Respice Finem
 

BYERS:

May 20, 2001

Juliet will be leaving town Monday morning, and while she promises a short absence, I dread it in a fashion that I never imagined possible.

I feel lost. She has grown into me so much, the thought of her being away is more than I can stand.

We spent the evening doing the things we love best-having a wonderful dinner at DonnaJ's, cuddling on the sofa, watching "The Thin Man." Both of us love that movie. I've probably seen it a dozen times, and I never tire of viewing it again.

There's also been a fair amount of liquid refreshment to lubricate the evening. Tanqueray and tonic for me, Jose Cuervo 1800 Cadillac margaritas with Drambuie on the side for her. We began in the restaurant, made a run to the market on the way back, and continued what we had begun.

We're both quite drunk by now. Neither of us is falling down, but we've been laughing over the most mundane items, and behaving in a fashion that is, shall we say, uncharacteristic for the both of us.

Like sitting around with nothing on but our underwear. Which right now, we're doing.

We applaud when the credits come on for the movie, and Juliet picks up the remote and snaps off the set.

Her dark eyes are bright and full of mischief.

"Bed. Right now." She's not asking, she's ordering.

And I oblige, her willing love slave.
 

I don't know what it is about gin, but it makes me, in a word, horny.

And tonight, I'm packing unbridled lust for this woman, and having had enough of better living through chemistry, I'm not so fearful of expressing myself. This is hormones and alcohol, combining to explode when both of us touch.

Juliet has amazing hands. Her entire body is incredible, but she has hands that will probe me and explore me and hold me anywhere. I'm normally fearful of telling her what I want, but at moments like this, she seems to know, and she is making me very grateful I was born a male.

She runs her finger over the bridge of my nose. "John, do you know that when you're drunk, your face turns red?"

Couple that with a little sexual excitement, and I'm amazed that I'm not being mistaken for a tomato.

I hate the fact that I blush. But tonight, when she says this, it strikes me as amusing, and she forces me to giggle.

Me, John Fitzgerald Byers, giggling.

Even more amazing, giggling at myself.

There's something about laughing in bed that elevates the mood, and I find myself wanting her more and more, and I begin to nibble at her, as though she were a delicious crème brulee. Eating tiny bites of the crisp outer coating, to get to the creamy middle.

There must be some connection in my psyche between eating and sex, because all of the analogies I come up with are food metaphors.

She tastes wonderful. Her perfume is very light, with hints of citrus in it.

She knows I hate heavy florals and spices, but that I do love the odors of lemons and oranges.

Right now I have this unbelievable urge for a can of aerosol whipped cream and chocolate sauce. She could be my sundae.

Except that we have neither substance available in the house. I'm going to have to remember to add these to the shopping list.

I can't stand it any longer. I ask Juliet to excuse me for a moment, and I run to the kitchen without the benefit of a bathrobe, which is a risky business. Both Langly and Frohike have keys, and while they don't make a habit of showing up in the middle of the night, it would just be so like them to walk in on us right now.

Fine. Let them be jealous. I'm snickering as I make my way to the refrigerator.

We aren't home a great deal, and there's never a large quantity of food in the refrigerator, unlike at the Langly household, where you could weigh 400 pounds without even trying.

But we do have several Key limes left from our excursion tonight. And believe it or not, some liquor still lies in both fifths.

I wish there was something chocolate in the house. No luck. We tend not to buy it, because for both of us, temptation, thy name is Fannie Mae.

Yes, me, John Fitzgerald Byers, he of the starched shirts and starched attitudes, is a closet chocoholic. I haven't gone public with my habit, unlike Michael Frohike, who has made no secret of his sweet tooth.

It's starting to show on him, too. Which is the reason we don't keep it around. I have a pretty good idea that if we began to make a regular purchase of it, I'd be shopping for a new wardrobe.

Still, it might be helpful were we better provisioned.

At least at moments like this.

No chocolate. Damn.

But there is, lurking in its bakery box, part of the French silk pie neither of us could resist bringing home from DonnaJ's. We planned to have dessert in the restaurant, but decided it could better be eaten at home.

I think we wasted the first two slices.

And it contains chocolate and whipped cream.

I am one happy man.
 

It takes me a few minutes to slice the limes and assemble all of the necessary utensils and accoutrements. I hope Juliet didn't give up and fall asleep.

She's about to ask me where I was when she spots the breakfast tray in my hand, covered with a cloth napkin. She looks at me quizzically, but there's bright mischief in her eyes.

She probably thinks I made breakfast for her.

Actually, it's dessert for me, but I share.

