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.
(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!