The black eagles pumpin joy - Love Lyrics and Love Song Lyrics - I - R - Links 2 Love


Wednesday, January 18, 7pm
Italy: Off The Beaten Path with Michael McCaulley and Jared Cannon of Tria
Think you’ve seen (and tasted) it all when it comes to Italy? Think again! While Italy is arguably the world’s most beloved food and wine culture, there’s plenty of nooks and crannies to be explored further, and who better to give us the tour than the folks at Tria? Tria is one of Center City’s best spots to learn about wine and beer at their Fermentation School and Wine Room. Join Tria’s Wine Director/Partner Michael McCaulley and Executive Chef Jared Cannon for a trip down Italy’s path less traveled with a wine pairing menu including Ricotta Bruschetta with Prosciutto Wrapped Gorgonzola Stuffed Fig (paired with Vermouth di torinno Cocktail, Antica Casa Scarpa, Piedmont, Italy); Grilled Calamari, Frisée, Gigante Beans, Tomato Relish, Calabrian Chili Oil and Lemon Vinaigrette (paired with Grillo Bianco “TamÍ,” Arianna Occhipinti, 2014, Sicily, Italy); 1732 Meats Wagyu Beef Bresaola, Baby Arugula, Moliterno al Tartufo Pecorino, Fig Balsamic Vinegar and Olive Oil di Montalcino (paired with Rosso di Valtellina “Nebbiolo,” ., 2014, Lombardy, Italy); Testaroli al Pesto, Italian Sausage and Parmigiano Cravero (paired with a surprise “Orange Wine”); Lamb Sottocino, Shaved Fulvi Pecorino Romano, Castle Valley Mill Stone Ground Polenta (paired with Sagrantino di Montefalco, Colpetrone, 2009, Umbria, Italy); Flourless Chocolate Torta, Blackberries, Espresso Custard, Coffee Crumb, Saba and La Tur and Blu de Moncenisio Cheeses, Fig Jam, Raisin Crisps (paired with Sparkling Brachetto d’Acqui “Pineto,” Marenco, 2015, Piedmont, Italy); and a digestivo of Barolo Chinato, Rivetto, NV, Piedmont, Italy.

Music isn’t about regurgitating what someone else has done to perfection. If you practice learning songs by ear soon you will be able to tune your guitar with no tools or even hitting a fret. Doing something to make playing music easier, is like using a computer printout to outline the sistine chapel. Hard work pays off in the end on with playing, You will open more doors by learning different chords than you will by adding gadgets.

My first experience with drones, outside of the military that is, was one weekday when I was standing behind a small copse (water-starved trees, shrubs) in the netherlands of a public park near my home. Off to my right a dried-up lake bed; behind me, at some distance, the foresty park proper with its interlaced hiking trails. I was naked except for women's panties, my jeans and Polo neatly folded atop a pair of sandals with tire-tread soles courtesy of Walmart where, like most non-obese people, I rarely shop.

My panties were pastel-pink microfiber with a lace waistband. French-cut style. Olga's. Size 7. Cute! Especially with the incongruous bulge at the front and a pair of modest, shaved balls nested in the sufficiently, wonderfully wide crotch. I strongly recommend them to those inclined...

I'd been instructed to meet at this barren place, and dress (undress) like this, by someone I'd become reacquainted with on the Deanslist personals' "Close Encounters" section. I'd met many this way. Or not this way, standing virtually naked in a public park, worse than naked actually, but through Deanslist nevertheless. I have no STD's BTW, am in near perfect health, 6'1", 175, not young, true, but possessed of a surprisingly youthful body as you can see from my many explicit pics. And yes, that's me in the photos. Etc, etc.

So I was standing there in this particular spot, in the women's panties I'd been instructed to wear, glancing at the digital clock on my iPhone (He was five minutes' late!), worried a jogger might stray, worried about the cops when, again glancing down (Six minutes!), something buzzed past my face. Something larger than a horse-fly, a wasp or even a hummingbird. It made me start. Snap to. I searched the proximate sky. Nothing.

Paranoia? Was I imagining things? Even though I could have sworn I felt a brush of accompanying air—a breeze—across my face? My companion-to-be (Seven minutes!) had initially requested I wear one of my wigs. And makeup. But I refused. "I don't normally dress in public," I replied, this scenario, the one I was now in, being a step or two beyond mere public. I only consented to the panties because I theorized it would save me a potential charge of indecent exposure. After all (my attorney might argue before a judge) what's the difference between this (holding up silky Exhibit A) and a Speedo, which as we all know is commonly and all-too-often worn in public places.

Judge: "But this was not a beach, counselor; it was a public park."

"Public, exactly, your Honor. Thank you for that insight," my attorney would counter. "A little lace. Is that so different? I submit, if I may, your Honor, Exhibit B, which shows a number of participants in a LBGTQ pride parade recently carried out not far from this courtroom. Surely, your Honor, we have not regressed to the point where such lifestyle choices have become..."

And so on.

For the record I do not currently have an attorney. Although with a little searching I'm sure I could find one sympathetic to my plight, and worthwhile cause.

All this running through my fevered brain when—that thing buzzed me again. Head-high again and very definitely generating a breeze. It came that close—before flitting off.

Christ, I thought! I gotta get out of here! There's some kind miniature Harrier-like bird (or humongous insect) inhabiting these woods. I felt like a character trapped in an adult parable: the forest, dark trails, the panties, a mysterious, threatening thing....

I would've bent for my clothes had a detached voice, somewhere, vaguely male and metallic, not said: Hold still. Stand up straight. I want to photograph you...

What?

Who could resist obeying such a mysterious command? Especially if one, by nature, is a shameless exhibitionist?

