Holly-ween Cocktail Party

To be fair, 'IT' had created Moses and Jesus - I mean even I have to admit these two are blockbuster hits. 'IT' had a hand in Mohammed and of course, there is the line of Popes. 'IT' has always understood the power of personality and charisma. 'IT' understands that humans enjoy the occasional magical miracle. So the risk was arguably low when 'IT' decided to have Pope Gregory declare November 1 All Saints Day. Better than Christmas, humans could celebrate not one but dozens and dozens of weird and odd celebrities, each with their own weird and odd special power. Throw in a little old world Celtic observance of dead spirits, and voila, 'IT' created a surefire #1 religious observance. What could go wrong?

I'll tell you what can go wrong - humans.

It took some time and patience, but eventually Halloween became mine, all mine. I own the unnatural symbols and myths. It is my altar of greed and trickery that they worship. What 'IT' brands as a sexual perversion that ultimately festers feelings of guilt and regret, is how I get paid. And the best thing is that the people love me for it.

Now the goddamn church tries to distance itself from 'IT's' own creation. 'IT' doesn't even take responsibility. What a coward.

I walk past the security guard and through the doors into the ballroom.

The hall has erupted in noise and lights and activity. Strobe lights flash in purples and oranges. The music - a heavy beating sexual bass line - is pumping through the speakers. Every other table it seems is home to some sexual act, or striptease, or act of debauchery.

"Damn, I'm good," I yell out but the music is so loud only I can hear myself. I laugh. I laugh and look up to the heavens.

I head to the bar. Carlos is doing his best to keep up but is falling miserably behind. But I ignore the queue. Besides, every couple waiting in line for their next Hollyween cocktail is spending the time groping and abusing each other. 'Just more feelings of regret in the morning,' I tell myself. Just more currency in my piggy bank.

I whip up two cocktails for my two favorite guests - the ones I brought together. I'm their little matchmaker. "I think I should put their photo into my album," I say to myself as I scan the crowd. I don't see them. But I do see a group of people gathering in the distant corner. I decide to take a look.

Breaking through the huddled mass I see what they see and my heart - if I had one - would leap out of my chest. I am so proud.

Jane Russell is lying back on a pile of pillows. Her massive teats are now popped out of her bra. Her skirt is shimmied up to her hips. Two men are cradled in her arms as they suck at her life-affirming breasts. A third has his head between her legs, suckling a different kind of love potion. The look on her face is of sheer bliss. Her hands play with the hair on the men's head as if they were her babies, her offspring. She breathes heavily but not quickly and seems to be enjoying the waves of adulation, the waves of electricity, the beautiful feeling of giving of oneself, and feeding a ravenous, grateful fanbase.

I move a step closer and that's when I see Howard. He is perched on a chair, about ten feet back from the pillows. He is observing the action much like a movie director. He is silent, contemplative, and engrossed in how this beautiful woman is able to make these men worship her. He waves an invisible cameraman to move in for a closeup.

I walk up to Howard and quietly offer him his Aviator martini. He accepts it automatically and sips. It wakes him from his concentration and he looks up at me. For the first time, I see his big and bushy mustache and his twinkling eyes that are halfway between charismatic and insane.

I wink at him and he at me. "To Howard Hughes," I say and raise Jane's glass. "To me!" he replies and chugs the cocktail. Then he stands up and begins to strip naked.

Jane rocks her head our way and I turn to her. She smiles, not a wicked smile, but one of contentment. I walk forward and start shooing the men away. They are understandably reluctant but Jane lazily assists by changing position and wrapping up her exposed sex parts. Soon I'm kneeling next to her, just the two of us, on the pillows. I offer her the high-ball glass filled with milky white whiskey.

"You need your strength, Ms. Russell," I say.

She giggles and I help her take a long drink. Her upper lip is white and she licks at it with her tongue. "Holy crap, that's good," she says with a laugh and then instinctively raises her hands to cup her swollen tits.

"Here's to Jane Russell," I follow on cheerfully. "May her spirit be with us all night!"

"Fuck all night," the woman slurs. "How about the rest of my life!"

