Today I decided to forgive Henry Miller.
I can hold a bit of a grudge.
You see there was this time, once, when I almost married a Henry Miller scholar (I hear she switched to Buk, which speaks volumes to both her loyalty and taste.)
I’ve told the rather spectacular story of the end of that relationship to friends, which often prompted stunned silence, but admittedly I probably had a lot more fault that I let on, consciously or unconsciously. Plus, it makes a better story the way I tell it. The novel about it will come. I already have the acknowledgment.
That was about ten years ago. Every year I feel like a little more of me heals. Some years I feel like I am fully healed and it is all behind me, but if I dwell the little scar can twitch and ache. More for lost time than lost love, perhaps. But that might be my ego talking.
But I feel like it’s time to take Henry off my shit list. I wonder if it has been hard for her to read Anaïs. God, I hope so.
So I crack open Tropic, because where else does one start. Where the words came off ugly and petulant, they now seem inspired again. Well, still ugly, but inspired none the less. Being filled to the brim with words and dead broke, I also once again see the appeal of his days in Montmartre.
I look to the future and out my window to New York, the city she couldn’t cut it in.
Obviously the most useful form of flirting is “liking” random old pictures from someone’s tumblr.
A friend recently reminded me of one of the first things I ever read in public. It was at the Bowery Poetry Club, though it certainly wasn’t poetry. There were a few readings and some burlesque that night.
Little did I know that while waiting backstage to go on, all of the burlesque performers would get completely nude and casually chat with me, which was very distracting for novice Jack!
My reading went somewhat horribly, though I’m amused at the fabulously bombastic title of what I read. It’s also interesting how different my style was four years ago. I was more lyrical, but far more clumsy, which can have a charm of its own. Also, I am pretty sure I didn’t pronounce callipygian correctly.
The Callipygian Sublimation
She is a candy stranger. Perfect in the way someone you don’t know at all can be perfect. Her small breasts and her large hips and soft swell of an ass that seems nearly impossible on her tiny frame. Her thin waist and her wild hair. That exoticness that is so difficult for people to get right.
She is new to this, but she’ll do just fine. In fact, it’s hard to find regulars with an attitude so perfect for these games. Right for me, that is. Everyone wants something different from places like this. The Venn Diagrams of our emotional, physical and sexual wants. Cross-indexed by our needs.
She is smart, very smart, enthusiastic, very aware of her own desires. She isn’t in this to see, she is in this to get what she has needed for a while but didn’t have a name for. She wants to play, but not for keeps. Those words would be what a doctor would write on my prescription, if there were doctors for such things.
I’m excited to announce my new novella That Sort of Thing, the story of a woman named Valentine who meets a charming writer of risqué stories. As she is seduced by his words she is also confronted by the guilt of playing his taboo games. Will reality live up to the dirty fantasies?
This novella can be purchased as an ebook or an audiobook (recorded by me!) exclusively at writingdirty.com, though it will eventually be up on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.