TELL ME HOW YOU DRINK AND I TELL YOU HOW...
What men say

By Martin Ulloa May 2016 LIFESTYLE Read in PDF format N9/2016
TELL ME HOW YOU DRINK AND I TELL YOU HOW... It happens to me quite often. I can’t help but notice what women are drinking, what they order to go with their food, how they taste the beer or what wine they request

I observe them, each and every one of them, and I cannot stop thinking about if they can appreciate the majesty of champagne that flows at their parties. I wonder if they know how to appreciate alcohol in the same way sex is appreciated. Maybe I think all that because I know how to drink. And I don’t hold my tongue. I know the soul of spirits better than many and I can separate – like a surgeon would do – the honesty of a cheap wine from the throat of the person who drinks it.

She was Ukrainian and didn’t stop staring at me while she was wetting her lips in her white wine glass (which was as slim as her waist). I had to approach her. There is nothing more sensual than a woman who knows how to drink a good wine. In one of those well-executed sips, when she closed her eyes and tilted her head, I saw the face I would like to take to orgasm. This is another private obsession that follows the first one. When I asked her what she was drinking she told me it was a special Chardonnay, the ones that Russian River grows in California. She dropped it like that, like the drop that slips down the Riedel glass she was holding (yes, dear friends, we were in one of those restaurants on the island). She finished her sentence and flicked her hair.

“Are you knowledgeable about wines?” she asked.

“I know a bit about drinking,” I responded.

“Explain it to me,” she added.

I had to make use of heavy artillery to win her over. I spoke about flavours, aromas, textures and the wonders of white grapes that grow in limey soils. I told her about the wonderful process of aging wine in oak barrels and how nice that galactic blouse looked on her with a huge opening on her back. She promised to stay with me for one more drink. I was smart and I got her to drink a killer ginfizz with syrup and soda.

“It looks like it’s true that you’re good at drinking,” she said, licking the foam from the ice of the balloon glass. I laughed. After a few drinks, her dance moves, a couple of snuggles, a taxi and a broken heel, I finally had her opposite me. She flicked her blond hair while she pulled out that galactic blouse that left her endless back and the start of her ribs uncovered. She smiled again as she smiled after each sip, letting her eyelids drop, pointing to infinity with her long eyelashes. What happen after left me speechless. She said: “You know how to drink, but I know how to fuck.”

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