At the very beginning, when I first started researching this story, I found it difficult to connect the dots between the shielded manufacturing operations I discovered hidden in Utah with the staffing of a major media giant studio in New York City. I can assure you I am completely unbiased in my conclusion despite the fact the media organization in question is my favorite station on the dial.
In all honesty, I would like to state right up front that I do not remember what directed my attention to Salt Lake City because it was a place that I had only visited while traveling either east or west and could not avoid for some reason or another of which I have no memory.
Kindly consider that it is not my intention to point the finger at certain individuals because it would be beneath the dignity of this report to highlight their complicity. In fact, I have carefully edited out their details to not cause any embarrassment. I have also tried my best to restrain my writing to exclude the sordid sexual details of this complex plot.
I first noticed the aberration of this affair when I happened to see some strange similarities between various female commentators and news broadcast personages including a favorite weather girl that I doted on with gleeful attention to her tightly stretched skirt that accentuated her plump buttocks perfectly in my humble opinion.
When I took stock of the nubile females on the air that were involved in this disgraceful exhibition of dissolute deception, I found no less than seven of the beautiful blond bimbos actively assailing the male viewing audience eyeballs with the intent of making them true believers of the spoken word.
Of course, that is only metaphorically speaking and not physically like they used their blessed assets in a real sense like with psychic powers.
It was so interesting to me that I followed up my visit to the headquarters studio in New York City with a trip to the purported training facility all the way out in Salt Lake City.
My first impression of Salt Lake City proper was that it was depressingly flat and that the residents seemed to walk around in a fog of self-absorption so oppressive that even innocuous conversation was irritating to them. I remember sitting at a nicely appointed bar lounge in the airport motel and listening to the piano player running her fingers over one of those boring show tunes from some God-forsaken Broadway musical like a brain-dead zombie from the twilight zone.
She had a huge wine glass for tips and it was distressingly empty in the absence of any notable rewards except for a single dollar bill that looked like it had been saved since World War II. Her face was pretty enough, but she didn’t have that friendly look that one would expect in a bar lounge when one is working for tips. I could tell she was not a happy camper playing the tedious piece and I suspected she probably would want to be playing something of her own composition or some free-wheeling jazz tune that would make everyone sit up and pay attention.
It appeared we were the only two humans in residence that were under the age of thirty with the possible exception of the busboy who had that ageless look of non-English speaking Central American immigrants without proper documentation.
He could have been sixteen or sixty.
For some strange reason, my thoughts shifted to my passionless ex-girlfriend back in New York City. She was still this side of thirty and surprisingly was one of those political enablers who constantly were shouting out “illegal alien” this and “illegal alien” that like it was some credo of a misbegotten religious cult that demanded adherence to a certain code and used it to identify their devotion. We had broken up, but it was because she accused me of being “sexually immature” and had nothing to do with our political beliefs. The piano player reminded me of her going through emotionless blow jobs with her disinterested musical rendition of a song best left forgotten. They could have been twin sisters in personality if not in looks.
I approached the piano cautiously and dropped a five dollar bill into the glass more out of pity for her servitude, than appreciation for the memory evoked by the tune she was playing.
When she looked up at me with that thousand mile stare without really seeing me at all, I studied her face and determined she had a hint of that similar look that had sent me on this fool’s errand. I had been caught up in a state of unhealthy obsession with the seven blond bimbo’s mystery that hung over me like a shroud that clouded my customarily sound judgement. It was my imaginative suspicions that started me on this crazy journey into the hinterlands and at the moment I regretted my impulsive reaction.
Conspiracy and collusion were the bylines of the day and I immediately began to suspect that perhaps there was something in the water or the twenty-something nubile blonde females of the Salt Lake City area were addicted to some sort of drug that enhanced their spiderlike sexuality at the cost of their reasoning intellect.
It was much later that I discovered my gut-reaction was pretty close to the mark and I could have saved a lot of time by simply investigating the source of the covert process that produced the plethora of “blond bimbos” on the unsuspecting American television viewing public.
Her name was Wendy, according to her tacky nametag.
When she finally gave me a mesmerizing smile, I was able to see that same flash of excitement that acted like a trigger for my fully complicit arousal. I implored her to play a song that I liked called “Misty” because it always made me feel like Clint Eastwood.
She did it with a bit of flair that confirmed my thought she was more of an enthusiastic Jazz musician than an expressionless Lawrence Welk protégé.
Cutting to the chase, we quickly moved to my room at the airport motel and she showed me her tightly packed undies embossed with the correct label of “Friday” right over her pubic region. I was properly impressed with her ability to show she was well organized when it came to the wearing of lace trimmed panties with a bikini cut exposing her pretty cheeks to my investigation.
I managed to remove the “Friday” frills and dove into as juicy a shaven slit I had seen since my ex-girlfriend back in Washington, D.C. ran off with a Congressman unhappily saddled with a nagging wife and four kids. I banished her obsessed anal pursuits from my mind and concentrated on finding the special spot that turned Wendy on the most.
I enjoyed watching her change from a bored and still undiscovered entertainer into a wild and untamed filly in a state of complete abandon and utter loss of control.
I had not had the good fortune to interact with many “squirters” in my sexual journey through life, but Wendy, the “hot number” piano player was something else when it came to such fetish minded activities and she convinced me that her appreciation for anal attentions was not some phony act just to make me think she was really cool.
Apparently, according to her unembellished story, she had been selected for the “bimbo” project but her objection to changing her hair color caused her termination despite her sexual superiority in the privacy of a closed door bedroom. In all honesty, I have to admit that Wendy was looking over her shoulder at me the entire time she related all this to me and I was unable to take good notes because of the need to keep up the spirited rhythm that she seemed to like the most.