Emily Dickinson Poet Slut

Note to the Reader: Not too long ago, after an unfortunate misunderstanding in a certain drinking establishment known as Eddie's Bar, I had reason to be detained at the Amherst, MA police department, which happens to be almost directly across the street from the Emily Dickinson Homestead and Museum. While gazing from the window of the police station toward the Homestead, a thought suddenly came to me: what if they got it all wrong about Emily Dickinson? Two things about her seem indisputable: she was a great American poet, and as a person she was extremely shy and reclusive. There's no doubting she was a great poet, but suppose her personality and lifestyle were not as portrayed? What might her life have really looked like? Here's my take on that. IMPORTANT: This is a work of fiction, in case you suddenly feel the need to begin making changes to her Wikipedia page. My apologies to the other famous authors referred to as well. (Subnote: All charges against me were subsequently dropped, though I've been ordered to steer clear of Eddie's watering hole in the future.)

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News item combining several wire service reports

A recent discovery has the literary world all a-flutter and nearly beside itself. What had long been rumored but thought to be so preposterous by most experts to ever be taken seriously, has now been shown to be true. Hearsay claimed for years that Emily Dickinson (1830-86), the highly-regarded, painfully shy and reclusive, and almost certainly virginal poet from Amherst, Massachusetts, was not as reclusive as thought -- and definitely not a virgin. A packet of letters has been found, all written by Dickinson to various acclaimed literary figures, that indicates the poet had not only travelled extensively, but was quite active sexually. These letters paint the poet in a completely different light than what everyone had assumed. It also alters significantly the perspectives people had of the famous authors she wrote to.

The packet was found buried in a wall in a house that was being demolished outside of Amherst, a house that was believed to belong to one of the several men who visited her at her home, affectionately referred to by her as her "tutors."

"Tutors, indeed," chortled one scholar upon hearing the news. "More like her boy toys."

It seems that Dickinson carried on a correspondence with many famous writers, from William Makepeace Thackeray and Charles Dickens among others in England to Herman Melville, Walt Whitman, Louisa May Alcott, and several others in America. What makes these letters such a revealing find is how openly sexual matters were discussed by Dickinson. No replies from these several authors have ever come to light; it is thought Dickinson or someone else destroyed them years ago.

"That, of course, is a real shame," commented another scholar. "It is fascinating, for instance, to see Emily lamenting the fact that only once had she been involved in a foursome with the Bronte sisters and how gratifying it was, but not to have the Brontes' take on that is truly a pity. Also, according to Dickinson, after engaging in a threesome with Mark Twain and Bret Harte, it was Harte who was better at eating pussy. Did Twain ever admit to that or even comment on it in a subsequent letter? We'll likely never know. It didn't change his opinion of Harte as a writer, however; 'he's still a hack,' insisted Twain several times in public statements."

Investigators also discovered tucked within some of the letters poems Dickinson had written, hitherto unknown. These too are quite different from her usual visionary and idiosyncratic poems, not so much in style but certainly in subject matter. Scholars will be examining these works deciding how, perhaps even whether, to include them in her oeuvre.

Experts are still trying to piece together how the packet was assembled and who managed it. Was Dickinson still alive when it occurred? Was she the one able to gather together these previously sent letters of hers? Also, why the letters were compiled into a single bundle which then ended up hidden in a wall remains a mystery, though some have already begun to speculate.

After seeing their contents, one avenue of speculation seems obvious: she was thinking about the future and how it would judge her. Fewer than a dozen of her poems were published during her lifetime, though over 1700 additional ones were found by her sister after her death. Did she imagine, hope even, that eventually her poems would come to light and be praised? Would she come to be seen as a brilliant poet? The scandalous contents of these letters would certainly have damaged her reputation, maybe irreparably so.

Which only leads to further questions: why didn't she destroy them herself? How did they end up in that wall?

Literary detectives will be pursuing these lines of inquiry for a long time to come. In the meantime, it's the sexual escapades, the secrets revealed, the shocking opinions expressed that will fascinate everyone else. Like the battle between the ironclads Monitor and Merrimack during the Civil War making every other navy in the world obsolete, these letters might make every biography of all the people involved, if not obsolete, at least seriously incomplete.

