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Ron's Journal 00

By: Hypoxia



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

******************** 00: Start from the very beginning

It was a dark and stormy night. I was conceived on a rugged coastline, the typhoon-driven waves crashing brutally on the rocks below the cliff-top hostelry. My life was the result of separation-induced ardor, hormones boiling and bursting into steam. Something like that. At least, that is what Mom told me.

Dad was a handsome devil, tall, dark, and muscular, a manager at a major Southern California utility. The company was building new distribution lines up the coast. Dad found himself overseeing work in Pismo Beach, halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco, and over 200 miles away from their suburban Los Angeles home, where he was born and raised.

Mom was tall and slender, with black hair and eyes, a nurse who fell in love with this injured sailor in a US Navy hospital in the months following the end of World War II. Mom had been home without him for a few weeks, tending their infant daughter, when they arranged a visit to the work site. She handed the baby to her older sister Jan and boarded the Pacific Coast Express train for a weekend fuck-o-rama.

Ah, the primal passion! The flowing juices! Dad pounding Mom until she could not walk straight! No need to scoop up and devour Pismo Clams as aphrodisiacs. Their mutual desire sufficiently drove their couplings.

---

I got that story from Mom. Dad and his male kin did not talk much about their lives. Dad did not talk about surviving the sinkings of three aircraft carriers during the Pacific war. His younger brother Reid did not talk about liberating Nazi concentration camps. Their father did not talk about surviving the trenches in World War I. And none of them talked about their love lives, or their work, or their hopes and dreams.

Mom and her mother and sister were talkers, and moaners and screamers too. Mom and Jan also hinted at having been lovers, and pulling three-ways with Jan's husband Lou. I would not put it past them. Mom and Jan's folks were bikers in their youth, and booze smugglers during Prohibition. A wild family!

Mom and Jan's folks lived in the next town east. Jan and Lou and their kids lived in the next town north. I was sexually involved with those cousins a couple decades later. I tell those stories in other chapters.

Dad's folks had a small farm at the undeveloped south edge of town, with a walnut grove, a little truck garden, and a large poultry yard with chickens, turkeys, rabbits, and goats. Beside the grove and poultry yard were two house lots: Dad's, and his brother Reid's. Their big sister Elena lived just a block away.

Yes, we were a close family. Each of those households had three kids. Even after Dad moved us a few miles away, all we kids were often together after school and most weekends and during holidays. A community swimming pool was just a few blocks away. On hot days, I often stopped there, biking to or from the farm.

So I grew up next to a farm, and with older and younger cousins in various stages of sexual development. Childhood fun included watching goats and rabbits fucking, and older cousins making out and screwing with their dates. The truck garden and poultry yard were enclosed with high vine-covered fences and tall trees. We kids tended to run around naked back there in privacy much of the time.

Yes, we studied our and each other's anatomies. The biology of reproduction was no mystery to us.

We sometimes played a 78-RPM record in the farmhouse:

"It ain't no sin, To take off your skin, And dance around in your bones"

Aunt Elena's husband Mike was sent to Japan as a civilian administrator after World War II. He never came back. Mike abandoned Elena and their kids to live with a minor prince of the Japanese royal family. Elena responded by becoming a party girl, and taught her kids how to party too. Her youngest son Dane and I were best buddies. Years later, I stayed at Dane's place. He would go bar-hopping and bring home drunk girls for us to share. I tell that story in another chapter too.

Aunt Elena liked watching us kids playing naked in the sprinkler on hot days. She liked watching us when we bathed. When I was young, she gave me a (phallic) toy sea serpent. She sat on the edge of the bathtub and chatted with me, from childhood into my early teens. She gave me a nice eighteenth birthday present: a blowjob. Not my first, but my first from her, and my best to date.

Sorry, I cannot tell you about my interactions with Uncle Reid and Aunt Dot's kids. Impermissible here.

---

My older cousins' sex lives were on display. Dane's brother and sister were some years older than we were, and did not have a lot of space or privacy in their nearby home, where they lived even after graduation and employment. But one almost-hidden corner of the poultry yard was a secluded little private yard fenced by thick trees and was accessible by a path by my home. We left a patio table and chairs and two chaises there. This is where the cousins brought friends for fun.

I could (and did!) sit on a tree branch and peer down invisibly on the amorous action. In a way, the human encounters did not differ much from the mating rituals of rabbits and goats. Approach; penetrate; leave.

Oldest cousin Bill would bring a girl. They might briefly neck on a chaise. He dropped his pants. She took off her shirt, maybe, and her bra, maybe, and her panties. She might suck his steely cock. They assumed a position from a limited set: missionary or doggie. Bill pounded away. Light reflected off his speeding, glistening piston. He eventually grunted. She might yell once, rarely twice, sometimes never. If she did not yell, I might not see her there again. Bill was not always the greatest performer.

Middle cousin Louise would bring a guy. She usually wanted more necking time on the chaise. She removed her bra from under her shirt and her panties from under her skirt. She laid him back on the chaise and fisted his dick until he was hard, then mounted him cowgirl-style and started pumping. If she yelled before he did, she might roll into missionary or doggie position and let him pound away. If he yelled before she did, she might fist his dick till he was hard again, then go missionary or doggie. If she did not yell, I never saw him there again. Louise had her performance standards.

Sometimes they double-dated. Bill might bring another guy and two girls. Or Louise might bring another girl and two guys. Or Bill would bring a girl and Louise would bring a guy. They took turns on the two chaises, and swapped. But on the days that Bill and Louise fucked each other, the other guy and girl were usually the same ones. They might have been brother and sister too; I did not catch their names.

Sometimes I chose a different viewpoint, a place where I knew Louise might see me through the branches. She did not seem to mind my peeping. She even grinned at me a couple times, and flashed me occasionally. Otherwise, I was not on her radar much. I was just the little-kid cousin who did not tease her.

Those were my Dad's-side cousins. My Mom's-side cousins lived a few miles away and were not on display. But I do know that siblings Janie and Terry fucked each other when they were older; and my sister Lyn and I and our blood cousin Janie fucked each other; and Mom fucked her blood nephew Terry and his wife Jill; and I fucked Jill, but she was not blood kin, so big deal. Some of those stories are in other chapters.

The family that lays together, stays together, or something like that.

---

As I bicycled around my middle school after-hours, I sometimes saw kids playing 'doctor' in nooks and passages between the buildings. Usually just one girl and one guy; sometimes two on one either way; partially disrobed, feeling, probing, but not in missionary or doggie or bent-over or up-against-the-wall postures. I figured they were being just like dogs sniffing each other's butts.

I did not see such displays in any of my high schools, but 1) I could not bike or skateboard around those campuses, and 2) these older kids likely knew better than to explore in public.

Ah, but the college kids! When Dad moved us a few miles from the farmside house, it was only a short bike ride to a cluster of colleges. These campuses had their own nooks and crannies and private garden spaces. I had a favorite hidden vantage point to look into a popular lovers' nook with a picnic table and benches.

And college kids were more inventive. What I saw of my cousins was mostly just one-on-one sex with peers in a very few positions. Many college kids fucked in groups. One or two guys with two or three girls; one or two girls with two or three guys; two or three or four guys or girls together; older and younger fuckers, probably teachers and students; and the occasional sex-train.

An older woman wearing a long wool skirt and a tweedy jacket came to my spy nook with four younger men in jeans and college sweatshirts. She lay back on the picnic table. Two of the men took turns with their faces in her crotch while she sucked the other two in turn. Then all four took turns being blown and fucking her, first in missionary position, then on elbows and knees. She yelled quite a few times.

An older man in similar professorial garb, but with trousers rather than a skirt, came to the nook with four girls wearing short skirts and college sweaters. He lay on his back on the table while one girl took her skirt and panties off and sat on his face and another girl blew him, then mounted him cowgirl-style. The two girls pulled their sweaters up, played with each other's exposed tits, and kissed.

The other two girls took their skirts and sweaters off, with nothing underneath. One lay on a picnic bench; the other lay on top of her in the opposite direction. They spread their legs. Both had their faces in the other's crotch. After some turbulence, the girls all shifted positions. A bit later, the girls took turns bending over the picnic table while the man screwed them in succession. Everybody yelled.

Some kids would do almost anything for passing grades, I guessed.

---

I was born in mid-century and I hit puberty by the time of JFK's assassination. This era featured unsafe cars and sex, cheap gas and cigarettes, black-and-white TV, hypocrisy about sex and race and class, cultivated fears of imminent nuclear annihilation... and drive-in movie theatres.

Some of the local drive-in's showed only clean family fare. Bo-ring. The 'good' drive-in's specialized in films with monsters, aliens and robots chasing big-titted girls, or spies and big-titted girls, or surf / beach party films with big-titted girls in bikinis, etc. Oh yeah.

Cheap kids would pile a bunch of friends in the car trunk and pay just one admission. Horny kids would go with one couple in the front seat and more in the back seat. In either case, the patrons were usually busy sucking and fucking rather than actually watching the films.

The 'best' local drive-in featuring films with big-titted girls had a break in its fence. Skinny kids like me had no trouble sliding through the gap. No, I was not really interested in the lousy movies. But by staying in the shadows, I always had good views of the sex.

A '55 Chevy Belvedere was rocking. I peered in the side windows. A girl with great tits was riding a guy in the front seat. A pair of great-looking legs were spread in the back seat with a scrawny hairy pimply male ass thrusting frantically. How the fuck did he rate that?

A '60 Ford Fairlane was rocking. Through the windows, I saw a missionary fuck in the front, with a better-looking male ass. In back, TWO girls were riding their side-by-side partners. The guys were sucking and fondling their tits. The girls were kissing each other. Oh yeah.

A muddy Dodge pickup was rocking. A girl was on top of a guy in the front. A girl was on her back in the pickup bed, blowing one guy who knelt beside her while another guy was between her legs, screwing her. After a bit, the guys in back exchanged places and continued.

A rusty Studebaker Lark was not rocking. But blankets were spread beside it, and three couples were busy. The girls were all on their hands and knees. The kneeling guys all pumped away behind them. Then a girl said "switch," and the guys all moved over to different cunts.

A familiar-looking '59 Rambler American was not rocking, and nobody was in the front seat, but a topless woman was in the middle in back, and guys on either side of her were sucking her tits. She looked familiar too. Holy shit, that's Aunt Elena! Out partying again, yeah.

This drive-in, like most others, was de-facto segregated. People from one part of town and its high school occupied one side, while those from another part of town and its high school were on the other side. Only idiots actually watching the lousy films parked in the middle.

White Californians occupied most of the drive-in. Blacks had one back corner of the area, Mexicans had the other back corner, and white Okies were stuck in the middle back. The social stratification was pretty obvious. At least nobody fought there; that would get you banned.

---

I went sorta wild after my folks divorced and I was bounced from house to house. I went running around naked in the neighborhoods at night. I ghosted across lawns and down alleys. If I heard or saw a car approach, I ducked behind a hedge or fence or parked car or whatever. I was never caught, not once.

I tried looking in through front windows but they were usually curtained. Some gates were unlocked, and I could sneak into back yards, and peer into bedroom or other windows, which might not be covered.

HILLMAN was the name on the mailbox. Mr Hillman was a middle-aged middle-height middle-appearance guy who I never saw wear anything but a business suit, the few times I ever saw him. He was apparently away a lot, on business, I guess. Can you guess what comes next?

Mrs Hillman was younger, brighter, pretty sexy, a fairly tall bleached blonde with a thin face, full lips, wide mouth, high cheekbones, and luscious tits, with wide dark aureoles and thick nipples. Her waist was thin and her hips were wide. Her muff was medium brown, unbleached. Her legs were tennis-toned, although she only went to the courts when Mr Hillman was at home in the detached-garage ranch house.

Mrs Hillman's body was visible because she was rarely dressed when at home, unless Mr Hillman was there. If I rang her doorbell during the day, she always answered wrapped in a polka-dot terry robe and apparently nothing else. Her robe was sometimes open, especially when I smelled alcohol on her breath. I do not think she deliberately flashed me. She was just careless about staying covered around uninvited visitors.

With invited visitors, her body was VERY visible, at least through the backyard windows, at least when her visitors were not covering her body with their own. Their bodies were quite visible too. All of them.

When Mr Hillman was not at home, other men were. Many other men. Many women, too. Her visitors did not park in front of the house. They either walked up the alley, or parked in her alley-facing garage.

Mrs Hillman did not close the curtains on windows facing her backyard, and did not turn off lights, so her visitors were easy to see. Peering in, I recognized some of the men and women as neighbors. I recognized others as merchants with downtown shops and offices. I did not recognize others, especially the dark and swarthy men and women.

Mrs Hillman liked having groups of visitors of both sexes. She liked prolonged athletic sex on beds, tables, couches, stuffed chairs, the floor, wherever. I could not see her kitchen counters but she probably fucked there too. I sometimes saw her fucking in and on the cars parked in her garage.

Mrs Hillman like vaginal, oral, anal, and tit-fucking sex. She liked having simultaneous dicks (and the occasional dildo) stuffed into her vagina, anus, mouth, and both fists. She liked having mouths at her mouth and pussy and anus and tits. She liked having pussies in her mouth or rubbing her vulva.

Mrs Hillman was always good for a show.

Other neighbors might have fewer visitors, or even none, but were often just as indiscreet and careless about gates and curtains and lights. I made notes of which families were in-house nudists, and of the times when certain girls and women undressed for the night, and of the dates were husbands were away so wives could play, and vice-versa. And which occupants liked rubber, leather, whips, chains, ropes, hoses, water balloons, fruit and vegetables, and other toys.

You would find that notebook to be filled with very interesting information. Good thing it is gone now.

I cannot talk here about some of what I saw. Let us just say that not all sexual acts I witnessed involved consenting human adults, and leave it at that.

My sex education was pretty well-rounded even before anyone touched me.

---

All that voyeurism did not help me socially. In school, I was shy and clumsy, at least till I was dragged into sexplay in my senior year. I tell that story in the next chapter. I did not go to dances or hang out with popular kids or any of that teen-bonding stuff. I told myself that dancing was dry-humping and was trivial. I told myself that I did not need cliques or clubs. But really, I was shy, and lacking in what pundits call self-esteem. Have you been there too?

My mid-teens were awkward at home. My sisters were growing tits. Mom went around the house half-naked. Neighborhood girls in my age cohort were more physically mature, and seemingly not interested in that weird skinny geek, me. I saw lots of sex, but none of it involved me. As it turned out, some girls *were* interested in me, but I did not read their signals right, not then. I could have had sex sooner. But I could not tell you about that here, could I?

******************** determinants and cusps

I'll get serious here.

My life would have been very different if I had not been born. (OK, you can laugh now.) My life would also have been very different if certain events outside my control had not happened.

* My older sister Matty died of Rubella when she was three and I was half her age. Had she lived, my folks might not have had two more daughters later, Sue and Lyn. Had she lived, I would be the younger brother, not the oldest. What would have been our relationship? Would we have fucked, as Lyn and I did much later?

(I have seen photos taken at age three of Dad's older sister Elena, and Matty, and my granddaughter LuAnn. They look identical. Those genes are very strong.) (I also recently saw my sister Sue in bed with her adult son. Our behaviors are consistent.)

* I fell from a moving car when I was three. My skull was fractured; I was hospitalized for months. I was diagnosed and treated as pre-epileptic for many years. How much of my later behavior resulted from brain damage? Yes, I scored very very high on IQ tests. Did the brain damage lower my IQ, or raise it, or what?

* Mom found Dad too boring after twenty years and divorced him when I was sixteen. (Mom was still a nurse, and she fell for a patient, and dumped the old companion. Same old story.) The family fractured; my life fractured. Had they stayed together, would my life have been much more stable and mainstream?

(I came home from school more than once during the divorce to find Mom in bed with her new redneck stud, the curtains drawn, the noises more animalistic than goats humping, the smells unpleasant.)


Ron's Journal 00



Those were my major life-shaping incidents. I call them my 'determinants' for they determined my life, beyond my control.

---

There are another set of life-changing incidents, those that I had some control over, by conscious or oblivious choice. I call these my 'cusps'. Any slightly different action at one of these cusps would have changed my path radically.

Some of these cusps and choices were pretty straightforward.

If I had not met a certain girl at my second high school, I would not have met, married, and divorced her sister, and I would not have my daughter and her splendid family loving me now. And I could not now brag about having a famous author as an ex-sister (and ex-fuckbuddy), the aunt of my grandkids.

I could have stayed with my sister Lyn, as a lover or just a brother, and all my further history would be different. I was not forced to join the Army, but doing so changed my life. My last major choice was between following a path to being a military doctor, or being the gigolo of a rich girl, or going with the smart woman who has since been my life partner. I made my choices, and lived with them.

Other cusps were more convoluted and indirect.

Some hitchhiking rides, and other chance encounters, and even a walk in a park, all led to long trails of unforeseeable life-changing consequences. Even if I were a pre-planning sort of person, these chance events would still have spun my compass needle and routed my path to unforeseen directions. Maybe all these cusps were necessary. STRANGE TRAVEL DIRECTIONS ARE GOD'S DANCING LESSONS, said a wise man.

Unless your own life has been incredibly dull and bland, and totally pre-planned, you have probably had similar determinants and cusps. Think about them. Think about where they have taken you. But don't get caught in what-if's. Don't be crushed under the bones of lives you have never lived.

--Ron

******************** explanations and excuses - EDITOR'S NOTES

Hi folks. Hypoxia here.

I'm the one who compiles, edits, and adapts my late Uncle Ron's voluminous notes and tapes. Ron was my uncle by marriage, not blood. I have no place in these tales; I did not participate in any of the actions chronicled; my relationship is not mentioned. I just pull the stories together.

I am not a good storyteller. I have worked as a technical writer and editor, and I am pretty good with narrative accounts and reporting, but I cannot write drama to save my life. Anyone who has read the original BRIDE OF KONG 03 can attest to that.

My role as editor-adaptor has been to piece together the tales from disorganized notes, tapes and memory, and to flesh out the sex scenes, hopefully without too many clichés. Swirling tongues, yeah sure...

I want to apologize for the ordering of these posts. I originally wrote the narrative as chapters 01-07 with sections 0-16. I had not planned on expanding the accounts. But as I proceeded, I found many holes in the narrative. I am filling those holes after-the-fact, with kludged numbering. Events that took placing during chapter 05 are in chapters 05A and 05B, for example, and added events within section 11 are in sections 11A, 11B, and 11C. If I had taken many months to write all this as one piece, the ordering would be better. Tough. It is what it is now. I hope you are not too confused. I have confused myself enough.

About my posts here: Some tales are straight fiction and are so labeled. As for the JOURNAL entries and spin-offs, well, I probably should not invalidate the "this-is-all-fiction" disclaimer. Are the people, places, and most events here, really real? That is up to you to decide. Believe it or don't.

Ron said that he once entered a liar's contest and came in dead last. Thus, you can believe everything he says. Uh-huh.

Just suppose some of the accounts are true. If so, then: I have changed the names of everybody, or have omitted names. Some characters may be recognizable from their descriptions. I have kept the names of many real places, and obscured or omitted other place names, as I deemed necessary. I have compressed times and events as needed for narrative flow. I may have gotten some dates confused. What, this ain't straight history? Sue me.

I have received some feedback on these tales already. If the feedback is anonymous, I cannot reply, so if you want a conversation, please use your Lit ID. I welcome all feedback, comments, and recommendations. Some feedback and comments have faulted technical details. Well, I have tried to research everything, and I have obscured or glossed-over some details, but nobody is perfect, right? Especially me. And Ron.

--Hypoxia [gasp]

NEXT: Ron's life is ripped apart, and he breaks loose in high school.



Ron's Journal 01



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

The sex starts after a bit of introductory blather. Please read on.

******************** 0: Introduction -- The End of Continuity

My name is Ron. I was born near Los Angeles in mid-century, in the same hospital where my dad was born 30 years earlier. My family had been in this town since before 1900 -- very rare in mobile Southern California. Dad's parents kept a small poultry farm and nut orchard on the far outskirts of town.

My sisters and cousins and I grew up with a typical post-WW2 middle-class suburban 'ranch'-house life under the smogberry trees. In those years, the mostly Anglo kids in my subdivision almost all walked to the same nearby elementary school, later biked to the same local middle school, then moved on to high school across town.

On hot days, we played in sprinklers on our front lawns or in the few backyard swimming pools. On cold evenings, we would gather in someone's house for games and hot chocolate and ghost stories. We ganged-up at any time for bike rides or record parties or spitting contests.

As we grew a little older, we kids naturally played exploratory sexual games. I cannot give details here -- but some girls wanted to know if my great height (eventually 6'5") and shoe size (I now wear 17's) correlated with penile length. (The answer: yes.) Others gave lusty greetings and good-byes. Others only wanted to play. We all learned a great deal around swimming pools, hey?

This typical life shattered and collapsed when I was 16 and my sisters Sue and Lyn were 15 and 14. Mom decided Dad was too boring and dull. Mom divorced him, and moved in with a lower-class redneck stud and his two thuggish sons, who became my "step-family". My sisters and I were bounced between various households and schools in various towns. Our old friendships faded away in the distance.

Even worse, the "step-family" guys molested my unwilling underage sisters -- and Mom did nothing to stop them. We learned to have zero respect for ourselves and others. We ran away, were caught and returned, and punished. Our late-teen lives generally sucked -- but not totally. I had a few bright spots.

******************** 1: Piedmont High -- Fun and Games

I turned 18 before my senior year of high school. I was in three different high schools that year and dropped out before graduation; more on that later.

I had to register for the draft. I gave my address as the place where Mom lived with her redneck stud, across the county line, out of Los Angeles County. The local draft board was racist, and drafted Blacks and Chicanos first. My thin white ass was pretty safe from being shipped off to die in VietNam.

I started the year at middle-class Piedmont HS in my hometown, amid the familiar cohort of kids I had grown up with, as well as kids from other parts of town. Some of those other-neighborhood girls became special friends, but all too briefly.

___

"Hey Ron, what's happening?"

That was Judy, shoulder high to me, with trimmed brown hair and nice curves, cute as a bunny and just as bouncy. She skipped alongside me clutching her books to her pleasantly pneumatic chest masked in an orange and vanilla sundress. We headed towards our next history class.

"Oh, same old same old. I'm still trying to play rock'n'roll on that bulbous old mandolin my aunt gave me. Yuck. I really need a guitar."

"Hey, you haven't been over to my house yet. Come visit me sometime and you can play with my guitar -- and with me!"

I smiled and straightened my tie.

I had been reading about Japanese schools and had decided to put together my own version of a school uniform. So I wore black JC Penny jeans, and a dark green short-sleeved button-down linen shirt, and wrapped a plain dark red tie around my neck, held down with a Rising Sun tie clip.

This was NOT the usual Southern California school garb in this Summer Of Love season.

"Sounds like a plan. What have you got there?"

Judy was pulling out her sketchpad, pulling out an inked sheet.

"It's for you. It IS you!"

It certainly *was* me, a detailed pen-and-ink drawing of me in that boring classroom on a typical day. My lean head topped with longish black hair, thick black-frame glasses, and a bored expression. My shirt and tie and its ominously glowing clip. My nervous gestures. Judy had put a lot of work into this.

I smiled again and looked at my watch, which I had actually remembered to wind and set that morning. We still had a couple minutes till the bell rang. I prodded Judy towards an unoccupied bench. I put my arm around her soft shoulders and gave her a good snuggly squeeze.

"This is really great! Judy, you're the best girl here!"

I squeezed her again, looked around to make sure no teachers were looking our way, and kissed her forehead, with a little wet lick too. I felt her shiver. (Or was she giggling?) I grabbed her hand and pulled her up, moving us on to class. We walked hand in hand to the door. We went to our desks for our hour of mental torture.

Our next classes were in opposite directions, so we split up with promises to get together at her place right after school.

___

With the school day over, I pedaled my Raleigh 3-speed to the drugstore to buy the latest DOCTOR STRANGE comic, then on to the affluent neighborhood where Judy lived. Her father was a dentist; her mother busied herself with various social and civic groups; and their house oozed money.

I still lived in the modest downtown apartment my Dad was forced into after the divorce. I had had to learn to cook out of self-defense. Judy's family's economic and social status was a couple rungs above anything I was used to, and I was nervous.

Judy met me at the door, hugged me, told me her folks would not be back for a couple hours, and dragged me inside and upstairs to her bedroom. We pulled off our shoes. A box of oatmeal cookies and a pitcher of iced lemonade waited on the window ledge.

Her Spanish acoustic guitar was in its open case on her bed. We sat down next to it. I picked it up and fingered the strings.

"Oh, I'll have to twist my brain around this. The bottom strings are tuned just the opposite of my mandolin strings. I'm used to GDAE and now I'll have to start thinking about EADGBE," I said as I put the guitar back in its case.

Judy grinned, got a sly look, and said, "Well, if you can't play my guitar, then you'll just have to play ME! Why don't you start here?" She turned around and pointed at the top button on the back of her dress.

I needed no more encouragement. Each unbuttoning was accompanied with a little rubbing of her back. She turned to face me. She started on my tie and shirt, then my belt and jeans zipper.

We both stood up. She pulled my shirt off and my jeans down to my feet. I pulled her sundress up over her head. We stood there, her in creamy bra and panties, me in pale undershirt and briefs.

We slowly reached out to each other, feeling our faces, arms, belly buttons. We stared into each other's eyes.

"Am I your best girl?"

"Judy, sure, you know you are."

"Have you ever been with a girl?"

I hemmed and hawed and told her about some kissing and groping and fond embraces. I didn't bring up the feet-vs-penis-length survey, nor a couple of close encounters.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's about it."

Judy wore her sly grin again, reached over to a brass bell sitting on a bookcase, and rang it. Her bedroom door opened.

"You know Ann, I think. She's in my glee club. We've talked about you."

Oh shit, I'm busted. Totally busted. Is it fatal?

Faith, Hope and Ann Heineke were three sisters who lived across the street from me in my old neighborhood, each born 9 1/2 months after the other. Ann was just a few days younger than me.

They were supposed to be Faith, Hope and Charity. But Francis X, their father, ran off to Okinawa with a JAL stewardess while the last was still a fetus. Their mother thought the whole name game was stupid, thus the youngest became Ann.

Despite being long-time neighbors, I rarely saw these three girls because they were not in the public school system, being raised in Catholic schools instead. The closest we ever got was a couple weekends when we hung around together listening to a Hawaiian language audio course, drinking guava juice, and practicing hula moves. And I had run off a couple bullies who harassed them.

At least, that was the closest we got until recently. These three svelte sisters, all longhaired blondes with similar but distinctive lovely bodies and faces, were the very same Catholic schoolgirls who had attacked me with a measuring tape. They called their survey "anatomical research".

Of course, to get accurate measurements, they applied certain sweet incentives. They concluded that yes, long fingers and feet DO correlate with the length of other appendages. All in the name of Science, hey?

Ann had offered some of the sweetest incentives. Oh shit, I am *so* busted...

Ann and Judy both cackled. "Don't sweat it," Judy laughed. Ann smiled, "No huuhuu!" (That's Hawaiian for NO PROBLEM.)

Ann offered me yet more eye candy, dropping her school uniform to the floor around her slowly wriggling feet. Her chestnut-hair topped Judy by a couple inches; her willowy form was clad in no more than Judy wore.

They unsnapped each other's bras. I seemed to suffer a breathing difficulty at that moment.

When they pulled down each other's panties, my nervous system shut down momentarily.

But I quickly recovered. I might have prayed.

I sat down heavily on the bed, still wearing my skivvies and my Goldwater eyeglasses. My eyeballs oozed through the lenses. Looking directly back at me were four nipples inside four aureoles atop four bouncy tits.

TITS! Friendly, inquisitive, approaching tits. Tits that moved closer to my face.

Four hands reached out into my hair and pulled me upright, relieving me of my skivvies and glasses and rational thought, and then pushed me back down, sitting on the bed. Four tits brushed across my naked eyes, my shuddering nose, my drooling lips. Tits were inserted into my ear canals, my eye sockets, my nostrils. Tits were presented to each other's luscious lips, then inserted into my slack-jawed open mouth.

I responded rather quickly. I should have said grace -- "for these bounties I am about to receive."

"There, there, little Ronny, it's alright, just pucker up and suck," said Judy.

"Mmmmph," I replied. Yes, I was tongue-tied.

"Hey Ron, do I taste any better than Judy?" asked Ann, pushing forward.

"Mmmmph mmmph," was all I could respond.

Judy said, "Hey, we gave him the length test. I think it's time for a taste test."

Ann nodded. They each slowly stuffed a couple fingers into each other's cunts. I could see their digits twiddling about their insides, gathering up their warm juices. They pulled their dripping fingers out, held them to their own and each other's noses, inhaled, took tiny licks.

Ann poked her juicy fingers into one side of my mouth, and Judy poked hers into the other side.

"OK Ron, which of us tastes better?" asked Judy.

"Mmmmph mmmph mmmph," was my honest answer.

All our mouths and genitals and torsos were rather occupied after that. We circled and writhed, sucking nipples and navels and gonads and toes and whatever else was available. I came quickly the first time, but lasted longer with each subsequent suck.

Neither girl had the greatest blowjob technique, but who cares? I did not have the best pussy-licking skills, but I heard no complaints, only happy moans.

My naive cock was not allowed into either reserved cunt, but repetitive 69s amongst all of us were quite as much fun. I loved watching them eagerly tongue each other from mouth to breast to crotch to toes. They apparently both enjoyed feeling my tongue and cock, and tasting my saliva and jiz and toe-jam.

We all slurped like hungry puffer-fish -- until the alarm clock rang.

"Hey guys," said Judy, "we better stop and clean up. My folks should be home sometime soon."

There was a bit more slurping and stroking and shimmying, but in only a few minutes, we looked and smelled almost innocent again.

Judy's mother came up the stairs and found us supposedly rehearsing folk songs with Judy playing guitar, me blowing my Marine Band chromatic harmonica, Ann tapping spoons together. Our vocal mix was tolerable as long as I stuck to simple baritone lines.

___

Over the next few weeks, Ann and/or her sisters occasionally showed up at Judy's for more "jam sessions" where all we jammed were fingers and tongues. Judy drew some sketches of our sexfests and hid them carefully. And I quit being so nervous about hanging out in the upscale neighborhood, even if I was only there as a sex object.

Our next sexfest was purely educational. I was in for intensive training.

I biked to Judy's house after school. She yelled from her bedroom window for me to come upstairs. Judy and Ann were in bed, totally bare-assed, wrapped around each other, and kissing. They pulled their mouths apart and peered at me.

"Ron, get naked," Ann told me.

"You need to learn how to eat pussy," Judy instructed.

"Oh boy, a fun study session," I quipped as I skinned off my clothes.

Ann sprawled across the bed, legs opened wide. Judy sat on Ann's mouth, facing me.

"Put your long nose in front of Ann's cute cunt and pay attention," Judy said, leaning forward. I quickly obliged.

"This is your Female Anatomy And Physiology 101 class, totally extra credit... ooooh," Judy said as Ann's working tongue started affecting her.

Judy pointed a finger at Ann's cunt and said, "This is a cunt. It likes to be licked. Like this."

Judy dipped her head, stretched her tongue, and demonstrated. My face was right next to her upside-down skull. I carefully observed her actions.

"These are the lips, and the labial folds. They like to be licked all around, like this," and she showed how.

"Now you try it... oooh ah ahh," Judy groaned, and I did.

"They especially like to have a tongue loop around in their folds, just like this." Judy showed me how. I repeated her oral gestures.

"This is the vagina. It likes to have a stiffened tongue stuck down into it, like this... oh god no..." Another demonstration followed, with me copying.

Ann started to twitch, but not as much as Judy did.

"This little nub here is the magic button, the clit. It's like a tiny penis but it's not queer if you lick and suck that clit. Be careful and don't slurp too hard... oh shit, like Ann is doing to me now, oh fuck..."

Ann and Judy both shook as I concentrated on this anatomical detail.

Judy gasped, "OK, now you need to slowly stick a finger in the vagina and twirl it around... oooh oooh... and also use your thumb to press gently on the clit... oh fuck oh fuck... excuse me a minute," as she buried her face in Ann's cunt.

Ann and Judy both rocked and rolled and moaned. Judy eventually raised herself out of the 69 and sat upright on Ann's mouth. I could see Ann's tongue still working. Ann reached up and palmed Judy's breasts, then tweaked her nipples.

"Finally, there's a nice trick. Use your tongue to write the alphabet on her pussy. Go slow. Repeat yourself. Oooohhh... And now you need to practice all those moves, varying them, but especially concentrating on the clit to make us cum... oh god oh god oh god..."

I applied all I had learned in this lesson. I also improvised a little, reaching up for Ann's breasts, and rubbing her inner thighs with my hands, and even blowing into her hole and nibbling her clit.

"Oh god oh fuck oh god... FUCK! OH FUCK!" whined Ann's pussy-muffled voice.

Ann came, explosively, wetly. I guess I had passed the course. And practice made perfect.

A following session was even more interesting. When I arrived upstairs, Faith, Hope, Ann and Judy were all naked in Judy's bed. Judy was on her back. Faith was licking Judy's cunt. Hope and Ann were mouthing Judy's tits. All three sisters were rubbing Judy's body. Judy was writhing and moaning. I was fascinated.

Hope looked up and said, "Ron, my sisters and I have a couple rules. No cocks go into our pussies or assholes, and we don't lick each other there either. Anything else goes, pretty much."

Faith abandoned Judy's vulva and was replaced by Ann. Hope leaned over Judy's head from behind and they slurped each other's tits. Then Hope sat on Judy's face, bent over in a 69 position, and joined Ann in pleasuring Judy's pussy.

"Show me what you've learned about eating a girl," Faith said, opening herself to me. I demonstrated to the best of my ability, with lips and tongue and fingers and nose. Faith yelled happily.

Judy pulled herself away from Hope and Ann and moved toward Faith and me, saying, "Hey, make room for me in there."

Judy positioned herself, wrapped her legs around Faith's head, and swallowed my cock. I kept my mouth on Faith's pussy. We throbbed together in a triad daisychain. We all became very happy.

We fell apart. I flopped on my back, with my revived hardon still stiff and pointing skyward. We three looked over at sisters Hope and Ann. They were locked in a 69.

"Well, so much for the rules," Faith shrugged, as she sat up, straddled my hips, and lowered herself onto me, "but don't you *dare* cum inside me."

I didn't. Judy pulled me out and sucked me dry just in time.

The situation sort of degenerated from there. Everybody slurped everybody. My cock found many friendly mucous membranes. Wow, was it fun!

NEXT: The love of my life comes and goes.

******************** 2: Piedmont High -- Love, Found and Lost

I thought I had found the love of my life while eating canned kippered herrings.

I avoided the school cafeteria. I would not have eaten there even if Judy did not have a different lunch schedule. Also, I was too broke to pay for cafeteria meals.

Why was I too broke? Because after the divorce I never knew which household in which town I might be forced to at any time; and my only certain transport was a slow bicycle; and there is no way to hold a job in such a situation. I depended on a small allowance.

Thus, each day I brought a can of kippers, and a pack of crackers, and a couple carrots, and maybe some fruit I had stolen from trees or vines as I pedaled my 3-speed Raleigh to school. (This was before the very last orange groves and fruit orchards were ripped out to make way for freeways and apartments and mini-malls.)

I would sit on a table in the biology lab to eat and read quietly. Nobody hung out in biology during lunchtime, nobody but me.

Nobody but me -- and then Maria Sabbatini.

Maria was a long, tall girl, the top of her head almost up to my eyes, so she was not much less than 6 feet.

Yes, she was a classic Mediterranean beauty with direct almond eyes and smooth olive skin and thick obsidian hair and a modest nose. And ample breasts proudly adorning her taut frame; toned calves stretching below the light skirt hanging from her perfect waistline; sinuous thin feet.

I notice things like that. When a Minoan snake priestess appears, I notice, even when she is fully clothed.

___

I was lunching alone in the lab, reading and scribbling in a Bob Dylan songbook, transposing the accidental-key guitar chords so I would be able to play them on mandolin.

The door opened. Sunshine silhouetted the figure of a Minoan snake priestess. As she approached, I saw she wore a white blouse and beige skirt and simple sandals. I almost inhaled my forkful of kipper.




Ron's Journal 01



"Hi there, what are you doing?"

"Umm, just eating lunch, and working on some music."

"Why are you hiding in here?"

"I like the quiet. I don't much like to be bothered."

"Am I bothering you?"

"Oh ghod, I hope not!" I rasped. "Wait just a second."

I finished the kippers, took a swig of water from my bike bottle, stashed the uneaten food in its bag, swept off the dissection table space next to me, and tried to switch back into 'sociable' mode.

We introduced ourselves. I managed to hear her over the dizzy buzzing in my head. Her voice seemed something like distant chimes. I was light-headed, probably because all the blood in my brain had drained down into my growing cock.

"What's the music?"

"I'm trying to adapt some guitar chords so I can play these songs on mandolin."

"You play mandolin? My grandfather and uncles play mandolin! What kind do you have? How good are you?"

"I'm not great. I'm still learning. My aunt gave me a fat old Italian mandolin a couple years ago. I'd really rather have a guitar, but the mandolin is easy to carry when I'm biking or hiking."

"Hey, you should bring it over to my house! We would love to hear it."

We spent the rest of the lunch hour talking about modern music; and then Watson and Crick and DNA; and then Einstein and time contraction; and whatever else grabbed us. Time contracted; the bell rang much too soon. We handshaked goodbye and went our separate ways.

___

The next afternoon, I found myself at a 'ranch' house in yet another suburban landscape, far from my usual haunts. I was still in my self-imposed 'uniform' but now with a musical treble clef tie clip.

I rolled up to the front door, pulled the ungainly little mandolin case from the bike basket, and reached for the doorbell. The door opened before I touched the switch. A tall handsome Italian woman in an almost-off-the-shoulder flowered dress looked deeply into my nervous face. She almost smiled.

"Are you the boy that's here for my Maria?"

"Err, yes ma'am, err Mrs. Sabbatini, ma'am", I almost stuttered to this mature Minoan snake priestess.

A vehement voice yelled from the depths of the house.

"Mama, that's Ronny, leave him alone, let him in!"

Maria skipped to the door, nudged her mother aside, grabbed my hand, and pulled me inside.

"Mama, this is Ron, he's really smart, and he plays mandolin. See, there it is."

I sheepishly held up the instrument case with my free hand, smiled weakly, and said, "Umm, yeah." Just another retard, that's me.

Mrs. Sabbatini told us to go into the living room; she would bring some limonada and biscotti. Still holding my hand, Maria led me to a long couch and sat close to me, facing me, her knees together, her eyes bright.

"Ron, I'm so glad you came!"

It occurred to me that I was not the only person whose brain blood had migrated south. Maria was a VERY intelligent girl. She was assured of getting into a pre-med program at a leading state university. Our brief discussions of genetics and technology had been non-trivial. She really *could* speak complicated cohesive sentences.

But now she seemed giddy, excited, unable to focus on abstractions and speak coherently. Just like me when my hard-on reigns supreme. I think we were falling in love already, if 'Love' means blood-filled genitals and oxygen-deprived brains.

Maria finally let go of my hand as Mrs. Sabbatini put the drink and snack tray on the coffee table, and sat in a nearby chair. She asked a few questions of me; I tried to reply rationally. Then she said, "OK already, let's hear you play."

I pulled the mandolin from its case, wiped down the fretboard, checked the tuning, strummed a chord, exhaled. I started playing.

Much current American music featuring mandolin has flat-body mandos playing country or bluegrass riffs. I knew a bit of that. But with my bulbous gourd-body instrument, I had worked hard on Italian classics, all stereotypical, but these are almost mandatory mandolin pieces, and I knew them well enough to not screw up too badly.

I threw in a couple Celtic tunes too, and some hot jazz. In no way was I ready for prime time, but I was OK for living-room fun.

Mrs. Sabbatini finally smiled and said, "Funny, you don't LOOK Italian!" Then she excused herself and left us alone. My eyes followed her as she walked away. I thought, "She is just what Maria will look like in 20 years." There went my hard-on again. Damn those Minoan snake priestesses!

I played some more non-Italian music for Maria. Then we started dissecting lyrics of Bob Dylan and Richard Farina and Leonard Cohen, and talking about recent SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN articles about space programs and what might be found on the Moon if humans ever reached there, and various other stuff which since evaporated from my skull because I was just so damn overwhelmingly happy.

We heard Mrs. Sabbatini walk through the kitchen and out the back door. Maria kissed me, lips on lips. I kissed back, lips on lips. Our eyeballs locked together for a timeless eternity. Her eyes were bottomless black pools, sucking out my cerebral cortex. Then I sighed, picked up the mandolin again, and played my versions of some surf songs.

After a rousing solo of WALK DON'T RUN, Mrs. Sabbatini came into the room and asked if I would like to stay for dinner. I accepted and asked to use their phone. I called Dad at his office and told him I would be back at the apartment by dark. No, he would not get a chance to inflict his cooking on me again tonight. Whew.

Dinner was special: a full antipasto salad, and some Neapolitan treats I could not begin to remember. Garlic abounded; no vampire could approach within 20 miles of us. We each finished with a sipped double shot of sweet tart limoncello.

Maria's father and her older cousin Carlo (attending a local college) were at the table, and I only suffered a few sharp verbal probes. I played a little more after dinner and nobody hissed.

I left feeling well approved. Maria gently kissed me goodbye at the door. Her kisses scrambled my brains. I somehow managed to avoid drifting into obstacles or traffic as I bicycled home.

___

From then on for the next few weeks, Maria lunched with me in the bio lab. We talked about everything. We talked about sex. We talked about food.

Maria asked, "Why do you keep eating that fish stuff?" I said it was cheap and healthy and I didn't mind the smell. She said, "Hey, not all women's pussies smell like fish!" I choked and she had to slap my back. (In later years, I encountered women whose pussies DID smell like fish; I hope they were the exceptions.)

