Miller, Mailer, and Me

Henry Miller, Norman Mailer, and Me.

For many years I didn't know if discovering Henry Miller before I turned eighteen was good or bad for me as a person and, much later, as a "writer". However, I was very clear about two things : he cured me of sexual hang-ups and whetted my appetite for "big "words. 

While Miller was an overt and loud and hilarious destroyer of sexual primness and social inhibitions (his description of his having sex with his female hirsute piano teacher always cheers me up whenever melancholia threatens to take over my psyche) I am a silent, susurrous, assassin (saying the words out loud and the magic of sibilant words would come to you) of words. I am fond of going around deconstructing social etiquette regarding language usage. After I was publicly rebuked and reprimanded by a stupid, supercilious, VC ass-kissing, self-important and self-appointed moderator of a forum for putting a f-word in a character's (a soldier, no less, not a nun or the reigning Pope) mouth in a short story of mine, while he himself hypocritically posted a stupid sex joke in which he referred to a man's penis as his "third leg", I wrote to him saying that " you are a fat, frivolous fairy full of flatulence. Is that enough f words for you, fuckhead?"

I have hated the motherfucker ever since. Every night before I go to bed, I get down on my knees and pray for the day when I am able to give free rein and expression to my wrath. I hate assholes who dye their hair anyway. I despise men who exhibit vanity and lack of confidence about their appearance. By the way, I am no longer part of the stinking, petty forum which is full of cowardly, self-satisfied, but ignorant members. No where else have I ever seen such a pathetic gathering and display of intellectual cowardice and ignorance, not to mention risible, grade-school level of English despite the fact that all of the members got their university education in an English-speaking country.

Anyway, Miller is always an inspiration for me when my confidence ebbs and courage takes a plunge. If he could survive amidst self-imposed poverty and near starvation while pursuing his quest for art and self-fulfillment, I should be able to do likewise. I once heard a woman, my not-so-secret fan and aficionada, beseech me for not losing so much weight because she didn't want a man whom she cared for skinnier than she was. She added, "Roberto, you've got to realize something. The size of a man's dick is not a big thing for most women. Penile size has no correlation with sexual performance. We know that and you know that (good for me to know as mine is only of average size!). But a man's ass is a big turn on for us women. We don't want men with skinny, tiny ass. We want men with meat on him and a big, firm butt." But why this non sequitur about Man's derrière? Beat me, I don't know. Like last night, as I was walking through Bellagio to my car in ungodly hours,  and busy writing this "inspiration" that you are reading, a young Hispanic chick quite far along in the state of intoxication, came out of no where and accosted me. She insisted that I talk to her instead of punching into my iPhone outrageous bons mots. I politely declined. She was persistent. She touched my arms, held me tight while pleading with me in the slurring mélange of English and Spanish. I got to tell you, her skin was silky smooth and she was no slouch in the Beauty Department. I didn't think she was a hooker. To my trained eyes, she was just a drunk, lonely, lost young woman who was delighted that I could speak a little bit of her mother tongue and she wanted to talk. She kept saying, "Hombre, you and I are real. You need to live in the real world, not the Facebook world. What are you writing anyway? It can't be more real than me! " To keep her away from me, I asked for her phone number and promised to call her. Her parting words were, "call me, no lo olvida, guapo." I was tested and I came out as a coward, albeit a "winner". At my age, writing is more important than women. I don't believe in Love anymore. No sir, I do not. As I told you before, quite a number of women told me that they loved me, but it turned out that most of them loved my body and my money, not my mind nor my heart. 

(To be continued)