by Lucy E. Zahnle

Created on: September 24, 2009

For good or bad, love and beer have always been strong influences in my life. Until I was in my teens, my father drove a beer truck for a Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer distributor and delivered beer to taverns all over the county.

Alcohol, including beer, was part of the poisonous cocktail that killed my parents' love for each other and eventually took my mother's life. Yet beer was also instrumental in alerting (I really can't say "introducing") me to the love of my life.

When I was in college, I joined the campus Science Fiction Club, which always went out for pizza on Thursday nights after the meeting. I had been a member of the club for about a year when a former member who had recently finished a tour with the army rejoined the club. I didn't know him and didn't really spend a lot of time talking to the people who formed part of his circle, so even after several months, I was barely aware of his existence.

One night, after a meeting, I went out to pizza with the rest of the club. So did the army guy. I sat in a booth with my roommate, drinking iced tea and talking long after the pizza was gone. Across the aisle, the army guy was sitting with one of his friends. Joking and grinning, they were working on their second pitcher of beer.

Suddenly the army guy's friend got up and left. The army guy smiled a big, canary-eating smile at me. I nodded and smiled a nervous, little canary smile at him. He must have taken that for an invitation because he slid out of his seat and into the vacant space next to me in my booth.

Full of drunken charm, the army guy struck up a flirtatious conversation with my roommate and me. Things were going fine until, under the table, I suddenly felt the army guy's fingers on my blue jean covered thigh. Then the palm pressed down and fingers and palm most definitely squeezed. I lifted my eyebrows, staring, dumbfounded, at my roommate. She gave me a questioning look, unaware of what was going on under the table. She kept on talking; he kept on squeezing.

When it came to experience with men, I was a lot younger than my twenty years suggested and I really didn't know what to make of this man. I finally decided that maybe if I scooted over, he would take the hint and stop, so I moved a little closer to the wall. He moved a little closer to me. I felt another squeeze or two. I scrunched over a little more. He scrunched over a little more. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze!

By this time, I was making contorted, gargoyle-like faces at my clueless roommate.

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