The crowd grew increasingly thick, noisy and drunk, so wine critic Kurt Hummel stuck close to the walls of the remote Calistoga wine cave, hoping to go unnoticed in the crush of the post-harvest Bacchanalia.

The event existed merely as a rumor for anyone other than the most established of Napa's winemaking community. But those tales were so juicy, so torrid, so full of debauchery that Kurt had to risk being recognized when he was tipped off to  the time and place of the annual secret, drunken fete.

He had travelled to Napa to rate the 2010 vintage. He had done his best to keep his presence and identity secret, but that sort of information rarely stayed under wraps in this tight-knit community. And while he had praise for some vintners, particularly some of the younger, more obscure winemakers, he had also dished out some harsh criticism to the valley establishment. Being in a room full of vintners might not be the smartest -- or safest -- things he had ever done.

That risk was not enough to scare him off from trying to confirm the rumors of the free-flowing, rare reserve wines, of the abundant haute cuisine from the region's top chefs, and even of the rumored lack of clothes by some bacchanals as the evening progressed.

Kurt had to see it. Experience it. Taste it.

As volume of the overheated crowd peaked, the room took a collective gasp, then cheered.

Bacchus had arrived.

Kurt strained to see as the valley's anointed god of wine and celebration for the year's Bacchanalia was carried into the room on a litter decorated with vines, grape clusters, leaves and golden glitter. His breath hitched.

Bacchus was not the rotund celebrant of art. He was all toned, tanned limbs and a lithe torso fully on display under his less-than-discreet toga. Atop a head of dark curls sat a crown of grape vines. In one hand, he held a oversized goblet, clearly full -- or at one time full -- of wine. In the other, a gilded scepter. 

This was a Bacchus like no wine god Kurt had seen illustrated before. This wine god was hot.

He also looked vaguely familiar.

Kurt maneuvered through the throng for a better vantage point, risking recognition. At this point, he really didn't care. He positioned himself against a wall near the middle of the room and watched as Bacchus was lowered to the ground, sharing hugs and kisses with the bacchanals before silencing the crowd with a wave of his goblet.

"Bacchanals! Protectors of the vines! Purveyors of the harvest! We honor your wares!"

"To wine!," he bellowed, laughing freely. "The parent of friendship; the composer of strife; the soother of sorrow; the blessing of life!"

Kurt was increasingly certain he knew the evening's chief celebrant, but could not get a clean view of his face to be certain. He craned his neck further to get a better line of sight as Bacchus offered a toast to the crowd.

"We gather again to honor our harvest and our hard work. To honor our community. To honor the wine that holds us together. 

"May the season provide us all an abundant harvest;

"May the bottle offer you the drink of the gods from above;

"May the table feed you a hearty meal;

"And may the night warm you with love."

As Bacchus raised his goblet to drink he turned and looked directly at Kurt. 

Kurt stared, stunned, recognizing the wine god as Blaine Anderson, the young and unmercifully attractive head of Dalton wines, an up-and-coming boutique winery bottling a respected line of bold, complex Rhone varietals.

The winemaker's whiskey eyes locked on to Kurt. He'd been made. He knew it, and he wasn't sure he cared.

The blessing of the harvest complete, the room returned to its established din. In the noise and heat of the room, Kurt lost focus for a moment.

Before he could register what was happening, he found himself trapped between a toga'd torso and the wall, a muscular arm stretched alongside his neck, its hand pressed into the wall alongside his cheek.

"Welcome to the Bacchanalia," Blaine said, his voice as heated as the room. "Come to bless the harvest, Mr. Hummel?"

"Please ... It's Kurt."

The corner of Blaine's mouth raised, slightly lower than a grin, but brighter than a smirk.

"Kurt. I'm assuming this is your first Bacchanalia? Is it living up to your expectations?"

"Umm," Kurt responded, looking into Blaine's eyes and losing any semblance of composure.

"Well," Blaine said, leaning closer and raising an eyebrow. "What had you heard about our celebration? As king of this festival, I take it upon myself to ensure that it lives up to its reputation. So tell me, what do you expect from the Bacchanalia?"

"I'd heard that the wines were some of the best in the valley, and the hardest to find on the market," Kurt said.

Blaine smiled broadly, and handed Kurt his goblet. "I think that's self-evident. Drink. What else?"

"There were rumors of crime," Kurt said, his voice slightly hushed.

"Well, that woman's dress should be against the law," Blaine said conspiratorially, nodding toward a large body in a very small dress across the room. Then he whispered in Kurt's ear, "What else?"

The heated breath still caressing Kurt's hairline, he made a sincere effort to answer, but his voice betrayed him."There's the ... um ... the ...."

"Yes?" Blaine looked up at him through his lashes, his glance starting at Kurt's eyes and slowly dropping to his mouth.

"There's sex."

Blaine leaned in closer, pressing his hips in line with Kurt's, and leaving no doubt of his intentions.

"Well, the wine god does have a responsibility to make sure his Bacchanalia is a success." 

***