Muse In A Bottle: Whiskey, Perfume, or Genie

I think the word Muse is almost too ephemeral to invoke. Is it a spirit? A state of being?

I am not knowledgable enough to know. I simply theorize that if I have a muse, some days she looks like Phyllis Diller. Some days she looks like Madame, the raunchy puppet with the wicked humor. I wish my muse would look like Audrey Hepburn, but I know that is too much to hope for. On a good day, my muse might resemble a flowing chocolate fountain in a handsome man's bedroom, but that is where dream and muse get somewhat confused.

So I must be satisfied with Phyllis Diller and Madame the bawdy puppet, because as a writer, I owe myself some honesty.

I introduce myself to my muse, wondering if this incandescent, inexplicable thing knows how much I respect it. But the muse refuses to be quantified, and instead, shapeshifts into a toy box. On close examination, I see that the toy box appears to be full of childhood memories. Before my curious eyes, the box turns into a treasure trove bursting with gems and gold and the crystalline memories of good friends. Breathless, I watch as the fabuluous trove turns into a gypsy sack of worn, embossed velvet, which is slung over my shoulder by a twined golden cord.

This is my muse. So what is it really, if it refuses to allow its substance to be captured by hewn whiskey barrel, graceful perfume bottle, or indulgent genie's domicile, where I might draw on it at will?

As my muse does not want to be fully known, I will not presume to try to name it. I think of a Tiffany's blue box tied with white ribbon, the treasured silver and gold Gucci clutch which was my stepmother's, and a bottle of wine called by the somewhat startling label name of Fat Bastard.

Fat Bastard is a wine with a quirky, fun and engaging personality, says a glowing review.

We must love our muse no matter what its appearance, or the startling form it takes when it finally deigns to be revealed. We are the writers, the conduit--and it is the Muse.

Today's Sexy Reader:

commentbox: I have #s 1 thru 7 of "Cowboys By The Dozen". Have you written the last five and if so, what are the titles? I can't find any after # 7. Thought I would ask, as I just got hooked on Western Romance and I love your 7 books that I found. Keep writing!

Thanks, Bobbie Garrett, for writing!

All the books of the Cowboys By The Dozen series, as well as a special anthology out next November called Christmas, Texas Style, are set to go. Release months: June, September, November, March '06, and May '06. Thank you for your kind words about the series.

Currently listening to : Russian museum website, have no idea what the song is, but when I want soothing, this is it! Happy to send link to anyone who enjoys classical music.
Currently reading: The Red Diary by Toni Blake (if your muse is feeling spicy)!
Currently cooking: Shrimp, rice and vegetables
Current rage: Starbucks hot chocolate, venti, no whipped cream
Word of The Day: SATISFIED

New story idea going up today! There will be five starting with CUPCAKE, one every Monday, and comments are welcome, as I am interested in writing only what readers love. Private email is fine, as is blog comment. Blogs for the next two days will be "redux," as I will be at the hospital with my son who needs to have some tests run.

* By the way and apropos of nothing, if there are wine drinkers on board, Fat Bastard winery has made charitable donations to breast cancer philanthropies for the past two years, which I admire. Website: www.fatbastard.com



