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Brew Stud's First Adventure
I dont know what it is, but theres something about being a brewer that attracts women. Something sexual. A friend of mine says its our ability to create; like females, brewers give birth. Maybe hes right. Theres no denying that the reproduction of yeast is essential in brewing beer. Or maybe its ancestral. A long time ago, women brewed the beer, so they have an ancestral connection to something they once controlled.
Whatever the reason, if a woman tastes a beer she likes and beer tastes a lot better these days she wants to meet the brewer. You put a guy like me in the brewhouse, add a little alcohol to lower the inhibitions, and you can imagine the results. Its a fantasy come true, me hitting the peak of my reproductive powers and women swarming like flies around honey.
By the way, my name is Stan Bonobo. Bonobo, like the ape. And before I go any further, I want to assure you that Im not boasting. Ill be the first to admit that Im no Richard the Lion-Heart. I stand just under six feet tall when naked which is how I like to stand. Im skinny, have average looks and dont work too hard at preening myself. I also wear thick, black-framed glasses. In the brewhouse I put on airtight goggles to protect my eyes, since Im sensitive to chemicals. On the sexual side, I have an average size nozzle that stands to attention as quick as any but doesnt always hold up when called upon (because I get so much, not because I have a problem or anything). What Im trying to say is that Im no second coming of Sonny Corleone or anything. Like I said, its the profession.
Ive moved around quite a bit and have found myself in some pretty interesting positions over the years. Like last week. Im finishing a filtration, something I hate to do because it strips flavor out of beer, when I hear a tap on the windows that separate the brewhouse from the bar. I look up and see a woman bare her breasts. At me. Two slightly stooping bags of flesh, like wort-soaked muslin hop carriers, with darker than usual nipples. But thats all I see because the woman closes her shirt, winks, turns and saunters away. My eyes glue themselves to her buns long and flat, the bottoms of each cheek leading into her pant legs like a seductive smile. I was meant to know that smile, I think, and just then she turns. Our eyes meet and I see that she knows what Im thinking.
A crinking noise and a slight rise in the tone of the pump snap my attention back to the job and I scramble to avoid a clog in the DE filter. I hate filtering.
Actually, Id noticed Elena, thats her name, before lunch. I thought she was just another bar swallow, which is what we call women who flit around the tap handles like theyre looking for stray seeds from a bird feeder. Bar swallows usually order my raspberry fu-fu beer, one of the beers the owner makes me brew.
I wasnt the only one who noticed Elena; a couple of guys had been throwing glances her way, and even tried to engage her in conversation. But their interest had waned when the beer arrived. They were homebrewers--who I can identify a mile away, especially on their first visit. Homebrewers come prepared,pen, paper, some guys even bring laptops to take notes.
The homebrewers had ordered a taster tray, then began sipping and taking notes. Color, aroma, body, taste, they were as thorough as a big brewery micron filter. They also asked for our beer description sheet and I noticed them gathering up coasters and napkins with the brewerys name. Homebrewers are good guys for the most part, and never hesitant to give their opinion on a commercial brewing operation.
Anyway, Elena had my interest. I mean, Im used to forwardness, but she had pressed her best to the glass. She was still at the bar when I finished the filtration. So were the homebrewers, who sat comparing notes and all but ignoring her. The homebrewers were drinking the IPA, which I had to respect them for. It was a beer the owner, a hop dodger from the get go, had given me free rein on and Id put enough hops in it to start the buds of your tongue on fire. Backed up with a hefty malt profile, my IPA is a testament to full flavored beer and Im proud of it.
Elena was drinking the IPA, too, which caused me to revise my initial opinion about her. I walked up to the bar to make plain where my interest lay and she motioned toward the homebrewers.
"These guys want to talk to you about the beer. I can wait."
A half dozen O.G.s, IBUs, and hop addition times later, I thanked the homebrewers for their interest, and treated them all to a pint. Thats another plus for the owner, he allows me a reasonable number of comps.
