They don't call this Grand Central Station for nothing, I thought as I stepped off the train, nearly getting squashed like a grape. I was dressed all in black, trying to look as though I didn't have ARKANSAS stamped all over me, and I tried to feel tough, to be 'Zita the Warrior Princess as I looked around for a familiar face or two in the outrageously teeming masses. That was when a huge meaty arm grabbed me around the waist from behind, a huge meaty hand clamped over my mouth.I dropped my overnight bag.

"Gotcha!" growled a raspy voice close to my ear. I smelled b.o. mixed with some really raunchy cologne--Eau de Garbage Can? "Where do you think YOU'RE going, my little chiquita?"

I tried to waken the Warrior Princess, but she must have been in a coma."Mxnbtrkzmx," was all I could manage through his hand.

"I know who you are, toots," he sniggered. "You're one of those Antoooooonio fans, right?"

Clearly this wasn't your average NYC mugger. Although this WAS La Manzana Grande, judging from the way no one seemed to notice my predicament. Then I remembered the hard heels of my boots, and brought the right one down as hard as I could on his toes.

He released me with a howl of pain. I tried to break and run, but there were too many people in the way, and my big-bellied attacker lunged for me. His expression of pain and outrage did nothing to improve his looks, and he was no oil painting to begin with, in his ratty t-shirt and baggy chinos, a tattoo on his hairy left arm that read NO RESPECT.

"What do you want from me, you pathetic cliche?" I gasped as he seized my wrists. Weren't there ANY security guards around here?

"I'M a pathetic cliche?" he snarled. "Look at YOU. A woman your age drooling like a teenybopper over some pretty-boy screen idol. Wasting your talents writing steamy fantasies and posting them on the Internet! Coming to New York to a Chica Writer's Conference, of all things! HA! I came to help you get a life. To save you from your foolishness before it's too---"

"Perhaps I can save you the trouble," said a rich voice I knew well. I whirled to see a snowy camel with an impossibly handsome man perched high on its hump, dressed in dazzling white with a jeweled turban, a gleaming silver scimitar thrust through his gold silk sash.

"Ahmad," I exclaimed. Some of the people actually seemed to notice the gorgeous apparition. Others went about their business as though it were just another passenger. Ahmad spoke to the albino camel in Arabic, at which the beast lowered itself to its knees so its rider could dismount.

"Well, well," sneered my attacker, "if it isn't Ahab the A-rab, sheik of the burnin' sand. And this is what you waste your time on?" he said to me. "When you could be watching enriching documentaries and writing stories that impart valuable, uplifting moral lessons? And you used to have such good taste!"

Ahmad walked deliberately up to us. I smelled the scent HE wore, so rich and spicy I nearly swooned. His shirt was open in front, showing chest hair and a ruby pendant whose splendor could not begin to compare with the starry dusk of those eyes.

"Release her, you pig-eating son of a whore," he said. I hoped he wouldn't suspect I'd had a sausage biscuit from McDonald's for breakfast before changing trains. My attacker held me all the more firmly.

"Release her?" he rasped. "I came to release her from YOU, you Latin lover, you bad actor, you pitiful clown, you Valentino wannabe, you--"

Suddenly the Warrior Princess awoke with a vengeance! With a wild cry I made a spectacular leap into the air, kicking him repeatedly in the face with both heels. He reared back with a stream of language I'll omit here, and charged me like a mad bull. That's when Ahmad whipped out his scimitar and sliced through my attacker's belt. His pants fell, displaying a pair of boxers emblazoned with pictures of Winnie the Pooh snuggling with Piglet in flowery meadows!

The crowd took notice then! Howls of laughter rocked the station. My poor attacker stooped down, blushing furiously, snatched up his pants, and fled. I sniffed.

"Talk about bad taste!" I said, then turned to my deliverer. His luscious lips met mine in a kiss so torrid you could hear it sizzle. Music from The Desert Song swelled all around us.

