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Message-ID: <47239asstr$1081055405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Fifth of Djinn {Hoisington} (MF nosex)
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Date: Sun,  4 Apr 2004 00:10:05 -0500
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                      A FIFTH OF DJINN
                     Russell Hoisington

_________________________________________________________________

This is an erotic fantasy. The characters and the situation are
purely imaginary, and this story is *NOT* intended to be a guide
for actual behavior. Any similarities between this story and
actual people, or between this story and actual events that you
should be ashamed of, are purely coincidental. If it is illegal
for you to access and read erotic fiction, or if you don't like
sex stories, then stop now.

This story is copyright 2004 by Russell Hoisington. You may post
freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the "free" area of
commercial sites as long as you do not remove the author
information or make any changes to this story. This does *not*
mean that it is in the public domain, nor does it mean that I
give permission for you to use it in spam advertising. I reserve
the right to determine what is "spam advertising" by *my*
definition, not yours or anyone else's.

Thank you for your consideration.
_________________________________________________________________

I tell you, it was far worse than my other two hangovers.
While my right hand fumbled the light switch, my left kept my
head on. I used it to turn my face to the mirror. I winked a
leaden eyelid at the same exquisite face now before you. I had
more trouble than usual getting out the words, "Morning,
handsome," because of the five pound sweater on my tongue.

I tried to lower my boxers, but for some reason I wasn't
wearing them. I glanced around, slowly so as to avoid any sudden
head movements. There they were, lying in a wadded heap at the
side of the bed. I eased myself onto the toilet seat. I wasn't
there long enough to sense its temperature. I tripped over my
own feet getting back to the mirror to gape at a perfectly
tanned, clean shaven mid-to-late twenties visage with the strong
jaw and sparkling blue eyes under a perfectly combed, full head
of shining jet hair.

Where was *my* face?

I know, I know. You think this is the face you've always
known. Believe me, or at least humor me while I explain, it
isn't.

I was too hung over to still be drunk. I blinked vacantly,
trying to comprehend. The stranger's face blinked, too, but he
looked well manly. Certainly not hung over.

Who was this guy? I felt my crown, and the stranger did the
same. It was thatched, like my chest with its now-rock hard
muscles. And my gut had shrunk and hardened, too. And below
that, well, "The Little Guy" certainly needed a new name.

A splash of cold water in my face did nothing to remove the
stranger from my mirror or to return my face and body to me. I
needed desperately to sit and think. Fortunately, I was planning
something similar.

The answer seemed apparent when I finished: delirium
tremens. After all, I discovered as I glanced sideways, the
boxers were now high-dollar, pastel-colored, silk jockey shorts,
the kind you have to pay just to window shop for, lying spread
out neatly on the floor. Out there was further proof: the
outline of me still sprawled under the sheet and sleeping.

Sleeping! I was going to be late for work! I lurched over
and pulled down the cover. Mercy, had I changed again. I looked
just like Vyvica Kesselsen, that gorgeous red-headed singer at
the Starlight Gazebo Jazz Lounge. You've been there, haven't
you?

Yes, I know, but just listen and I'll get to that.

I/she was sprawled face down, which wasn't an easy trick
with those magnificent bazooms of mine/hers. I/she lay with legs
slightly apart, giving me a great view of what Ernie Houston
calls "the ass most designed to stop traffic" and of my/her
crotch that every man in the Lounge would give his eyeteeth to
share. My/her red thatch was glued down in a sodden mass, and
the sheet below it was wet and shiny. I shook me/her.

She/I opened a red eye, looked at me, and moaned in a
petulant, little girl whine, "Not again, Butch, please? I need
*some* sleep." The eye closed and the breathing became regular.
*Not again?* For several seconds I tried to compute. Then her
third word cut through the fog.

*Butch.*

That was my fantasy name for myself. Uh, you know.
Pretending I was like Elvis Presley, a handsome stud popular with
the women who who *looked just like the guy in the mirror.* My
word, I thought, I couldn't go to the office like this! Who
would understand? How could I explain to them what I couldn't
explain to myself? I called in sick.