"John...what are you doing?" She's drunk enough that she can't ask this with a straight face.

I'm drunk enough that I don't slink away in embarrassment from it all.

"I wanted...a second helping of dessert." I reveal the contents of the tray, and she bursts into a gale of giggles.

"Well, don't just stand there! Come over here!" She's still laughing, but her eyes are screaming, come hither.

And I am only too willing accept her invitation.

She pours a small pool of Tanqueray into one of the Pyrex custard cups placed on the tray, and dips a lime wedge into it. She then pops it into my mouth, and I wince at the initial bitterness, but something about it, the way she runs her fingers over my lips as I suck on it, is, well, erotic.

"You have a wonderful mouth," she says approvingly. "You need to be more careful in public, though. Every time I watch you do this..." her eyes finish the sentence.

I wasn't aware of that.

I'll have to remember to suck on my limes more often.

I then place the lime in her mouth, and she and I exchange this lime until there is nothing left to it but fiber and rind. We have each other's taste in each of our mouths now, and it is intoxicating, even without the alcohol content.

We repeat the procedure with Jose Cuervo, her toxin of choice, and once again, we've tasted each other. Literally.

Lather, rinse, repeat. For some reason, this phrase comes to mind right now...maybe a shower when we're done?

And we're going to need one after the next phase.

It's time for dessert.

I carefully spoon out the pie, making certain there is both chocolate and whipped cream in every bite. I choose the places where I'd most like to eat from, and start there...her nipples, her navel, the space between her breasts, her thighs, her abdomen...

"John, if you use up all that pie, I'm going to be forced to hurt you."

Well, I did say I share.

French silk pie never tasted so good. I make certain I lap up every delicious morsel. One shouldn't leave food on his plate, after all.

And then, it's Juliet's turn for dessert. And I'm the serving dish.

I've never felt like a chocolate pie before. I rather like the sensation.

And having cleaned each other off, like cats licking their whiskers after a particularly satisfying meal, we are ready for the real dessert. We sit facing each other, joined together solidly. We stay still for a few moments, just reveling in the sweet feel of each other.

That doesn't last long. I can feel myself explode as though I were a can of aerosol whipped cream being exposed to extreme temperatures.

I feel her shudder move through me, cataclysmic, her muscles tighten around me, sucking me dry as we did the limes not so long ago. I find myself letting go of my tightly controlled impulses, and strange noises emerge from me, ones I normally struggle to keep quiet.

This seems to increase Juliet's pleasure, and I'm almost in agony by the time she has finished climaxing.

But what sweet pain it is.
 

We're hot, and sweaty, and sticky. Especially sticky.

After reattaining some semblance of equilibrium, I suggest a shower. For the both of us.

She agrees, but only if I promise to wash off the places where I ate.

I believe I can handle that request.

The hot water would spur us on to additional adventures were we not so utterly exhausted from the encounter we just had. But it has its own pleasures, not the least of which is soaping Juliet, all of her, with her lemon verbena bath gel.

I just can't let go of the food thing, can I?

We fall into bed, damp and satisfied and totally spent.

And then an unwelcome thought crosses my mind.

We did remember the condom. Didn't we?

Oh dear. I did it again.

I wonder if chocolate and whipped cream is effective as a spermicide. I sincerely hope so.
 

MICHAEL:

Dad's gone to bed. For some reason, he seems kind of annoyed with both Les and me, don't have any idea why. I mean, he invited her here, for Christ's sake.

Well, I can believe she gets on his nerves. She sure as hell gets on mine.

But it's like, sort of weird. It's like for maybe the first time ever, my sister talked to me. Like I was sort of human instead of pond scum.

And he's like, he keeps bugging me to get it together with my sister.

So now that Les and me are talking, he's like real bugged.

What the fuck is his problem?

Les and me flip on the TV, and we get a yell from Dad's bedroom to keep the damn volume down.

Les then does something you'd expect from somebody like her. She grabs the remote. Right out of my hands.

"'Scuse me, but I LIVE here!" I point out.

"I'm the guest. I get to pick!" She's zapping through the channels so fucking fast I can't even see what's on. "Oh, here we are!"

We're on...the Food Network.

Oh Christ. She and Dad. Both of them.

"You know, Dad watches this all the time," I tell her.

"You're kidding." She's amazed.

"Nope. He's gotten to cook pretty good, too."

"That's so strange. Pam and I watch all the time, too. Who's Daddy's favorite?"

"Well, he likes Emeril a lot. Although I can live without the BAM thing."

"Michael, the BAM is part of the routine. It's not Emeril without the BAM!" She looks at me like I'm too stupid to live.

