Holly-Ween Coctail Party

I watch as a man, dressed as Heath Ledger's Joker persona, dances around with his pants off. A long tailed shirt and jacket cover his hips, leaving the specifics of his manhood a mystery. As if reading the minds of the other party guests, he raises the front of his garments to reveal a more than impressive woodie.

"Yeesss," he yells in a drunken drawl while clumsily pirouetting to give everyone a good view, "The Joker is no joke!"

Then he turns and set his sights on his prey, a woman dressed like the goth character from Beetlejuice, Lydia Deetz. She has an uncanny resemblance to the pale-skinned, sunken-eyed actress Winona Ryder who portrayed the angst driven teenager, complete with plump, red ruby lips. For a moment I think it is, in fact, Winona, who is just crazy enough to find herself at this party, dressed as herself, dressed as a character from twenty years ago. But I know it's not because I served Sheila, a producer from London and the version of Lydia Deetz currently in the crosshairs, her own 'Beetlejuice' cocktail thirty minutes ago when she first entered the Halloween gala and, desperately, headed for the bar. I was enthralled with her English accent, another reason it could not be Winona. She can not pull off a convincing English accent. Did you see Coppola's Dracula? Believe me, when I tell you, Vlad laughed quite a bit each time she was on screen with what's-his-name.

The guests form a large circle around the pair that had been attacking and embracing and fighting with each other on the dance floor for the last five minutes. The Joker slowly staggers toward the woman. She no longer seems interested in combat. She does not shirk. Instead, she stands with legs spread apart. Her pouty lips form a circle and she blows a kiss to the man who smiles in acceptance, but then again, the Joker always smiles.

"Beetlejuice," she yells and the crowd lets out a combination gasp and laugh. Encouraged by the voyeurs, she repeats the word, "Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!" She shrieks her third attempt while hitching up her skirt to reveal meaty but firm thighs and a very small g-string barely covering her privates which even from a distance appear puffy and moist and ready. The third utterance sets the Joker in motion and he races toward the woman's red lips, black dress, and newly exposed crotch. He lifts the woman up by her ass and she wraps her legs around his waist.

It takes a long expectant moment but I smile when I see her face go slack and then tighten. The Joker found her spot. He has lanced her sad and lonely gothic sanctuary with his javelin and it leaves her, finally, wordless. He, on the other hand, can't be silenced and he lets out a loud cackling holler and the audience erupts in sympathetic euphoria. He manages to hold his costumed punchline firmly on his cock while he staggers a few steps in an erratic circular path. I study her face. It easily transmutes from surprise to pain to disgust to rapture. She is possessed by a freak - and it is exactly what she desires. She clings to him. Her stomach swells from his manhood and for the first time this year, she feels complete.

The Joker begins to teeter. At first I think it's part of his moronic interpretation of Ledger's portrayal. But it wasn't. He wobbles to the left and crashes to the ground. She is thrown to the side and before he can mount her and continue their very public and comedic display of fornication, two large hunks, dressed like characters from Men in Black, but who are actually paid security, pick the greased faced impersonator off the ground and quickly lead him out of the ballroom and presumably to the exit.

Sheila, aka Winona, aka Lydia Deetz, sits dazed on the floor. Gone, sadly, is her delightful look of electrifying penetration. But embarrassment is not on her mind as a few hands attempt to help her up. She is pissed. She wants her Joker's dick back, deep inside of her. Awkwardly, she makes it to her feet, brushes off the helping hands, and runs, full batshit crazy, after the men who have now disappeared behind large doors. I hear her screams as she apparently catches up with the guards but another black suit moves in and blocks the portal. He keeps the other guests from following and gawking.

"Holy shit," an older man dressed as John Wayne blurts out and looks around as he leans lazily against the bar. I'm on the other side mixing him a drink. "This is some fuckin' party!" he says to no one in particular.

"Hey partner," I reply in a Wayne like drawl, "you should watch your mouth. We're in mixed company here. Don't make me hop over this bar and wash your mouth out with soap and teach y'all some manners!" I place my elbow on the bar and lean into him.

He backs away in surprise. It might be from the fact that his rich, entitled ass seldom, if ever, gets spoken to like that from the hired help. More likely it's because of the deep baritone I am able to conjure up. It's disconcerting to hear such a gruff male voice emanating from a five foot three inch slim framed brunette with big boobs. A few minutes earlier I was using my best female airhead voice, and so the change probably caught him off guard.