"No problem, Butch," responded the boss. You could actually
*hear* the leer on his face. "If I'd left with Vyvica Kesselsen,
I wouldn't be able to get out of bed today either."

*Butch.* I hung up the phone out of habit. The boss hadn't
been at the Gazebo. Just the four other accountants, celebrating
my fifteenth year at Consolidated Fenestration. Ernie must have
told him, no doubt out of honest, sincere jealousy.

A few brain cells dried out enough for me to suspect the
answer to my questions lay in the deft black hands of the head
bartender and two-thirds owner of the Gazebo, LaRoche "Lemon"
Janes. Lemon wouldn't open until four. Having nothing else to
do, I decided to crawl back in beside Vyvica until the tornado
inside my head subsided. As I snuggled next to her I discovered
that wet spot extended out beyond her side, and now I was lying
in it. I hoped those memory cells were only stewed, not killed.
It had obviously been a night to remember.

~ ~ ~

I awoke a little after five, feeling splendid. The hangover
was but a vaguely unpleasant memory. Vyvica had left a note
saying she couldn't believe I still had so much "vitality" left
this morning, and she "didn't dare risk awakening" me again
before stepping out. She needed some time to "take care of the
arrangements," whatever that meant.

I didn't *require* a shower but I *needed* one. I craved
some familiar activity, some island of stability in this stormy
new sea. I dried my new hair vigorously, marvelling that my head
now felt as clear as ever, without a trace of pain or dizziness.
I knew then I'd suffered my last hangover. I removed the towel
and watched in the mirror as every hair fell into perfect
alignment. And there wasn't even a hint of five-o'clock shadow.

It wasn't until I stood before the closet that I wondered
how I'd get my clothes to stay on my new body without glue.
Wasted worry. Everything was perfectly tailored.

There was a pattern was forming here. I wrung the shirt
tail with both hands; one hundred percent cotton, but I couldn't
wrinkle it. I threw on some clothes; they wrapped me impeccably.
My tie normally resembles a cross between a hangman's noose and
mating cobras; it came out perfect.

At the apartment door I suddenly had inspiration. I whipped
out my work ID and checked the photo. There it was above the
ever-rumpled collar: the round face, the ever-present hint that
I needed to shave, the thin crop of blighted hairs struggling to
remain rooted in an arid crown, the graying side remnant from my
youth which even then defied the ordering effects of any comb,
any hair tonic, or even butch wax. I let out a whoop as I turned
to the hallway mirror.

And followed it with a moan. The stranger's face formed a
question at me. I looked at the badge again. Butch now beamed
through the lamination.

I forced myself to walk, not run screaming, the three blocks
to the Gazebo. Lemon hovered behind the main bar, that marble
and walnut one, carrying on three independent conversations in
that rich voice and mixing a different drink with each hand.

I grabbed a seat under Jungle Joe. The brass monkey statue.
You remember, the one holding the Last Call bell? Yeah, well,
he's called Jungle Joe for a reason, and I was about to learn
why.

Lemon worked his way down the bar to me and tilted his head
back to get my face into the proper zone of his new quadrifocal
lenses. I knew they were new because I moonlight as the
accountant for his optometrist.

"Well, good evenin' Mister Danmark." It was really him: his
dentures faintly whistled the `s' in 'Mister.'

That was somewhat of a relief. I wasn't sure what I'd have
done if he had called me "Butch." He wants everyone to call him
"Lemon," but he never addresses anyone else, even his wife, by
the first name when he's working.

"Lemon," I said, "I need to talk to someone. Bad. You may
be the only one who can help me."

"Ah!" he said. "Ain't working out right, is it? Lemme get
Al to cover me. You can wait in my office. Here, take this. I
guess you need it." He pushed a shot of cognac across the bar to
me.

"Thanks."

I froze halfway through his office door. *Not working out?*
I paced ten miles in forty-five seconds.

"Mister Janes...."

"Lemon, remember? Sit down." He waved me to the couch.
"Here, I brought you another cognac."

I swirled, sniffed, and sipped while he took his chair.
"Lemon, how long have I been coming here?"

"Oh, um, I reckon 'bout thirteen year now, Mister Danmark.
Just before I bought out Mister Lowenstein's third of the
partnership."

