6 comments/ 20491 views/ 1 favorites Maggie May: jack_straw By: jack_straw It's funny how small things can change your perspective. In my case, it was a single ray of sunshine coming through a gap in the tattered curtains that didn't quite cover the window to the apartment. It was a bright early autumn morning, around 8, maybe 8:30, one of those days that makes California truly golden. First, it caught my eye, waking me up from a restless sleep, then it hit Maggie's face just right. She was still zonked out, lying on her back, her naked breasts heaving slightly with each intake of breath. As I looked, I saw -- really saw -- the nascent lines on her face, the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, the crease at each end of her mouth, the ever-so-slight etchings of time across her cheeks. It really highlighted her age, which at that moment was 34 years. I looked away, sat up and fished for the bong. The little well surrounding the bowl still had a fair bit of weed left, so I packed a hit, found the lighter, fired it up and sucked in the pungent smoke. Then I looked back at the woman I'd been so madly in love with -- beguiled would be more like it -- and she was the same mature beauty she'd always been. But I'd been given a brief glimpse of just how old this woman was, and how young I was, and the question flashed through my mind. "Is this who I really want to spend my life with? Is this really the life I want to live?" Suddenly, I knew it was over. "Wake up, Maggie," I said as I shook her shoulders gently. "I think I've got something to say to you..." ^ ^ ^ ^ Ah, Maggie May. What can I say about her that would do her justice? Her full, given name was Maggie May Cortes, and I'm not lying when I say she was a real mature beauty. Oh, she wasn't a knockout in the model sense, but if you took in the whole package, she was awfully hard to resist. She was kind of tall, maybe 5-foot-10, and slender, with mysterious dark eyes, high cheekbones, a sensuous mouth and a body that had no excess anywhere. I would eventually find out that her father was Spanish and her mother Irish, a rather wicked combination. Of course, it wasn't until you became intimate with her that you understood that she had a bit of the earth mama about her. She adamantly refused to shave her legs or her armpits, and, strangely enough, I found it sexy. At least I did at the time. You have to understand. I was a young hippie, in thrall to the lifestyle of the 1960s, and Maggie was a dedicated veteran from the Haight. She'd grown up in the city, turned 18 in 1965 and she'd been there for all of it -- the good, the bad and the ugly. Me? I came along much too late to be a true flower child. I was born in 1959 and was just a kid living in Santa Clara when the whole hippie scene blossomed. But just because I couldn't experience the "real" thing didn't mean I couldn't be a second-generation flower puppy. Oh, as long as I was in high school living at home, I didn't completely drop out, as they used to say. But I did tune in and I did turn on, at least a little. Fact is, I was a good student, graduating on the honor roll, and a respectable athlete. I had the size to be a pretty good tight end -- 6-foot-2, 220 pounds -- and I enjoyed playing football, even if I didn't completely buy into the jock mentality. When I graduated, I had a few scholarship offers, and the one I chose was at USF -- the University of San Francisco. After a year at the dorm, I moved into an apartment a block or so off campus and sank myself into the life of the urban college guy. That's where this tale really begins. ^ ^ ^ ^ I'm the youngest of four kids, and my nearest sibling was four years my senior. So I grew up pretty much on my own, and by the time I got to be a teenager, my folks were burned out on trying to be strict disciplinarians. All three of my siblings -- my brother is the oldest, then there are two girls -- were headstrong and confrontational about everything. They bought into the "generation gap" thing, and spent their teenage years at war with my folks. Ironically, they really weren't into the hippie scene that was going on just up the road in San Francisco. Their rebellion was far more political. They argued -- no, fought -- with my folks over integration, Vietnam, sexual mores, clothes, music, just anything, really. And they really and truly didn't get along with either of my parents, who, admittedly, weren't particularly understanding about what was going on in the wider world, and weren't very willing to compromise what they saw as their values to fit changing times. You have to remember, my folks had come of age during World War II, when lock-step patriotism and conformity was a way of life. Moreover, Dad grew up on the stories of war heroes, and as soon as he could, he left home and joined the Navy. By then, the war was over, and Dad served his four years rather uneventfully, then left the service and set about raising a family. Since I was the kid in the family, I kept