"Well, when he does it, it's like I think I'm gonna go nuts."

"Michael, you have no appreciation for culture." She rolls her eyes at me.

In case you haven't noticed, Les rolls her eyes at me a LOT.

"He likes Julia Child best."

"Scatty, ditzy Julia! I love her. She's wonderful. Ever notice how she's not afraid to try her own cooking? I love that she'll just dip into whatever it is she's making, take out a huge chunk, and have you noticed the way she works it, it's almost obscene?"

She's grinning.

"No, can't say that I have." I don't watch the cooking shows. I have enough problems keeping the weight off, thank you very much.

"So Daddy likes these shows. What else does he watch?"

Oh boy. She has no idea. I don't think putting the collection on display right now is a terrific idea. She might get really grossed out. Or, since she's into girls, she might want to watch them...

I think I could handle the first idea better.

"Sports. QVC once in a while."

"God, can you believe the junk they peddle on there?" Leslie's almost-gasp-giggling. "Pam and I watch it just for the laughs."

"You guys don't get out much, do you?" Like I should talk. Kelly's and my idea of a hot date during the semester is studying, followed by some really serious sex.

The sex makes up for the studying.

"Hey, she's a writer and I'm a student. That adds up to one thing. Poverty."

Yep, know that one. I mean, it's not terrible right now...but I still don't have any loose certificates of deposit lying around. Unlike some people I know.

Okay, Frohike, that's mean and petty and rude.

And you did get a car for a buck.

And your sister, bitch that she is, isn't dying. Well, we don't know if Joan's dying. But Langly seemed to think from her work she was doing bad. And they got plenty of practice reading medical records trying to keep Mulder's ass in one piece.

"So when d'ya think you'll get out of school?" I ask her. Thinking this is safe.

Maybe not. She looks pretty fucking depressed. "I can't seem to get my dissertation finished. When I started it, I was really excited about my research, but now...I don't know. I'm starting to really hate my program."

"Well, you said you been in it ten years."

"Actually not. I majored in nursing as an undergrad. Thinking Mom would be so pleased."

I thought the idea of Les as a therapist was scary. The idea of her as a nurse...

Well, anybody under her care would get well or die in a hurry. Because she'd scare them half to death.

"Well, bet she was."

"She was. The problem was, during my rotation in psych nursing, I decided, I'd rather be doing that. So I started my master's in counseling. She was not too happy."

And all this time, I figured Les was the golden child. Never did anything wrong.

Guess I was wrong on that one.

"She's been on my case ever since about wasting my time going to graduate school for this."

"She went to grad school."

"After she was working. And as a continuation of what she studied in the first place."

I remember my mom going to grad school. It might have been okay except that I was stuck with Les most of the time.

"And all I've heard about since she came back after seeing you was about how great you were and about Kelly and I am SICK to death of hearing about it!"

Hey, I can't control what my mom says...

Wait a minute. My mother's been saying how great I am?!

This is insane.

"All I hear about is how you've gotten it together, and what a shit I am."

"Les, I don't have it together. Believe me."

She rolls her eyes again. "I know that. You know that. But does she get it? NO!!!"

She really wants a cigarette, but Dad doesn't let people smoke in the apartment. You can tell. She's pacing all around the room like a cat in heat.

"All the shit I took from her all these years, and all the shit you gave her, and what do I get? Huh?"

Is she mad at my mom or at me?

I can't tell. Maybe both.

"Look, Les, you want me to say I'm sorry, okay, I'll say it! I mean, I did a lot of stupid stuff, and I'm trying not to be a fuckup, and I can't change what I already did, so get off my case! Okay?"

It's four in the morning. I don't need this shit.

"Hey, I'm not yelling at you, okay?"

"You just were."

"No, I'm not."

"What do you call it?"

She sighs this big, big sigh, sort of like a Miranda sigh. "Michael, I'm tired, it's late, can we just let it go for now?"

Be my guest.

"You can stay in my room," I tell her. I don't mind the sofa. God knows I spent enough time here in the last few months.

"That's okay, I'll stay on the sofa."

"I got a waterbed."

This gets her attention. "You have a waterbed? I thought Pam and I were the last people in America to have one."

"Nope, got it for free. It's pretty comfy."

"Queen or king?"

"California king."

"It's mine." She grabs her duffel and heads down the hall. Couple minutes later, she pops her head out.

"Michael, when was the last time you changed the sheets on this bed?!"

She does the eye-rolling thing again. It's weirdly reassuring to know she hasn't changed totally.

Okay, she is my sister...but I guess the bedding needs washing anyway.

END OF PART 14