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Team Penthouse
23 Oct 2019

Beer and Bliss

As an American who likes beer, I thought I’d landed in heaven after moving to Sheffield, England.

The real ale culture there is intense, and it seemed like there was a pub on every street corner.

English beer is different from American beer in a few ways. The temperature is higher — cellar-cool, rather than artificially chilled — and the pints are larger: 20 fluid ounces, rather than 16. The ABV — alcohol by volume — is smaller to compensate, but that also means you get a wider range of flavor and style. Basically, the moment I sipped my first proper British pint, I was obsessed.

England also has a lot of beer festivals, and CAMRA — the Campaign for Real Ale — is an organization that sponsors many ale-related events. I bought a membership, attended a few dull meetings, then focused on drinking my way to enlightenment. I became a regular at my local pub and started branching out into regional events.

I’d always assumed that drinking excessive amounts of beer wasn’t great for meeting women, but there were plenty of hot beer enthusiasts at all the pubs.

My favorite was Claire, the bartender at my local pub. She was young, hot, and witty, with brown hair, a gorgeous smile, and a fascinatingly distinct Blackpool accent. We spent a lot of nights shooting the shit, and as the months passed, I developed a serious crush on her.

The vibe between us had always been flirty, but I knew better than to assume bartenders are actually flirting, rather than just being friendly. I kept talking to her anyway, hoping that someday she might be into me.

One night, after we’d been talking about the merits of British beer, she leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “Want to go to a real ale festival with me?” she asked.

There was only one answer I could give to that question. “Hell yes.”

A week later, we ended up meeting outside the pub so we could walk to the train station together. The festival was in Manchester, and the entire way there, I kept thinking about her eyes, her mouth, and, frankly, her phenomenal body. Claire was this American’s British fantasy come to life.

Once we actually got to the festival and started tasting, I was even more enraptured. There’s nothing hotter than a confident woman, and Claire was able to identify the subtlest flavors in various samples. She chatted with the vendors and offered intelligent commentary, and every time she put a glass to her lips, I wished it was my dick, instead.

After a few hours, I was tipsy, and so was she. We giggled as we tried a chocolate-chili stout that was pretty awful, but we finished the high-ABV drink anyway. Then she leaned into me, pressing her mouth against my ear even though it wasn’t that loud in our vicinity.

“This is the perfect afternoon,” she said. “There’s only one thing that could make it better.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, my dick already twitching with interest. “What would that be?”

She looked at me with a dead serious expression. “After drinking, I like to enjoy a good cock.”

I almost choked on my own spit. “What?”

“A good cock,” she repeated slowly and loudly. “I would like one.”

At this point, a few people nearby had overheard and were looking at us with amused interest, so I grabbed Claire’s elbow and led her away from the crowd. “To clarify,” I said, “you want my cock?”

“Unless you’re suddenly a pimp, yes.”

I looked around wildly in search of a private area, but there wasn’t one under this big white tent. “Let’s try outside,” I said, hardly able to believe my luck.

I took Claire to the smoking area, but it was predictably crammed with people. That left either returning to the tent and not getting laid — unacceptable — or finding a secluded place to fuck her.

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[avatar]
Team Penthouse
23 Oct 2019

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