my head down, my mouth shut and my eyes and ears open. I learned a lot from the mistakes my brother and sisters made. I figured out pretty quick that I could get anything I wanted from my folks if I just played nice. I was helpful around the house, wasn't mouthy and did my best to get along. As a result, my parents let me get away with shit my siblings would have had to fight pitched battles to get. Among those things was the OK to go into the city for rock concerts. I guess they figured it was a losing battle, plus they liked my best friend that I went with, mostly because his folks always took us and picked us up. We went to all the shows, at least the ones on the west side of the bay, at places like the Cow Palace and Winterland. It was at Winterland that I saw the show that changed my life. I was 14 in the fall of 1973 when I first encountered the Grateful Dead. That was also the first time I got high, and the cosmic symbiosis of those two events shaped my life for the next 8-9 years. I was mesmerized by the way Jerry Garcia played the guitar, they way Phil Lesh played lead bass lines, the seamless ebb and flow of the music, a free form of rock I'd never heard before. I came away determined to have that experience as often as possible, and from then on, almost right up to the bitter end in 1995, not long before Jerry died, I was a dedicated Deadhead. Oh, once I became an adult, with a job, a family and responsibilities, I didn't go to as many shows as I did when I was young. But I usually saw a couple of shows a year until the end. Oddly, I've never had any desire to see the "new" Dead. As far as I'm concerned, the Grateful Dead died with Jerry. Anyway, I talked my parents into buying me an inexpensive electric guitar for Christmas that year, and I taught myself how to play. Eventually, I figured out that I wasn't going to be much of a player, so when I was a junior in high school, I saved up money from a summer job and bought a bass guitar. That I could play decently. As a result, high school was a stone blast. I played football in the fall, then spent the winter playing in a succession of garage bands, going to concerts, playing a few gigs here and there, then I'd spend three weeks in the spring back practicing football. As for girls, well, I recall what Eddie Van Halen said about playing the guitar. He said, "When I got good, I got all the pussy I wanted." I never got "good," but that didn't matter. I was a big guy, nice-looking and I played guitar in a band. So, yeah, I got laid early and often in high school. And nothing changed at USF, except the women got better looking and more adventurous. It was during the semester break my junior year that everything changed. I was at a Dead show at the Coliseum in Oakland during the New Year's run in 1980, and the guy I was with started having a bad trip. I think maybe he got into some bad mushrooms or something, because he got sick and was really seeing some weird shit. I never cared much for shrooms, I guess, because I had to eat a fair amount before they affected me, and they always made me nauseous. LSD, on the other hand, I could gobble like aspirin, and during that period in my life, I never went to Dead show (or any other concert) without tripping my ass off. That night, I was just starting to peak, and I had no clue how to deal with my buddy. I'd never seen anybody freak out like that, and I was looking around in a mounting panic when this woman came over to us and took over the situation. As she talked my friend into a calmer state of mind, I checked her out, and I could feel my groin tingling as I watched her. After she got him calmed down, she gave me a very sardonic look, maybe because she knew I'd been checking her out. Why wouldn't I? She was wearing a tight sweater, and her unfettered tits were jiggling nicely -- and noticeably -- under that sweater. She also had on a low-slung peasant skirt and sandals. Even at the first, I was mesmerized. "I'm Maggie," she said with laughter in her voice. "Maggie May Cortes. And you are?" "Chris Wilson," I said. "My pleasure." We started chatting, and the next thing I knew we were dancing together as the show reached a crescendo. When it was over, Maggie offered to help me get my friend home securely. He was still a little shaky, and I was grateful for the help. I was also still feeling the effects of my own acid intake, one of which was intense arousal. "What about the people you came to with?" I asked, not wanting to intrude on her scene. "Oh, I didn't come with anybody special," she said. "Just people from around. Besides, I'd rather take you home and fuck your brains out." Well, that was pretty direct, and that's what happened. Maggie lived in an apartment that was upstairs in an old Victorian home on Ashbury Street. To be honest, it was kind of a dump, but at the time I thought it was Gates of Heaven. "Have a seat," she said, while she went over to the stereo and looked through some cassette tapes for some music. I couldn't