Confessions of an Orgasm Fairy
I was subbing for a toilet fairy — again — invisible to any humans who should come into the grungy, dimly lit bathroom. From the stench of excrement — even on the far side of the room away from the stalls — it was no wonder toilet fairies have the highest number of sick days among all immortals. I was in standard uniform: yellow rubber gloves, plastic smock covering my pink tutu, and my platinum hair tied back under a bandanna.
One might wonder why a girl would put up with such a demoralizing job, why a fairy as tall as a human didn’t disappear into the human world and become a secretary or something else she’d be equally inept at. Well, besides the fact that I would have to give up being immortal, I’d have to give up being immortal. No more flying between worlds, I’d have to pay taxes, and hello wrinkles. As you can see, mortality bites way more than my sucky job.
I waved my wand over my head, about to release a spell so the man in the stall would be able to quit his grunting and get it over with before his lunch break ended. I was tempted to yell, “Have you never heard of fiber?”
My temper was so short that day, I might have let my voice leak through the invisible barrier. As I raised my wand, a glittery pink spell came in from behind me. The man let out such a long, agonized moan, I thought he was dying. Toilet paper and clothing rustled, then the toilet flushed, and then he came out smiling.
The man let out such a long, agonized moan, I thought he was dying.
Baffled, I turned to find a tall fairy chuckling as he leaned against a graffiti-covered wall. He looked like a buff, fully grown cupid in those pink silk boxers and beautiful, downy wings. He resembled one of Michelangelo’s sculptures with his classic Italian features and tousled hair. Whatever this immortal was, he must have worked as a muse a few years back.
“What the hell did you do to him?” I asked.
The drool-worthy fairy dismissed my client with a flamboyant wave of his hand. “Oh, that? Nothing really, just an orgasm. Toodles.”
He exited out the door, flying from the human world and into the pathway to ours. I dissolved the glamor hiding my monarch butterfly wings and unfolded them so that I could follow him through the ethers. Matter swirled around us in swatches of brilliant color. I passed through a blur of walls and cars, my body zipping through the space between atoms, my wings tingling pleasantly with the rush of magical travel.
I shouted after him, “What do you mean, orgasm? How can you do that? What kind of fairy are you?”
He stopped mid-flight, the fabrics between worlds an airy vapor of vivid hues around us. “Honey, I’m the orgasm fairy. Clark the Orgasm Fairy. You have heard of me . . .” he glanced at my nametag, “haven’t you, Lola?”
My cluelessness must have shown on my face. He went on, “I don’t usually work in bathrooms, but I just couldn’t help myself. It keeps me fresh, hitting unsuspecting people.”
“Won’t you get fired for that?” I asked. “I’ve never been allowed to randomly give people ex-lax.”
“I work freelance.” His smile was smug. “I get to make my own rules.”
“I’m so jealous! I’ve always dreamed of choosing my own clients. And the agency pays you to do this?”
He tsked. “I am so-o-o under their radar. Do you think those conservative tightwads would hire me to treat people to a ‘novelty’ like this?”
I recoiled. He was a rogue fairy working for the other side of the fairy realm. I’d been warned about dark fairies. Some of them are just toilet fairies or misfits (like me) who became tricksters and slipped between the division of good and bad. But I had been told the dangers of the shadowy border between realms; that those who crossed into the dark side rarely came back. I’d heard of those who had been sucked in deeper and became demons and devils. Freelance fairies usually received their payment through some dark means that involved hurting, not helping, humans: stealing babies, taking souls or harvesting the negative energy they created in their victims. That energy, or physical matter as in the case of stealing a baby, could then be exchanged into coin at Fairy Banking.
Was Clark one of these fairies? It didn’t seem like he was hurting anyone.
He waved a hand through the pathway’s soupy swirls of color as we drifted in the stream between worlds. “If it wasn’t for me, the human race would still be at a mere billion. Didn’t you ever wonder why the population started to increase exponentially in the nineteenth century? That’s when I quit working as a muse; the Pre-Raphaelites were over and I was kind of burned out. So I took a break and then started my own business.”
It didn’t seem like he was hurting anyone.
I peeled off my rubber gloves. “Wow, I always thought the reason was because the muses caused the industrial revolution and the increase in food production. And the introduction of modern-day medicine kept the mortality rate down.”
“Well, that, too … but I was the other reason. What do you think motivated people in the first place? If it wasn’t for orgasms, the human race would probably be extinct by now. On the other hand, it’s been hard to keep up since the baby boom — and now with the baby boomers’ children, you wouldn’t believe how much work I have. You think men need Viagra because they’re old? It’s actually because I have too much work these days and I can’t get to everyone.”