We just stare at each other - a western style showdown. He breaks first and looks away. "Just kidding," I say with a light, airhead laugh. "I just love John Wayne. Did you know his first name was Marion? Marion! That's mine, too!" I exclaim and try to get the older man engaged. I slide him his libation. "Oh, I know everything about him. I think he was kind of sexy, don't you?" I ask but don't wait for the man to answer, "I think I like him so much because he looked a lot like my father. You know - daddy issues." I laugh. He does not.

I jump back in. "That cocktail - well I made it special for you. I have a whole bunch of them for the party. I call them Hollyween cocktails - you know - because it's a Hollywood themed Halloween party. Get it?"

He's not looking at me. "Well, that one is called the John Wayne! What do you think?"

He reestablishes eye contact and smiles stiffly. He raises the glass to his lips. "Not bad," he assesses with some surprise, "but I wouldn't have thought John Wayne would go for such a sweet drink."

"Oh, just wait," I tell him, "I used some extra special bourbon that will kick your ass." I smile at my use of profanity but he seems oblivious to the joke so I go on. "Well, the story is that The Duke was a real sweet guy, that's why I added some amaretto," I continue, "I mean, how could he not be sweet with a name like Marion?"

The older man squirms and shrugs.

"No, no. Not sweet like, gay or anything," I add reading his mind. "More of a people pleaser - you know what I mean? Great with the ladies in bed. He'd climb any mountain, dive into any river if you know what I mean." At this point, I'm leaning in and I wink at the man in the cowboy hat.

"Uh-huh," he grunts and gently raises his glass as he prepares to depart. I take it as my cue. I raise my glass of water and clink it to his. "To Marion Morrison," I say and wait for him to return the toast but he just smiles and nods. "No, no. You've got to say it!" and I repeat my clink and toast. This time, in a weak unison, he joins me to say, "To Marion Morrison."

"May the spirit inspire us all night!" I add. He scrunches his face and turns to leave.

"I accept tips," I add, slightly desperate.

He turns and laughs. "Sure, sure, I bet you do. Good luck with that!" Faux John Wayne, aka Marion Morrison, disappears into the crowd.

I smile.

I love Halloween. These parties are wild and it's certainly not just for kids anymore. Serving customers at these modern day bacchanals provides me with unique access to a certain vulnerable spirit, a corruptible collective humanity. But a regretful one. Ahh, sweet regret.

Halloween has gotten better and better every year. It is a perfect storm of demonic pleasure. Fear, idol worship, and more recently sexual inhibition; I mean, come on, it's as if the human race was just inviting me into their lives. And the best part of all, the church originally started the whole thing. They fucking started it, then they lost control and now here we are. Thank you, Pope Gregory. If he had known that he was making way for a very special demon to haunt humans this night, I think he would have thought twice about his plan.

"Can I have an Apple-tini?" a brunette asks in a pleasant voice.

"Sure," I reply as I look her up and down.

"Let me guess - Jane Russell?" I ask as I pretend to start her requested drink.

"Yes," she says. A large smile breaks on her face but then melancholy quickly sets in. "No one, except you, has gotten it yet," she says and the smile just as quickly fades and her mouth turns to a sad pout. "They said 'Old Hollywood' on the invitation," she adds. "I mean, Jane Russell was like the original pinup girl. Geesh, just a bunch of millennial assholes at this party. Doesn't anyone watch black and white movies anymore?" She exhales and looks around the room. She plays with her hair and purses her lips together.

I notice her rather meager breasts, being forced together to form a cleavage that has more in common with the flattened great plains of Nebraska than that of Ms. Russell's deep dark valley.

"Yeah, fuck 'em," I say, "I think you're the spitting image," and I offer her a wink when she turns back to accept the compliment. She smiles.

Thirty seconds later I'm placing her drink in front of her.

"What's this?" she asks a little annoyed at the tall glass filled with white murk.

"Well, I know you asked for an Apple-tini," I say, "but in honor of Halloween, and since you're here at a Hollywood dress up, I thought you should have something special. I call it a Hollyween cocktail. I made it just - for - you! It's 'Jane's Milk' and it's delicious."

She furrows her eyebrows together.

"Trust me, it's good!"