But I soon gave up crackers and kippers for egg salad sandwiches. I got the eggs free from Grandpa's little poultry farm so I even saved money that way.

The bio lab had a back storage room that could be locked from the inside. Many days, we would sneak in and explore each other's anatomies and senses. Time was always short and we could never fuck, but we did as much else as possible with the rest of our bodies.

Maria's cunt tasted slightly salty, not fishy. Her skin always tasted sweaty because we always sweated in there. Her tits and butt and hips and thighs and everything else always felt perfect. I guess my tall thin bicyclist's body seemed pretty good to her too.

___

A typical lunchtime session went like this:

We dashed from our last classes to the bio lab. We quickly ate our small meals, and locked ourselves in the back room amid shelves loaded with boxes and bottles of samples and specimens and chemicals. We kept a blanket tucked away behind a bottom shelf; we unrolled it on the floor.

We kneeled on the blanket, facing each other. We undressed each other's torsos, kissing and slurping whatever flesh was available. I paid special attention to her breasts and aureoles and nipples, of course. That's the kind of guy I am. And she worked her flexible tongue and lips around my sensitive nipples, driving me nutz.

I gently laid her back, and pushed her skirt up, and tugged at her panties. She raised her taut ass to let me remove the soft obstacle. I kissed around her lush pelvis and her fabulous thighs, inside and up front and back again.

"Yeah," she whispered, "just like that."

Maria spread her legs and I worked my hands under her butt, kneading those superb buns while my nose grazed in her thick fragrant black bush. I worked my tongue through her juicy jungle and down to her dampening slit.

My tongue tip circled around her swelling outer lips, and between them, and deep into her vagina, and across her sweet labial folds, tasting every dewy drop of her delicious secretions. She started moaning. I started attacking her stiff little clit, and she moaned again.

"Oh yeah, Ron," she almost prayed.

Back into the folds and into her hole, then back up to her clit, and back again, and back again, until her hips were shaking and spasming.

Some serious sucking of her marvelous clit, and she rasped "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck ohhh..." and came in a small convulsion and more secretions.

With my mouth still covering her pulsing pussy, my tongue thrust deep inside her cushy canal, I pushed her legs up, and put my arms under her thighs, and reached my hands up to cup her ample breasts.

This was the best part of cunnilingus for me, cooling her down from her climax while my tongue filled her delicious hole and her fabulous tits filled my hands.

Maria whispered "oh Ron oh Ron oh Ron oh Ron..." and I responded, ""mmmmph mmmph mmmph". Pretty eloquent, weren't we?

We sat up, arms around each other's shoulders, and she kissed my face, wet and fragrant with her savory juice. Then she pushed me back on the blanket.

I raised my hips and she pulled my jeans and briefs down to my ankles. She pushed my knees apart and knelt between them and inhaled my circumcised cock. I do not remember every detail of her oral work, only the repeated pattern of licking and sucking and slurping and licking again.

Maria concentrated her lips and tongue under that bald little head, and her hands reached up and tweaked my nipples. Oh yeah Maria, drive me nutz!

"Watch out," I groaned.

My balls swelled and exploded. I came with a long grunt and repeated shots of anxious teenage sperm.

My body felt like I had been thrown into a blast furnace, every cell on fire, consumed until nothing remained but the glowing red puddle that was me. The sensation was overwhelming. It was not merely a cumshot; it was a fucking meltdown.

Maria tried, but could not swallow all of my sperm. Good thing I kept a red cotton bandanna in my jeans back pocket, hey? She wiped off her face and my cock, then crawled up and kissed me desperately, our combined scents marking a symphony of slaked desire.

We could not speak. We could only drown in each other's eyes. We did not talk much during these sessions, and it's a damn good thing we weren't screamers. No need to attract attention to our forbidden ecstasy, hey?

Then it was time to dress and hide the blanket and calm down and face the rest of the school day despite our furiously buzzing bodies.

Most afternoons, if I had no chores or obligations, and was not abducted by Judy, I would be back at Maria's house for snacks, and study, and more music, and occasional dinners with her family. I felt like I belonged.

Yes, I thought I had found the love of my life.

___

Then came the next disaster.

Dad broke it to me, not gently, on a weeknight after what passed for 'dinner'. The apartment lease was up. We were moving to another city. Not nearby. Too far to bicycle, no bus service, no car nor moped for me. He had already bought a house. We would move in next week. Next week! I needed to pack up NOW, and get my school records and transfer into the new high school. Good night.

I about fell apart. I staggered around school in a daze the next day. I missed lunch with Maria. Judy caught me, and dragged me home with her. She called the Heineke sisters. All four used me (and each other) as sex toys for the last time, and kissed me goodbye.

Even our frenzied couplings and groupings could not break my mood.

I was afraid to call Maria then. Next noon, we sat with uneaten lunches as we held each other and cried.

And then I was gone.

I phoned Maria every night from the new house. We tried to talk for hours. Dad said to quit it; I had run-up too many long-distance charges. He cut me off from the phone. We mailed letters every day. Then postcards every week. Then once a month. Then less.

The next year, she wrote to me from her university, writing about the "sharp rosy glow" of losing her virginity. The next note, a couple months later, was about how she loved her loving sorority sisters. I felt totally cast off. That was our last communication.

FAST FORWARD: I googled her a couple years ago out of curiosity. She was at a university in Ohio, leading a significant biomedical research group. In her web photos, she looks happy, she looks great; she looks like her mother did so long ago. I stopped crying long ago. I can never go back.

NEXT: I visit my old neighborhood.



Ron's Journal 02



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

I highly recommend that you read the previous chapters before starting on this piece.

******************** 3: A Brief Return to the Old Neighborhood

Not long after we moved to the new house, Dad needed to transact some business in person in our hometown on a Saturday. I talked him into dropping me off in our old neighborhood fairly early in the morning.

I wanted to revisit everyone I knew there. I would be on a certain corner at a certain time that evening for him to pick me up again.

We had left the neighborhood a couple years before, to move to the downtown apartment after the divorce. The neighborhood was already falling apart socially. Many others of the longtime families had left; many of the homes where I had spent so much of my childhood were now filled with strangers.

I got lucky after one bleak hour of roaming. The Terrells still lived in their house at the busy end of the block. Cheryl Terrell was another girl who would probably look very like her mom when she matured.

And that look was cute and almost gamine, like a fleshed-out taller Audrey Hepburn.

Cheryl and I had grown up in the same schools, on the same playgrounds. I had been very close to Mrs. Terrell ("Just call me Caroline") and Cheryl for many years.

Caroline drove me and Cheryl and our noisy friend Sally to and from Piedmont High School all during our freshman and sophomore years. Caroline had a little French SIMCA sedan. Attention-hog Sally always took the front passenger seat, while Cheryl and I sat on the bench seat in back.

The car and its rear seat were quite narrow. We put our books and lunch bags between us to maintain an illusion of decent separation, but our feet and hands were always busy with each other, feeling and rubbing and not quite provoking giggles or moans.

After school, Caroline and Cheryl and I would often sit around their living room playing card games and consuming sodas and snacks, and comfortably chatting about the world.

Cheryl and I now had very different class schedules so we never saw each other at the sprawling school. ___

I rang the doorbell. Cheryl opened the door, gasped, grabbed me and screamed.

"Mom! Ronny's here! Ronny's here!"

"I'm glad to see you too" I managed to choke out, once she released my neck.

Caroline hurried up and hugged me tightly. She held me away with both hands and looked closely at me, then hugged me again. Cheryl hugged my side.

Cheryl's soft breasts were slightly smaller versions of her MILF mom's lovely rack. All four breasts were tipped with sharp pointy nipples poking into my torso. I kissed both their faces, and they kissed me back. I felt a surge of joy, and a bit of movement in my crotch.

Beautiful Caroline, only twice her daughter's age and hardly showing the years, held me at arm's length again and looked me up and down. Expressions of wonder and painful happiness and longing crossed her face... and something else.

"Damn Ronny, you've gotten so BIG! How the hell are you?" Caroline murmured.

"We've missed you so much since you had to leave. It's been lousy here," Cheryl cried.

"I came back to see the neighborhood but it's all changed, like a strange land, and I'm a stranger here," I said. No, we can never return to what is gone.

"But now you're back here!" Cheryl said. She hugged me even tighter.

Caroline said, "Let's celebrate and talk and laugh. You're both 18 now. We need some wine for this reunion party. Oh no, we finished our last bottle last night. Wait here -- I'll drive to the store, I'll be back in ten minutes." She hurried out to the garage, pulled the door open, and sped away in the SIMCA.

Cheryl never let go of me. We walked to the couch with our arms around each other's waists, plopped down on the soft cushions, hugged some more. Cheryl looked into my eyes as if she were drowning in my pupils.

"Ronny, you've always been my favorite friend. I've always loved you, ever since fifth grade. I've always wanted you."

I pulled her face up to mine and we pressed our lips together with our eyes wide open. Our mouths opened; our tongues touched; our eyelids never closed.

"Remember all those rides to and from school? We always played footsies and held hands. We always felt and rubbed each other's legs and sides and arms. If Mom had to stop for gas or anything, we'd wait till her head was turned, and then we'd kiss quickly. You think she never caught us, but she really knew what was going on. I could tell she didn't mind. You were always her favorite neighborhood boy. And now you're so grown up! Kiss me again!"

Our tongues twisted around each other again. Our eyes finally scrunched closed.

Caroline came back inside carrying a bag of snacks and two chilled half-gallon bottles of Almaden White Chablis wine, which was the domestic "good stuff" of that era. She put one bottle in the refrigerator and returned from the kitchen with three glass goblets.

"Let the festivities begin," Caroline laughed. "Ron, tell us everything that's happened to you since you left."

Well, I could not tell them *everything*, certainly not about my love life. But I filled them in pretty much about the losses I had felt and my increasing loneliness, as well as about my studies and enthusiasms and music and whatever good stuff I was trying to keep in my life.

They told me about the changes here, of who all had moved away and the kind of people who moved in but could not replace their old friends. People, businesses, trends, they all just come and go -- and the newcomers sadly do not seem to measure up to the old.

I asked, "Are you two here alone? Where is Mr. Terrell?"

Cheryl's expression hardened and she looked away quickly. Caroline only looked sad... and something else. I knew Mr. Terrell worked at the local aerospace plant that built parts for jets and missiles. I did not see much trace of him around the house.

Caroline said, "Matt has been away a lot. He's a senior technical specialist and he has long assignments overseas, helping foreign customers work his products into their own systems. He was in Iran for a few months, then Indonesia, then Taiwan, then Brazil, and many other places. We get post cards and phone calls every week or two, but we really only see him two or three times a year. It's not easy. It's not easy at all."

Cheryl muttered, "He has to get medical checkups and shots whenever he comes back. He's probably getting diseases from whores all over the world."

Caroline looked sadder then. She turned her face away and I could feel her shudder.

Caroline poured more wine. We all drank silently.

"Some festivities," Caroline said. "We can do better than this. Cheryl, stay here. Ron, come with me."

Caroline took my hand and led me into her bedroom.

"Ron, you've always been the smartest and kindest and tallest kid around here. Now you don't look like a kid anymore. Now you look like a man. Ron, I need a man, I need you, Ron. I know you love me. I need you to make love to me like a man."

Caroline pulled me to her. She pulled my shirt over my head. She loosened my pants and pushed then down and off me. She put my hands on her blouse and had me pull it over her own head. She put my hands behind her back to unsnap her bra.

Caroline put my hands on her hips. I loosened her skirt, pushed it down, pushed her panties down to the floor.

We stood naked in front of each other, our hands at each other's waist. We moved our hands up and around, over our sides and backs and fronts and up to our faces. We held our faces together. I had to lean over a few inches to reach her.

"Ron, I love my husband."

Caroline kissed my mouth, my tongue, my face.

"Ron, I love my husband."

Caroline lay on the bed and pulled me down atop her.

"Ron, I love my husband."

Caroline pulled my head to her right breast, and to her left breast, and to the beautiful valley between her beaconing breasts, and up to her long neck, and back to her mouth.

"Ron, I love my husband."

Caroline rolled me over and slid down between my legs and took my cock in her mouth, and gently licked and sucked and pushed me in deep until I came in her throat, thrashing.

"Ron, I love my husband. But he's never here. The bastard is gone. Ron, love me. Fuck me. Love me every way you can. Fuck me back to life."

OK, I'm a sucker for this stuff. Seducing me is not difficult, it really isn't.

But this was Caroline, lovely Caroline, sweet Cheryl's mom, my close friend for years, and she's devouring my heart, she's taking refuge in my soul, she's begging me for salvation, a lost and limited salvation, but the only salvation that means anything right now. I love her. I have loved her. I will love her as long and as fully as I can.

I picked up Caroline's filled-out movie-starlet body and laid her in the center of her empty marriage bed. I climbed to her side and looked down on her and kissed her angelic mouth and her almost Audrey Hepburn face.

I slowly moved down her rich body, kissing every inch. Every inch of her nurturing breasts, her puffed aureoles, her glowing nipples. Every inch of her almost flat belly, her rounded hips, her strong thighs, and down to her feet and her shaking toes.

I kissed back up to her shoulders, out along her left arm to her hand, and back, and out her right arm to her hand, and back, and then downwards.

I moved between her legs. I nuzzled her soft untrimmed muff of thin dark angel hair.

I spread her legs. I nuzzled between her thighs, licked her inner thighs, licked up to her rich slit, licked between her lips. I licked patterns all over and around and into and through her velveteen pussy.

Caroline pulled a pillow over her face and screamed into the pillow. I guess I had become proficient at pussy licking, hey?

I sat up and leaned back against the bed's backboard. I pulled Caroline up onto her knees, straddling my legs, facing me. She lifted herself up and settled her wet pussy onto my waiting cock. She settled down until our pubes bumped, totally impaled on my eager shaft.

Caroline sighed. She had already sucked me to an orgasm some minutes before. I could last quite a while now, staying hard for her.

I sat there with my body still but my hands moving over all her flesh and my mouth kissing her clenched face. She slowly moved her body very slightly up and down on my cock.

Every minute or so, she would sigh and cry softly, feeling another small orgasm -- saved up for how many lonely months? Then she settled back down fully, and shivered.

After a few minutes, I lifted up her body and turned her around, facing away from me, still impaled and sheathed. I held her body up while I drove my hips up and down, slowly at first, then harder, faster.

Caroline put one hand to her breasts, twisting one nipple, then the other, and the other hand against her clit, twisting and squeezing and pushing and pulling and brushing. Faster and harder, faster and harder.

Caroline screamed. She had no pillow to muffle the scream. She opened her mouth wide and screamed and screamed.

And then she coughed, and gasped, and stopped screaming. I held her breasts as she leaned back onto my chest, breathing deeply, almost sobbing.

The bedroom door opened.

"Mom, are you alright? Are you hurt? Is everything OK?

Cheryl looked terribly frightened. Caroline raised her head and gazed at her daughter seriously.

"Cheryl, I love your father."

Caroline reached back and took my hands and rubbed them over her face.

"Cheryl, I do love your father."

Caroline moved my hands over her throat, her upper chest, and settled them onto her breasts, rising and falling with each deep breath she took.

"Cheryl, I still love your father."

Caroline moved my hands down her belly, onto her thighs, then up atop her pubes.

"But Cheryl, your father is gone, and I need love. This is what love looks like."

Caroline moved her body up and down again so Cheryl could see my cock moving in and out of her cunt with our combined juices flowing, lubricating, celebrating.

Cheryl cried, "Oh Mom, oh Ron, I love you both so much!"

Cheryl ran over to us and hugged us. Cheryl kissed her mother's face and her mouth and her throat and her breasts and her belly and the juncture where my cock entered her cunt. Cheryl kissed her mother's pubes and clit, and my gleaming moving shaft, and then up my body to my mouth.

Caroline turned her head back and we three all kissed together, deeply, thoroughly. Cheryl pulled her own clothes off and climbed up with us and we continued kissing while our hands rubbed all over each other's flesh, our bodies all writhing together.

Caroline pushed Cheryl away and pulled herself off my cock. She sat beside me.

"Ron, you haven't cum in me yet. Ron, I need you to cum in me. Cheryl, I need you to help me. Ron, lay down flat there."

I stretched out on my back, a pillow beneath my head, pushed away from the bed's backboard. Caroline straddled me, facing me, and slid back down onto my still-steely cock. She sat up and started moving.

"Cheryl. Make love to Ron's face and chest and arms and legs and balls while I make love to his cock. Do whatever it takes. You'll know how."

As Caroline rose and fell faster on my happy cock, Cheryl moved in on me, rubbing her naked breasts along my feet and legs, then my chest, and then my face and mouth. I suckled those gorgeous tits hungrily while her fingers tweaked my nipples, then held my balls.

Cheryl squatted behind my head and leaned over, feeding me her primal young tits while sucking my sensitive nipples and reaching down to stroke my upper thighs. I was overjoyed, my senses nearly overwhelmed, overloaded, fried. ZAP!

All the stimulation worked quite well. My balls twitched. I came. I came like a firehose of ecstasy, like a Yosemite Falls of hot sperm, a lascivious lightning bolt of pure orgone energy. I became a quiz-show question:

Q: What's gray and comes in gallons? A: Elephants, and Whales, and Ron.

Cheryl hugged me tightly until my spasms ceased and I started breathing almost normally. Then she went back to her mother, kissing Caroline's face and breasts and pubes, licking off our mutual juices and overflow, moving back to Caroline's mouth to share the tastes, and then to me.

And over and over again, until we fell over, nearly comatose.

We disengaged but pulled ourselves all together, our faces together, our eyes and mouths locked into a three-way clench. We hummed. We purred. I belched. Oops.

Cheryl whispered, "That was great, no, much more than great. That was titanic! When can I have some?"

I groaned. Caroline giggled, "I think we'll have to wait a few minutes till Ron returns to the living. Maybe some more wine will help. And some snacks maybe?"

I groaned again. Luckily, the time was still early, and we had all day to work things out. No, I did not screw virgin Cheryl. We shared lots of love anyway. ___

After a long, sweaty day when I did not bother surveying the rest of the neighborhood, Dad picked me up that evening and we returned to the new house.

I got a call from Caroline a few days later. Her husband had been permanently assigned to a Connecticut facility -- no more foreign trips. The family had to move back East immediately. A week later, they were gone. I never saw them again.

FAST FORWARD: My thuggish redneck biker stepbrother Razz bought the former Terrell house about 15 years later. He turned it into a rough party house. Somebody started a fire that burned fully through the living-room floor, so Razz ripped out all the flooring there and turned the area into a mud-wrestling pit. The house was the site of numerous debaucheries, overdoses, brawls and police actions over the years.

Yup, the old neighborhood sure went to hell.

NEXT: Only sex makes school bearable.

******************** 4: Mountain High, Cheney High -- Misery and Fun

Dad's new house was convenient for everything -- everything except all I had ever lived for. All my friends and familiar locales were too far away for a guy without a motor vehicle. School and parks and the library and a commercial boulevard were nearby, but I knew none of the people or businesses around here.

Being ripped away from a lifetime of continuity is damn painful and disruptive. Traumatic, even - yeah, now that I think about it, I indeed had a PTS disorder. I reacted badly. I did things I am ashamed to think about now. That is all I will say about my behavior.

I divide my relationships between "inside friends" and "outside friends". The "inside friends" are people who came into my house, and I could go into theirs. The "outside friends" are people I will interact with in public, but never inside our homes. All my previous life, I'd had a fair number of inside friends. For years after the move away from my hometown, I had almost none.

I transferred into Mountain High School, where I knew absolutely nobody, midway through a semester. I slowly developed a small group of outside friends, and an even tinier group of inside friends.

My outside friends included Karl, a football jock, whom I pantsed at the school swimming pool, leaving him naked before an admiring audience. And folk-singing Melanie, with long brown hair and unattainable round breasts, who just wanted me to back her up on harmonica. And Denny, a demented math freak, with whom I conspired to build annoying and sometimes dangerous electronic devices. Denny first turned me on to LSD.

My few inside friends were a peculiar lot. No guys made the list. For some reason, it was the short girls who sought me, mostly short curvy vivacious blondes. Maybe they all thought the really tall kid would be a worthy challenge, and fresh meat.

Snuggly, hourglass-shaped Tia grabbed me first. Chewable little Cherry got my balls for a while. Then firm-breasted Katie, who wanted mandolin lessons with me spooning her on a chaise -- what a dish! Too bad I could not get them all at once.

But I ended up with MariLyn Hermann, who had recently graduated from Mountain HS and moved on to the local junior college. ___

The Hermann family lived only a few blocks away from me and from school. Mr. and Mrs. Everett Hermann (Ev Senior and Kathy) worked together at another aerospace plant. Kathy had quit Catholicism for Zen yoga. After work, she would return home, meditate nude in the back yard for an hour, and then fix dinner.

Their three kids were short blonde MariLyn, a year older than I was; taller fuller blonder Bethany, my age, and my classmate; and sneaky Ev Junior, two years younger.

Bethany edited the Mountain HS student newspaper. She liked my poetry and essays and published a few. We got along nicely. She took me home to meet the family, but it was MariLyn who stuck tits into my chest and led me around.

And MariLyn had a VW bug and loved driving me around. Transportation! I was no longer stuck on a bicycle! But of course, I could not get rides back to visit old lovers. Damn.

Will Sykes was another regular in the Hermann house, a fellow JC student with MariLyn, usually riding a Honda moped. Will could have been my twin, except for our facial structures and voices. Goldwater glasses, longish black hair, equally tall and thin, equally long cock (more on that later).

I could not know it then, but Bethany and Will and especially MariLyn would shape my life for many years to come. Sex, and much else.

The Hermann household was pretty loose.

A note taped to the refrigerator door read: NOTICE -- PLEASE DO NOT SLAM THIS OR ANY OTHER DOOR AFTER 10 PM -- SIGNED, THE MANAGEMENT. The 'management' reportedly never physically punished their kids, and tolerated odd behaviors.




Ron's Journal 02



A younger MariLyn used to have hundreds of iguanas running around the house, hiding under furniture, mating and devouring each other. Ev Junior played stoned organ in an acid-rock band that rehearsed (loudly) in the garage. He later became a guided-missile salesman.

Karate student Bethany was the 'normal' one; her side of the sisters' bedroom was filled with artwork of elves and demons, her head filled with detailed fantastic stories. Bethany later moved to England and became a best-selling author of fantasy and historical fiction.

Bethany had a round face over a medium body sporting round breasts and ample hips. She whispered to me that she and MariLyn sometimes made love together in their shared bed while the elves and demons watched and encouraged them. ___

On some dark and quiet nights, Will and I would stand by the living-room couch while Bethany and MariLyn blew us and swapped us and blew us some more. Then we would kneel before them and eat the sisters' soft cunts while they French kissed, eight hands playing with four non-trivial tits -- and swap.

We guys would 69 with the girls -- and swap. The sisters would 69 each other; Will and I did not, not with each other, not then. And no straight fucking, but almost all else was a go.

Will and I agreed the sisters tasted very similar. They agreed we guys tasted very different. Will and I had not tasted each other yet, so we accepted the sisters' word on the subject.

If Mr. and Mrs. Hermann were out for the evening, we kids might dose up on wine and pot and DMT before and during the sex play. With the intoxications and hallucinations, we might never know (nor care) exactly who was doing what to whom, nor quite what was being done, nor even how. Just a psychedelic web of sensation, of stimulation and orgasm and more and again.

I had other interesting sessions thanks to Will's friend Milton Moriguchi, or 'Gooch', another junior college student. Gooch was Nisei but affected the mannerisms of an English gent. He wore tweeds, drove an MG roadster, and smoked a briar pipe, usually loaded half with golden Virginia tobacco and half with pot. The tobacco masked the musky pot odor.

Although a practicing vegetarian, Will's after-school job was flipping hamburgers at a nearby drive-in. Gooch, Bethany and I often hung out there for snacks and malts, and to chat with Will during slow times.

One busier Saturday, Gooch invited Bethany and I to a small party with some of his college chums. Three girls and one guy (whose names I just do not remember now) shared a small house near the JC campus. I scrunched into the MG's passenger seat with Bethany wedged into my lap; we arrived painfully cramped.

The party had an explicit goal: to see what an orgy felt like on LSD. Gooch distributed blotter scraps of Owsley sunshine acid, but took none himself. He was merely going to observe the activities.

I teamed up with two of the girls: a medium-height black-haired Filipina with slightly oversize breasts, and pale tall thin girl with chestnut hair and just-over-a-handful tits. The other guy, with the bleached and muscular surfer look, teamed with Bethany and his other housemate, a lean muscular Latina.

We undressed each other; fondled each other; kissed each other. The Filipina and I got our lips together on the pale girl's mouth, then her breasts, and then we put our heads together between her outstretched legs and team-tongued her generous pussy. I glanced across the room and saw Bethany laid-back on a couch with the Latina sitting on her face and the surfer guy licking and fingering her cunt.

Then the acid started to kick in.

My memories here had day-glo shadows. I remember my partners and I, fucking and sucking each other in all combinations. I remember my girls and me in a triad daisychain as we floated in the air. I remember seeing Bethany riding the surfer's cock in reverse-cowgirl position while the Latina slurped her tits, and they levitated too. Yes, this is when Bethany lost her cherry, and not to me or Will.

I remember us all 69ing side by side on a king-size mattress, me with the pale girl, Bethany with the surfer, and the two darker girls together, with kaleidoscopic lights whirling around us as we spun through manic universes. And I think I remember various aliens and chimeras and material spirits interacting with us. Were those only acid dreams?

I remember the Latina sitting on my cock, vibrating, melting into me as I melted into her, both of us becoming waxy blobs of glowing goo. I remember double-ending a bent-over Bethany, the surfer's cock in her mouth and mine in her formerly forbidden pussy, while the Filipina lay under Bethany sucking her tits and fingering her clit, and we were all just one fiery entity. I remember diving into the Filipina's cunt and emerging, newborn and crying.

And Gooch just sat in an easy chair, smoking his loaded pipe, getting off on voyeurism.

At the height of the experience, none of us could move, no more than a twitch, our senses too overloaded for mobility. As the acid wore off, we remained mostly immobilized. We were eventually able to roll apart. But not too far apart -- we now all felt as if our souls had merged. We felt telepathic. We looked at each other and giggled uncontrollably, all sharing the same cosmic joke.

Yeah, life could have been worse -- and soon would be. School went rather badly. I never caught up with classes. And I stopped caring about school. ___

Then came the next disaster -- uprooted again.

I had been irregularly bounced between Dad's place and Mom's. Now I was forced out of Dad's house and Mountain HS, down to the shoddy town where Mom and her redneck stud, and his sons Razz and Moochie, and my sisters Sue and Lyn all lived.

Cheney High School, the third of my senior year, was located near a state prison, and surrounded by stoop-labor agriculture. Many students were children of prisoners or guards or farmworkers. This world was totally different world the middle-class suburbia in which I had grown up.

And the worst was that the three guys in my 'stepfamily' molested my two unwilling underage sisters. And Mom did nothing to try to stop them. I will omit the details and only say that the situation totally sucked.

Well, almost totally. ___

My one lifeline consisted of MariLyn and her VW bug. She would make the long drive down to me, drive us to cheap attractions or back to her house for more sex play, often with Bethany and Will again.

Afterwards, we would drive back and park in front of the redneck stud's house, and neck.

The little Love Bug was not really an erotic space. It is hard to make out in a shoebox when one is 6'5" tall. But MariLyn never ever came into our house. She would rather be butt-fucked with a branding iron and vaginally raped with a spiny cactus than step into this scummy bad-vibes home.

We had several sessions on warm nights, typically like this:

The Hermann sisters and Will and I all somehow squeezed our anxious bodies into the Love Bug. MariLyn insisted on driving her own car and gave Will the front passenger seat. I sat across the back seat, leaning against the driver-side door, with Bethany nestled against me between my legs. Yes, our hands roamed freely, and our mouths did their best.

MariLyn drove us to a hilltop overlooking the suburban valley. We spread a pile of blankets on the ground. Bethany and I undressed each other, quickly removing any t-shirts and shorts and scant underthings that hade survived the drive, while MariLyn and Will ripped each other's clothes off.

We knelt together on the blankets and used our mouths and hands for warmup exercises, with much kissing, and tit-rubbing and -slurping, and crotch-groping, until the sisters flopped onto their backs. We guys sat on the girls' chests with our cocks in their soft mouths, then turned around and rolled them over to 69 them, and then swapped for more of the same.

The girls 69'd each other while Will and I jerked ourselves off and covered their writhing bodies with streams of sticky sperm. The sisters wiped down, then kissed, then scissored their open legs and rubbed their pussies together, inflaming and abrading their stiff clits, while sucking us guys off as we licked their inviting tits.

We moved into a foursome daisychain, me eating Bethany eating Will eating MariLyn eating me, and then switched around. I lay back with Bethany sucking me as MariLyn sat on my face with her pussy on my mouth as she blew standing Will -- and then we switched.

Other fun ensued. We had much more freedom here than on the living-room couch. ___

My sisters Sue and Lyn had some inside friends from this low-rent neighborhood; they had been there a couple years already. I had precisely two inside friends from Cheney HS: Jim the outcast, with whom I conspired about explosives and chemicals and dangerous electronics; and, surprisingly, Miguel the mayor's son.

I think Miguel was practicing for politics. Cultivating outcasts is a sure way to grab votes. He was later elected to the state Senate.

I will not talk about the bad times here. Suffice to say that I never caught up with my classes, and I dropped out and moved on. I left the mandolin behind and played dulcimer a bit, and got a cheap guitar. I hitchhiked to hippie ghettos around the country. And my life was totally different, forever more.

Please don't think that I'm a whining brat. I was still just a kid through all this. I'd had a sheltered, non-threatened life, and hadn't gained a lot of street smarts. I was ill-prepared for disruption.

I have a last comment about high school.

I have read many accounts and stories about the supposed "high school experience" and they all seem like fantasies to me. I was in no cliques. I was neither jock nor egghead nor hot-rodder nor surfer nor band-member. I did not join clubs nor attend dry-humping dances. All those scenes seemed so trivial to me.

And the Senior Prom? Ha. I do not know if dirt-poor Cheney HS even *had* a prom -- and if there was, so what? I had already dropped out.

I was neither victim nor victimizer. I was too big to be bullied, and too well-trained to be a bully myself. I felt no need to hide myself inside a social crowd, nor to try to dominate a crowd. I was mostly just by myself.

Except for the sex, I would rather forget all about my public school days. ___

FAST-FORWARD: Some bad deeds do not go unpunished, even in families of low-life thugs. Those guys who were molesting my unwilling underage sisters? They all came to fitting ends.

Jim, the father, my Mom's redneck stud, hit her a few too many times, and she left him. He drank himself to death a couple years later -- liver failure.

Moochie, the younger son, OD'd on tranquilizers and tequila, drowned in his own vomit.

Razz, the older son, bought and wrecked a house in my old neighborhood, described above. He crippled himself in a motorcycle wreck and was stuck using a walker. He was later killed by a hit-and-run driver as he slowly jaywalked the busy street by his house.

Good fucking riddance to them all.

NEXT: Down the Hippie trail.



Ron's Journal 03



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

I highly recommend that you read all previous chapters before starting on this piece.

******************** 5: On The Road -- Sex, Drugs, Rock'n'Roll, etc

My parents' divorce and the subsequent dislocations had rather fucked up my studies, my aspirations, my life. So, I went on to live a rather fucked-up life for a while, with no aspirations.

The summer after the Summer Of Love, I was a scruffy hippie, a street freak in San Francisco. (I had wanted to be a beatnik but I was too late.) I panhandled on Haight Street. I consumed drugs and alcohol and poor food. I slept in filthy crash pads and abandoned buildings. I shoplifted. I had dirty sex with whoever would have me.

I hung out at 1090 Page Street, a huge former Victorian mansion divided into apartments. The open basement was a large studio space where local bands rehearsed, bands like Canned Noise, and Cleveland Wrecking Company, and of course Fried Suck And The Acid Queen. Little nooks around the edges of that basement were convenient for fast fucking or fixing.

A thin girl with long brown hair wearing a dark flowered gown sat in a corner puffing a joint. I sat next to her. She passed the doobie and put her arm around my shoulders. I filled my lungs, pressed my lips on hers, and blew smoke into her. She did the same for me. We repeated this a couple times, with tongues.

She rubbed my thigh. I reached into the front of her gown and fondled her volcanic breasts. She rubbed my crotch. I pulled down my jeans. She lifted her robe, showing nothing underneath but pale flesh and a thin dark bush. She stood, then slowly lowered her cunt onto my stiff cock, seated herself firmly, writhed with my hands massaging her tits, and came rather quickly. Her pussy dripped.

I rolled her over into the old missionary position, and pounded away until she came again. I soon came, with a grunt. Out came my red cotton bandanna for a quick wipeoff, and then we sat back and passed the doobie again.

The band took a break from rehearsing. She rose and walked off. No names were exchanged.

___

I cleaned up a bit when I ran into a group of Hasidic hippies organized around a folksinging rabbi whom I had long admired. Their commune had a large log house in the steep wooded hills of western Marin County.

My place there was as the house goy, tending to tasks on Shabbas (the sabbath) from which the orthodox were prohibited. Aaron, the group leader, said he had a very holy car, it would not run on Shabbas. Of course, it did not run on many other days either.

When the rabbi was on the road touring, adult supervision at the commune was rather lax. These were all hot young people. We sunbathed nude, and passed joints and wine, and talked about light and sound and life. My circumcised cock was right at home here.

At meals, we sat on cushions around the gathering room wearing little, arranged boy-girl-boy-girl, and we fed each other's mouths with morsels and wine and kisses.

Fun was fun; but no unmarried intercourse, that was the rule. I could live with that, as long as I returned to 1090 Page Street every few days for real fucks.

But my feet were itching. I wanted to see the world. So I packed my rucksack and grabbed my guitar and stuck out my thumb again.

I thumbed the blue highways across the USA. I ran into many nice people and very few assholes. The guitar made me a "wandering minstrel". I sang for rides, sang for my meals and drinks, sang my way into a few beds.

___

One bright afternoon, I was thumbing on a back highway in flat eastern Colorado holding a sign that read FURTHUR. A dusty red pickup rolled up, stopped. A young fuzzy blonde head looked at me, called out the open window.

"I'm just going to the next town, about 30 miles away. Is that OK for you?"

"Yes indeed, thanks ma'am."

I hoisted the rucksack and guitar in the pickup bed and climbed into the cab.

"Hi there, I'm Lucinda. So where are you from, and where are you headed?"

"I'm Ron. I left San Francisco a few days ago. I'm just traveling. I hope to get to Boston maybe. Some friends told me I might do OK making music there."

We chatted a bit about our pasts and futures and whatevers.

"You look like you haven't eaten much lately." (Right, I hadn't.) "Would you like to stop at my place for dinner?"

"Sounds good to me."

We rolled eastward as the shadows lengthened, and stopped at a small neat house on the outskirts of a ranch town. I helped carry in some bags of groceries and merchandise from the truck. I admired her trim strong body, her blonde head almost reaching my chin.

"You got any clean clothes in your pack there? Go take a shower and change into something clean, and then you can sing for your supper."

My 6'5" body emerged after showering, my face closely shaved but for a mustache, my long black clean hair tied back in a neat ponytail, dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt. Lucinda was cooking burgers and chili, and had tossed a green salad.

I played and sang a couple songs about rambling. Lucinda set the table and poured glasses of cold beer from a quart bottle. We ate and drank and poured more beer and chatted on.

Lucinda said she had grown up and gone to school here; she loved the little school and town libraries. She inherited the house after her folks died in a tornado. She worked as a bookkeeper at a ranch supply store. She did not think much of the uneducated cowboys hereabouts. She was a couple years older than I was.

After dinner, she poured some Cuba Libre drinks, cheap Mexican rum in Royal Crown cola. We sat on the couch. I played and sang a bit more, some funny and rude songs I had written as well as some rock and folk standards. The sun was down. I was apparently going to stay the night.

"Your fingers work pretty good on that guitar there. Are they good for anything else?"

"Well, let's find out."

Lucinda took my hand and led me into a small spare bedroom mostly filled with a kingsize bed. We removed our footwear, then faced each other.

Lucinda unbuttoned my flannel shirt and pulled it off me. I unbuttoned her calico blouse, unsnapped her pale bra, and pulled them off her.

Lucinda dropped my jeans and briefs. I dropped her denim skirt and creamy panties.

Lucinda was shoulder-high to me. She looked up in my eyes and asked, "What now, you Pied Piper you?"

"How about I work today out of your tired muscles," I said, stroking her fatigued face.

Lucinda lay facedown on the bed, arms akimbo. I straddled her butt and started massaging her neck, her tight shoulders, her smooth sides. She murmured sighs of relief.

I turned around, straddled her back, and worked on her firm butt, her fine thighs, her strong calves, her sweet feet. She purred with pleasure. Her pussy moistened.

Lucinda mumbled happily, "That was real nice, but now I need a shower too. Y'all come in with me."

We crowded into the small shower, too confined for any sexual acrobatics, but we had fun soaping each other thoroughly. She nearly orgasmed when I shampooed her hair, my fingers massaging her scalp till her knees weakened. She pulled my head down for a long strong under-the-waterfall kiss. She turned off the spray and we toweled each other dry. We went back onto the bed.

"Now we've had some nice appetizers, guy. How about the main course?"

And so we fucked and sucked and slurped the whole night through.

Lucinda's and my bodies fit together well. We moved into a favorite and most intimate fuck position, with her strong legs wrapped around my waist, rolled onto our sides, face to face. My arms were freed from their missionary-position task of supporting my weight. Our hands had easy access to faces, chests, nipples. Prolonged kissing was easy.

___

Eventually, we slept. Eventually, roosters crowed and dogs barked. Eventually, the sun rose. Eventually, we awoke, pulled out of our spooned positions, looked in each other's faces, and said: "Race you to the toilet!"

Lucinda won the race. Eventually, we both drained and cleaned up and crawled back into bed.

"Say big guy, could we maybe start the day with another rubdown? I can't stand being rode hard and put away wet and uncurried."

We started with her supine, face-up to the rafters.

I straddled her belly and soothed her head, her throat, her shoulders, her breasts of course. I slid down and continued gently stroking and rubbing, no deep pressure, just light touches, down her pubes and thighs and shins and feet.

I rolled her over and repeated my back work of the previous night.

I had just reversed myself atop her butt and was working on her thighs when we heard the front door hinges creak, then footsteps across the floor.

A soprano voice called, "Hey Lucinda gal, I got some fresh berries for your breakfast..."

A fluffy brunette face peered in the open bedroom door, blinked, blinked again.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you were..."

"That's OK Sally, it's OK. This here is Ron and he's a magic man with magic hands. Ron, this is Sally, she's a clerk where I work, and she's my neighbor and friend."

I looked up at the curvy figure in a wheatstraw sundress and I murmured, "C'mon and join us."

Sally blinked a few more times, made a quick decision, and pulled off her dress and all else.

"That looks like fun. You good with massages? My back really hurts!"

I dismounted from Lucinda. We scooted over and Sally lay beside us, tits down, butt up.

"So you're Ron, huh? Well honey, I could really use some of what you were doing to Lucinda there."

I carefully repeated my head-to-toes procedure on Sally, then returned to Lucinda for another round.

"Time to roll over," I said.

Lucinda went onto her back. Sally rolled onto her side, watching us. I repeated the gentle full-frontal rubdown, not getting too busy around her aureoles or pubes, not yet.

I looked at Sally. "Your turn."

Sally rolled back, supine. I worked my magic again, then nibbled her tits and rubbed her inner thighs. She sighed loudly. I moved down between her thighs, spread her legs, licked her brown jungle, her juicy slit.

"Oh, that's nice, oh yes, oh yes..."

Her knees pinched my head. I tongued her up and down and sideways and back. I wrote Latin, Greek and Kanakata alphabets on her cunt lips, punctuated with deep thrusts. Then I concentrated on her clit.

Before too long, she came, she came hard, chanting, "oh shit oh shit oh shit..." into my smile.

I moved back to Lucinda for more of the same. Sally just watched at first, then massaged us, then kissed our bodies. After Lucinda screamed, I kissed Sally's mouth, rubbing Lucinda's juices onto her face and lips. She kissed harder.

Yes, we all fucked and sucked and slurped like manic ravening weasels -- right until the eight o'clock town bell rang.

"Oh shit, we'll be late for work! C'mon, let's go! Ron, would you like to have dinner again tonight?"

"Sounds good to me," I said, helping them gather and don their clothes. "Did you say there was a library in town?"

"Here's my house key, and the library is only a short walk down the road, and help yourself to any leftovers in the fridge. Gotta run now! See you tonight!"

Lucinda grabbed me for a quick kiss, and Sally did too, and then they both ran out the door. I wonder what excuse for tardiness they gave their boss?

The library kept me occupied for the next few days, and Lucinda and Sally kept me busy the next few nights. We alternated nights between their adjacent houses. If today is Tuesday, then we must be having dinner and sex at Sally's, hey?

That weekend we shared a nice picnic by a pond in the county park. With my hair tucked up under the straw hat Sally gave me, I played guitar and sang rude verses, quietly, so as not to scare the locals.

"That was pretty funny, Ron. You got any others?"

"Well, I was in Washington state and I heard a Merle Haggard song and I thought up this version:

We all smoke mary-wanna in Seattle

We all take our trips on LSD

We all burn our draft cards down on Main Street

'Cause we like livin' right and bein' free

And I'm proud to be a hippie from Seattle

A place where even squares can learn to ball

We all wear Old Glory on our britches

And peyote's still the biggest trip of all

We love to make a party our of lovin'

We fuck and suck and slurp the whole night through

If we can't find a friendly hole that's empty

Then one already filled will have to do

Yes I'm proud to be a hippie from Seattle..."