Following are samples and excerpts from these letters:

*

To William Makepeace Thackeray:

Dear Mr. Thackeray --

I am an 18-year-old girl living in Amherst, Mass. across the ocean from you and I just read your latest novel

Vanity Fair

and that Becky Sharp is just one unbelievably wonderful character, full of all kinds of fantastic schemes to get ahead in this cruel world. She takes my breath away, I must declare. You subtitle it "A Novel without a Hero," but, truly, sir, how could you be so blind as to not recognize Becky in that role? I hope to be just like her.

Of course you discreetly refrain from saying so, but I just know if Becky had given Jos Sedley even half as good a blowjob as I've been giving my brother Austin who lives next door, she would have won him over. I love the way she can get men to do just about anything and all the sexual encounters she must engage in. I hope someday I can get men to ogle me and get all hot until they don't know up from down, like Becky does at the card games so Rawdon can cheat and win. In addition to turning myself into someone just like Becky, I also am striving to become a poet. I wrote a poem about her that I'm including in this letter that I hope you like.

From a true "Lover" of your work,

Emily Dickinson

Poem:

Eyes so crystal clear --

Steady on the Prize --

What... I hear

Hope eternal flies!

A half-opened door --

To flare wide I know not when --

I deserve more!

Not be fucked o'er again.

*

To Henry David Thoreau:

My Dear Henry,

I see you finally came to your senses and quit living in that awful hovel at Walden Pond you insisted on calling home. All of Concord was laughing their rear ends off at you. Enough with that "Simplify, simplify" horseshit, someone should have slapped you a few times, if I was there I would have done it myself. Even that bean-field you had, I hear the girls you took in there to fuck were never keen about it -- too scraggily and filthy. Though I got it from my good friend Louisa Alcott that some of the girls rather liked all those beans and whatnot poking them in various places while you ravished them, including Louisa herself. Come visit me here at Amherst, I could show you a wonderful section of Atkin's Woods a few miles north that will have you rock hard and salivating in seconds. It is lovely, pristine, dark, mysterious, and the ideal place to rip our clothes off and cavort to our heart's content. Here is a little poem I wrote to whet your appetite.

Naturally yours,

Emily

Poem:

Nature found nearby to Amherst

The place I call my Home --

To be sure will make your cock burst

And then, oh dear, I'll come!

To Henry David Thoreau:

Hank,

No, I am

not

going on any fucking canoe trips with you to the Maine woods, I don't care how many burly guides will be there. No one can be naked up there for more than ten minutes without being eaten alive by the black flies. So forget it!

E.

*

To Walt Whitman:

Dearest Walt,

I know you don't get up to leafy New England often, preferring to spend your time in the harrowing slums of Brooklyn and along the docks with drunken sailors whose cocks you enjoy sucking, but if you could tear yourself away for a few days I'd love it if you could come visit me here in Amherst. Some of my "tutors" who visit me frequently are thrilled with drilling me in my sweet succulent bottom (their words), which naturally makes me think of you, especially when they get finished with me and go for each other. I'm sure if you could get yourself up here you would have a terrific time. Perhaps it would inspire you enough that you could include the experience in a bit of doggerel and make it part of that "Song of Myself" poem, though in my opinion it's already going on too long. But a tawdry steamy section may be just what it needs to spice it up and pull the reader back in again.

I normally end my dispatches to you with a little poem I've written, but no more, Walt. I see that you've been stealing them, sometimes word-for-word and including them in later editions of that ridiculous

Leaves of Grass

atrocity of yours. They must be paying you by the word so you're padding it with anything you can find. I am sorry, sir, but you will have to search elsewhere for poems to pilfer. Try the late Edgar Allen Poe's works; most of his poems are already forgotten and will be easy to lift without notice.

I wish I got to know Mr. Poe; did you know he was married to his 13-year-old cousin? That and his stories about malicious black cats, a murdered person's heart starting to beat under the floorboards, partying while a deadly plague is ravaging the countryside... this man had to be pretty interesting between the sheets, probably open to trying anything, maybe the wilder the better! I would have been more than happy to find out! Wouldn't my relating those adventures have made for lively interchanges with the ladies at our afternoon teas!