help but chuckle, because it was just like in "Norwegian Wood," the old Beatles classic, and I recalled the line, "she told me to sit anywhere, so I looked around and I noticed there wasn't a chair." The closest thing to a chair in Maggie's apartment was a large beanbag, so that's where I plopped my butt down. I watched as she crouched down fiddling with the stereo, then she stood up and walked toward me, firing up a modest-sized doobie as she came and sat next to me on the beanbag chair. As she sat down, the sounds of some really cool jazz wafted from the smallish speakers, and it wasn't long before some really awesome saxophone sounds were bursting forth in a very Garcia-like fashion. It was very free-form and intense, and I found myself letting the music play me, in the finest Grateful Dead tradition, while we shared a joint of some really kind bud. I asked Maggie who we were listening to, and she said it was John Coltrane. I was familiar with the name, but I'd never been much of a fan of jazz, so I'd never really been exposed to his music. I have to say, however, that I liked it. "Coltrane always makes me so horny," Maggie said, in her throaty voice. Already, she was weaving her spell, almost like she was some sorceress, a Morgan LaFey or Cleopatra or some other seductress of legend. Of course, I was still tripping on the really good blotter I'd dropped just before I left the apartment I shared with a couple of other USF students, although I was on the ragged down side of my trip. We shared the joint while 'Trane wailed away in the background, then Maggie left the roach in the ash tray, pulled me to her and we kissed, hard and deep. I was immediately hard as steel from the way her tongue slashed with mine, and the way her hands roamed over my body. My own hands were sliding up her legs to her naked pussy, which was hot and wet. We were hot for it now. I pulled her sweater over her head and feasted my eyes on her perfect tits. They weren't too big or too small, right at a handful. Her skirt soon followed, and she lay back naked on the bean bag chair, her eyes a blazing invitation. Maggie quickly got my own sweater off, the T-shirt I had on under it and my jeans. My cock swayed in front of me as I got up on my knees between Maggie's legs. There was no pretense at foreplay, or anything like that. We were high as a kite and ready to fuck. "That's it, Chris," she purred. "Come up here and fuck Mama." I didn't care that she was considerably older than me. All I saw was a hot-blooded woman who wanted my cock, and I wanted her juicy pussy. I aimed the head of my cock at her cunt and slid in like a knife through hot butter. As I bottomed out, Maggie reached up with her arms and pulled me to her, while she wrapped her legs around my waist to keep my groin close to hers. I could not believe how she felt. It was like a velvet vise, strong, soft and muscular. I realized as I got up to speed that everything I knew about sex was out the window. I'd had girls before, but this was a woman, and I slowed my pace, because I wanted to make sure I gave this woman every ounce of pleasure I possibly could. The acid was giving me complete control as I varied my pace, the sensations mounting to ecstatic heights. In and out, back and forth, around and around, I gave Maggie everything I had as we kissed ravenously. Our sweat-slick bodies were giving off sparks of lust as we slithered together on that bean bag. Maggie was making the sounds of passion you would expect, moans, mewls and gasps as I fucked her with all the expertise I'd accumulated over the years. As could feel the tingle in my scrotum that told me by cum was about to boil over, I hooked Maggie's knees with my elbows, pulled her legs up in the air and began to jackhammer her pussy relentlessly. Her body was shimmying and writhing as her own climax reached a peak. We were perfectly in sync, climbing higher and higher together. I was straining now, grunting as I worked my cock faster and harder in Maggie's clenching cunt. Just about the time Maggie went into orgasmic convulsions, I gave her three really hard, deep thrusts and surrendered a cumload that felt like rusty nails spewing out the end of my dick. I just kept churning and spitting out balls of cum as we clutched each other in mutual rapture. Our eyes were locked in what I could only say was incipient love -- our at least deep affection. I knew in that moment that I'd found the woman I wanted. Later, much later, I'd look back at that moment with no small amount of awe and confusion. It's really hard to explain the hold Maggie had on me. I was 21-years-old by then, and I'd had plenty of serious girlfriends and plenty of casual relationships before I met Maggie. Plus, I had grown up in a big-city suburban environment, and I was no naïve innocent latching onto an adult who was there to guide me into manhood. Moreover, my mind knew that our relationship wasn't healthy, but my body and soul rejected what my mind knew to be true. For