Sunday, December 31, 2006


Signore L was a bottle of Limoncello, a Latin liquor whose proof could weaken, cloud and confuse the most steadfast of minds with swirls of tropic temptation. He stood next to Miss Peach, a curvaceous flask of juices pressed from the malum persicum fruit, pure and wholesome, the kind of drink that might be served at Sunday school picnics. That's why they had chosen her - she knew - for the children to drink at the party. But L thought differently. He wanted her. He wanted her with the cool deliberation legend to citric intoxicants.

"Dear Signori," he spoke urbanely to her, breaking the silence, "please forgive my intrusion upon your thoughts, but who knows how long we might stand here."

"It's quite all right, sir" she answered, surprised that a bottle of alcohol could be so polite. "I was only dreaming about my Alabama orchard and the tree that sprouted me," she continued, her voice as sweet and tempting as apple pie.

"I would love to show you my home in the Sicilian Plains where the sun shines us to a sizzle as it rambles lazily across the sky."

"Thank you so much, sir."

"Please don't call me sir, call me L," he interjected, "When that Mediterranean sun rolls onto you, you want to burst with juices, but you don't. You become richer and suppler and dizzy for lips to drink you."

"I've never felt a sun like that," she told him, wishing privately that she had, but unsettled by the idea of being drunk.

"And the quick relief of the gentle rains as they light upon your lemon skin. They fall mainly in the plains, you know," he elocuted. "Let me describe the feeling..." L continued his poetic reveries and Miss Peach listened. For days and nights on end they stood in each other's proximity on the shelf of the kitchen pantry, Signore L "working" on Miss Peach the entire time. But New Year's Eve was approaching and there was not much time left before they would be carted off to the party. Signore L made his move. "Miss Peach," he whispered, "May I sip you?"

"Oh no!" Miss Peach responded with genuine shock. His suggestion did not seem decent to her, "That would break my seal! I've never been opened before."

"But surely you won't keep your vitamins to yourself!" he shot back, "and you need my vitality. Have you seen your 'use by' date? Without my alcohol you'll spoil in a week, two at the most. Flecks of mold will begin to float in you, and then they will pour you away, down the sink."

"I still say no!" she answered indignantly. "The children could never drink me if I said yes to you."

And so their conversation ended. Miss Peach spoke no more to him, nor did she react when he spoke to her. But in her nectar fermented the fear that she might somehow say yes to his debonair decadence after all. L ceased talking but eyed her constantly while cocktail fantasies inflamed his fifty proof mind. He drooled luridly to himself: "If only I could get my mouth onto hers for a moment, and give her a sip of myself. Her resistance would be diluted. She would be mine then, to the very last drop."

New Year's Eve came. They were taken from the shelf and placed on the drink tray together. Miss Peach saw then that she was not intended for any children. There were no children at all at the party. She was an ingredient, nothing more - to infuse the various liquors surrounding her: whiskeys, ryes, bourbons and gins. Some of the bottles began a raucous chorus:
99 bottles of peach on the wall
99 bottles of peach
Take one down, pass it around
98 bottles of peach on the wall...

She became frightened, a fear which stirred her straight to Signore L, the only bottle she knew. "L! Hold me close. Please," she whispered to him - at least he came from a citrus fruit, as she herself was born of a fruit. "Oh, splash me, spill me, spike me!" she clamored anxiously to L to drown out the breaths of hard vodka crowding against her, brushing her most sodomously. She sweated with the chill of the nearby ice.

L tapped her lightly, responding with all his charm, "Come with me, and we shall be as one, as only two liquids can." Together they wobbled to the edge of the tray, off the bar and away into the bedroom. Unseen. Unnoticed. She nuzzled up to L on the bed as he gazed into her translucency. He spoke gentle words to her, "Oh my god Miss Peach, how lovely you are - like a young girl's breast." Then he was on her. "This will only hurt a little," he said, "I'm going to unscrew you," And with a nimble twist of the neck, she was open, her top removed. He repelled his top instantly, shooting it into a corner of the room. Then they clinked together, glass upon glass, and poured themselves into each other.

"Oh Signore L!" Miss Peach let out, half blind with passion as Signore L slurped. "What are you doing to me?" She felt as dizzy and breathless as a lone girl at spin the bottle. As his alcohol swirled into her pureness she began to tingle and tremble and savor the feeling. "Happy New Year" she gushed at him, then tumbled from the bed to join the vodka bottles.

Story #385

(This photo was donated by dear, sweet, irresistible Roachz whose Limoncello Parties are legend in Japan.)

Postscript: This is the second story to a photo donated by Roachz. The first story (with a juicy picture of Roachz herself that will make your mouth water) is here.


A Safe and Happy New Year to One and All!