Elena responded to the hand I offered with a faint smile that, if she pushed out her lips, could have changed instantly to a frown. Her hair was jet black, and complemented the natural darkness of her skin. Southern Italian or Greek ancestry, I thought. Shy until theyre behind closed doors, when they reveal the traits of a hungry lionness. Elenas hair was smooth and straight, cascading over her shoulders like a petroleum waterfall. Her eyes gazed out boldly from under dark eyebrows, with irises so black that I couldnt see where they ended and the pupils began.
"Why were you smiling?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"In the brewhouse. Why were you smiling?" It was a good question, because Im usually smiling all the time when I brew, even when somethings going wrong in the brewhouse, and shed noticed.
"I didnt know you were watching," I replied evasively. Telling a woman that your smile is a reflection of all the yeast cake youre getting is a strategic blunder, especially during your first conversation.
"For quite some time," she said. "I love the way your body glistens with sweat, especially when showcased by copper."
"A pearl among swine," I said, scrambling to come up with a good response. I think that phrase is from The Bible and, okay, I admit that I have used it before, but this time it came off well and convinced me that our conversation was going somewhere.
"Whats your name?" she asked.
"Stan," I replied.
"Stan the Grand."
"I never had someone call me grand before."
"Oh I bet," she said. "What are you doing tonight? Want a date?" My mouth hung open like I was at the dentist, until she snapped it shut with, "Eight oclock, heres my address. Call me if youre gonna be late."
"Im never late," I managed to say, cursing myself for how uncool that sounded.
"Then youre a better person than I," she replied, and sauntered out the door. My eyes dropped to her mash tun again and right then I should have known that I was jumping into a relationship that would reach full boil quickly, and would get burned.
But Im getting ahead of myself. At eight oclock that evening I was at her door. Actually, it was quarter to eight, and I had brought the latest Brewers Bulletin. Five minutes of struggling through grain and hop prices and I knew my mind was elsewhere, so I left the car and walked to her apartment.
She answered my knock half-dressed, brushing her hair. "Youre early. Come in, Ill be right down," she said, then turned and cut off my second view of her naked breasts. This was too much, I thought. I mean, even in Europe where breasts arent as big a deal, they reserve their public baring to beaches and magazines.
As she walked away, Elena brushed her hair up, and my eyes lingered on the gentle slope where her back curved into the yawning hollow of her neck. Right where it hit the bottom of her skull plate, the hollow was lost in a forest of black hair. It was a forest I could get lost in, I thought, dwell on each hair, explore the scalp. She disappeared upstairs and I sat with a huge smile on my face. It was like walking into a brewpub late at night and finding a good bock on tap. Malty up front, a good bock meets you, full-bodied and friendly. Then the hops start acting out, countering the sweet malt and taking you irresistibly down the path toward a clean dry finish. There, in the finish, is the appeal of a bock. Its dry and crisp, and kicks you with enough force to send you back for another.
You probably think I sound a little overjoyed at my situation for a guy whos known so many women. Its just that I appreciate women with a relish my grandma called hormonal frenzy. Grandma says the frenzy starts during adolescence, when we receive an overdose of hormones, but is never fully satiated, which is why we have *** on the brain for the rest of our lives.
Three minutes later Elena was standing before me, jeans topped by a tie-dyed, gauze, button down shirt. Leather sandals cushioned her feet, completing a picture of grace and beauty.
Unable to avoid the topic any longer, I said, "That was the second time youve shown me your breasts."
"Does that bother you?" she asked.
"No, no...no!" I said, trying to sound cool. "Just thought Id mention it."
She reached down and put her hand on my leg. "Do you want to screw before we go out?"
"I...I...I..."
She straightened up. "Let me get my jacket."
