Well, certain indications of it, but nothing concrete yet. Just constant “outgo.”

Yesterday afternoon, the horrifically loud carbon monoxide alarm went off in my basement. Not a thing any homeowner wants to hear. I was working on Tell My Bones up in my room and suddenly it started shrieking. I went down to the scary 118-year-old basement, and down there, the alarm was just deafening. I couldn’t get the alarm to shut off, and for a few minutes, I stood there and stared at it, knowing I should call the fire department. But wondering if this might not just be the best thing in the long run.

I eventually did go get my phone and was about to dial 911 when the alarm shut off. And none of the other alarms in the house ever came on, and God knows, the house is well ventilated with 21 wide open windows. But, Jesus, I am just so tired.

St. Christopher actually was a saint, don’t let them persuade you otherwise. He did exist; he’s not some myth, although his actual name was slightly different. And if you talk to St. Christopher, he listens. You can actually feel him listening to you.  You know, I am still doing that segment-intending stuff, trying to survive my life in 5-hour chunks right now, but still not knowing how I am going to survive that trip back to NYC. All the driving and then dealing with everything I have to deal with there. But then I heard St. Christopher in my head, saying that he was going to take care of the whole trip, and not to worry. That I was going to have a great time.

I believe him. He is the patron saint of travelers, after all. Especially of 12-year-old girls who are suddenly driving grown-up cars…

Well, anyway. That’s where I am today. Not really the best head space, but I’m trying. I must get back to the play. It is almost done.  So I will close this. I’ll leave you with the 3 songs I was listening to on my phone this morning, around 4am, when I was wondering if I’d ever finish this play and/or even bother to get out of bed again. Thanks for visiting! I love you guys. See ya.

Just Weird Awakenings All Over the Place

Should I just list them all, or what? Is that easier?

I saw this older woman last night who was having trouble lifting some bags. I could see that her back was really bothering her so I offered to help her.  She declined, and then briefly went into this little sort of speech of empowerment about how she still wants to do things for herself, etc. And how she’s determined not to get old, and that if she didn’t keep doing things for herself, what would happen to her? And all that. And then at the end, she mentions that she had a birthday back in June and had turned — 59 (!!).

I swear to God, she looked closer to 80. I’m serious. She was only one month older than me.  I got back into my car thinking, holy crap, what was that?!  I did not know how to process it.  I realize that I’m sort of immature and childlike and always truly feeling 12 years old (albeit, an extremely worldly, non-virginal sort of 12), but was she what I was supposed to be like?  It was kind of horrifying. (I’m not meaning to imply that 80 is horrifying, or anything. I’m just saying.)

And I’ll also mention here, only because I’m just now reminded of it — back around the 4th of July, loyal readers of this lofty blog might perhaps recall that I tried to join a new dating sight for bisexuals. (Not a dating site at all, really, but more of a “have sex with total strangers” type of site.) But I gave up on it almost immediately because I couldn’t get the profile thing to work and then, of course, I realized that I didn’t have any free time whatsoever to try to meet and have sex with strange girls that I knew didn’t exist anywhere within 500 miles of me anyway.

Apparently, though, my half-finished profile is still just sort of hanging out on that site because I get emails alerting me that women are emailing me, wanting to connect. But I can’t access what they say because I haven’t completed my profile, I can only see who they are. However, not only do the women come from places like Michigan, Kentucky, North Carolina — you know, places that are so not right around the corner from me; but also they have all been close to 70 years old.

Not that women close to 70 shouldn’t want sex or something, but my knee-jerk reaction is always: why would someone that old be thinking about having sex with me? I’m, you know, twelve.

But then of course, I realize, no, they’re really only about 10 years older than me. And then I sort of freak the fuck out. When did I become a viable sex-partner option for 70 year-old women??!!

Then I sort of realize that some of the gals from my past would themselves be pushing 70 now and I’m like…well. How can that possibly be? (And apparently, I’m really sexist because it doesn’t bother me a bit to contemplate sex with older men because then I still get to be 12 and have my “daddy thing”.  But then women of a similar age to the men become “old women” in my mind and it freaks me out.)

So that’s a sort of ongoing weird awakening around here.  (Apparently, I dip deeper into that “Mick-Jagger-I-Refuse-to-Have-Sex-With-Girls-Even-Close-To-My-Own-Age” syndrome every day! Who knew??!!)

