Banging the Muse

Sometimes, when you're really lucky, your Muse jumps into your lap and gives you a lap dance. Other times he needs to be coerced to give over. When that happens, I often feel like that seediest of characters in the bad movie or second rate novel, the rich old man with lust in his heart and dollar bills in his fist.

Some of us literally feed our muses into submission with Champaign and strawberries dipped in whipped cream, mama’s homemade meat loaf with buttery mashed potatoes, or rich, dark chocolate. All inspiring choices to spur an inspired mind.

Some of us aren’t that lucky.

Unfortunately for me my Muse is male, and therefore has only one thing on his mind. Chocolate ain’t it.

I’ve tried plying my Muse with alcohol, giving him a ride to the mall for some truly invigorating power shopping, reading a great book to inspire him, and yes…even baiting him with chocolate…lots of it. But none of that works.

My Muse sticks to his one track mind like an armless wallpaper hanger sticks to his work.

That’s when I succumb to the inevitable and, head held low in resigned despair, pull out a jar of quarters and a case of lite beer.

“Okay, I say to my Muse. Butt darts it is. But then you have to promise me that we’ll get right to work.”

My Muse always makes that promise. And he seems almost sincere when he does. But he rarely follows through. Most times I end up staring at the computer screen the next day, minus my self-respect and flattened by a lite beer hangover.

The chocolate comes in handy then. I can even tell myself I’m working off the calories doing posterior clenches in preparation for the next round of butt darts.

I’ll sit there, despondently pecking away at the computer keyboard. Wrenching every word from my soul with virtual pliers like a firmly entrenched tooth from my jaw. Filled with an ever growing hope that, the next time, when I bang the Muse, he’ll stay banged for a while.

My self-respect…and my butt cheeks…are already battered beyond repair.