"Do not heed that idiot, my dear RoZita," he said in his enchanting accent. "There is no higher purpose for a writer than to bring joy and wonder and delight to her readers, and that is what you do. I am a storyteller myself, and I know this. Joy brings out the best in people, causing their highest qualities to flower like a rose in the desert. May you and your fellow writers continue to do so."

"Hay," Alejandro!

Yummmm! A wonderful getaway! A Las Writing Chicas Seminar in NYC…I would never have dreamed anything like this could happen. Here I am on the third day of a very long, uncomfortable train ride, wondering what adventures are in store for me. I have to admit I'm a little frightened at facing Grand Central Station and The Big Apple all by myself. I'm just a backwoods gal from a small town in Utah. I haven't slept much on the trip, too excited, I guess. I can't wait to meet the other Chicas and connect the faces and names with the Kiss Stories they wrote.

Getting close now. We're going through a rural area approximately fifteen miles out of New York City. (Are there any rural areas fifteen miles out of NYC? I have no idea!) Through the window I see green hills, covered with dense flora of every shade and hue. Black and white Holstein dairy cattle are grazing in a lush green pasture surrounded by a whitewashed wooden fence. A huge red barn nearby adds the perfect touch to the scene. The sun is shining and the entire world seems to be very sharply and brilliantly defined. I see few shadows. It must be nearly noon.

A sudden lurch, brakes squeal, and the train begins an agonizingly slow attempt to stop. What's happening? I hear people in the hallway, outside the compartments, questioning each other to find out. The squealing brakes get louder, I hear a loud crashing noise, and the train grinds to a shuddering stop. Everyone heads for the exits to find out what we hit. I'm thinking..Ohh noo, I'm going to be late and everyone will leave me. I hastily grab my bags, just in case, and follow the crowd.

At the front of the train, we see an old dilapidated pickup truck…now pretty badly crushed, and an old farmer standing at the side of the tracks is looking at what used to be his transportation. When the truck stalled, the old gentleman got out and left it there to get some help. No one was hurt, but it will take a while to clear the track before we can go on.

I began questioning bystanders to see if I could find a ride to Grand Central Station. I approached another farmer, sitting on a tractor with a wagon full of loose hay, watching the commotion. "Will you give me a lift to somewhere I might be able to get a ride to NYC?"

"Sure, climb aboard," and he motioned to the wagonload of hay.

All I need is a 'roll in the hay', but it appeared that I had no other choice. Smiling at him gratefully, I tossed my bags on top of the hay and climbed up. The tractor started just as I was trying to sit down and I sprawled awkwardly on top of the hay, which pretty much enfolded me. I now have hay all over me. I tried to find a solid place to put my hand so I could right myself, but the hay moved, and I heard a small "Whoof" from somewhere underneath.

I had no idea "what" it was, and with trepidation pouring through me, I hastily moved over as the movement in the hay increased. Suddenly I saw dark, curly hair coming up through the golden hay, and I was even more frightened. Is it a bear?

The dark, curly hair is attached to a very tan face that is now peering questioningly at me through warm, brown eyes, glowing amber in the afternoon sun.

"Do you need the whole wagon, or is there room for both of us?" he asked, looking amused.

"What are you doing here?" I sputtered, spitting out hay, as I recognized the face of the man who, in one form or another, inspired every single one of the Kiss Stories we were going to NYC to discuss.

"The same thing you are, trying to get to NYC, only I didn't want to be seen. Will you keep my secret, Nina?"

He sat up straighter as he studied my face, and as the hay fell away, the face I was looking at was Alejandro, but I recognized the Zorro costume.

"My disguise was a bit obvious," he smiled as he pulled the mask and the hat from beneath the hay and began to brush them off. "I didn't get an opportunity to change. Would you mind turning around, Chica?"

I smiled right back at him…"Yes, I would!"

With a wicked grin, he took my dare and started to remove his shirt.

Fighting my natural inclination to close my eyes, I determinedly kept my gaze on him as that beautiful chest came into view. But when his hands went to the fastenings on his pants, my face turned red and my eyes snapped shut, and I listened, humiliated, to his deep laughter.