I'm about to suggest to her that such a thing could be arranged but a strong hand grabs my arm and picks me up off the pillows.

I'm on my feet and looking in the eyes of a completely naked Howard Hughes. And he is ready to ravage his movie star.

"Sorry doll," he says to me, "but I have a scene to finish."

The crowd is laughing and oohing. Several guests have their phones out. Again, I am giddy with excitement. Tomorrow will be so much fun.

"Sure hon," I manage to say and I step away.

Jane looks up to Howard and coyly bites her lip. Then she says, "So Mr. Hughes, do I have the part?"

"Just one more screen test to go, babe."

She giggles and he steps over her. He tears at the front of her dress and the fabric splits apart and her breasts spill out into the open. He falls on top of her and nuzzles his face in their deep dark cleavage. Now he gropes at them. She yelps and then closes her eyes. She's enjoying his wanton desire and lust.

The man is a little thin, but I give him credit for getting into the role. He is confident and lustful. He knows what he wants and she wants it just as bad. She is giving herself over to him.

He yanks her skirt up over her hips and moves his body up. The time is come for her to be taken by him. But suddenly everything changes. They lock eyes. In this moment I can tell that no one else in the room exists. It is only the two of them. She is his maternal fountain of everlasting life and he is her rock. He pauses. They kiss. Then he moves his hips forward and she gives out a small gasp. She accepts his rod, his spear. She opens her legs and he slides further into her. Her eyes close. She smiles, but she is a million miles away. He is in the here and now. He watches her every movement, feels her every breath. He rocks gently and finds the spot and she turns her head as a new sensation warms her body.

I take several more steps back and the crowd grows silent. They watch the lovemaking with awe and reverence. Every woman in the crowd, and one or two of the men, wishes to be made love to like that; with power and confidence but also gentleness and respect. Each time she gently turns her head the crowd sighs. She raises her hand to caress his cheek and a woman in the crowd lets out a muffled cry. He is patient and slow and I'm surprised at well he moves his hips. Minutes go by and still the crowd silently watches. The two are not picture perfect lovers. They are better. They are real. They are doing this for themselves and not for the cameras. Her reaction is sublime and understated and real. That's what makes it so special and so mesmerizing.

Now her breathing becomes rapid. She grasps at his back, pulling him closer. Her legs split apart and they rise into the air and wrap around his waist. He is sensing her eruption and begins a more urgent thrusting into her. He pushes forward and lingers to rub his pelvic bone against her clit and she moans, feeling the friction. Then the thrusts become more rapid and now the crowd can hear the slapping of wet skin on wet skin as their sex parts merge and slush in and around each other.

Gentleness is gone. Fucking has arrived and she greets its arrival with whispers of encouragement. "Come on, come on, come on, big boy." She starts to pant. Then she moans. Then she throws her head back and lets out a scream. Her entire body curls up around him and she hangs on to the man as he continues his pummeling but then he eventually slows and then he stops.

She catches her breath and smiles a sexy, womanly and somehow innocent smile. It's a beautiful smile. He whispers something into her ear and she laughs.

They break apart but only for a moment. She turns on her stomach and lifts up her ass for him. He kneels behind her. They are oblivious to the people watching their performance.

He pushes up her dress. Her lips are waiting for him, dripping with sex. His tongue wets his whistle and he smiles. She looks back at him. She bites her lip again. She wants him. He loves it.

With one hand on her rump and the other guiding his prick, he teases her opening for a moment and then thrusts forward. She faces forward and buries her head into the pillows. Now she starts to grind against him.

He has two hands on her hips and he is in complete control. He is flying his Spruce Goose. He is the pilot of this flight and he intends to make it last. His passenger will enjoy a safe but bumpy ride. He holds her hips steady and withdraws his cock till it almost plops out. Her body goes limp for a moment till he plunges back in. She lets out a loud yelp and he repeats the motion and she repeats the reaction. For the next several minutes he alternates his flight plan. At times, he drives hard into the wind, pounding her with abandon. At other times, he glides with restraint and calm. At others, he flies in large figure eights, rotating his hips and his joystick to reach every part of her soft and hidden horizon. Eventually, all this stopping and starting and slowing gets her more excited but also agitated. The calm, high altitude clouds are beautiful but they are a tease. She needs to feel the friction created by ground turbulence. She bucks against him. She is signaling him to fucking land this flight. But he is the pilot, the one in control, and to teach her a lesson he withdraws completely and she collapses for a moment on the pillows. She is so close and she almost cries in desperation. She feels like she is free falling; that she is half between flying and crashing.