"Famous last words," she murmurs and leans in to smell the concoction that fills an icy high-ball glass. The off-white opaque color makes it look like some cure for indigestion. The pineapple and umbrella are the only indicators of alcohol induced fun.

"Jane's milk," I repeat and place my arms under my breasts to subconsciously reinforce the joke. "It's made with honey, Tia Maria, whiskey, and of course good old mothers milk."

"Really?" she asks and is about to reject the offer.

"It's on the house," I finally add, hoping she ignores the fact that it's an open bar. "I saw you, and I realized that only one drink will satisfy the curvy sex appeal of the one and only Jane Russell." I laugh and hope my flattery isn't over the top.

Despite her skepticism, she raises it to her lips and takes a tentative sip. Her eyes widen. "Hey, that's pretty good," she grins after licking her bright red lips.

I raise my glass of water and clink her glass. She giggles.

"To Jane Russell," I say and she awkwardly repeats the toast. Then I add, "May her spirit inspire us all night!"

"I'll drink to that," she adds and proceeds to down half of the drink in a long gulp.

I smile.

Once a year I work this gig. I am not a bartender by training, but I can do anything once I set my spirit to it. I worked some parties for King George back in the 1700's. Those aristocrats were definitely repressed but, boy, they enjoyed their bosoms and a little s&m. Then the Victorian era came around and it was pretty much a drag on Halloween festivities, which is a shame. If ever there was a group of men that were dying to be cuckolded, spanked, and perhaps even pegged, it was the damn Victorians. And don't get me started with the women. Is it any surprise that the vibrator was invented towards the end of this holier than thou era? But the Victorian's didn't even pretend to like sex in public and barely in private - at least anything other than the puritanical missionary position. I feed off of public displays of regrettable desire and for the most part, the Victorian elite kept it in their pants during Halloween.

But by the 1970's, in New York, sexy adult Halloween parties really started taking off again. By the mid-80's I felt I died and went to heaven. Well, maybe not heaven.

Here's my deal. During Halloween, these repressed, wealthy, soulless humans get together and reveal to me some part of themselves that want to be someone - or something else. They have crazy unusual appetites to fill. So, at these parties, I just help them along a little. I give them a drink. We toast to the spirit they desire. Perhaps I slip in a tiny little spell, and for - oh - about 24 hours - they take on some of the more bizarre attributes of their fantasy. They may change a little physically, but they really change upstairs, in the ole noggin.

Now, the thing is, the effects are short-lived. The spells wear off; large boobs return to their normal size, enormous King Kong dicks sadly revert back to their five-inch selves. And the attitudes; the uninhibited desire and arrogance as well as overt confidence and pride in a particular sexual orientation, flare for a time and then fade. They return to their boring, repressed selves.

But the memories remain. Their Halloween exploits are forever remembered to cause private and sometimes very public embarrassment. Pictures get posted, accusations are made, lovers are lost as they see something about their partner that is new, out of the 'norm', and scary. They don't look at each other like they used to. The memories and the guilt stay forever and that is what fucks people up. Just look at Brad and Angelina. I made him a 'Rock Hudson' cocktail, and within a year, poof, they were filing for divorce.

Now that doesn't always happen. The antidote to the spell is simple; just don't give a fuck. If you embrace the fantasy, then you don't care what happens. In the 70's I worked a lot of gay parties and it was tougher sledding than I expected. Oh sure, wanton sexuality was all over the place. But it was hard to get under the skin of a group of people that used Halloween more as a coming out party of pride and recognition, and less a temporary expression of naughty fantasies. Madonna was like that too. I served her a Marilyn Monroe and whoah - watch out. But she didn't care. In fact, quite the opposite. It helped make her what she is today. To this day she sends my human alter-ego a Christmas card every year - a fuckin' Christmas card with little Jesus in the manger. Too funny.

But then I moved to the New York social elite, and the DC crowd, and Hollywood. Jackpot. It is just too easy.

Jane Russell is on her third 'Jane's Milk' and I notice her playing with her 'girls'. What was once a loose fitting bra and dress have now filled out quite nicely and in fact appear to be pinching a bit. Her hand is trying to, discreetly, adjust the material. Hardened nipples create little buttons on the surface of her dress. The edge of her left breasts' areola peeps out from behind the bra as she bursts forth in abundance.

"By the way," I tell her as I sweep one of the empty glasses off the bar, "you're looking good in that dress. The - color - suits you."

