Bachelor Grove

Bachelor Grove

A Halloween I'll Never Forget

Sitting on the front porch, handing out candy to the little ghouls and hobgoblins as they walked up our front walk, I quickly thought back to the scariest Halloween of my life. It was ten years ago this very night, a night I will never forget and one that changed my life forever.

Angela Woolsey was always somewhat of a tease. We had dated a couple of times during our sophomore year of high school, but that was it. Nothing ever came of it, and after our third date ended with little more than a goodnight kiss, I gave up on her. All hat--no cattle, as my grandfather would have said.

For better or worse, her family moved away the summer after our sophomore year, and I never heard from her again. The story was that they moved to Chicago or someplace up that way. And you could say we both moved on.

I was fortunate enough to get an internship with the Chicago Board of Trade during the fall semester of my senior year of college. It didn't pay anything; my folks agreed to pay my living expenses. But what an opportunity! I was truly honored to have been selected.

For housing, I was put up at one of the Northwestern University dorms, and as I probably never would have been accepted as an undergrad at Northwestern, living in the dorm and taking a few business courses at one of the most prestigious universities in the Midwest was an honor enough. My internship was from seven in the morning until noon daily, followed by a lecture class Monday through Thursday. By late October, the excitement of the whole thing was beginning to wear off, and I was actually getting bored on the weekends. Oh, the work part of my day was the most exciting thing I have ever done. And I guess that's why I was so bored after I left the CBOT on Friday afternoons.

Sitting at a deep-dish pizza place not far from campus, I realized that the coming Friday was Halloween. As a kid, I always loved a night of Trick or Treating, and being alone in a city the size of Chicago was totally depressing. Then it hit me. Hey, hadn't Angela Woolsey moved to Chicago? I picked up my phone and started surfing for her. The best I could come up with was a Facebook account for someone by that name who lived in the Chicagoland area. Finishing my pizza and with a second beer in hand, I IM'd her. "Hi," I typed, "if this is the Angela Woolsey who attended Remington High School in Denver, this is Brad Holloman."

I put my phone down and picked up my beer. But before I could even swallow my first sip, my phone dinged. "Oh my God, tell me this isn't spam or something." I don't know how she typed a response that fast, and it didn't even look like there were any typos.

Well, five minutes later, we were talking. Yes, I had the correct Angela, and yes, she and her family had moved to the Chicago suburbs, as I had heard. After high school, she attended some small liberal arts college in Iowa that I'd never heard of and only lasted two years. She was back home, living with her parents and working for a local insurance company. And even more exciting was that she wanted to see me for an actual date.

The only issue was that she had apparently gone over to the occult side of the universe. I had my car, and she wanted me to take her to the Bachelor Grove Cemetery. I'd never heard of the place. So, as soon as I got off the phone with her, I Googled it. It's about twenty miles south of downtown, in a relatively remote and heavily wooded regional park. The cemetery dates back to the early 1820s. And the dearly departed rested peacefully until sometime around the 1950s. At that point, for some reason, the secluded graveyard had become a mecca for the mysterious, the supernatural, and the black arts.

After thinking about it and another beer, I figured, what the hell. If this is what turns her on, it may turn her on enough to make it my lucky night. I picked her up Friday evening, before dark, at her parents' house. Her mom and dad were happy to see me, but after only ten minutes of waltzing down memory lane, I could tell Angela was ready to go.

And as it was Halloween night, I found her dressed for the night. She was wearing black fingernail polish, and her eye makeup was certainly darker than I remembered her wearing in high school. She was wearing a black full-length dress, black lace-up boots, and a black leather choker around her neck, with some sort of satanic symbol dangling from the choker. But she had no visible tattoos or piercings, so I felt I was probably still safe. Once comfortably in my car, she gave me a tour of Lake Shore Boulevard and the Miracle Mile. As we waited for it to get dark, I took her to the Purple Pig for dinner, and I was glad to see she hadn't gone vegan on me.

Once it was good and dark, we headed south to the area where my Google map told me we would find the Bachelor Grove Cemetery. We parked on this unlit country road and walked about a quarter mile back into the woods. I admit it was creepy, but if this was her idea of a date, I was up for it. We found the gate, but it was locked. However, after a minute or two of searching in the dark, I found an opening in the chain link fence. I helped Angela through the opening, and as we stumbled from one tombstone to another, my hopes of scoring that night were getting better and better. I'd never had sex on a marble slab before, but if that's what she wanted, I was all in.

Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Angela dropped my hand and took off screaming into the darkness. I have no idea what spooked her, but something certainly did. "Angela," I yelled. "Stop--stop!" But before I could catch her, I heard her trip a couple of times before getting up again and running at full speed into the chain-link fence.

"Twang," the fence rang out, and I heard Angela fall backward into another headstone. Catching up to her, I helped her to her feet and directed her to a nearby above-ground tomb. The stone crypt was about three feet high and flat on top. So, placing my hands around her waist, I gently lifted her to a sitting position on the stone top. She was cursing, bleeding, and scared half to death, and the obvious impression of a chain link fence was clearly imprinted on her face.

It was dark, and I didn't want to shine a flashlight directly onto her face as our eyes had adjusted to the dark. But as I tried to gently touch her face, she winced in pain and instinctively pulled back. I could now see tears beginning to spill from her eyes, and I asked, "Angela, are you okay?"

She just stared at me for what seemed like several minutes, though I knew it wasn't that long. Then suddenly, she grasped my face with both of her hands and placed her lips squarely on mine. Her kiss was deep and passionate, and soon, I returned her affection with a deep, impassioned kiss of my own. However, I could feel tears on her cheeks, and when our kiss finally broke, I again asked, "Angela, are you sure you're okay? Do you want me to take you home?"

There was a long pause as she gazed at my face in the shaded moonlight. Then suddenly, reaching for my waist said, "Fuck me, Brad, fuck me."

To say the least, I was stunned, but not so stunned to keep me from reaching up under her long dress and searching for the waistband of her panties. I finally found the elastic band somewhere near her natural waistline. To my surprise, she was wearing granny panties. But nothing about her any longer surprised me. Looping my thumbs under the aforementioned garment, I slowly pulled them to her ankles. She gently raised her hips to allow for the removal of her underwear, but when they snagged on her high-top boots, she aggressively reached down to remove the impediment to our advancement.

Once I realized where this evening was going, I jumped up on the tomb and gently pushed Angela onto her back. Her legs were already spread as I positioned myself between them, but I still had my pants on. As our lips locked and our hips began that sensual grind that lovers do, Angela moved her hands between us and struggled to remove the obstacle to the satisfaction that she so desperately desired.

As my belt buckle and zipper rubbed roughly against her pubis mound, she moved her hands to the front of my pants and struggled to remove them. Sensing her frustration, I broke our kiss for a second time, and kneeling on the stone slab, I quickly unbuckled my belt and pushed my zipper down. With the restraints to my undressing removed, Angela sat up and roughly pushed my pants to my knees.

My dick was as hard as I could ever remember, and as Angela reclined back onto the flat stone, I laid across her and resumed the grinding of our genitalia. Yet Angela must have been in a hurry, for it was only seconds before I again felt her cool hands grabbing my cock and pointing it straight to her fuzzy honey hole. Satisfied that I was well positioned, she placed both hands on my naked butt cheeks and pulled me toward her.

I was surprised at how wet she was and how effortlessly I entered her. Soon, our lips had returned to our passionate kissing as our hips moved in rhythmic unison. With each of my forward thrusts, her hips would rise to meet mine, and our groins would collide with loud, wet smacks. Then, just as I was about to reach my satisfaction, I heard a clear female voice behind me say, "Brad, what are you doing?"

Startled, I snapped my head around to see my mother standing there, only ten feet away, with her hands on her hips. "Mom," I said out loud. "What are you doing here?" But before she could answer, I heard the distinct sound of a pump shotgun being cocked and loaded. Snapping my head back around, there standing in front of me was Angela's father with a 12-gauge pump shotgun. As my eyes focused on him, he was holding the gun across his chest. But as I continued to stare in disbelief, he slowly pointed the weapon straight at me. Before I could react, my moment of fulfillment arrived. My groin shook as I filled Angela with wave after wave of my warm seed.

"Is there any candy left?" I heard Angela ask as she turned from the sidewalk and headed up our walk.

"Daddy," our son shouted as he dropped his mother's hand and raced to show me his Trick or Treat bag of goodies. Angela held our youngest on her hip, and our three-year-old daughter clung to her skirt. All three kids were dressed in their Halloween costumes, which they had spent weeks working on together with their mother.

"I think we are tapped out," I replied as I stood to show the empty bowl I held in my lap. Hugging our son, I rose to kiss Angela on the lips and hugged my sweet family. It is a Halloween to remember and one I will never forget.