"Do you notice anything different about me?" I asked.

"You wearin' a sport jacket tonight," he said. "You
normally wear your suit, comin' from your office an' all."

"What about my face?"

He shrugged. "It's the one you was wearin' when you left
last night."

"What about the one I was wearing when I came in."

He leaned back in the swivel chair and crossed his arms over
his small belly roll, the only fat on him. He nodded slowly.
"You don't remember nothin' of what happened, do you?"

I slammed down the liquor. A thought struck me. "I don't
drink cognac."

"No, sir," Lemon admitted. "You drinks gin rickeys. Butch
drinks cognac."

~ ~ ~

It turned out the darkness was caused by the wet cloth
across my forehead and eyes. I removed it and saw Lemon standing
beside the couch. He had a gin rickey in one hand and a cognac
in the other.

"Wasn't sure which you'd prefer," he said.

I preferred both. They gave me the nerve to ask.

Lemon eased onto the couch with me, a little stiffly because
his back had been acting up recently. I knew because I also
moonlight as the accountant for his chiropractor. He hesitated
like a man seeking a way to beat around the bush. Unable to find
one, he brought out the chain saw.

"You made a wish and the genie granted it."

"Genie?" I'd heard mice with a deeper voice. He was
serious, so I considered his words. In a way, he made sense.

Look, it's easy for you to say, "That's silly. Nobody'd
ever think that." That's because you've always woke up wearing
your own face.

The wrinkles in Lemon's brow deepened. "Excuse me, Mister
Danmark, but do you remember anythin'?"

"I remember coming in. I remember Artie bought a round.
Then Ernie, Charlie, and Luis. Then Ernie tried to get Vyv Miss
Kesselsen to kiss me, because it was my celebration. But she
just looked down her nose and muttered a polite excuse. I I
think I ordered a round. That's it."

With a grunt Lemon rose to retrieve another gin rickey and a
cognac from an end table and hold them toward me.

"I'm going to need these?"

"I reckon you might." He sat down again and tilted me into
focus. "When you ordered a round, I had to open me a new gin
bottle. There was a genie in it, a woman genie this time. Now,
it was your celebration, and you was buyin' the round, so legally
the wish was yours."

"Yeah?" I said.

A smile of hope split his face. "Exactly! Yes sir, that's
exactly what you said! 'Yeah?' you said. I explain to you that
lamps changed but genies didn't. Lamps what they like ain't
around much no more. Flashlights and light bulbs replaced most
of them, and flashlights is metal. Genies can't live more'n a
couple of hours in no metal container. And light bulbs get too
hot and bright, and they ain't got no openin' anyway. So genies
live mostly in bottles these days, and they move often. And with
cans startin' to replace bottles these days...." He shook his
head.

"But they used to live in metal lamps."

"I aksed one about that once. He told me they only lived in
stone lamps then. Or ceramic or terra cotta. Metal lamps is
only in fairy tales and cinema movies."

*Why not*, I thought. "So, what were my three wishes?"

"You don't get no three wishes, Mister Danmark. That's a
fairy tale, too. Rules is, you only get one. You pondered on
yours a while and aksed to look like the kind of man what could
get Miss Kesselsen to fall for him. And you got your looks you
wearin' now. You was lucky you didn't make no smart-alecky
remark or speak without thinkin' first. Two year ago Mister Joe
was told he had a wish comin' and said, 'Well, I'll be a brass
monkey.' His exact words."

I waited for him to continue. He didn't.

He couldn't mean.... "You mean that monkey holding the Last
Call bell?"

"You see? I reckon you could of done a lot worse."

I reckoned I could have. Listen, I had to believe it or go
insane.

"But how did the others take that?" I asked. "I didn't hear
'Man becomes monkey' on the eleven o'clock news."

"Nobody noticed no difference, Mister Danmark. That night
or last night or any other night. Soon as it was over they just
thought things was like they always was. Your own mother, God
rest her soul, wouldn't think nothin' was differ'nt about you
unless she'd first been offered a wish herself, and that's a
proven fact.

"Rules is, once you seen a genie *and* been offered a wish,
*then* you always remember, no matter whose wish it is. But
never before."