most of 1981, I let my cock rule my life. All I wanted during that period was to be with Maggie, and I overlooked a lot of shit and let a large part of my life fall by the wayside. Of course, we weren't done that night. In fact, I wasn't even done with the first time. I never completely went soft, but just kept fucking her with short strokes that gradually got longer as my cock re-stiffened from the combination of lust and LSD. I was in a completely different world, one that was reduced to my cock and Maggie's cunt. I just kept on fucking her relentlessly until I gave up a second hard cumshot, and as I did, Maggie's eyes rolled back in her head as she came again from the power of my orgasm. We finally climbed in her bed and this time we moved into a 69, working our mouths on our dirty sex -- hell, we didn't care -- then she rode me to a third climax before we finally collapsed in cosmic exhaustion, drenched in sweat and completely drained. I went with Maggie to the rest of the shows in the run, culminating in the New Year's Eve extravaganza that was already a Grateful Dead tradition. We'd go to the shows, where I met her friends and confederates, then go back to her place and fuck our brains out. As besotted with her as I was, it was close to the same with her. I'm not sure what she saw in me, maybe a young stud who could fuck her all night or maybe a young kid she could manipulate. But whatever it was, she told me frequently that she'd never met anyone who made her feel like I did. Who knows? Maybe she really meant it. Or maybe she just wanted a young guy to work her magic on, someone who hadn't lived long enough to become jaded and cynical, someone who would be so blinded by love that he wouldn't see the lines and wrinkles on her face and in her soul. After New Year's I tried to get back into my normal life, but my heart wasn't into it. I went back to school, but I spent most of my nights and a lot of my days with Maggie. She worked sporadically at a record shop down the street from her apartment, but apparently it wasn't really much of a job, in that she came and went when she pleased. As I was soon to find out, the only important thing in her life was the Dead. Basically, there are -- or were -- two types of Deadheads. There were the normal Deadheads, the ones who enjoyed the band when they came around, but who had real lives and other interests. Then there were the Tourheads, or the professional Deadheads as I came to call them. These were the people whose entire musical catalog was Grateful Dead albums and bootlegs tapes, or Dead influences, such as Coltrane and Charlie Christian. These were the people who traveled all over the country trying to see every Dead show they could. Maggie, I quickly learned, was a Tourhead. She'd actually gone to high school with Bob Weir and, I suspect, had spent a few nights in one or the other band member's beds back in the day. It was in mid-February that the moment of truth arrived. The Dead were headed east for their first extended tour of the year, and she was going, along with some of her Tourhead friends. I was torn. I still had a scholarship and my grades had been good, up until that semester. I hated the thought of giving up my scholarship and dropping out of school, but frankly the thought of going six weeks without Maggie wasn't appealing. And, too, I was feeling burned out on schoolwork, and I'd already spent so much time cutting classes to be with her that my GPA was plummeting. I'd never really been out of the West, and I was restless to see the rest of the country. I told myself I needed a break, a time to be free and just experience life. So I told her I'd go. I dreaded telling my folks, because I figured they'd never understand. I was half-right. My mom was aghast at the thought of her baby quitting school and traipsing off with a crowd she thought of as little more than gypsies. Surprisingly, however, my dad gave me his approval, grudging though it may have been. He knew something of a young person's wanderlust, having joined the Navy right out of high school. He also had something he wanted me to take. He took me downstairs to where we had our game room, which was dominated by a very nice pool table. Dad always bragged about earning extra spending money as a pool shark during his stint in the Navy, and he'd taught all of us kids as much as he could about the game. It was the one thing all of us had in common, the one place where we bonded. And I'd gotten to be the best player among the four siblings. By the time I got into high school, I could more than hold my own against Dad, and I'd been known to hold a table all night at some of the pubs around the USF campus. Maggie May: jack_straw He handed me a small case, and I was stunned speechless, because I knew what it was. It was his competition-quality pool cue and he wanted me to take it with me on my trip. "I suspect you're gonna be doing some hustling for cash," he said, his gruffness masking his emotions. "I'd rather you