26 comments:

The Mushroom said...

Try as Bethany did, she couldn't find a way to keep her pillow from getting all greasy and dirty before laundry day. She didn't have dirty, greasy hair, but after a week her pillow would always look like she'd gone to bed like that. She came up with an idea to see if that would help: what if she put a thin coat of shampoo on her pillow in the morning, letting it dry during the day, so it would stay clean at night?

Not a successful venture at all, but not a total failure either: the left side of her hair became noticeably more shiny and bouncy than the rest of her mane.

Oxy Moron said...

The Cheesemeister was so stressed out by all the insanity going on around her at Findiddnan Hall that she decided she really needed a drink to calm down. So she found this stuff that looked like lemon Vodka--a far cry from that hooch that Death Cheese drinks, as they prefer the likes of Mad Dog 20/20. But she thought it tasted kind of like shampoo, so she didn't drink very much.
The Spooky Guy, meanwhile, was frustrated in his quest to have a hot shower because Lord Iffy Boatrace had not paid the heating bill. Spotting this bottle with the image of a refreshing lemon on the pillow, he opened it up and poured it over the top of his head. He was cleaner, but had trouble sleeping because he kept dreaming that he was trapped inside a bottle of Mike's Hard Lemonade.

Doug said...

Now, there's a bedmate you can wake up to.

Happy new Year to the Indeterminacies.

The Mushroom said...

True story, wish I could find a link to it online...

About twenty years ago a new lemon-scented dishwashing liquid named Sunlight came on the market (and is still there), and the makers sent millions of little samples out in the mail. Soon after, people started complaining about how this new lemonade or lemon juice concentrate was causing them tummy troubles [quoting Household Products Database: "Can cause gastrointestinal irritation with nausea, vomiting and delayed diarrhea"]. Apparently people saw the lemon on the label and didn't read the label, which clearly said it was dishwashing liquid...

Hopefully Bethany didn't try to go on a bender with her shampoo. Else she'll be singing "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles"...

Alexander Pope said...

And maids turned bottles, call aloud for corks.

Happy New Year to you too, Indie.

cooper said...

oh my,

Happy New Year Inde.

Cheesemeister said...

Mushroom,
I remember that incident! Couldn't help thinking that there must be a lot of people out there who couldn't read the words "Dishwashing Detergent."
I have used Sunlight myself--on my dishes, mind!

Indeterminacy said...

Sorry for not commenting yet - I am still recovering from the New Year's party. No alcohol for me, but half of us came down with some strange virus. I'm somewhat delirius now, so I dont know what I'm saying.

cooper said...

ha, it took my breath away.

good show.

feel better Inde.

roachz said...

A little love story from me:

Greg was tired of life. After 2 divorces and a string of failed relationships behind him after the latest divorce from his viciuos, mean ex-wife Martha, Greg was beginning to lose hope. Not one woman seemed to want to call him after the first date! He felt rejected and betrayed. What went wrong, Greg kept asking himself, as his self-esteem startes to dip lower and lower... Well, indeed he was having the custody of his two young sons, as Martha was determined not to take this burden with her. They are very charming and polite little boys, and no one would have rejected him because of that.

So Greg went home defeated to seek comfort with a glass of wine, one that he has kept for special occasions. And at that, a glass of scotch too. Well, he wasn't supposed to be drinking so much, as he had a little of a breath problem and drinking and eating strong-smelling food would leave him with a bad breath for the next few days. And no one likes an alcoholic. No one wanted him, so what the heck, so Greg thinks. As Greg tumbled through his front door, the children's nanny, a plain, spectacled and shy but clumsy girl named Brenda, who at the age of 29 still doesn't have a boyfriend. She's a nice girl and Greg knows about it, but he had never taken notice of her as men, as shallow as it may seem, are still very much prioritizing a girl's looks rather than her personality.

As Greg entered through the door in a daze, he stepped on a pail of water that Brenda has left there unintentionally and Brenda went running towards him, to try to save him from falling, but both of them fell flat on the floor in an embrace. Everything seems to be moving so slowly and then when their lips touched, though it wasn't intended to be that way, magic happened! The whole room bursted into lemons!! This kiss with Brenda was the most amazing he had ever had! It was fresh and tangy, but at the same time, sweet... and Brenda's lips were warm and inviting. Greg was suddenly transported to the beautiful island of Sicily and as hard as Greg tried to rub his eyes and wake up from this beautiful dream, he could only see Brenda and notice how she was now bathed in golden light, just like a good bottle of limoncello should be.

They fell in love right away and began spending time with each other everyday, never to tire of each other. Greg felt younger and happier than ever as he has finally found his elizir of life. And he lived spellbound by the limoncello goddess until the very last day of his life.

roachz said...

