With a name like lemberger, you'll never get laid

I was there for a threesome. When he pulled out the bottle of Lemberger, I thought to myself, "this is a very bad idea."

"It's actually Blaufränkisch," he said, noticing my grimace. 

"Gesundheit," I mumbled, not liking the direction this evening was heading. 

With a smirk, he filled up my glass. The inky purple was still vibrant, young. "I don't know if this wine is even of legal drinking age," I snarked, as I watched him fill the other glasses. 

I stuck my nose in the glass. It smelled like stinky cheese. "No wonder it's called Lemberger," I laughed to myself. Sometimes, I'm my own best company. 

I took a tentative first sip, worried it would taste like the backside of a horse. Instead, it popped and fizzled on my tongue, like a virgin bridegroom on his wedding night. Bright raspberry burst forth across my palate like a flirty smack across my ass. "I might actually like this," I realized. The threesome, not so much. 

What we drank: Gut Oggau Blaufränkisch

Score: 5 out of 5 silk neckties