hustled with this than selling drugs. Take good care of it." With that I took my leave, and it would be months before I darkened their door again. I would be a changed person when I did. There were about a dozen or so in the group we traveled with. Maggie had, believe it or not, a vintage 1967 VW Microbus that she kept in pristine condition. We piled in the bus, and a couple of the guys rode Harleys. Needless to say, it was a pretty eclectic crowd. One of the group that was traveling with us was an ex-biker that we called Easy Ed, and he was the mechanic in charge of keeping the machines going. He and I got to be really good friends, because we were the only ones with an interest in sports. The first stop was Chicago, and that's where I first learned the inner workings of Tourheads. It was rare that we arrived at a venue with tickets in hand, so the first order of business was scamming a way into the show. The next was raising funds, and we did that in several ways, one of which, regrettably, was selling LSD. We also had one girl in the group who was adept at tie-dying T-shirts and designing art that she could transpose onto shirts and sweatshirts that we would sell in the parking lots. The girls were also not above turning a trick or two, and I quickly learned that included Maggie. In fact, it would eventually come out that she was sort of the ringleader in that pursuit. It kind of pissed me off, because I loved her (or thought I did), but what could I do? It was all a hustle, and she was only doing what she had to do for the group. Besides, we were just practicing a free-love mantra of the Sixties, weren't we? And I did end up fucking most of the other girls who were with us. But that was just a small bit of unpleasantness in an otherwise blissful experience. The freedom was intoxicating, not to mention the plentiful drugs. And I quickly became quite good at finding pool halls where I learned how to hustle. I'd take Easy Ed with me for back-up and we'd stroll in looking like out-of-place hippies. At first, the real players wouldn't take me seriously, but after they saw my stick and after I started winning they'd sit up and take notice. I soon got a feel for how far I could go before calling it a night, and I always left with some cash in hand, sometimes as much as $500 a pop. From Chicago, we went to Cleveland, then Pittsburgh, DC (actually the University of Maryland), on to a run at Madison Square Garden, then to Boston and finally to Hartford. A couple of the group wanted to go on and follow the band to Europe, where they were playing a few shows in London and Scotland, but Maggie and I both said no. I was Maggie's right-hand man, and usually what we said went. We skipped the Dead's Eastern tour in May, but decided to hit the road again in the summer, when the band would make a Midwestern swing. That's when things started getting crazy. There were some serious high times on that tour, but the one that stands out -- way out -- happened on the second stop. It was the Fourth of July, a Saturday night that year, at Austin, Texas, after we'd started the tour in Houston. Actually, the show was at an old racetrack 15 miles or so outside of Austin at a place called Manor Downs. We pulled into the parking area early that day and Maggie and I set up the tent where we'd be sleeping. By tacit agreement, we pitched our tent a little bit away from the vehicle, which was designated as Party Central. That gave us some privacy where we could fuck our brains out, or just crash, as the mood struck us. It was hot that day, not quite as hot as it could have been, given that it was July deep in the heart of Texas. But it was hot enough, and across the road was a cattle pond that looked awfully inviting. So Maggie and I decided to go over and join the crowd that was taking a dip. We just stripped and dove in. As we frolicked in the muddy -- but oh so cool -- water, I noticed this cute redhead chick with nice tits standing by herself in the water. I was already tripping my nuts off, so my inhibitions were pretty low. I waded over to where she was and struck up a conversation. Turned out she was a local, a student at UT named Barbara, and she'd come down with her girlfriends, except they'd chickened out from going skinny-dipping in what was admittedly a pretty rank body of water, and had walked back up to where they'd parked. I figured out pretty quickly that she was looking for the whole Grateful Dead experience, so I asked her if she was looking for trips, and her eyes lit up. About that time Maggie waded over and I could see her checking out Barbara's very nice body. I could feel myself getting hard as I watched Maggie giving Barbara the once-over. She'd never given me any indication that she was the least bit bisexual, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that she had designs on poor Barbara. It shouldn't have been surprising that Barbara somehow never caught back up with her friends. We gave her a free, very liberal dose of the