"You can open your eyes now, Cariña," Alejandro chuckled.

Still feeling very shy and so weak in the knees that I was glad I was sitting down, I opened my eyes and watched him as he folded up the costume, stashing it into a gym bag.

"There's a taxi, Nina, should we bale (pun) out of here?"

"Yes, the Chicas are waiting for me, I hope I'm not too late and they've gone without me."

When we were settled in the taxi, Alejandro asked, "What are you and the Chicas up to in NYC?"

"A writers convention…we are all writers. We write stories inspired by our favorite actor, Antonio Banderas. Our stories are all based either on him or on one of the characters he has played in movies. They are published on the internet on what we call the 'Kiss Page'. There are even some written about you and El Zorro."

"Interesting! I must read them one day," he replied with twinkling eyes.

Suddenly we had arrived at Grand Central Station. His stop was elsewhere, but he escorted me into the Station, carrying my bag while the taxi waited for him. Seeing a group of Chicas standing together, he rightly assumed that was where I was to go, and led me to them. Nodding to them all, he smiled his enchanting smile, pulled some hay out of my hair with an enigmatic wink, kissed my cheek as he whispered "Hasta luego," and turned to leave. I looked around to thank him, but he was already gone. I turned back to introduce myself to my friends, but first I had to put my hand beneath each of their chins and gently push them up to close their mouths. Then we all started talking at once about our experiences. It seems that we were ALL having an unbelievable Antonio day!

I Must Have Been Dreaming

The second leg of my trip had started, a 19 hour train ride from Chicago to Washington DC. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wishing I'd been able to afford splurging on a more classy (and comfortable) mode of transportation. But as my mind drifted aimlessly and settled on why I was making the trip to begin with, excitement superceded my discomfort and I become instantly giddy. I'd been following the lives of my fellow chicas for almost a year, and I was finally going to meet some of them! And in New York City, no less! I recalled my departure from Kansas City, and how envious my mother was. "Almost makes me want to write Antonio stories," she said, only halfway joking.

Hour after agonizing hour went by, made only slightly more tolerable by the reading of the nearly 100 Kiss stories I'd never gotten to read. I don't like to travel by train, I though bitterly. Car would have been better; at least, I'd have been to enjoy the scenery a bit more.

Finally, the train screeched into Washington DC. I stood up, and stretched, rubbing the sleep from the last 8 hours out of my eyes. It was 4 pm, and my schedule was completely messed up. Instead of being hungry, as I should have been, I was only more tired than I was before napping.

A two hour layover in DC, I thought tiredly. By the time I got to the chicas, I wouldn't be worth anything. I methodically packed up my belongings and left the train. First thing I did was find a restroom. Second thing I did was find a place to stretch out and resume my sleeping. I found a dark corner, threw my pack on the floor, grasped my mace in my hand (my parents' warnings were ringing in my head), and strectched out, resting my head on my suitcase. I closed my eyes, preparing for a long rest, when I felt a shadow fall over me.

I opened one eye, and looked up. I had to open both eyes to take in what was before me, and even then, I couldn't believe it. A man I recognized from repeated viewings of Evita was standing over me, looking upset, angry, and sad all at once. I sat up, motioned to the floor beside me, silently inviting him to join me. He dropped heavily to the ground, and without any further encouragement from me, he began to speak.

"Senorita," he said softly, "I am a visitor to your country. I have come to your country's capital to try to speak to your president. He does not listen to me." By his statement, I was not surprised, but I was more than impressed by the fluent English he spoke in his smooth Argentinian accent. "I know my message will not be accepted by him, nor will it be accepted by many in your country. But I have an idea that you will listen without judgement."

I nodded, and opened my mouth to speak, but he quickly held one finger up and placed it on my lips to silent me. I closed my mouth and gazed at him curiously.

"I do not have much time; I must tell you this quickly, and then I must leave." I nodded again (feeling like a dog in the back of a Chevy), and he continued.

