The wooden gate was left unlocked, and the rusted bolt looked as if no human hand had thrown open its potential sanctuary for a long time.  Bryony pushed tentatively, just as she had done in life for the last few years. The sound of caution squeaked from the encrusted oxygenated iron.

The lady walked up to a fountain in the center of the courtyard and sat on the stone curved seat. Toward the edge of the pool, the waters became still as the ripples ran out of centrifugal force. In this clearness, Bryony stared at the image she appeared as to the world.

A middle thirties woman, with brown hair that had seen the whim of its owner change the color from blonde to platinum. Eyes, which she felt were too piercing, too narrow. A figure Rubens would have adored, but in the culture of pea-stick models with pea brains, was considered voluptuous if said as a compliment and slightly overweight as an insult.

How did society expect women to be shaped? Rounded hips and breasts were what nature had spent half a million years perfecting. If perpetuating the species was left to the women in magazine adverts we’d all be lucky to survive till the end of the century! Make that the second Friday after Thanksgiving.

Bryony ruefully smiled and realized the thoughts going through her head were the same gripes she’d had for ten years - getting the world to accept her for what she was. No, that was too grand a statement. She wanted men to let her be just Bryony. Sod the plural, if she could find one man, a special man, to treat her as equal. Equal in aspirations, in life, in bed and in being a person. Not superior; equal.

Her mind came back to the scene. At the end of the courtyard stood an arbor and from it led seven paths. Without hesitation, or deep contemplation, Bryony took a route and came into a haven of roses. Swags of floribundas climbed across pergolas and adorned the garden with their scented fragrance and bright, vivid colors.

“You look lost.”

Bryony twisted to see the man of the voice. He sat under an arch of red roses, casually holding a book and with eyes raised from the pages to smile at her. She grinned back, hoping it seemed sophisticated and not a demented look. Her mother always accused her of losing all resolve when a man appeared. But then her mother had gone through three husbands. Or perhaps they had gone through her.

“I’m not sure where I am.” What a stupid reply, Bryony inwardly cursed. As much as she tried not to, her eyes were studying him, drawn to his large, sensuous lips, well built frame and, with furtive glances, she took in the tightness of his pants and firmness of his crotch.

“I sensed you are looking,” he said with an inclined, questioning head. At first, Bryony thought he meant looking at his loins. She blushed, then realized it was a philosophical not biological enquiry.

“I’m…just thinking.”

“Care to share?” he disarmingly asked. “By the way, I’m Ricky, Ricky Brambles.”

He waved his hand in a gesture for her to sit by him.

”Are you real?” Bryony heard herself say and wondered why.

“Of course. Shall I prove it?”

She frowned and didn’t answer the question. It seemed too…too something.

“The roses are lovely.”

“The ancient Persians called them a messenger of the garden souls,” he offered. She felt herself studying again. He appeared so confident. Very handsome in a roguish way. What was the reservation she had?

“Are those roses over there ancient?” She pointed abstractedly to gain time to think.

“Those are the Gallica roses from Southern Europe. Their perfume is light and feminine like the dew of a woman who seeks a man.”

Bryony noticed the animated movement of his hands as he spoke and the insinuated lilt in his voice. Was he trying to seduce her with words?

“These are the Apothecary roses to make the subtle potpourri. Their balm could anoint your body and heighten you to sensual delight.” He paused, seemed to go back to his reading, then his face lit up. “But perhaps as you seek equality, it is my naked skin you desire to massage with the rose waters.”

Bryony had been pondering as she sat by him. His words made her shiver. Her eyes flickered and tried to avoid his gaze.

“If you have sexual egalitarianism in your heart, why do you pretend shock?”

“It’s not just sex,” she protested.

”Tell me your wish and we can explore your needs,” Ricky continued in the same open manner. She stammered; no coherent words came out.

He put the book down, spread his legs straight out with open crotch and rubbed his hands down the inside of his upper thighs. His thumb brushed against his bulging groin, explicitly stimulating the hardness of his display.

“What would be equal?” Ricky said with pursed lips. “For you to kneel before me and expose the size of my manhood? Or is that male pleasure wrapped up as female enticement?”