The Taming of the Muse

If you were to ask a professional fiction writer where their ideas come from they'd seem a bit perplexed at first, then they would look you straight in the eye, and say with complete sincerity.

"I have no idea."

What do you expect? They write fiction. It's all about telling compelling lies in an entertaining fashion. I'm no pro, I'm a rank amateur without pretensions so I don't mind telling you where I get my ideas.

I have a muse.

Bluebell, my muse is one of the prettiest you're likely to come across. Try and picture Reese Witherspoon with jet-black hair in a wispy pixie cut. Add some shockingly deep blue eyes that are (proportionally) just a bit too large for her cute little face.

Are you with me so far?

Now shrink the whole package down to about five inches, add some gossamer wings and a penchant for wearing nothing more than a strategically placed flower petal. Now you've got a pretty fair picture of my muse.

In short, she's adorable.

Now a sexy little muse like Blue might distract some writers, but not me. We're a team, she inspires while I construct the tale and type it out, Ok keyboard it, (no sense letting everybody know exactly how old I really am).

I can't say it's always been strictly about the stories, sometimes when we get into a really hot narrative things can get pretty sticky. She's been known to grind herself against my knuckle while I type. I even had a little pinky finger ring made just for her. It's shaped a bit like a saddle with smooth sides and a bumpy bit of a ridge for her to ride.

That got them talking down at the Dwain's Jewelry Emporium.

Now I know what you're thinking, that's all well and good for her but after all what can she ever do for me? I must admit when the object of your affection is shorter than your erection it does present a few logistical problems. Despite what all those nice ladies from the bar tell you size really does matter.

Sometimes she just wraps her arms and legs around me and pumps for all she's worth. It's a lot of work for her but she's a real trouper. The best times are when she backs up against me, wraps those sweet little wings back around and flutters. What can I say; you've never really had sex until you've been fluttered off with fairy wings.

Naturally I can't last very long when she does that. Before you know it she's sitting there looking so sweet and sluttish with my cum covering her face and chest as it slowly drips down her tiny body.

I'll just stare at her drenched little breasts heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Eventually I carry her off to the bathroom sink and gently wash her up. I have to towel dry her because the hair dryer just blows her away.

But we're not really about the sex; actually it's all about the stories. Together we come up with some entertaining tales. She says I'm a good listener.

It sounds ideal right? So what can the problem be, you ask? Well I'm a bit of a compulsive bard, I always think it could be said just a wee bit better. I'll write a story and then sit there and tweak it, never quite sure when to stop. It drives her nuts! Eventually, usually around the fifth or sixth rewrite she tosses her head back screams that high pitched squeal of disgust and poof, she's gone. That's when I know it's time to post the damn story.

This brings us to the problem. When she splits she's really gone. I wait for her, sometimes for days, often for weeks, once for nearly all of a cold winter. I'm not really possessive, Lord knows I'm not faithful to her. I mean there are some things you can only do with a full size woman and I'm sure she understands that. I am only human. I've never formally introduced her to my girlfriends. That would be kind of tacky. Still I never hide the fact that I see full size women from her.

Still you would think she'd hang around a little closer once a story is done so we could get back to work after a reasonable break. Then there are all those times she mutters strange terms in French. I don't know a word of French but it sure sounds romantic. Where does she pick up that crap? And Miguel! Who the hell is Miguel? And why would she call out his name while rubbing herself on my knuckle?

It's enough to drive a writer to drink, so when she vanishes I head off to the "Booby Trap" a local bar and Gentleman's club. That's where I'm to be found whenever she's ditched me for a while. The dancers are cute; they bat their eyes at you while they strip down and twirl around that pole in a most seductive manner. Well after a couple of drinks it sure seems seductive. They'll even personally collect tips from you and tuck them in their G-string (or a garter whenever they've misplace that pesky little G-string).