He flies above her, watching her as she squirms and flails in the air. Watching her as she falls. Her hand reaches for her crotch. He takes pity. He lays on top of the beautiful squirming form and inserts his control stick deep into her womb. She breaths in a loud gasp of air and pushes her hips back into the man, into her pilot. He begins his final approach for landing. He pumps hard. He is relentless. The turbulence racks their bodies. She is shaking and quivering. He is worried that the plane's structure can't take it - that it will break apart just as they are about to touchdown. The vibrations in her body get worse and suddenly her engines let out a terrible, terrible roar and he thinks all is lost. He is unable to control the joystick anymore. He is losing it. He screams and closes his eyes and believes that they are crashing.

They come to in each other's arms, lying on the pillows.

I don't know why, but before they regained consciousness I dispersed the crowd. I removed the once welcome gawkers and gave the couple some privacy in their own little corner of the ballroom. I am their matchmaker after all, and there were points in their love-making that a small - a very small part of me - felt regret. I regret that I have never, and will never, experience the feeling of giving myself over to someone so completely and so beautifully. It is not in my nature. So tonight, let the mythical lovebirds feel the warmth of acceptance and love and hope. They deserved it. "May their spirit be with us all night," is my spell, after all.

Now tomorrow - well I made sure that the other guests posted their pictures online. So my match made in - well - hell - will face their regrets as the sun comes up and they realize they gave into their more base nature and desire. The gnawing pit in their stomachs will likely take hold. They will react like most people react when they betrayed an arbitrary sense of sexual morality and restraint drilled into their psyche by a fearful and controlling society. They will push each other away because each will be a reminder of that broken trust.

Tomorrow, the fun will begin.

I drink my water from behind the bar. I look over the crowd as they enter the last, violent throes of hedonism. 'Yes, yes,' I say to myself, 'this has been a good Hollyween indeed.' I count the souls I've corrupted. My sight is drawn to the far corner and a pile of pillows. Two near naked bodies are lounging and relaxing. They are laughing and enjoying themselves.

I watch as Ms. Russell takes out a device and raises it high above them. Light flashes.

"Damn," I say out loud, "she's taking a selfie!" My match made in hell may have been made in heaven. I watch as she posts their naked selves to the world wide fucking web.

"So much for regret," I say to Carlos who isn't even paying attention. "They don't give a damn."

I look skyward and frown and mutter my consolation, "OK, you won this time!"

************** Hollyween Cocktail Recipes:

Aviator:
* 2 oz gin
* 1 oz lemon juice
* ½ oz Frangelico
Combine ingredients in a cocktail shaker with crushed ice. Shake and pour into a martini glass. Garnish with lemon, or juniper berries.

John Wayne
* 2 oz bourbon
* 1 oz amaretto
* Angostura bitters
* OJ
In a low-ball glass filled with ice, layer first the bourbon, then the amaretto. Stir in several drops of bitters (to taste) and top with a splash of OJ (note that some people enjoy a bit more OJ in this drink).

MG (Material Girl)
* ½ oz Goldschlagger
* ½ oz tia maria
* Champagne (dry)
* Sugar cube
In a champagne flute glass first, pour in the Goldschlagger and then the tia maria. Fill with chilled champagne. Drop in the sugar cube and let fizz. Note that if you fill it too much the sugar cube might cause it to spill over the glass.

Jane Russell
* 2 oz whiskey
* 1 oz tia maria
* Honey
* Milk or cream
In a high-ball glass filled with ice, pour in the whiskey and tia maria. Stir in the honey (to taste). Then stir in the milk or cream to fill the glass.