That's about where they told me to shush my dirty mouth.

Then we drove out a lonely farm road, spread a big blanket in a field, and fucked and sucked and slurped like wound-up weasels under the open sky.

But we knew I could not stay. There was no long-term place for me here. A few days later, Lucinda and Sally drove me to the next town eastward and kissed me goodbye, and I was on the road again.

___

By late summer, I had reached the East coast via Minneapolis and Chicago. I looked up Lindy, a pen-pal near Philadelphia, and Sandra, another pen-pal near Atlantic City, both too young for sex, but sweet to talk to and kiss. Yes, back in my lonely days after the divorce and my first upheavals, I cultivated pen-pals.

I thumbed across the northern Appalachians and found myself in Buffalo on a stormy day.

The crashpad where my ride dropped me was an old abandoned brick warehouse. Electricity was cut off but water still ran in the plumbing. Various folks were camped out on the ground floor.

I was invited up the stairs to an office space with mattresses on the floor. My invitation came from a young pretty black girl wearing cutoffs and a green tee, tall and fleshy, her hair in a short afro.

"Hey white boy, get your skinny ass up here! What your name? I'm Lucinda."

"Sweet, I knew another Lucinda not too long ago," I replied. "I'm Ron."

"I bet you did, sugar" she grinned, slamming the door. "You ever had any black ass before?"

"Not that I recall," I answered, "does black pussy run crossways or something?"

Lucinda punched my shoulder. "C'mere and find out!" she laughed, and passed me a bottle of cheap sweet wine.

I leaned my rucksack and guitar case against the door and blocked it shut with a wedge of wood.

And I quickly learned that black and white cunts both aligned the same way, both had similar geography, and both became similarly excited and juicy and smelly and and soft and twitchy and lots of fun, finger-licking good, yes!

"Hey, for a white boy, you ain't too bad! You gonna stick your big tongue in there again?"

"Well, I thought I might just slurp around for a while first, like this," I demonstrated.

"Fuck yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about!" she said as I pushed her legs over my shoulders.

A massive thunderstorm split the black night outside, while inside, I was splitting that steaming black pussy. I thought maybe the huge electric generators at Niagara Falls had short-circuited and were powering the night sky for many miles around.

Impaling her, I closely watched Lucinda's face and body in the strobe-light flashes of nearby lightning strikes as massive thunderclaps shook the warehouse. Our hair stood straight out in the titanic static charges. Our skins crackled. I could not quite synchronize my cock-strokes with the thunderbolts, but I sure tried.

Holy shit, there is NOTHING quite like an energetic fuck while the night sky is crashing down around you!

___

The sky cleared the next day. I thumbed onward, got a ride across the border into Canada, thumbed on through Toronto and Montreal out to Quebec City. A very stormy season there; I could not see a damn thing; so I thumbed back to Toronto and found a crashpad in Yorkville, the hippie district.

The crashpad's livingroom floor was strewn with sleeping bags. The place was run by little Stevie and his taller girlfriend Babette. Fair wiry Babette had instruments scattered around their bedroom: guitar, mandolin, banjo, bowed psaltery. We sat and played together, and screwed when Stevie was away.

Stevie returned while we were still screwing. He peered in the door, blinked, and said, "Pass the Vaseline" as he undressed.

I was walking down Yonge Street one afternoon, my hair hanging long, when a passenger van stopped beside me. The driver asked if I would like to go to a free concert? Sure thing. I climbed in beside some other street freaks.

The van drove to the downtown CBC studios. The CBC was shooting a nationwide TV broadcast of THE DOORS and they needed an appropriately freaky-looking studio audience. Thus the van.

The band were dressed in white. They looked bored. Jim Morrison waved his tight cock-filled crotch at our faces from a few feet away. Some girls (and a couple guys) waved their tongues back at him. I do not know if that display made it to the national video feed.

After the show, the same van dropped us all off where we had been found.

I continued thumbing westward on the Trans-Canadian Highway, around the Great Lakes. I thumbed under the giant goose in Wawa, Ontario. I slept in a laundromat in Thunder Bay. I was devoured by blackflies near Kenora.

___

By the time I reached Winnipeg, winter was approaching and I was tired of Canada. I panhandled a bit ("Got any spare change so I can leave here?") and bought a Greyhound ticket for San Francisco.

I had some fun in Winnipeg before I left. I asked around and some kids pointed me to a local crashpad. It was a two-story wood-shingle place with a depressing basement where aspiring bands practiced.

The usual low stratum of humanity flowed through there: runaways, deserters, illegals, ex-cons, dreamers, musicians, etc.

One upstairs room housed a group of four First Nations guys, Cree Indians who had all graduated from juvenile hall by turning 18. They taught me to swear in Cree and rough French. I passed along a couple Hawai'ian curses I had learned.

One of the Cree guys brought in his girlfriend Carole, an older Ojibway Indian gal with a round face and straight black hair who taught physical therapy. Her personal version of physical therapy involved being penetrated by as many cocks as possible and stuffing her mouth with numerous gonads.

That evening, Carole pulled a very long train with about 20 guys (including me) and maybe half as many girls. Carole was a non-drinker, non-smoker, a straight arrow who got high from hormones, she said.

Carole was installed on a narrow bed. She took double and triple and quadruple penetrations while jerking-off bystanders. She took cocks up both her nether holes while eating pussy, lying on either her back or her belly, sandwiched.

With two cocks in her mouth and one in each hand and in each nether hole, she milked six guys at once. If she'd had prehensile feet, she would have gone for eight at a time, she said. And with a bigger mouth, she would have done nine or ten. What is the record for simultaneous sex partners?

After the first half-hour, Carole seemed to cum continuously whenever a cock split her cunt or her anus.

After two hours of this, Carole's tongue was hanging loose and all her soggy mucous membranes were red and raw, but she said she still wanted more. The bed and the floor around it were flooded with juices.

Things only slowed down when all the other participants wore themselves out.

I came in her mouth or her cunt four times. It's good to be young.

This was Carole's evening, but the other girls in the room were fucking and sucking too. And a lot of extracurricular sexing happened in nearby rooms, as evidenced by vociferous moans and grunts and screams.




Ron's Journal 03



Being a wandering minstrel, I never slept alone in that house. I especially remember Monica, a round-faced and -breasted Cree girl with a red rose tattooed around her navel, who sang wordlessly when she came. And her girlfriend Lisa, a short Chinese gal from Vancouver, who loved to eat Monica while being fucked doggy-style.

When Monica's back arched and her belly raised skyward, her rose bloomed. So did Lisa's smile.

We stood naked together. Monica leaned back against my chest, turning her head so we could kiss. I fondled her full-moon breasts from behind, brushing and tweaking her nipples. Lisa kissed Monica's neck, then raised Monica's arm and snuffled her armpit, inhaling deeply, licking and blowing.

Lisa moved across Monica's front, kissing her nipples through my fingers, and snuffled her other armpit. Then Lisa knelt down to bury her face in Monica's celestial cunt, sniffing and licking and humming, and tongue-fucking her meaty hole while reaching between her legs to jerk my stiff cock. Monica sang an erotic aria as she poured ecstatic juice into Lisa's mouth. My semen soon followed.

Monica and I pushed Lisa onto her back on the mattress on the floor, then moved ourselves to Lisa's feet. We each kissed our way up Lisa's calves and knees, then slowly conquered her thighs.

"Yeah," Lisa exhaled.

Monica and I worked together into Lisa's bush, thoroughly licked her labia, tongue-wrestled her clit.

"Oh fuck yeah..."

Monica settled into chewing on Lisa's lissome pussy while I move forward, across her chest, straddled her head, and pushed my stiffening cock into her expectant mouth. I leaned back so my hands could palpate her paps and twist her nutritious nipples. I'm lucky Lisa didn't bite my cock off when she climaxed.

My intact hardon nozzle was looking for a home. Monica pulled Lisa atop her in a 69. On my knees, I moved behind Lisa's butt, carefully lined up, and inserted myself deeply in her cunt. She moaned into Monica's muff. I fucked slowly, my balls bouncing off Monica's forehead as Lisa's mouth vibrated atop Monica's vulva. Then I went faster, harder, the usual, until we all quivered and grunted and groaned at about the same time.

We fell apart, and came back together in a triad daisychain, me eating Lisa eating Monica eating me. Then we switched around. Yum. All our lips were pretty puffy by now. And the fun continued all night.

"Holy fuck, Ron, did you eat Spanish Fly or something? You've been hard for hours!"

"When I've got two beautiful girls like you here, there's just no way I'll go soft."

"Well, you've been screwing Monique for about forever. I want that cock inside ME now."

"Your wish, my command, fair lady," I said as I happily re-entered Lisa, and stroked.

"Oh shit Ron, you feel even bigger than before! I'm gonna have to glue you inside me."

Sure, the sex was fun. But sex was about the only affordable entertainment Winnipeg had to offer me. So I got on the bus and left.

___

I had been on one long bus-ride a couple years before. Grandma put me on a Continental Trailways cruiser to Oklahoma City for a summer session at Oral Roberts University (ORU). I must say that Brother Oral was the slickest, most charismatic person I have EVER encountered, even if he is mental.

I liked ORU. I met kids from all over the world. My best friend there was Masud from Nigeria.

On both legs of the bus ride to and from ORU, I sat with some cute Evangelical girls from Fresno in the back of the bus and we had some nice smooching fun. Too bad we didn't get a chance to be fertile and replenish the Earth. We didn't even get Oral-genital. Darn.

Back to the story: I bussed from Winnipeg to St Louis to San Francisco. I got off in Reno for a 1-hour layover. I had wandered less than a block when a cop stopped me and directed me to return to the bus station and not show my face in Reno again. Wow.

I crashed with friends in Berkeley for a few days, then thumbed down to San Diego and crashed with my older cousin Dane. Whenever he went bar-hopping, he would return with two girls, and share for debauched fun. What a friend!

I was dozing on Dane's couch around 3:00 AM when the condo door crashed open.

"Hey Ron, this here is Suzy, and that's Lucy, and they're both hotter'n'hell!"

"Is that the little cousin you were talking about? Lordy, he's a big one!"

"C'mon Lucy, let's get naked, and I'll bet he gets even bigger!"

And they did. And I did. Drunk chicks are fun, while they last.

We had the girls bent over the couch back, side-by-side. Dane and I were behind them, him pounding redhead Suzy while I pistoned in blond Lucy. We swapped every few minutes. Their squeals devolved into continued groaning. They may both have been unconscious when we came our last times.

Yeah, drunk girls are easy.

I stayed at Dane's, and worked in a Christmas tree lot for a month, saving up money. I became sensitized to conifer sap. Too many evergreens, dripping sap. I hated the smell of pine resin for years afterward.

I hit the road again. In mid-winter, I hitchhiked eastward, towards Boston, for more life in the rough. I ended up stuck in the East Village in New York City. And everything changed again.

NEXT: New York's a lonely town.

******************** 6: East Village, N.Y.C. -- Up Against the Wall, MoFo

I was in for another hitchhiking marathon, with surprises. I wanted to thumb eastward along a southern route, but my rides went elsewhere.

Long rides took me the length of the unfinished I-15 highway from San Diego to Havre, Montana on the Canadian border. I saw the northern lights. I shivered.

I warmed up a little in Milwaukee, froze again in Cleveland, and finally set foot on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal in N.Y.C. Green-Witch Village! The folk-singer's Mecca! Yeah, well, stuff happens.

___

After various mis-steps and rip-offs and other bothers that kept me confined to N.Y.C., I found myself residing in an X-flat off Tompkins Square, heart of the East Village. X-flats are condemned buildings, with a big X painted over each window. Water and power still run, there is no rent, and anybody who dares can stay.

I dared to stay, in a sixth-floor walk-up. A front room with a fire escape overlooking noxious East 10th Street; a kitchen with a covered bathtub; a small back room, my private space. The only furnishings were whatever we could find at the Free Store or abandoned on street corners, and haul upstairs.

For a while, I ran the place as a crashpad. For a while, it seemed like every damn underage runaway from Morristown NJ was crashed on my floor. I avoided sex with those kids; they all had lice, or worse. A guy in another flat in the back of the building had a pet howler monkey. Shit, what a stink, and what noise!

Two sweet gals, in their early 20s, lived across the hall from me.

Linda was a little taller than Dale, whose head almost came up to my shoulders. Both had long straight black hair and hazel eyes, and both favored wearing paisley silk scarves and little else when at home. Their open door was a portal into a magical sensual world.

I was often invited for evening kama sutra yoga sessions.

Candles lit, incense burning, passing a hashish pipe, we all sat naked in semi or full lotus position on the padded floor, clustered together, knees touching, hands holding hands, a holy triangle.

We moved into each other's laps, and kissed and palpated and fondled, and eventually shifted to the next lap. Ommm...

I seem to recall a bunch of 69s and daisychains and other triplings too. Linda on her back with my cock lodged in her cunt and Dale sitting on Linda's face while kissing me -- then switch. Dale mounted on me reverse-cowgirl while Linda lay prone between our outstretched legs, licking our holy junction. The hash was great so my memory is a little fuzzy now.

I was very sad when they received their paychecks from their new jobs a couple weeks later, and moved out, taking their huge 27-pound orange cat (Omar The Bear) with them.

___

I eventually tired of the crashers, and of panhandling. I cleared the runaways out, cleaned up the place, and looked for work. What I found was casual day labor: digging ditches, hauling garbage, toting huge rolls of fabric in Hell-like garment shops, and demolition work.

I needed to drink a lot of cheap strong wine in order to endure the backbreaking labor. But I only had to work on the days I wanted or needed to, and I sure built up my muscles.

Some assignments were less exhausting. I was sent to a warehouse in Brooklyn to fill cans of specialty paints and lacquers on a sparse assembly line for a couple weeks. The bookkeeper, a young milk-chocolate woman from Jamaica, took a liking to me. We screwed on the dayroom table while Aretha sang RESPECT from the radio.

I forget where or how I encountered Clem The Chemist -- short-haired, mid-sized, mid-20s, slick, gay, Jewish, and a brilliant underground chemist. He always dressed in dark blue turtlenecks under black casual suits.

Clem helped develop a number of the designer drugs of the era, mostly hallucinogenic analogs of amphetamines like MDA and that stuff. For some reason, he adopted me as a friend, not a sex partner, and constantly brought me treats of food and vitamins and drugs and tools. He really liked to hear me play guitar.

I kept in contact with Clem for many years, even after I later joined the Army and he was sent to various federal prisons.

___

Clem also inadvertently changed my life totally. It happened because he sometimes stored precursor chemicals in my flat.

Police arrived one day, a whole task force of city and state and federal cops. They did not find Clem, and none of the chemicals were actually illegal. But some were volatile. So I was charged with possession of explosives.

I spent a night in The Tombs, the ancient noxious city prison. I was arraigned and released on my recognizance, provided I did not try to leave N.Y.C. So I was stuck there, with the prospect of a LONG prison term. Oh fuck.

I had been exchanging letters with little blonde MariLyn Hermann of my high-school sextapades. Yeah, she became a pen-pal too. I told her of my situation, of the strong chance I could be locked up for a long long time and never see the outside world again.

MariLyn took action. The Hermanns' summer vacation plans included a family cross-country drive to Pennsylvania. Bethany would stay behind for a university summer session, but the rest would motor eastward. MariLyn insisted they would bring her to my door and leave her with me for the rest of my days of freedom.

The Hermanns were appalled by my living conditions but kept quiet about it. She waved at her parents and brother as they left. She would not see them again for a long time, we thought.

We climbed back up the six flights of stairs, collapsed on my mattress, and we screwed for the very first time. And we screwed again and again. And then we sat up for 18 hours, talking. And then we screwed again, and again, and yet again. I had just popped my very first virgin.

We soon found she was off the Pill and fertile, and I was shooting live ammo, and she was pregnant. We married one evening in the parsonage of a very liberal Methodist church in the West Village, officiated by the sandal-clad pastor, his wife the only witness. The wedding ring was cheap. Our future was cloudy.

I kept working day labor, and drinking lots of cheap wine for pain relief. We moved to various cheap rooms, one on Cooper Square, one in an ancient hotel on lower Broadway near NYU that later collapsed.

Fellow tenants included Holocaust survivors who screamed all night, and male hustlers, and bikers who robbed graves to sell skulls to Satanists. Nice neighbors, hey?

I kept going to court. Every hearing was delayed, recessed, held over another week, whatever. Then, finally, miraculously, it was all over. The arresting officer never showed up. The judge learned that this officer had gone on vacation rather than appear for hearings. The case was thrown out.

I was free! But now I was married. Oh fuck.

NEXT: California, here I cum.



Ron's Journal 03A



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

This is pretty much a standalone story, but I highly recommend that you read all previous chapters anyway.

******************** 5A: On The Road -- Colorado to almost fucking Canada, 1968

Fuzzy blonde Lucinda curled into my right side, her sleek thigh moving over mine. I stroked her butt.

"Damn Ron, you sure feel good here. I've been getting used to you."

Fluffy brunette Sally curled tightly into my left side, in similar but mirrored position and action.

"Lucinda girl, you sure you want to let this guy go? He's pretty good."

I rubbed their sides, from butts to shoulders, but I especially concentrated on those fine butts.

"You know what'll happen if I stay. I'll have to get a job. Yikes."

They both slapped me, but not too hard. Ah, I knew their ticklish spots. Payback was sweet, very sweet.

My stay with Lucinda and her friend and neighbor Sally in that small eastern Colorado ranch town was splendid and sexy but quite short-term. I was a tall kid, free and legal, on the road, with no plans other than to see the world, and no destination except that written on my hitchhiking sign: FURTHUR.

My possessions were simple: A guitar in a vinyl sack. A rucksack for all the other necessities. Basic camp gear: mess kit, canteen, wool blanket, nylon sleeping bag and string hammock, ropes and tarp for shelter. Clothes: jeans, cutoffs, tees, briefs, size 16 socks and sneakers, flannel shirt, sweater, jacket, rain poncho. Tools and toys: repair and sewing kits, soap, compass, harmonicas, notebook, pocket radio, books, flashlight. Cheap dried foods. And all the maps I could handle.

The guitar made me a "wandering minstrel". I sang for rides, sang for my meals and drinks, and sang my way into a few beds. The harmonicas helped too; I could make music while scrunched into tiny spaces.

Some of those tiny spaces were pretty hard on my thin 6'5" body. Imagine sharing the back seat of a VW bug with another person, both with packs or rucksacks in our laps, and my bagged guitar shoved in there too. Tortures of the damned, I tell ya! Made me wanna blow a mean lowdown wail on my blues harp, the Squashed-In-A-Bug Blues.

From Lucinda and Sally's town, I thumbed northward along "blue highways," through flat ranchlands and eroded badlands. Most of the rides were short, with truckers and ranchers and workers, and some lonely wives and curious young women.

---

A farmer gave me a ride in the back of his pickup and dropped me at the outskirts of a high-prairie town late one day. I went into a nearby Mexican eatery and ordered a couple tacos and a cup of water. Marcella the cute waitress asked about my guitar and my travels. Pablo the owner asked if I could play for a while.

I sat on a high stool by the counter, and played, and sang. Customers stayed, listened, and consumed. Every half-hour, a fresh beer appeared by my elbow. I sipped and sang and played until night deepened.

"Pablo, Marcella, it's been great, and thanks for the beer, but I should go now. It's pretty dark out. I need to find someplace to camp for the night."

"Camp out? Oh no, hijo, you're not gonna camp out, no way. We have a cot in the back room. You can sleep here. Just stay put and sing some more, ?si? Marcella, bring this boy another beer."

I played until closing time. Pablo's chubby wife Frida shut down the kitchen. Frida's cousin Marcella brought me a full dinner and a pitcher of beer and a kiss on the cheek. She sat next to me, and munched an enchilada, and chatted about life and fate, while Pablo and Frida's teenage son Jaime swept and cleaned, and their little daughter Katrina harvested the tables of salt, pepper and sugar shakers for refilling.

Marcella bussed my dinner remains. Katrina solemnly squeaked that I should follow her. I hoisted my guitar and rucksack to a small room with a single bed, table, and chair. She pointed out a shower stall and told me to help myself, then scampered away. I shaved, all except my wide moustache, and fell into the shower.

I pissed on my feet (to prevent athelete's foot, right?) and shampooed my long slick black hair. I felt a breeze, then a hand on my shoulder. My eyes were full of suds. I felt, not saw, Marcella slide against me, her fine strong tan twenty-five-year-old stretched-hourglass body fitting just into my arms. I rinsed my hair and eyes and saw her quite clearly, her sharp dark eyes, high cheekbones, perfect nose, full lips. Her lips traced a path along my collarbone.

"Ron, you are a nice guy and a good guitarist and a funny singer. You look pretty damn good too. Are you lonely tonight?"

"Not any more, my beautiful Marcella," I said, leaning my mouth into hers.

I worked shampoo into her thick black hair and erotically massaged her scalp. She soaped my arms and chest and butt, and I did the same for her. I got her tasty chest very clean. We washed each other's crotches thoroughly, and then moved down to legs and feet and back up again to groins. Our tongues traded slobber.

Drying each other took some time, what with all the slurping and sucking and fondling. Getting to sleep took quite a while too, what with all the slurping and sucking and fondling and fucking and crushing each other. Eventually, we snored. The best cure for snoring is a tongue stuffed into the offending mouth. Yum.

Some hideous demon clanged a hellacious loud bell right outside the door some time before dawn.

"Ron, I have to go now, to help set up for breakfast. You can sleep as long as you need to, no problem."

We sucked face for a few minutes. Marcella finally slipped out of bed, slipped on a red robe, and slipped through the door. I slipped back into slumberland. I escaped the realm of dreams a couple hours later.

I emerged in fresh clothes, toting my guitar and rucksack and the FURTHUR sign. Marcella shoved me into a chair and brought me a full breakfast with about a quart of the strongest sweetest coffee+cocoa mocha I have ever tasted. I started to protest the largesse. Pablo interrupted me.

"Hijo, you were good for business last night. I sold lotsa beer and anojitos (snacks). Think of the food as a sales commission. And you made us all feel good." Pablo glanced at Marcella with smiling eyes. "You ever come this way again, you be sure to stop in. Mi casa es su casa, no shit, boy."

Everyone hugged me adios except Jaime, who studiously concentrated on chopping vegetables. Frida came from the kitchen wiping her hands. She grabbed my cheeks and smooched me on the nose. Katrina hugged my knees from behind, bit my butt, and ran off laughing. Pablo gave me a manly abrazo. Marcella held my shoulders and kissed my cheek. Our eyes locked, and glistened. No tears! I grabbed my gear and left.

---

A dusty Studebaker sedan stopped for me. The driver was an older man in a threadbare black suit. I did not even have to see the bibles and tracts in the back seat -- his whole aura screamed out, PREACHER!

He asked me if I was saved. I did not really feel up to a religious debate. I told him about my experience a couple years before, when my grandmother sent me to Oral Roberts University for a summer session.

"Oral Roberts!" It was almost a curse, coming from his frothy lips. "That charlatan! That spawn of Satan!"

He ranted about Oral's sinful nature for the rest of the ride. Whew, I slipped by that one!

Please save me from the saved, OK?

Another late-late afternoon, a friendly (but not kissable) ranch wife in a pickup dropped me at a roadside rest somewhere beyond the North Platte River, historically "a mile wide and an inch deep" but now somewhat tamed. The truck radio predicted thunderstorms with heavy rain all night.

The rest stop was a little way off the highway. It had a restroom and running water, and picnic tables and a small BBQ grill sheltered under a wide steel roof. A nearby mostly-dry stream was lined with sparse shrubs and mesquite. I collected a pile of dry branches and kindling.

Dark clouds swept overhead. The sky turned almost black, two hours till sunset. A wind rose, much cooler than the hot still air of daytime. I saw a rainsquall sweep in from the north. Lightning crashed nearby. I was damn fucking glad I was under shelter, not standing out on a barren roadside hoping for a ride.

I changed from my cutoffs into jeans and a long-sleeve flannel shirt. I built a fire in the grill to boil water for cocoa. Rain and hail pounded down on the steel roof. Fuck, that's loud! I almost didn't hear the two motorbikes roar into the rest area until they rolled under the steel shelter.

Two lightly clad girls climbed off one bike, and one girl hopped off the other. All three girls wore shorts and light sweatshirts with school logos. All three were soaked and shivering. None wore helmets.

(Remember, this is 1968, back before there were laws for wimpy safety items like mandatory helmets. At least the drivers wore minimal gloves, and goggles to keep their eyes from filling with bugs.)

The passenger of the two-girl bike took control. She was tall and lithe, with shoulder-length brown hair.

"We've gotta get out of these wet clothes or we'll get hypothermia," she said. "C'mon, put on dry stuff."

She unstrapped two duffels from that bike's sissy bar and pointed at the duffel on the other bike.

"C'mon Cindy, get your sweats." The shorter ponytailed blonde unstrapped her duffel and opened it on a picnic table. She dug inside and pulled out a heavier sweat suit. She stripped off her dripping outer clothes, revealing not-too-large black panties and bra exposing nicely-curved breasts and hips.

Cindy quickly pulled on her heavy sweats. She looked at me and grinned as the other girls also changed.

"Enjoy the show, mister? Let us get warm around your fire and there'll be no charge."

I stuffed more dry branches into the burning grill.

"Come and get it!" I offered. "But I'll expect an encore."

The tall passenger's underthings were red and showed a slimmer figure. Her driver, slightly shorter and with long black hair also in a ponytail, wore navy-blue skivvies on her voluptuous (not fat) body. These two grinned at me also.

"We only give encores after a standing ovation," the voluptuous Venus teased. "I don't see anything standing yet," she laughed, staring at my groin. Well, the audience *was* rising a bit.

"So far, I've only seen a dress rehearsal," I responded. "When does the main show start?"

"Sometime soon, but it only ends when the fat lady sings," Cindy cut in.

"La la la," Venus chanted flatly. "Oops, that's just another rehearsal."

The flames rose higher. All three girls clustered around, holding their hands out to absorb heat.

"You girls have cups? I'm boiling water for hot chocolate. By the way, my name's Ron."

"Oooh, cocoa, I love it," the blonde said. "I'm Cindy, that tall girl is JoAnn, and chubby over here is Vanessa. Hey Van, would you grab the cups from our bags? And get the Everclear from mine."

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Everclear is ethanol anhydrous, 95.5% alcohol, 191 proof, the highest percentage possible in atmosphere. It is *potent* stuff and cannot be legally sold in many jurisdictions.]

Cups were fetched, cocoa mix was spooned into each, and hot water was poured. Cindy topped-off each with a good splash from her bottle. We all sat at the end of a table clutching our cups to warm our hands. Cindy and JoAnn sat together on the other side while Vanessa was next to me and bumped her leg against mine.

"What're you doing out here, Ron?" asked JoAnn, cradling her hot cup.

"Just thumbing cross-country," I said, taking another sip of potentiated cocoa.

"Where from and where to, if you don't mind my asking," said Vanessa, bumping knees again.

"From San Francisco, to New York or wherever, but I'm in no hurry. How about yourselves?"

"San Francisco? I don't see any flowers in your hair," Cindy teased.

"Yeah, well, I smoked them all," I deadpanned. "Whatta rush!"

JoAnn laughed. "We're going from Boulder to Missoula, and we're also in no hurry, none at all."

I crossed my hands and wiggle-pointed my index fingers at various angles.

"Ummm, I didn't look real close at the map, but isn't Missoula, like, in the opposite direction or something? I think you maybe took a wrong turn at Cheyenne."

Vanessa giggled and jiggled, her long black ponytail and large tits bouncing oppositely. "'No hurry' means we're taking a scenic route, or at least a route with different scenery than we've seen before. We'll cruise by the Black Hills and the Missouri Breaks and Glacier Park. We have all the time in the world."

"Yeah, this is a sight-seeing trip as well as a homeward journey," Cindy added. "We're off to see the lizard, the wonderful lizard of ooze," she sang, over-emoting like a Broadway blonde.

"That's cool," I said, "I like ooze." I had to yell, actually, as another heavy burst of one-inch hail pounded the steel roof. Nearby shrubs were being shredded by the onslaught.

"Holy shit, this is outrageous," Vanessa wailed, clutching my shoulders.

"I don't think we're going anywhere anytime soon," Cindy shouted. "Anybody hungry?"

"Yeah, I'll get our mess kits and some freeze-dried whatever; that OK with everybody?" JoAnn asked.

We all nodded. I added more water to the pot while JoAnn fetched the goodies. But first I reloaded the cocoa cups and Cindy splashed-in more Everclear. Our attitudes were definitely adjusting.

The north wind blew stronger and colder.

"Damn, this is a bit much," I said. "I have an idea. Somebody give me a hand, OK?"

I pulled my tarp and some ropes out of my rucksack. I ran rope through the tarp grommets and strung it up in-between support poles on the shelter's north side. With each of us working one corner of the tarp, we managed to get it lashed pretty tightly between the poles, providing a good windbreak.

"Hey Ron, you're pretty smart. This is, like, about five thousand percent better," Vanessa said. She gave me a hug. "Fire, and cocoa, and now protection -- you're our hero, Ron!" She kissed my cheek. I smiled.

The pot of water bubbled and steamed. We reconstituted our freeze-dried glop and chowed-down. For dessert, Cindy handed out fat peanut-butter cookies. We washed them down with more cocoa and Everclear. Yes, our attitudes were quite happily adjusted by now.

"Slide over, kids," JoAnn said, and skootched in next to me. She and Vanessa wrapped arms around me from either side. Each leaned over to kiss my cheeks, then leaned further and kissed each other right in front of my nose, with just a little tongue action.

"Mmmm, this is pretty cozy," Vanessa said, and licked my ear.

"I agree," JoAnn said, and tagged my epiglottis with her tongue.

Cindy was still on the other side of the picnic table. She looked left out. "Hey there, I'm feeling kinda left out," she said. She crawled under the table, pushed my knees apart, and nestled her head in my lap, her cheek rubbing against my fat but constrained erection. "Oh yeah, much better." She kissed my zipper.

"Ron, this guy feels pretty attentive. Mind if I check him out?" Cindy asked.

Before I could answer, Cindy had unzipped me. She goosed my butt, which I raised reactively, and she slid my jeans and briefs down a bit. My freed cock sprang to attention like a good soldier.

"Oh yeah, a standing ovation. This deserves a reward." Cindy wrapped her mouth around me and slurped. She licked down and up my shaft, under my little head, swallowed my cock, then my balls, then my cock again.

Mmmm, a nice development. Vanessa and I felt under each other's shirts while JoAnn assaulted my tonsils and Cindy vacuumed my manhood. My reaction was not slow in cumming. I exuberantly filled Cindy's busy mouth with joy juice. She drained me. I would have fallen over without my two female fleshy supports holding me up. I gasped a bit. Getting old already?

"Hey gals, this is great fun, but maybe we should work out our overnight arrangements before we pass out," I panted. "I suppose y'all have sleeping bags. I have mine, and a blanket. Let's make a nest here."

"Yeah, good idea," Cindy said. "We have a couple blankets too. A nest sounds just about right."

We slowly disengaged and dragged out the bedding. We soon assembled our nest between the windbreak tarp and the last picnic table. We poured more cocoa and Everclear and settled in.

"Now where were we?" JoAnn asked. "Oh yeah, we were right about here." She pulled off her sweats and skivvies, pushed me back, and sat on my face. I looked up from between her thighs at her bouncing boobs, and filled my hands, and worked my tongue in her tunnel and around her nub. She groaned and ground down.

"Mmmm, I would sure like a good cigar," Vanessa said. She rid herself of sweatshirt and bra, pulled my jeans and briefs off, straddled my left calf, and started licking my dick.

"More dessert for me," Cindy said, moving to my right side. She slurped my testicles. My guided muscle was immediately ready for full deployment. Could I get any harder? Nope.

"You can have more cock later, babe," Vanessa told Cindy. "Right now, this pud's for me." She slipped out of her sweat pants and panties, positioned her cunt over my straining member, aimed carefully, and oh so smoothly lowered herself. I slid in, deep. Vanessa groaned, "Oh fuck, he feels so fucking good, oh wow..."

Cindy peeled off her clothes and moved around in front of JoAnn, squatting just behind my head. She moved my hands from JoAnn's breasts, replacing them with her own as she frenched JoAnn. I reached for Cindy's vulva. I felt Cindy's thighs, her bush, her slit. I tenderly pinched her clit while slurping JoAnn's.

We kept at this for some minutes. Vanessa rose and fell on my cock faster, and came, "oh fuck oh fuck OH FUCK OH FUCK OHHH..." JoAnn swirled around my torturing tongue, and came hard, moaning unintelligible syllables. JoAnn leaned forward to suck Cindy's nipple and joined her fingers with mine at Cindy's cunt. Cindy wailed, and soaked, and came, her cunt muscles tightly clenching our drowning inserted fuckfingers.

JoAnn fell off my face, fell onto Cindy, locked her into an embrace, kissed her deeply, wrapping their long lithe legs together. Their gluteal muscles clenched spasmodically. They groaned together.

I could not help myself. I stroked the sides of the intertwined facesucking girlfriends and said, "Wait, stay on your sides holding each other, and lift your legs."

I straddled their lower legs and lifted their upper legs onto my shoulders. I slid into JoAnn's juicy joy box with ease, pushed all the way in, drew back out -- long slow strokes, a dozen or more. I slid out, aimed at Cindy's tipsy twat, sheathed myself, and played another baker's-dozen slow count. I alternated, faster and furiouser, while JoAnn and Cindy kissed and tweaked nipples and moaned.

JoAnn broke contact with Cindy's mouth and groaned, "oh oh oooh oh Oh OH OHHH..." and wailed and shook. I pistoned faster into Cindy as she bit JoAnn's neck and shoulder. Cindy gave a muffled cry and JoAnn cried in pain, but moved her had down to strum her own clit. Cindy cried again, mixed pain and pleasure.

I expected Cindy would have a hell of a hickey to show in the daylight.

Vanessa wrapped her hand around my still-stiff love-stick. "I'm going to finish you now, Ron," my black-haired Venus whispered. She turned around, straddled my head, dropped her cunt onto my mouth, and sucked my dick into oblivion. I returned that favor to her clit. I pinched her nips. She squealed; I yelled; I shot life down her throat, a new generation of hot doomed sperm.




Ron's Journal 03A



Vanessa and I fell apart, and gently handled each other's genitals, and watched JoAnn and Cindy in their own 69. Their muffled moans were quite entertaining. Vanessa and I frenched until the others separated.

We poured some more super-cocoa, crawled together under zipped-together sleeping bags, and slept like a pile of pooped puppies. Well, puppies with big tits and dripping cunts and cock and no adult supervision.

---

The storm passed during the night. We awoke to a calm and warmer dawn. We sequentially dragged ourselves to the restroom for relief and cleanup, and then crawled back into the comfortable nest.

Cindy licked my cock into awareness. "I could use that inside me," she said. Who was I to argue?

I swung Cindy's leg over my head. She settled her pussy nicely onto my mouth. I did nice things to her, probing her inner folds, licking her slit from taint to clit. We became very well lubricated. We shifted to missionary-type posture and had a nice slow lazy fuck that must have lasted at least seven minutes till she squealed and came and came and came.

JoAnn tapped our shoulders. "Can I cut in here?"

"Only if you get Vanessa involved too," I said.

"How about this?" Vanessa asked, pulling JoAnn on top of her for a deep make-out, each of their mounds humping the other's knee.

I slid out of nearly-comatose Cindy, and crawled behind Vanessa and JoAnn, and pushed my nose into the paired pungent pussies presented to me. My tongue and fingers played over and into these tangy targets. I heard cries of pleasure from the embracing couple.

I got on my knees behind the twinned twats and once again shared bifurcated ten-strokes between them. I was almost delirious; I just kept servicing these hungry lower mouths in a mental fog. Time compressed and expanded. My shining shaft drove in and out, carrying me along. The ride seemed to last forever.

Vanessa won the Who-Cums-First contest; JoAnn received the Cum-In-Your-Cunt grand prize. I came last, so I won overall, heh heh.

We all wheezed and groaned for a while, then crawled out and dressed for the day. I re-started the fire and boiled water for instant coffee (without Everclear) and oatmeal with raisins. We packed up.

Cindy pressed me against the picnic bench, forced me to sit, then sat in my lap and grabbed my ears.

"Ron," she said between combustible kisses, "how would you like to ride with us for a while?"

"Like I have a choice?" I replied. She had me pinned down pretty well.

"We can hang your rucksack with my duffel on my sissy-bar, and strap your guitar to Vanessa and JoAnn's duffels." Cindy bit my nose.

JoAnn sat beside us and put her hand on my thigh under Cindy's.

"You and Vanessa can switch off as riders" JoAnn said. "You can rest your big hard cock against Cindy's bubbly butt for a couple hours, then you can ride with me and keep my tits warm with your big hot hands." JoAnn pulled my hand to her breast to demonstrate.

Vanessa sat down on our other side and likewise inserted a hand between our thighs.

"And when we stop for breaks, you can give me a nice pussy rub." My voluptuous black-ponytailed Venus pulled my fingers to her covered mound. "We'll make it worth your while, guy."

Such was later called "an offer you can't refuse".

We developed a rhythm of the road: Ride a couple hours. Find a private place. Somebody gets fucked. Riders swap between the two bikes. Ride another couple hours. Stop and fuck and swap again. All day long, and the next day too, and the next, a slow ride northward, almost to Canada. Oh sure, we stopped to see the sights too. But mostly it was ride and fuck, and camp and fuck and fuck, and wake up and fuck, and ride and fuck some more.

Fun.

The fun ended when we hit USA Highway #2 not far from the USA-Canada border. Our destinies separated there. The memories remain.

******************** 5B: On The Road -- shuffle off to fucking Buffalo, 1968

The girls on bikes gave me a sensuous send-off; then they rode west, and I thumbed east.

This trip set the pattern for my next few years on the road: In my first few cross-continent hitchhiking adventures, I never crossed the Mississippi River, but skirted around its north end instead, either in Northern Tier states, or along the Trans-Canadian Highway. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Another familiar pattern developed while crossing this pancake-flat country: Most rides were short, with truckers and ranchers and workers, and fewer lonely wives and curious young women, and (thankfully) only a couple more preachers. Not all preachers could be diverted with my Oral (Roberts) tales. But I dared not expose my childhood Unitarian background. I am sure I would have been exorcised.

Even on this remote transcontinental two-lane highway, I was not the only thumbing vagabond. Sometimes I would find myself at an intersection with another guy, or a couple. We tried not to compete.

Sometimes I shared a pickup bed with others. Somewhere in western North Dakota, I found myself sharing the evening, the pickup bed, and a blanket with a road-weary woman. Her breath and body odor were rather bad, so we just fondled through cloth for the duration of the short ride. Somewhere near the east end of that state, I shared the pickup blanket with a young Sioux girl, with nice breath and nice tits and a mouth that could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, as the saying goes. I fingered her to happiness in return.

I got one of those lonely-curious-housewife rides into Grand Forks. Shirley was in her mid-twenties, pale and Nordic and nervous, wearing a pink sweat suit. She was married to a traveling salesman who was away on an extended trip, yada yada. Her prairie bungalow had a detached garage and a fenced yard. Visitors could arrive without catching neighbors' prying eyes. I somehow doubted that I was the first such visitor.

The house back door led into a kitchen. I leaned my rucksack and guitar against a wall.

"You've been on the road a while today, Ron. Are you hungry? Would you like a sandwich or something? And beer or a drink?"

"I'll drink whatever you're having, Shirley. And yes, a sandwich would be nice, thanks."

The drink was some strong mix of whiskey and a little whatever in a tall glass. The sandwich was... uh, I dunno, why bother remembering? The mealtime talk was sporadic. Shirley tried not to watch me too closely.

"I hope that was satisfying, Ron. C'mon, let's get comfortable and chat."

She 'freshened' (reloaded) our drinks and led me into the living room. I looked around. A big TV, recliner chairs, a couch, and shelves filled with sports trophies and framed photos of a guy in football gear.

I asked to use the bath. Shirley pointed me to a door down the hallway. The hall was lined with shelves filled with sports trophies and framed photos. I glanced into rooms off the hallway -- more shelves and trophies and photos, in a den and the master bedroom. Even the bathroom wall had signed photos.

I saw absolutely no books on shelves. This was not an intellectual household.

We sat on the living room couch and chatted, somewhat stiffly. Another drink reload reduced our stiffness. Yet another reload, and Shirley leaning into me and rubbing my cock, increased my personal stiffness.

Shirley unleashed her agenda. Off with the sweat suit, a not-too-slow strip tease, top first, unveiling quite attractive breasts; then the bottom, revealing inviting hips and muff. Off with my jeans and tee, disclosing my long lean body and full-tilt dick. Shirley looked rather impressed.

"Oh Ron, that's a pretty nice size cock you have there. Bigger than Nick's little dick, that's for sure."

Shirley wiped my crotch with a damp towel, taking care to polish my knob, and then took me into her mouth. Some slow all-the-way to-and-fro suction; licking the underside and head; swallowing my full length again; slurping my little head, leaving a nice wet lubricating layer.

"I want that cock inside me, Ron. Now. Right now. Right here."

Shirley bent herself over the couch's padded arm. She spread her legs and butt cheeks. I moved behind her, lined up for the shot, and punted. I probed her defensive depth, then slammed all the way in. Touchdown!

OK, enough of the fucking football metaphors. I slammed her, went to long slow strokes, and slammed her again, increasing my speed at her direction -- "Fuck me faster, Ron!" -- then pistoned like an infernal machine. Shirley yelled. I kept pistoning, pounding. She yelled again. I picked up my pace. More pounding, more yelling, higher-pitched now, more frantic, more delirious.

I came in great spurts. I yelled wordless caveman grunts. Her cunt muscles clamped down on me. Her scream pierced my eardrums and may have shattered glass two city blocks away. It was a satisfying experience.

