Archive for the ‘Wine Short Fiction’ Category

In Praise of Greek Love and Wine.

April 30, 2010

She was young, she was curvy, extremely so. Her hair was straight like Obama‘s foreign policy, jet black, a crow’s plumage. Birds I love when they are quiet, because when they quack in the early morning I wish I had my Iver Johnson .22 caliber at hand. She was lovely and her parents were Greek. She was Greek inside out except for the fact that she was Canadian, just like, er, me, with the difference that I am from Peru and she was born in some hole-in-the-ground town somewhere in that desolate expanse of flat land between Winnipeg and Regina. She had been raised there by strict parents, especially when it came to racial purity and all that jazz. I met her travelling on a Westbound Blackhound bus. I was coming back from a disastrous amorous (mis)adventure in Ottawa. She was a fresh new student eager to see the ponderous architecture of Simon Fraser University. Our destinies converged. So did our lips, in the dark of the bus driving under a million stars of the prairie sky.

In the middle of our kiss I felt something hard between her legs, long and cilindric. Holy cow, I thought. She has a penis. I knew it. I could  not possibly be so lucky to hit the jackpot of beauty youth and Greek sensuality after having been ejected by a combination of bad luck, poor choices and the stern Baptist dogma that my ex from Ottawa had used to shield herself from my loving advances. Ok, loving and something else. But Im human, after all. So, back to the subject of interest. A penis! I had been picked up by a little transvesti. What the hell is that, Gina? (that was her first. No last names over the net. Suffice to say it ended in stenikanapopopolous) She was too naive to understand my alarm. After all, I was 24 years old(er).

With a mischievous smirk she went “shashhh” and produced a small bottle of wine. I brought my farewell dinner leftovers and I poured half a bottle of Agiorgitiko in this demi. WHAAAT? At the time I was completely ignorant of any wine other than Yellowbum and Jackson Thrills. Giorgio who? I demanded. Agiorgitiko, she repeated, taste it. She put the bottle to my lips. In the dark I gulped a bit. It was wonderful. Then she produced some lamb roasted meat from her bag. I had a morsel. I chewed. I took another sip. It was miraculous.

My romance didn’t last too long. Once in Vancouver, Gina realized that there were a lot more attractive young men than the older guy she had met riding buses across Canada and said goodbye to me. But she left me something a lot better than these sweet memories.

The red in the penis-demi-bouteille turned out to be the ODE, a blend of  Agiorgitiko and Cabernet Sauvignon made by Greek wine powerhouse Boutari. It’s delicious and possibly the best Greek I’ve had so far. Only that when I drink it makes me feel like crying. For when I close my eyes and take my nose to the glass, I can feel the gentle hum of the bus’ engine, remember the darkness of the cabin, our secret kiss, endless, interminable, like the finish of a good wine.

Go get your bottle (just around 20) and when you drink it and enjoy it think of me.


(sounds good, whatever the hell that means)


Sex by the Glass. Chapter I: The Shiraz Wine Rep

September 29, 2009

SEX BY THE GLASSsexy_wine[1]
Eight Short Stories of Wine und Sex
By Ivan Loyola

“Let me introduce you to the world of Shiraz”. The woman standing in front of me was tall, prepossessing, self confident to the point of being aggressive and definitely red, both in hair and personality, fiery and determined, voluptuous and with an unlikely touch of spice showing through the mischievous glint of her tea-green eyes. Her accent was thick as the wine she poured for me in the long-stemmed chalice she held in a hand that had less of a hand than of an eagle’s claw. It fashioned a gold band around one of its fingers, which made me think she was married, which she was, although, as I would understand later, in her own words, “it didn’t matter”.

I had met her a month earlier, at a wine tasting to which I, a firm believer in European lager when times were good and local piss when cash -strapped, was dragged by a friend whose girlfriend had left him a few days earlier. “The bitch” he growled “went for this young uneducated buck who struck it rich working in construction”. He paused and looking distant he mumbled “the damn Olympic Games.” Hmm…. I thought my friend might’ve been a bit jealous. I knew he had applied –without luck- for a couple of jobs in the booming construction industry of Vancouver’s first decade of the third millennium. “Wine tasting? Forget that”, I said, with a resolve that only a Neocon willing to launch a bombing campaign on a Muslim nation could boast. “I’m not drinking that stuff, it gives me headaches”, I added, thinking myself out of the hook. “Sorry man” he said, with a confidence that reminded me of the monies I owed him. “Tomorrow you’re supposed to pay back the interest. I could forgo it if you come”. I didn’t have a bargaining chip. “Ok”, I said. “With the condition that we will go and drink ourselves silly with beer before hitting the snob crowds”. “No problem”, he grinned. As it usually happens in my life, I had let somebody else decide for me.

The great 1998 Australian Shiraz wine tasting. That is where I met Jennifer Audrey Sarah Wilkinson, the potent red beauty that kept looking at me with piercing eyes while I sipped the mesmerizing, ruby red liquid. The Convention Centre at Canada place gleamed like a jewel under the twilight of that wondrous summer night. I looked at the reddish stuff, feeling like a sacrificial lamb. I took a deep breath and lifting the glass, I tried to detach from myself, in the way prostitutes are instructed to do while exercising the trade of the flesh. “Wait!” She said, with a commanding energy in her voice that would have been impossible not to obey. Her hand grabbed my forearm and removed the glass from my hand, with the simultaneous determination and gentleness that only the daughters of Aphrodite can wield, either as a weapon or a charm, depending on the situation. Tall enough to lean over the table she pulled me toward her, putting her mouth a few inches from my ear. A whiff of eucalyptus came off her hair, a scent that –I would find later- was the hallmark of her favorite Australian shampoo brand. “First you have to swirl it” she whispered, or I thought she did, half drunk as I was. “Yeah, just like that, give it a few good swirls”. Her voice was now soft and velvety, her eyes followed the circular motion of her hand holding the glass. One would have said she was enamored with the whole ritual. She looked at me with all the intensity of her eyes, the green tea tone of her irises highlighted by the dark mascara she had artfully applied. This I learned later, when dating a Mediterranean woman who, in spite of her rather paltry beauty, made herself into a radiant female through the masterful use of make up. I tried the swirling myself, clumsily, my hand going back and forth in a choppy fashion. Then something incredible happened. “Hold on” she said, and her hand landed on mine, and holding the glass together she showed me what she meant. “See, it’s easy if you just do it gently, from one side to the other, in wide open circles, just like that”. As she said this I felt the warm pressure of her hand on my knuckles, the dexterity of her wrist bending mine back and forth as we swirled, together. In that moment I knew this woman who insisted to be called by all three given names would teach me much more than just wine tasting. Or at least, that is what I thought. What do you see? She asked me. I looked up and saw her healthy, beautifully layered hair. Red and thick? I ventured. She stared at me approvingly. “A quick learner, aren’t you?”. She was talking not about wine, I figured, but about herself, and so was I. Soon I would learn the joys and sorrows of drinking Australian Shiraz….

stay tuned….