I nodded, staring out at the blur of colors. I wondered if humans had been capable of having orgasms before the orgasm fairy, or if he just gave out bonuses. How I wished I could have a job like his. I cleared my throat. “Sounds like you need an assistant.”
He scratched his chiseled jaw. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve been interviewing candidates for an assistant position, but none of them was quite right.” With a shrug, he turned away.
Hope sparked in my heart. A job opening? Something that didn’t require dousing myself in Febreze afterward? Perhaps it was my lucky day.
“Wait, um …” I couldn’t believe I was risking lowering myself to the level of a Lower Worlder, someone who didn’t work on my side. I took a deep breath. “How can someone get in touch about an interview?”
His gaze raked over my apron and rubber gloves. His eyes held pity. “No offense, honey, but I doubt a toilet fairy has the kind of experience needed for this job.”
I held myself a little taller. “Actually, I’m not a toilet fairy. I work as a substitute fairy for all the jobs at the agency. I have experience in quite a few fields.”
He glanced at his watch. “I simply must be going. I have a few honeymoons to attend and need to hurry if I’m going to make it to that orgy at seven o’clock.”
My heart sank. Then he did the unexpected. He handed me his business card. “Call me and we can schedule an appointment.”
“No offense, honey, but I doubt a toilet fairy has the kind of experience needed for this job.”
He disappeared into the kaleidoscope of colors. I stared at his card, wondering if I was crossing the line into temptation, being sucked toward the realm of dark fairies. I didn’t want the stigma of being a rogue. My friends wouldn’t understand. Worse, my energy might change, my magic tainted with darkness so that I would be incapable of living in the higher dimension where good fairies dwelt.
Then again, I was already in the lowest bracket of magic-earning jobs. If I was fired from subbing for toilet fairies, there would be nothing left except mortality. I shivered at that. I could not allow myself to become human.
That night as I sat in a cubicle at T.F.H. (Toilet Fairy Headquarters), filling in mounds of paperwork, I wished I was anywhere but there. The more I wrote about magical enemas and diarrhea-intervention charms, the more I knew I had to apply for the orgasm fairy job. Clark wasn’t the only one who had experienced the effects of the baby boom. I could only imagine how the workload would worsen in the next twenty-five years with the next population explosion.
I didn’t want to appear desperate, but I called Clark the next day. I knew I was in trouble when he asked me to email him my resumé and a list of references. If Clark checked with my old bosses, he’d find out I was fired from every job I’d ever had.
His office was located on the twentieth floor of an average-looking business building in Los Angeles. As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, the air momentarily shimmered, alerting me that the room was charmed. The space was immense, lined with Roman columns. The Renaissance-style painting on the ceiling outdid the Sistine Chapel, though most of the figures resembled Clark. I glided over the marble floor, passing beds of vibrant orange and brilliant red flowers that lined the walls. Cheery light shone through the huge windows.
I thought he was playing one of those white noise CDs of gurgling-stream music, but as I passed more plants, I realized the sound came from a fountain with a waterfall. Statues of frolicking dryads adorned the pool of water. This was by far the most luxurious — and unusual — office I’d ever seen.
“Over here, darling,” Clark called, his voice echoing across the expanse.
Nestled on the other side of this paradise, he sat at gold desk encrusted with precious stones. The orgasm fairy certainly had champagne tastes. I wouldn’t have minded being able to afford such luxuries.
The orgasm fairy certainly had champagne tastes.
As I approached, my mouth watered at the aroma of chocolate. Only when Clark extended his hand and I shook it did I realize the scent came from him. I tried not to drool.
He nodded to a plush settee opposite his desk.
I sat across from him, my clammy hands clasped in my lap. I tried to focus on Clark, not the expanse of sherbet-tinted landscape beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. From the glitter of crystal palaces and the impossibly beautiful geography, I knew we were in the fairy dimension. An orgasm fairy couldn’t be considered a complete outcast or dark fairy if he could have an office here.
Clark leaned back in his ergonomic chair, looking comfy in his polka dot boxers and striped suspenders. The hint of his folded wings played peek-a-boo above his shoulders. Despite the perfect temperature of the room, I was sweating in my fuchsia pantsuit. I’d never wanted a job so much in my life. Working as a toilet fairy will do that to you.