After we regained consciousness and the use of our limbs, Shirley led me to the shower in the guestroom (lined with shelves filled with trophies and photos). Drinks had greatly loosened her; a deep head massage with shampoo loosened her even more; a good two-finger fucking in the shower dropped her to the floor. She blew me back to full strength, then dried me off (thoroughly) and led me to the guestroom queen bed.

Yeah, she was one of those loving wives who did not want to defile her marriage bed. Go figure.

Shirley wanted to be eaten. I ate her. She yelled. I pulled her into a 69. She yelled again a couple times. She turned around and rode me cowgirl-style, and yelled again a couple more times. I flipped her over into a missionary fuck. She wrapped her arms and legs around me and yelled again. I kept pounding, and we yelled together. She was not the loudest, but she was pretty consistent.

Shirley kissed my mouth for the first time. "That was pretty exciting, Ron! Say, would you mind having company tonight? I was thinking of having a couple friends over for dinner. Can you be sociable?"

I shrugged. Sure, why not.

We had a few more drinks and a little more sex. At dusk, I heard a knocking on the back kitchen door. Ah, so tonight's 'guests' had private garage access? Now I was sure I was not a one-off visitor. And Shirley had done nothing toward preparing dinner.

Fred and Sharon were medium height, medium complected, blend-into-the-crowd people maybe a couple years older than Shirley, but obviously physically fit, as was revealed by their upcoming nakedness. But first, dinner -- a home-delivery dinner. "Don't cook tonight, call Chicken Delight!" After dinner came more drinks, and nakedness, and sex, lots and lots of sex.

I consumed a fair quantity of strong drinks that afternoon and evening and night. I am a bit fuzzy on the details. I blurrily remember Fred and I tag-teaming each woman, spitted and double-penetrated, and taking turns dog-fucking each while they ate the other. I remember Fred missionary-fucking Shirley who was eating Sharon who was blowing me, and then the women switching, and then Fred and I switching.

But I can only give you this executive summary, not the detailed report. So fire me.

Shirley decided to defile her king-size marriage bed anyway by dragging us all into it. I think nobody regained mobility enough for anything but trips to the toilet that night -- I recall no overnight fucking, at least not involving me, but who knows?

We dragged ourselves individually into the master bath in the morning for our much-needed cleanup, our shit-shave-shower-shine sessions. Shirley went first, then Sharon, then me, then Fred. Fred was already pissing in the toilet when I stepped out of the shower. Guess he could not wait, hey?

I came into the bedroom to find Shirley and Sharon 69'ing. I watched, holding my cock. They fell apart and turned together and hugged. I spread their pussies and fucked them both. Fred emerged from his extended cleanup to see me fucking his wife while Shirley slurped her tits. Fred jumped in to fuck Shirley. Then we all needed to shower again. I wonder if Shirley and Nick's water bill was unusually steep?

We all dressed in something -- me in fresh clothes, the others in robes and nothing else. Shirley fried eggs and potatoes and bacon, and made strong coffee with whiskey in it. We revived somewhat.

Shirley did not give me a ride that morning -- Sharon did. Fred and Shirley crawled back into her marriage bed for more extra-marital defilement. Sharon had brought a change of clothes. We rolled her Lincoln out of the garage and motored east, over 150 miles to Grand Rapids, a nice long ride.

We stopped by a big lake about midway, parked in a secluded overlook, laid the passenger seat down, and screwed, slow, easy, sensuous. We talked about our various sexual experiences. She had quite a history!

Sharon seemed much less neurotic than Shirley, not nervous, less demanding and controlling. They obviously had very different domestic relationships and personal agendas. Shirley did not much like music. Sharon liked hearing me sing Dylan's GIRL OF THE NORTH COUNTRY. Shirley screwed for revenge. Sharon screwed for fun. Shirley kissed me neither hello nor good-bye. Sharon kissed me often.

Sharon blew me good-bye. A nice send-off, hey?

---

My ride from Grand Rapids to Duluth was with another preacher, this one not as rabid as those I had encountered on the prairies, but still something of a bringdown from my post-orgasmic high. At least my face did not smell of pussy. Not much, anyway.

I did not mention that I am a (not always observant) believer in Sturgeon's Creed: "In the winter I'm a Buddhist, in the summer I'm a nudist." (Don't forget Sturgeon's Law: "95% of everything is crap.")

Pastor Paul dropped me near the docks. I walked down to see Lake Superior. OK, it's a lot of water. Yawn.

A couple of fast rides got me to Minneapolis. A street freak pointed me to a friendly crashpad. Well, not too friendly. I did not get fucked there, but I was not rolled either. Nobody disturbed me that night.

Rides took me down to Rochester, yeah that's Mayo Clinic country, and then over into Wisconsin. I got a ride with two cute girls in silky shorts and tight braless tees driving a Dodge sedan on back roads to Madison.

Laurie pulled over on a deserted side road and stopped behind a grove of trees.

"Do you like girls, Ron?" red-headed Sophie asked me from the front seat.

"Yeah, you bet!" I enthused.

"Do you like kissing girls?" blonde Laurie asked, turning from the steering wheel.

"Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, sure," I said.

"How about fucking? Do you like fucking girls?" Sophie pressed me.

"Hell yeah!" I said, drooling.

"Well, SO DO WE!" they shouted in unison.

They leaned together and wrapped tongues. Their tees were quickly pulled over their heads and their mouths attacked each other's tits. I leaned forward. Laurie broke away from Sophie's sophisticated breast and slapped me, not too hard but not gently either.

"Uh uh, just stay where you are and watch, else you can get out right now, got it?"

They went back to frenching and slurping. They unsnapped their shorts and each played their hands into the other's pussy. They drove each other to finger-fucking orgasms, and again. They leaned together.

"You were real good there, Ron. Here's a reward for you," Sophie said, presenting her wet fingers to my mouth. I leaned forward involuntarily, instinctively.

"Yeah, taste me too," Laurie said, shoving both her and Sophie's fingers through my lips.

"Not bad, but insufficient," I said, licking their fingertips and releasing their hands, "nice nose but no body." I leaned back against the driver-side back door. "Sorry, I'll only rate that at two stars. Got any Chablis?"

The girls laughed, and dressed, and we drove on. They kept murmuring teasing comments that I ignored. I smiled and lay back with my hands behind my head. They dropped me at the edge of Madison, still laughing. Laughing at *me*. No, I was not a happy camper.

I almost made up for that situation. I found a crashpad not far from the university. A girl crept in with me and rode me till we both came. But the next day, my pubes itched. I ducked into a gas station restroom outside Chicago and took a close look. Wee tiny little creatures crawled in my pubic hair. Crab lice! Shit, cheap Lindane lotion stinks and burns, but it works.

I sang to myself:

"There ain't no bugs on me, on me, There ain't no bugs on me, There may be bugs on the rest of you mugs, But there ain't no bugs on me."

---

I was dropped at a highway interchange outside Toledo late at night. I unrolled my sleeping bag in an inconspicuous corner under a cloverleaf overpass and somehow ignored the traffic noise. Exhaustion is the best sleeping pill.

I do not recall the rides from Toledo to Philadelphia. I recall stopping in a small town near Trenton to visit my pen-pal Lindy. Yes, back in my lonely mid-teen days of my folks' divorce and my first upheavals, I cultivated pen-pals. I left my stuff in a bus-station locker and met Lindy at the soda counter of a drug store. She was underage and living at home. We chatted for two hours, and kissed sweetly but far too chastely, and went our own ways.

I unrolled my sleeping bag under a picnic table in a town park that night. Next morning, after cleaning up and shaving in the park's cold-water restroom, I thumbed east to a small town near Atlantic City to see another sweet but underage pen-pal, Sandra. Another soda-parlor chat-and-flirt session, an almost-chaste kiss good-bye, another night in a town park. What the hell, I was in no hurry.

I thumbed northwest across the Appalachian Mountains. I asked a guy at a gas station in hilly country just where the mountains were. He said, "Yer from California, ain't ya?" and spit on the ground.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: What Easterners think of as mountains, Westerners see as molehills. I have read that the pile of garbage on Staten Island, New York City, is one of the tallest points in the eastern states. It's all a matter of perspective and context, right?]

I got a ride with a young coal miner driving an old Rambler. We talked about life and whatever. He said he'd been pooning a lot lately.

"Pooning? What's pooning?" I asked.

"What, you ain't got no poon-tang in California, boy? That's fucking, boy, it's just fucking."

"Oh, you mean like balling," I said.

"Balling?" he asked.

Yes, regional language patterns display cultural differences.

---

My rucksack and guitar and FURTHUR sign and I were stuck at an onramp near Corning, in a wooded hilly area. I had been there for a long frustrating time.

Hitchhiking involves lots of dead time, waiting and waiting, hoping and hoping for rides. Sometimes, nothing happens. Sometimes, I stand for hours somewhere, and end up sleeping behind thick bushes or a convenient fence or rock. Thumbing is not for the impatient or inflexible.

I was wondering which bushes I would sleep under that night when a pickup stopped at the opposite offramp. A figure with a backpack jumped out of the back. The truck drove off. The traveler crossed to my onramp.

I saw that she was a little younger and somewhat shorter than I was, with straight red hair spilling out from under a baseball cap. She wore sneakers, jeans, a light green long-sleeve shirt, and grey granny glasses.

"Hi, mind if I hitch here with you? Been here long?"

"You're welcome to try. I've been here for hours. I was about to give up for tonight."

"Bummer. Well, maybe if we hitch together, we'll have a better chance at getting a ride."

"Couldn't hurt. By the way, I'm..."

She cut me off. "I know who you are. You're Ron Carson. You're Sue and Lyn's brother."

"Huh? Do I know you?"

"I'm Whisper. I saw you around Cheney High for awhile. I was in classes with Sue there. I've been to your house many times. I guess you didn't pay much attention to me, or any of your sisters' friends, did you?"




Ron's Journal 03A



"All I got was teasing, so yeah, I pretty much ignored all their friends. Even the ones with nice tits and legs. I stayed away from the house as much as I could. Wow, Whisper, what are you doing here, all the way across the country? Where you going?"

"I'm just thumbing around. Right now, I'm headed for Cleveland, to see friends. Where are YOU going?"

"Buffalo is next, then Toronto. But first I gotta get a ride. This has been a bad place to be stuck."

"You said you were about to give up. Were you going to crash around here?"

"I was checking out that grove of trees over there. They look like they'll provide enough cover."

"I've had a pretty weary day too. Mind if I crash with you? We can try thumbing in the morning."

We hid ourselves in a clearing in the underbrush behind the grove of trees, a little ways away from the highway. I rigged my tarp overhead. We spread blankets and sleeping bags. We dined on jerky and crackers and dried fruit and nuts and cheap bad Mad Dog 20-20 wine. We snuggled together and chatted -- barely acquaintances, far from home. But we were building a tentative friendship.

"I remember you fairly well from when I was at your house. I never crushed on you, but I thought you were kinda cute, even if a bit weird and hyper and stuff. Those weren't very good times for you, were they?"

"I can't tell you how lousy it was there," I sighed. "I couldn't wait to escape."

Whisper snuggled closer and kissed me. "Hey Ron, I... do you wanna fuck, Ron?"

"Yeah, Whisper, I'd like that," I said, pulling her closer, kissing her harder.

We peeled each other's clothes off and snuggled closer under our sleeping bags. Neither of us was really clean enough for oral-genital joy, so we kissed faces and chests, and used our hands well. Whisper came three times under my fingers, moaning and squirming and leaking, my thumb on her clit, my mouth and my other hand on her stiff freckled nipples.

After her third juicy orgasm, I thought, "Fuck it!" and shoved my mouth into her messy but happy pussy. She got even happier. After the first handjob spurt-o-rama, Whisper evidently reached the same "fuck it!" conclusion. She pulled herself atop me in an energetic 69 and slurped my slimy cock. We feasted forever, at least until she came a few more times and I fiercely spurted again. We lay together, gasping.

"Wow Ron, I wish I'd gotten you alone a couple years ago!" Whisper stroked my flaccid fucktoy.

"I probably wouldn't have been much fun then. But this is pretty nice now." I rubbed her breasts.

We drank more lousy strong wine, kissed some more, fucked some more, snuggled closely, and slept. I woke around oh-dark-thirty hours and quietly watered a tree, then crawled back in for more zeees. I almost woke again sometime later when Whisper crawled out and back in again. We spooned together, and snored softly.

We woke sometime after sunrise, kissed again, fucked again, snuggled again, then roused ourselves to pee and dress and pool our food resources. Together, we had (among other stuff) a can of Sterno, some dried milk, instant coffee, water, granola, and raisins -- enough for a fairly festive breakfast, road-wise.

Thumbing together did the trick. We got fast rides all the way to Erie, the last fork in our roads. Our parting was bittersweet. We expected to never meet again. But we did, eight years later, at a Rainbow Festival in New Mexico. I'll tell that story in another chapter.

Whisper thumbed westward. I thumbed northeast. I found myself in Buffalo on a stormy day.

NEXT: Buffalo and Beyond. 



Ron's Journal 03B



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

This is a somewhat standalone story, but I highly recommend that you read all other chapters anyway.

******************** 6A: San Diego to Milwaukee, winter 1968-69

I stayed at my cousin Dane's place in San Diego and worked in a nearby Christmas tree lot for a month, saving money for cheap travel. The tree-lot job had long-term consequences. I became sensitized to conifer resin. Too many evergreens, oozing volatile sap, yuck. I hated the smell of pine resin for years after.

Dane was a little older than me, and a great buddy. I have never cared much for bar scenes. Dane would go out bar-hopping on his own, and bring home multiple drunken girls for us to share. What a pal!

Dane's condo door slammed open a bit earlier than usual, only about 1:30 instead of 3:00 AM. He had more women than usual with him. I groggily awoke, and stretched on the couch, and scratched my balls through my black briefs, and peered at the intruders.

"Hey Ron, wake up, you gotta help me with Rhonda here."

Dane had a very drunk and snoring little redhead slung over his shoulder. Two tanned bra-less brunettes staggered behind him, giggling. Dane dumped the coma-toasted redhead on the couch I had just vacated.

"Wow Dane, is she gonna be alright there? You don't want her to puke on your furniture."

"Naw, she already unloaded at the last bar, and again in the street. She should be empty now."

One of the brunettes chortled, "Lisa shouldn't have drunk both Ripple and vodka after eating a pizza. Shit, she left that bar bathroom looking like a 3-D Jackson Pollack painting."

The other woman said, "Forget about her, June. You must be Ron. Dane said you have a big dick. Show me! I want some real meat!" How could I refuse her?

June shoved Dane into his favorite stuffed chair and knelt before him. She quickly had her blouse off and his pants down and was slurping his thick schlong like a caramel-dipped banana. Tilly dropped her skirt and panties, peeled off her USCD tee, and strode toward me with the feline grace and insouciance of a leopardess, her half-lidded eyes locked on mine. I felt like a lemur about to be devoured.

Tilly reached into my briefs and palpated my nearly-full erection. "Hmmm, not bad." She put her other hand on my chest and pushed me backwards toward Dane's bedroom door, then onto Dane's bed. I flopped back. She pulled my briefs off and bent between my knees, taking a quick mouthful of my engorged manhood. "Yeah, not bad." She straddled my hips and lowered her pussy fully onto my cock. "Hey, nice fit, too."

Yes, Dane and I both passed the meat inspection with flying colors. We energetically filled all of June and Tilly's various bodily orifices. I swear, if one of those girls wore an eye-patch, Dane would have fucked the empty eye socket, and I would have gone next. As it was, Lisa eventually regained some semblance of consciousness, so we drilled her too, six ways from Sunday. And nobody puked!

---

I had fun at Dane's. But I had itchy feet. I hit the road again. In mid-winter, I hitchhiked east, toward Boston, for more adventures. I ended up stuck in the East Village in New York City. More about that later.

I was in for another hitchhiking marathon, with surprises. I wanted to thumb eastward along a southern route. My rides went elsewhere. Long rides took me the length of the unfinished I-15 highway from San Diego to Sweetgrass, Montana on the Canadian border. I saw the northern lights. I shivered.

The trip started well, with a LONG ride, five hundred miles, to the turnoff to Zion National Park, with a speed demon in a Corvette, wow. We did that run in six and a half hours. You do the math.

I did not have to wait too long that late afternoon for the next ride, a college girl in a VW bug driving less than an hour to her off-campus room in Cedar City. LaVerne was maybe a little older than I was. We chatted and flirted. She thought I was cute. Her roommate was gone for the weekend. She invited me in for a student-quality spaghetti dinner and cheap red jug wine. I sang for my meal. She poured more wine.

"I'll have you know, I imported this Gallo burgundy all the way from Nevada! Nobody there cares who buys anything, as long as you pay cash. Dollars, pesos, yen, sterling, whatever. A five-year-old could buy a bazooka if she had a Gold Card." LaVerne refilled our glasses from the jug.

I played and sang Tom Paxton's BOTTLE OF WINE, then hung a harmonica in my neck rack and played TEQUILA. LaVerne laughed, her long red-brown hair shimmering around her heart-shaped face, her large-ish boobs jiggling. She leaned against me on the sofa, pushing my fingerpicking arm away from the guitar strings.

"You're pretty fun, Ron. How would you like to stay the night?"

"Well, OK, just as long as you'll still respect me in the morning."

"How about if we don't have leftover spaghetti for breakfast? Will a Denver omelet be respectable enough?"

"As long as you cook with your clothes off, sure. I could even stay for a naked lunch."

She slapped my shoulder. "Hey, I'm an American Lit major, I know what that means."

"OK, I'll stay the night. When does the night begin?"

"It starts right about now," LaVerne said, pulling off her sweater and bra. "Now put down that damn guitar, and the fucking harmonica rack, and put your fingers and mouth to better use."

My flannel shirt and tee came off quickly. We rubbed our naked torsos together, and our mouths, and the other bits that were exposed as we shed the rest of our clothes.

LaVerne's full lips and snaky tongue and rosy nipples were delicious. Her Brazil-nut-red muff was the same shade as her head hair. Her cunt was delicious also, and pretty juicy by the time my tongue intruded.

I worked two fingers in and out, my right thumb brushing her clit when I was not sucking that luscious nub, my lips moving from kissing her inner thighs to engulfing her vulva. My left hand was under her butt, raising her pussy for better access, until she reached down and intertwined her fingers with mine.

LaVerne's left hand was firmly on my head with her fingers locked into my hair. She nearly ripped some hair out by the roots as she pulled my face tighter into her soggy pussy. Her right hand released my left; both those hands moved to her nipples, pulling and twisting.

LaVerne pulled my hair tighter, twitched and jumped like an electrified spaz, and screamed. And screamed. And screamed. For over a minute, non-stop. I gripped both her boobs in my hands and lodged my tongue deep in her vagina. My nose tickled her clit and prompted further screams, then five or ten minutes of rolling and loud moaning. She finally pushed my head away but held onto my hair.

"Holy fucking gila monsters, Ron, I have *never* felt anything like that before! I can't even sit up now! What the fuck did you do to me? Damn, if your fingers and tongue are that good, what's your cock like? Put that thing in me, NOW!"

With my head and body attached, she pulled my hair towards her. My body followed, sliding north between her widespread raised knees. I slid my pulsing penis into her vacuuming vagina without a trace of friction.

My blood was up. I was in no mood for gentle lovemaking. I fucked LaVerne to within an inch of her life, and mine, all our muscles on fire. She screamed twice more. I roared, and fired a long searing blast into her depths, splattering her innards with jiz. I forced my mouth onto hers. Our tongues mated. We breathed heavily into each other's lungs. The word 'soul' truly means 'breath'. We became one breath, one soul.

I stayed with LaVerne that night, and the next night. We spent the weekend doing little but fucking. Too bad she didn't have a sister there; I would have gone Mormon, with the right incentives.

NOTE: Polygamist Mormon houses are pretty obvious in some southern Utah towns. Look for a 10,000 square foot house with numerous front doors. Each front door probably belongs to a different heterosexual wife. If polygamous Mormon men accepted and encouraged bisexuality, they would not need as much carpentry, right?

---

Monday morning arrived. The roommate returned. LaVerne had classes. I hit the road again.

I got a couple short rides as far as Provo, and then I hit a jackpot: a LONG ride, all the way to Canada, with another go-fast guy in a muscle car, heading for Calgary. Provo to the Canadian border: 750 miles!

And that is as far as I got. The steely-eyes at the border did not like my looks, and refused me entry. Fortunately, my driver drove me back to US Highway 2. I was stuck under the late January night sky with northern lights swirling over the horizon.

Rather like the summer before (except for the snow and ice), I thumbed along the below-the-border highway, and cut around the Mississippi River's north end rather than crossing it. I got a bunch of unremarkable rides across Montana and North Dakota, then a long ride across Minnesota to Duluth with two sisters.

Eva and Dora were respectively one and two years older than I was, tall cute freckled blondes wearing nicely filled jeans and thin fuzzy sweaters. My guitar and I fit well in the back of their big old Dodge station wagon, the kind with big wide padded bench seats, like a rolling living room. I leaned against the passenger-side door, my back cushioned by their bundled parkas. I sang for my ride that afternoon.

The sisters stopped every hour to stretch sore muscles and trade-off driving. After one stop, Eva drove and I rode up front, while Dora sat in back and played my guitar, a big red Kay with a dreadnought body. Like me, she greatly admired Buffy Sainte-Marie. Dora sang PINEY WOOD HILLS and TIMELESS LOVE much slower than I usually did. I loved her bluesy rendition of POOR MAN'S DAUGHTER:

I was born a poor man's daughter, I've been a ragamuffin all my life... I'll live my life on the Mexican border, I'll be happy as a poor man's wife.

"I've been to the 'dirty little border town' in that song," I said. "It's in Sonora, out east of Nogales. It's a grubby place, sure, but the people are great and the surrounding area is spectacular. Some years, it even gets a little snow." I blew a refrain on harmonica, then sang from a different song:

Spanish is a loving tongue, Soft as music, bright as day, 'Twas a girl I learned it from, Living down Sonora way...

Eva glanced over at me. "What the fuck are you doing way up here, Ron? How come you're not down in the warm country, practicing your loving tongue on some steamy Mexican girls?"

I sighed. "Y'know, that's a good question. It's just how the rides went. Boston is my goal this time. I could have gone straight east from San Diego and stayed near Mexico. But the rides went north fast. So here I am. Maybe you girls would like to try my loving tongue?" I teased.

They giggled together. "Y'know Ron, Eva and I were discussing that," Dora said. "You piqued our interest. You're cute, and you're nice, and you're strong, and you smell pretty clean. Yeah, I think we're willing to risk your tongue or whatever. Eva, stop for a second so Ron can get back here with me." Dora was already stripping off her jeans.

Dora was naked except for socks and her knees were spread open when I closed the passenger-side door and pulled off my own clothes. I kissed my way up her shapely legs, nuzzled her lemon muff, kissed her navel, paid brief homage to her spectacular breasts, then held her face and kissed her mouth, long and slow and fully engaged. She sighed deeply and returned my kiss passionately.

I kissed Dora's throat, and her breasts. Oh wow, did I kiss her breasts! Dora moaned heavily. My hand on her vulva may have been a contributing factor. I slid down and replaced my hand with my tongue. Dora's moaning increased, and more when I slowly finger-fucked her vagina while kissing her inner thighs, and more when I licked her clit. Some fierce tongue-strumming brought her first wet scream.

"Oh Ron Ron RON RONNN!! OHHH... Oh fuck that's good! ARRRGHH! Oh shit Ron, fuck me now, FUCK ME! FUCK ME!"

Who was I to refuse? I pulled Dora down on the seat, slid myself up her sweat-slick body, and smoothly pushed my dickhead between her lower lips and into her streaming-wet cunt. Holy fuck, she was like a blast furnace! Dora arched her back and bucked her pelvis up, slamming my cock fully into her, again and again.

We pounded our anxious pubes together. We both groaned constantly. I felt the car sway a bit; Eva was drifting across the highway lanes as she turned her attention from driving to eyeballing us. When Dora screamed again, we almost left the road, but I was too busy to notice then, what with Dora's legs locked around my back and her heels shoving me deeper inside her. And she screamed yet again. What a voice!

Ah, the sounds of orgasms I have caused are sweet music to my ears! I came into Dora like a water cannon, blasting away on full power, only stopping when I was drained dry. I collapsed on Dora. She wheezed, and finally squirmed out and lay on top of me. The car seat was rather wet. So were our faces.

"I think you guys could use this," Eva said, passing a can of 7-Up. We gratefully shared the cold soda.

"Dora, it's almost your turn to drive again, so you better get dressed now. And Ron, don't you DARE get dressed! D'you guys know how hard it was for me keep driving, to not just pull over and jump back with you? Damn fucking hard, I tell ya! I want my turn!"

Eva got her turns. And when we reached their home outside Duluth, their mother Marcie had her turns, too. Yes, I splattered all their wombs and throats with my messy but nutritious cocktails.

Marcie looked much like her daughters. She was around forty, with a tight well-exercised body, a prime MILF. She had a sharp sense of scent. She smelled her daughters and me when we came into their house. She knew exactly what was what. As soon as I set my rucksack and guitar down in the house, Marcie hooked a finger in my shirt collar and led me off to the master bedroom.

"You kids all smell of sweat and sex, lots of sex. Everybody needs a shower. Right now. No arguments."

Eva and Dora dutifully followed. All our clothes were stuffed into a laundry basket. All our bodies were stuffed into a good-sized shower enclosure. All our scalps were carefully sudsed and kneaded. All our skin surfaces were thoroughly scrubbed. All three vaginas were filled from behind before we left the shower. The process was repeated when we all were in the super-king bed. Then I slept, drained, exhausted.

The ladies persuaded me to stay a day and another night. The kicker: a promise of all the food and sex I could handle, all my clothes laundered, and a ride all the way to Milwaukee the following day.

"All the sex I could handle" went a little further than I expected. Marcie called some friends. Carl and Louie were big, black, muscular dockworkers. Their 'little' sister Lucille, from Marcie's realty office, was not much shorter or weaker than her big brothers.

Various alcohols and herbs and pills and powders were consumed, to adjust our attitudes. Libidos were stoked to incandescence. Blood vessels were engorged. Apertures dripped and oozed. Muscles contracted.

I seem to recall everybody fucking and sucking and slurping everybody else. I know I remember twosomes and threesomes and foursomes and moresomes. Each woman took at least one triple penetration. Everybody 69'd and daisychained and more. I recall tasting a seemingly infinite variety of mixtures of sweat and semen and girlcum and who knows what else. I recall more showers, and rest breaks, and attitude adjustments.

I recall my white cock buried in the pink core of Lucille's black pussy. Her red tongue and lips worked Eva's pale cunt atop her face as Eva and I frenched, our attention sometimes drawn to the tableau of Marcie and her eldest daughter Dora 69'ing while Carl's fat black dick filled Marcie's well-worn tunnel and Louie's monster stuffed Dora's ass.

I recall being on my back, with Lucille on her hand and knees, licking and swallowing my cock, while her brother Carl screwed her from behind. Eva sat on my mouth and wiggled, while her mother Marcie knelt just behind my head and mouthed Eva's lovely face and tits. My hands were busy between Marcie's thighs. Louie was still reaming Dora's anus. They kept going for a long time. Dora screamed a lot. We were all noisy.

Marcie and I were both still bleary when she drove me to Milwaukee the following day in her new Toronado. We only stopped to fuck three times on what would have been a nine-hour drive if we had not stopped to get thoroughly fucked three times. Marcie gave me a goodbye blowjob and dropped me off downtown.

******************** 6B: Milwaukee to New York, early 1969

Weather in Milwaukee was not too cold. Chicago was worse. Cleveland was an icy hell. I thumbed south a bit, to get away from the Great-Lakes-effect weather misery.

I stood at a lonely crossroads below wooded hills with the FURTHUR sign visible. The air was thick and cold. A black-and-tan International Harvester Scout rolled through the crossing and stopped next to me.

The woman driving alone leaned to the passenger window and said, "I don't know no place called Furthur but I can get you over to Wheeling at least."

I threw my stuff in back and crawled in. We introduced ourselves.

Lily was a medium-size brown-haired mountain girl with thin features wearing a long grey dress and (when I looked beyond her shapely calves encased in black stockings) grey sneakers. I was my usual tall thin ponytailed Goldwater-glasses self in heavy jeans, thick sweater, a Navy pea coat, and red Keds.

"You're from San Francisco, Ron? You one of them flower-power sissy-boys I hear about?"

"No Lily, not really. Any flower that was ever near me, died. And I do tend to like girls."

"Yeah, boy? You got a girlfriend somewhere? Maybe a basketball groupie"

I thought back on the girls and women with whom I had rubbed mouths and genitals in high school and on the road over the last couple years. Most were just lustful interactions. A couple involved love, now lost.

"I've had girlfriends. Nobody is waiting for me anywhere right now."

"More than one girlfriend, then? Just one at a time, or have you ganged up?"

I thought back on some of the group action I had experienced, and grinned.

"Well, there were times when a couple or a few girls shared me, and times when I shared a girl or more with buddies, so yeah, it's been more than one at a time."

"By shared, you mean fucked, don't you, Ron?"

"Well, yeah."

"A few at a time? Like a pile of cooters, then?"

I was fairly well-read. I was aware that the term 'cooter' could refer either to various snapping turtles, or to a woman's vagina. I saw her use of the word as a signal.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"You been in lots of orgies back there in California?"

"Oh, some. But I haven't had a good orgy for a few days; that was in Minnesota, yeah."

We rode in silence a ways down this backroad. Lily kept glancing at me as she drove. I glanced back.

"How about you, Lily? Got any boyfriends here, or girlfriends maybe?"

"Oh, you'd probably like that," she smiled. "Oh, I have a husband somewhere. Ain't seen him for a while. Last I heard, he'd gone to Alaska. Guess it got too warm for him around here. Might have something to do with him screwing around with a deputy's wife. That ain't a safe practice hereabouts."

"You been in any good orgies lately, Lily?"




Ron's Journal 03B



"Ha, I wish! But just how do you define orgy?"

"Oh, let's just say it's a group of people having sexy fun together."

"So is a wife-swapping party an orgy?"

I thought back on the fun Bill Sykes and I had with the two Hermann sisters, and some other two- and three-couple combinations.

"Yeah, partner-swapping can orgiastic. But real orgies probably involve people who don't really know each other, don't have personal relationships to endanger, so they can just go wild, without repercussions."

"You said you had an orgy in Minnesota. How many people there?"

"That last one was four gals and two guys and me. I've been with more. What kind of orgy would you want, Lily?"

"Well, one without cousins would be a good start."

"C'mon Lily, what do you dream about? Two or more guys doing you? Some girl licking you, or you licking some women? People you know, or strangers? Gentle or rough? You can tell me; you'll never see me again."

Lily glanced at me again. "I don't hardly see you now, Ron."

We rode in silence again for a few minutes. We drove to a freeway intersection in Wheeling. Lily pulled over to the roadside and stopped.

"This is as far as I'm going, Ron." Lily did not lean towards me.

I got the hint. "OK Lily, thanks for the ride, have a good one."

I carried my rucksack and guitar to the onramp and held up my FURTHUR sign. On the road again...

I was still there a couple hours later. Dusk was falling. Hitchhiking involves lots of dead time, waiting and more waiting, hoping for rides. Sometimes, nothing happens. Sometimes, I stand for hours somewhere, and end up sleeping behind thick bushes or a convenient fence or rock. Thumbing is not for the impatient.

I was wondering which bushes I would sleep under that night when Lily's Scout pulled up next to me.

"Hey Ron, you in any hurry to get anyplace?"

"Not really. You going someplace slowly, then?"

"Get in, Ron. I'll take you further on."

Lily drove to the next exit, then down a dark country road. We did not talk. I pulled out a blue harp and blew a bit of THE WORK SONG like I'd heard Paul Butterfield play. Then I just blew some slow blues riffs.

Lily turned down a side lane under overhanging trees. She parked behind another car beside a country cottage.

"Bring your stuff inside, Ron, it's time for supper."

I left my rucksack and guitar inside the front door. We walked down a short hall and turned into a kitchen where a taller not-too-thin girl with a long blonde ponytail stirred a pot. She wiped her hands on a towel as she stepped toward us.

"Hi, I'm Cheryl, and you're Ron." She kissed my cheek. "Hi, Lily." Cheryl kissed Lily's cheek too. "Set yourself at the table, Ron. Lily, would you get the soup?"

Dinner was a simple meal of hearty vegetable soup, dirty rice pilaf, and fishsticks, with beer. We chatted about pasts and places and pastimes. We poured more beer and adjourned to a small parlor. The women sat me between them on the couch.

"Ron, I thought about orgies," Lily said. "If two lovers take an outsider, that's just a twosome plus one, right? An orgy should be more people, or almost strangers, what you said about 'no repercussions'. Cheryl ain't my lover, ain't really a friend, just an acquaintance who is curious. We're almost strangers."

"Lily called me after she dropped you off earlier, Ron. She asked if I was still curious," Cheryl said. "I said yes. I want stories that I won't be able to tell to my grandkids. I want memorable no-consequences sex with both of you. Are you OK with this?"

"Well, should I take a shower now, or just drool?" I smiled.

We all kissed slowly, and teasingly undressed each other. We showered together, shampooed and soaped and scrubbed and kissed and poked. We did not fuck in the fairly small shower stall into which we had tightly packed ourselves. We dried each other carefully. Cheryl took Lily's and my hands and led us to her bed.

We mouthed and rubbed faces and nipples and fingers and genitals and many stretches of hot raw skin. We assumed all the usual positions as well as some unusual ones. We worked hard, and came, and came again. We all lay together exhausted, and slept, and arose at various times to pee and clean up and join again.

Lily and Cheryl said they had both been with women before, but not lately. I intently watched their soft romantic and erotic intertwinings and mouthings, and joined in when possible and welcome. So beautiful!

Then we became less gentle. Fingers and tongues and my cock brusquely prodded into mouths and cunts and asses. Butts were spanked. Lines were crossed. Bodily fluids were consumed and savored. We had filled up on boilermakers and Gatorade. When our bladders demanded relief, we adjourned to the shower and pissed on each other's faces and mouths. (Urine is safely sterile when it leaves the human body.)

Lily sat in my lap on the shower floor, impaled on my mighty member, while Cheryl stood over us and gave our tongues and lips a golden shower. Cheryl and Lily swapped positions and Lily showered us; Cheryl's cunt squeezed my cock mercilessly when she tasted Lily's piss. Lily and Cheryl sat together rubbing pussies between their interlocked thighs while I signed my name in an amber stream across their faces.

Our individual urines tasted different. Not tremendously, but enough, and distinctive.

We took a rest-and-rehydration break. We sat naked on the bed. The women idly fondled my fatigued fucktoy while I played my guitar and improvised some rude lyrics:

If you are what you eat, then she's just a bag of meat, Slurps it down, red and raw, on the bed or on the floor, You look good enough to eat, I could eat you in my sleep, Standing up or bent over, you're better than raw liver.

Cheryl and Lily blew me back into action. My bladder and balls were drained, so my endurance was rather enhanced. 'Enhanced', as in, I stayed stiff for a long, long time, much to the women's delight. Mine, too.

Yes, it was all sex-for-sex's-sake. No entangling alliances. No meaningful relationships. No talk about feelings and futures. No worries about what anyone else might think, about breaking rules and norms and moral codes and laws. This was a mini-orgy at its best. Yeah, slurping and poking and spanking and cumming and repeating, all great fun. Nobody was damaged. We laughed and cried and screamed in agony and ecstasy.

So what if we shared no connections, no great romantic passion, just curiosity and general horniness and alcohol-fuelled lust? So what if we had no linkages, and this would never occur again? Carpe fucking diem.

We were touchy-feely friendly over Cheryl's breakfast of eggs, spuds, and Irish coffee. Touching led to more touching, and mouthing, and fucking. We finally dragged ourselves back into the real world. Lily drove me to the road to Wellsville. We slurped a kiss, and I was on my way again.

---

I retraced another part of my route of the previous summer, to revisit my sweet young pen-pal friends, now both of legal age. Lindy still lived with her folks near Trenton. She was not home when I called. Sandra had left her family in Atlantic City and now shared an apartment with two girls and a guy in Camden. She invited me to stop by.

"Stopping by" was not simple. I took a city bus into an increasingly lousy-looking district. I had been in rough neighborhoods before, but nothing like this! I had to walk several blocks from the bus stop to the apartment. I was nervous about carrying my rucksack and guitar in this slum. I passed a dirty storefront offering CHECKS CASHED - POST BOXES - PHONE SERVICE - PUBLIC LOCKERS. Paranoia (or prudence) kicked in. I stashed my rucksack, guitar, and most of my cash in a locker.

Sandra's apartment looked like an overused crashpad. The Sandra who met me at the triple-locked door did not much resemble the bright little Sandra I had known just a few months before. Her raven hair and pixie face and rosy smile used to sparkle. Now she seemed washed-out and faded, with only her dilated pupils shining. Her deep-tongue kiss did not taste very good.

But I was young and alone and horny and invulnerable and dumb. I did not flee.

I soon found the reason for Sandra's change. Even when she was an 'innocent' kid, she drank. Her parents never noticed the depleted liquor cabinet. Then some 'friend' showed her more exciting highs than ethanol provided: stimulants and opiates, often mixed. Sandra and her roommates were hooked on speedballs.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: You may have heard or read that pot is a gateway to harder drugs. This is false. Numerous studies have identified a definite gateway to addictive drugs. It is ethanol, spirits, booze. Alcohol is truly addictive, and cannabis is not. But don't believe me. Look it up.]

Sandra pushed me down on her not-too-clean mattress on her not-too-clean floor. The steam radiator had the bedroom very warm. She plopped down next to me, grinned a too-bright smile, and reached for my jeans.

"Fuck, Ronny, I'm so glad you're back! I've wanted to do this for a long time."

Sandra fished my semi-hard cock out of my jeans and started slurping me rather forcefully. She released her oral death grip just long enough to pull her tight sweatshirt off her bare, thin torso, then quickly and skillfully swallowed me again while sliding my sneakers and jeans and briefs off me. I watched her little tits sway as she sucked me off. Yeah, she was practiced, and I was horny; I spurted all too soon.

"Hey Ronny, pretty good, huh? I can make you feel even better!" Sandra's naked skinny butt bounced down the hallway. She returned in a minute with two loaded syringes.

"I guarantee that this will make your heart sing!" Sandra said.

I had never injected anything before. I did not much like needles. But like I said, I was young, horny, invulnerable, and dumb. I thought, "If this is what it takes to screw Sandra, I'll do it."

Sandra tied me off and hit me. Her technique was good -- no pain. But I did not feel any effects, either.

"OK Ronny, now I need you to hit me up." She tied herself off and aimed the syringe for me. I pushed the needle into the vein inside her left elbow.

And that is all I remember.

Next thing I knew, I was groggy and half-naked and alone on the mattress. I pulled my clothes back on and staggered out to the main room. Empty. I walked down the hallway to piss in the dirty bathroom. I heard noise behind an almost-closed bedroom door. I pushed the door open. Sandra was there with her roommates.

The filthy king mattress on the floor was fully occupied by naked people. A swarthy guy was butt-fucking a pale redheaded grunting girl. Sandra was lying on her back; a black girl with a cute ass was face-down between her spread legs, slurping and prodding Sandra's pussy. Sandra looked up and saw me when the opening door's hinge creaked. She jumped up from the black girl's oral and digital ministrations.

"Ron! You motherfucker! You shit-eating bastard! Shit shit shit! Get the fuck out of here, asshole!"

Sandra ran over and started pounding my chest and sides with her little fists. I grabbed her thin wrists.

"What the fuck Sandra? What's the matter?" I was totally perplexed.

"You asshole! You passed out when you were shooting me up! You dragged the spike out of my arm! Look what you did to my fucking arm with that needle!" Sandra showed me an infected wound inside her elbow. "You were unconscious for eighteen hours, shithead! Get the fuck out or I'll fucking kill you!" She kicked her bare feet at my nuts. Her roommates barely glanced at me.

Folks, that was my very first and absolute last experiment with injected drugs. They do not like me. Whew.

---

I got out of that nasty dump as fast as I could, which was not really very fast. The coke in the speedball had already metabolized but the morphine's effect lasted longer so I was pretty tired and spaced out. I retrieved my stuff from the storage locker, took a bus downtown, got a room at the YMCA, and slept. I cleaned up the next morning. I called Lindy. She was home and her folks were away. She invited me over.

I was still woozy, so I took buses for the short run from Camden to Lindy's town above Trenton.

Lindy met me with a much nicer greeting than I got from Sandra -- a welcoming hug, a sweet-breath little kiss, and a close inspection of my face.

"Ron, you're not looking so great. Are you OK?"

"Oh, I've just had a rough few days. Vagabonding has its ups and downs, y'know." Was I going to tell Lindy about my experience with Sandra? NO WAY! Would I talk about orgies? Well, maybe...

"My folks are gone for the rest of the week. Would you like to stay and recover for a while? I'll be glad to have you. We'll have lots of time to talk and play and stuff. C'mon and sit down, get off your feet."

I left my rucksack and guitar and shoes in the entry. Lindy led me into the living room, pushed me into a loveseat, snuggled in beside me, and held my hand. I started to relax for the first time in days.

Where Sandra Spinolha's Portuguese heritage was visible in her features, Lindy Grzelewski (jill-ESS-kee) was obviously Polish, a medium blonde girl with high Slavic cheekbones and generous curves.

We had met via the pen-pals section of a pop music magazine a few years earlier. We exchanged letters and postcards a couple times a week for quite a while, a deep transcontinental correspondence friendship. We just talked about pop and folk music at first, then about our schools and dreams, then about our lives. Lindy helped me deal with my parent's divorce. Yeah, for years, my best friend was a girl I had never met.

