He didn't look like how I expected a genie to look. After all, he was a ten-thousand year old creature made of fire. When he opened the door, the only thing that distinguished him from anyone else was his very noticeable golden eyes. Like a wolf's eyes. Other than that, he had reddish brown hair, a sinewy build like a runner, and a disarmingly boyish face.

I met those gold eyes. "I would like to make a wish."

"Come in."

His place was small. One room. It was neat but very minimal.

"Please sit," he said, indicating towards a chair at a wooden table. I did and he sat across from me.

"Your mother's sick," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Cancer. Stage four."

"Yes," I said, my voice choking. "Pancreatic."

"I can help her."

I reached for my bag and pulled out a pathetically small stack of money. Seven hundred and sixty-two dollars. It was all I had.

"I don't know what you charge," I said, pushing the stack across the table to him. "Nobody would tell me."

"Not money," he said, pushing it back, looking at me like he could see secrets I didn't even know I had. "I trade for human experience."

"How do I give you that?"

"Let's see what you have to offer." He stood and I did, too.

The room melted away. Suddenly, I was surrounded by holographic reminders of my life. Playing soccer in elementary school and volleyball in high school. I watched my fifteen year old self run past and envied her joy. I flushed to see me and my college boyfriend tangled up in my twin sized dorm bed and again to see myself on my knees in front of him in a dim, wooded location on campus.

These scenes faded fast; they didn't seem to hold much interest for him.

More holograms. My first office job. The group of rowdy, fun staff that I worked with. Nothing seemed to pique his interest there, either.

Then, a memory came into focus. It was a concert I went to once with my rowdy coworkers in a small, seedy local bar. The lead singer was tall and thin as a rail, dressed in black leather with coal-colored hair past his shoulders. The music pulsed. I saw myself in the audience.

"What's this?" The genie asked me.

"Just a concert I went to once."

"It's vivid in your mind."

"I think about it a lot." Usually when I masturbated, but he didn't need to hear that.

The memory continued to play: that slow, sexy beat that had spurred me buy their CD; the piece of back-lit chained link fence that served as a stage prop; and the people who moved behind it, nothing more than shapes and hands and shadows.

The lead singer led a woman out from backstage, pressed her back against the fence, and held her there until the hands behind the fence reached through and restrained her forearms.

She wore a short leather skirt and a tight buttoned blouse. The singer stepped right up against her without a single break in the music. The scene froze.

"I want that," the genie said.

"What do you mean?"

"I want to experience that."

He stepped into the scene, walked up to the singer, and stepped into the hologram. For a moment, it looked like two people sharing the same space. Then, they seemed to meld into one another. He turned to me; the only difference in his appearance was those gold eyes, now set in a thin, angular face. He looked at me and then he looked at the woman; I knew what he wanted me to do.

I wasn't thinking about wishes, at that point. I walked up to the woman and stepped into her, like he had. The genie had an electrified expression that made my arousal surge. He touched me the way the singer had touched the woman on stage: pulling open my shirt roughly, fondling my breasts through the lacy, black bra, and sliding a hand up my inner thigh until the crowd roared. That was the end of the real memory. After this scene, the song ended and another started.

"I want more," the genie said.

So did I. "Anything," I said. I wasn't sure this was really about my mother any more.

He pressed against me, his lips on my neck. Hands pulled my hair from behind, holding my head in place; hands on my arms did the same. The genie pushed up my skirt and moved my panties aside. He lifted me, held me against the fence that was more solid than it should have been, and entered me.

He synchronized his thrust with the slow sensual beat. The crowd chanted in time with the pulse. I closed my eyes, loving the hands on me, loving how he filled and lifted me, loving how sound and energy seemed to move us.

He leaned close to my ear. "I like the fantasy better than the memory."

When he bit my ear, I moaned. "Me too."

He thrust harder, catapulting me into a sudden, thundering orgasm. The crowd cheered. The genie, his face aglow, gave a few more sharp thrusts and came too, finishing in me, gripping my hips. When he was done, he withdrew and pressed his forehead to mine.

"Thank you," he said.

Then, the scene faded and we were back in his one-room apartment, standing, facing each other. I was fully clothed but felt freshly fucked. My panties stuck to me with my own wetness. I breathed hard but he looked completely calm.

"Your wish is granted," he said.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

I backed towards his door, my mind a mess. I wanted to see my mother. I wanted to stay. When my hand touched the door, the genie said, "You know, though...." I turned. He smirked at me. "You do still have two more wishes."