And.... Happy New Year, Indie! Its an honour to have you publish one of my pictures! I am VERY flattered.....

Yes, and Limoncello parties that I throw are always the best! I am also making my first batch of homemade limoncello now. Hope it works. I need a kiss from the Goddess.

Cheesemeister said...

...as a lone girl at Spin the Bottle...
No fair writing about me!

Great story, so much fun! But alas, the truth comes out. Like so many romantic encounters, the expectation is far more exciting than the moment of climax, which often comes in mere moments.

Not in any way a criticism of your intoxicating tale. More a bitter judgment regarding a life of kissing frogs disguised as princes and drinking MD 20/20 when I thought I was getting Dom Perignon! ;-)

Interestingly, the Word Verification is "twitpuc."

Doug said...

What a tart! The whole Vodka team? What a nectarine!

Great story, Indie. I hope you're feeling better.

Al said...

One of my New Year's resolutions is to come back more often in 2007, for more of this! Great stuff, and a potential inspiration to lonely bartenders the world over. Thanks, Indie.

Indeterminacy said...

Mushroom: If that doesn't work, there's always the Sinead O'Conner method. You were fooled by the picture - which of course wasn't a shampoo bottle at all. But there was no way to tell, as the print on the bottle is somewhat out of focus. Actually it's an Italian bottle of Limoncello, from Sicily, which I know from the other photo I have. But I decided to take liberties with the story. Anyhow, some of that stuff in the shampoo bottles looks good enough to drink.

Oxy: I wonder which nightmare is worse, trapped inside a bottle trying to get out, or trapped outside the bottle trying to get in.

Doug: Uh oh. You don't wake up to these bottles often, do you?

Mush: I forgot to mention, the dishwashing liquids also look good, too.

Alexander Pope: That sounds like it might be Shakespeare, but I guess it's Pope.

Cooper: Thank you for your lovely breath. I was worried you might read the story and find it offensive. I'm glad you didn't.

Roachz: I'd love to experience one of those lemon kisses. Save a sip of your homemade limoncello for me. Even if I go blind, I'm sure it will be worth it.

Cheesemaster: I never suspected this story would mean anything or strike a chord with anyone. I'm glad you enjoyed reading it.

Doug: I like navel oranges myself.

Al: Thanks for stopping by. And you're always welcome back - but no promise that all my stories will be entertaining. This one was fun to write, but I don't know how authentic some of the details are. I wrote it while I was clear headed, but checked the details while recovering from our New Year's epidemic. I don't know if there are Mississippi peach trees. I looked in a book of cocktails to see if peach juice was really used to mix drinks. I am culture-less when it comes to drinking. The 99 Bottles of Peach song was an afterthought while I was still delirious.

{illyria} said...

ohhh my. i do believe i love you. and this story, too. why don't we relegate the rigors of lovemaking, the politics of kissing and other what-have-yous to inanimate objects? they do much better jobs at fumbling.

you beautiful storyteller. happy new year's, too. xx.

Indeterminacy said...

Illyria, thank you for your lovely comment, which puts me in a state of bliss. Don't know what else to say - I never know how to comment the stunning posts you share with us.

Doug said...

The largest peach harvest is South Carolina, followed by Georgia where they are considered better but the harvest is poorer. Mississippi was a sketchy call but it's flash fiction, right? I'm only trying to help.

Indeterminacy said...

Hey Doug, maybe I'll change it to Alabama orchard - at least that sounds funnier. I searched google and that got four hits.

Indeterminacy said...

P.S. This shows the pitfalls of writing without research. I was offline when I wrote this, with only a German encyclopedia to help me (you know, those old book things they used to have).

In the rough draft the Peach came from an orchard on the Elbe, but then I found out they don't grow peaches there, mainly apples. I also considered changing Miss Peach to Miss Apple. Miss Apple is a lovely play on the classic temptation stories, but there were other details that seemed to work better with a peach. Peaches are sexier I think. Pretty as a peach, and other connotations which I can't go into without blushing. Plus the drinking song works better. So I'll secretly move Miss Peach to Alabama while none of you are looking, and move on now with the next picture.

Indeterminacy said...

Doug is of course correct about Georgia and South Carolina, but the "juicy orbs" are apparently also grown in Alabama.

Anonymous said...

Good luck to Senor L, I was never able to pick anyone up at New Years before I tried clear pores.

tsduff said...

I thought Lemoncello was Italian. I never heard of it before going there.

Great story - great picture :-)

Indeterminacy said...

Tsduff: Oops. Maybe I'll change it some day.

Indeterminacy said...

Finally got around to changing Senor to Signore...

Hobbes said...

Love the ending, Indie.