I was beginning to feel a slight buzz, though I knew it
would never become more than that as long as I was Butch. "My
word, Lemon, surely I'd remember something as important as seeing
a genie after it happened!"

He held up the gin rickey and waggled it for emphasis. "I
suppose we understand why you don't remember that one last night,
but what about them other two?"

"What other two?"

"You was here the night Mister Joe became Jungle Joe and the
night Mister Tyson became a millionaire."

"Tyson? The guy who had his wife killed for her insurance?"

"Before the wish he didn't have no wife. Then, poof: he
was a rich widower bein' arrested by the police."

"That doesn't prove anything, does it? I didn't know him or
this guy named Joe."

Lemon looked pained and handed me the gin rickey.
"Actually, Joe was his first name. His last name was Danmark."

I didn't know there was another Danmark family in this area.
I wondered about his expression and why he'd handed me the
drink.... "Oh, my word."

"He was your brother. He's the one what got you hired away
from Dinkel's as his replacement when he got drafted for the
Korean War. You two was regular Friday night customers for ten
year, startin' the night he come back. I ain't never seen two
brothers closer'n you and Mister Joe."

"Oh, my word." I gulped the rickey. "So what happened with
your wish?"

His eight hundred dollar smile was perfectly aligned
marshmallows in cocoa. Yes, I moonlight for his dentist, too.
We're a close-knit, family neighborhood in this corner of the
city.

"Offered, Mister Danmark. I never accept. Not from an
evil genie. Ain't no such thing as a free lunch. No sir. I'd
think an accountant would know that." The warm smile said he was
being neither critical nor sarcastic.

"You see, my cousin in Detroit tol' me one of them what got
a wish in his bar was the designer of the Edsel. And I hear tell
from Washington that President Johnson beat Mr. Goldwater by
wishin' to be remembered for 'sweeping changes to society.' The
way things is shapin' up over Vietnam, I reckon I know how that's
goin' to turn out."

You can imagine I didn't like the sound of this. "What's
the bottom line on my ledger, then?"

The smile melted to a pained look of genuine sympathy.
"Well, sir, my guess is you spent a vigorous night with Miss
Kesselsen and don't remember one moment of it. That's the way it
normally works with your wish."

"Well, yeah. Apparently. I don't remember anything."

"Mister Danmark, you can spend ever night with her for the
rest of your life, but the moment you fall asleep you will forget
all about it. Evil genies don't like followin' no rules, so they
don't give no more'n they have to."

I gulped the cognac. What good was it if you couldn't
remember? I wanted to cancel my wish.

"You only got one wish from her, Mister Danmark, and you
used it. You don't get no more, and you can't cancel after
delivery. Cancelin' a wish is the same as makin' another one."

Butch was calm and collected. I, however, was near panic.
"You have other bottles, don't you? Let's open them up and look
for another genie to cancel the wish."

Lemon leaned back, cupped a hand around his chin, grew
serious. "You don't want to do that. No sir, not that way.
You'd get another evil genie like what granted your wish. You
need a good genie, and they don't live in liquor bottles."

That made sense. To a point. "I'm surprised even an evil
genie would live in a liquor bottle. Aren't they pretty strict
about alcohol, being Mohammedans and all that?

He chuckled. "Well, sir, not all genies is Moslem these
days. Many's Shinto and Buddhist, a few are Jewish, and I even
hear tell a couple are Jehovah's Witnesses. Yours was an
atheist. She didn't believe in no supernatural beings."

That last required some thought, but I put it off till
later. I had a bigger problem. "Do you know where I could find
a good genie, Lemon? Where any live?"

He sagged as much as his back would allow. "No sir, I
don't. That's the problem these days, what with everthin'
disposable and aluminum cans startin' to replace bottles. People
use up a bottle of stuff and just throw it away. Olden times,
genies'd stay in a stone bottle or lamp two hundred year or more.
These days a bottle don't last a month after it's bought. Then
it goes back to the bottler or a garbage dump.

"That way one of three things happen: it gets refilled and
the genie don't got to move; or it gets ground up for new glass
and the genie got to find another home; or it gets buried. If it
gets broken first, then the genie got to find a new home. It
gets buried whole, that genie might not pop up again for a
thousand year.