Now Lindy was attending community college, accumulating credits to take her to Rutgers. She said she was not dating; she had just dumped a bozo of an ex-boyfriend. And she seemed really glad to see me.

Lindy told me to grab my stuff and haul it upstairs to the guest room next to her bedroom. We pulled out our guitars and plopped onto beanbag chairs on her floor. We played and sang, songs of Dylan and Donovan and the Doors and Odetta and whatever. We fingerpicked counterpoint on Beatles and Ian & Sylvia songs. I blew riffs on my harps while she sang blues. We sounded good, we really did.

Lindy made a late simple dinner of sausages and dumplings and salad, washed down with red wine spritzers. We lay back on her bed fully-clothed after dinner. We sipped spritzers, and held hands, and talked, and talked. We snuggled. We kissed gently. Midnight approached.

"Ron, we should probably go to bed soon. I have classes tomorrow, not too early, but we can't just sit up and talk all night. And Ron -- you don't have to sleep in the guest room if you don't want to."

Lindy's bright blue eyes highlighted her tentative expression. I softly kissed her thin lips.

"Are you sure, Lindy? Can we still be friends? I would absolutely like nothing better than to share your bed. But I don't want to be your next bozo of an ex-boyfriend. I want us to stay friends."

"Yes, I'm sure, Ron. We've been friends for years. Now we can be lovers. I want to feel you in me, and on me, and with me. I've thought about this for years, Ron. Yes, I'm sure, really." She kissed me, hard.

We sat together cross-legged on her bed. She opened the top button on my khaki shirt. I opened the top button of her taupe blouse. We alternately unbuttoned each other. Our shirts fell off. She pulled my tee over my head. I reached behind her and unsnapped her bra. She dropped the bra from her notable breasts.

I pushed her onto her back and undid her jeans. She lifted her elegant ass; I slid her jeans and panties down her legs, onto the floor. She sat up, naked, pushed me back, pulled off my jeans and briefs, then lay beside me. We held each other, hands caressing shoulder blades and backs, our eyes locked together, her stiff nipples and my rigid rod making their impressions on us as we pressed together.

Our lovemaking then was slow, patient, exploratory, fun. We felt no need to be frantic or frenzied -- not until orgasms approached, anyway. THEN came the hypersexual frenzy! And then came the post-coital bliss. After the first couple hours of coupling, we fit comfortably, as if we had been lovers for years.

And I found that Lindy's feet were an erogenous zone.

She was on her back, legs spread, knees up, feet flat, her thighs on my shoulders as I nuzzled her lemon muff. My hands smoothed her thighs, inside and out. I slowly licked her pussy, circumscribing her labia and writing mystic formulae with my tongue, licking her depths, then circling her clitoris. She shuddered.

I leisurely slid my right index finger into her velveteen vagina, my fingertip crooked up to massage her sensuous smoothness, my chin cupped in my palm. She shook, and started moaning. My left hand stroked down her right thigh, inside and out, then her nicely-muscled calf, all around. Her cunt drooled on my hand.

I reached down to hold her right foot, rubbing and teasing, not tickling. Her cunt muscles clenched my finger tightly and she moaned louder. Contact! I swapped my hands, double-fingering her tasty tunnel with my left, and stroking her taut left leg with my right. When my hand grasped her foot, her cunt clamped down hard and juicy on my fingers. She twisted her nipples and groaned faster and louder. Aha!

It was go-for-broke time. I slipped my left hand away from her vulva. I moved my head so I could rub her clit with my nose while tongue-fucking her vagina. Her hands were brutal on her nipples. I held both her feet, one in each hand, and massaged her soles and insteps and toes. Her cunt clamped-down on my tongue, briefly holding me captive. I escaped, and sucked and strummed and bit her clit.

Lindy screamed and convulsed and flooded my mouth. I drank deeply of her for minutes. She fainted. Wow!

Lindy and I spent the rest of the week together. She took me to her community college. While she was in class, I wandered the campus, browsed the bookstore and art spaces, inhabited the library. Out of class, we talked with her friends at coffee shops. We jammed with musicians in the student lounge. We held hands.

We did some sightseeing. No, George Washington could NOT have thrown a coin across the Delaware River there. We went window-shopping. We splashed in a swim center's indoor pool. We went dancing one night, even though I warned her that I was likely the world's worst dancer. My rhythm is in my git-picking fingers, not in my flubbery size-sixteen feet. I fortunately did not break any of her toes.

But we mostly stayed in her home, and made conversation, and music, and love.

The week ended. Lindy's parents were due to return. They would NOT be happy to find a roommate in Lindy's bed. Our final lovemaking was exuberant, not teary-eyed. We were happy for our time together. Lindy drove me to the rail station and I caught a train into The Big Apple.

[FAST FORWARD: Lindy and I kept corresponding intermittently for a couple years. She made it to Rutgers, met and married a great guy, graduated, and moved on in life. I am very happy for her. Really.]

******************** 6C: How I got stuck in New York City, early 1969

(This is actually the prelude to my New York City story; it does not fit anywhere else.)

The late-morning train from Trenton rolled into Penn Station. I took the IRT subway to Sheridan Square. A short walk, and I finally set foot on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal. Green-Witch Village! The folk-singer's Mecca! Yeah, well, stuff happens. I nestled deeper into my heavy Navy peacoat.

The stuff that happened started innocently enough. I was sidewalk-hiking past Washington Square lugging my rucksack and guitar, the FURTHER sign taped to the guitar case. A big blue Chrysler sedan with Texas plates pulled into the bus stop next to me. A young shorthaired guy leaned out the passenger window.




Ron's Journal 03B



"Hey dude, y'all look like you're traveling. Us too, shit yeah. We just got to the city and we're looking around. Y'all want a ride?" he drawled at me.

"Sure, thanks, it's a bit cold out here, yeah." 

I put my stuff in the car trunk and climbed into the back seat. Introductions were made. The driver was Jim, the passenger was Bob, and they were rude and crude East Texas rednecks on a rampage. I should have been nervous but I thought they were funny. Ha ha.

Jim criss-crossed Manhattan and somehow avoided collisions or other mishaps. I wondered if these boys had ever even been in a city before? I have heard that some West Texans have never seen a STOP sign.

Jim pulled up to a cold-looking young longhair couple thumbing at a highway entrance. The guy held a sign saying POUGHKEEPSIE, about 80 miles north. Bob leaned out his window and drawled at the guy.

"Hey there, we'll give y'all a ride all the way there, if your gal will fuck us, that is."

The couple looked at each other. They were shivering. They shrugged, put their packs in the car trunk after Jim popped the lid, and climbed inside next to me. Jim drove around a couple city blocks and pulled into an empty alley.

"OK, payment in advance. Y'all get down here!" Bob said.

The thin dark hitchhiking gal pulled her dress up and her panties off. She lay on the back seat. Jim hopped on and humped her. He was fast and loud. Bob quickly replaced him, just as quick and noisy. I was thinking about whether I wanted a piece too, when a police car turned into the alley behind us. The gal quickly restored her clothing.

Two cops walked to us. "What's going on here, now?" asked one.

I forget what excuses Jim and Bob made. I said that I was just riding with these guys.

One cop asked Jim for his license and the car registration.

"Er, well, there's a slight problem, officer. Y'see, our friend in Galveston gave us his car to drive here so it would be ready for him when he flies out next week. I don't know where he keeps the registration."

That did not go over to well with the cops. The result: The car was impounded, awaiting confirmation from the owner that it had not been stolen. The cops opened the trunk to check the contents, but did NOT allow me to retrieve my rucksack and guitar, nor let the thumbing couple get their packs.

I checked with the cops every day. No use; I was never allowed to retrieve my stuff.

I was stuck in New York with nothing but the clothes on my back, the heavy peacoat to keep me warm, the wallet and harmonicas and notepad in my pockets, nothing else. Oh fuck.

And my life changed forever. I tell that story in other chapters.

NEXT: New York City sucks unless you are very rich, and then it still sucks. 



Ron's Journal 04



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

I highly recommend that you read all previous chapters before starting on this piece.

******************** 

7: California: Irresponsible Life

My pregnant new wife MariLyn and I hitchhiked from N.Y.C. back to California that autumn, first to the Los Angeles area to see our families, then to San Francisco. 

We got a tiny apartment in the Haight-Ashbury. We got on AFDC welfare. I went to adult high school, and graduated, and attended college to learn broadcast electronics; our daughter was born; I got round wire-rim glasses, and a vasectomy; all paid for by welfare.

When welfare expired after 18 months, I could not find work other than more day labor. Those 1st and 2nd Class FCC broadcast licenses were not worth much here.

We moved to a cheap room in the Fillmore slum. Junkies everywhere. Schizophrenic fellow tenants. We were not much better, staying drunk and stoned much of the time.

MariLyn and I found we were shitty parents and lousy lovers together. I only used her as a sex toy suitable for fast pounding. We finally decided to do the only responsible thing: we put our under-two-year-old daughter up for adoption. I would not see our daughter again for almost 30 years.

MariLyn and I informally separated and re-engaged. She shacked up with various of our doper/wino friends, and sometimes with me again. Then we thought to start over in the early 1970s. We relocated to Hollyweird.

___

The vibes of Los Angeles and San Francisco are rather different. S.F. is energetic while L.A. is totally manic. And Hollyweird is quite over the edge.

MariLyn and I were given an apartment by a black banker who liked to watch us fuck each other. MariLyn got a job doing phone sex. We were given an 8-foot-long Columbian Rosy Boa, Noah The Boa.

I made money as a mime, working on the corner of Hollyweird and Vine. Not a Marcel Marceau type mime in black and white with cropped hair, no, not me. I was 6'5" tall, shirtless, in short cutoff jeans and sandals, face clean-shaved, long black hair flowing, with Noah The Boa wrapped around my neck.

And I wasn't the strangest sight on the street, not by far.

(FLASH FORWARD: 25 years later, I was in a supermarket in Sacramento. Walking through the produce aisles, I saw a group of younger people. One was a skinny guy about my height, long black hair, shirtless, short cutoffs, with a big Columbian Rosy Boa wrapped around his neck. I felt like I had been reincarnated.)

___

Street performance is fun.

I had regulars. Almost every day I was there, a car would pull up to the corner, the darkened window would roll down, and an arm tossed a 50-cent coin into my basket. The car was a new Hemi-Cuda with high spoilers, painted metalflake lime, and on the door was a name in gold script: Lawrence Welk.

A black guy a half-foot taller than me, wearing a leopard-skin wrap, a crown, barbed-wire sandals, huge sunglasses, and carrying a big Tiki stick, always dropped me a quarter. Some crowds of young school kids always threw in a nickel each. I depended on the regulars.

I had imitators, including a short Chinese girl who mimed my miming while wearing an almost transparent leotard. And she was GOOD. But she never got closer than 6 feet to me.

I had groupies. One cute little chick ran up to me, soul-kissed me, pulled my hand down to crotch level to feel... his package. Hmmm, I was not really into transvestites then.

A tired-looking Latina in her 50s kept asking me to fuck her. One day she took me to a nearby hotel room. We undressed. We tried foreplay, fingers, oral, spit. She was DRY! She stayed dry. I needed half a jar of Vaseline to gain entry, and her arid cunt scraped like hell on my poor cock. We couldn't cum. I think of her as Sandpaper Sal.

Other groupies were much better, some even for intermittent long-term relationships. Sharona and Yoko were short-termers; Mir and Keri were in my life for years.

SHARONA was a gorgeous tall big-titted blue-eyed blonde who loved to rub my muscles while I mimed, trying to distract me. She looked a bit too sluttish to attain starlet status. She cursed when she came.

Sharona had the most cavernous pussy I have ever experienced! I am a big guy, with big hands. I could fist Sharona's pussy with no trouble, and even double-fist her with a bit of squeezing -- after some serious slobbering cunnilingus, of course. And when she came, she flooded.

I felt almost like I could stick my head into her pussy and crawl straight into her womb. Is that your dream, guys? We were hot together for some weeks; then she disappeared.

YOKO was a small Nisei girl who lived with her partner Robert, upstairs from us in the Yucca Flats apartment building. Yoko was a toe freak. She squatted and played with my toes when I was in a frozen mime position on the street. Yet another distraction, hey?

At home, she plopped Robert and me onto her bed and sucked our freshly-washed toes. We sucked her toes, me on one foot, Robert on the other, and switched. Then we double-ended her, and switched, before going back to toes. Whomever had their cock in her cunt had to play with her toes. Whomever had their cock in her mouth had their own toes fondled. Whomever didn't fondle her toes adequately got slapped, hard.

I joined them for playtime sporadically over a few months. Yoko sent me postcards years later, covered with her beautiful pen-and-ink art, the same designs she painstakingly painted on her toenails.

KERI was a thin English girl, mid-20s, medium-height, long dark brown hair, perky nose, strong chin and cheekbones, tiny breasts with small aureoles and long dark nipples. She always wore a dark plaid flannel long-sleeve shirt and long black corduroy pants, with nothing underneath either.

Keri teased me on the street for weeks before dragging me to her bed.

Keri was acerbic and snide, and she WANTED me. I lived in her apartment off-and-on for a few months. She teased me about reading CONAN THE BARBARIAN comics (especially the classic Barry Smith issues) saying those were for faggots. That usually led to me bending her over a chair and pounding her pussy raw while she screamed "Crom! Crom! Crom!".

Keri and I hitchhiked together, sometimes to San Francisco or San Diego. She liked to fuck in public, usually on beaches or in parks, 69ing awhile first, then mounting me cowgirl-style and riding me into nervous exhaustion.

Keri wanted to marry me, but I was still married to MariLyn then. Keri didn't much like that.

Later, after I joined the Army, I learned Keri had also joined, and also as an electronics technician. She kept track of my locations. Our assignments sometimes found us at the same bases briefly, and we always spent our off-duty time together, fucking incessantly.

I never heard from her after 1976. I heard a rumor that she maybe died from a congenital heart defect, but I do not know if the rumor was true. I miss her.

___

And then there was Mir, a tall dark Russian Jewish girl with strong features and ample breasts topped with large chocolate aureoles and fat thick red nipples.

Mir was a senior at Hollywood High. She would bring groups of her classmates along to watch me perform. I was always good for a few laughs.

One day Mir laughingly asked me if my cock was under as much control as the rest of my body. "Shalom!" I said, "Come with me and find out."

We walked the two blocks to my Yucca Flats apartment, me miming her pacing, still mirroring her as we climbed the stairs and reached my door.

"That's enough of that," she said, and pushed me into the room.

Then she said nervously, "I'm not on the pill."

"I've had a vasectomy," I said, and she brightened, and then asked, "But how can I believe you?"

"Just feel my scrotum. You can feel where the vas deferens was cut, feel the scars at the cut ends of the tube."

We undressed rather quickly. It was a hot, sweaty day. I wanted us to be clean. We took a quick shower, and she squeezed my balls.

"Where?" she asked.

"Not yet," I said, and toweled us off.

I stretched on the bed and placed her fingers above my balls, making her pinch my scrotum slightly, as she traced the severed tubes.

"Oh yes, there's the cut," she said. She looked into my eyes. "OK, fuck me now."

I was happy to comply, but I said, "First, we need a bit of lubrication."

I licked her. She licked me. We both licked, mutually, la la la. This sounds like a jingle.

Wet or dry, Mir's pussy lips were always puffy. When wet, she blossomed like a rose. I loved licking those fat, juicy lips, and the territory around them.

Mir's dark bush wasn't as rough as a Brillo pad, not quite. Her clit was like a small fingertip, very fun to play with, very sensitive, and it wiggled when she got excited. Her hole was deep and tight.

Mir's pussy was simply a joy to taste and touch and tantalize.

But we didn't go slow and romantic, not this first time. She wanted a fucking and that is exactly what she got. Wham, bam, slam, jam it in, whip it out, make like a jackhammer, until she cried out her pleasure, her eyeballs rolling back in their sockets; and her strong cunt muscles squeezed my cum out of me.

No dangerous little wigglies in those shots of seminal fluid, nope, only pure unadulterated joy juice. As hoped, my vasectomy would help make me a popular man.

Mir lay back and almost hyperventilated as I spooned her and fondled her magnificent breasts covered with tiny brown freckles. She seemed to enjoy the experience. I sure did! But then she started moving.

"Ron, what time is it? I have to get home. My parents are expecting me."

Mir lived over towards Griffith Park. She could *just* catch the next city bus in that direction, without getting home late. We dressed, kissed, kissed some more, walked down the hall, down the stairs, down to the corner bus stop.

"Ron, I really liked that. I want to see you again. Soon. Very soon."

Mir kissed me again.

"Anytime, Mir. I'll be here for you."

We had a few more hot after-school sessions. We tried to make more time. Once, we only had time to duck into a coffee-shop's restroom for a fast standup fuck. We usually were not so rushed, nor so desperate.

___

A couple weeks later I stood at my corner talking with my friend Don. Don had deserted from the Canadian Special Forces. He talked about their winter pre-graduation exercise, being dropped naked in the Northern Rockies with a dull knife and given a week to survive and reach civilization.

Later Don dropped LSD, became enlightened, and snuck across the border to the USA, never to return.

Don did not look like the equivalent of Green Beret material. He was scrawny, with a short lion's-mane beard and hair, and a perpetually surprised expression.

Mir and another girl approached us as we stood there. The girl was a little shorter than Mir, not quite up to my shoulders, a taut-looking dirty blonde with sufficient breasts and hips visible under her tight pullover and skirt.

"Ron, this is my best friend, Lori. We want you to fuck us."

Don's 'surprised' expression moved on towards 'astonished'.

"Hmmm, is Don invited too?" I asked.

"Errr, I gotta be going," Don said with his head and torso shaking.

I could hear his mental gears grinding.

The apartment could be raided by cops. He could be caught having group sex with high-school girls. He could be fingerprinted, identified as a deserter, sent back to Canada for a long stretch in prison. Don strenuously avoided all potentially illegal activities. He did not even jaywalk.

(I had recently spent a day in jail for jaywalking in L.A.. They locked me up after breakfast, gave me a dry sandwich for lunch, and threw me out before dinner, to keep costs down.)

This was too high-risk for Don. He sidled away nervously and disappeared around the corner.

"Mir, what's up?" I asked.

"I want to see my best friend being fucked by my lover. Especially my lover who is an older man, a married man. I want to see how she feels you."

Older man? Well, they were 18 then, and I was all of 22. Was I old enough to seem mature?

"Wait up a minute. It's time for Larry Welk again."

Sure enough, I saw that very bright lime-colored muscle car approaching. I struck my pose; the window lowered, the arm tossed the coin. And then we all took off.

___

We went into the apartment. Lori sat on the edge of the king-size bed and looked at me.

"Mir, you'll have to help me here. We all need to shower the smog off us."

Lori and Mir undressed each other while I slipped out of my shorts. (No snake now -- I'd had to donate Noah to a zoo when local pet cats started disappearing.)

We showered, washing carefully and solemnly, and toweled each other off. I led them back to the bed and had us all sit cross-legged, knee to knee, as with Linda and Dale back in N.Y.C., but without the pot and the full-lotus posture. Mir on my right, Lori on my left.

We drank from a chilled bottle of cheap Italian white wine, one buck from the local deli. I filled my mouth, formed my tongue into a nozzle, put my lips onto Mir's, squirted it into Mir's mouth, then the same for Lori.

I passed the bottle to Mir and said, "Your turn."

Mir paused, considered, decided. She gave a squirt to me, and then to Lori, both slowly.

Mir passed the bottle to Lori and said, "Your turn."

Lori looked into our faces and quickly took a drink. She squirted into me, then held her mouth on mine for a minute, pushing her tongue in, tasting me. She did the same to Mir.

I reached down and rubbed Mir's dark pussy, then Lori's lighter bush, then my cock. I saw some pre-cum glistening atop my hard little head. The girls shivered slightly. I reached a finger into Mir's pussy, pulled it out, put it in my mouth, tasted it. And then the same for Lori.

"Mmmm, you both taste so good. Your turns."

I looked at them both. They looked at each other, then at me. Lori reached to my cock, scooped off some of the pre-cum, tasted it, smiled. Then she reached into Mir's pussy for a fingerful of her flavorful juice. She tasted it and smiled again."

"You taste a little salty but good, Mir. Your turn."

Mir slowly repeated the action, probing, tasting, then relaxing a little, murmuring "Oh my."

I leaned over, slowly kissed Mir's left breast, then her right breast, then back to the left. I pulled back a little.

"Lori, help me here," I said as I resumed kissing Mir's left breast.

On cue, Lori leaned in and took Mir's right breast into her mouth. She suckled briefly, then ran her tongue around the nipple, then sat back upright, her dirty blonde hair hanging to her tits.

I turned to Lori, leaned in to her right breast, then her left breast, then the right breast again. I looked at Mir and raised an eyebrow. Mir quickly moved to Lori's left breast and suckled and licked for half a minute, then sat back up.

"Mir, lie down, I have a treat for you," I said as I straightened my legs.

Mir lay back, stretching her legs on either side of me. I crawled up her body, kissed her mouth, then down to her breasts, then between her hips, then her bush. I put my mouth in front of Mir's pussy. I reached up my right hand to cup her left breast, softly kneading it.

"Lori, I need your help again," I said.

Lori straightened out, then curled up at Mir's right side and started suckling. I worked my tongue onto and into Mir's pussy and kneaded her left breast, twirling the nipple, thumbing around her aureole. I licked and slurped harder, faster, tonguing her clit. Lori sucked harder. Mir shook and moaned.

"Lori, turn around so Mir can suck your tits while you suck hers."

Lori moved behind Mir's head, bent over her, and they fed their tits to each other. I put both my hands on Mir's inner thighs and rubbed her soft skin, then slowly put two fingers deep into her hole.

Mir was bucking now. The girls slurped and kneaded each other's tits, changing sides, both moaning. Lori pressed her tit down hard into Mir's mouth. I licked and fingered faster, sucked her clit even harder.

Mir came hard, excruciatingly hard and wet, and screamed as if prodded with hot pitchforks. Her screams were thoroughly muffled by Lori's breast in her mouth. Mir screamed again and again but only loud moans emerged from that soundproofing.

I kissed Mir's pussy gently to bring her down, then climbed up to kiss her flushed face with my wet face, then turning to kiss Lori with my faceful of Mir's juice. I pulled back and looked into Lori's eyes.

"Your turn, Lori," I said.

Lori fell back onto the bed with her legs spread. She pulled my head down between her legs, then pulled Mir's head to her for a deep kiss.

"Mir, move back behind me," Lori whispered.

Mir knelt behind Lori and they shared tits as I inhaled and adored Lori's smaller paler pussy. Her bush was thin, soft, like glowing short angel hair. I applied all my oral tricks. Lori was soon yelling silently into Mir's breast. I softly kissed her pussy to cool her down.

"And now, Mir, here is what you want to see, what you asked for. Watch closely."

I moved up on Lori's body and placed the head of my well-stiffened cock at the opening of her vulva. I slowly pushed it in just slightly, then pulled it out, then back in a little deeper, then out again, and then all the way in and out.

I repeated these long slow strokes maybe a dozen times. Mir stared as my glistening thick rod slowly pistoned in and out of her best friend's cunt.

"Do you want to watch the cum flow?" I asked Mir.

Mir nodded shakily, "Uh yes, please, please."

"There's something you can do to help. Sit on Lori's face."

Mir look startled, then looked at her friend.

"Oh yes yes yes, come here Mir, I want you!"

Mir straddled Lori's head, facing me, leaning forward a bit, her great breasts hanging down and swinging gently, then straightened up and looked me in the eye. I leaned to Mir, kissed her mouth, fondled her breasts.

"This is what you were waiting for, Mir."

Mir gasped as Lori's tongue ravished her pussy. I resumed pistoning Lori's cunt, faster, harder, my hands on Mir's breasts as we kissed, Mir's hands on Lori's breasts, Lori's hands moving up my sides and brushing my nipples.

I pounded faster into Lori, and faster yet, and then the chain reaction started.

Lori thrashed and came, her screaming muffled by Mir's pussy. Mir came wetly, screaming into my mouth sealed over hers. And my lifeless cum squirted into Lori's cunt, shot after shot after shot, an accumulation of many horny hours unleashed for almost a minute.

I pulled my face back from Mir's, told Mir to look down as I slowly pistoned, long strokes revealing an almost bubbly wetness.

"Oh wow," Mir breathed, "that's amazing."

"Mmmmph mmmph mmmph," Lori said, trying to unseat Mir from her mouth.

Mir rolled aside and Lori gasped, "Holy fuck!"

I kissed Lori's wet face. I grabbed a towel. We wiped our faces and crotches, and snuggled.

"Was this the interaction between your lover and your friend you wanted to see, Mir?"

Mir rolled her eyes and said, "Holy shit Ron, just what have you done to us?"

"I think the phrase is, 'Thoroughly fucked.' Do you want my cock now too, Mir?"

Mir shuddered, "I think I'll wait till tomorrow. I need some time to digest this. It's time to go home now anyway. Wow, this has been more than I expected."

We showered again, and dressed, and headed back out into the real world.

The girls went their way. As I walked down Yucca Street, Keri saw me and grabbed me and dragged me to her apartment and pounded me. When she finally released me, it was evening.




Ron's Journal 04



I went back to my Yucca Flats apartment. MariLyn was back from work, smoking a big joint. She grabbed me and pounded me too.

I was almost afraid to go out after that, afraid I might run into Sharona or Yoko, and be pounded again. But hey, I've had worse days.

NEXT: I wish they all could be California girls.

******************** 

8: California: Different Strokes

I was not chained to Los Angeles during this era. The mime action really only pulled in money from late Thursday afternoon till sundown Sunday.

Not that I really needed much money. I paid no rent. I lived on a diet mostly of V8, chicken salad sandwiches, white port, used comic books, and lots of sex. My needs were simple.

I often needed to get away from Hollyweird's hypertension.

Being in L.A. always kicked-up my adrenaline. Every time I came back to those hyped streets, my pulse and blood pressure zoomed, and events seemed to pass in slow motion. L.A. always boosted my sensory frame rate. I could not take much of this for very long.

I had good friends living on a little rural plot on the coast north of San Francisco. Heaven!

When the mime money flow dried up on Sunday, I'd hitchhike north, lay over at the "Funny Farm" as it was known, then head back south again in time to start picking up the Thursday money. I learned to thumb the distance in about 10 hours either way -- only take long rides.

I had interesting rides. I got a ride around Salinas with a rock star in his pink-and-purple Rolls Royce, but it broke down before long and I continued thumbing.

I got a ride with a serious presidential candidate, a local congressman, the only Republican challenging Nixon for the 1972 nomination. In his car (an airport rental), the radio news announced the death of FBI director J Edgar Hoover.

"I'm glad the bastard is gone," the politician said emotionally.

No, he was not after my body. He just liked to talk to EVERYBODY, find out what people thought, their words unscreened and direct. He was a straight-shooter, and one of the few GOPs I would ever consider voting for.

One ride was with a dark-suited middle-age man in an Oldsmobile Toronado. He drove the highway at an average speed of 120 MPH. I got a little nervous.

"Ummm, aren't you worried the cops might bust you for speeding?"

"No problem. They all know me. I'm deputy director of the California Highway Patrol."

More than a few late-night rides were accompanied by a radio DJ playing IN A GADDA DA VIDA in full, giving said DJ a half-hour away from the microphone, for pizza or sex or a long slow shit or whatever.

And more than a few late-night rides had me in the back of a pickup truck or VW van, snuggling under a sleeping bag with one or more girl riders. Lots of young folks hitchhiked then, the girls often in pairs for safety. Double the pleasure, double the fun. Wow, I loved those nights.

___

Each time I arrived at the Funny Farm, I would greet my Cherokee hosts Jim and Tahoe, then get stoned and look for a fuckmate, then crash from fatigue. Jim and Tahoe had moved their 'Madhouse' commune from the Haight-Ashbury to the coastal woods. We had been friends for years.

The coastal commune had interesting visitors, often musicians. Some of the Jefferson Airplane-Starship crowd or the Crosby-Stills-Nash-Young band would wander over from their nearby 'ranches'.

Once, Keith Richards visited them, wasted as usual. How wasted? Well, the word on the street was that whenever there was a shortage of drugs, it was because Keith had used them all.

Anyway, Keith went into the brush to drain his bladder, and squirted a rattlesnake. The snake struck his exposed pecker. Ouch. Medical help was rushed in, but to no avail; within a half-hour, that snake was DEAD.

{rimshot}

I will not talk much about the drugs consumed there except to mention that one friend worked in a pharmacy and regularly brought jugs of amyl nitrate for our consumption. We would sit in old easy chairs around the outdoor firepit, passing the amyl around, snorting merrily. Good thing we were already sitting down; that shit is like a meaty punch to the head.

___

A rough girl named Cleo rolled in one afternoon on her Indian. She wore skintight buckskin leathers. Not fancy store-bought flash, but from deer she'd bow-shot herself, then field-tanned the hides using the deer's brains, then fashioned the skins into the clothes that literally fit her like molded-on gloves.

Cleo was tall and lean, with adequate breasts and close-cropped black hair and deep black eyes, and the sharpest spiciest scent of any woman I have ever known.

Cleo dismounted from her cycle, pulled off her helmet, unsnapped the wide belt supporting her Bowie knife, and spit in the dirt.

"Hey Ron, ain't seen you in a coon's age. You horny? I sure am!"

Cleo was no longer the shy runaway girl I knew back at the Madhouse. Damn, she looked good! Sweaty, dusty, cunt-buzzed and road-weary from the run from Vegas, but damn delicious, like peppered jerky. I smiled.

"You need a shower first, or do you just want to rut like hogs?"

"Oink oink," she said, kicking off her stomping boots as she walked into my cabin, unlacing her skins, getting naked real fast. I was quick to follow suit.

Cleo threw me on my bunk and hopped on top of me.

"Lick my pussy. Don't be slow."

Cleo scooted over my head and dropped on me like a thunderstorm. I do not know what all I tasted there.

Was she sweet? Fuck no! Piss and sweat and lymphatic secretions and deer brains and fuck knows what else, like a shamanic stew minus the hallucinogenic mushrooms.

Forget that her pussy muscles could squeeze my tongue down to a pencil-width; the taste alone nearly bit my tongue off, chewed it up, and spit it out!

And I loved it.

I reached up to her tits and her hands were already there, pinching her thick nipples. I pinched harder. She retaliated by reaching down and pinching mine. If my cock had not been swing free, I would have cum right there and then.

I put my tongue into ATTACK MODE, working furiously on her lips, hole, clit, all I could reach. She pounded my face, and came yelling, and squirted, and came and yelled some more, and finally slowed down and almost shut up.

"Whew baby, that was a nice start," she said, rolling off my face; "Does your dick still work?"

"Oh, it probably will for a few minutes, till your cunt breaks it off. Maybe you should start off with a cucumber or a mop handle."

Cleo reached to her naked left hip, saying, "Shit, where's my fucking knife? I'll have your balls for that one!" Her smile was a snarl. Her short black hair was spikey with sweat.

"OK, we'll have safe sex then -- safe for *me* anyway," I said as I rolled her off the bed and bent her over the edge, her legs splayed apart, her muscular butt poking out horizontally, her arms pinioned under mine.

I bounced my cock up and navigated into her wet open cunt by dead-reckoning.

Cleo was obviously looking for a good fast brutal pounding, and that is exactly what she got. After a few minutes of happy abuse she yelled and came again. Her pussy muscles brutally pinched my cock till it squealed and fired a 21-gun salute. I yelled a bit too.

Cleo rolled back onto the bed and said, "OK, now that that's over, come up here and 69 me like you mean it. I need some enhanced flavor."

Cleo grabbed my long black hair and dragged me to her, kicking and screaming almost. I plopped down on my back. She spun around, bit my cock, and dropped her crotch onto my face again, in the other direction this time.

Cleo positioned her hips so my tongue was on her clit while my nose stuck deep into her happy hole, bubbling her vivid juices with every snort.

This is what I love best about 69ing: drowning in wet pussy.

She sucked me till I stiffened again, and I licked her till she came again, and then she licked me again until I came again AND till I got stiff again, and then we rolled around and fucked some more, till she finally ran out of greed. Whew, that girl sure knows how to have a good time!

I think we were both pretty much fucked-out by dark. We slept wrapped around each other, stinking to high heaven, and awoke around midnight.

I dragged her out to the cold-water shower pipe on the side of my cabin and we hosed-down under the full moon, shivering and laughing. Then we dressed, and headed over to the communal kitchen to see if any stew and wine remained.

___

Our timing was great. I needed to return to Hollyweird in a couple days, and Cleo was making a run to San Diego then, so I rode with her all the way down, no thumbing necessary. We rode 400-odd miles together with my crotch stuffed into her butt and my hands holding her buckskin-covered tits or wandering over her torso and thighs.

She took the US-101 Cahuenga exit and rolled up in front of my Yucca Flats apartment just as gangs of escaping Hollywood High students streamed past. Cleo kissed me like she meant it and roared off.

And Mir and Lori were in that student stream, walking up behind me, looking at me a bit strangely.

"Are all your rides that friendly?" Mir asked, shaking her long dark hair and large breasts.

"Oh, Cleo is an old pal, but she always leaves me feeling like I'm the dry bones of the catch-of-the-day at Clifton's Cafeteria. She's a helluva role model, I tell ya."

"Go clean up, you road toad," Mir said, rolling her eyes as dirty blonde Lori giggled, and they dragged me upstairs into the apartment for yet more wet torture. Yeah, I've had worse days.

___

The next week, rather than head back to the Funny Farm, I decided to thumb the short distance out to San Bernardino ('San Boogaloo') to see my little sister Lyn. She and her older sister Sue had finally both finished high school and escaped from Mom and the noxious "step-family" that molested them.

Sue had recently married a guy who had been born the same hospital, the same day and almost the same hour I was -- did she have a big-brother complex?

Sue's guy Randy was a trucker. Two days before the wedding, he was loading his semi, and the forklift tipped over on him and broke his leg. He was married in a wheelchair, stoned to the gills on painkillers -- was that a good start to married life?

They were now at his home in Bakersfield, waiting for him to be ambulatory again.

Lyn lived alone then in a small studio court outside San Boogaloo. She had an interesting work-at-home job. She carved original sculptures that were reproduced and sold in craft shops. She sculpted little cars, animals, toys, plaques, furniture, witch houses, decorative items, whatever her boss ordered.

I had a standing invitation to crash in the big Yucatan hammock on her patio.

But first, I had to get there.

I got a couple real short rides, then was picked up by a young guy in a souped-up Mustang. He was medium height, cropped light brown hair, very fit. He had a look to him, and when our eyes met, something sparked and flashed.

We exchanged names. He reached over to shake my hand. Our hands stuck together. This was new for me.

We drove on for a few minutes, chatting. Paul took an off-ramp in West Covina, saying he needed to buy gas. As the gas pumped, he leaned his butt on the open car door, and I could not keep my eyes off it. And he saw that.

When Paul got back in, he asked if I would maybe like to go somewhere and talk for a bit. I nodded. He drove into a nearby park, to a quiet lonely section. We got out and sat on the ground together.

I leaned back, put my hand on the ground. His hand covered mine.

"You're new at this, aren't you?"

"I've never done a guy before."

"Will you kiss me?"

I leaned over into his muscular shoulders, my hand on the back of his head. Our tongues dueled softly, then harder. I felt the light stubble on his face. We held each other's heads with both hands.

Paul dropped a hand to my chest, rubbing me, then down my side, down to my jeans and my stiffening erection.

"Are you into anal?"

"No, not at all."

"Will you suck my cock?"

"I think I'd like to."

Paul unbuckled, pulled his pants and boxers down, pulled his circumcised boner out for me. I held his cock, stroked it, looked closely at it in the dim reflected light. I had not examined stiff cocks before, not even Will's when we regularly swapped the sisters. I did not know quite what to expect.

I bent over, sniffed it, licked it, put it in my mouth. I remembered some of the tricks that girls used when blowing me, and I thought about what I liked myself. So I did my best.

I held Paul's little head in my mouth while I jerked his steely shaft, lubricated by my saliva. I took him in deep. The film DEEP THROAT had recently been released and publicized and discussed, and I had heard about repressing the gag reflex. So I worked at him, and eventually pushed my face all the way down to his pelvis. I came back up, gasped, and did it again, and again.

I went back to kneading his shaft while strongly licking the underside of his head. I especially liked this technique myself. And it worked.

Yes, his cock throbbed, his balls bloated, and multiple shots of thick semen filled my mouth.

I had tasted my and Will's cum before, but mixed with pussy juice or girl's saliva. This was my first taste of it straight from the source. Not to bad, I must admit. I swallowed it all.

"That wasn't too bad for a first try. Now let me do you."

I raised my butt and bared my loins. Paul leaned down and pretty much did to me what I had done to him, but more so. He was good. He worked a hand towards my anus but I pressed a cheek down to halt the movement and he backed off.

I stroked my nipples and came pretty quick, pretty strong. Paul held my cum in his mouth, sat up, kissed me deeply, squirting my cum into mouth and swirling it around with our tongues before he swallowed it.

"You're sweet. You sure you won't fuck my ass or let me fuck yours?"

"I don't want anything in my butt, and I don't think I could stay hard for yours, sorry."

Paul pulled his pants back up, reached in a pocket for a business card, and passed it to me.

"Here's my number. Call me if you want more or if you change your mind."

I pulled my jeans up and put the card in my pocket. I wrapped my arms around him and we lay back on the grass, kissing or a few minutes.

"I have to be getting home. I'll drop you at the Fontana exit, OK?"

"You bet."

He dropped me off as promised. I thanked him for the ride and everything, and we kissed again. I threw away his card. This evening had been nice, but it really did not feel like it fit into my life.

___

I quickly got a ride to Lyn's San Boogaloo exit, and a short hike brought me to her darkened house. Asleep already? I lay in the hammock, gazed at what stars I could see through the smog, and thought and thought.

Lyn fed me breakfast in the morning, filled me with bad coffee, dutifully tried to sing along as I played harmonica, and then went back to her carvings.

Lyn is medium height with an oval face, long dirty blonde hair, nice bubbly tits and ass, strong legs, skillful hands. Her usual expression includes nervous laughter. She wore short shorts and a thin halter top and huarache sandals..

I looked at her trim figure, mentally compared her to the girls I'd had, and to Paul.

I thought, "What the fuck am I doing here? Where do I go now?"

The answers I came up with led me out of L.A., back to San Francisco.

NEXT: Coast-to-coast for the most.



Ron's Journal 04A



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

This piece can be appreciated without having read all the previous chapters. But read them anyway.

******************** 7A: Fucking in The City, 1970

I pretty much fucked-up my life in San Francisco.

My little blonde wife MariLyn and I found we were shitty parents and lousy lovers together. I only used her as a sex toy suitable for fast pounding. We didn't really like each other any more, and we knew we weren't mature enough for decent child-rearing. We finally decided to do the only responsible thing: we put our under-two-year-old daughter up for adoption. I would not see our daughter again for almost 30 years.

We moved to a cheap slum room at Fillmore and Grove. City Hall was a few blocks down Grove; Rev Jim Jones' suicidal People's Temple was a few blocks up Fillmore. We called our building The Shithouse. Bugs and lousy sanitation. Junkies everywhere. Schizophrenic fellow tenants. We were not much better, pretty constantly drunk and stoned and fucking around.

I spent much of my time elsewhere. My Cherokee friends Jim and Tahoe ran a commune in a large third-floor apartment at the corner of Haight and Ashbury. They called it The Madhouse. (They later relocated to a coastal rural setting and called that place The Funny Farm.) Ex-Madhouse residents sliding to lower social rungs usually ended up in the Shithouse, before moving on to worse fates.

Dick The Prick slid from the Madhouse to the Shithouse. He and the Shithouse manager Little Dave often shared my wife MariLyn. At the Madhouse, Charly usually shared his wife Suzi with me, and I sometimes joined in with Pat and Jan and Freaky Freddy. Jim and Tahoe didn't share, and they protected shy runaway Cleo. At the Shithouse, Big Kathy (who owned the world's smartest dog) usually shared me with her roommate Thin Lynn, and I sometimes helped Roberto with Joan and Dom. Weren't we all generous?

---

I walked into The Shithouse manager's basement studio apartment. My wife MariLyn was naked on her knees and elbows on the party-size king bed. The manager Little Dave leaned back against the headboard with his cock in MariLyn's mouth. Dick The Prick was on his knees behind MariLyn's butt. His thick cock slid slowly in and out of her cunt, her hanging tits swinging with his rhythm. All were naked except for Dick's red beret.

The room was heavy with smoke of opium and Nepalese rope incense. Ed, the previous manager, a hot-looking blonde gay guy, had lined the room's walls and ceiling with imperfect mirrors. The strobe light flashed through the smoky haze and caught the trio's movements in the wobbly-mirrored surfaces like a nightmare.

Little Dave saw me enter the room, and waved at me.

"Hey Ron, what's happening? You want her back anytime soon?"

"Naw, that's OK, I just gotta tell you that the upstairs toilet broke again."

"OK, I'll fix it in a few minutes." He repaired it three days later.

Little Dave had been a broadcast engineer. He worked on a network crew that covered the 1967 Six-Day War from Lebanon. He stayed behind and wandered around the MidEast. He talked of buying a baseball-size mix of opium and hashish in Afghanistan for a couple bucks. Once he starting kicking Buddha's gong around, the networks didn't want him back. That's how he ended up managing The Shithouse.

[NOTE: "Kicking Buddha's Gong" is ancient slang for being addicted to opium.]

I went to the far end of the first floor, into Big Kathy and Thin Lynn's room. They were 69'ing in bed, with dark Lynn atop blonde Kathy. Calypso The Wonder-Dog, a big black lab, was curled beside the bed.

Calypso looked at me, gave a quiet 'woof', and laid her head down again. Lynn looked at me and smiled.