Okay, so I flubbed that one. The fact is Ive never been quick with words and usually go on the defensive until I can sort out the terrain. Being near a woman with whom Id like to mash-in creates a sort of verbal spandex on my tongue. It keeps the rougher edges from bulging out beyond what I should be saying. The fact that Elena was not so restricted didnt change my approach; as I see it, *** is an act where two fundamentally different beings come together with the same goal in mind, and thats a recipe for proceeding with caution.
I digress. We went to a Thai restaurant that I hadnt known existed, where I was delighted to learn that Elena was a woman after my own tastes; she liked spicy foods.
"I want to apologize for coming on to you at my apartment," she said, once we were seated. "I didnt mean to embarrass you."
"Thats okay," I replied, not even pretending that I hadnt been surprised. "I just assumed that you preferred the customary buildup, dinner, conversation, a couple drinks." She didnt respond, causing me to dig myself a deeper hole. "Southern Mediterranean women are usually shy. I think it comes from over-protective fathers who know what men really want and try to protect their daughters from being victimized."
"Were in America," she replied, making me realize how stupid I sounded. I shrugged and concentrated on tearing apart the dumpling in front of me. She must have felt sorry for me because she added, "I dont like the tension of Is she or isnt she? in the air of first dates. I honestly thought having *** first would make dinner less awkward, easier to enjoy."
Elenas explanation of her pre-dinner offer led to an evening of lively, freewheeling discussion. The ice was broken and we talked on and on, about everything. Our conversation was so inspiring, in fact, that couples from other tables were listening. The meal acquired more flavor, too, which is always the case when an environment creates a mood that heightens the senses. We could have been in Bangkok or something, dining in some Hollywood inspired scene of international intrigue and romance. I didnt tell Elena this, though, it wouldnt have sounded very cool.
Dinner ended too soon and she suggested that we go out dancing. "As long as I get in by six," I replied, cursing myself the moment the words left my mouth.
"Is that when you turn into Cinderella?" she asked.
"I have to go to work at six," I replied. "I brew tomorrow."
We danced till late, poorly, I admit, and on the way back to her apartment I swung by the brewpub and parked out front. "Why are you stopping?" she asked.
"I always go by the brewery to see that everything is locked up," I said. "Plus, I love to sit and look at the copper. Its nice from here, isnt it?" The gleaming copper kettles were nicely showcased from outside the brewpub, and served to pull people inside. The copper also reminded women why they were attracted to me, the brewer, something I didnt tell Elena.
"Why do you go in so early, to heat up the water?" she asked, ignoring my question.
"Theres a lot of prep work to do. I actually have the water heated the night before. The night manager switches it on before he leaves."
"Are you sure?" She sat silently, her eyes boring through my head in a way that should have warned me that she was up to something. "Should we go check?"
"Check what?"
"The water. Do you have a key?"
"Yeah, no, I mean yes I have a key. Why do you want to see the water?"
I followed her to the back of the building and opened the door. Wondering if she knew something I didnt, I went to check the panel to make sure the heat was on. Once Id assured myself that everything was ready for an early start, I returned to look for Elena. Her clothes were strewn in a path leading to the mash tun. Like Hansel following Gretel (but with something different in mind), I followed the path of strewn clothes.
"Turn off the heat and join me!" she yelled. "Its just the right temperature!" Elena sat inside the mash tun, naked. Her arms were stretched apart, holding two of the prongs on the rake. Her breasts floated on top of the water like anchor buoys, nipples tilted upward, dark beacons of pleasure. Steam rose off the water. "And get me a beer," she added.
"An IPA!" I replied, and disappeared to do her bidding, tearing my clothes off while I ran. See what I mean when I tell you about interesting situations?
When I returned, I was wearing my goggles and ready for anything. She sat calmly, pouring water over her shoulders with a pint glass. I lowered myself into the water, which had reached just the right temperature to make things comfortable, and pushed my way over to her. I handed her the beer, said, "Im going under," and disappeared.
