You may recall my post about a month ago. I was very excited about Van Halen going on tour with David Lee Roth. However, betting the tour would end in a train wreck, I decided to purchase one of those amazing VIP Packages for one of their very first shows, thinking the boys could hold it together for at least the first week.
I chose Chicago. I picked Chicago for the pizza, and the pizza was absolutely amazing! I made a great decision. Nothing comes close to real Chicago deep dish pizza. I’m not going to tell you where, but there’s really only one of two places. I would suggest going to both of them. I did twice. It sounded fabulous, until a freak storm shut down flights, and created a large “getting there” problem for me, but I wasn’t going to miss the show for anything, including a massive snow storm. I was looking forward to going to the pre-show party, and the backstage tour, and trying to get into some shenanigans all at the same time. Once in a lifetime.
Long story short, I pulled a couple of overnight stays in airports, mostly counting specks in squares of acoustical ceiling tiles. It was definitely a geometrical nightmare with sleep deprivation. Something along the lines of bamboo in the eyes. But I made it to the show on time, with bells on. I posted some up close pictures from the front row of the show under the photos section of my website. You should check them out. Also, I posted some pictures of Frank Llyod Wright’s house, and my super secret pictures from the Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory too. In the end, even with the snow storm and travel delays, all were good times, and I would do it again!
—ooOoo—
I should also write about my trip to the accelerator lab. A must for any physics guy. But since I was there over a weekend, the place was closed, no access or tours going on. Thankfully, however, I met this nice young lady, a security guard, that was most helpful that afternoon.
She was young, conservatively twelve years my junior. We knew each other for less than an hour. I forgot her name minutes after she told me. I still can’t remember her name. It’s possible that she never told me in the first place. An African American, petite, on duty security guard, at a national accelerator laboratory, protected by our armed military forces. And, while in full uniform with a utility belt, in an open area of the lab, which seemed a gazillion miles above a scientific marvel – nay, a scientific freak of nature – she, pressed up against that floor to ceiling glass, pushing me back hard with those youthful legs hidden under military grade trousers, almost causing me to break part of the interactive display showing a detailed piece by piece dissection of the tunnels below.
Twas awesome. Game on. I’m familiar with this move. I did not have any problem reciprocating, doing the old reach around the waist and undoing the utility belt routine. Her pants, heavy from the belt, dropped hard on the floor, making way too much of a sound given the delicacy of the situation. She didn’t skip a beat. She didn’t care about the belt. She didn’t care about the sound. She didn’t even care to look at me most of the time. She just kept looking out and over the accelerator below. She was hypnotized. She was mesmerized. It was like she was watching a scene from one of Georges Méliès’ fantastic moving pictures.
A couple of times she pulled her hair back, tilted her head to the side, and sternly barked: “Bite my neck. Harder! What the fuck’s your problem?” I was in love. Where did she come from? I wish we had more time. But this would be our only time.
She was so tight, so tight at first. I had to relax my nerves in order to get enough spit in my mouth, in order to get enough spit on my fingers, in order to simply help with the situation. But then it happened, we did good work together. Coupled with some more spit and one big tearing like push, I began thrusting my full length inside of her. I could hear a low moan, a noise that generally emanated from her throat area.
Her effort was outstanding! I don’t know how she stayed up on her toes that whole time. Perhaps she’s a dancer? Ballet? Classical? Or given her petite stature, perhaps she’s just accustomed to assuming that position. Whatever the story, whatever the reason, she was truly amazing that snowy Chicago afternoon. What strength too. I can only recall the flats of her feet touching the floor once, while doing that cute ‘back and forth thing’ girls do while pulling their panties all the way down, and kicking them off and to the side with almost rhythmic like foot motion. It looks to be skipping anticipation.
Good question. I really don’t know how it happened. I don’t think she’s one of us, although she apparently likes the same things. No, I think she was bored. She needed to get laid that afternoon, and I got fucking lucky, literally. It must’ve been my turn that day. Or perhaps she holds a latent kink? A Mistress born in February. I was clearly under her control and dominion the whole time.
What’s her scenario? Sorting out some dorky white guy that’s walking confused and aimlessly around a locked-down government facility. After a brief moment of pause and reflection, wondering why the guards just didn’t shoot me while driving past the gate, she thought perhaps it would be best to have sexual intercourse with me? How nice.
I love Chicago. The people are amazing! I think she was right though, you know, afterwards, when we were walking back downstairs, chatting about my visit, joking whether or not I enjoyed my tour. Perhaps I didn’t understand what the guards were trying to yell at me. Perhaps the guards did mistake me (or my car) for someone else. Who knows. Who the fuck cares. Because when she spun around and dropped to her knees, finishing with me deeply in her mouth, quite frankly, I really didn’t give a shit. I was just happy for not having been shot … and pleased that this was all happening.
My Chicago Times
Writer: Jake