That's where I met Jinn. He was tossing back shots and looking grumpy even though all the off duty dancers were hanging all over him. I went over introduced myself and bought him a round, then another. It wasn't till the fifth shot I learned he was a Genie.

Now don't be surprised. Most people know at least one or two Genies. It's just that they rarely know that the Genie they know actually is a Genie. It's not the type of profession you emphasize on your business card. I never would have guessed that Jinn was a Genie if we hadn't been doing shots of Tequila.

Ordinarily a Genie can drink a centaur under the table, and if we had been drinking beer or scotch or bourbon or vodka or just about anything else I would have passed out long before his tongue loosened.

It seems there are four major uses for Tequila. First off it's a wonderful topical antibiotic, kills those germs on contact. Second it is a very effective anesthetic when taken internally. Third it is fairly good at stripping wall paint or for that matter engine grease. Lastly Tequila is one of three known substances that will make a Genie loopy.

Go figure.

After six shots Jinn was crying on my shoulder. He blubbered about the law of the three, the stupidest people wishes he'd ever heard, lousy benefits, and a workweek that covered almost all of eternity. I tried to be sympathetic, and I am a good listener. Naturally I asked why they did the whole three wishes thing; we were both a little tipsy but it seemed he was saying in a round-about way that he was working to buy his way out of eternity or maybe it was out of eternal damnation.

I wished him the best of luck.

He babbled on and I soon learned all about why you get only three wishes. It has to do with all those mystic numbers and three being the first of the first and only mystic numbers. It's the first prime number to follow the only even prime number so that's why you only get three wishes. He also told me about the surest scam to beat that system. You do your first two wishes then use your third to wish for three new wishes. You can ask for seven or thirteen or forty-two wishes or any of the other mystic first and only numbers and you might get them, or you might just wink out of existence.

The safest bet is to always ask for three; it just works. Of course the two wishes you wished for before are undone so if your first wish was for a cure to your terminal cancer, and your second was for that twelve inch cock you always wanted you might want to think carefully before employing this strategy. He also warned me that most people get into a lot of trouble when they asked for things that changed the world, (peace on earth can be really fatal but at least it's very peaceful). It was better to ask for things that only changed yourself.

I was game; I tried it, what the heck. First I asked for a sweet virgin panting to please, and then I went for the bottomless bucket of fifties. Jinn was under the weather so I actually got a black lunch bucket filled with crisp new fifties, and of course it had no bottom but I caught on right away and I scooped up nearly five grand before the rest just disappeared. As for the vestal virgin, well even a drunken Genie can handle that one. Jennie was a six-month-old golden retriever; she wanted to please and certainly knew how to pant. I was determined to spend a bit of the cash before I undid anything so I held off on the "do over" wish and we agreed to meet back at the "Booby Trap" at the same time tomorrow.

I spent a restless night planning out the perfect wish. Around about three in the morning it came to me so I jotted it down before I dropped off to sleep.

I was at the Bar at 8:45 the next morning waiting for it to open. I mean why on earth would any drinking establishment wait until 9:00am to open? By that time most of the honest hard working folk are already at work. Turns out I didn't need to be quite that early because Jinn didn't stumble in until 10:15.

I hit him right away with my do over wish. Interestingly the dog didn't bother disappearing. I started out with three fresh wishes. For a first wish I pulled out the note I'd written myself and very carefully asked Jinn for the knowledge to compose a perfect wish.

Jinn sighed. I guess he'd heard this one before. With a nod he got back to his drinking. We were both sticking to beer this morning so I wasn't going to have any particular advantage. I drank and thought and drank some more.

Around about 11:30 it hit me. The perfect wish! What I'd always really wanted and it wasn't all that much to ask for.

" Uhm, Jinn you know what I'd really like?"

" No! I'm a Genie, asshole; not some fucking mind reader."

He was sounding a little grumpy but I plunged ahead.

“I wish I had, No let me say this just right. I wish My muse was a tame muse."