Once underwater, I searched for something to grasp so I could settle between her thighs, which waved about me like two pillars of soft yellow marble, fluted columns of an ancient Greek palace. She moved to make it easier, then held me down, and there, like an underwater Odysseus, I approached the labia majora, which beckoned like the Sirens toward their soft, seductive walls. I buried my head between her marble arches, blocking my ears from the wailing that had drawn so many mariners to their death, and began to seek passage. The light in the mash tun allowed me to see a divine sight--soft brown ridges rippling softly in the whirlpool current--and my mouth dropped open and I inhaled, necessitating an immediate surfacing. But like a schoolboy peeking through a bathroom keyhole at his friends naked sister, I returned for another look. Elena spread her legs wider and I moved closer. The walls began to blur and wobble as if I was looking at them through the rising heat of a campfire and I latched on like a remora, using my tongue to keep me from floating away. I reached under her, grabbed those long, smiling buns and pulled myself closer, a fish kiss on my lips. Water, womb and woman, it all seemed so primal. Elena provided the motion, rocking her pelvis up and down.
Okay, it wasnt the best head Id ever given, but the novelty of my attempt was enough to get her hot and after letting me flop around like a harpooned Moby ****, she grabbed me by the ears and pulled me to the shores of safety. "Okay frog man, lets mash in." She leaned back, and grabbed the rakes.
At first I was a little surprised that shed used a brewhouse expression. Again, I should have seen the warning sign, but at that moment I was occupied by other thoughts. Im not much for boasting but that night I was a turnkey system with all the valves open. A supercharged, well lubed, steam powered brewkettle, reaching full boil in a frenzy of bubbles.
And sure enough, what she said before leaving convinced me that brewing is a blessed profession. We were sitting in the car in front of her house and she turned and touched my hand. "See you," she said.
"Youre not inviting me in?" I asked.
"You have work to do," she said.
"Yeah, I gotta clean out the mash tun. A dose of caustic will clean it out without a trace of our being in there."
"Why not leave it?" she replied, then smiled and got out of the car.
I leaned over and looked up at her. "Why did you pick me?"
"I like your beer," she responded.
Brew Stud's First Adventure
I dont know what it is, but theres something about being a brewer that attracts women. Something sexual. A friend of mine says its our ability to create; like females, brewers give birth. Maybe hes right. Theres no denying that the reproduction of yeast is essential in brewing beer. Or maybe its ancestral. A long time ago, women brewed the beer, so they have an ancestral connection to something they once controlled.
Whatever the reason, if a woman tastes a beer she likes and beer tastes a lot better these days she wants to meet the brewer. You put a guy like me in the brewhouse, add a little alcohol to lower the inhibitions, and you can imagine the results. Its a fantasy come true, me hitting the peak of my reproductive powers and women swarming like flies around honey.
By the way, my name is Stan Bonobo. Bonobo, like the ape. And before I go any further, I want to assure you that Im not boasting. Ill be the first to admit that Im no Richard the Lion-Heart. I stand just under six feet tall when naked which is how I like to stand. Im skinny, have average looks and dont work too hard at preening myself. I also wear thick, black-framed glasses. In the brewhouse I put on airtight goggles to protect my eyes, since Im sensitive to chemicals. On the sexual side, I have an average size nozzle that stands to attention as quick as any but doesnt always hold up when called upon (because I get so much, not because I have a problem or anything). What Im trying to say is that Im no second coming of Sonny Corleone or anything. Like I said, its the profession.
Ive moved around quite a bit and have found myself in some pretty interesting positions over the years. Like last week. Im finishing a filtration, something I hate to do because it strips flavor out of beer, when I hear a tap on the windows that separate the brewhouse from the bar. I look up and see a woman bare her breasts. At me. Two slightly stooping bags of flesh, like wort-soaked muslin hop carriers, with darker than usual nipples. But thats all I see because the woman closes her shirt, winks, turns and saunters away. My eyes glue themselves to her buns long and flat, the bottoms of each cheek leading into her pant legs like a seductive smile. I was meant to know that smile, I think, and just then she turns. Our eyes meet and I see that she knows what Im thinking.
