Dash had always been a critical sort. Everything about his life took great consideration; where to go to eat, what to wear to work versus what to wear to go out, what type of music for any given situation, and what type of wine for his first date. He stood looking at the selections available at Classic Wines, the closest liquor store which was in the next town. He had already chosen what he was going to wear and he had laid it out properly on the bed, making sure his shoes were shined and that there were no critical wrinkles in his shirt. He realized he had never asked his date-to-be what type of wine they liked. Dash pursed his lips and stared harder at all the bottles of wine in front of him hoping that a divine answer would jump. His eyes settled on what he hoped would be a cool bottle of wine, Jetbird Merlot. Sounded interesting and chic. Besides, everyone liked Merlot. Dash had put away many bottles of wine at his young age of thirty-six, many of which were Merlot and red blends. After he paid for the wine he began to wonder if he should buy a white, just in case.
'Suppose my date's allergic to sulfites?' he thought to himself.
A hell of a thing to think now. Rather then second-guess himself, Dash settled for his selection, paid for it, and drove home to get dinner ready. At home, he set the bottle aside in his small "man cave" wine cabinet to get just a hint of chill. Pasta was on the menu tonight. Dash was a decent cook and he knew some knockout dishes like his Mom's tagliatelle puttanesca. He readied himself in the kitchen and got to his cooking. About a half hour later there was a knock at the door.
'Already?' he thought. he looked at the clock.
'6:24pm'
Time had flown while he cooked and got himself ready. He straightened his shirt up and looked at himself in the hall mirror as he passed it. Dash took a deep breath at the door and put on his best "How you doin'?" smile. He opened the door and looked into the face of a handsome man who was smiling back at him.
"Hello, handsome," said the man, smiling and leaning in for a kiss. Dash obliged. "I brought a bottle of wine. I hope you enjoy Merlot."
Dash laughed to himself.
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do," he said, taking the bagged wine from his date. He pulled out the wine and saw it was a big name Napa Merlot. The guy has good taste!
"Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable. Can I pour you a glass?" he asked the dark-haired fellow. His ice blue eyes sent jolts to all the right places on Dash. He walked over to a shelf by the wine cabinet and took out a couple of nice Bordeaux glasses that he had gotten as a housewarming gift last year. Dash set the glasses on the table and went to one of his kitchen drawers to get a corkscrew, his only corkscrew, which was a little cherub whose willy was the corkscrew. Appropriate in certain company, he supposed.
"That's cute," his date said noticing the corkscrew in Dash's hand. They both laughed. Dash poured some wine into one of the glasses and went to move it closer to his handsome date, but instead, misjudged the distance of the push and sent the glass of wine tumbling over the side of the table onto his date's lap. If there ever was a time he wanted to curl up and die, it was right now.
"I'm SO sorry, Mark," Dash said running to get a kitchen towel to clean up the spill. Mark was standing up, looking down at the wet stain that was growing across his crotch. Dash saw that the wine had outlined Mark's manhood and his breath caught in his throat. He didn't know what to say. Mark smiled and reached for the towel in Dash's hand. He smiled.
"No worries," he said, patting his crotch with the towel, "I'm just going to have to take these off and wait until they dry. You don't mind if I go commando at the dinner table do you?"
All Dash could think was "Thank you, Merlot!"
About the Creator
Ruben R Sierra
A multifaceted young middle-aged man trying to make his way in the world. More of my work can be seen at onemindcreativestudios.com
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Witchdoktor
For many generations, the Gray Moon tribe coexisted peacefully with the world around them. Deep in the Rio Claro forest on the south side of the island of Trinidad, the Gray Moon led their lives, largely untainted by the outside world. Ships would pass by on the north side of the island, docking on the piers of Port-of-Spain, the island's capital. Travelers from the Gray Moon tribe would ready their wagons and transport tribal goods to the town to barter for items from the town merchants. The tribal folk were always met with suspicion when they came into town. Women would pull their children close to them and old men would spit at the tribesmen when they passed by on their carts. Sometimes, a rowdy youngster would try to stir up the horses and cause havoc for the tribesmen. No matter. Each time Sabro and Shalumi came to town, they knew what to expect. The tribal Chief, Mainopu, forbade the townsfolk from engaging in fisticuffs or magics with the townsfolk. Sabro had formed a sort of business rapport with one of the merchants that sold meats and cheeses. These were welcome delicacies for the tribe. In turn, Sabro presented the merchant, Georges Duchaine, with exotic tribal goods, like beaded gowns and strands of mother-of-pearl necklaces. All artfully crafted by the tribal folk. Shalumi and his family had gathered sugar cane and tea leaves which fetched a good coin because of the demand from the Crown for rum and exotic teas. Coin was largely useless to the Tribe, so Sabro and Shalumi would spend as much as they could in town, making sure that they got not only the staple items, but also specialty items and trinkets that could be used as mystical components in their rituals and magics. The merchants never questioned them as to why they would want to walk away with pig's innards and spoiled fish bones. The less they knew the better. The market area of Port-of-Spain had grown over the thirty years since the town was named the capital by the Spanish government, and with the constant influx of merchant ships from Europe and the Americas, there were many foods and wares to see. Sabro and Shalumi were always ready to defend themselves and their goods should there be any signs of a threat, but they hoped each time they made their trip here to town that they would never have to do so. It was the year 1787, and tribal folk were given the harshest treatment if they were found to be any sort of social threat to the townsfolk of Port-of-Spain. Such was life. Both Sabro and Shalumi were undaunted by that fact, though, and went about their business calmly before securing everything to their cart and heading back on the Orinico route that led south from the town to the banks of the Rio Claro where they would travel east into forest. Once out of town, Sabro spoke to Shalumi in their tribal tongue, his voice deep and resonant.
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