When a Genie gets nervous they start to get a little thin and wispy around the edges. They lose a lot of their skin tone and even in the dim lighting of a bar you can see a blue tinge to their complexion. Genies don't sweat, even when they're faced with an impossible task. That might help you pick them out in a crowd.

“Ah, Muses just don't come tamed. They wouldn't be muses that way. I mean you've known her for how many years? What do you expect from me anyway? "

" What happens when a Genie can't fulfill a wish?" I asked casually.

Jinn squinted at me real hard. His jaw was working as he started to sputter. The off duty dancing girls were backing away from him. I was starting to get a little nervous myself.

"Look, I'll make sure she doesn't leave once you get her back. I'll even help you get her back. Will that be tame enough for you?"

Well I'd been drinking for a few hours. I was a little bit tipsy and I'll admit I was a little concerned as to what Jinn might do if I really pressed the matter. I was pretty sure he was pulling a fast one on me here but in the end I agreed.

I have to warn you that trapping the Fey Folk out of season is illegal in all but 12 states. Whenever we elect a Democratic Congress again the fifth order of business will no doubt be to place all Fey Folk on the endangered species list and then trapping them will be illegal year round throughout the country. In the mean time Jinn gave me detailed instructions on how to construct a very humane and non-lethal Fairy trap. It consisted primarily of a partially buried bell jar with a silver thimbleful of spider webbing stretched across the opening. The trap had to be baited with slightly fermented boysenberries soaked for 24 hours in crème de menthe before being dipped in dark semisweet chocolate.

I immediately began catching all manner of Fairies and had to release a half dozen of the disgruntled little creatures over the next few days before Blue finally showed up.

To say that Blue was upset when she found herself trapped in a bell jar would be an understatement. She screamed at me in a voice far louder than her tiny body should have been capable of. I had to move the bell jar inside and put it in the bedroom closet just so her shrieking wouldn't disturb the neighbors.

I trotted down to the “Booby Trap” to check with Jinn and find out what was next on the agenda. He listened patiently as I described Blue's reaction to being trapped. He just didn't seem terribly sympathetic.

He told me if I was patient she'd come around in a little while. Of course Jinn has been hanging around for the better part of five millennium so a little while in his book might be longer than I can wait.

When I pressed the matter he handed me a wolf spider.

“What the fuck?” I inquired politely.

Jinn explained that if I dropped the spider in Blue's bell jar it would have her trussed up within a few hours. It tended to do some permanent damage to a fairy's wings but he could guarantee me that Blue would always be at my beck and call.

It looked like I was running low on options.

I couldn't exactly release her. She'd fly off for sure and I'd never see her again.

What I really wish is I'd never gotten those three god damn wishes.

Jinn smiled, " So you finally figured out the perfect wish." He said to me.

After that my memory got a little fuzzy…..

Okay now where was I?

Oh Yeah!

Blue and I are quite the team. We're not really about the sex. Well were not only about the sex. No, honestly it's all about the stories. Together we come up with some entertaining yarns. Besides she thinks I'm kind of cute for a big hairy monster. She says I'm a good listener.

It sounds ideal right? So what can the problem be, you ask?

Nothing! Really not a goddamn thing!

Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to the “Booby Trap”. It's my favorite local Gentlemen's club. A warm and welcoming place where I like to hang out while I wait until Blue's ready to do another story. They have some very nice dancers there to keep me entertained while I quaff adult beverages. Judging from the weight of my wallet I think I'd better stick with draft beer today, you never know how long you'll have to wait around for Blue.

When I got there I found my favorite stool at the edge of the dance stage. I sat down, winked at the dancer, and ordered a draft. I noticed a big bluish fellow drinking alone in the corner. He raised his glass to me and smiled. I almost went over to say Hi. I watched as all the dancing girls who were off duty wander over to his corner. They all started giggling, teasing him, and carrying on. He seemed to be having a good time so I decided to leave well enough alone.

© Mad Lews June 2005

With thanks to chksng19 for his editing assistance.