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Brew Stud's Second Adventure

I gazed at her legs, tumbled over mine like empty cornelius kegs. Sheila was young, a female hop plant at the point of flowering, her resin levels high in anticipation of pollen. Or like the stage in a finished beer when the bitter, yet delicious hop aroma beckons you to drink deeply. Not that I have any specific desire for young women; I love them all--young, old, tall, short, black, and white. And everything in between.

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My hand disappeared into the crevice formed by Sheila’s crossed legs, burrowing for that trigger that was so ingeniously a part of evolution. The female pistil, ensuring that women would continue to seek those of us willing to pay it homage.

She groaned and turned away, her legs toppling onto the silken bedsheet. It had been a late night and she was tired. But I was awake, sporting an erection, and doubting that I was going to sleep any more. Her new position nicely displayed her mash tun, and reminded me of our first meeting. She had been wearing jeans so tight that you could see the outlines of her panties. I’d hoped to take her home and help her out of those jeans, then bury my nose in the lupulus of loveliness, wet and soft from the anticipation of my arrival. It hadn’t happened that way, but here I was weeks later with the voluptuous hop flower laying beside me. Her inviting tun pushed me to action and like an enthusiastic TV game contestant on a roll, I decided to play for the Daily Double. It was Sunday, so I should have no trouble getting in two rounds today. I started to rub her back, my palms circling the broad of her back, pirouettes of foreplay on an ancient stage.

Those of you who read the first part of this story know me. I’m Stan Bonobo, craft brewer and lover of women. As a brewer, I’m blessed with the admiration of all kinds of women. My brewhouse skills and all the breweries that have opened up in the last ten years have enabled me to get a job any place in the country. And the fringe benefits--in the form of women like Sheila--keep me happier than a batch of newly pitched yeast.

Oh, you might remember Elena, the last woman I was with. That didn’t work out. After our Grand Scru in the mash tun, she decided to play games, letting her personal life spill out like trub from a poorly carried bucket. "Stan the Grand" she called me, but even though I really fell for her, I got tired of cleaning up the spills. We didn’t last any longer than the lagering time on an English ale.

But that’s in the past. Here I am again, enjoying the natural fortunes of being a head brewer.
Sheila hadn’t known much about sex. She had fumbled through our first encounter like someone making her first batch of homebrew--poor technique and lots of enthusiasm. Despite that first contact, I could see her potential. Maturity and a little experience would mold her into a gold medal winner. And a lot of practice, which is where I come in.

Sheila resembled the craft brewing industry in the days when nobody knew that much about brewing. The microbrewery pioneers had fumbled along, making mistakes, enthusiastically producing a lot of mediocre—even lousy--products. But many of the beers were great, too, not only because of good ingredients but because there was so much passion behind the efforts. Like young lovers whose initial encounters are clumsy and erratic, the excitement came from exploring new terrain.

Despite my efforts at heating up the tun, Sheila kept her back turned. I lay back and fingered my nozzle, considering whether I should open the tap myself to ease the pressure. Maybe that would shame her into action. Instead, I decided to refocus on the flowering hop plant beside me. Pushing myself to the foot of the bed, I began to run my tongue along her legs. It was time for a different approach and although I could tell that Sheila’s experience in the art of lovemaking wasn’t great, I gambled that the lick and nibble approach would excite her. My Daily Double streak stood at six days, not even close to my record but enough for me to push onward. A guy had to have goals in life.

Sheila rolled onto her back and at first I thought she had changed her mind and decided to make my quest easier. I let my lips linger over her thighs, then approached the inner sanctum, detecting smells from last night’s activity. A mixture of fluids had created perfect conditions for bacterial growth. It was overpowering, like the scent that rises in the early summer’s air when rain has given pollen a medium in which to decay. Stronger than a lambic, even, in its first year of aging. Nonetheless, I readied myself for cultivation. I was a sharecropper plowing the fields, sowing pleasure out of the midst of malodor. And harvesting the rewards.

"Oh my God, I’m supposed to meet my parents at ten!" Sheila said suddenly, her head bouncing off the pillow.

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