Clark’s cheery smile disappeared as he removed my resumé from a folder and set it on his golden desk. His voice was all business. “It looks like you worked as a guardian angel for five thousand years. That’s impressive. Why did you leave that profession?”
My wings twitched in my nervousness. “I, um, had artistic differences with my boss over who needed guarding … and who didn’t.”
Already looking bored, he stared out the window at a flock of immortals flying in formation. “Tell me more about that. And don’t leave out any juicy details.”
I smiled. I had practiced this one. “I got burned out. The job changed over the years and grew demeaning — like refilling Wite-Out at crucial moments in newsrooms, and removing spots from pastel dresses. The latter job really should belong to a lowly cleaning fairy, but that’s beside the point.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you feel cleaning fairies are inferior?”
Crap-tacular. Me and my big mouth. “No, of course not. I know lots of nice, working-class cleaning fairies. But that wasn’t my job. I want to do something worthwhile to help humans.”
Clark scanned the documents he had printed out on glittery pink paper. “I called your former supervisor. She mentioned you had difficulty following the agency’s rules. They documented in your performance report that sometimes you were a little too generous to mortals: slipping a student the answers to a college exam, making that triple-decker ice cream zero calories, and allowing other minor miracles to happen, like Jackson Pollock paintings.”
I squirmed in my chair. “Jackson did most of it on his own. He just needed a little help.”
He squinted at me for an uncomfortable length of time before returning his gaze to the documents and checking something off on a sheet. I tried not to let my shoulders slump.
“It looks like your employment in the Division of Godmothers and Godfathers was the second-most lengthy. Nearly fifty years? What was your favorite part of that job?”
I held myself taller. I had practiced this answer, too. “I very much enjoyed working closely with the handsome princes and kings I was assigned to.”
He smirked. I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.
“Sounds like a rewarding occupation. What happened there?”
He smirked. I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.
A trickle of sweat dripped down my back and onto my wing. “Um, well, it’s hard to remember exactly. I mean, fifty years is such a small amount of time after being a guardian angel for so long.”
Clark leaned back, his eyes narrowing to slivers. “I had a feeling you might say that. Do you mind if I take a peek at your performance in that job?”
“You mean contact my previous employer?” I weighed my options. If I said no and didn’t give him a good enough reason, he wouldn’t consider me at all. The best I could hope for was that my old boss would have been promoted and he’d get someone who didn’t know me. I had to take the risk. “Sure, I have nothing to hide.” I giggled, perhaps a little maniacally in my nervousness.
Clark stood and made a beckoning motion with his hand. “Gary, it looks like I’m in need of your services.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The shadows near the fountain deepened and darkened. Slowly, they pulled together, forming the shape of a figure in long robes. His face was hooded, only his skeletal hands visible from his sleeves.
I jumped from my seat, startled to see a reaper. Not that I should be afraid of them as an immortal, but reapers are scary dudes, and those sickles look wicked. One wrong turn and they might slice a wing off.
An unintelligible squeak escaped my throat.
“Hey, buddy, you don’t mind doing another one of those ghost-of-employment-past tricks, do you?” Clark strode around the desk, hooking an arm around mine.
The reaper bowed. Unlike the usual way of inter-dimensional travel, we didn’t exit out a doorway. We remained in the same place but everything around us streaked past in a rush of colors. The flickering light and dark hurt my eyes. Nausea rose inside me from the intensity of the magic. I came close to puking up my breakfast — not the way to impress a potential employer.
After a few more seconds, the journey stopped. The aroma of chocolate was stronger than ever. To my embarrassment, I realized I was clinging to Clark, my arms wrapped around his washboard abs, my face pressed against his biceps. I pulled away with another nervous giggle. In my dizziness, I stumbled on the reaper’s robe and tripped forward.
We were in a giant, ornate bathroom filled with steam. Gold accents adorned the pristine white interior. The sound of water echoed from the other side of a shower door.
Clark scribbled a note on his clipboard. “It says here you were reprimanded your first day on the job for being caught kissing Prince Charming in the wardrobe.”
Crap-aroni, he had really done his research. Heat flushed to my face. But as I glanced around the foggy bathroom, I realized this wasn’t Prince Charming’s castle — to my momentary relief.
I crossed to the sink, hoping some of the steam between us disguised my humiliation. “I believe it says in my work file I was checking for cavities.”
“That’s above and beyond the call of duty.” He raised an eyebrow, amusement tugging at his lips.
Please, don’t bring up the incident with Duke Charming in the carriage, I thought. Please, anything but that.