"Hey Kathy, we have a guest, a really big tall one. Do you want Ron's tongue or cock, and where?"

Lynn raised her pussy from Kathy's mouth to allow her to speak.

"Get over here and stuff that thing into Lynn," Kathy ordered, then pulled Lynn's snatch back to her face.

I undressed, took a big swig of white port, went to their little sink, scrubbed my groin area, and knelt behind Lynn's butt. Kathy grabbed my vasectomized cock, mouthed me deeply a few times, then inserted me into Lynn's cunt. After about every dozen strokes, Kathy swallowed me again. She nearly bit me off when we heard a loud crash out in the little back yard.

Lynn looked up and laughed, "Sounds like Patti threw another TV out the window," then resumed slurping Kathy.

Patti was Cherokee Jim's older sister. They were both US Army VietNam veterans, living on disability checks now. Jim had been a sniper and was sure that his killings meant he was damned and going straight to hell. Patti had been a nurse and was wounded in a VietCong attack. Jim just drank; Patti was on heroin. She got grumpy often. When she did, she tended to throw things through windows. Jim didn't trust her in The Madhouse commune, so she was stuck in The Shithouse.

******************** 7B: Fucking on the Navarro, 1970

I'm not sure whose idea it was, but some of the more ambulatory of our crowd decided to join friends in escaping The City for the summer. The getaway location: a camping area on the Navarro River.

The Navarro runs through the steep Coast Range to the Mendocino Coast a few hours north of "San Narcisco". A lumber company owned the redwood forestland near the river's mouth. A state park is about a dozen miles inland on the river. The coast is often foggy. Just a few miles inland, the sky is often clear.

A couple miles of riverside west of the park comprised a sort of lawless zone that the state and county didn't much bother policing. That's where we camped and played, on sunny open riverbanks, and in cool groves of giant Coast Redwoods, the world's tallest trees. We called it Camp Navarro, or Banana-Slug Flats.

A bunch of us rode in Crazy Dave's ratty Ford Econoline panel van, crowded in among duffels full of camp gear etc. I rode shotgun, facing the dashboard sticker reading REALITY IS A CLUTCH. Charly and Suzi and Dick The Prick and my wife MariLyn were on the floor just behind the front seats, drinking Red Mountain wine and passing a joint. Pat and Jan and Freaky Freddie were slurping and screwing in the back; someone went OUCH whenever the van hit a bump. Grateful Dead music howled from the cassette-deck speakers.

"The Senator was so shit-faced when he staggered out of the bedroom, he nearly fell down the staircase, but the hookers grabbed his belt and pulled his pants down, and he tripped and just puked down the stairs. Our houseboy was so pissed at having to clean that up that he stuck his dick into the Senator's drink whenever he had a chance," Crazy Dave laughed, then took another hit from the joint. He swerved to miss a sea lion laying at the edge of the coast highway.

Crazy Dave was from a politically prominent Southern California family. He told of having to show the ever-changing girlfriends and 'escorts' of visiting Governors and Senators etc where the bathrooms were in his family mansion. Dave didn't like the political life. He worked as a pest exterminator.

We rolled northward unhurriedly along the twisty scenic Pacific Coast Highway, threading the rocky Marin-Sonoma-Mendocino coastline, past Bodega Bay and the Russian River and Sea Ranch, and turned inland at tiny Navarro-By-The-Sea. Seven miles later, we rolled into Camp Navarro.

A village of planned and impromptu shelters nestled into the forest and down to the river south of the highway. Accommodations ranged from large military-style tents, to plastic tarps strung over ropes between the trees, to rusty truck-camper shells set on the ground, to dugout redwood logs. Backhoe trenches in a grove just north of the highway were used as latrines.

---

I pitched my pop-up tent near the main Madhouse tent. Dark lithe Tahoe and pale thin shy Cleo had a kitchen set up on the other side. Folding tables nestled against a redwood stump under a suspended tarp canopy. An iron kettle in a campfire bubbled water for tea, coffee, cocoa, ramen soup, whatever.

"Hey Ron, would you help Jim over to the shitters? His leg's pretty bad today," Tahoe asked, chopping veggies and potatoes and roadkill venison for a stew.

"Sure thing. C'mon, Jim." I leaned his one-foot-shorter body against my 6'5" frame and half-carried him out of the camp and across the narrow highway. He's not heavy, he's my brother.

After I got Jim back to his jungle hammock, I went to my tent, got naked, slipped my feet into tire-tread huarache sandals, and walked into the river. City and road grime sloughed off my long thin body. I rode the flow downstream a couple hundred feet, then pushed to the opposite side and caught the eddy current back to the pool I had entered.

A couple of skinny-dipping girls floated tits-up in the sun-warmed pool. I drifted in their direction. I recognized them from parties on Haight Street.

"Hey Carol, Linda, what's happening?"

Carol's chocolate head topped by a short afro turned towards me, smiled, "Hey Ron, nice day to get wet!"

Red-headed Linda's freckled face and torso twisted my way, grinned, "Glad you made it here, big guy!"

I drifted closer. Carol splashed herself around so her legs pointed at me. She spread her arms and legs so her body formed an X on the water. Linda drifted behind her.

"Ron baby, I seem to have a bad itch. Could you maybe do something about it?" Carol asked demurely.

I swam between Carol's open legs. I put my hands under her bursting butt and raised her midsection out of the water. Linda held Carol's shoulders and head out of the water, cushioned on her own bubbly boobs. I put Carol's legs on my shoulders and licked her inner thighs.

"Oh yeah, that's close."

I kept one hand below Carol's butt and put the other on her bristly black bush, circling her vulva with my fingertips, and continued kissing her thighs. I dragged my fingers along each side of her river-wet slit.

"Oooh, even better, yeah."

I gently spread Carol's labia with my fingers. I peered into her inner beauty. I brought my face directly into her delta and licked the length of her slit, from taint to clit. She twitched and moaned.

"Oh fuck yeah, Ron, right there."

I wrote prescriptions on Carol's pussy with my tongue, punctuated with thrusts into her depths. I looked up to see Linda's pale hands holding Carol's dark breasts, fingers rolling and pinching her ruby nipples.

"Jesus, guys, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh oh..."

I focused my attention and efforts on Carol's clitoris. She writhed in the water. Both my hands grabbed and raised her butt and pulled her vulva into my mouth. I suckled her clit, tongue-lashed her, bit softly.

"Oh, oh, oh fuck, oh Ron, oh Ron, oh, ohhh..."

I sucked harder. Carol thrashed; her body shifted. I looked up and saw that Linda had turned Carol's face into hers and they were kissing deeply, Linda's mouth a seal over Carol's, swallowing Carol's screams.

Carol's body twitched for over a minute, then stilled. I swam out from under her strong thighs, up to Linda. We all embraced. I kissed Linda's face, then Carol's, sharing Carol's juices from my face with them. I frenched Linda again. Carol kissed and smoothed our faces around our lip-lock.

"I think we have our own itches now, Linda," I murmured, standing chest-high in the river pool.

"Fuck yeah!" Linda responded. She wrapped herself around me and slowly moved up and down my torso. Carol reached down to my cock and guided my perpendicular prick into Linda's toasty tunnel. Linda engulfed me, filling her depths with my presence. She slid her clit against my pubic bone and came quietly, softly.

The sensations were wonderful, but nowhere near sufficient for me. Still locked into her wrap-around arms and legs, I held Linda's butt and walked her out of the water, up the riverbank, to a grassy area where Linda and Carol's towels were spread out. I laid Linda down in missionary position and started pounding.

Linda's heels dug into my back. My enraged cock dug into her vagina. Her long red hair spread around her head like a ruddy sunburst. Carol lay beside us, rubbing us, kissing us. My mouth sealed on Linda's. We yelled down each other's throats, shouting our ecstasy. I squirted a river of sterile love into her womb.

Linda stayed wrapped around me for some minutes. I finally rolled off her and lay panting between these two fabulous friendly females. I was hugged from both sides. We shared two- and three-way kisses.

Someone floating by on the river yelled, "Get a tent!"

"That's a good idea," I said. "Are you gals swum-out yet?"

"Mmmm, I could probably use a lie-down now," Carol hinted.

Linda nodded agreement and fondled my now-limp cock. We all stood up somehow. Carol threw the towels into a waterproof bag. I retrieved my huaraches. We made our way across the river, dried off, and sauntered over to my tent. It was a bit cramped, but we managed various three-way connections and further orgasms.

We crawled out of my tent as night was falling. We got bowls of Tahoe's venison stew and gathered around the Madhouse campfire. I grabbed my guitar and leaned back against a redwood log, Linda and Carol nestled on either side of me. I sang some songs. My wife MariLyn sat in Crazy Dave's lap while he played along on a chromatic harmonica. They both had pants on, this time. Suzi had her head in Freaky Freddie's lap. Cleo leaned against Tahoe who leaned against her husband Jim. Other faces ghosted in the flickering firelight.

Joints and wine bottles passed around. Jokes and jests and blather filled the smoky air. Bodies rubbed together. An occasional car or truck passed on the Navarro highway, headlights flashing and bouncing off intervening redwood trunks. Linda and Carol passed messages of reassurance to their group's campsite, and then crawled back into my tent with me for the night.

---

Slippery Steve announced a run into Mendocino and Fort Bragg in his VW MicroBus. Stops at the Co-Op and Safeway for food and wine, at Racine's for art supplies, at Goodwill for old clothes and cookware and books, et cetera. A half-dozen of us rode along.

A sheriff deputy's patrol car pulled us over on the coast highway near Albion. All our papers were in order, baggies of pot were well-hidden, and the wine bottles were unopened. We escaped, this time.

Depending on the day, Camp Navarro was home to maybe fifty people during the week, maybe twice as many over weekends. The populace was in constant flux. People spent the days swimming, reading, hiking in the woods, making music, drawing, carving, weaving, meditating, cooking, drinking, smoking, fucking. Nights were mostly spent drinking, smoking, and fucking, of course.

I went back to The City to work day-labor every couple weeks. The routine: Catch a ride with one of the weekenders on Sunday night. Work for Manpower on Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday. Crash at the Shithouse or Madhouse, depending on who was home where. Cash my check and catch rides back on Thursday. Hang around the river until my money ran out after ten days or so. Repeat as needed.

We went on excursions up and down the coast. We visited communes in the coastal hills. We went to schools and libraries and halls in coastal towns for free or cheap movies or music or plays or whatever. We dealt, shopped, worked, played.

We whiled away the summer. Some folks talked about remaining in Camp Navarro through the autumn and early winter. I looked at the sign mounted about thirty feet above the highway, indicating the high-water mark of the 1964 flood. I thought that staying into the rainy season was not a good idea, y'know?

---

I had thumbed rides into Mendocino. Nothing special; I just liked to walk around town. I was near the weirdly-carved Masonic Hall when I heard a voice call from behind me.

"Ron? Ron Carson? Is that you?"

I turned and saw a tall slender woman dressed in business suit, a blue silk scarf tying-back her long black hair. I recognized her from our hometown encounters.

"Helen? Is that really you, Helen?"

We walked to each other and embraced. Helen was about a decade older than I was, the young aunt of twins a couple years behind me in high school. I hadn't seen her since I left Piedmont HS.

"So what the hell are you doing here, Helen?"

"I couldn't stand the man-heap any more, so I got out, moved up here, got a job. I'm the township office manager now. I bought a house just down the street. And guess what? I have Andy and Angie here for the summer! They really like being here in the redwoods and rocks and rhododendrons."

"Hey Helen, the twins must have graduated then, right?"

"Yes, they'll be going off to different colleges in the fall. This may be the last season they'll have together before life tears them apart. I thought I'd make this summer special for them."

"I've always admired the way you've taken care of them, Helen."

"I hate to say it, but my brother and their mother really haven't been great parents, always focused on careers instead of family. I'm glad I've been able to be a big sister to them. Want to come see them? I'm not really needed at the office this afternoon. C'mon with me, Ron."

Helen took my hand and led me a couple blocks to a filigreed-wood New-England-style house covered with vines and surrounded by masses of colorful flowers. The west coastal climate makes Mendocino look and feel almost Irish. I admired the flashy floral displays.

"Oh, you think this is good? Wait till you see what I have around back!"

We went around the house and into an explosion of cascading floral colors. I stood with Helen, stunned.

We heard a rhythmic sound. We tiptoed through the tulips to a nylon pavilion erected under a blue-gum tree in a back corner of the yard. We peeked inside. The chaise in the pavilion was sweatily occupied.

Angie was cowgirl-riding Andy, slapping her butt up and down on his pubes, sometimes bending back with her nipples pointed skyward, sometimes leaning forward and offering her luscious tits to his hungry mouth. They didn't notice Helen or me, nor anything else besides themselves. Helen and I tiptoed away.

"They've always been very close," Helen whispered, giggling softly.

"Yeah, I can see that," I grinned back.

Helen noticed the erection growing in my jeans. She rubbed me gently.

"Hey Ron, would you like to get close too? I haven't seduced any of their school friends yet."

I responded by pulling Helen to me and frenching her deeply. She moaned into my mouth and rubbed my cock more aggressively. She broke loose, grabbed my hand, said, "C'mon, kid," and led me into the house, to the king bed in her arts-and-crafts bedroom. We undressed each other. We were 69'ing when the twins came to the doorway dressed only in long sweatshirts.

Helen looked up from slurping my cock. "Hey guys, do you remember Ron from school?"

"Hi Ron," the twins said in unison. They came over and rubbed my shoulders.

I dropped away from eating Helen's pussy. "Glad to see you two again! It's been awhile."

Angie bent over and kissed my mouth, wet with her aunt's juices. "Good to see you, too."

Angie kissed me more deeply, then pulled her sweatshirt off and resumed frenching me.

Andy also stripped down, and moved toward my head and Helen's butt. He knee-walked into position and inserted his long dick into Helen's cunt, his balls hanging next to my forehead. "Yeah, good to see you, Ron," he grunted between strokes.

I broke away from Angie's mouth. "Hey kids, this is great, but how about you let us finish what we're doing first, before we have a reunion or whatever, OK?"




Ron's Journal 04A



"Sure," Andy said, "but slide over, give us some room here too."

Andy and Angie were soon 69'ing beside us. A few little orgasms, and then we laid Angie and Helen side by side on the bed, and Andy and I took turns giving them twelve-counts with our cocks. A few more little orgasms, and we all lay together in a wet smelly fleshy heap.

"So what the hell are *you* doing here?" Helen asked me after we had all cleaned up and snuggled together.

"I'm camping down on the Navarro. A gang of friends from The City is off-and-on spending the summer there. So I'm hanging out, having fun, trying not to think about the future too much. Guess I'm just stretching my wanderjahr out as long as possible."

"What are you doing about school?" Angie asked, with one hand each on Andy's and my cocks.

"I went to SF City College," I said, only slightly lying, "and then to Western College of Electronics for my First and Second FCC tickets, but I can't really find any broadcast work nearby. I need to save some money before I can go back to college. But hey, I'm in no rush. I'll just see what happens." I didn't mention my wasted depraved lifestyle. I went back to nuzzling Angie's beautiful breasts.

Andy looked up from sucking his aunt's tit. "Are you still into music? I remember you used to drag that fat Italian mandolin to school." He filled his mouth again. Helen smiled and put her hand on his head.

"I mostly play guitar now, and blues harp, 'cause harmonicas are cheap and easy to carry around."

I slid down between Angie's legs and nuzzled her vulva. Andy rolled Helen onto her hands and knees and started doing the dirty dog on her. Helen pulled Angie's head over for deep frenching. The Q&A session was suspended temporarily.

When Helen and Andy and Angie moved into a triad daisychain, I was reminded of the old saying: The family that lays together, stays together.

---

Helen gave me a ride back to Camp Navarro. It wouldn't do her career in municipal government any good to be seen cavorting with scores of naked hippies, so she didn't come into camp, just kissed me thoroughly. I accepted her open invitation to "drop by anytime for a visit". I saw her and the twins a few more times that summer.

On days when the river and air were a bit too cool for comfortable bathing, some of us would bug somebody with a van to drive us the few miles to the state park for free hot showers. Midnight was usually a secure ranger-free time for shower fuckfests. We weren't *all* dirty hippies, nope.

All good things must end, yada yada. When the autumn storms started blowing in off the ocean, I went back to The City, still crashing at The Shithouse. Cherokee Jim and Tahoe finally relocated their Madhouse commune to the coastal hills north of "San Narcisco" and renamed their gathering The Funny Farm.

Dick The Prick had been a regular with Jim and Tahoe. He ate some bad hallucinogens, ran screaming down a hillside through a couple barbwire fences and fell off a cliff onto the shoreline rocks. We buried him locally. His sister Carrie flew from Seattle for his funeral. I stayed in her motel bed overnight. Jim and Tahoe invited me to take over his cabin at The Funny Farm. I spent a fair amount of my non-City time there for a few years.

MariLyn and I informally separated and re-engaged. She shacked up with various of our doper/wino friends, and sometimes with me again. Then we tried to start over in 1971. We relocated to downtown Hollyweird.

NEXT: Hollyweird, here we cum.



Ron's Journal 04B



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

This piece can be appreciated without having read all the previous chapters. But read them anyway.



******************** 8A: Fucking around at my little sister's, 1971

After my episode with Paul, I reached my little sister Lyn's San Boogaloo (San Bernardino) house, a little studio casita in a courtyard. Night had fallen. The house was dark. Asleep already? I lay in the hammock outside her door, gazed at what stars I could see through the smog, and thought and thought.

Lyn fed me breakfast in the morning, filled me with bad coffee, dutifully tried to sing along as I played harmonica, and then went back to her carvings. Her job was to make originals that would be cast to make molds for craft-store kits. Nice work if you can get it. She usually tuned her radio to a jazz station out of L.A.

Lyn is medium height (compared to me) with an oval face, long dirty blonde hair, nice bubbly tits and ass, strong legs, skillful hands. Her usual expression includes nervous laughter. She wore short-shorts, a thin halter-top, and huarache sandals this morning.

I looked at her trim figure, mentally compared her to the girls I'd had, and to Paul.

I thought, "What the fuck am I doing here? Where do I go now?"

The answers I came up with led me out of L.A., back to San Francisco. But first, I stayed with Lyn a while, and thumbed around some more.

I retrieved my guitar and rucksack and stuff from Hollyweird. Lyn had issued me an open invitation to stay with her. Her casita included a walk-in closet with a little outside window. She did not use this tiny room, so it became my bedroom, just big enough for a queen bed mounted on steel milk crates and a plywood plank, with a broomstick overhead for hanging clothes. My other paltry stuff went into the milk crates or hung from wall or door hooks.

Lyn's was not my only invitation.

"Hey big guy, I see you around here a lot, who are you? You ain't Lyn's boyfriend, are you? By the way, my name's Clarita. You got a name? You got a job?"

"Uh, hi Clarita, I'm Ron, and I'm Lyn's brother, not her boyfriend. And no, I don't work around here."

"Yeah, I knew that, she told me so. I just wanted to see if you were another fucking liar."

Clarita was a curvy olive-skinned Chicana about shoulder-high to my 6'5" frame, similar to Lyn, with shoulder-length black hair, a heart-shaped face, and blinding black eyes. Her tight navel-baring yellow Tweety Pie tee (no bra) and short denim cutoffs nicely showed her hourglass figure and bicycle-toned legs.

I wore my own denim cutoffs, and an unbuttoned khaki shirt from a military surplus store, and my size 16 red Keds. My black hair was not quite as long as hers was. I was clean-shaven except for a wide moustache.

Clarita lived in her studio casita across the courtyard from Lyn's. The front was planted with cacti, big pancake opuntias with nasty barbed spines. Clarita's character was rather sharp and barbed too.

"So if you ain't working, how you gonna live?"

"Hey, I just got here. I'll do day labor. I know where the Manpower office is, it's not far. And Lyn lets me stay with her."

"Yeah, Lyn told me all that too. So I haven't caught you lying yet. You had lunch already? You hungry?"

---

Thus began my funtime with Clarita. She invited me to eat. She invited me to play guitar. She invited me to tell stories. She invited me and Lyn for dinner, and before- and after-dinner wine, and more guitar music and stories. She invited us to stay the night in her king bed. Lyn declined; I accepted. Turns out, I did not use my little bedroom at Lyn's very much.

After Lyn left that night, Clarita snuggled up to me, sniffed me, and grimaced.

"Oh boy, you smell like you been out in the sun too long. So do I. Let's fix that."

Clarita stood. She stripped off her tee, kicked off her sandals, and dropped her shorts and panties.

"C'mon guy, the shower is over here."

I quickly got naked and followed her.

We lathered. We scrubbed. I knew of secret of head-rubs, so I spent a long time working shampoo into her thick hair, and scratching her scalp, and rubbing her neck and shoulders under the fall of hair. She came groaning under my flexible fingers, a soft climax, her knees buckling, leaning against me, her tan arms wrapped around me to keep from falling. We had not even kissed yet.

"Wow Ron, you're pretty good at that! What else can you do? When you gonna do it?"

"Give me a chance and I'll have you howling at the moon like a wild wolf in Texas, how does that sound?"

"If that's a promise, I'm gonna hold you to it." She held my stiffened cock then.

"No promises, just a strong declaration of intent." I lightly fingered her slit.

"Maybe we should know each other better." She pulled my head down and kissed me.

The water was cooling so we dialed the shower off. We stood in the good-sized shower stall, dripping wet, our mouths and bodies welded together, our hands roaming over every exposed surface, our glands oozing. We broke off after some immeasurable span of time, still dripping. Clarita grabbed my hand and led me out.

"We gonna dry off before we go to bed, Clarita?"

"We don't need no fucking towels. Get your skinny ass out here."

The door next to the shower led to a small back yard, just a couple hundred square feet, loosely lined with tiles with grass growing in the gaps. A warm breeze wafted over the high fence, over us, air-drying us as we waltzed to the rhythm of a distant train's clackety-clacking. The half-moon was pale pink from smog.

"OK big guy, show me what you can do now." She led me inside, to her bed.

I pushed Clarita on her back, raised and spread her knees, put her feet flat on the bed. She raised her torso on her elbows to watch me. I kissed her left foot, her calf, her knee, her thigh. My hands rubbed her flesh around my kisses. I nuzzled her thick black muff. I kissed down her right leg, then back up. I slowly licked her slit from bottom to top, tasting her spicy juices.

"Oooh, that's nice..."

I slid up, kissed her navel, her belly, the valley between her breasts. I circled my tongue around one aureole, then the other. I kissed between her breasts again, then up to her neck, her chin. I lightly licked around her mouth, not on or in it. I kissed her nose, her closed eyelids, her forehead.

I moved back to her mouth. Her lips opened to mine. Her tongue embraced mine as our arms embraced each other. My hard cock slid past her labia.

"You've got me pretty wet..."

I slid back down a little. I sucked her right nipple, softly at first, then harder, then moved to her left side, then back. I worshiped her breasts for several minutes as she moaned and twitched.

I moved further down, nuzzled her muff again, kissed her inner thighs, back and forth, with little licks of her cunt, some fingering around the margins of her orifice. Then I got serious. I drew arcane symbols on her labia with my tongue. I licked deep into her vagina, then licked from there to her clit, while gently sliding one finger, then two, into her depths. She was gasping now, and regularly moaning, "oh... oh..."

When I twiddled my inserted fingers and sucked hard on her clit, she came hard and wet and loud for the first time. I eased off but kept going. She came again, and again a few minutes later. Her hands clawed into my hair, then pushed me away.

"Sweet fucking Jesus, that was great! When am I gonna get you inside me?"

"After we have more fun first. Get over here!" I pulled her into a 69.

Clarita inhaled my cock pretty well. I sucked her pussy even better. My nose was in her tunnel, drowning in pussy juice. My tongue played with her clit pretty well. She came again, and again. I was almost close.

I rolled her off me. "OK, let's fuck now." I spread her legs and went missionary on her. I pounded at varying paces and depths, then faster. She tweaked my nipples. I roared, and came, and spewed great gobs of vasectomy-sterile goo into her, coating her womb futilely, overflowing her receptacle. She screamed in my ear till my head rang.

I braced myself on my elbows and kissed her. She devoured me. After some time, my cock softened and fell from her, and she pushed me off to the side.

"Holy fuck, that was incredible! Your tongue is even better than a girl's is, and your cock is just simply fucking amazing! Let's do it again, OK?" Clarita gushed.

"Give me a couple minutes to recharge and I'll be right as rain." I squeezed her tits.

A knock at the door. Lyn's worried voice: "Are you alright Clarita? Is everything OK?"

"Lyn baby, you got the best fucking brother in the world! Everything's just great here!"

"OK, just don't kill each other, OK you guys? And shut up now, the rest of the court is trying to sleep."

We kept fucking. We were almost quiet. The morning alarm bell rang too soon.

---

I borrowed Lyn's three-speed bike. Clarita got on her own bike. We rode the not-too-great distance to the shop she clerked and the nearby Manpower office. I signed in, and was assigned to my first of several days loading furniture into moving vans. The weather was hot, so I worked in cutoffs and Keds. End of the day, Clarita and I biked back together and showered and ate and drank and fucked and all the rest.

"You're something else," Clarita told me over a dinner of enchiladas and beer. "I usually prefer girls, but Lyn said you were a nice guy, so I thought I'd try you out, and you sure know how to fuck! You'd maybe like other girls here too? You mind having my girlfriend over?" She circled my ear with her fingers.

We sat side-by-side at her dining counter. I ran my hand up her thigh, under her panty-less shorts, brushed her muff, then lightly ran my finger along her slit. "The more, the merrier," I said, as my finger pushed into her juicy vagina. She shivered. I pulled out my wet finger and put it in her mouth. She sucked her juices off and smiled.

We finished dinner. I had her for dessert. Yummy. Later, we cleaned up, and she dialed her phone.

"Juana baby, what you doing? Nada, hey? Well come on over, I wanna see you, yeah, right now. You know I do. Clean up and get over here. Yeah, love you too, baby-kins. Get here now. Bye."

Clarita turned to me. "I want to set this up right. You wait over there after she gets here, OK? Let's take a quick shower now. Watch those hands!"

We lit a candle in the kitchen area, and another in the far corner of the studio room, beyond the bed. We turned off the electric lights. Clarita pulled a sheer thigh-to-bust wrap over her bare body. I pulled on shorts. We sat on the edge of the bed and necked.

A knock at the door; Clarita opened up, dragged a woman inside, a slightly larger and softer version of herself, wearing the usual sandals and cutoffs and red tee.

Clarita and Juana embraced, kissed, hummed.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, baby. Juana, this is Ron, you know, Lyn's big brother. Don't mind him. C'mere now, I want you, baby."

Clarita led Juana to her bed. Juana kicked off her sandals. Clarita hugged Juana, pulled her down onto the bed. They made-out energetically. I stood in the kitchen area, quietly slicing veggies for an upcoming stew.

I watched Clarita and Juana undress each other, rolling on the bed, their bodies lit only by the two flickering candles in opposite corners of the room. I slid my shorts off my legs and stood naked.

Clarita leaned back against the bed's headboard with Juana cradled sweetly in her arms, Juana's back into Clarita's belly, Clarita's hands fondling Juana's generous breasts, Juana's face turned into Clarita's kiss. Clarita moved out from under Juana, lay beside Juana's right side, and pleasured Juana's tits while their mouths locked in a kiss.

Clarita gestured to me. I climbed into bed on Juana's left side and kissed her breast. Juana stiffened.

"Hey baby, relax, it's Ron, and he's really really good, you gonna love this, I promise," Clarita soothed.

"Clarita, are you sure about this? You know what men have done to me before." Juana stayed tense.

"Don't worry, baby, everything's gonna be all right, if you don't like something, just say stop, OK?" Clarita whispered to her lover.

I rubbed Juana's shoulders. "Hey, your muscles are really tight, that can't feel good. I can help there. Here, just roll over on your belly."

Clarita and I rolled Juana into position. Juana did not protest much. I knelt beside her.

I started gently kneading the knots in Juana's neck and shoulders, with lighter rubs down her upper arms and back, then back to the tenseness. "Clarita, get me the cocoa butter, yeah." I worked the rub into Juana's skin, from the bottom of her shoulder blades up to the back of her head under her long black hair.

"Is this OK with you, Juana?" I asked. She murmured in the affirmative.

Juana was much looser and breathing easier and more regularly. Clarita held her head and kissed her. I applied more cocoa butter, starting at Juana's heels and working up, rubbing into the backs of her calves and thighs, up to her bouncy butt. Nothing intimate, no excursions to orifices, just a gentle rubdown.

"That feels real nice, Ron," Juana sighed. "Do me some more please?"

I straddled Juana's back, kneeling above her hips. I worked from one hand up to her shoulder, then the other hand, then down her back and flanks, just brushing the sides of her breasts. I slid down further and worked into her butt. I turned around, straddled her butt, and worked up her legs from heel to crotch.

I skootched off Juana and looked at Clarita. Clarita said, "Time to roll over, honey."

Clarita kissed one of Juana's breasts. I smooched the other, and moved to Juana's belly, and spread her legs. I climbed between her knees and kissed her thighs. Clarita kissed Juana's mouth and massaged her breasts. I took my tongue to Juana's slit. I tongue-fucked her pussy. Clarita tongue-fucked her mouth.

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck OH FUCK FUCK FUCK OHHH..."

Juana came once, twice, three times in close succession, yelling into Clarita's mouth, spurting a little into my mouth, thrashing on the bed, her thighs nearly crushing my head. She relaxed and gasped.

"You guys are so fucking hot," Clarita breathed, "I can't wait any longer, do me now Ron, please please."

I positioned Clarita on her hands and knees. Juana scooted under Clarita; they mouthed each other's firm breasts. I lined up behind Clarita, put my hot little head between her wet labia, and smoothed inside. I started with slow long strokes, then speeded up, finally pounded away. Clarita squealed into Juana's tits.

I slowed my pistoning to a slow crawl. Clarita moaned. I pulled out of her, flipped onto my back, slid between her thighs, pulled her pussy down onto my mouth, and sucked her clit. I moved two fingers inside her vagina and stroked in and out. She moaned louder, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, Juana you gotta try that cock, oh fuck, oh Ron Ron Ron..." and pushed Juana out from under her.

Clarita sat up on my face. I reached for her breasts and kneaded them gently, my tongue still licking her clit and thrusting into her vagina. I felt a warm mouth envelop my cock, Juana tasting her lover's juices. Then Juana lowered her pussy onto my randy ramrod. I felt her shiver as she settled me into her depths.

Clarita turned around on my mouth to face Juana. I could not see, but I could tell they were kissing and fondling. Juana moved quickly on my cock, up and down and around. I felt Clarita lean forward to kiss Juana's tits. I held Clarita's breasts. Juana's fingers tweaked my nipples. I felt Juana's cunt muscles contract and grab my cock and convulse as she came. My cock rejoiced, and I exploded inside her. I roared into Clarita's pussy, and licked and sucked harder. Clarita came wetly again, drowning my embedded nose.

We fell over and groaned together. The women slid beside me. We embraced, kissed, cuddled, cooed, and slept.

We woke around oh-dark-thirty with the candles guttering low. We dragged ourselves to a hot shower and an outdoor air-dry, then crawled back into bed. I 69'd Clarita and she came. I 69'd Juana and I came in her mouth. The women 69'd and both came. We snuggled together and slept again, till the too-early alarm bell.

---

Juana came to Clarita's casita that evening for another hot session. After the usual disturbing-the-peace noises, we cuddled. Juana talked to us in the descending darkness.

"This is the most fun I've had for a long time. Clarita, how did you get this vato loco here?"

"Lyn told me all about her big brother, that he's a good guy, and kinda a hunk, even if he is so tall and skinny. Then he showed up at her place and sort of moved in. I thought I'd check him out. He checked-out OK, don't you think?" Clarita stuck her tongue down my throat.

"Yeah, you're something else, Ron. Hey guys, I got another girlfriend, I think she might like Ron too, we can all have fun together, what you say? Y'know Clarita, it's Lara I'm talking about, she's real hot."

"I would be honored," I intoned gravely, rubbing their chests.

"You would be fucked," Clarita laughed and slapped my thigh.

"Yeah, well that too," I said, and lightly stroked their slits.

Juana picked up Clarita's phone and dialed. She shushed us.

"Hey Lara honey, it's Juana, how you doing? You busy tonight? You busy now? Get on your moped and ride over to Clarita's now, yeah, right now, no delays, no excuses. Wait, clean up first, then get your butt in here, yeah, it'll be fun, I promise. See you soon lover, bye."

We all showered and lit some candles. We straightened the bed and sat naked, cross-legged, three in a row, me in the middle. We chatted and joked as we waited, maybe stroked some thighs a bit, and some genitals, but nothing serious, just good clean fun, right? Oh, and a little kissing too.

We heard a putt-putt noise approach and stop outside, then a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Clarita called.

The door opened. Lara walked in and stopped.

"Surprise!" Clarita and Juana yelled.

"Oh goody, a surprise party, and it's not even my birthday!" Lara laughed. She quickly shed windbreaker, sundress, sneakers and panties. She crawled next to Juana, pulled her over, and frenched her lover.

I saw that Lara was between the heights of Clarita and Juana and about my age. She had long soft fluffy blonde hair, thin face, long nose, a lean well-muscled runner's body, not too wide in tits and hips.

"Who's this big present you got for me?" Lara asked when she resurfaced from Juana's clasp.

"You know Lyn, across the court? Ron is her big brother. Lyn said he was a good guy. Clarita and I have found that he's an EXCELLENT guy. He's almost too much to keep for ourselves. I just had to get you here to share him with us. You really have to get a piece of him, several pieces even."

OK, so I am a hunk of raw meat, and they are divvying me up between them, and I have no say in the matter. I have no problem with that!

"Well if you say he's OK, then fine, but I'd better see for myself."

Lara knocked me over and crawled atop me. Our mouths engaged in tender battle. I noticed that Clarita and Juana were wrapped up with each other. Pretty soon, Lara and I were wrapped together too, then 69'ing, then cowgirl riding, then missionary fucking, and we both had great fun.

We were not alone. At various points, Lara was down with me in her cunt and Juana on her face, or I was down with Clarita riding me and Lara on my face, or Juana was down with Lara on her face and Clarita licking her cunt and me fucking Clarita from behind. We really mixed it up.




Ron's Journal 04B



We went through all our combinations that evening. And the next evening. And the next. At one time, Lara and Juana and I were tripling, and Clarita went across the court to Lyn's place and stayed for a couple hours. Clarita came back with a wet face, looking happy. Lyn did not talk about that evening.

All of us, Lyn included, went out Saturday night to a local roller rink with a beer bar and a jukebox loaded with dance music of many genres. No skating; the rink was a dance floor on weekend nights. The crowd was a mix of all cultures and ages, black and brown and white, young and old, funky and country and slick. It was great! And the music did not blast to ear-destroying levels. Talking was actually possible.

The night wound onward. The beer flowed. Toward closing time, Lyn found a young country stud to go home with. Juana found a cute black girl to take home. Clarita took Lara and me home. We fucked and sucked and slurped till dawn. We slept a bit, then woke and showered, and slurped and sucked and fucked most of the rest of Sunday. Clarita said not to worry about her, she usually skipped Mass. So we kept on sinning.

Lyn probably crawled home sometime during the day; I did not notice. Juana showed up in late afternoon, and she DID notice that Lara and Clarita and I were still fucking and sucking and slurping.

Juana closed the door and scowled. "Hey Ron, you trying to steal my girlfriends away?"

Lara looked at her and said, "We stole him, not the other way around."

Clarita chimed in, "Hey girlfriend, get naked and get in here, pronto!"

The naked girls crawled out of bed and tore Juana's clothes off her. They dragged her to bed and assaulted her tits. I crawled between Juana's legs and licked. Hmmm, a bit spicy, but she had pretty much cleaned up, so I licked again, and again. I think Juana stopped scowling about the time she squealed with her first climax. By the third or fourth climax, she seemed pretty happy. She was smiling at dinnertime.

But Juana took Lara away with her that night.

---

Clarita and I biked to our work the next morning. After work, she told me she would be out till late, and I should sleep at Lyn's place. I had only been at my little sister's place to get or wash clothes these last few days. And we had not talked much except on Saturday night. It was time to touch bases again.

I made chiliburgers and salad for dinner, washed down with cheap Burgomeister beer. We sat apart on her couch and chatted.

"So how'd it go with that guy the other night? You have fun? You have trouble?"

"C'mon Ron, I don't ask what you're doing over at Clarita's, don't worry about what I'm up to."

"Hey, you're my little sister, I just want to be sure you're happy and satisfied and safe."

"Well OK, he was alright, not too smart though, I won't bother with him again."

"I know you don't have any other regular guys. How long are you going to stay alone here?"

"I'm not alone, I have my big brother! And I have my friends."

"What friends? I never see anybody over here with you."

"Well, they've been busy lately, and I've been busy, and you're here, and..."

"Am I scaring your friends away? I'll leave if you want."

"No no, you don't have to go! We've all just been busy lately, that's how things are. And I'm tired, I'm going to bed now. Keep it quiet, OK?"

"Yeah OK, you probably won't hear any screams tonight. Pretty boring, huh? Sweet dreams, kid."

I kissed Lyn's forehead and went outside to the hammock on the porch. I watched the stars, and Clarita's dark and empty casita, and I eventually slept.

I did not see Clarita the next morning. I biked to the Manpower job, worked the day, and found Clarita after work to bike home with. Clarita stopped us in a quiet cul-de-sac halfway back to the court.

"Ron, I've got to stop seeing you, I'm sorry. Juana is jealous, afraid she's going to lose me and Lara to you. I really love her, really value our friendship. She said I have to choose. Ron, I've got to choose my love. I'm sorry. You're a great guy, but you'll leave soon, and I'll still be here, and I've got to keep what I have. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Over the years, more than once, I heard "you're a great guy but..." and excuses. The excuse might be, "But you're a drifter," or "But I'm involved," or "But I'm a lesbian," or "But it's just sex," or "But you're weird," or whatever. Have you been there too?

"Can we still bike to work together? It's really good being with you on these rides."

"No, we better not. This should be good-bye."

Clarita rolled her bike next to me, kissed me sweetly, and rode off. I waited till she was a block away, and then slowly rode home on another route. I took my time. I was in no hurry.

Lyn was lying in her shaded hammock when I rolled into the court.

"Hey Ron, how you doing? Have a good day?"

"Oh yeah sure, everything's fine, just great." I headed for the door, and the shower.

"Don't be like that, Ron. I already talked with Clarita. It's the shits, I'm sorry."

I dropped onto the front porch step and sighed.

"At least this cutoff was clean and sharp, not messy, no noise," I grumbled. "But I'll miss biking with Clarita. Hell, I'll miss being with Clarita and the girls. Fuck yeah I'll miss that."

"Ron, you know you can stay here as long as you want. Just don't get too noisy in your bedroom, OK?"

"Yeah, if I want to get noisy, I'll get a trombone." I pulled out a harmonica and blew a blues riff.

Lyn sighed. "Go on Ron, take your shower. I'll fix dinner tonight. How about spaghetti?"

"Sure, that'll be great. Yeah, I'll go de-funk now, before I'm devoured by weevils."

I went inside, drank some wine, showered, drank some more wine, watched Lyn make dinner, drank more wine, ate dinner with wine, had some after-dinner wine, and crawled into the hammock to watch the blurry stars.

I did not go back to Manpower the next morning. I got up early and quietly packed my rucksack. I tuned-up Lyn's bike, leaving it as good as new. I wrote a note: C-YA SOON. I grabbed my guitar and walked to the freeway onramp.



******************** 8B: Fucking around on the desert, 1971

I thumbed north from San Boogaloo over Cajon Pass and into Barstow. I dropped in on my old friend Crazy Dave, who I knew from the Navarro River when we camped there. Dave and his perky new wife Becky lived in a small house (owned by her mother) next to the railroad yards, almost in the floodplain of the usually dry Mojave River.

Dave had swapped his old Econoline for a battleship-size Chrysler Imperial. Good thing gas was cheap then.

Becky was not too short, not too thin, not too pale, not too blonde, not too lazy, and not too inhibited. I had shared my wife MariLyn with Dave at Camp Navarro a year before. Becky was happy to be shared with me, one-on-one or in a threesome. I remember a vaginal-anal double penetration, as well as all the usual double-endings, Becky spitted on dicks, as well as her just sitting on my cumbersome cock.

We had fun for a couple nights. Then I moved on.

---

I thumbed east on Old US 66 to the Amboy Crater and pitched my tarp for a sun-shelter over a nook in the volcanic crags. I stayed for a day and a night, smoking hash, watching the colors change with the hours.

I caught a ride south on the old road to Twentynine Palms, and through into Joshua Tree National Monument. I found a rock pool, water left over from the last winter's rains, nestled amongst huge quartz monzonite boulders far above the old Desert Queen mine. I pitched a simple camp. Coyotes howled. Ground squirrels ate the sweat-stained band from my boogerpicker (baseball cap). I slurped wet fruit I had bought in town.

Midmorning, I just climbed from the rock pool, a basin about thirty by forty feet, unknowably deep in the center, and lay naked on my back on my camp blanket to air- and sun-dry.

I heard voices approach on the twisting trail. Two women in khaki shorts, bright tees, wide hats, and day-hiking boots, appeared over the rounded rocks. They saw me and stopped about twenty feet away. I waved at them, then lay back again, my face half-covered with the mostly-intact remains of my boogerpicker. I played a slow blues on a harmonica.

"Come on in, the water's great," I called, and went back to blowing the boogie-bass figure.

The women conferred quietly, then hiked to a nearby flat boulder shaded by a big juniper. They dropped their packs and leaned back against the juniper trunk, side-by-side. They whispered together again.