Still fondly,

Emily

*

To Mark Twain:

Dear Mark,

There is no need to throw pebbles at my bedroom window to get my attention so I will let you in for sex. That sounds like something Tom Sawyer might do to get Huck to sneak out of the house and meet him somewhere for who knows what filthy purpose, though if Aunt Polly found out she'd want in, too. A simple knock on the front door will suffice, two short raps followed by three longer spaced ones, not the other way around or I will think you are Ralph Emerson come to get his rocks off with me. I would never refuse you, my pumpkin, but sometimes Ralph can be an awful bore with his essays going on and on about "The Over-Soul" and "Self-Reliance" which he insists on reciting between romps in the sack. Even the one on "Love" had me yawning. Sometimes I'm just not in the mood for all that, and despite knowing I'll be depriving myself of his magnificent 8-inch fuckpiece, I leave him standing at the door until he gives up and leaves. That I would never do with you, sweet-cakes, especially if by any chance you showed up with Bret Harte in tow. Any chance of that, my cutie?

With lots of hugs and kisses,

Em

*

To Mark Twain:

Dear Mr. "Longhorn" --

You are such a comic genius, as well as being a sexy little rascal, my wonderful Samuel Langhorne Clemens -- or should I say "Longhorn" because that is exactly what you are down there where it counts! You had me in stitches during your last visit as we lounged in bed recuperating from our carnal exploits as you read to me your story called "1601," set during the Elizabethan Era and filled with wonderful scenes like Sir Walter Raleigh farting in front of Queen Elizabeth stinking up the whole room and the Queen telling everybody about sprouting pubic hair when she was 15. I almost died laughing! This could be your greatest work, so much more interesting than Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn and all that nostalgia about being a steamboat captain on the Mississippi or making fun of people on a tour of Europe and the Holy Land. You have really hit your stride with this one, my friend, and I hope you write many more stories, even whole novels, just like it.

P.S. I will be free during the first week in September and could come to you in Hartford if you are available. I wonder if you've spoken to your lovely wife Livy yet about all of us engaging in a threesome like we discussed. I know my suggesting it to you shocked you somewhat, but hopefully after mulling it over you have come to appreciate the possibilities of such a thrilling endeavor. Livy has always impressed me as a forward-thinking woman, open to many new exciting ideas. I know she has had terrible bad luck with her spinal injury and then contracting typhoid, but a threesome might just be the emotional and physical undertaking needed to make her feel alive and in fine fettle once again. Tell me what you think, my little ducky; my next visit might be the perfect time.

Until then (and still in stitches),

Em

*

To Herman Melville:

Dearest Herman,

I am looking forward greatly to your upcoming visit, but please, Herm, when you come don't show up with any of that sperm whale novel you are close to completing, I beg you. You had me awash in descriptions of sperm whale secretions last time until I thought I would drown. Page after page of near-naked men covered in slimy gooey sperm oil melting down huge whale carcasses in the hull of the ship, whale fat and white creamy sperm whale cum I mean secretions everywhere and dripping and oozing all over those sweaty now totally naked men -- I just came again right now thinking about it and touching myself! It's too much, Herm. If that novel is ever published, I (and many other women, I might add) will become completely obsessed with that chapter and care nothing about what else the book is about. Who gives a fuck about that asshole Ahab anyway? You know, sweetie pie, your own sperm secretions are plenty to satisfy any girl, even one like me. Now if you want to tell me more about that harpooner fellow covered in tattoos with the funny name and any of his sexual romps with the Tahitian ladies, that would be fine. If you have any sketches of him that would be even better.

Awaiting your arrival longingly,

Emily

*

To Louisa May Alcott:

Louisa Dearest,

Hey girl, how are things over there in Beantown? I just read in the

Intelligencer

that Mr. Cooper recently passed. I guess both of us are too young to know him, though Harriet Beecher Stowe is older and might know some things about him we would find interesting. I will have to write to her and see if she does and is willing to share, though I don't peg her as being the kiss-and-tell type. Mr. Cooper's Leatherstocking tales always got me a little hot and bothered, though nothing like your "Pauline's Passion and Punishment" story. I am thinking especially of his Deerslayer character who I always imagined had more than a few threeways with Judith and Hetty, not to mention Chingachgook fucking like crazy his bride Hist before she was captured. His sea stories never did much for me; all that water sloshing around just made me want to pee.