Of course, he did something far worse. He turned toward the sound of streaming water. The reaper stood to the side, leaning against his sickle as he stared at the foggy door.
Ice prickled in my gut. I patted my sweaty forehead with my sleeve. I realized why this bathroom looked so familiar now. Though, at the time I’d previously been here, I’d been too preoccupied to notice the décor.
Even with the door to the shower mostly obscured, it was obvious from the high-pitched giggle who was inside. I blushed.
A deep rumbling voice from the other side said, “Fairy godmothers really do make dreams come true.”
Even with the door to the shower mostly obscured, it was obvious from the high-pitched giggle who was inside.
Clark nodded at the clipboard. “King Charming?”
“No relation to the prince,” I said.
“Right.” Clark turned a page. “Isn’t that a breach of the fairy godmother-godchild relationship?”
I raised my chin, doing my best despite my downward spiral. “He was thirty-four. Hardly a child. And really, is it fair that only princesses get all the fun with the Charmings?” I’d hated the job. There was always paperwork. The only part I enjoyed was making out with the nobles — which was a no-no.
Clark nodded to the reaper. The hooded immortal was too busy watching the shower scene to notice. By this point, my other self’s back was pressed against the glass, my butt-print making a little heart shape on the door. How humiliating.
“Gary.” Clark elbowed the reaper.
The foggy bathroom spiraled into a blur.
Clark continued, “I see you rapidly went through a succession of jobs: tooth fairy, cupid, and garden fairy. What happened with the tooth fairy job?”
The tornado of color ceased. I realized I was hugging the reaper this time. I jumped back. He silently eyed me.
“I, um, the tooth fairy?” I stammered, taking in the dimly lit basement. “I was … too generous. A quarter is a small payment for such a large rite of passage.”
Clark gestured toward the counterfeit press on the other side of the room. My past self was cranking ten-dollar bills out of it. Hoping his attention was fully occupied, I inched sideways, attempting to block his sight from what lay on the table.
Clark strode past me, eying the other evidence of my downfall: dentures and a pair of pliers. The reaper shook his head.
Clark grunted. “In other words, you overpaid them. Not to mention making counterfeit teeth.”
“I was trying to give underprivileged children more money.” My voice rose in anger. I was certain he already knew the rest. “As for the other things: helping bullies — ahem — lose a few teeth; handing out pesos instead of quarters to kids in Mexico; and giving a homeless man some quarters for his teeth that had fallen out so he could buy a beer — I was just trying to make people happy.”
I hadn’t minded being fired from that job. Tooth fairies have even more paperwork than fairy godmothers; they have a lot of tooth-tracking and records to keep — mostly to make sure kids aren’t selling their dog’s teeth or popping them out of grandma’s dentures — which is how they caught on to me when I tried to help my clients make a little extra cash.
Clark glanced over at the reaper. “Shall we move on to the cupid and garden fairy jobs?”
Heat flushed to my face. “I can spare you the trip. They fired me from being a cupid because my aim was off and I kept hitting stray pedestrians. As for the garden fairy, I didn’t exactly have a green thumb. The only dignified profession left for me was subbing.”
“Subbing for toilet fairies?”
The reaper shook with silent laughter.
My stomach flip-flopped as the basement spun around us. I closed my eyes, dreading what was next. The ghost of employment future? I already knew what it held — more paperwork and more toilets.
“They fired me from being a cupid because my aim was off and I kept hitting stray pedestrians.”
Even with my eyes closed, my head spun in the transition between times. My knees wobbled and I thought I might trip forward, but a hand on my arm steadied me. When I opened my eyes, I found myself in Clark’s palatial office again. The burble of water sounded from behind me. The reaper’s bony hand cupped my elbow.
He didn’t let go. I swallowed and glanced at his scythe.
Clark drummed his perfectly manicured fingers on his jewel-encrusted desk. “Thanks for the help, Gary. As always, it was fun.”
The reaper’s hooded face shifted from me to Clark and back to me. I had a feeling he wanted to say something. I leaned away.
“Ahem,” Clark said.
The reaper released my arm and bowed before stepping backward into the shadows of the fountain. I seated myself in front of Clark’s desk, aware how the reaper lingered next to the plants.
Clark smiled a little too cloyingly. “I called your ‘reference.’ Your mother had a lot of great things to say about you.”
I swallowed and shrugged. A wheezing chuckle erupted from the corner where the reaper still stood. Not only was this the worst interview ever, but that reaper was probably going to laugh about it later with all his friends.