"Uh, we hope we aren't disturbing you here. By the way, I'm Kendra," said the long-ponytailed strawberry blonde, "and this is Alyssa," gesturing to the taller woman with a loose chestnut braid. Ah, introductions are good, indicating they are not about to cut and run.

"Hi there, I'm Ron, glad to meet you, and I'm so disturbed already, a little more won't hurt," I joked.

Alyssa unlaced her boots. Kendra removed a notepad from her pack's side pocket and made some notations. Alyssa unrolled wool socks from her feet, hung them on a juniper branch, sat at the edge of the water, and soaked her feet. Kendra pulled off her boots and socks and joined Alyssa for a foot-rinsing. They sighed.

"Ah, this is nice, boy do my feet need this," Alyssa moaned.

"Hell yeah," said Kendra. "Anything dangerous in the water?"

"The only critters living in a pool are eensy-weensy brine shrimp, and they're just in their egg stage now," I replied, fuzzily remembering one of the Park Service nature brochures. "I haven't felt any sharp edges or pokey spikes along the bottom. I've been here yesterday and today and nothing has killed me yet."

Kendra laughed and pulled off her orange-vanilla-striped tee and pale sports bra. "I'd ask if you minded, but you probably don't." She slid out of her shorts and panties, undid her ponytail so her reddish hair hung free, and walked naked into the water.

"Good idea," said Alyssa, and did the same with her loose brown braids and lemon-cream-striped tee. They moved to the center of the pool and floated on their backs, tits-up -- a lovely fleshy floating archipelago.

I stayed where I was and played slow bluesy riffs. No need to rush.

That reminds me of a story: A young bull and an older bull walked a rolling pasture and reached a hilltop. They saw a fenced corral below with a herd of sexy cows. "Hot damn!" said the young bull, "looky there! Let's run down there and jump the fence and fuck one of them babes!" The older, wiser bull said, "No son, that's the wrong approach. Let's mosey on down there slowly, calmly, and slide past the gate, and chat a while, and fuck them ALL."

Both women looked to be maybe a decade older than me, in their mid-thirties, with fine-looking bodies, prime MILF material. They floated and swam until they started to prune-up, then climbed out of the rock pool and pulled towels from their packs. They spread themselves butts-up on a sunny shelf not far away. 

"So you've been here a couple days? What's it been like? What have you been doing?" asked Alyssa.

"Yeah, I hiked in late the other night, and I've just been lounging, swimming, reading and thinking since then. It's quiet here and I can hear birds and squirrels and the wind. This is about the best reading-room around," I said, waving my paperback copy of Hermann Hesse's SIDDHARTHA.

"Nice reverberations off the rocks for my music too." I gestured at my makeshift camp, my guitar leaning against a boulder. "Did you just hike up from the Split Rock trailhead? That probably took a while."

"That's right, we drove up from our motel in Twentynine just after dawn and hiked for about three hours. We were hoping to find a spot like this. Damn, you have the best place here!" Kendra said.

"It's been hotter and drier than I expected," Alyssa said, "and I drank more water than I should. Is this water safe?"

"I filter the water into my collapsible water bag, then add a drop of plain bleach and wait a half hour. Hey, are you gals thirsty now? Want a treat?" I walked naked to my rucksack and grabbed a string bag of pink grapefruit I had thought to buy in Twentynine. I rolled two fruits across the rock shelf to the ladies.

Kendra intercepted. "Hey, thanks!" She sat cross-legged, facing me, showing me her reddish pussy, her thin glistening slit, and her lovely full breasts. She reached for her nearby shorts and pulled a penknife from a pocket. She sliced into the peels, then handed one fruit to Alyssa, who also sat, curled on her legs. They neatly stacked the fruit peels.

"Yeah thanks, these are great. They really take the edge off the dryness here," Alyssa said. She also moved into a full-display cross-legged position. Kendra had small pale aureoles and pencil-eraser nipples. Alyssa sported mission-grape-size nipples on wide dark aureoles. All the nipples were stiff. Mine, too.

"Are you just day-hiking, or did you plan to camp somewhere?" I asked, not hiding my rising ramrod.

"We brought camp gear," said Alyssa, "and dried food for a few days, so we thought we'd camp at least one night, hopefully over the weekend if we could find water. Would you mind if we camped around here?"

"Well, you've been pleasant company so far," I said. "Can you sing? I like to hear voices bouncing off the rocks."

"Singing, is that all you want?" Kendra laughed.

"It's a start," I said, smiling oh-so innocently.

"Yes, I can sing, and rather well," Alyssa said. She stood, walked over, sat next to me on my blanket, put my hands on her throat. "Feel my tonsils. Aren't they good?" She hummed loudly.

I moved my hands around her neck and shoulders, covered her ears, stroked her throat. "Excellent," I said.

"Wait, I have a good voice too," Kendra said, moving into place on my other side. "Ahhhh..." she warbled.

"Very nice," I said, "but how is your articulation? Can you tongue notes clearly?"

"Honey, I can tongue just about anything," Kendra whispered, aiming hers at my epiglottis. She put her hands on my head and pulled me close. I put my hands on her breasts and gently counter-rotated.

I felt Alyssa's hands on my thighs. "My tongue's not so bad either," she said, running it along my cock, pointing into my urethral opening, then swallowing me entire.

Yup, just calmly mosey in with them slowly, and chat a while, and fuck'em all. That old bull had it right.

Kendra pushed me onto my back and lowered her strawberry pussy onto my mouth while Alyssa inhaled my cock. Why does this always happen to me? (Luck, I guess. Lucky pheromones.)

I reached for Kendra's breasts again. My tongue worked up her slit, into her vagina, circled and sucked her clit, then strummed her clit hard and fast, with occasional probes back into her depths. I heard her moans. I twisted her nipples. She squealed, her voice echoing nicely in the reverberant space.

Alyssa's mouth left my cock and was replaced by her wet cunt slowly sliding down until I was completely sheathed within her. I felt her reach for Kendra, who turned on my face, my mouth working her clit while my nose probed her juice-bar, drowning in pussy again. I felt Kendra lean into Alyssa, kissing, groping.

Alyssa moved mightily on my engorged erection, up and down and around, up and down faster, with Kendra apparently mouthing and pinching her nipples. My hands were still on Kendra's dangling breasts. Kendra came again, loud and wet.

Alyssa reached down to tweak my nipples. This pushed me into overdrive, my loins pounding upward into her. Alyssa screamed excitement, her cunt contracting and milking my extended climax. I came strongly, not in a sequence of shots, but just a long continuous flow, a surging torrent. Hot damn!

We had the usual one-on-one and two-on-one sexual experiences that day and the next, and that night and the next. The ladies were not shy about 69'ing, with me or with each other. The ladies' fine voices filled the sky, day and night. Coyotes howled at the half-moon in unison with them.

Other than sex, we strolled naked around our vicinity, peering into deep gulches and dark rock-caves, down on hands and knees for close looks at belly-flowers (ya gotta get on yer belly to really see them), back in the water for constant wash-offs and swims and floats.

We chatted. I lied somewhat about my past. They probably did too. Office workers, they said. Thinking of going back to school, I said. I sang rude songs, told rude stories. Nobody mentioned a spouse. Why spoil the fun?

---

I thoroughly kissed Alyssa and Kendra good-bye and hiked back to the paved park road. I caught a ride into Twentynine, then thumbed east to Parker, south of Lake Havasu City on the Colorado River.

This was a long end-of-summer weekend, very hot, very crowded. Seemingly, a fifth of Southern California's overheated population had come to the river to cool off for the weekend. Fat chance. River water was cool, but also filled with manic powerboats. Waders hardly dared get far from the shore.

The whole scene was outrageous. Think, BAKED ORGY.

The riverbanks were lined with little encampments of hot people, nearly naked and mostly drunk and young. I wandered past with my rucksack and guitar, wearing just demim cutoffs and big red Keds and what was left of my red boogerpicker.

I was called into numerous camps to play and sing, to drink cold beer and wine coolers and whatever, to have bare breasts shoved into my mouth, to have my crotch greedily groped. I was dragged into several tents for quick hot sweaty sex.

She saw me walk past her tent. She yelled, "Hey c'mere guitar man!" She was tall, topless, red-haired, red-skinned with peeling sunburn. She poured cold beer down my throat. She said her name was Glad-Ass. She said, "Hot damn, is my ass glad you're here!" as I pounded her doggie-style. She passed out afterwards.

(No, not steady pounding. Changes of pace: long and short, slow and fast, in and around, all like that. But I will admit that I eventually heightened the pace. In field artillery, it's called FIRE FOR EFFECT.)

I crawled from Glad-Ass's tent, straight into the arms of her sisters Shari and Lindy, equally tall and red and topless, with equally glad asses, soon enough. Each stuck a tit in my mouth, and wiggled.

"We heard you in there. Gladys sounded pretty happy. Can you make us happy too?" Shari asked, her hand down the front of my cutoffs. They led me to their adjacent tent and poured me more cold beer. I screwed them side-by-side while they held and frenched each other. When they came, they squealed like hot brakes.

I donated buckets of semen to their cause, the Fill-Me-With-Jiz crusade. Stay tuned for their telethon.

I walked out into the river to cool off, and to send a stream of used beer down to the Sea of Cortez, or more likely to the L.A. water system. A little bit of me is in your Kool-Aid, folks. Enjoy.

My rucksack and guitar and I wandered along the riverside to an encampment sheltered under thick palo verde trees. Someone yelled at me to bring my guitar over. I sang some songs, drank some beer, and enjoyed a naked girl on each side of me, laying their heads on my thighs, blowing into my crotch.

Three mixed couples were already screwing in the shadows. My brown-haired beauties pulled my cutoffs down and double-blew me. Then one sat on my cock while the other sat on my face. I love when that happens.

I dragged into another encampment at dusk, looking to spend the night. A campfire burned high, bright, and hot. Pots of chili and hot-dogs and stew bubbled by the flames. Food was passed around, and wine and beer, and joints, and amyl nitrate, and other thought-altering substances I could not readily identify.

After the eating, drinking, and smoking, came the fucking. Two guys were double-ending a girl and then another girl. Two gals were double-ending a guy, and then another guy, and another. Various girls (and a couple guys) stopped to suck my cock. Various girls sat on my cock. One guy wanted my dick up his ass, but I demurred. Sorry, I just don't stay hard for that.




Ron's Journal 04B



The debauchery wound down sometime between moonset and sunrise. People who collapsed under shelters were OK. Those who fell asleep in the open woke with terrible sunburns. I was in a tent with five girls and two other guys. Whew, I was safe, from the sun anyway. But I awoke with a mouth on my cock. Is nothing safe?

The action continued all the long weekend along the Parker Strip. Hormones and secretions flowed. Skin burned. Powerboats roared by throughout all the daylight hours. All laws of man and nature were broken.

Damn, that was fun!

---

The huge Sodom-on-the-river clusterfuck started disbanding mid-afternoon of the last day. Traffic was jammed and slow as zillions of vehicles crammed the two-lane highway for the 250-mile drive to L.A. 

I caught a ride with a vanload of exhausted late-night stragglers. They were going to Pasadena, but I got off halfway back in Yucca Valley to stay at some friends' high-desert commune. I hooked my cheap light nylon-string hammock between two fake saguaro cacti for the night.

This commune was home to a weird cult -- weird, because it actually made sense. The founding 'guru' was a cynical humorist; his writings satirized religion, belief, all that crap. The cult's goal: enlightenment. But not Zen-type mystic enlightenment, no. Cult members were dedicated to happiness via not being fooled, knowing that media messages were bullshit, knowing that meaningful honesty really is the best policy.

I was awakened by smiling people pulling me out of my hammock, my sleeping bag, my clothes, and tossing me into a horse-watering trough to clean off. Once I was scrubbed, I was fed a fine breakfast of quail eggs, mesquite-bean chili with rock-wren meat and wild onions, fried yucca roots, and strong ephedra tea. Wow!

I was not a member, just a friend, so I had no fuck-privileges here. They were a fun crowd anyway.

I thumbed a ride to the Interstate with a local park ranger. Mabs was short, silver-haired, maybe twice my age, and lively and funny. As it happened, I was in college classes with her and her hot young botanist daughter Leonie six-odd years later. Leonie and I fucked then, too. But that was later.

Mabs chastely kissed me good-bye and dropped me at the bottom of Morongo Grade, below two-mile-deep Whitewater Pass, just before the L.A. and Palm Springs onramps.

I remembered an old-timer talking about driving up the Morongo Grade before it was paved, when it was just a gravel road to the high desert. He told me he saw a dust cloud up ahead and wondered who was driving there. He sped up, caught the other vehicle -- and found he was chasing himself! Yeah, sure...

Back to now. A car slowed as it descended the grade. A VW bug, good! The car pulled over next to me. Great! The driver was an attractive blonde in denims. Superb! She was not going far on the freeway, but would take a side road to a town between San Boogaloo and San Diego. Hey, I was in no rush to reach L.A.

Astrid drove us past the rugged Badlands and into dry farming country. We chatted. I played harmonica. We chatted more, touched hands, laughed. We felt a spark between us. She stopped at a deserted intersection and we kissed. Lotsa tongue action there, mmmm...

Just before we reached the next Interstate, she said she would like to take me home to meet... her two husbands. TWO husbands. I "suddenly remembered" I had to make an important phone call. I thanked her for the ride, kissed her goodbye, and thumbed north, back to San Boogaloo and Lyn's house.

I wondered later if the "two husbands" remark was real, or a test. If the latter, then I flunked. Damn.

I knocked on my little sister Lyn's door. She hugged me, then slapped me for leaving her with just a note, then hugged me again, and went back to her work. I made chicken-upside-down-cornbread for dinner.

[Recipe: Make a thick chicken-vegetable stew, with no potatoes. Pour it into a baking pan. Cover it with cornbread batter. Bake until the cornbread is golden. Flip the baking pan upside-down on a platter, so all the stew juice runs into the cornbread. Mmmm...]

After dark, Lyn and I lay together in her big porch hammock, watching the muddy stars, sipping wine, and chatting. No sex, not yet, that was still a few years away. For now, just sibling affection.

Lyn made me an offer. Stay with her, free room and board. Enroll at the local state college. Ask Dad for money for books and tuition, not too steep then. It would essentially be a free ride for me. All I had to do was apply myself to it, concentrate, and quit drifting.

I told her I would think about it. She said nothing more. We fell asleep together there.

I will not bore you with all my considerations, but I decided against accepting. I wanted to be back in San Francisco. I was not ready for stability yet. And I still had to undergo more life-changing events.

I had yet to learn: IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU'RE GOING, YOU'LL PROBABLY END UP SOMEWHERE ELSE.

Now I was truly done with Southern California for a few years. I thumbed back to Hollyweird. I kissed and fucked my girlfriends good-bye. My intermittent wife MariLyn and I loaded our packs and headed north.



NEXT: MariLyn and I return to San Francisco.



Ron's Journal 05



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

I highly recommend that you read all previous chapters before starting on this piece.

******************** 9: Rambling: The Road Never Ends

By late summer, Hollyweird was running dry for both my then-wife MariLyn and me. My sex club of highschool girls had graduated and would leave for college after the summer. I knew that Mir was going to New Mexico and Lori would head for Florida. And intense Keri was getting testy about me remaining married.

Little blonde MariLyn was tired of the sex shows and phone sex. (The less said about our sex shows for that slobbering sugar-daddy banker, the better.) My mime routines had gone stale. We both missed our San Francisco friends and the clean air there. We relocated back north to The City By The Bay.

MariLyn and I continually separated and re-engaged. She still shacked up with various of our doper/wino friends, and with me occasionally. She got a room in a boarding house near Castro Street, back before it became the Gay Mecca. The landlady was immensely obese but home-brewed the best coffee in town.

I sometimes crashed with MariLyn, sometimes with friends, including some underground cartoonists, and their supposed girlfriends. I was depicted in some stories, and not very nicely. If you see drawings of a naked moustachioed Lurch with a hardon, that was me.

I went back to day labor for awhile. Some was pretty rugged.

I was often assigned to a construction materials wholesaler, located next to a Kaiser Permanente cement and gravel operation. Kaiser's pink cement-mixer trucks bore the corporate slogan FIND A NEED AND FILL IT. We thought it should be more like FIND A HOLE AND FILL IT. This matches some guys' philosophies, hey?

My work there usually consisted of unloading boxcars. One day, two of us had to unload 45 tons of 80- and 100-pound sacks of dry cement, on our shoulders, hauling them across a narrow plank to a waiting pallet. We finished the 8-hour task in 6 hours, got paid for a full day, and drank a lot of WPLJ to kill the pain.

WPLJ is White Port & Lemon Juice. Heated, it is a miracle drink. Boil a pot of water on a fire. Open a mickey (half-bottle) of white port and squirt in a few shots of lemon concentrate, then shake to mix. Heat the open bottle in the pot of water till the port starts to steam. Drink it hot. The alcohol is absorbed into your blood system in about 15 seconds. Instant drunk, hey?

Another assignment had us carry an upright piano up steep twisty stairs to a spiffy hilltop house. The customer, looking like an aging WASP jock, appreciated our careful work, gave us beers, and offered to share his Filipina mail-order bride with us. She did not seem too happy about the offer. I respectfully declined. Unwilling sex is not a turn-on for me.

"C'mon, you guys did a great job there, you deserve a reward."

"You want us to fuck your wife? She looks like she doesn't really want to."

"Don't matter what she wants. If I want her to, then she'll want to, too."

"Sorry man, I can't get my dick up for a scene like this."

I moved from day labor, to walking deliveries downtown. This was still casual day-by-day work -- work when money is needed, stop when it ain't. Miles of walking, and no heavy lifting. Much better than unloading boxcars.

I also earned money by singing and playing guitar on street corners, often accompanying my tall blonde bearded friend who played soprano sax and preferred to be called Bama. His fast raspy Alabama drawl was... unique. Grating, like drunken fingernails on a chalkboard.

"Goddammit Ron, don't be such a fucking pussy about this. Y'all just gotta walk into that lez bar with me and order drinks. C'mon, let's mess with the dykes. Ain't like they're gonna rape us."

"You're a real dickhead, Bama. Some of the gals in there are bigger even than us. And meaner. They'll hurt us!"

"Y'all just been pussy-whipped, Ron. Fuck it, I'll go by myself. I'll charm their butts off, just y'all wait and see."

Bama entered alone. The beefy big-titted bouncer punched his lights out and rolled him out the door. Ouch.

Hot-headed Bama competed in chess tournaments, and consumed moonshine and strong hash, and eventually took my wife MariLyn -- and he is goddam welcome to her. They are still together. We do not communicate.

Sex was rather sparse. 1090 Page Street was no longer a free-fuck zone. I occasionally nailed MariLyn or a cartoonist's girlfriend or some of the old doper/wino gals I had known before, but I had nothing regular or even stupendously exciting. I sure wasn't ready to cruise for guys.

I let my day-worker friends talk me into going to a bar/club one night, the Holy City Zoo. We had been smoking opium. I grabbed a stool at the bar.

The gal on the next stool was tall, dark, very drunk, and wore only a spun wool dress with nothing under it. She grabbed my hand and stuck it in her cunt and worked my digits around like I was a slow vibrator. She came on my fingers, pulled them to her mouth and licked them.

Her boyfriend came thundering out of the pissoir. I did not think she was worth fighting over, so I left. I blame the opium.

___

I somehow made it through the winter and spring and early summer. By midsummer, I was ready to travel again. I packed my rucksack and guitar and the FURTHUR sign and stuck my thumb out.

I hitched to Seattle and Tucson and Denver and El Paso, crossing the border bridge for Latina pussy and wormy mescal. I hung my nylon-web hammock between trees in Yellowstone and Yosemite and Zion.

I played guitar and sang wherever I was allowed, paid in tips or beer or tacos or bed. Yes, some girls still took pity on this wandering minstrel, if only for an hour or a night or two.

One swoop took me from Denver to Chicago to Boston. And there I again found Will Sykes, my almost-twin. He had married Cassie, an English girl whose mother had moved to Providence, Rhode Island.

Cassie was thin, dark hair and eyes, small tits and ass, rather bony, but with a great accent and style.

Will and Cassie had an apartment over the bookstore they managed outside Boston, and a VW van for roaming the countryside. They had visited MariLyn and me in San Francisco the previous spring, staying only a few short teasing days. Will had not yet told Cassie about our prior hookups with the Hermann sisters.

Will had told her by now. On the second morning I slept on the sofa in their parlor, Will had gone down to open the store, and Cassie invited me into their bed.

I did not hesitate long. We screwed like weasels. Cassie knew all the tricks, and then some. When she came on my tongue, she moaned. When she came on my cock, she chanted "oh oh oh oh oh oh..." in time with my strokes. I came twice that morning. She was multi-orgasmic. Sweet.

We descended to the store and I tried to be helpful.

The pattern was set. Weeknights, Will and I shared Cassie in their bed. Weekends, we would drive the van on backroads around New England. Will and I alternated driving, and alternated fucks-and-sucks with Cassie in the back of the van. Or we would stop somewhere private, draw the window shades, and all go at it together in the usual geometries.

We renamed the van DER SEXWAGEN.

Cassie loved being tag-teamed, with cocks in her mouth and cunt. Too bad she didn't have a loving sister in the USA.

I stayed with Will and Cassie for a few wet and wild weeks, and then thumbed westward again. I would be with them again in a couple years.

___

My best run was in early fall. I drifted southward from Yellowstone, across the Colorado Rockies and into New Mexico. And in Santa Fe, I reconnected with Mir.

I had not seen tall dark curvy Mir in over a year. I remembered she was going to school in Santa Fe. I checked the student directories available in the town library, and there she was, address and all.

The dorm rooms all opened outside like an adobe motel, not to an interior hallway. I set down my rucksack and guitar, and knocked.

The door opened. An older, more beautiful Mir stood there in jeans and t-shirt with her eyes wide open, her face frozen in shock.

"RON!!" she yelled, and launched herself at me. The impact was considerable. We managed to remain upright. I grabbed my gear as she dragged me inside.

Yes, our reunion was passionate. Yes, we were soon naked in bed, trying every position we were familiar with, and a few new ones. Yes, she yelled a lot. Yes, we both laughed and cried a lot. Yes, I smothered in her large breasts and drowned in her pussy.

"Mir, do you have a lover here?"

"Errr, well, I slept with one girl a couple times, but most of my life is filled up with studies. I really haven't had time for another lover. It's a good thing I don't have to share this room. How about you? Do you have any new girls or anything?"

"I've just seen some old friends. And I tried a guy once, but I think that's not my scene."

"Wow, you really did a guy? What was that like?"

"It was OK as an experience, that's all."

"Where are you coming from? Where are you going? How long can you stay here?"

"I'll stay as long as you'll have me. I've just been thumbing all over the country, mostly the West and Northeast. Sometimes I go back to San Francisco for a few days. But there's really only one place I'm heading next."

I held up the FURTHUR sign.

"Ron, you can stay with me here, but you'll have to feed and entertain yourself, and you can't interfere with my schoolwork. Do you have any way to get around? You can borrow my bicycle if you want."

And that is how I found myself pedaling a 3-speed fat-tire girl's bike down Canyon Road and around the Santa Fe Plaza with my guitar on my back, maybe with bags of food in the big front basket.

During the day, I would bike to the Plaza and sing for tips and beer and tacos, or roam around the ancient capital city and soak up history. Evenings, I would sit on Mir's floor and read, or strum the guitar softly, while she studied. Nights, we would tear into each other. Her bed was small, but sufficient for the two of us.

"How much more of the Kama Sutra can we do tonight?"

"We're on page 24 now. Let's see if we can get to page 30."

"I think we're going to need more Vaseline and Ben-Gay."

"I'll pick some up tomorrow, babe."

Mir invited me to sit in on one of her Political Science seminars. I kept my mouth absolutely shut.

On weekends, Mir and I and some of her friends would wander around the old city or hike up in the mountains above town. Although my only college work had been in a trade school, I was auto-didactic and well-read enough to not humiliate myself (or Mir) before these young scholars.

My tales of life on the road were well received if not always believed. What, me exaggerate?

I stayed with Mir for only a few weeks. Then she started getting twitchy about sharing her room, and my feet started getting itchy again.

I headed out, into what became another life-transforming journey. I would not see Mir again for almost four years.

Next: What am I getting myself into?

******************** 10: Rambling: Changes Whomp My Head

From Santa Fe I thumbed down to Tucson. I sat on a park bench there. Under the bench was a brown paper grocery bag. In the bag was a one-kilogram brick of Mexican pot. I looked around. Nobody in sight, nobody looking at me. I stuffed the bag into my rucksack and nonchalantly strolled away.

I thumbed on to Los Angeles and San Francisco, paying for rides with lids of grass. I passed out the remainder to friends in San Francisco. Then I thumbed eastward.

My great life transformation started deceptively.

I was at a freeway onramp in Reno one evening, standing with a fairly clean traveler named Ted. The FURTHUR sign was atop my guitar case. A big old Dodge Power Wagon with New York license plates stopped for us.

The big woman driving was Nancy. Ted got in beside her. The seat behind theirs was filled with luggage. And the big back section, padded with pillows and blankets and sleeping bags, contained Nancy's three daughters: Nettie, Sherry, and Vonnie. My rucksack joined the backseat luggage and I hauled my guitar and myself into the back.

We rolled, and I saw there was no interior light, only flashes and shadows from the highway.

I later learned some details. Children of yet another failed Catholic marriage, the girls were each just 9 1/2 months apart in age.

Vonnie was the youngest and tallest and leanest, with curly red hair and bright freckles on her rubbery Annie Oakley face.

Nettie was the oldest and shortest, with tight black curls circling her round face. Nettie was already a confirmed dyke, like her mother.

Sherry was medium in all ways except for her lusciousness and exceptional French-Canadian beauty framed by long wavy black hair.

Netty and Vonnie leaned into the back corners of the wagon. Sherry sat in a front corner opposite the door. I scooted in next to her.

I learned they lived on a small farm near the Finger Lakes in upstate New York and were heading home from a trip to San Francisco, where they had stayed with one of Nancy's old lesbian lovers.

I thought it best to sing for my ride. I strummed the guitar, sang some verses, paused to chat. Sherry's glowing eyes captured me, as did her blouse's open top buttons, revealing an enchanting swell of soft creamy breast.

I played and sang some more. The wagon's interior started warming up. Sherry opened another button, then another. I leaned over and kissed Sherry, and strummed some more chords. She opened more buttons, all the buttons, and she wore no bra.

I kissed down her throat, down her chest, between her breasts, and strummed more chords, and sang another verse. Sherry pulled her blouse aside and I kissed her nipples and strummed the guitar again.

As we continued this for an unmeasured time, I saw Netty and Vonnie were both watching us carefully. They were both obviously frigging themselves with their fast fingers.

The wagon's interior warmed yet more. Scents of female juices wafted into the air.

Nancy opened the wind-wings further to cool the interior a bit, and those scents blew away in the wind. Whew. I kissed Sherry's tits and mouth again, and played some more chords, and kissed some more.

Nancy stopped for the night 300 miles later in Elko, Nevada. The family got a motel room. Ted and I hit the road again. Nancy said I had been good company, and invited me to visit them sometime.

I later learned Nancy had a pistol in her lap the whole time Ted and I were in the wagon, just in case we turned out to be dangerous scum. My singing and strumming deceived her into thinking all was well and decent in back. Whew.

Damn, Sherry had such luscious eyes and lips and tits! And kisses like rose-petal perfume. And a welcoming smile. And a heart full of desire. I drowned in her open heart.

Thus was the great change in my life provoked. It manifested the following year. More on that later.

___

Ted and I went our own ways. I looped around and was back in San Francisco a few weeks later.

I went back to my casual deliveries gig, then decided to step up in the world. I became a bicycle courier, riding industrial-strength one-speeds up steep hills, drinking gallons of free coffee during the day and gallons of cheap wine at night.

But damn, my legs were strong! I turned down offers for modeling my strong, shapely legs and firm, tight butt. Maybe I should have accepted...

Most of the Quicksilver cyclists were scrawny hyperactive guys, about as you would expect for the work. A few were scrawny hyperactive gals. And a VERY few were extremely attractive athletic girls, whom I made a special effort to welcome to the job. Few rode off unhappy.

Mass Bike Streaks occurred. On warm sunny days, we would pass the word: 12:30 today. Male and female couriers gathered in an upslope alley off Montgomery Street, stripped, stashed clothes in bike baskets, and flew naked through the financial district, howling like hyenas. We would regroup in a downslope alley, dress, and go on with the day.

Besides the Quicksilver gig, I also made music on the streets for tourist coins. Bama on his sax, me with my guitar and voice, playing at Fisherman's Wharf and cable-car turntables and anyplace crowded.

We sometimes attracted other players. There was Jenny the fiddler, who almost fucked me, but not quite. There was Jeri the piper, ditto. There was Lee the banjo girl, firecracker-hot in bed, but she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

Came the late autumn, and the gentle San Francisco winter, and the spring, and I was quite burnt out. Even the girl bike couriers I hung with, or the cartoonist's or bike couriers' girlfriends I snuck away with, were not enough to shake me from my funk.

I had been in San Francisco off-and-on for seven years now, and my life was not significantly better, and was certainly worse than my suburban childhood before my folks' divorce. I decided to follow my heart.

And my heart led me to upstate New York, and to Sherry.

___

I had saved a fair amount of money from my work, enough to keep me going awhile.

First, I thumbed down to Palm Springs to see my older cousin Terry and his friendly wife Jill. Terry was long and lean; Jill was curvy and cute. They had an XKE Jaguar, a swimming pool, an always-full beer cooler, and an open marriage filled with friends and toys.

Clothing was prohibited in and around the pool. Terry and I tag-teamed Jill. Her breasts still fill my dreams. It was a fun visit.

I thumbed to Tucson. I found a houseful of students who welcomed visitors. Skinny sweet Tina was especially welcoming.

In San Francisco, I had bought a German 35mm camera kit and many cartridges of infrared and high-intensity film, and I shot more than a few unusual photos of lanky Tina's naked body writhing around, on or off my cock, exploiting odd slices of the visual spectrum.

"Hold up a second, I need to wipe your pussy juice off the lens."

"It would be cleaner if you hadn't gone for such a close-up."

"Yeah, I guess I should use a telephoto lens and back off a little."

"Hey, that telephoto looks like a really fun dildo!"

"I dunno, I don't think it's weather-sealed."

At this house, I learned that when nothing else is available, one can make excellent pancake syrup from sugar, melted butter, and tequila.

In Tucson, I learned about driveaway agencies. A certain car needs to be somewhere far away; I put down a deposit, pay for gas, drive it there, and get my deposit back when I deliver it safely. I thought, HA! GO FAR QUICKLY! NO LOUSY THUMBING!

I found a big Ford sedan headed for Albany. I checked ridesharing bulletin boards at the university. I found riders wanting to go to destinations along the route. They shared the driving and gas money, and we all got where we wanted, fast and cheap. GREAT!

After two days of almost non-stop driving with three other guys, I was reunited with Sherry.

The family expected me and welcomed me warmly. Sherry applied subtle makeup and looked positively hotly angelic. She glowed as if lit by radium.

Nancy went out for the evening. Sherry took me up to her room. We kissed, snuggled, made oral love -- and then Nancy returned early. Sherry scuttled off. Damn frustrating! But Nancy probably still had her pistol nearby.

I delivered the car to Albany the next day, got my deposit back, and thumbed back to the family. I crashed on Nancy's couch for a couple days, and decided to seriously court Sherry.

I got a room in town in a residential hotel. I got an assembly-line job at the local factory. I got a bike, and pedaled out to the farm to see the family constantly. Nancy had a brood of foster kids. I became their favorite visitor.




Ron's Journal 05



But somehow, Sherry and I never managed to be alone, and our courtship never jelled. That is, we did not fuck, did not even go past second base. More damn frustration.

___

A few very important things happened in that hotel room. First, I discovered that a previous tenant had left a camera stashed in a dresser drawer, an absolute classic old 35mm, and this led me into serious photography. I had diddled with photography since I was a young kid, but this pushed me over the edge, and has served me well ever since.

Second, I started building dulcimers. A dulcimer is a fairly simple stringed folk instrument. I'd had one back between my mandolin and guitar days, and I loved the sound. Building and selling dulcimers helped focus my mind. I built them at the desk in my hotel room, often listening to THE DOCTOR DEMENTO SHOW on a radio station out of Syracuse.

The third thing? Thinking. Just thinking. Thinking about my past and future. Thinking, is this really what I want? Can I do better? HOW can I do better? I am undisciplined, peripatetic and inconstant, poorly educated, have a lousy work history, and more. I cannot blame it all on my childhood skull fracture. How can I fix this?

The answer surprised me: Join the US Army. Go for the GI Bill, and maybe even go career. Get training, get college, get my shit together. The VietNam war was over and Nixon was gone. I could probably survive the experience.

Here it was, the actual beginning of the great transformation of my life.

(FLASH FORWARD: Many years later, Nancy and her current lesbian lover Judith made regular trips to Northern California to visit my second wife and me. Maybe she wanted to see how I would have functioned as her son. One year, she phoned to say then-35-year-old Sherry had had a rough life, and could we take her in? We regretfully declined. We never heard from her again.)

Next: On the road again, and family.

******************** 11: Last Civilian Flings: Gwen, Lyn, Janie; more

Before committing myself to military service, I wanted one last fling, one last grand run on the road. I sold the bicycle, shipped my excess baggage to Dad, packed my rucksack, grabbed my guitar, kissed upstate New York bye-bye, and stuck my thumb out.

I thought I was going to Canada. I landed in Mexico City instead. Go figure.

I had some great rides down to the Texas-Mexico border, with only a few scary maniacs. The bus trip to Mexico City was briefly interrupted by a midnight breakdown. I stayed in the capitol for a couple weeks, shooting photos, getting fucked, having what fun I could.

I took a room in a posada near the Zona Rosa, the 'happening' downtown district. The innkeeper, Norma, was a tidy woman about my parents' age. Her daughter Maria was a voluptuous 15-year-old blooming beauty. I complimented Maria on her clothing style, muy de la moda. She loved to hear me sing Beatles songs, especially Michelle and Yesterday. She smiled a lot. I never touched her.

Margie from Scotland, and Tilly from Ireland, shared a room. They worked for a TV network, translating USA and British soap operas into Mexican (Maggie) and Argentinean (Tilly) dialects of Spanish. I eyed their Celtic charms. They were polite to me, nothing more.

I learned the simple "rules of the road" of Mexico City traffic.

1: Right-of-way belongs to whatever gets there first.

2: Anything with less than 4 wheels does not matter.

Abide by those rules, and you *might* survive as a pedestrian or bicyclist. Maybe.

Armed soldiers stood on every street corner and midway down every block. I felt very safe from street crime. I wandered into many little shops and eateries and practiced my meager Spanish with shopkeepers and their kids practicing their meager English with me.

I found girls on the street to sneak into my room. Just one at a time; but Norma eventually caught me with one lovely and told me I must leave, she did not want Maria exposed to this life. I sincerely apologized, and packed and left to return stateside...

The train ride to Arizona was fun. I rode first-class to Guadalajara. The seats were soft and the windows were sealed but the air conditioning did not work. I rode second-class to Nogales. The seats were hard benches but the windows were open and moving air cooled us off. The car was filled and boisterous and I was not the only guitarist aboard. We passed bottles of wine and mescal, made music, laughed, had a great time.

I walked through the customs gate in Nogales and thumbed to San Francisco via my familiar stops in Tucson and Palm Springs and Hollyweird. I crashed with friends in San Francisco and considered my next move.

I read news that motorcycle madman Eval Knieval planned to jump the Snake River canyon with a jet-powered cycle. I *had* to see this! And there was also a Rainbow People's gathering in a Wyoming mountain wilderness south of Yellowstone. I set off again.

The Rainbow fest involved hiking a couple miles into a forest bowl. Thousands of naked people milled around, sleeping and shitting and screwing and imbibing publicly and peacefully.

It seemed like a couple dozen girls of various shades and sizes and dispositions took me to their tents or rolled with me in my nylon web hammock during that week. My guitar was a powerful aphrodisiac. My cock and tongue nearly wore out and dropped off.

"You play that guitar like Eric Clapton. Clapton is God, y'know. Are you a god too?"

"Babe, I'm your sex god for just as long as you want. You wanna worship my lingam?"

"Sure thing, but you gotta give my yoni some holy kisses too. Oooh, just like that..."

I got from there to Twin Falls in just one great ride, in the back of a VW van with three stoned girls slurping hungrily on me. A guy in the front seat gave the driver blowjobs. We passed joints around, and continued.

We had all spent the week naked in front of campfires, in sweat lodges, in intimate positions, occasionally rinsed off with river plunges, so we all smelt pretty smoky and spicy. More enhanced flavors, yes yes yes.

Eval's take-off site for the jump was next to a green, treed, watered city park dropping down the canyon sides to the Snake River. The park was filled with thousands of campers, tenters, bikers. I tied my hammock between two trees over a tiny creek and went wandering through the crowds with my guitar strapped to my back.

I was invited to stop many times to sing and eat and drink and get blown. And to snort.

Ah, the snorting. When a gang of big hairy bikers say HEY COME OVER HERE AND TRY THIS! it seems wise to not refuse their offering. I have no idea what kind of shit entered my body multiple times over those couple days. I was seriously wrecked.

And while seriously wrecked, I lay down in my hammock over that creek, and my glasses fell from my face into the creek, and then washed down into the Snake River, then the Columbia River, then to the Pacific Ocean, where they were eventually swallowed by a killer whale and shat out with seal bones. I hate when that happens.

Thus, I was effectively blind when Eval made his aborted jump, parachuting into the river, as thousands of enraged bikers swarmed down to kick his pansy ass. And thus, I was effectively blind as I thumbed back to California, not stopping in San Francisco, heading straight to my sister Lyn's casita in San Boogaloo.

I borrowed an extra pair of Lyn's glasses. The prescription was not right, but they were better than nothing. Sort of.

Lyn was medium height with an oval face, long dirty blonde hair, nice bubbly tits and ass, strong legs, skillful hands. Her usual expressions include nervous laughter. She worked at home, as a commercial sculptor of small craft objects.

Lyn's librarian roommate Gwen was taller, fleshier, stern-looking but truly funny, and horny as a hound.

Gwen talked Lyn into loaning us Lyn's little Fiat so I could take Gwen on a scenic drive into the mountains above town. Me driving in the dusk, wearing Lyn's glasses, was not a great idea. We were OK until I crashed head-on into a tree, crunching the Fiat's front end.

Gwen's energetic mouth on my cock was a contributing factor. Gwen took responsibility, and paid for the repairs. Whew.

___

Gwen took off for a few days for some work-related conference, leaving Lyn and me alone at the casita. Our wild cousin Janie came to visit.

Janie was 360 days younger than me, equally thin and just a little shorter than me, long dark hair and hazel eyes, looking more like a sister to me than my own sisters did. Nice comfortable tits and ass, of course. Our genepool products look mighty good, if I do say so myself.

Janie was a wild girl. At the first Rolling Stones concert in the USA at the local fairgrounds, Janie slurped some amphetamines, climbed the fence, stripped down and danced topless, riding some guy's shoulders. You may have seen the widely-reprinted photo.

Janie was arrested, of course. This set the pattern of her life for the next few decades: drugs, sex, rock'n'roll, cops -- and being bailed-out by her naive father. Oh, my poor uncle. Janie has used him mercilessly, forever.

Janie took Lyn and me to a local club that night. This was a decade before DIRTY DANCING, but the music and dancing got pretty hot and exciting anyway.

I was with two extremely hot women. We all hopped together sweatily, alternating swigs of vodka and iced coffee and Gatorade, working ourselves into hot wet exhaustion, occasionally slipping outside for cool air and fresh tokes from a joint.

Janie got us back to the casita. We stumbled inside laughing, hand in hand.

"Don't touch anything, we're all filthy, we need to shower," Lyn cried.

"Group shower?" I asked innocently.

"Fuck yeah!" Janie yelled, pulling off her thin halter top and peeling out of her shorts.

Lyn and I stripped off our tees and shorts, me quickly, her a little slower and nervous. Janie stood impatiently, then grabbed our hands and dragged us into the open shower. I drizzled liquid soap from overhead and we all squirmed in the flowing water, playfully cleaning each other. We had not showered together for 15 years.

We grabbed towels and headed for Lyn's room. Janie it a candle and switched off the lamp.

We sat on the bed looking at each other. Janie put her hands on Lyn's and my thighs. I put my hands on the girls' thighs. Lyn looked uneasy.

"Ron, you're my brother. We shouldn't do this."

"Lyn, Ron here is the sexiest guy you've ever seen! We HAVE to do this!"

"You girls are super-sexy. It's up to you," I said.

Janie leaned over and kissed Lyn's breasts, then her lips, then my mouth. I sucked Janie's tongue, then kissed her breasts, then looked at Lyn.

Lyn leaned forward slightly. I kissed Lyn's breasts, then her lips. She slowly opened her mouth and took my tongue. Janie leaned in and joined us. Lyn moaned.

Janie pushed me back on the bed, lying between the girls. Janie went straight for my cock, licking the head, then swallowing me, taking my hard shaft deep. She pulled back and looked up.

"Lyn, help me out here."

"Oh shit, I can't believe I'm going to blow my own brother!"

But she did.

"Brothers are no big thing. I've been screwing Terry for years. Jill, too. Jill and I share Terry a lot," Janie confessed as Lyn slowly licked me. "Why do you think I spend so much time out in Palm Springs? Not for the golf, fuck no!"

Lyn looked up and said, "Sue and I have been afraid to see Terry and Jill by ourselves. We've always been afraid they would fuck us to death. Have you seen their toys?" She shuddered. "And I know that Mom has hung out with them."

Thankfully, the girls stopped blabbing and went back to blowing and slurping, licking up and down, sharing cock and kisses, alternating on my swelling balls. Janie took the lead; Lyn followed.