BARELY THERE

Jane Honeywell took the black merry widow her younger sister, Cathy, handed her, wishing she had never opened her office door.
"What would you do," Cathy asked, "if the man of your dreams suddenly walked into the room? And he was stark naked save for a pair of black Calvins?"
Jane stared at the black merry widow, wondering what the satiny corset and naked men had to do with the work that was piled high on her desk. "Right now, I have designs to select for next season. I don't think I'd even notice the man of my dreams, sans clothes."
"Which shows you need a vacation, or at least an outlet for your creative frustration, and I am here to be your fairy godmother of creativity. I need a sub for a tiny little job tonight. Very small. You'll never notice the drain on your time."
Jane blinked. "If you're the fairy godmother and I'm the victim, who gets to wear the period-piece lingerie?"
"You do," her younger sister said. "You'll be the belle of the ball—actually, the bachelor party."
Jane sank into her leather office chair at the Barely There Shoe Designs company, picking up a pencil to show that the conversation had gone far enough. "I'll pretend you're not my sister at the moment, my poor, raving lunatic of a sister whose crayon drawings I once admired, though they were dreadful, and whose bathing suits I kept clean of sand when you insisted upon sitting in the sandbox, though you hated to be dirty. I have get back to work, Cathy."
"Jane, I need you to do this," Cathy said, sitting down across from her sister. "Besides, it will be good for you. You need a little spark of adventure."
Jane frowned before touching the very black, very sensuous lingerie gingerly on her desk. Its sheen glimmered teasingly in the light, daring her to be, well, daring. "Ask Dina."
Cathy shook her head at the mention of their middle sister. "Dina would never be brave enough to wear that. You, on the other hand, would. Best of all, you have the goods to put in it. I have a reputation to uphold, you know. I am the most popular stripper-gram in town, or so I hear. It's the jazzy red hair."
"I doubt it." Jane shook her head. "I could never wear this. Not in front of a room full of drunk, horny men." Although she had to admit to a secret, wistful niggle of imaginary flight. She wouldn't be human if she didn't entertain the fantasy for just a second, would she?
"You're thinking about it!" Cathy exclaimed, clapping her hands.
"I'm wondering why you always come to me for sisterly rescue." She tweaked a strap of the merry widow between her fingers, thinking it really was a marvel of lace and construction. A woman couldn't help but feel outrageously sexy and desirable in such a costume.
And it was a costume, she mused. If she wore a wig and this, maybe even a black satin masquerade mask, she would feel unrecognizable and safe.
"I come to you because you're fun," Cathy said, laying the coup de grace on the desk next to the merry widow, a riding crop with a satiny bow attached to the end. "You need to meet men, anyway. You stay in this office far too much of the time, creating fabulous shoes that you never wear for anyone."
Jane dropped the strap and sat back in her chair. "A bachelor party is not the kind of place I would meet eligible men, even if that were on my to-do list."
"Oh, but it is," Cathy said with a grin. "None other than Senator Blackwell will be there."
Jane's eyebrows raised. "At a bachelor party?
"He placed the order himself," Cathy said. "For his son. He suggested a blonde, model-type in black to match the black tie wedding which is the next evening."
"Sure," Jane said. "It's customary to match strippers to the wedding ensemble. The bride chooses the colors, and the groom is faithful to the color scheme, at least."
"It's not stripping," Cathy said reasonably. "It's a strip-o-gram. Very different. All you have to do is show up, give the groom a kiss on the cheek and a very slight, playful tap on the rump with the crop—"
"Oh, no," Jane said. "Ask me to have your first-born child, but spanking a senator's son I cannot do. Did Senator Blackwell request this? Really?"
Cathy laughed. "You'll wear this little recorder in your earring—"
"Which I will forget about because I'll have crop issues," Jane interrupted. "Really, how does one do that, Cathy? What if he's a wienie and I tap him too hard? Perhaps he wants a harder spanking, and then what do I do? Remember when I apologized to the garage thief I maced?"
"He was stealing hubcaps," Cathy said. "The security guard was very grateful to you. They'd been trying to catch that nuisance for months."
"But I apologized."
"You're too nice," Cathy agreed. "It's first-born syndrome. You want everyone to like you."
Jane puckered her brows. "Take your merry widow. The door is over there. Use it." In front of her lay several sketches for shoes which would grace feet in two years—if she selected wisely. She had to approve some of the ideas in front of her so that production could begin. The designs were beautiful, but she had to admit to a secret feeling of needing a change. She, or the fashion?
Her gaze slid over to the merry widow.
"Aha!" Cathy exclaimed. "You're curious. Admit it."
"All right. I am. What's the deal?"
"It's murder," Cathy said. "Apparently, Senator Blackwell is under suspicion of murdering his maid. And we have to find out the why and what of his life."
"I like you better when you're undercover as a stripper-gram," Jane said. "I can deal with fantasy much better than the reality of your job. Murder is just not a word that goes with shoes, you know? I'm a business owner, a designer at heart." She let out a breath. "Cathy, I'd be scared to botch it."
"Nothing to botch. We'll be sitting in a stakeout van down the street, and you'll be dressed to kill in seriously sexy finery. If there's anything worth hearing, we'll hear it. You don't have to do anything except be hot as Marilyn Monroe for twenty minutes."
The conversation had gone from bad to worse, in Jane's opinion. The three sisters had not a thing in common, she decided, or she wouldn't be getting dragged into this latest scheme. Dina the schoolteacher wasn't an appropriate mark for Cathy's plan. "And if I mess the whole thing up? Then what? I've wasted valuable tax dollars for the city of Houston."
