by Ron Washam

Wine’s Forbidden Love

I’m not sure how I’m going to get through this confession. And, to be perfectly honest, I know that after reading it, you’re going to think differently about me, think much less of me, for the most part. But I’m tired of hiding who I am, tired of pretending that I’m “normal.” Whatever that is. Like you’re so normal. I can’t help who I am. It wasn’t a choice I made, it was simply about accepting what I felt, no longer keeping it hidden from the world. So please try to keep an open mind. Don’t judge me.

I mean, I was raised to believe, like most of you, that romantic love was meant to be between a man and a woman. Or maybe a man and several women. Or maybe a man and a really ripe bleu cheese. So it’s been hard for me to accept my own desires, to finally admit to myself, and now to the world, that I’m not like “normal” men. I feel a strong sexual desire that most people, especially religious people, would find repellent. I get that. I look in the mirror and I feel repulsion. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’ve heaped scorn upon people, insulted them, called them derogatory names, for feeling the desires and needs I’m feeling myself now. But I think I’m ready to accept the name-calling, the dirty stares, the revulsion people will feel when I make my confession. I hope I’m ready. OK, here goes.

I’m in love with a Master of Wine.

Oh, I can read your minds. You’re thinking, Ew, what’s it like to kiss an MW? How does the sex work? Do they really use a wine thief for that? You’re not even wondering what it’s like to be me. You think about how there is no way in the world you’d ever be able to be intimate with an MW, how even seeing one naked would make you as impotent as a newspaper wine critic. I know, I used to feel the same way. I did. And I wasn’t faking it. At the time, I couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting. Yes, I’d watched a few pornographic videos of actors having sex with an MW, but only out of curiosity. I mean, we’ve all watched anal sex, and isn’t having sex with an MW about the same thing? I didn’t think it was so bad, though I was oddly aroused by it. But I thought it was just the English accents.

I met her at a wine tasting. I knew immediately she was an MW. Well, she told me within the first five seconds we met. I think she had to, that it’s a law, like with registered sex offenders. We struck up a conversation. She seemed intrigued by my willingness to speak with her. No one else was, but she seemed used to that. I could see that other people were giving me dirty looks, or at least hoping that I was quietly berating her, asking her to leave quietly, go somewhere where she belonged, maybe some filthy wine competition with her own kind. But I wasn’t berating her, I was enjoying my talk with her. Maybe it was all the “Supernatural Wines of Transylvania” I’d been tasting, but I found her beautiful.

Haven’t you ever felt that way towards an MW? Even once? Like you’re at a party, you’ve had a few drinks, and you find yourself kind of attracted to the wine expert, and even though you know the sex would be disgusting and awkward, you have that moment where you think you might try it just once? Just out of curiosity? But right before you make your move, your partner walks up sheepishly, bleats, “Baaaaa,” and you come to your senses. Bestiality is one thing, sex with someone of the vinifera persuasion is quite another. And not just because you could catch bunch rot. So you know it’s possible to have those feelings. My feelings just didn’t go away. We exchanged cards.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I fantasized about her nonstop. And then I started fantasizing about MWs in general. It got so bad that all the pages of my issues of “World of Fine Wine” were stuck together. I imagined sex with three or four MWs at a time! I’d heard so much about “hole cluster” I wanted to see it for myself. And the whole time I was dreaming about her, I was pretending to lead a normal life. In the privacy of my own room, I was entertaining the idea of having a relationship with an MW. But I couldn’t tell anyone. Who could I tell who wouldn’t think I was sick? Yet I was forced to admit to myself that I was in love with this magnificent, beautiful, intelligent, talented woman who had turned to the MW life. I felt nothing at first but self-loathing.

Our first date was amazing. Though everyone in the restaurant was staring at us. When my MW went to the rest room, the woman at the next table leaned over to me and said, “You should be ashamed of yourself bringing HER to a public place. Keep your filthy romance private, no one likes to see you people when they’re eating!” I just stared at my food. But throughout the date there was no denying the chemistry between us. It was like our own malolactic fermentation. By the end of the evening, I knew she was all creamy for me.

We slept together that first night. It was hard to get used to her bedroom. She insisted on a pure white light being on, in order, she said, to closely examine my meniscus as she peered through my robe. Well, my tension was more than surface. My heart was pounding. I’d never felt such desire. Part of it was how forbidden and foreign it was to have sex with an MW. I felt simultaneously dirty and aroused, like all the best sex. Before we began, she asked for a “small rinse.” I didn’t want to know what had been in there before me. We kissed, and it was an odd sensation. She was a Super Taster, and with all those extra taste buds, there was barely any room for my tongue. I hate to brag, but her taste buds were big and beautiful, and, she swore to me, all natural. I never wanted my tongue to stop touching them. She said my tongue tasted like “a pleasant little French country wine — a lengua Franca.” She was sexy and charming, and by the amount of her ML, I could tell she wanted me. The sex was lovely, let’s just leave it at that. I screamed her name when I climaxed, and, as you’d expect from an MW, so did she.

So, there, it’s out. I know what you’re saying, that derogatory word you’re calling me, and it’s true. I’m an MWfucker. I’m in love with an MW. There, I’ve said it. I’ve lost my marriage, my job, and any hope of drinking house wine again. Most of my friends won’t talk to me either. Is it worth it? I don’t know. What choice do I have? I don’t want to have sex with humans any more, I need to sleep with MWs. Hate me if you want, pity me if you feel the need, but try to forgive me, accept me for who I am. Ask yourself, would anyone in their right mind make this his choice?

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