really top-notch acid we had with us, she stayed and partied with us, then she accompanied us to the show. She was goggle-eyed as we made our way down to the front, where we watched the first set from about 10 yards from the stage. During the break, I dragged her back to the concessions, where I literally got my first taste of fajitas, washed down with a cold Shiner's, then we somehow managed to make it all the way back to almost the same spot, where Maggie was patiently waiting for us. Once we got back, Maggie fed us another dose of the liquid goodies, and we were off into the stratosphere. During the second set, Maggie and I took turns dancing with Barbara, and running our hands all over her hot body. By then, Maggie and I had already cooked up what we were going to do with this girl once the show was over. Afterward, we were still buzzing like crazy as we got back to the camping area. Barbara found her friends, and they were ready to head back to the city, and tried to talk her into leaving with them. I know they were concerned about her safety, but she was still flying high as a kite and not ready to go home. I managed to mollify her friends with a promise that we wouldn't drag her off to Oklahoma City, where the next show was scheduled, and points beyond. That done, we decided to go back to the cow pond. This time, I openly ogled Barbara's lush body. We sat in the water and kissed deeply, feeling the sexual tension mounting. Her soft hands found my rampant cock, while I filled my hands with her plump tits. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a naked Maggie wading up to where we were making out. "No fair," she said seductively. "You've gotta share." Barbara gave Maggie a strange look. Me? I just stood up with my cock standing up proud and tall. I looked around and I saw several other couples writhing on the ground or even in the water in the throes of sex. Maggie didn't fool around. She simply dropped to her knees in the muddy pond, wrapped a hand around my dick and worked it between her lips. She lashed her tongue around the shaft as she slowly jacked me to a feeling of bursting. Before she got it past her lips, Maggie backed her face off and turned my cock toward Barbara, who was still sitting in the water watching. She climbed up on her knees and took the proffered cock and slid it right into her mouth. I groaned as Barbara's hot mouth engulfed my throbbing cock, and I wrapped my hands in her thick auburn hair to keep some measure of control. As I did, I stared at Maggie, and the look in her eyes sent chills of lust up and down my spine. Barbara gave pretty good head, and I could see a competition developing as Maggie none-to-subtly pulled my cock from Barbara and took every bit of me into her mouth, to the point where I was poking at the entrance to her throat. Not to be left out, Barbara fondled my balls and lightly sucked each one into her mouth while Maggie gave me a hum job for the ages. Then she willingly relinquished my aching missile and let Barbara have at it again. As she did, I was jolted by the little strands of juice that connected my cock to her lips for just a second, before Barbara ravenously swallowed my cock whole, in one glorious suck. I watched as Barbara's tits swayed gently in the warm night air, marking time with her oral skills. I could feel my cum boiling to the surface, and I made a snap decision. "Come on, ladies, let's get out of this nasty hole and go back to the tent, where we can spread out," I said in a shaky voice. This is how high we were. We just slipped our sandals on and walked naked back to the campsite. I had my arms around each girl's shoulder, and I felt like the King of Texas. All was right with my world at that moment, and if every day could have been like that, I'd have never gone back to the real world, never would have left Maggie behind. What was really weird about it was that hardly anyone batted an eye. Oh a few people stared at us, or, more likely, stared at the two sets of tits that were jiggling seductively. But for the most part, it was just the most normal thing in the world to see three naked people walking through the camp. That's what the sideshow that accompanied the Grateful Dead on tour was like. It was a warm night as we crawled into the spacious tent that Maggie and I shared. We already had the sleeping bags laid out; all we had to do was spread out and get after it. This time, it was Barbara's turn to get the double treatment. I latched onto her left breast while Maggie gave her a deep, sensual kiss. I had her hard pink nipple between my lips, but I was staring at the sight of two women kissing right in front of me. I'd seen lesbians kissing each other before -- hell, I grew up in San Francisco, so I saw it all -- but never before had they been kissing for my benefit. I reached down to stroke Barbara's pussy, and got a charge to find Maggie's hand was already there. So we both worked our fingers in her soupy pie as she writhed on the sleeping