7.5% ABV on tap
J was the most beautiful woman I ever dated. Using an “out-of-10″ number scale was futile when discussing her, but she was about as attractive as a normal girl could be. Then again, she came from the loins of two un-normal people–a small-time model and a smaller-time CFL player. She was modelesque, statusesque, and ultimately kinda crazy. I tried to force chemistry with her just because I liked having such a tall knock-out on my arm wherever I went. This was during my more egotistical days. Though we never had a future, even from the get-go, I wish I still knew her. I just liked sitting across the table from her in a restaurant and staring.
A was the best in bed, which is odd, because she was a mere 22 years of age when we began dating. Even though I was 7 years her senior, she schooled me in moves, leading me to wonder how she was so sexually educated. The fact that she was a neo-hippie that liked to follow jam bands around the country during the summer made me think she probably spent a lot of time on her back in muddy tents at field shows, a bearded stinker on top of her, trying out a Kama Sutra of shroom-influenced positions. It also made me realize why she had a fairly respectable bush for a 22-year-old in the 21st century.
K was the most sexually willing. She had a voracious appetite–both sexual and food-wise, come to think of it–and simply could not get enough of me (or Thai food). She was kinda lazy in bed though, not very flexible, and had some self-lubrication issues. Yet she always wanted it. My weekly prophylactics tab was extraordinarily high, my shaft was always chafed, my knees ached worse than a hard court tennis player’s, and I didn’t even need to work out any more, all thanks to her.
S was the ugliest girl I ever dated. She wasn’t “ugly” per se–not by a long shot–she just wasn’t super attractive with her bland face and slightly doughy body. Meeting up with her for our first date after having picked her up loaded one evening earlier in the week at a dive bar, I was a little stunned by my false remembrance of her beauty levels. Nevertheless, I was a trooper and drunk my beer goggles back on before falling into bed with her that very night and then went out with her again and again and again and next thing I knew we had been dating for half a year and I’d given myself a six-month long bender.
P was the kindest and never got mad at me for any of the countless stupid and selfish things I am always wont to do (like writing a female superlatives catalog.) In retrospect, she was actually kind of a doormat (and would have said nothing about me writing a female superlatives catalog–though would have secretly seethed.)
F was the sexiest and of course wasn’t American because, you know, the anti-jingoistic rumors are true–American women just aren’t that sexy typically. Then again, when American men call a women “sexy”–a term American men rarely use because it’s just one of those embarrassing words to say unironically–they usually just mean that she has an over-the-top sexuality. Which, again, few American women possess. American women wear jeans and hooded sweatshirts and pony tails and flip-flops and subscribe to dumb time-frame rules before hopping into bed. A woman like F wore slinky dresses and flowing locks where ever we went, whenever we went there, subscribed to no rules besides “tongue kiss any one and every one you find attractive,” and quite frankly made me feel inadequate and inhibited, which is never a nice feeling.
Q was the smartest girl I ever dated but I really don’t have anything to say about her because she was just so boring and never liked to do anything fun and actually was kinda more book smart than smart smart. Which in retrospect makes me realize she was kinda dumb. Because any one that is 30 that you are still calling book smart, even though they’ve been out of their US News & World Report Top 10 college for a decade, is probably not that smart at all. It’s the “cute face” of backhanded intellect compliments.
L was the dumbest girl I ever dated. I had to intentionally make myself about 40 IQ points dumber every time I spoke to her just so she would understand me. I couldn’t really use polysyllabic words such as “polysyllabic” with her, which is not really a word one should ever use any ways, especially in romantic or sexual situations, but I was just making a point there. Just like with ugly S, I had to always be drunk with L just so I could exist with her because: her sober equaled me after about 15 beers IQ-wise at least.
B was the most annoying. She never quit fucking talking and it wasn’t like she had a silky voice either. Her voice was shrill and nasally and jarring. I was embarrassed to take her in public, but alone it was like babysitting a toddler (not that I’ve ever babysat a toddler before, but I can imagine based on some sitcoms I’ve seen.) There was really no excuse to ever even be in the same room with her except for the fact that I was bored and lonely at that time in my life. I’m glad I’m no longer bored and lonely.
I’m not sure I’ve ever dated a truly funny women, but B had the best sense of humor. And by that, I mean, of course, she laughed every time I said something funny, which is rare to find in a woman oddly enough. But did she make me piss my pants in laughter? No, of course not.
U was the best drinker. 60 pounds lighter than me yet no matter where we went she could match me drink for drink. Buckets of beer, pitchers of sangria, shots of Jameson, didn’t matter. She drank everything, quickly and thoroughly. I’d have called her an alcoholic but she was far more responsible than me, never seemed to get hungover, never called in sick for work, and oddly seemed a paragon of health. She may have been a drunkard of a superhero in respect.
And I had my first ever glass of Brooklyn’s Dark Matter with a new girl, which is always the best girl. Yet another offering in Brooklyn’s stellar every-month-or-two, tap-only Brewmasters Reserve series, this is one of the best I’ve had yet. Created in the same way as Brooklyn’s stellar Black Ops, though this time using an imperial brown ale for the Woodford Reserve bourbon-barreling as opposed to a big boy stout. Boozy and rich, with tastes of caramel, vanilla, and oak, this is a quite worthy “little brother” companion to Black Ops. Decent chilled, as it warms the flavors explode, more so than any beer I’ve had recently, and I’d advise just drinking it at room temperature straight from the get go.