The voice had come from my left—the direction in which I was now looking, searching. Too late! The thing was now in front of me yet again, hovering, stationary, head-high. It was a black mini-drone propelled by four counter-balancing rotors on its top with a camera mounted to its underside, the lens pointing directly at me. Mystery over: it was not some supernatural wasp that inhabited these little-traveled woods, but a creature man-made (my lesbian friends please ignore the phrase, the slight?). I swallowed.

Though not what I thought I expected to be thickly swallowing by now, down on my knees (The asshole was 10 minutes' late! Typical Deanslist bullshit!).

The drone dipped. The detached voice saying...: "Nice panties. You look cute in 'em."

Pause.

"A thank you would be nice."

"Oh...," I latently replied, "Uh, thanks."

"You look just like your pictures. Most guys..."

"Oh, well. I—"

"I got together with this one guy once. A crossdresser so-called. And he had a beard! Fuck! I let him suck me, but..."

"You...?"

"What? Question?"

"Where are you?"

"Me?"

"I'm right in front of you."

"No! The cocksucking part. Where...?"

The drone voice laughed, tinnily. "I'm in a van, out front. The parking lot such as it is. I had an accident recently. Not an accident but...My wife is driving the van. I'm in the back flying the drone. It's a hobby of mine. Why don't you pull down your panties and show me your junk? Why don't you—"

"You want me to...?"

"Yeah. Why don't you masturbate for us? I'll video it and post it on MyTube. Can you cum for us? The cumshot'll get you like five million views, guaranteed. The Chinese? They love this shit! Until it's banned. Go, dude! Do it for us. For your...people. A man in panties.

"Go slow, though," the voice continued. "First in panties. Caress yourself. Very sexy. Get yourself hard. That's it, nice and slow...Now pull 'em down..."

"Like...?"

"No, dude! Leave 'em up but tuck the waistband under your balls. Behind 'em, that's it. Nice. Nice pair. Not too big, not too...OK, stroke your meat. Tell you what: fondle your balls sort of while you masturbate. I know they're tight. Put your hand lower. Lower! It's blocking the shot. Lorelei. Lorelei! Would you turn that music down! Fucking Eagles...

"Now. The cumshot. How long do you think before you...Oh Christ! Jesus! Why didn't you warn me? I would've moved Max back. The camera lens. Christ, dude! Talk about a quick-cummer. No wonder you said you were divorced. That's OK, though. That's OK. As Hitchcock once said when he was directing The Birds...Tippi Hedren? So wish you'd worn your blonde wig...

"I'm moving in now...Don't panic. Max? I name all my drones. They're like people. At least you cum a lot. Is that normal for you? I wanta catch the drip, y'know? The dribble? The last of it? Wish my lens was clearer, clean. Great. Keep pumpin' it out, dude. I—"

The drone flew suddenly, violently...left. In scattered pieces. Followed almost imperceptibly in time by a harsh blast way off to my right. I froze—limp, spent dick in hand, my fingers drippy with cum. I wiped them on the seat of my pink panty as I pulled it back up—hastily as a scruffy man in a plaid shirt, despite the heat, some kind of shotgun at lean on his meaty shoulder, barrel pointing back, approached at 30 paces.

"Fucking drones," he said, at 15. The man had a squarish, broad face that reminded me, along with his beard, of Henry VIII. He lowered his shotgun until it pointed forward of him, at the spermy ground. The dirt in front of me otherwise devoid of life, of vegetation even. He showed me a badge. Although he flashed it so fast in its leather bifold for all I know it was something fake he'd printed out from his computer. He drew breath. "I'm a drone-hunter hired to eliminate this shit." He looked me up and down. Me wearing nothing but pink panties with a recent, grey stain spread on the V-front.

"You OK?"

I didn't swallow this time; I gulped. I nodded.

"Good. Cause these drone guys are predators. Usually ex-military. Flew these things from ten thousand miles away in a silo in Colorado or some shittin' place. Boom! Whata they care? Go have a beer afterwards. Fuck the wife. Then they lure innocent people like yourself to places like this and...you think you'd ever realize a penny from this?"

"Sir...?"

"This performance? Fuck no! They provide anonymous videos for porn sites; they get paid, you get nothing. Our goal with the Drone Elimination Project Concerning Overt Masturbation—DEPCOM for short—is to rid our parks throughout the nation of this pestilence. Why should they make a few hundred bucks while you get nothing? You're the performer! Our public parks are full of enterprising guys and girls like you. Although in your case...you're kinda both," the plaid shirt grinned.

"Can I...can I get...dressed now sir?"

"Tryin' to make me feel old?"

"No I—"

"I'm joking, I'm joking! Fuck, you're probably ten years older'n me. I live not two blocks from here, dude," pointing vaguely across the waterless lake. "Three-two ranch. Divorced. You wear a wig? Makeup?"

"I..."

"A bra? Stockings? We could have so much fun sweetie, I guarantee it. And I'm not like these drone assholes. I'll split it 50-50 with you."

"Split...?"

"The porn proceeds, if there are any. I know a guy...," once again lifting 12-gauge to broad shoulder, the barrel still hot, presumably. "Knew him in the military. That your Ferrari in the parking lot?"

"What? No, I..."

"I know, I know. I joke. I'm a wiseass. And a good shot, right? I can always spot a newbie: Toyota fucking Corolla with a rainbow-flag bumper sticker? That drone asshole? That fake in the handicapped Econoline? Long gone, believe me! But you and I..."

The man with the shotgun in the plaid shirt looked my pantied self up and down. Down and up. Said, grinning like a sunrise:

"You look just like your pics."


The Black Eagles Pumpin JoyThe Black Eagles Pumpin JoyThe Black Eagles Pumpin Joy

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