bag in mounting arousal. As hard as my cock was, I wanted to see Maggie and Barbara together, so I just kind of nodded at Maggie, and she nodded back. I climbed up on my knees while she slid in between Barbara's legs. I held the back of Barbara's head and offered her my cock to suck, and she devoured it like her last meal, then a muffled groan escaped her mouth as Maggie slid her tongue up her furrow. I worked my cock in and out of Barbara's mouth, over her lips and even over her face, as the lust tried its best to consume me. All the time, I was watching Maggie expertly lick, suck and kiss Barbara's obviously twitching cunt. Her back was arching in rampant pleasure as Maggie worked her magic on this willing young college girl. About the time Barbara spit out a horrific orgasm, I pulled my cock away to give her free rein, and boy did she let it go. She was squealing and gasping, mewling and crying in the throes of her lust. That was my cue. I was like a Viking in a berserker rage. I pulled Maggie's head away from Barbara's super-hot pussy, knelt between her legs and plunged in balls-deep on the first thrust. Barbara just wailed that much louder as I put the pipe to her hard and fast right from the first stroke. Maggie was also in the grip of her own lust, and she didn't hesitate, but knee-walked her way up the pallet, straddled Barbara's head and dropped her dripping pussy onto the startled redhead's mouth. I can't say we raped the poor girl, but we sure didn't give her any time to think about what we were doing; we just plunged ahead, oblivious to anything but our own pleasure. As it was, she was so high and so horny, we could have probably brought the entire Longhorn marching band in there and she'd have been willing to take them on. All I knew at that moment was that I was fucking some very prime pussy and watching my girlfriend grinding her crotch on a pretty young face. Doesn't get much better than that. Maggie threw her dark hair back and swayed in passion as Barbara worked her lips and tongue on her smoking pussy. I could hear wet muffled groans as Barbara feasted on Maggie. I had my hands firmly on Barbara's hips as I plowed my cock relentlessly in her spastic cunt. I was teetering on the brink, I could see Maggie was right on the edge and I could sense that Barbara was getting close as well, from the convulsions of her body. I tried to hold it off as long as I could, but when Barbara pulled her face out from under Maggie's pussy and screamed for me to, "fuck her harder, harder, harder," that finished me. I cut loose with a rapid rocket load of molten-hot cum, deep in Barbara's twitching, clenching cunt. I looked up to see Maggie frantically fingering her clit as she shook with her own climax. I just kept humping my cock back and forth, back and forth in a seemingly endless barrage of orgasmic twitters, until I finally had nothing left to give. I fell back on my haunches, my sated cock flopping wetly from Barbara's dilated hole, and that's when Maggie went over the edge. She leaned over, grabbed Barbara's butt and buried her face in the redhead's overflowing pussy. I watched as Maggie lapped up everything I'd deposited in there seconds earlier, and she and Barbara just kept right on going, in a sizzling-hot 69 that had my cock roaring again in no time. I mean, it was obvious these gals were swinging for the fences on this night, and I wasn't going to be left behind. Fortunately, I'd ingested enough acid that it didn't take much to get my cock back up to speed. Just to make sure, though, I pulled on Maggie's hair to left up her head, and slid my cock into her voracious mouth. There was an other-worldly glow on her face as she sucked my rampant cock as I just stared at her. When I was sufficiently hard, I crawled back around, got behind Maggie's butt and pushed my cock into her pliant depths. As I did, I felt a warm wetness around my balls as Barbara gently sucked each testicle, sending lustful sparks flying. Sweat covered our bodies as I fucked Maggie from behind, while Maggie's mouth sent Barbara into orgasmic delight again and again, and while Barbara tried her best to keep up. I could finally feel my control slipping, so I picked up speed, then plunged deep in Maggie's experienced pussy and surrendered another cumload. Then I pulled back and watched in fascination as Maggie squeezed her cunt muscles until my watery cum drizzled from her hole onto Barbara's open mouth and outstretched tongue. I've been on this earth now for 48 years, and that is still the highlight of my sexual experience. We were true to our word. We dropped off a thoroughly-sated Barbara off at her apartment in Austin before heading up I-35 to Oklahoma City. Maggie and I seemed to break through a barrier of sorts after that night, because the rest of the tour was like that. It was night after night of orgies, as we followed the Dead from Oklahoma to Kansas City, St. Louis, St. Paul, Alpine Valley and finally Denver. As memorable as some of those