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Anthony Ramirez


3 min
Rated:
Explicit

Drink & Love


Pickup On Aisle Threesome

Less Than Butterflies 3.1


Part 1 of 3
by Anthony Ramirez

A part of me — not my ass, particularly — would normally find this sort of chauvinism deplorable. Still, somewhere between traumatizing-sexual-encounter and needing-attention-from-men my indignation evaporates.

About:

Pickup On Aisle Threesome | Less Than Butterflies 3.1

I don’t want to sound poor… but until now I haven’t ever spent more than $10 on a bottle of wine.

It isn’t necessarily that I can’t afford anything better, so much as that I drink wine with great frequency. Still, today I all but floated into the local grocery to pick up something for dinner and a bottle of wine. It was a good day, a day that brought news that my most recent manuscript had been picked up for publication. Today had turned into a day for celebration — one that would require a much nicer bottle of wine than something from the bottom two shelves.

So, as I hover down the wine aisle, my toes seeming to only trail the floor beneath me, the chardonnays and the cabernet sauvignons call to me — my favorites. However, at the end of the aisle there stands a case of glass housing a select few bottles of wine, and next to it, a man about my height sporting a flannel shirt and the sort of beard that’s trimmed just enough to let you know that he is a hipster and not homeless. Unfortunately for the lower shelf cabs and chards and their off-key siren songs, the lure of expensive wine and the boy perusing them sound so much sweeter.

I take a place directly next to him, smiling and looking at the wines in the case.

“That’s a good one,” he tells me, pointing to an exquisite-looking bottle of cabernet. “2011 Mount Eden Vineyards Domaine Eden Cabernet Sauvignon.”

“That’s quite the mouthful,” I reply.

And then, all-too-quick, the man turns to me, cocks his head to one side and announces, “I’ve never been known to mind a mouthful.”

Bold.

“The real question is whether or not you’ve ever been known to give it,” I tell him, fingers now tracing the glass.

The man laughs, and though I’m not facing him, I can feel him watching me. “Ingenuity,” he replies. “I like that.”

“Get to know me,” I dare him. “It’ll fade.”

He introduces himself as Adam, then goes into a spiel about his love for wine, especially coupled with art. I learn that he is an artist who travels between Manhattan and Houston every other month to create and sell his work. He insists on showing me photos of his paintings he has saved on his phone. I fear that it’s going to be some kind of Thomas Kinkade bullshit that I’ve seen hanging in my therapist’s office one hundred times before. I’m shocked to find that the subjects of many of his pieces are either phallic symbols or abortions.

Eat your heart out, Thomas Kinkade.

After a few minutes, an employee walks past, and I ask for a bottle of the Mount Eden Cabernet. Adam, too, requests a bottle for himself, and together we make our way to the checkout line.

“So, what do you do?” he asks.

“I’m a writer,” I tell him with a smile, doing my best not to reach for any candy or trashy magazines. It’s important I let him think I have my shit together, because he is very cute. Eyes like sapphires emphasized by a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses; messy brown hair that curls and swoops upward toward the left; and that neatly-trimmed beard I wouldn’t mind feeling between my legs.

Fucking yum.

He slides his credit card through the reader, not even looking up at me as he asks, “Would you mind if I called you sometime?”

I chuckle, snatching his receipt from the printer and a pen from my pocket. On it, I write my name and phone number — an art probably not practiced since the late ‘90s.

“Anything else?” the cashier asks, having already rung up my own wine.

“Oh, shit,” I mutter. I’ve forgotten to get something for dinner. “Actually, yes. Can you void that?”

The cashier rolls her eyes and hands me the wine back.

“I’ll call you,” Adam tells me with a smile, grabbing my ass as he walks away.

A part of me — not my ass, particularly — would normally find this sort of chauvinism deplorable. Still, somewhere between traumatizing-sexual-encounter and needing-attention-from-men my indignation evaporates…

I backtrack through the checkout line to find food. I’m staring at pork loins and chicken breasts when I feel a pair of eyes on me. I lift my head to look, and to my left find a man ogling me.

Knowing he’s been caught, a smile overcomes his face, which turns bright scarlet.

“Sorry,” he mumbles through that stupid smile. “I just… I really like your hair.” My hands immediately fly up to my cranium to see what — if anything — is different about it. Touching both sides, I remember that I’d tied it in a crown braid earlier.

I stifle a look of disbelief. It isn’t as though I never get hit on. Although I’m not sure I’ve ever been hit on back-to-back in this way, and certainly not in the grocery store. Any more of this and I’ll be forced to head to the produce department to hang out with all the other fruits waiting to be picked out.

I cradle the Mount Eden in my arms like a baby, anxious to go home and drink it so that this day of good fortune can end before the other shoe drops. However, the man — Doug — engages me further, asking me the same sort of questions Adam had only moments before. Patiently, I respond to them, despite the fact that I don’t find him quite as cute or as interesting as Adam. Not to mention that he’s significantly shorter. But when he asks me for my number, I give it to him, because if nothing else, he seems sweet.

And, soon, I’m home on my couch and wearing nothing but an old Pride tank top and a pair of briefs, laughing on the phone with one young man I’ve only just met, while simultaneously sipping my Mount Eden cabernet and texting the other.