"In my country, there is discord. The citizens are upset because of the government, and the government is unwilling to listen to its citizens. This has ocurred because of the obstinence and stubbornness of a powerful governing body. A government only wanting to rule its way, with no regard for its' people. I came to America to try to warn your president of what could happen here, of what could happen anywhere. Please, do your part to spread my message. Please tell others to be tolerant, and tell others to never give up on a cause that they believe in." He cast his eyes downward, sadly.

"I will tell everyone I meet of your message, Che. I promise." He raised his eyes and looked at me, seemingly pleased by this. "Will you return to Argentina now?"

He nodded. "Yes, my people need me. And now, I must bid you farewell." He took my hand, touched it breifly with his lips, and as quickly as he arrived, he lifted himself from the floor and disappeared.

What felt like moments later, I lifted my head from my suitcase, blinked sleepily, and looked at my watch. It was nearly time for my train to leave, I thought, almost panic-stricken. I stood up, grabbed my stuff, and without a conscious thought in my head, hurried to the platform my train was departing from.

Three hours later, as we were approaching the outskirts of NYC, I remembered my meeting in DC. The whole scene was hazy, and though everything in me said it had happened, and though I still felt the light kiss on the back of my hand, I shook my head and reluctantly dismissed it as a dream. Upon arrival in New York, and while I fought the evening crowds to find my cohorts, Che's message haunted me.

I found the chicas, all of them standing in a group talking like long lost friends. I spotted Peggy, and KC, and the others I knew by sight, but I was more than unhinged by the new faces. My shyness dissipated as I approached and began to speak to them.

"You'll never guess what happened on my way here! I saw Che!" I babbled out the story of my encounter in DC.

After a moment of quiet contemplation about Che's message, the chicas looked around at each other with a renewed sense of sisterhood.

The moment of solemnity passed. We all smiled at each other, and KC began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

KC turned to the group and announced, "Cat's been dreaming again...I wonder what kind of story we'll end up with this time!"

Tony on the Train

The train was crowded. I don't know why I'd decided to take a train from the airport. It was my first time in New York City and I was here to meet chicas.

But in the meantime, here I was standing in a crowd so dense, I hoped I'd be able to figure out when we got to Grand Central Station. "I should o' taken a taxi," repeated over and over in my head. Another attempt to be frugal. Things never seemed to work out properly when I tried to be frugal.

"'Scuse me. Pardon me. Oops! Lo siento…." A deep, melodious and familiar voice separated itself from the buzz of voices around me. Then it was gone.

I turned my face from the hypnotic view of passing walls outside the windows. You know how a smell can bring back images so clearly? Well, some images were forming in my head and I had a feeling they were going to be pleasant. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on them, but they slipped away. I opened my eyes, and breathed in a strong aroma of … a man. Sure enough, a face was right in front of mine. The train slowed. The man was thrown against me as inertia pulled us all forward.

I blinked. I blinked again. He was still there.

"My name is Tony. Tony Ramirez," the familiar words sent his sweet breath to fill my mouth and nose. This was some kind of realistic daydream! Wait 'till I told the chicas about this one. I felt a kiss story coming on.

"Excuse me," he continued. "But, what is your name?" At this moment another passenger tried to pass us, pushing Tony closer. The smooth leather of his black jacket caressed my arm, the soft texture of his worn jeans brushed up against my thighs. My knees buckled. A strong arm wrapped quickly around my waist preventing my fall and pulling me close.

"Uh, I'm Linda," I said. "I'm having a delightful daydream."

"Oh no, Linda, this is real," he said. "Are you meeting the rest of the chicas at the station?"

Well, I knew this was some sort of hallucination, now. I laughed, closed my eyes and nodded my head. But warm breath tickled my ear and soft lips nuzzled my neck. At this point I did not care what kind of hallucination or flashback, or psychic experience this was, I liked it.

