Hark! Muse! Ok, the following is a rough start to something new...tell me your thoughts. If You Kiss A Woman If you kiss a woman, she’ll want you to come upstairs. And when you go upstairs, she’ll show you her apartment—her kitchen, the den, the bedroom—and then you’ll spend the night. But if you spend the night, she’ll want you to call her later on. And if you call her, she’ll want a gift to show that you care for her. You’ll probably get her a necklace, simple, however elegant. And she’ll wear it on the next date you have. But if you get a girl a necklace, she’ll put it on and need other jewelry to match. She’ll need a bracelet and earrings, so you get those for her too. And when you do, she’ll decide that she just might need a ring. So you’ll get married. Men make women out to be far too complicated. A man sees a woman walking towards him and is overwhelmed by her; the wind in her air, the shine in her eyes, the gloss on her lips, the sway of her hips, the stretch of her legs, smoothness of skin, the perfume she wears, the length of her dress—he sees a blur of beauty coming at him and becomes terrified; there is just so much there. I’ll never be good enough for her, he says. Well I like to think otherwise. I’m no player, by any means, and hate above all the idea of such a man. I have enough fingers on one hand to count the number of women I’ve slept with and have only forgotten one of their names—by choice, thank you very much. My expertise on women does not come from ‘playing the field’, but from observation. I’m head photographer for Thread magazine and under the employment and friendship of its very wealthy owner, Miss Della Rose. Thread has been the tying knot in looping communication between men and woman, or so our slogan goes. The magazine was a dream when it first came into print, brandishing New York’s finest photographers, writers, and editors (or at least that’s what we—a group of total unknowns—all hoped to prove). The captions were fresh, the stories were real, the pictures were original, and the magazine was loved. I had been the first on board to create the magazine—against my own will, I might add, but I was a starving artist so who was I to be picky? And besides, the bohemian tones underlying throughout the magazine’s ambition was darkly appealing to me. Actually, to admit to all my drunken honesties possible while remaining sober, I’ll further add that it was Della Rose herself that was the dark appeal, and lesser towards the magazine. Della was not your average woman, but appealing in all measure. She had rather large breasts, but this was only due to her rather large physique. She was comfortable in a size fourteen and had been most of her life, except during a mid-life crisis when she actually dropped down to a nine (ironically enough, Della reported that the worst times of her life were her skinniest and a little bit of ‘plump’, as she put it, brought her the greatest happiness). However, before your head begins to paint unpleasant images of an obese woman panting around in tight tank tops with hairy armpits and twelve chins, I should clarify that, although Della was over-weight, she did not look at all displeasing. Her height was flattering to her weight, as were her taste in clothes. She never wore skirts or shorts, but she told me that it was because of horrible scars left from a terrible case of the chicken pox. And in further defense to her size, I will add (for I find this next bit to be a bit important) that she was constantly active and did not waddle around panting or breathing heavily as over-weight people tend to do. She had great lung capacity and her constant walking and moving about gave her more endurance than most of the younger office beaus working under her. Della loved to walk. Especially while talking—during the construction of the new building for Thread, Della had the architects extend the length of the hallways so that she could walk throough them with two people walking comfortably at her sides and a space for someone trafficking in the other direction to pass through (this was how all business meetings were held at Thread, walking through the halls from Mr. Smith’s desk to Mr. Doe’s desk and so on.) This brings me to how Della and I met. Central Park ought to be a country all on its own. I’ve never researched its math or history, but I would imagine there being nearly a thousand ways of maneuvering through the park and those pathways have probably known more feet than the Blarney Stone has lips. And in the very heart of the park, I promise, you cannot hear a peep from New York City; not so much as a car alarm going off for no one to notice. All around is the security of ageless trees and the most beautiful grass you’ve ever felt. And above and behind all that are the giants, gallant in shining armor of metals and glass. It’s a very easy place to get lost in, Central Park, but getting lost is never a problem because no matter which way you turn, you’re never really wrong; there’s always a way out. I had only recently made Central Park my home the day that Della Rose dropped by. I was sitting quietly having breakfast—a divine plate of Big Mac and mushy apple a la trash—when Della Rose and her shaggy mutt (whose front and back could only be deciphered by the direction it walked) came waltzing through my living room. She had one of those squeaky toys in her hand and, after squeezing it repeatedly in front of the mangy mutts face, threw it and let go of the leash so the dog could chase after the annoying object. The mutt took off right away, but surpassed the toy by a long shot. My guess was that it simply couldn’t see where it went under all that hair. The mutt got side-tracked anyway and detoured, sniffing around with great interest and lifting its leg (without so much as a drop coming out) on every tree it passed. I watched in amusement as the plump lady encouraged her faithful dog to get after the ball. I enjoyed the company of them, even if they were entirely ignorant to my being there. But then that mutt began to dig. I didn’t mind the sniffing and even a lifting of the leg (every man’s got to take care of his business you know), but the carpet had been freshly mowed and I didn’t need divots in my dining room. “Hey, hey, hey!” I pointed out to the dog as a warning, “If you want to wipe your feet off, use the pavement, but that rug you’re digging at costs a fortune!” I like this one...don't know why. I like this character, his thoughts. When I got further into it, I was surprised how easily I could hear him speaking, if that at all makes sense. I don't know, maybe it's a writer thing. Anyways, I hope this gets further. Post your verbage, if you'd like. Carrie