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Given the situation when I last wrote, you’re probably thinking that I never managed a Daily Double that Sunday. Actually, I scored a hat trick--sex three times on the same day! With three different women, that’s the only way a hat trick is official. When Sheila left that morning, I decided to go to the brewpub and work on a couple recipes I’m developing. During lunch I saw a woman admiring the brewhouse, like she’s admiring herself in front of my mirror right now, her pantied ass jutting out like a stubborn chin. Her name was Angela, and she had just come from church. After dining with her parents, who disappeared after the brewpub brunch, she had stopped in front of the gleaming copper kettle. I was sitting at the bar working over my recipes and jumped at the chance; I offered her a tour of the brewhouse. Angela and I hit it off so well that before evening we were back at my place getting busy. We had just met and she was
concered about diseases, so it was a purely oral adventure,"just a snack," she said. I compared it to a hoppy pilsner aperitif to build the appetite. We agreed to meet again and she left in a hurry to get back to her studies. Since it was still early, I returned to the brewhouse to finish up my recipe for the killer brown ale I planned to brew that week. No sooner than I was back on the barstool than who should sidle in but Elena, as lively as a new batch of yeast. I was surprised, and happy to accept her invite at our favorite Thai restaurant. She being Elena and me being Stan, we ended up back at my apartment, enjoying one last round on the course. A hat trick, which I hadn’t scored since last summer.
I was laying in bed congratulating myself on my continuing Daily Double streak when the telephone rang. It was Angela, calling from a bar just down the street. She’d been on her way to visit me, saw a car in my driveway and was wondering who it was. I made up a quick lie and told her my sister was visiting, then invited her over. It was easy enough to get Elena out the door with the same excuse in reverse--she hated meeting family--and ten minutes later, like a fresh delivery of grain, Angela was at my door. At that point I was feeling more used than a pint glass, but it was a couple hours before midnight and I decided I’d have time to regain the stiffness of muscle needed for a hat trick, something I’d never done before. At least not the official hat trick, I’d buried it in the same net a half dozen times in a day.
My name, for those of you who don’t know, is Stan Bonobo. Bonobo, like the ape. And my jobs as a brewer in numerous cities across the US has blessed me with the admiration of women far and wide. As I said at the beginning of this tale, there’s something about brewing that attracts women, something basic. I haven’t quite figured out what it is, but I have been taking full advantage of the opportunities offered. "You’re a lucky man, Stan," my boss, the owner of a brewpub I worked out always used to say.
Turning from her position in front of the mirror, Angela stretched her arms above her head, her breasts pulling away from her ribs which stood out on her skin like the furrows on a cotton field. ‘Furrows," I said.
"What?" she asked.
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