"I want to send this to all the chicas," he said lifting his head from the crook of my neck to the front of my face. He was so close I was breathing his breath, our lips were touching, our noses were bumping. We were eye to eye to eye to eye. His full, soft mouth came closer to mine, I felt the moisture as our lips met. I tasted the wet warm interior of his mouth as our lips opened, tongues meeting and sliding past each other reaching deep in a kiss meant to be remembered. His body pressed against mine. I pressed back.

When he pulled his face back, I leaned forward, not wanting the kiss to end. I reached out to pull him back to me. His face still close, Tony smiled and said, "I believe this is where you get off the train."

Get off the train? I thought. "No, I don't want to get off the train," I said.

"The chicas are waiting for you. And I have to go. I'm still looking for that awful blond woman who shot me," he said. His eyes showed regret. He pulled away, his hands slipped from around my waist and he backed away, into the crowd.

"'Scuse me. Pardon me. Oops! Lo siento…." I could still hear him. His voice disappeared into the sounds from which it had first emerged.

Still a little weak, I turned in the opposite direction and pushed my way through the people between me and the door. Chicas were waiting for me. Wait till they heard this one. I had a feeling this trip to New York was going to give us lots of material for new kiss stories. You never know what can happen to you in New York.

The Great Train Robbery

"That's her!" She was a nasty looking thing, not ugly, just mean. Even the finger she stabbed at me was mean and nasty. "She took my jewelry and I want it back!"

The Amtrak security guard, Ramirez (so the badge said), positioned himself between Brunehilde and me. "I'm sorry, Miss," he said to me, "but if you're willing to answer a few questions, we may be able to resolve this quickly."

He didn't know. He didn't know he was the object of Chica-desire. That he was at the center of the Las Writing Convention. He was so into this character, he was Tony.

I had been so upset that the train was late. That I'd be the last to arrive. I'd have some big time Chica apologizing to do. But maybe I was about to be compensated for the inconvenience.

"Certainly, Officer Ramirez. Come in."

Brunhilde, foaming at the mouth, tried to follow him in. "I'll handle this, Ms. Wambol. Wait for me in the club car." The voice was liquid velvet but his eyes nailed her to the floor.

"You'd better handle this," she snarled at him. "I want this train turned upside down." Up came that nasty finger again, waggling at me. "Including her."

We watched her jostle her way down the narrow corridor. Okay. I'll be honest. He watched her jostle her way down the narrow corridor. I watched him watching her. Faded blue jeans, a chest-tight tee shirt, a leather jacket hanging open in the front.

When she was out of sight, he looked back at me. My turn to be nailed to the floor. "I'm sorry about all this," he said.

"Not your fault. You gotta do what you gotta do." I sat down by the window. It was almost dark on the other side of the glass. Some little burg in Georgia was glittering past outside. "What exactly is it you gotta do now? Search my luggage? Frisk me?"

It was an invitation, not a question. I knew I didn't have any jewelry. I figured he knew I didn't have any jewelry. I knew he knew…. you know.

He cocked his head to the side a little. He wanted to say one thing but I could see him decide against it. "No. Actually," he said, " I have to apologize."

I tucked my feet up under me. This was getting good. "Go on."

Officer Ramirez slid two fingers deep into the pocket of his deliciously way-too-tight jeans and fished out a fantastic diamond and emerald rope. "I found this wedged in a corner of a booth in the club car." He twisted the glimmering rocks around the fingers of his right hand. "By accident, really."

He sat down next to me. He smelled like licorice. It made my mouth water. "Naturally, I started to find out who the owner was," he said. "I didn't have to work too hard. She was squawking up a storm before I even got started."

I held out my hand and he draped the necklace across my palm. Pinpoints of light spattered around my sleeping car. "Then why are you here? You have the necklace. You know who the owner is."

This play acting thing was fun.

Ramirez rubbed his eyes. His dark, deep, chocolate eyes. "I'm researching a role. Ramirez isn't my real name." The confession made him blush and sweat. "Because she accused you, it gave me an excuse to meet you. Something I wanted to do the minute I saw you get on board."

