My Date with The Trashy Muse

OK, this is absolutely the last post I’m going to write on this topic.  Yes, I know.  The previous post should have been the last one.  I wasn’t going to post this at all, both on grounds of good taste and that whole kiss-and-tell privacy thing.  But Rat said if I didn’t post it I was a total wuss and she wouldn’t respect me anymore.  I’m not sure she respects me all that much anyway, but she knows how to push my buttons.  And so.

I had a date with The Trashy Muse last night.

It all started innocently enough.  OK, we all know that’s an outright lie, which wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t already figured it out, so let me take that back.  I was hoping to charm The Trashy Muse into becoming MY muse, at least on a part-time basis.  Yes, I know, that’s a pretty low thing to do.  But I rationalized that being Meb Bryant’s muse probably wasn’t a full-time job, and I figured she might have a few nuggets of trashy inspiration left over for me.

And yes, I already have a muse.  She’s deliciously offbeat — downright whacky, some might say — so our styles match pretty well (or more accurately, I’ve learned to match her style over the years).  But she’s a bit of a prude.  In our last novel there was this prime opportunity for a great sex scene and she sniffed and pronounced it “vulgar” with just the right hint of sneer, in the way that only Southern belles can do.  And when I got the Cover Art detail sheet from Soul Mate Publishing, one of the questions was “Heat Level” which I was ashamed to answer, “Cold Shower.”  So I was hoping for at least a session or two with The Trashy Muse.  Figured I could make it up with Meb later.

The address she gave me was this mansion in West U.  Greek columns — well, what did you expect, Rusty?  The whole place had a decidedly ethereal air, which suited the situation perfectly.

A dark, mysterious woman dressed in leather pants and a leather vest with a black blouse and a choker answered the doorbell.  Wow, not what I was expecting at all.  But it wasn’t my date, it was her sister Mysteria (who I later figured out was William Simon’s muse).  “You must be looking for my sister,” she said in this deep, dark voice that fitted her perfectly (wonder how Will manages to concentrate?).  “Ratty!” she yelled up the stairs.

Rat was more like what I expected, if anyone can ever anticipate a muse.  Attractive, in a stripper sort of way.  She was going to be a little underdressed for Morton’s Steak House, where I had reservations.  But what the hell, you can just about wear anything anywhere in 2013, particularly women (some places still require jacket for men, but I’ve never seen a sign “Pantyhose required”).

“Rat is quite an unusual sobriquet for a woman,” I asked on the drive over.  “How did you come by such a moniker?”  Didn’t think it would hurt my chances to throw in a big word or two, although Rat didn’t look like the type to be impressed by such flagrant locution-dropping.

“Erato sounds so, like, stuffy.  Ya know?  That ‘What’s in a name’ crap is like total bullshit.  A rose by any other name might be a wild onion.  If I’d been Shakespeare’s muse I’d have dropped his phony ass on the spot.”

When Rat ordered the escargot — two orders — I had visions of Vivian in Pretty Woman and the “slippery little suckers.”  Nope.  She had that problem scoped out.  She just picked up each shell and sucked the escargot out, then licked the butter off her lips — a hauntingly seductive maneuver.  Then sopped up the rest of the butter with French Bread, and licked the dish to make sure.

I have no idea how Rat can eat light that and not weigh 300 pounds.  But if she had an unwanted pound, it certainly wasn’t on her magnificent thighs.  I got to examine them at very close range as I participated in what she called “an extended audition.”

“How am I doing?” I tried to ask, although my words were pretty muffled by the circumstances.

“Hmmm?  Well, I’d say you definitely have potential to be a passable writer, just need more practice.  No, don’t stop dear.  Hard work pays off oh yes I’d say Oh God yes.”

And this morning she’s back at her normal day gig.  Or she’s probably sleeping in before going to her day job.  But I’m definitely feeling inspired today (and I’m really going to be inspired when I get the credit card bill).

 

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