She smiles awkwardly. Then she looks down and seems happily confused by her growing cleavage.

"Do these - it's weird - but do my boobs look bigger to you?" she asks and her face is mixed with joy and a little fear.

I stand across from her and cock my head to examine the over-flowing dress. "I'm not sure what you mean?" I say lightly, "they look exactly the same to me."

She smiles but is unconvinced and she grabs each warm, soft handful of flesh and she bounces them together. "Huh," she whispers, "I've never seen them jiggle like this before."

Without missing a beat I reach across the bar and replace her hands with mine. I feel their weight and rubbery firmness. I look directly in her eyes. She doesn't care. She's happy to share. "See what I mean?" she whispers with a giggle.

"They're perfect," I tell her and then give them a good squeeze.

A man walks up to the other side of the bar. "Can I have a Rob Roy?"

'Holy shit,' I say to myself and slide over to the man, seeing a new opportunity to mess with people. "Sure thing! Let me guess, Howard Hughes or the Great Gatsby?"

He smirks. It's a cocky grin that he probably practiced in the mirror for hours. He leans in and whispers, "To tell you the truth, I wanted it to be Howard Hughes." He takes a moment to adjust his black bow tie and unbutton his white tux, "but I didn't have time to grow a mustache, so Gatsby it is," and he offers a droll laugh that is meant to come easy but sounds like it is taking a lot of effort.

"I got just the thing for you boss," I say, then nod my head to the brunette at the end of the bar. "You know who that is, don't you?" I ask while prepping his drink.

He squints and I realize the young nerd left his eyeglasses at home. "Is she - well - it looks a little like Joan Crawford."

I punch his shoulder. "No, no! Come on. It's Jane Russell."

He shrugs.

"Jane Russell. The Outlaw. Howard Hughes was the Director." I place his drink in front of him while the light of comprehension comes over his face.

"Right, right," he says and his eyes fall to her heaving breasts. "I get it now," and he takes a sip.

"Crap, what's this?" he says and almost spills the martini glass. "I asked for a Rob Roy."

"Sure, sure, but Howard Hughes wouldn't drink that. He was a gin drinker. This is my take on the Aviator; gin, lemon and a little something nutty, because that man definitely had a pair of massive nuts - and a screw loose." He laughs at the bad joke and takes another sip. I raise my water glass in the air and for a moment I think he is going to leave me hanging but then we clink.

"Here's to Howard Hughes," I say and he repeats the toast. "May his spirit live with us all night!"

Then I turn to the woman who is still obsessing about her breasts. "Ms. Russell, may I introduce you to Mr. Howard Hughes." I turn back to the man just as he is sliding next to the starlet. His glass is empty and he is wordlessly holding it out for me to refill. I smile and grab the glass from his hand. He leans into her ear and, I swear, I already see the beginnings of a thin mustache taking shape as he whispers a sweet nothing and she giggles in giddy appreciation.

Twenty minutes have gone by and the mogul and actress have disappeared to talk about screenplays and tight shots. Both walk off with a fresh drink. She stumbles, getting used to the weight of her new breasts. He brushes his new mustache with one hand and lets his other wander to Jane's large, shapely ass.

Hollyween, so far, is rockin'. I have served the likenesses of James Dean, Clint Eastwood, Will Smith, Grace Kelly, Kathy Bates and a Mumbai born Dr. Frankenfurter from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. It is shaping up to be a great evening.

Out of the corner of my eye I see John Wayne sidling up to the bar with his patented cowboy walk. 'He's getting good at this thing,' I say to myself and start mixing up another drink for the man when I realize he is with someone. It's Madonna - or more precisely a Madonna look-a-like that I had set up earlier in the evening. She's wearing John Wayne's bola tie. And he's wearing her dog collar which is attached to a chain that she lazily dangles in her left hand.

"Hey Sela," she says in a sultry voice.

I offer her a large, knowing smile and admire her tethered slave. "Quite a catch you have there," I say.

For a moment she goes out of character. Her face takes on an expression of sheer joy and surprise. She mouths the words, "I know - can you believe it!" and then returns to a cool and controlled dominatrix. She licks her lips and smiles. "Another round please, for both John and I." Her voice is slightly slurred and the meek attitude she began the evening with is gone. She is relaxed and confident and missing about half of the clothes she started the evening with.