He stood up. His jeans grabbed hold of his body and took their sweet time sliding into place.

"Have you ever heard of - hello?" I asked his pants.

Now his hand went through his hair. His dark, deep chocolate hair. "Look. This is embarrassing." He paced the three-square feet in front of me. "I saw you and I had this, I don't know, fantasy, whatever, that I could convince you I really was a security guard. That I would have to search your things…" A deep breath. "Search you."

It was interesting to watch him squirm. This beauty. This man so oblivious to his own sex appeal that he didn't know that all he had to do was ask. Anybody. Anytime.

Did I mention, I had forgotten how to breathe?

But he wasn't done apologizing. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. There is just something about you. I just wanted to… never mind." Now he was done and backing toward the door. "You have every right to…"

I held the necklace up. Even in the light of the 40-watt bulb, it was dynamite. "You're forgetting something, officer."

He rolled his eyes. "I don't know what's the matter with me." He reached for it.

I pulled on the collar of my turtleneck and dropped the necklace down the front.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The necklace. Why…?"

It took a second but then he got it. We would rehearse this role all night if we had to. Until we got it right.

"What necklace?" I stood up and wriggled the necklace down to my waist. One more wriggle sent it scootching down the front of my slacks. "If you feel I'm hiding something, Officer Ramirez, you absolutely must do your duty. I insist.." I put my arms up over my head.

"If I must," he said. "Turn and face the wall. Place your hands against the wall and spread your legs."

Bad boys. Bad boys. Whatcha gonna do?

His hands slid down my back, over my hips, inside my thighs. His fingers kneaded my belly, searching for the necklace that had wedged itself across my pubic bone. Finally, he struck pay dirt.

"You have the right to remain silent," he said rubbing his fingers back and forth along the mother lode.

"Fat chance," I said.

Somehow I just knew the Chicas would forgive my tardiness.

A Work of "Art"

It was my first time on an American train. The only other time I'd ridden a train at all had been on my trip to Spain a few months ago, and after the orderly train stations of Madrid and Barcelona, and the tiny provincial towns between, Grand Central came as sort of an overload to the senses. People clamboured about, dashing this way and that, as though arriving a second late to wherever it is they were going would be the end of the world. Children screamed, people pushed and shoved one another, and no one was looking where they were going.

I admit I was a bit anxious myself, having never met any of the Chicas and only recently adding my small contribution to the Kiss page. I knew I was pretty fanatical about Antonio-having taken enough crap from my floormates at school for the Shrine O' Antonio that spreads from the walls of my room to my computer desktop and culminates in the top of a display for "The Mask of Zorro" videos that I stole from the CVS where I used to work-I will make a Chica of my roommate yet!-but was the undying love for our Iberian babe enough to draw us together?

Caught up in my thoughts I was, like everyone else, not looking where I was going, and so it should have come as no surprise when I suddenly caught my foot on something and went sprawling onto the concrete-wistful recollection of nice soft carpeting in Madrid as I smacked my head on the floor.

"Well I hope no one saw that little moment of brilliance," I muttered as I sat on the floor rubbing my head in annoyance with my own stupidity. But a moment later it became apparent that somehad had seen.

"Are you all right, Jodi?"

My first thought was that I'd hit my head harder than I'd thought, because no way was it possible I had heard the voice I'd thought I'd heard. "Maybe my friends are right-this Antonio thing is getting out of hand," I murmured, still rubbing my head. But suddenly a hand was stretched out to help me up, and when I looked up the length of that arm I was greeted by a pair of mahogany eyes that sparkled along with a dazzling smile.

"I'm sorry I left my portfolio there," he was apologizing as he lifted me to my feet. Dumbstruck, I let him help me. "Guess I should have been more careful of where I put it!"

"Portfolio…Art?" I accepted the seat on the bench beside him, still dizzy from my fall. I still thought it was possible I was seeing things.

"Who did you think it was, Bart?"