"Guess that's why they's getting scarce, Mister Danmark. I
used to see one ever two, three months when I first started
working here right after The Big War. These days, I can go a
year without seeing one. Last night was the first one in sixteen
months." Brow wrinkles deepened again and he nodded. "Yeah.
First since Mr. Tyson's. Guess they's goin' to get scarcer, too.
Mister Radczak says that by the year 2000 there won't be no more
glass containers. Everthin' will be in aluminum cans by then."

Miro Radczak would say that. He was some kind of
middle-manager out at the can factory.

"Why didn't you warn me, Lemon?"

"You know I don't have to tend bar no more. I do it because
I likes being around people, watching them. A 'Student of
Humanity', Mrs. Janes calls me. I don't do nothin' but watch and
listen. Besides, I tried to warn the first customer, and he said
he didn't 'take no advice from no darkie.' Pulled a knife on me.
Now, I ain't sayin' I thought you'd of done that, but I cain't
play no favorites, not even for you, Mr. Danmark. If I cain't
warn one, I cain't warn none."

I understood and told him so. "Let's play a little 'What
If.' What if I get another woman. Would I remember...."

Lemon began to look a little uncomfortable. "You ain't
going to get no other woman, Mister Danmark. Won't no woman
touch you except Miss Kesselsen, to insure you marries her."

"*Marry* her?"

He retrieved another pair of drinks and handed them to me.
His face said gulp the rickey and ready the brandy. He removed
his eyeglasses and began polishing them, like he wanted my face
out of focus so he couldn't see it. He checked the lenses,
breathed on them, polished some more.

"Lemon?"

"Well, sir, even though they's required to grant your wish,
they expect a tip a 'favor' they call it. Your exact words to
the genie was, 'I'd give my firstborn son for a shot at that...'
well sir, you'd have said 'lady' but the liquor was talking."

"You don't mean I promised...." The way he examined his
lenses said I did. "Well, my word, Lemon, I don't have to marry
her just to get her pregnant."

His glasses weren't clean yet. "Yes, you do. One of the
requirements is they need a son conceived by and born to lawfully
wedded parents."

Lemon said the firstborn son was a typical "favor" of "these
types of wishes," as he called them. My answer seemed simple.

"Well, I won't propose to her. If I don't propose....

"Uh oh." I suddenly suspected the meaning of her "taking
care of the arrangements."

"You two will go get married," he warned me, "and she'll
have a boy and the genie'll show up for it on its first birthday.
Ain't nothing you can do will change that. Nothin' unless you
gets a good genie to cancel the wish, but you gots to do that
before the baby's born. If you need proof, Monica was still at
her table when I come back here. I knows you, well, dated her a
few times as the old Mister Danmark. Go aks her out again. She
won't go."

I tossed down the brandy.

Monica was still at her usual table, but it looked as if a
couple of guys by the door were talking up each other's nerve to
become clients. I hurried over to her. She was one of four
women who were allowed to work the Gazebo, not because they gave
anyone a cut but because they were always discreet and didn't
flaunt their occupation.

She didn't flaunt her occupation, but she did flaunt those
exquisite attributes in that scoop-necked gown. They were
nowhere as large as Vyvica's, but they were high, firm,
well-proportioned, and looked tailor-made for her body. And
speaking of tailoring, that gown had been altered so that if she
moved just so and held her shoulders just so, the neckline
allowed you to see those pink points that were the perfect
accessories for those perfect orbs.

"Good evening, Monica."

She looked up at me with that Kim Novak face and Veronica
Lake hair. "Good evening, Butch!" she said as her shoulders
moved. Former customers always received a free show, and the
view was breathtaking. She was about thirty but had the breasts
of a woman ten years younger. "Would you like to join me?"

I sat down and made polite small talk for a few minutes.
That was the procedure with Monica and the other three. Opening
a conversation with an invitation to go make the beast with two
backs was a guaranteed rejection. They would accept almost
anyone's business, but you had to act like a gentleman and treat
them like ladies. Otherwise they'd make a discreet signal and
you'd be quietly but firmly escorted from the premises with the
suggestion that you might want to patronize anywhere else in the
future. Having off-duty cops as bouncers does have its
advantages.