A crinking noise and a slight rise in the tone of the pump snap my attention back to the job and I scramble to avoid a clog in the DE filter. I hate filtering.
Actually, Id noticed Elena, thats her name, before lunch. I thought she was just another bar swallow, which is what we call women who flit around the tap handles like theyre looking for stray seeds from a bird feeder. Bar swallows usually order my raspberry fu-fu beer, one of the beers the owner makes me brew.
I wasnt the only one who noticed Elena; a couple of guys had been throwing glances her way, and even tried to engage her in conversation. But their interest had waned when the beer arrived. They were homebrewers--who I can identify a mile away, especially on their first visit. Homebrewers come prepared,pen, paper, some guys even bring laptops to take notes.
The homebrewers had ordered a taster tray, then began sipping and taking notes. Color, aroma, body, taste, they were as thorough as a big brewery micron filter. They also asked for our beer description sheet and I noticed them gathering up coasters and napkins with the brewerys name. Homebrewers are good guys for the most part, and never hesitant to give their opinion on a commercial brewing operation.
Anyway, Elena had my interest. I mean, Im used to forwardness, but she had pressed her best to the glass. She was still at the bar when I finished the filtration. So were the homebrewers, who sat comparing notes and all but ignoring her. The homebrewers were drinking the IPA, which I had to respect them for. It was a beer the owner, a hop dodger from the get go, had given me free rein on and Id put enough hops in it to start the buds of your tongue on fire. Backed up with a hefty malt profile, my IPA is a testament to full flavored beer and Im proud of it.
Elena was drinking the IPA, too, which caused me to revise my initial opinion about her. I walked up to the bar to make plain where my interest lay and she motioned toward the homebrewers.
"These guys want to talk to you about the beer. I can wait."
A half dozen O.G.s, IBUs, and hop addition times later, I thanked the homebrewers for their interest, and treated them all to a pint. Thats another plus for the owner, he allows me a reasonable number of comps.
Elena responded to the hand I offered with a faint smile that, if she pushed out her lips, could have changed instantly to a frown. Her hair was jet black, and complemented the natural darkness of her skin. Southern Italian or Greek ancestry, I thought. Shy until theyre behind closed doors, when they reveal the traits of a hungry lionness. Elenas hair was smooth and straight, cascading over her shoulders like a petroleum waterfall. Her eyes gazed out boldly from under dark eyebrows, with irises so black that I couldnt see where they ended and the pupils began.
"Why were you smiling?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"In the brewhouse. Why were you smiling?" It was a good question, because Im usually smiling all the time when I brew, even when somethings going wrong in the brewhouse, and shed noticed.
"I didnt know you were watching," I replied evasively. Telling a woman that your smile is a reflection of all the yeast cake youre getting is a strategic blunder, especially during your first conversation.
"For quite some time," she said. "I love the way your body glistens with sweat, especially when showcased by copper."
"A pearl among swine," I said, scrambling to come up with a good response. I think that phrase is from The Bible and, okay, I admit that I have used it before, but this time it came off well and convinced me that our conversation was going somewhere.
"Whats your name?" she asked.
"Stan," I replied.
"Stan the Grand."
"I never had someone call me grand before."
"Oh I bet," she said. "What are you doing tonight? Want a date?" My mouth hung open like I was at the dentist, until she snapped it shut with, "Eight oclock, heres my address. Call me if youre gonna be late."
"Im never late," I managed to say, cursing myself for how uncool that sounded.
"Then youre a better person than I," she replied, and sauntered out the door. My eyes dropped to her mash tun again and right then I should have known that I was jumping into a relationship that would reach full boil quickly, and would get burned.
But Im getting ahead of myself. At eight oclock that evening I was at her door. Actually, it was quarter to eight, and I had brought the latest Brewers Bulletin. Five minutes of struggling through grain and hop prices and I knew my mind was elsewhere, so I left the car and walked to her apartment.
