by Ron Washam

Erotica for the Natural Wine Lover

He was the most handsome man in the bar. I knew he was the one when he walked over to the jukebox and selected my favorite song — The Police’s “Qvevri Little Thing She Does is Magic.”

He caught my eye and then casually took the bar stool next to mine and introduced himself.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Nat. I’m hoping you want me to be your Pet.”

Yes, it was a corny line, but I took him home anyway. The sex was natural. Nat was finished in no time, exactly the way our ancestors had had sex for thousands of years, with lots of grunting and no foreplay. The old ways are best. He whispered that he’d never before undergone premature ML like that, but that’s what they all say. Yet, somehow he knew I was opposed to manmade intervention, and barely acknowledged my existence. He simply disgorged, and I felt satisfied with my Pet Nat.

It was perfect. And what’s a little spoilage yeast between lovers?


“Oh, Rudolf,” I moaned, “you’re such a teas.”

Rudolf stood over me. I was naked, the canopy of my bush vine completely wild and uncropped, my limbs spread and staked.

“I love the way,” Rudolf whispered, “your lack of chemical intervention attracts so many beneficial insects.”

I blushed. I could feel my desire rising in me. I wanted the crazy Austrian to take my virginity, but all he wanted was the manure from a lactating cow.

“Take me, Rudolf,” I demanded, “I’m your goddess Demeter. I’m your World Ceres. Come celebrate in my dugout.”

“Oh, I would, my Biodynamic Love,” Rudolf said, “but I cannot. It’s a Fruit Day.”


When he pulled me over, I was irritated. I knew I’d been driving under the posted speed limit. The cop just wanted to check me out, find out where I lived, maybe ask me out.

He dismounted from his motorcycle and approached my window. “Are you aware that you changed lanes back there without signaling?”

He was lying, but I liked his eyes, the way they looked directly into mine, never wandering down to my chest or legs.

“Hey,” he said, looking over at the wine I’d just purchased at my local natural wine shop, “is that a bottle of Pithon-Paillé Grololo?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “Have you heard of it?”

“Heard of it? I love them natural.”

“I only drink natural wines,” I declared.

“Oh, yeah, wines, too.”

“So, listen, Officer, about that ticket…”

“Oh, Miss, I could never give a ticket to a woman who treated the Earth as thoughtfully and carefully as you obviously do, and driving a Mercedes SUV! I’d settle for a taste of your Grololo.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I’d like that.”

“And, Officer,” I boldly stated, “you might get to taste the wine, too.”


“What do you have that’s orange?” I asked Alice, my favorite bartender at Go Fukuoka Yourself, my local wine bar that serves only natural wines.

“Besides my hair?” she riposted.

I’d been flirting with Alice for months. There was just something about her, something wild, an erotic energy that made me want to understand her terroir, preferably with my teeth. She was rooted in volcanic soil and would keep me warm all night. I wanted to find out for myself if she was dry-farmed, if I could help by ploughing her.

Alice smiled, and put a glass of something orange in front of me. “Put your nose in it,” she purred, “inhale deeply, memorize how it smells, and don’t take it out until I tell you it’s OK.”

It was heaven. Animal, old shoes, Russell Crowe’s jockstrap, the underside of a fat guy’s manboobs, hints of WD-40… It smelled like lust mixed with bad wine writing. I knew that smell. I’d gotten a whisper of it the one time I’d hugged Alice. I was suddenly in Vertical Shoot Positioning.

Alice just made me smell it for a while. She stared into my eyes as I inhaled over and over, my heart pounding, my manhood at full Bonné.

“Now take it in your mouth, Kitten” Alice whispered, “swish it around, use your tongue to feel what it has to offer. Let me know when you’re finished.”

I was already finished. When she found out, she slapped me. Then kissed me. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d taste that terroir, the last time I’d be eating Crowe. I’d put anything in my mouth that Alice told me to.


“The first rule of Sulfite Club is: you do not talk about Sulfite Club. The second rule of Sulfite Club is: You DO NOT talk about Sulfite Club.”

My girlfriend had introduced me to Sulfite Club. I’d heard vague rumors about it, little bits of conversations among all of our other girlfriends who were studying together for our Master Sommelier exam. We’d all heard of Sulfite Clubs, but couldn’t believe anyone would actually participate in such a primitive, horrible and, well, titillating practice. We all thought it was terrible to even imagine doing that to a wine. And yet, the thought of watching someone do it was arousing.

I’d been having dreams about it, wild and sexy dreams, where half-naked winemakers showed me vile and forbidden things. I’d wake up in a cold soak, exhausted but completely ready to be not just fined, but viciously filtered. I was ashamed, but curious. I might talk all day about the horrors of unnatural practices, but at night I fantasized about surrendering to every form of manipulation.

I dreamed of bâtonnage, though I knew it was wrong. I longed for someone to pry loose my bung, gently insert his baton, and briskly stir my lees. I wanted added Sulfites. I thought of getting a tattoo just below my panty line that read, “Warning: Contains Sulfites.”

I only hoped it would attract the wrong sort of man.

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