Clark raised his voice. “See you later, Gary.”
The shadows of the fountain darkened and grew until they encompassed the reaper and he was gone
Dread settled like a lump in my gut. In just a few hours I would be checking in again at the agency, seeing which toilet fairy I would sub for. I hoped it wasn’t the one who did the port-a-potties at sports events.
Dread settled like a lump in my gut.
It caught me off-guard when Clark leaned forward with interest. “So … was King Charming as hot as rumors claim? It says in your record you didn’t even stop your little shower tryst after they caught you.”
I shrugged sheepishly, seeing no point in lying. “I wasn’t done, ahem, making his dreams come true. I sealed the shower door with magic so we could finish.”
“That is just so adorable! You want to give people something they deserve.” His eyes sparkled with delight. “You obviously aren’t skittish about sex — by the way, I want more details on that later — it sounds like you need a job where you can self-manage and have opportunities to work independently. You need freedom to make your own decisions. You work intuitively, unable to adhere to rules because you’re not a conformist. And most of all, you want to make people happy.” He stood and extended his hand. “I would like to hire you for a trial period of one year and see how you do.”
I’ve loved every single day of my new job. It’s a joy to serve old, married couples and newlyweds, first-timers and last-timers. I slip into internet chat rooms and launch sneak attacks on people discussing how much they love Star Trek, fly into book-discussion groups and give women a little gift every time they hear the name Mr. Darcy, and slide between the sheets while a couple is reading the love poems of Dr. Zhivago.
I can grant a big O to those I deem have earned one: that lady on the stationary bicycle who’s plateaued on her weight loss and needs extra motivation, the couple who are trying to have a baby, even though it’s never going to happen because one of them is infertile (they need a little something to give them sunshine and hope) or the overworked mom who’s been treated to a Swedish massage in a spa for Mother’s Day and experiences a little bonus as her masseur’s hands rock her into the table. I was the one who gave multiples to the author of Orgasms for Dummies, as well as that sixteen-year-old girl riding her horse at the state competition.
Ironically, I ran into the reaper, a.k.a. Gary, on the third month in my job. I found him standing in the corner of my client’s bedroom, an eighty-six-year-old man who was about to sleep with a woman for the first time in his life.
“Excuse me,” I said, elbowing my way in front of the reaper to get to the old man before he could. “I have a job to do. How about you come back in a few weeks?”
Gary crossed his arms.
“A few days,” I bargained. The old guy was on my list for three orgasms. I needed a little time.
He shook his head.
“An hour?” That elderly man was about to have the best hour of his life.
“I’ll return in an hour,” Gary said in a deep, gravelly voice that didn’t sound at all like a skeleton whose vocal cords had been eaten away by worms. “But only if you agree to have coffee with me and tell me how your new job has worked out.”
That coffee date, of course, is a story in itself. Who would have ever thought the guy had a decent face under that hood? And a few other parts of his anatomy intact as well …
“That was the best interview I’ve ever seen,” he said over coffee. His sickle leaned in the corner of our booth, invisible to mortals. “You know what they call the orgasm in French?” His lips curled into a wicked smile. “La petite mort. The little death.”
I suspected that was flirting for a reaper.
I told Gary that I love how I am allowed to randomly wave my wand at people and scream, “You deserve an orgasm!”
Poof! And they get one.
Yes, I love it all. I wouldn’t trade a day of it for guardian angel—and especially not for toilet fairy. Every day I get to give humans a happy ending.
The best part is: there’s no paperwork.
As a child, Sarina Dorie dreamed of being an astronaut/archeologist/fashion designer/illustrator/writer. After years of dedication and hard work, most of Sarina’s dreams have come true; in addition to teaching art, she is an author/copywriter/artist/fashion designer/belly dancer. She has taught English overseas in South Korea and in the JET program in Japan, where she felt like an alien much of the time, which inspired numerous stories. She has shown her art internationally and sold illustrations to magazines and currently works as a high school art teacher.
Sarina's multi-prize winning novel, Silent Moon is available from Soulmate Press, and Dawn of the Morning Star is to come out next year with Wolfsinger Publications. She has sold over fifty short stories to magazines and anthologies including Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, Cosmos, Penumbra, Sword and Laser, Perihelion, Bards and Sages, Neo-Opsis, Flagship, Allasso, New Myths, Untied Shoelaces of the Mind, and Crossed Genres, to name a few.
Now, if only Jack Sparrow asks her to marry him, all her dreams will come true.
Find out more at www.sarinadorie.com