Cathy laughed. "There you go again, wanting everybody to be happy. To like you. Just take the lingerie, put on a pair of awesome shoes, maybe some fake eyelashes, and go dazzle some men."
"Mystery," Jane murmured. "That's what's missing from this collection. There's no sensual mystery, no air of hidden seduction in these sketches."
"Jane," Cathy said, "pay attention. I'm trying to set up a stakeout."
"All right," Jane said, "I need the practice of being a vamp. Then I'll be able to bring a hint of danger to the collection, and danger is what is missing. Hot, dangerous appeal."
"There you go!" Cathy exclaimed. "Don't forget the Superwoman earrings."
She took the golden swags from her sister. "Could they be any gaudier?"
"All eyes on you," Cathy said. "You're going to have so much fun. I almost wish I was you."
Jane narrowed her eyes on her sister. "Back to the part about the man of my dreams walking into the room in tiny black Calvins?"
"Oh," Cathy said. "They'll all be in suits. Sorry."
"Just checking," Jane said.
* * *
Dylan Montgomery checked his watch for the third time in five minutes, wondering how long he needed before he could escape the world's most boring bachelor party. He'd had a gin and tonic; he'd made proper conversation with Senator Blackwell. A more boring old stiff he'd never met, and his son wasn't much better. They had probably never had an original thought in their collective heads, and as a self-made tycoon, Dylan was all about original thoughts.
A cheer went up, and Dylan turned to face the front door, somewhat surprised by the woman who nervously entered the room. She was a looker, he thought, even if she did look silly as hell in the black get-up she was wearing. Jeez, she looked like his younger sister trying to be Elvira, only with half the costume. He grinned at the crop she flailed a bit uncertainly in front of her, wondering whose cocktail she was going to shatter with that bit of a leather stick. A laugh escaped him, and her eyes turned on him under the black satin mask she wore.
Slowly, she approached him, and the laugh hung in his throat. Dylan watched her, wondering what she would do next. For once, the part of him which appreciated original ideas was intrigued. Hell, she might be terrible at her job, but at least she had nerve.
Once she was within a foot of him, she stopped, giving him time to appreciate her. Twenty men stood around her, watching to see the show. Suddenly, Dylan's collar felt very hot. He looked at her fall of straight blonde hair and the impossibly blue eyes, then let his gaze travel insolently down to her bosom which was pushed high into the Victorian-age garment. Her legs were shapely and long—he liked long and shapely on a woman. The shoes she wore were high and pointed, with little bows that ended above each ankle. Very nice, he thought, before she walked around him in a semi-circle, checking him out as he'd been checking her out.
"Go ahead," he said, "look all you want. Let me know if you like what you see."
To his shock, she spanked him with her stupid crop. The men around him laughed and huzzahed, congratulating him and acting like buffoons, but as far as Dylan was concerned, the ball had been tossed right into his court—and he knew just how to play.
"Come on, sweetie," he said, hoisting the skirtless Elvira over his shoulder. Her legs flailed; she beat at his back, but he gave her a nice, flat-handed slap on the rump which delighted the audience as he carried her out to his car. "Let's take you and your little sex toy on a little drive."
"No," she said, struggling, "I don't go on rides. I'm a twenty-minute hire."
The valet brought his Mercedes around, trying to be discreet about the woman beating the back of his legs with her silly crop.
"May I help you, sir?" the valet asked.
"By all means. Take her toy and toss it in the trunk before she harms herself."
She gasped as the crop was snatched from her hand. Dylan took that moment to help her into his car. The valet closed her door, standing beside it while Dylan got into the drivers' side. He locked the doors, started the engine and pulled away. "Do us both a favor and take off your mask, sweetie. We'll both be more comfortable."
"No! Take me back at once! This is not part of my job description. I was supposed to walk in, give you a light tap on the buns, and leave. So stop the car!"
He laughed at her defiant tone. "Who told you to spank me?"
"Your father, you jerk! Now, take me back before I have the police department on you."
His brows rose. Now there was an original thought. Not many people threatened him, especially saucy blondes wearing very little. "Police department? And just for the record, I doubt my father hired you. He's in Rio with his new bride. The third, actually, but who's counting?"
She stared at him. "You are Senator Blackwell's son?"
"God forbid." He shuddered. "He would never have carried you off, I'm pretty certain. All rumors point to a preference for a gay lifestyle, so I don't think you'd be his cup of tea."
The vision in black satin stared at him, slowly taking off her earrings and putting them into her purse. Her mask followed, and he was surprised by how attractive she was. The senator must have gone double for this one, surely hoping for a quick change of heart on his son's behalf before tomorrow's same-sex marriage—Dylan could have told him to save his dough. Maybe the old man was in denial. Maybe he thought having a beautiful woman at the party made him look good, or kept up appearances for his son. Still, it was none of his business, though perhaps it was rude of him to drive off with the entertainment. "Don't undress yet," Dylan told her. "We're miles from my place. Actually, I'm not even sure I'm taking you to my place. I don't suppose you're a crazed stalker chick? Or a bored housewife supplementing her lifestyle with tawdry fantasies? You look innocent, but appearances can be deceiving."
"Oh, God," she said. "This is not happening to me."