nights were, I think that was when the bloom fell off the rose. I saw that Maggie was really just a sex-hungry slut, and that feeling was reinforced when we got back to the Bay Area. We made one final tour together in August, a couple of nights in Oregon, at Portland and Eugene. But, by then, I'd begun to sour on her Tourhead friends, seeing them for the vagabonds they really were. There were a couple who were all right, but most of them were leeches, drifting through life without any purpose other than the next buzz, the next show, the next handout. More to the point, I'd begun to suspect that Maggie was supporting herself by means other than working at a record store. She would go out some nights without really being specific about where she was headed or who she was going out with. I followed her one night, just out of curiosity, and she met this biker who carted her off to some unknown destination. But it really didn't matter, because I knew she'd come back with either a roll of 20s or a bag of weed or some cocaine. And I knew how she'd gotten it. The morning I finally reached the epiphany about how old she looked was the day we were supposed to start packing up for the next tour, to Pennsylvania, New York and possibly to Europe. I wanted no part of it. ^ ^ ^ ^ "Maggie, I'm not going back east with you guys," I said. "It's time I got my ass back in school and got on with my life. These past few months have been fun, but it's over. I just can't do this indefinitely. I've got more to offer life than just aimless wandering following a rock-and-roll band. I mean, they're great, but they're not the end-all and be-all to life. It's time for me to grow up, and I'm not going to grow up if I stay with you." "So that's it, then," she said evenly. "You're just going to walk out of my life, just like that." "Mags, you and I both know we don't really love each other," I said. "If you loved me you wouldn't be hopping on some fucker's bike and going off to turn a few tricks a couple of nights a week like you have been. If I loved you, I'd have never come on to that chick in Texas like I did. We've been using each other, and it was fun while it lasted, but I'm getting burned out and I need a dose of reality." And that was it. We parted as friends, sort of, and while she packed up the Microbus to head to Pennsylvania, I gathered up my meager possessions and moved back in with my parents while I cleaned up my act and sorted out my future. I decided I needed a fresh start some place away from San Francisco. I'd lived in the area all my life, and it was a little too familiar, and there was a little too much temptation. I didn't need the siren call of drugs or the nearby allure of Maggie May luring me away from the business of life. If I was going to get serious about college, I needed some place without the distractions the city offered. I didn't want to get too far away, though, and the place that presented itself, believe it or not, was Fresno. I know, Fresno is often the brunt of hick jokes from folks in LA and San Francisco. It's stuck off in the middle of the Valley, it's kind of a rural area and it's not exactly a cultural hotspot. Which meant it was perfect for my purposes. I enrolled at Fresno State that winter and breezed to a degree in business. My nine months as a professional Deadhead hadn't been entirely a waste. I learned some interesting survival skills, like how to live on a tight budget and how to hustle for a buck. I got in with a band that was playing some interesting alternative-style rock (yes, in Fresno), and I was able to make enough to live on while I was there. And, as a bonus, I met a really nice woman who was studying to be an occupational therapist and we ended up getting married not long after I graduated from college. We settled in Oregon where I went to work for a well-known company and we have three kids and two dogs. I know it sounds like a sellout from my Deadhead values, but it's not really. Hell, the Grateful Dead themselves became a multi-billion dollar corporate empire, and I didn't hear a lot of fuss about them selling out. As for Maggie May, we stayed in touch for awhile, then she just sort of faded away. Every once in awhile I'd see her at a Dead show and sometimes we'd talk, and I always -- always -- saw a vague look of regret on her face, like she maybe wished she'd done more to keep me. Maggie May: jack_straw But I realized I couldn't live that life. I wanted more, something different from what Maggie had. I discovered I couldn't thrive in her world and she'd have been lost in the one I became comfortable with. Still, I learned a lot, good and bad, from my time with Maggie May. It changed my life in ways I'm still dealing with to this day and turned me in a direction I may never have gone had I not had that experience. Maggie May. She made a first-class fool out of me, but I was as blind as a fool can be. She broke my heart, but I loved her just the same. I'll sure never forget her, as long as I live.