Finally I asked her, "Monica, would you do me the honor of
accompanying me to someplace quieter?"

She gave me a look of true disappointment, not the practiced
one that she sometimes uses. "I'm terribly sorry, Butch, but
you're engaged."

"But Monica, I know you've dated engaged men before. Even
married men." The old me would never have done so, but Butch
placed a hand on her leg, along the inside of her thigh and just
below the gates to paradise, and lightly squeezed the firm flesh.

She took my hand in hers and brought it up to her lips,
kissing my knuckles. "But they weren't engaged to Vyvica, Butch.
She's one of my dearest friends."

The enmity between Vyvica and Monica was legendary. They
had taken an immediate dislike to each other and the situation
had, if anything, deteriorated. They never came to blows, or
even a screaming match, because each knew that would be the last
time they set foot in the Gazebo, but the tension between them
was palpable.

When I attempted to kiss her good bye, she turned her cheek
to my lips, then gave me another farewell view. Interesting,
isn't it, what the rules allow and don't allow?

You're suppose to be humoring me, remember?

On a whim of an idea I went to "the market" and approached a
street whore. I offered her two-fifty, but she turned me down.
I offered her the same for oral sex, and when that failed, for a
hand-job. You'd have thought I'd offered her two dollars and
fifty cents. And her reason was, "She's one of my dearest
friends."

So, I spent the rest of the night crawling through every
trash dumpster I could find. Or thought I did. At some point I
must have quit and gone home because I awoke feeling like I had
just gone to sleep. Vyvica purred beside me.

The wedding was Wednesday of the following week. I tried to
say "I do not" at the ceremony but lost my voice after the "do."
I didn't regain it for an hour, long enough for the judge to have
the license recorded.

I didn't tell Vyvica about the wish and its conditions
because she had no memory of the incident. She'd never believe
me, not even with Lemon's backing, so I vowed to find a good
genie before our son was born.

I have no idea how many trash containers I was chased out of
over the next several months. Of course, after I was chased out
it was always, "Sorry, Butch. I didn't recognize you at first."
But if I tried going back into that container I was immediately
chased out again, followed by the "Sorry, Butch," et cetera, so I
had to move on to another one.

It's amazing how many bottles are tossed out, but very few
are re-capped first. You can't get a wish from a genie in an
open bottle, Lemon said. He says you have to remove a stopper,
bottle cap, cork, whatever. One of their laws. The same laws
which also say you can't just cram in a cork and pop it open
again. I thought the genies had some pretty silly laws and told
him so.

He gave me the oddest chuckle and an ironic smile. "Mr.
Danmark, they's laws in some parts of this country what says I
cain't use you white folks' bathrooms and drinkin' fountains."

That's when I realized silly laws aren't confined to the
genies.

~ ~ ~

So, with my son's birth only days, maybe hours away now, I
panicked. By this time the law of averages said I should stumble
onto a genie in the next five or six hundred bottles. I was in
the A&P buying as many bottled goods as I could afford when
something snapped in the soft drink aisle. I panicked and
started removing bottle lids as fast as I could, putting me at
least a hundred bottles closer to the end.

That's when they arrested me and said call my lawyer. I
did, and here you are.

No, I'm not trying to cop an insanity plea. Just ask Lemon
Janes at the Starlight Gazebo. He'll tell you it's the truth.
Maybe with a court order he'd give you the names of some others
who've been in my predicament. But do that later, for your own
benefit, because it'll take too long for my son's.

Look, I'll agree to plead guilty and make restitution and
anything else they want. Just convince them I'm a harmless
eccentric and get me out of here on bail. I don't have much time
left before it's too late.

Don't look at me like that. Don't you think I know how it
sounds? Come on! You can go with me and help me find a good
genie if you'd like. Then maybe you'll believe me.

Hey, on your way down to the desk sergeant, would you get me
a couple of sodas from the machine? They are in bottles, aren't
they?

                             END
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Russell Hoisington
State of Confusion
03 April 2004

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