She answered my knock half-dressed, brushing her hair. "Youre early. Come in, Ill be right down," she said, then turned and cut off my second view of her naked breasts. This was too much, I thought. I mean, even in Europe where breasts arent as big a deal, they reserve their public baring to beaches and magazines.
As she walked away, Elena brushed her hair up, and my eyes lingered on the gentle slope where her back curved into the yawning hollow of her neck. Right where it hit the bottom of her skull plate, the hollow was lost in a forest of black hair. It was a forest I could get lost in, I thought, dwell on each hair, explore the scalp. She disappeared upstairs and I sat with a huge smile on my face. It was like walking into a brewpub late at night and finding a good bock on tap. Malty up front, a good bock meets you, full-bodied and friendly. Then the hops start acting out, countering the sweet malt and taking you irresistibly down the path toward a clean dry finish. There, in the finish, is the appeal of a bock. Its dry and crisp, and kicks you with enough force to send you back for another.
You probably think I sound a little overjoyed at my situation for a guy whos known so many women. Its just that I appreciate women with a relish my grandma called hormonal frenzy. Grandma says the frenzy starts during adolescence, when we receive an overdose of hormones, but is never fully satiated, which is why we have *** on the brain for the rest of our lives.
Three minutes later Elena was standing before me, jeans topped by a tie-dyed, gauze, button down shirt. Leather sandals cushioned her feet, completing a picture of grace and beauty.
Unable to avoid the topic any longer, I said, "That was the second time youve shown me your breasts."
"Does that bother you?" she asked.
"No, no...no!" I said, trying to sound cool. "Just thought Id mention it."
She reached down and put her hand on my leg. "Do you want to screw before we go out?"
"I...I...I..."
She straightened up. "Let me get my jacket."
Okay, so I flubbed that one. The fact is Ive never been quick with words and usually go on the defensive until I can sort out the terrain. Being near a woman with whom Id like to mash-in creates a sort of verbal spandex on my tongue. It keeps the rougher edges from bulging out beyond what I should be saying. The fact that Elena was not so restricted didnt change my approach; as I see it, *** is an act where two fundamentally different beings come together with the same goal in mind, and thats a recipe for proceeding with caution.
I digress. We went to a Thai restaurant that I hadnt known existed, where I was delighted to learn that Elena was a woman after my own tastes; she liked spicy foods.
"I want to apologize for coming on to you at my apartment," she said, once we were seated. "I didnt mean to embarrass you."
"Thats okay," I replied, not even pretending that I hadnt been surprised. "I just assumed that you preferred the customary buildup, dinner, conversation, a couple drinks." She didnt respond, causing me to dig myself a deeper hole. "Southern Mediterranean women are usually shy. I think it comes from over-protective fathers who know what men really want and try to protect their daughters from being victimized."
"Were in America," she replied, making me realize how stupid I sounded. I shrugged and concentrated on tearing apart the dumpling in front of me. She must have felt sorry for me because she added, "I dont like the tension of Is she or isnt she? in the air of first dates. I honestly thought having *** first would make dinner less awkward, easier to enjoy."
Elenas explanation of her pre-dinner offer led to an evening of lively, freewheeling discussion. The ice was broken and we talked on and on, about everything. Our conversation was so inspiring, in fact, that couples from other tables were listening. The meal acquired more flavor, too, which is always the case when an environment creates a mood that heightens the senses. We could have been in Bangkok or something, dining in some Hollywood inspired scene of international intrigue and romance. I didnt tell Elena this, though, it wouldnt have sounded very cool.
Dinner ended too soon and she suggested that we go out dancing. "As long as I get in by six," I replied, cursing myself the moment the words left my mouth.
"Is that when you turn into Cinderella?" she asked.
"I have to go to work at six," I replied. "I brew tomorrow."
We danced till late, poorly, I admit, and on the way back to her apartment I swung by the brewpub and parked out front. "Why are you stopping?" she asked.