Another weird awakening that actually occurred when I awoke this morning — apparently, yesterday I was so preoccupied with the constant cavalcade of insanity that I lovingly refer to as “my thoughts”, that when I set up the coffee pot for this morning’s coffee, I only put water in the percolator and no actual coffee. So I perked a whole pot of hot water. And I was having sort of a difficult morning, emotionally — from the moment my eyes opened. And going for that much needed first cup of coffee, only to discover that yesterday, I had apparently been out of my mind and so now only had a piping hot cup of water in front of me… grumble grumble

It’s just that I hate losing it, you know? My hold on sanity is usually tenuous, at best, so I really need to know that I still know how to make a pot of coffee.

My new car, though, was sort of a little miracle last night.

I decided that I really needed to get a grip on those automatic headlights and how they really worked, you know? I am just not comfortable with this car yet, at all. I really want my little Honda Fit back. But I am not getting my little Honda Fit back. Because the entire Universe — in the cunning guise of the Honda dealership — has decreed that I drive this really nice grown-up car, instead. And learn to like it.

So I thought, I am going to cause an accident if I don’t figure out how to use these headlights because it is super dark out here on these highways at night. So I set the lights to automatic and I drove out into the wilderness well after dark. And it turns out that the headlights are actually fucking amazing. They go from regular to bright to regular in a heartbeat. They just sense everything, every degree of light and non-light, and adjust accordingly. It was really cool. And then that “lane departure” thing, that alerts you when you’re inching out of your lane — it actually pulls the car back into the lane.

My first taste of maybe one day having one of those cars that drives itself.

And while I was out driving, I was thinking about my beloved Hellcat and what it actually means to go from 0  to 126 mph in 10 seconds. (It literally does this.) How does that feel? And why is drag racing so exciting to me, but no other kind of racing is exciting to me? What is this idea of just going really, really fast in a straight line for a very brief amount of time anyway?

The very first real drag race I went to was when I was 12. It was so exciting. And I remember that the extremely loud PA system played the AM hit radio station in between the races –you know, during the setups for each new race. And I remember that “Run to Me” by the Bee Gees came on. I really, really loved that song and it was playing so loud. It was incredible. (It’s still a really incredible song, especially if you play it really loud and you drive really fast and, I guess, if you are still 12.)

Then I was also thinking, while I was out in my grown-up car, driving in the constantly fluctuating non-darkness, about those really expensive anatomically-correct robots people buy so that they can have sex with them. I find those things really interesting and even though I would like to try that, I don’t think it’s a really good idea for someone like me — since I am always living way up in my own head anyway, and have very minimal contact with other human beings as it is — just going that extra step into intimacy with non-humanness seems like a dicey idea at this point. (Although I loved that movie, Marjorie Prime. It was based on a play that I didn’t see, so maybe the play was even better, I don’t know. But I loved the movie.)

Anyway, I digress. What I was really thinking about was that it might be a good idea to make a bunch of those robot things to resemble children and make them super affordable so that pedophiles can just sort of, you know, go off to their rooms with them and just do whatever it is they need to do. And make society a safer place for human children everywhere.

I guess, though, that the benevolent Government would just end up taxing us non-pedophiles in order to create some sort of fund to enable low-income pedophiles to have free sex-robots for life.  Something like that.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that I have to: a.) wash my hair because it is beyond disgusting; b.) finish the rewrites on this play already because it is filling me with all-out despair around here; tears & the whole 9 yards — all this time rushing past me and the NY trip approaching rapidly; and c.) figure out how to just be joyful because my life is going to be over in a nanosecond, when we get right down to it, and there is so much I still want to do.

So there we have it! Me, my mind, and a Sunday morning in September!!

And I leave you with the indescribably amazing song I was streaming in my non-CD-playing new car last night! “Babe, You Turn Me On” from the (equally amazing) 2004 double-album Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus, by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. Have a good Sunday, wherever it takes you. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya!

“Babe, You Turn Me On”

Stay by me, stay by me
You are the one, my only true loveThe butcher bird makes it’s noise
And asks you to agree
With it’s brutal nesting habits
And it’s pointless savagery
Now, the nightingale sings to you
And raises up the ante
I put one hand on your round ripe heart
And the other down your panties

Everything is falling, dear
Everything is wrong
It’s just history repeating itself
And babe, you turn me on

Like a light bulb
Like a song

You race naked through the wilderness
You torment the birds and the bees
You leapt into the abyss, but find
It only goes up to your knees
I move stealthily from tree to tree
I shadow you for hours
I make like I’m a little deer
Grazing on the flowers

Everything is collapsing, dear
All moral sense has gone
It’s just history repeating itself
And babe, you turn me on

Like an idea
Like an Atom bomb

We stand awed inside a clearing
We do not make a sound
The crimson snow falls all about
Carpeting the ground

Everything is falling, dear
All rhyme and reason gone
It’s just history repeating itself
And, babe, you turn me on

Like an idea
Like an Atom bomb

c – 2004 Nick Cave