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Brew Stud's First Adventure

I don’t know

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what it is, but there’s something about being a brewer that attracts women. Something sexual. A friend of mine says it’s our ability to create; like females, brewers give birth. Maybe he’s right. There’s no denying that the reproduction of yeast is essential in brewing beer. Or maybe it’s 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. It’s 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 I’m not boasting. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no Richard the Lion-Heart. I stand just under six feet tall when naked—which is how I like to stand—I’m skinny, have average looks and don’t 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 I’m sensitive to chemicals. On the sexual side, I have an average size nozzle that stands to attention as quick as any but doesn’t always hold up when called upon (because I get so much, not because I have a problem or anything). What I’m trying to say is that I’m no second coming of Sonny Corleone or anything. Like I said, it’s the profession.

I’ve moved around quite a bit and have found myself in some pretty interesting positions over the years. Like last week. I’m 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 that’s 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 I’m 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, I’d noticed Elena—that’s 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 they’re 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 wasn’t 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 brewery’s 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, I’m 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 I’d 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 I’m 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."

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