"Well of course not, Bart's not real," I rationalized. Immediately thereafter I realized what I'd said was in no way rational, because Art was no more real than Bart. "Um…Art…what are you doing here?"

"I have an appointment at a gallery in Manhattan this afternoon. They are interested in my paintings."

Perfectly logical. I was scanning the area for hidden cameras.

"That was a nasty fall, chica," Art was saying, taking my hand away from my forehead so he could examine it. I felt his fingers intertwine in mine and then his eyes glanced down from my injury to capture mine. "I feel just awful that I tripped you. Here, let me help make it better."

Chicas, do you know that feeling you get when you're right at the top of a rollercoaster, just cresting the highest point, looking down at the plunging drop and loop-the-loops that are a split second away? I felt a hundred times that feeling as Art closed his eyes and leaned forward. When he touched his lips to my bruised forehead, I had to wrap my hands around the bench seat to keep from throwing them in the air and shrieking with delight. I didn't care anymore if he was a hallucination-this was the best damn hallucination I'd ever had!

It was about to get better. Art's lips trailed down from my forehead to give a mischievous little peck to my nose, and then those silky lips swooped in to caress mine with a warm, gentle kiss. Well, I'll tell you, ladies, it was better than any rollercoaster that I've ever ridden.

When he pulled away, I took a moment to silently throw an adolescent hissy fit. Then I looked up at his smiling face. "What was that for?" I managed to ask.

"To thank you."

"Thank me? For what?"

"For your story. None of the other Chicas ever took the time to tell my story as you have done."

"Well, it's not quite finished yet…"

"Everybody wants to kiss Miguel, or El Mariachi, or Tony Ramirez," Art groused with an adorable pout on his face. "Do you know how many people have voted for me as the best kisser? Zero. Not one chica. Por Dios, my imaginary brother has more votes than me! And do you know why? Because they all think I'm just this pretty boy, gigolo kind of guy. Miguel, ooh, he's so dangerous, El Mariachi, ooh, he's such a bad-ass, Tony, ooh, he's got a steel cage in his bedroom."

He sighed, aggrieved, and I patted his hand reassuringly. "That silly vote shouldn't matter to you anyway, Arturito. Aren't you with Liz? Do you really care what a bunch of chicas think?"

"Yes, I am with Liz, but…well it's a real blow to my ego," Art muttered. "I've taken such a bad rap, you know? Why is it that those other guys can sleep with every chica in sight, but I make up a twin so I can be with two women at once and everyone gets all anti-Arturo? Jodi, you are the only chica who has taken the time to show the chicas my better side, and for that I must thank you." He lifted my hand to his lips and dropped a charming little kiss on it. "I would love to talk some more with you, cariño, but I'm afraid I will be late for my appointment at the gallery, so I must be off."

"Yes, good luck with that. Oh, by the way, I'm so glad you decided to start painting again!"

"Yes, well, it was all because of Liz," he smiled, thinking of his querida. "She is my inspiration now."

I smiled as he waved goodbye and went off, carrying his portfolio. "She's your inspiration-but you are ours!" I whispered as I grabbed up my bags and dashed off to find the Chicas. I knew I would have no trouble fitting in with them, because no one else could ever possibly understand the experience I just had!

And, in conclusion…

Hi, Kiss Chica here. As you can see, we didn't have to search too hard to find subjects for the writing workshop portion of our conference! But then, we never do…

This 200th Kiss story is an opportunity for me to "say a few words." We have all had a great time writing these little fantasies during the past year. And we have all grown as writers. What started out as a "give your favorite Banderas character a kiss" joke a year ago is now a tiny, fun piece of the most exciting tool humankind has ever used. And I hope that our small piece of the 'Net lasts for a long time. Thank you all so very much for reading.

This would not have been possible without the group affectionately known as "The Writing Chicas." I can never thank all of you enough for your contributions. And, Lita, Janessa and Coconut - the originators of the project - deserve the majority of all credit for the stories that everyone enjoys.

Here's hoping for another 200 Kisses!! KC