"I guess you could use some inspiring artwork," says the sex fairy. She waves her arms and framed portraits appear on your walls -- they all appear to be oil-painted versions of porn movie box art, as if your room were some weird museum.
"And something that'll definitely loosen you up," she says. A bar appears in the corner of the room nearest the TV area, matching the rest of the decor, big enough to have four stools in front of it. There appears to be a full array of full bottles sitting on the shelf behind. "You'll magically never run out of anything," she says, following as you walk over to take a closer look.
"But how can I have this?" you ask. "I'm not 21!"
"I told you, I have reality-changing powers over anything having to do with sex, and alcohol is definitely related to sex!" she exclaims. "Don't worry about people's ages so much. It's definitely okay for you."
You step behind the bar, and suddenly you feel as if your brain is inundated with brands of booze, ingredients, and recipes. For a few seconds, you forget your own name, yet you're absolutely certain how to make a perfect Harvey Wallbanger.
"Oh, my gosh," says the fairy. "I forgot to tell you -- anyone who steps behind the bar gains the knowledge of an honors graduate of a bartending college."
"What?!"
"Sorry -- I wanted to try to do this without messing with your brain, but trust me, it's very convenient for parties."
You step out from behind the bar. "Hey, I can still remember," you say.
"Of course," said the fairy. "Like I said, you gain the knowledge. I didn't say anything about losing it. If I'm doing something temporarily, I'll let you know. Now, speaking of knowledge, your crack about me turning your mother into a stripper gave me an idea." She waves, and a brass floor-to-ceiling pole appears near the foot of your bed. "There -- your very own stripper pole for your very own private shows."
"With my mother?"
The sex fairy giggles. "No, of course not. But any girl a bit younger than your mother who comes in here will gain the knowledge of a long-time stripper, and if she didn't get the treatment I gave your P.E. classmates, she'll get a toned-down version -- more athletic body, bigger breasts, stripper clothes, hair and makeup. And she'll put on a nice show for you."
"I really don't need this," you mutter, half to yourself.
"Well, I think you do," says the fairy. "And here, I've got one more idea for you."
She gestures, you feel cool air on your muscular chest, and you look down to see that you're now dressed in a Chippendale dancer's outfit -- tight black pants with quite a bulge in the front, a white cuff on each wrist and a collar and bow tie around your neck. You have a sinking feeling about this.
"These are the only clothes you can wear," the fairy tells you, confirming your suspicions, "but, of course, because of my reality changes --"
"Yeah, yeah," you interrupt. "I don't have to worry about cold weather or dress codes or whatever." You start to resign yourself to a lifetime of being bare-chested.
"Oh, don't mope," says the fairy, apparently catching on to your facial expression. "This will be temporary. You can go back to normal clothes once you've had sex with 100 different girls."
"A hundred?!" you exclaim.
"Hey, don't wail about it, or I'll make you fully nude until 1,000." She crosses her tiny arms across her bare chest. "Look, I've been trying to get this through your head -- 100 is nothing for you now. Text-message anyone at school, and she'll be ecstatic and rush right over. Go up to anyone and just ask. Walk into a bar, or a coffee shop, or a bookstore, or anywhere, and women will be throwing themselves at you, almost literally. Okay, I'll get you started right now. Who do you want? I'll bring her here. Name a celebrity. Or someone at school. Or someone random you've seen on the Internet. Heck, give me a description of your ideal girl. I'm waiting."
You slide down into a sitting position on the edge of your bed. "This is too much pressure."