I just want to let you know I'll be in Boston the week of the 23rd wearing my Abe Lincoln disguise; everybody still thinks I never leave this house and all I do is sit in my room writing poems pining for Ben Newton, my first real lover who died. The poems I write take about 15 minutes each and the rest of the time I'm thinking about Newt all right, since that's the name I gave the beautifully carved dildo Herman Melville gave me that he brought back from Tahiti. Those natives really know a thing or two about getting satisfied! I'll bring it with me when I visit; it's shaped so it looks like a cock on both ends and we can fuck each other proper-like with it. Herman likes it when we fuck each other's bottoms with it like that, too.

Counting the days until --

Your Lovergirl,

Emmy

*

To Charlotte Bronte:

Dearest Charlotte,

It is with deep sorrow I write to you having only recently learned via a notice in

Blackwood's

that both your sisters, Emily and Anne, are now deceased. It is so sad that Death in His Civility and knowing no haste stopped for them -- and Immortality. (Hmm, there's a familiar ring to that I can't quite put my finger on. Oh well.) I remember as if it were yesterday the four of us being together, basically to celebrate how all three Bronte sisters had a novel published in the same year (though each of you used a male pseudonym, a terrible idea, I always thought). You kept teasing one another whose novel was best and how the others were just rubbish until I thought you all would come to blows.

That's when I suggested we take our clothes off and crawl into bed together, which after only a brief hesitation everyone agreed to, and things immediately improved amongst you. Let me tell you, when it came to fingers and tongues there were no differences in quality between the Bronte sisters -- all of you were experts and delivered the goods. It was very cute, I thought, that every time you orgasmed you yelled "Rochester!" and every time Emily climaxed she screamed "Heathcliff!" For a while I'd been thinking of making a return visit to England with the purpose of being with you all at Haworth to roll in your arms again, but alas that shall never be.

If I do decide to cross the briny depths again, which would be in the spring, I do hope you will allow me to visit you and perhaps by then your mourning dress will have been sufficiently retired that we may enjoy each other's company in a way reminiscent of the last time. Enclosed is a poem I wrote reflecting on how much I would look forward to being with you again.

With deepest affection,

E.D.

Poem:

Bodies coming together -- soft and pliant --

Sighs -- as fingers in holes explore --

Cries -- as tongues bring triumph --

Ringing pleas for more!

What Map drawn o'er each breast is this?

Where does It direct us to move?

Traced by lips in ardent kisses --

More than Sex -- Tis Love!

*

To Charles Dickens:

Dear Charles,

I was so happy you agreed to see me after your performance (some will call it a reading, but it was so much more than that) at the Haynes Opera House in Springfield the other snowy evening; even more, of course, allowing me to spend the night with you at your hotel. Your lovemaking is so passionate and inspiring it made me feel like Oliver Twist begging for "more, please!" I know you are upset by the horrible ribbing you've been getting in the press after the comments you made about America after your first tour, but, really, Charles, what do you expect after condemning the whole country because everyone spits in the street, which is like a religious ritual here. Anyway, I hope I was able to take your mind off such things and that the little thing I did with my mouth and fingers met with your approval. From the amount of jism you shot down my throat, I think it did.

Your loving Admirer and...

Emily

*

To Nathaniel Hawthorne:

Dear Nat,

I've told you over and over that when I visit you at your little red cottage in Stockbridge I don't mind standing in the pillory you built there for that purpose. I find it thrilling being naked with just a big red W hanging on a rope around my neck; if you want to spank me or even use the whip on me that's okay, too, just no permanent marks on my skin, that's all I ask. I know you wish I was pregnant, too, but sorry, Nat, I must insist you wear a French letter during intercourse. Also that the W stands for whore, I get that, and the whole scenario makes you tremendously excited so you want to ravish me in all my holes, which is exactly what I want you to do, too. But why you insist on feeling so

guilty

about it all, that's what I find so unfathomable. I don't think inviting all of Stockbridge to your cottage with me in the pillory while you confess your sins is such a good idea; you might be able to escape to Italy again afterwards, but what about me?....