"I always go by the brewery to see that everything is locked up," I said. "Plus, I love to sit and look at the copper. Its nice from here, isnt it?" The gleaming copper kettles were nicely showcased from outside the brewpub, and served to pull people inside. The copper also reminded women why they were attracted to me, the brewer, something I didnt tell Elena.
"Why do you go in so early, to heat up the water?" she asked, ignoring my question.
"Theres a lot of prep work to do. I actually have the water heated the night before. The night manager switches it on before he leaves."
"Are you sure?" She sat silently, her eyes boring through my head in a way that should have warned me that she was up to something. "Should we go check?"
"Check what?"
"The water. Do you have a key?"
"Yeah, no, I mean yes I have a key. Why do you want to see the water?"
I followed her to the back of the building and opened the door. Wondering if she knew something I didnt, I went to check the panel to make sure the heat was on. Once Id assured myself that everything was ready for an early start, I returned to look for Elena. Her clothes were strewn in a path leading to the mash tun. Like Hansel following Gretel (but with something different in mind), I followed the path of strewn clothes.
"Turn off the heat and join me!" she yelled. "Its just the right temperature!" Elena sat inside the mash tun, naked. Her arms were stretched apart, holding two of the prongs on the rake. Her breasts floated on top of the water like anchor buoys, nipples tilted upward, dark beacons of pleasure. Steam rose off the water. "And get me a beer," she added.
"An IPA!" I replied, and disappeared to do her bidding, tearing my clothes off while I ran. See what I mean when I tell you about interesting situations?
When I returned, I was wearing my goggles and ready for anything. She sat calmly, pouring water over her shoulders with a pint glass. I lowered myself into the water, which had reached just the right temperature to make things comfortable, and pushed my way over to her. I handed her the beer, said, "Im going under," and disappeared.
Once underwater, I searched for something to grasp so I could settle between her thighs, which waved about me like two pillars of soft yellow marble, fluted columns of an ancient Greek palace. She moved to make it easier, then held me down, and there, like an underwater Odysseus, I approached the labia majora, which beckoned like the Sirens toward their soft, seductive walls. I buried my head between her marble arches, blocking my ears from the wailing that had drawn so many mariners to their death, and began to seek passage. The light in the mash tun allowed me to see a divine sight--soft brown ridges rippling softly in the whirlpool current--and my mouth dropped open and I inhaled, necessitating an immediate surfacing. But like a schoolboy peeking through a bathroom keyhole at his friends naked sister, I returned for another look. Elena spread her legs wider and I moved closer. The walls began to blur and wobble as if I was looking at them through the rising heat of a campfire and I latched on like a remora, using my tongue to keep me from floating away. I reached under her, grabbed those long, smiling buns and pulled myself closer, a fish kiss on my lips. Water, womb and woman, it all seemed so primal. Elena provided the motion, rocking her pelvis up and down.
Okay, it wasnt the best head Id ever given, but the novelty of my attempt was enough to get her hot and after letting me flop around like a harpooned Moby ****, she grabbed me by the ears and pulled me to the shores of safety. "Okay frog man, lets mash in." She leaned back, and grabbed the rakes.
At first I was a little surprised that shed used a brewhouse expression. Again, I should have seen the warning sign, but at that moment I was occupied by other thoughts. Im not much for boasting but that night I was a turnkey system with all the valves open. A supercharged, well lubed, steam powered brewkettle, reaching full boil in a frenzy of bubbles.
And sure enough, what she said before leaving convinced me that brewing is a blessed profession. We were sitting in the car in front of her house and she turned and touched my hand. "See you," she said.
"Youre not inviting me in?" I asked.
"You have work to do," she said.
"Yeah, I gotta clean out the mash tun. A dose of caustic will clean it out without a trace of our being in there."
"Why not leave it?" she replied, then smiled and got out of the car.
I leaned over and looked up at her. "Why did you pick me?"
"I like your beer," she responded.