Janie swung around to 69 me, pushing her amazing pussy onto my mouth, squealing as my thick tongue danced and worked every corner and crevice of her crazy crack. My tongue twirled and swirled and prodded and flicked. I worked her clit mercilessly.

Janie squirmed violently and came wailing on my cock. She wailed and writhed for what seemed like hours -- and then I came down her throat, shot after shot of love cream, grunting like a butt-fucked wart-hog.

"Lyn, you have GOT to get some of this!" Janie gasped.

I wheezed, "Hey, give me a chance to reload, I ain't a kid anymore." I was 24 years old then.

"I'll help her get started," Janie said, crawling between Lyn's spread legs.

I sat back and watched our dark-haired cousin eat out my dirty-blonde sister. Janie's lips and tongue played Lyn's pussy like a piano. Janie's tight ass and Lyn's round breasts rolled in synchronicity with my slow jerking. Janie had obviously been practicing her oral skills on her sister Jill a bit, and maybe on other girls too.

I soon tired of only watching. I knelt by Lyn and kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts. I zapped my sister's nipples. As she shook ominously, I smothered her mouth in mine and swallowed her shouts when she came. We don't want to alarm the neighbors, hey?

And then the real fun began. Lyn sat on my face while Janie sat on my cock cowgirl-style and rocked and rolled and came yelling into Lyn's mouth, my hands alternating between their four bouncing breasts. Then Janie lay on her back while Lyn sat on her face and my cock happily plunged into Janie's pulchritudinous pussy.

The girls switched, and I finally came into my sister's now-familiar cunt, shooting what felt like incandescent quarts of my boiling lifeless sperm into her waiting womb as I yelled into my fiery cousin's left breast.

And then it was time to shower again, and rest, and sleep huddled together like a pile of pooped puppies. The candle burnt out on its own.

Janie went back home to San Diego the next day.

And it was time for me to report to the Army induction center. My military life was about to begin. Oh yeah, MariLyn and I had just finalized our no-fault divorce. I had jumped from one commitment to another.

----- WHERE IT'S AT

I should briefly describe the pre-1975 era in the USA for readers who weren't around then.

This was an age before personal computers, the Internet, wireless phones, AIDS, expensive gasoline and cigarettes, car seat belts, eXtreme sports, remote-control vibrators, shaved or shaped muffs, radical Islam, environmentalism, CDs and DVDs, home video, CNN and FOX, gay liberation, and the fall of communism.

Mind-bending drugs were common. "If you can remember the 60s-70s then you weren't really there." The contraceptive Pill was widespread. Fuel was cheap. Cars contained 8-track or cassette tape players. Even though capitalism seemed weak, unemployment was low in the USA, except among non-whites. Nuclear war was expected at any moment.

Add those up, and you get a frantic, mobile, stoned, hot-sexed youth culture. Communication moved at the pace of a postcard or a phone call. The future was frightening. "The end is near; let's fuck ourselves to death." Party today before we're vaporized tomorrow. Even if you weren't into doom-and-gloom, you still tried to live fast.

That was the world I grew up in. Duck-and-cover drills and bomb shelters. Wolfman Jack spinning hot music from an overpowered Mexican antenna. Fear of being drafted to die in VietNam. Random unprotected sex, with disease less worrisome than pregnancy. Abundant dope and crashpads and thumb rides. Cheap harmonicas. The splintering of The Establishment.

It's a strange past. The future will be stranger than we can imagine.

NEXT: If you've gotta have one, have a Big Red One.



Ron's Journal 05A



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

This piece can be appreciated without having read all the previous chapters. But read them anyway.

******************** 9A: Don't Know Where I'll Be Going Next - 1972

"Sisters, lovers, water brothers,

And in time, maybe others...

I don't really see,

Why can't we go on as three?"

I was sitting at the top of the steps of the DeYoung Museum in Golden Gate Park, playing guitar, singing the David Crosby song TRIAD, slowly finger-picking its sliding open chords. Two young Chinese girls sat next to me, listening, hand-in-hand, leaning together. I played the instrumental fade-out, stopped.

Lin smiled at me. "Nice try, guy, but not right now."

Zhou nodded, "Yeah, maybe after we're eighteen, OK?"

Ah well, can't win them all, I thought to myself, watching them walk away, their tasty toned legs and butts moving seductively under their school uniforms. Probably just as well that the jailbait didn't bite.

I slipped my vinyl guitar case's strap over my shoulder, swung aboard my ten-speed bike, and pedaled out toward the beach. I had some other favorite spots for singing and gathering non-paying audiences.

My life had stabilized somewhat from its prior chaos. I moved up from intermittent day labor to an actual steady job, walking deliveries between downtown offices -- blueprints, contracts, media, whatever. It meant constant hiking, no heavy lifting, and weekly paychecks, for more than minimum wage. Much better than heavy labor, for sure.

I also made money by singing and playing guitar on street corners, often with my tall blonde bearded friend Bama (from Alabama) on soprano sax. He eventually hooked up with my wife MariLyn -- and he is goddam welcome to her. They are still together. We do not communicate. But that story is for another time.

Bama and I often played at a corner entrance to Ghirardelli Square. An older Caribbean guy who played loud and hokey Calypso songs thought it was 'his' corner. We had to fight him for it. He finally 'won', sort of. Bama and I moved on, eventually into professional careers. And decades later, that old guy was still singing Calypso on the same corner for a few bucks a day. Be careful what you fight for; you might get it.

Sex was rather sporadic at times. 1090 Page Street was no longer a free-fuck zone. I intermittently nailed MariLyn, or a cartoonist's girlfriend, or some of the old doper/wino gals I had known before, but I had nothing regular or even stupendously exciting, usually. I sure was not ready to cruise for guys.

Little blonde MariLyn and I were off-and-on and not yet divorced. We did not really like each other much any more, but we sort of needed each other, were used to each other, shared a history -- co-dependent?

In one of our 'on' phases, we met Rick and DiDi at some Haight Street party. Rick and DiDi and her sister Shari lived in a basement apartment near Golden Gate Park, around the corner from the old Jefferson Airplane mansion on Fulton Street. They invited us to visit, then to move in, then to keep their place when they moved back East a couple months later. They left their cat Mama Fuck-Fuck with us.

Our sessions were usually interesting. A typical evening went like this:

The bedroom was mostly filled with a blanket-covered king mattress on the floor. UV fluorescent tubes made the dark walls full of blacklight posters glow eerily, casting the only light on our contorting bodies. The scene looked like a blackened infinity of space with floating holograms.

Thin wry Rick was on his back on the bed. Crazy MariLyn rode his cock; curvy raven-haired Shari rode his tongue; the girls kissed and groped. I leaned against a cushion with Shari's big sister DiDi impaled on my rigid rod, her back against my chest. I fondled DiDi's generous breasts as we watched the others tripling.

MariLyn bent forward, vigorously sucked one of Shari's breasts and pinched the other nipple, as Shari rode to a noisy wet orgasm on Rick's mouth. Shari eventually cooled, leaned into MariLyn and worked her boobs while her groin danced on Rick's pubes. MariLyn spasm'd and came with her patented vibrato howl.

I rolled DiDi onto her back and crawled between her spread knees, my head between her sumptuous thighs. This was not the time for gentle teasing foreplay, nope. I dove right into her vulva, slurping her slit, tongue-fucking her tasty tunnel, sucking and strumming her prominent clit. My tongue circled her labia and she emitted an ever-louder series of "ah-ah-ah" cries. Finger-probing and another attack on her clitoris brought her to a juicy moaning-screaming climax.

"Damn Ron, you make me feel beautiful when you do that!" DiDi whispered breathily.

"You're pretty good-looking even when you aren't screaming," I confided, then stuck my tongue back inside her vagina.

Shari crawled over to DiDi and kissed her. They both nuzzled my trembling tool, licked, sucked, kissed. Shari straightened, lifted her leg over my face, settled her pussy on my mouth, and continued sharing my cock with her sister. Before that tender thigh blocked my vision, I saw MariLyn 69'ing with Rick.

Soon, we fell apart panting. Then we passed the hash pipe and dove in for more sex. Cats crawled on us. Rick blew me while the women daisychained. Everybody had fun.

---

Rick and DiDi and Shari moved on. (Rick left me his medical card so I could buy new glasses.) A few weeks later, MariLyn moved on again, taking Mama Fuck-Fuck with her, along with Bagheera and The Fluffmeister and a couple neighborhood stray cats too. I had to get a roommate to share rent. Mark was straight, an obnoxious cabbie, with loud girlfriends he did not share, but he always paid in full and on time.

My weekdays were for drinking vast amounts of coffee and working. Weeknights were for zoning and hanging out, maybe with some underground cartoonist friends (and their girlfriends). Weekends were for getting away, maybe just on bike-camping rides along the coast, or thumbing to rural communes. More on that later.

I ran into the cartoonists by chance, or maybe it was fate? Suzy-Q was a secretary at the delivery service that employed me. Her guy Dave had a day job in the graphics department of a major utility and spent his off-hours drawing underground cartoons. Suzy-Q threw picnics where pavement-pounders and ink-slingers co-mingled. Both tribes had intense interest in sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll, naturally.

"Hey Ron, can you come over this evening and help me with some stuff? Dave's gone for a few days, and it's more than I can handle alone," Suzy-Q asked me at the end of a weekday workday.

Who was I to refuse? We pedaled to their flat in the Mission district.

Suzy-Q was maybe nine inches shorter than my 6'5" height, with wavy brown hair and shimmery hazel eyes, a pleasant freckled face, adequately curvaceous body, strong legs -- she had been a pavement-pounder too. 

The help Suzy-Q needed involved strong-arming boxes and furniture around. Yeah, it was non-trivial. We finished. She poured cold wine and cooked dinner, a tasty ramen-miso-tofu-mushroom Vegan stew. Hey, Vegan food HAS to taste good, because otherwise, nobody would eat that crap. But I digress.

The stew consumed, we lounged on her parachute-covered thrift-shop sofa. Our shoes were off. Her twitchy bare feet were in my lap. Her white cotton skirt was skootched-up to mid-thigh. The wine jug was nearby.

"Ron, I haven't seen you with MariLyn much lately." She relaxed into my foot massage.

"Yeah well, we've been on-again-off-again awhile, and we're off-again now." I sipped the cheap Chablis.

"Weren't you going with Althea the last couple weeks?" Althea was a very cute new-hire.

"The sex was great at first, but she wanted bondage. Not my bag. I think she's moved in with Van." Van was a fairly prominent underground cartoonist, very kinky, infamous for his unusual death a few years later.

"Oooh, that feels good. You have good hands. How about that crazy girl from Mendocino?"

"Who, d'you mean ZigZag Girl? Wow, she was, like, all over me for a while. Then she went to Santa Cruz and ran into some street-corner guru who gave her a new mantra. She was always a sucker for mantras. Ommm..."

Why the interest in my love life?

"Ron, would you massage my legs too?"

Oh, *that's* why. I got it then.

I slowly worked her sturdy ankles, well-exercised calves, unscarred knees. She un-did the top few buttons of her paisley blouse. She sipped her wine, then held the glass out and poured some onto her right thigh.

"Oh, I'm clumsy, I spilled some wine. Would you lick it off me, Ron?" She gazed at me innocently.

Who was I to refuse? I bent to my task. I was quite thorough.

Somehow, her panties (if any) had vanished. Somehow, more wine was spilled, further up her body. Somehow, wine and Suzy-Q's internal juices were mixed in my mouth. Somehow, our clothes disappeared, and we were 69'ing, and groaning, et fucking cetera. Good thing the parachute covering the couch would not stain.

I did not sleep on the couch that night. We did not sleep much at all.

We blearily pedaled to work the next morning. After work, I biked out to my apartment and grabbed a minimal move-in kit: toothbrush, razor, a couple briefs and tees and socks, cutoffs, sweater, harmonicas, notepad, hash pipe, Tarot deck -- just the bare essentials.

I stayed with Suzy-Q until Dave returned. He was not into sharing. Some other cartoonists, also not into sharing, had girls who found me rather attractive. Suspicions were raised. I eventually appeared in several underground comix. I was not portrayed favorably.

---

Most weekends, I got out of The City. I was always welcome at The Funny Farm commune, and I visited other communes in the hills north and south of "San Narcisco". You may have heard of Wheeler and Morningstar and Oceansong and Sunburst and Estero. Alas, if they were known, then they were too public for my comfort, although they usually had fuckable girls passing through. The big public communes were under surveillance. The small stealthy communes were quieter, less infiltrated.

Some weekends I caught rides through Petaluma or Cotati and Occidental out to Morningstar Ranch commune beyond Coleman Valley. My friend Lucky Lurch was building a cabin there, on a raised wooden platform on a not-too-steep hillside. It might have gone better if Lurch had used a level and plumb-line. I almost slid off the platform before we added walls.

Lucky Lurch was about my size, almost six-and-a-half feet tall, with long black hair and a craggy smile. We were musically similar too. We both played acoustic guitars with harmonica holders around our necks. We would sit together trading jazzy blues riffs and yes, we attracted fuckable females. No, we did not check ID's, so I will not go into details here.

Other weekends, I might go up to Lake County to Angwin Hot Springs, noted for its "gerbil-pile" fuckfests. Or down to Zayante above Santa Cruz, home to a psilocybin "magic mushroom" farm. Or up to Bolinas Lagoon for a mud-fuck. Or... but you should get the idea by now. Many destinations were available.

I got back with Suzy-Q one weekend when Dave was out of town again. Instead of just laying around the flat fornicating, we loaded basic camping gear on our bikes and rode down the coast.

We got as far as Devil's Slide that night. We eased around a chainlink fence and climbed the old steel watchtower, a World War II relic for lookouts on the alert for Japanese attacks. We watched the fog roll in below us under a nearly full moon while we screwed atop our island in the mist.

We 69'd to our mutual benefit, then went tantric, wrapped in a sleeping bag, with Suzy-Q in my lap, my cock sheathed in her torrid tunnel, her arms around my neck, our mouths locked together, sharing juices and flavors. We heard sounds in the sky. We watched a line of birds fly by, silhouetted against the lunar near-disc. Waterfowl heading south for the winter?

We skipped the nearby nude beach the next morning -- too chilly. We rolled down into Half Moon Bay. We had to scoot around the town center, blockaded by a "police action". The sound of gunshots gave us energy to pedal faster, eastward into the hills. We rode trails to San Andreas Lake, yes, the one for which the famous fault is named.

We pitched camp beside the lake. We were only a couple miles from SFO airport but it felt like a mountain retreat. Our 'camp' was mostly a tarp hung from ropes between trees, with a groundcloth under our joined sleeping bags. Another couple had a similar setup fifty yards away. We noted each other fucking. Nobody offered to share.

We rode down to the El Camino Real the next morning, then back up to The City. We fornicated for the rest of the day. Why not?

---

Other weekends, I thumbed to some friends' spread near Austin Creek Redwoods above the Russian River. I was regaled with local news stories like these:

* A cold snap is driving the Sasquatches down from the hills. A trio were found dumpster-diving behind the Goonieville Safeway and could only be enticed away with dollops of squirrel burgers and hashish. A sticky confrontation was avoided.

* The strong winds a couple weeks back played havoc with the Scartop Ranch spread over on Cazadero Ridge. A 150-foot redwood crashed down onto their meth cooker, 16 grow-lights were destroyed, and a hen with her tail to the wind laid the same egg nine times.

* After a flash flood in the March 1970 storm took out the Crippled Gulch Bridge on Upper Sweetwater Ridge Road, the county roads department put up a DANGER - BRIDGE OUT sign. But since then, nobody has gone over the edge, so last week they took the sign down.

* Rafting season on the Russian River begins soon, and shark-spotters are already wiping binoculars in anticipation of another glorious year of bloody carnage. At the mouth of Austin Creek below Cazadero, it's expected that pumas will also make a fair catch of "raft-rats". Last year a number of French, German and Japanese rafters/kayakers contributed to the upkeep of our carnivores.

* A joint Federal-State task force stormed the Scartop Ranch spread over on Cazadero Ridge last week. Three acres of sinsimella were confiscated, along with two flare pistols, a smudge pot and a Mexican War cannon. The hens were so frightened that they've started laying cammo eggs.

* The pride of Sasquatch reported in Goonieville a few days ago have been seen in the Austin Creek park area heading north, and not a moment too soon according to the G'ville feral community. "Those BUFFs [Big Ugly Fat Fuckers] were scamming the dumpsters before any of us people could get to'em," groused one permanent transient.

* River sharks still have not put in their appearance at Johnson's Beach in Goonieville, as it is not canoe season quite yet. But a few were seen whipping around their spawning grounds on the upper forks of Russian Gulch, and they seem excessively fast. Gonzo from Scartop Farms on Cazadero Ridge thinks he might have flushed a bit too much meth into the Gulch drainage during the last raid. "With the quality we've been getting, those boogers'll be a bitch to evade," he opined.

* Multiple ambulances responded for an emergency call to the Hera's Friends Wimmyn's Retreat west of Healdsburg. A nineteen-woman daisychain got stuck together and had to be pried apart with padded crowbars.

* The 5th annual Turf'N'Surf Suicide Bike-a-thon is set for next month - tough twisty roads in rough West Cownty terrain. The boys down at Club Forestville are already sharpening their Ben-Hur hubcaps and dreaming of the spandex pelts they will bag this year. Mike 'Muck' MacGeun still brags of the 5-header he scored along Wolf Creek in '69. "And I'd'a made it six if that dwarf hadn't hit the water," he said, downing another mickey of white port and taking aim at a passing unicyclist.

* People driving past the old quicksilver mine on Sweetwater Springs Road at night report sounds of activity from the condemned site. UFOs are suspected, but locals say it's just the Kobolds returning.

* Ed "Mucho Minnows" Minkowski, the honorary mayor of Rio Nido, walked into Dave's Cycle Repairs And Hog Heaven and picked up a crank assembly that Dave had just finished welding. Then he put it down again, very quickly. Dave grinned, "Burned yourself, didn't ya, Mucho." "No," replied Hizzonner, "it just don't take me very long to inspect 'cycle work."

* The Sasquatch pride reported in Goonieville awhile back is suspected of crossing Anderson Valley near Boonville on their way north. The dumpsters behind Boontling Liquors were overturned yesterday, and Ken "Kahuna" Kirby's prized Hawaiian Koa wood surfboard appears to have been chewed up. The Kahuna guesses that he should not have used so much hemp oil in the board's finish.

* Prostitution charges against residents of the Sacred Heartache commune in Rio Nido were dropped when the presiding judge learned that the girls were giving it away for free, not selling it. He got some for free too. Everybody is happy except the arresting officers, who got nothing and never will again.

* A giant squid, a huge white sperm whale, and several harpooned Orcas were found beached on the sandbar at the mouth of the Russian River yesterday morning. Tracks detected in the sand indicate at least one peg-legged person left the scene. Sheriff's deputies and auxiliaries conducted a hovel-to-hovel search in the nearby hamlet of Jenner but found nobody unimpaired enough to have walked that far.

* Deputies responded to a disturbance at the Pink Elephant Tavern in Monte Rio last night. One man, a drifter swinging a pointed stick and cursing, was taken into custody. His identity is unclear; "Call me Ishmael" is all he would say. A public defender has been appointed.

NOTE: Locals have nicknames for Sonoma County towns.

Goonieville = Guerneville,

S'nasty-hole = Sebastopol,

Rodent Park = Rohnert Park,

Wops-a-dental = Occidental,

Geezerville = Geyserville,

Chickaluma = Petaluma

******************** 9B: Maybe I'll Just Keep Bumming Around - 1973

I somehow made it through the winter to late spring. By summer, I was ready to travel again. I quit my job and gave up the apartment. I packed my rucksack and guitar and the FURTHUR sign and stuck my thumb out. On this trip, as in others, I played guitar and sang wherever I was allowed, paid in tips or beer or tacos or bed. Yes, some girls still took me in, if only for an hour or a night or three.

I hitched north on the Redwood Highway. Two girls in a blue VW bug picked me up north of Petaluma, heading for Eureka, a great long ride. Mid-afternoon, we stopped on a sunny overlook over the Eel River off The Avenue Of The Giants. We threw a blanket on the ground, got naked, drank Champipple Cocktails (Champale malt liquor plus Ripple wine), and sunbathed. I kissed their bubbly butts. Nothing more, too public.

Jill was a honey blonde, maybe a foot shorter than my 6'5" height. Lacy was chestnut-haired and a few inches taller than Jill. Both had great hourglass shapes and firm legs, with white shorts and tight midriff-baring pullovers, Jill's with wide red stripes, Lacy in blue stripes. Both pulled on long Humboldt State sweatshirts when we stopped at their lapboard cottage in the Humboldt Bay fog zone.

Logs and kindling were lit in the living room's corner fireplace. As the room temperature increased, our layers of clothing diminished. More Champipple Cocktails were consumed, then some hashish, then some genitals. Yes, I sucked their lovely breasts, and ate them both, and fucked them both, and was sucked by both. Yes, we curled up under blankets before the fire. Yes, they kicked me out in the morning.




Ron's Journal 05A



A few short rides along the coast got me to Crescent City. A fisherman's wife gave me a ride and a nice kiss, only slightly fishy. I thumbed the Klamath Highway across the mountains to Grants Pass Oregon, Interstate Five, the Rogue River.

---

My dad's cousin Frank had a grocery on the east side of Grants Pass. The family living quarters were upstairs from the store. I had not seen this branch of my family for almost a decade. We filled the dinner hour and evening with comfortable talk.

Little cousin Edie snuck into the guest room with me before midnight. She was a couple years younger than I was and looked like a slightly shorter sister -- yet another product of our good-looking genepool.

After our first quiet sucks and fuck, we snuggled and chatted.

"Geez, Ron, you don't look much like the photo from the last time you were here. You're much better now."

"And you're really gorgeous now, babe. I remember you as a snippy tomboy with no tits, no hips, skinny legs. Now you're a total fox. How come you didn't marry some studly lumberjack or something?" I kissed her good-sized tits again, savoring her now-familiar taste.

"Well, if I wanted to boost your ego, I'd say that it's because I saw you in the shower back then, and I just loved how your big dick looked. Believe that if you want. But mostly, nobody around here is classy enough. I'm going to work in the store another couple years, save my money. Then I'll move to San Francisco or Seattle or somewhere. Some place with a better selection of man-flesh." She cupped my balls.

"I'm heading for Seattle right now, Edie. Want to come along?" I nibbled her neck.

"Umm, thanks, but I'm not really into vagabonding. And I made promises to Mom and Dad. Tell ya what, come back in two years with a good car, no goddam pickup or jeep or bug or clunker, and I'll go riding with you for a season. How's that for a deal?" She rolled me on top of her, slid me smoothly inside her slot, and wrapped her long legs around my back. Our mouths joined again. We stopped talking for a while.

"Are you going to be high-maintenance?" I asked after some more quiet climaxes.

"Oh, probably. I sure don't want to live poor. I want to live better than I do now."

"And I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be, when and if I grow up."

"For now, I'll just say that you've grown into a pretty good sex machine, Ron. Mmmm..."

"I'd offer to be your fucktoy, your kept man, but that probably wouldn't go over well here."

"Yeah, Dad would probably put you on permanent meat-locker duty. Make you live in there too."

We fucked some more, and slept. Edie crept out just before sunrise. After breakfast, I helped in the back of the store for a couple hours -- but I avoided the meat locker. Just in case, right?

(FLASH FORWARD: Two years later, I was still poor and wandering, but on the cusp of change. Little cousin Edie took herself to Miami Beach and married an investment banker. A not totally honest banker. Together, they cooked up a scheme. They plundered a zillion bucks, then disappeared, and have not been seen since.)

---

I hit the road again after lunch and hugs. My first ride only went a few miles on the Interstate, just to the Klamath Highway junction, and then back to Crescent City and up the Oregon coast quite a ways. Hey, I was in no hurry to reach Seattle, and I followed the thumber's basic rule: always take the long rides.

I took my time on the Pacific Coast Highway. I enjoyed the splendid scenery. I camped on beaches, maybe in one of many state parks, maybe wherever.

One coastal town boasted a county park encompassing the sandbar and lagoon at a river's mouth. Vast quantities of driftwood littered the sandbar. Hyperactive beach rats had assembled many shelters from the driftwood, lean-to's and naked log cabins and maze-like constructs alike.

I draped my tarp over one cell-like driftwood room and anchored it with heavy naked branches. Groundcloth and sleeping bag lay on soft soft sand. A small fire in front, a pot boiling river water, ramen soup and chopped jerky for dinner, coffee and oatmeal for breakfast. A couple beachcombing girls drifted by, stopped to chat, listened to my guitar over the surf roar. Yes, I lured them into my lair.

Seducer's note: Sand on a penis in a vagina is very uncomfortable for both parties.

Another fisherman's wife gave me a ride, kissed me, liked my taste, took me home, fucked me to death, fed me lunch, fucked me some more, then drove me on to the next town. I guess I was her mid-day break.

I got a ride with two young dating couples in a Chevy van, going to the next beach to watch the sunset and build a bonfire, drink, and make out. The guys got really drunk. Each passed out after their first fuck.

I didn't get so drunk, didn't pass out, not until after I had nailed each happy girl more than once. The guys slept on the sand under tossed-over blankets; I slept between the girls in the van, snug as a bug in a rug with a drug. The guys' massive hangovers when they woke kept them from really noticing me. Whew.

I found a small encampment of drifters in an abandoned army fort at the mouth of the Columbia River near Astoria. One road-worn couple invited me into their tent for the night. The guy and I double-teamed the girl on her hands and knees, me in her cunt, him in her mouth. Then he blew me while she sat on my face, and we fell into a daisychain, him eating me eating her eating him.

We sequentially fucked the girl in the morning. I took sloppy seconds. I'm not too proud to bat backup.

I thought about thumbing on up the Washington coast and around the Olympic peninsula. But my rides took me to the Interstate, then quickly to Seattle. The Pike Street Market was quaint, ho hum. Nothing much clicked for me in Seattle, so I continued north.

(Actually, just *one* thing clicked for me in Seattle. For the hell of it, I leafed through albums in a used-record store. I found a copy of John Mayall's BLUESBREAKERS, the classic Clapton-Fleetwood-McVie set. Not just any copy. This one had my initials on it. I'd had it and lost it in San Francisco four years before. What were the odds? This demonstrates the mathematical truth that although any specific event in space-time may be very very improbable, stuff happens anyway.)

---

I caught a bus to Vancouver. The Canadian border official did not like my looks and refused me entry. So I was just another draft-age American longhair guy with a rucksack and guitar, a candidate for political asylum and provincial welfare, is that what he thought? My bus fare was not refunded. Fuck.

I thumbed east through the northern Cascades, past the Grand Coulee, to Glacier National Park. Most of my rides were with truckers. Straight male truckers. No sex.

I setup in a campground in Glacier Park. I tied my very light nylon-string hammock between two fir trees. I did not sleep in it that night. I took my guitar to a campfire circle and sang. My wandering minstrel shtick kept working. Two touring blonde Dutch girls snuggled up to me, poured me wine, fed me nibbles of snacks. They took me to their tent as the fire died to embers.

I thumbed down to Yellowstone in a series of short inconsequential rides. I reached a campground with no trees adequate for stringing my hammock, so I just unrolled my sleeping bag under the open sky and watched the stars walk around. I awoke around 2:00 AM to the sounds of clattering garbage cans. I looked up groggily -- and a small shadow passed overhead. Then another small shadow. Then a BIG shadow. I had just been jumped-over by two bear cubs and their mother. Holy shit.

I hitched southeast across Wyoming. An Arapahoe Indian gal on the Wind River reservation gave me a ride and a drink and a blowjob. I gave her a nice fuck in return, her blanket spread on a dusty roadside under the immense sky, armadas of puffy cumulus clouds sailing overhead. We drank more wine and fucked again.

I cut down to Rocky Mountain National Park. Another campfire circle, more guitar and singing, another pair of touring women, Bavarian this time. A larger tent and a bouncy-bouncy air mattress. Fun fun fun.

Cindy gave me a ride from Boulder into Denver. Chin-high to my 6'5" frame, cropped brown hair and deep brown eyes and a summer tan, a curvy figure and great legs under her floral-print sundress. She lived in a small downtown apartment near the auto-parts shop where she clerked. She took me home, fed me, fucked me.

I was not broke yet, but more money would be useful, so I stayed with Cindy for a week while I toiled at day-labor for Manpower, mostly warehouse work. Cindy took me to her favorite neighborhood tavern in the evenings. I took my guitar, played and sang, made some tips and free beer and bar munchies.

"Ron, have you thought about maybe staying around Denver for awhile?"

We were locked in one of my favorite positions, on our sides, her legs wrapped around my waist, my cock deeply embedded in her, our faces together. Easy, relaxed, good for talking.

"I've been on the Coast almost all my life. What are winters like here?"

"Oh yeah, winter, that's a real bitch. But the air clears up real nice then."

"Will I need skies or snowshoes if I stay?" No, that was not a serious question.

"None of that shit, but snow boots are a definite must. And a parka, and mittens. And a fire. I'll be your fire, Ron." She squeezed me tighter with her arms and legs and cunt muscles and mouth.

"You'd like to burn me to ashes, wouldn't you, Cindy?" I said when she relaxed a little.

"I'll be a fucking blowtorch for you, Ron. I'll fucking melt you down." She enveloped me again.

We met some of Cindy's friends in a park for a picnic on Saturday. I took my guitar. Some of her female pals sat near me. Cindy did not like that much, seemed possessive. She marked me as her territory.

I still had not said yes or no about staying. We went to a different bar that evening, loud music, dirty dancing, a horny crowd. Cindy drank. She drank more. She got jealous if other women and I looked at each other. She started yelling about dirty bastards and whores. She drank more. She managed to vomit in the restroom toilet mostly.

I took her home, got her into bed, packed my stuff, and slept on the couch. I left early in the morning. No, I am not a total bastard. Yes, I left a nice note. Yes, I contacted her again. Read on.

---

I hitched south-southwest on blue highways to Taos, New Mexico. I stayed at the New Buffalo commune for a few days. No gerbil-pile fuckfests. Too bad. I continued on through Socorro and Truth Or Consequences to El Paso. I stashed my rucksack and guitar in a storage locker on the USA side and walked a bridge across the Rio Grande to Ciudad Juarez. I bought a bottle of Mescal Gusano, with the worm at the bottom. I was not comfortable with buying pussy.

I thumbed westward to amazing Bisbee, Arizona, its old town perched on the edge of a huge open-pit copper mine that had mostly shut down. Bisbee was once the biggest and richest city between New Orleans and San Francisco. Now, it was almost a ghost town, except for still being the seat of Cochise County.

Hippies were moving in, buying old mining shacks for pennies, starting the eventual transformation to over-the-edge art colony. Lucille was a painter who was very nice to me that night. The next morning, she said she wanted to paint me. Some of the paint took me weeks to get off my body.

(OK, I stole that bit from a song. Listen to Tom Paxton's THE NATURAL GIRL FOR ME.)

Bisbee is a vertical town, built in steep narrow canyons. Almost half the houses are on stairways, not streets. Bisbee is a place for energetic young people who do not mind climbing 200 steps to get home. And it's just a couple miles to Mexico, a good stop for great Michoacan ice cream and more mescal and peyote.

I hitched on through the Tombstone theme park, and Tucson, and Phoenix, and the old Arizona capital of Prescott (PRESS-kit). I stayed a night in Jerome, another amazing vertical mining town, perched atop a high cliff overlooking the Verde Valley and the Mogollon (MUGGY-own) Rim -- Zane Grey country. I stopped in Sedona but no mystic vortex swallowed me. I hitched to Flagstaff and slept in a boxcar. Alone.

I thumbed to the Grand Canyon's South Rim and tied my hammock between trees in a campground. I just walked the rim trails, not down into the canyon. I then thumbed over to the higher wilder North Rim where IMHO the views are better. Campers on the North Rim are a bit higher and wilder too. Another campfire circle, more guitar playing, two nearly insatiable touring Italian women who just about wore me out.

A neighbor from the campfire circle saw me the next morning. He stared at me.

"Hey boy, y'all look like you been et by a ki-yote and shit off a cliff."

"Umm, I feel more like I was devoured by a pack of rabid wolverines. Jeez, I can barely walk."

"You stayed with them Eye-talian gals last night, didn't you? They do this to you?"

"They took about ten years off my life. Good thing my family lives a long time."

"Well, if y'all want any help with them, just gimme a holler, OK?" He winked at me.

"If your insurance is paid up, you can go talk to them yourself. I need coffee and painkillers now."

I staggered to my unused campsite and tried to caffeinate myself into consciousness.

I thumbed to Zion Canyon. Last time I was there, seven years before, I rode a motorbike down the canyon road. I paid more attention to the scenery than to the road. The road turned left and I went straight, straight down a steep embankment. Ouch. This time, I stuck to the trails, afoot, and avoided pain.

---

I got a ride up to Cedar Breaks, massive cliffs filled with colorful hoodoos, bristlecone pines at 10,000 feet, much more refreshing than the heat down below. Well, refreshing during the day, and downright cold at night. Luckily, I had a bedmate.

My ride to Cedar Breaks was with Leona, with bobbed black hair, a long nose, and piercing eyes. Leona was maybe in her late thirties or early forties. She obviously exercised and kept her lean body pleasantly taut. No sags, no bags, just good clean mature flesh and a wild mind.

"Ron, is it? I'm Leona. I'm what you call a Jack Mormon," she said as she wheeled up the mountain grade.

"Jack Mormon? What's that?" I asked, watching her splendid legs emerge from her short black skirt.

"It means non-observant. It means I drink, smoke, pick up young men, and generally have a good time."

Leona reached over and rubbed my face while keeping her eyes on the twisty road. She took my hand and placed it on her bra-less breast under a shimmery silk blouse.

"It means I like to get stimulated without checking a scheduling sheet to see if the husband's available. Think you can stimulate me, Ron? Like maybe now?"

I rubbed one breast, then the other, then her neck and throat. I ran my hand up her thigh, up under her skirt, up to her bare muff. I slid a finger along her dampening slit and slowly moved into her wet vagina.

"Just how much stimulation can you take without driving us of a cliff, Leona?"

"Oooh, that's about enough for now. Tell ya what boy, I'll get us a room at the ski lodge."

I pulled out my finger and sucked off her juice. "Mmmm, nice flavor. We'll have dessert first, right?"

"You got it, boy. Now why don't you put your hands back on my legs, oh yeah, that's nice..."

Leona booked us a room in back. I carried my rucksack and her suitcase; she hauled my guitar inside. We did not stay clothed nor unshowered long. The shower stall was too small for blowing and fucking, so we hit the bed pretty rapidly.

We clenched and kissed and rolled around on the king bed. I started rubbing down her sides, hips, legs.

"Ron boy, I don't need a lot of that mushy foreplay stuff. But I do want some goddam quality time, some long-lasting fucking. Let me get you started right."

Leona shoved me onto my back and crawled between my legs. She slurped my cock down, smiled up at me, and blew me to smithereens. With my dick completely inserted, she reached up to tweak my nipples. Her head bobbed up and down like it was spring-loaded. Her tongue and mouth vacuumed me. I came fast.

"There, now that that's done, you can eat me good, then take your time pounding me."

I took the hint. I slurped her full pussy, licking up, down, inside out, sideways, around, and into some fourth dimension. Damn, she tasted good! Her fingers were twisting her own nipples. My right-hand fingers diddled her cunt, while my left hand rubbed her thigh and calf, and my tongue lashed her clitoris. She came, wet and loud and shaking. I kept going. She kept yelling, "Oh shit Ron, oh shit, Ron, RON, RONNN!!"

Leona felt like she was tearing my long black hair out by the roots as she pulled my face into her pussy. Then she pushed my head away.

"Oh shit, that's about all the mouth I can take right now. Now get inside me!"

"Uh uh," I said, "we'll do it my way first." I flipped around and pulled her atop me, my face back in her muff, her mouth over my cock. She took the hint and swallowed me again. I played my tongue around her clit and probed into her fallow funnel. She honed my cock to sword-edge intensity. She dropped my cock as she came, and again. That was OK; I did not want to be too near the edge.

I rolled Leona off me. "OK, how do you want it?"

She lay on her back and spread her legs wide. "Fuck me and kiss me!"

My cock slid easily into her cunt. My tongue slid easily into her mouth. Her legs wrapped easily around my back. We did fuck. She did come, and again. I neared the edge. Too soon, I thought. I disengaged.

"Hey Ron boy, where the fuck do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to be your stallion and you're going to be my mare. Get down!"

"Oh goody!" She assumed the position. I mounted her and snorted.

"Hi yo, Silver!" I yelled. Long slow strokes, that's the trick now.

I changed pace. Some slow long-strokes, many fast short-strokes, my hands pulling her sharp hips to me, my cockhead bouncing off her cervix on long faster slides, pounding now, pounding faster, harder.

Leona pulled a pillow to her face to muffle her screams. I yelled at the universe.

I blew. Leona collapsed, slowly enough that I followed her down and stayed in her a while.

I was not limp yet. I pulled her ass back up, spread her legs, and pushed in again. I reached for her tits.

"Oh fuck Ron, I'm gonna die, your prick should be labeled a deadly weapon!"

"Yeah, you were pretty good too," I murmured, kissing her neck and shoulders.

We rested, fucked some more, rested again, showered, fondled, dressed, went to the steakhouse upstairs for dinner, drank wine, chatted, laughed, climbed back downstairs, fucked some more, and again, and slept for what seemed a long time but was really just till dawn.

We woke slowly, our faces together, sharing morning breath. We finally acknowledged hydraulic pressure.

"I gotta pee."

"No, I gotta pee."

"No, I REALLY gotta pee."

"Well, let's both pee then."

"It's a small toilet, we can't share it, not without a mess."

"OK then, let's stand in the shower and pee together."

"Oh yeah, that's just kinky enough."

So we peed on our feet, and washed our sins away, and sinned again. Fun fun fun.

We dressed and climbed upstairs for steak-and-eggs breakfasts with Irish coffee and immoderate playful thigh-grabbing. We rolled back downstairs, and sinned again, and showered again, and finally dressed for the road.

"Ron boy, you might wanna think about becoming a Jack Mormon too. You could probably handle a whole harem of horny girls every night."

"I don't know if they'd have me. Ya gotta tithe, right? Ten percent of my earnings is about five bucks a week. Is that enough for admission?"

"That's OK, I'll pay up for you." Leona reached for my tonsils with her tongue.




Ron's Journal 05A



We re-loaded her car, drove around Cedar Breaks a little, hiked to the bristlecone pine (oldest trees on Earth) grove, then drove east down the gentler slope. She drove me to the junction; she was headed for Grand Canyon and my next stop was Bryce Canyon. We face-slurped goodbye and went our separate ways.

The next time I opened my thin vinyl guitar case, I found a hundred dollar bill stuffed inside. I guess she paid my tithe.

---

I wandered amazed through Escalante Canyon, and Capitol Reef National Park, and then got on the Interstate headed for Denver. The last ride dropped me at Golden, home of the Coors brewery. (Country folk in Idaho and Montana call it Old FP, for Fairy Piss.) I took a bus to the downtown terminal, stashed my rucksack and guitar in a locker, and walked to Cindy's workplace.

I came through the glass front door and say Cindy behind the sales counter. She saw me. She did not smile.

"Can we talk?" I asked.

"Come back at noon," she said. "NEXT!"

Nobody was lined up behind me, but I took the hint.

I sat on a pile of tires outside the front door at two minutes before noon. Cindy walked out at two minutes after and headed across the parking lot.

"Buy me a sandwich," she said, walking toward the deli next door.

We sat at an outside table. We ate, and drank colas, but did not talk.

Cindy wadded the wrappers and napkins into a ball. Forcefully, with muscles straining.

Cindy finally looked at me. "I'm not going to apologize, and I don't want to hear any shit from you. I only want to hear one of two words. Either hello. Or goodbye. Tell me one of those words, nothing else."

I stood, walked behind her, put my hands on her shoulders, kissed the top of her head, and said, "Goodbye." I stayed in place, unmoving. I felt her shaking. She bent over, put her head in her crossed arms on the table, and cried.

"Goddammit Ron, why the fuck are you here?" She looked up and around at me, red-eyed.

"I'm here now because I couldn't just leave you. I didn't want to leave you before. But I had to. And I have to again, now. I'll go and leave you sad for a while. If I stay, we'll both be miserable eventually, and you know it. You should just hit me now, and walk away, and forget me. But I won't forget you."

"You fucking bastard," Cindy yelled, and stood, and slapped my face hard, and then grabbed me and hugged me. She backed off, looked at me, slapped me again on the other side, kissed me hard, and walked away.

Cindy went ten feet and stopped. She stood there for a minute. She turned around, walked back to me, slapped me again, not as hard. She had not broken my glasses. She looked at me again, and hugged me.

"Will you stay with me tonight, Ron?"

"I don't know -- should I?"

Cindy held me close. "No, you shouldn't." She kissed me softly and walked away again, forever.

I retrieved my stuff from the bus-station locker and thumbed eastward.

NEXT: On to Boston, then to Santa Fe, then to infinity. 



Ron's Journal 05B



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

For readers' convenience, most Spanish language speech and signals are given in loose English translation. This piece can be appreciated without having read all the previous chapters. But read them anyway.

******************** 11A: Enroute to the Federal District

I had left San Francisco to pursue a girl in upstate New York. I made a fateful decision there.

I was twenty-four years old, and drifting. I had been drifting for years. I was tired of my aimlessness, and was finally ready for some sort of stability. But would it be static stability, frozen into place? Or dynamic stability, like a gyroscope, active yet centered?

Static stability: Settle down in this village on the Erie Canal between Rochester and Syracuse. Court and win beautiful Sherry; I was approved by her sisters Vonnie and Netty and very approved by her dyke mother Nancy. Advance in business; I was on a management track at the local machine-parts factory. After a couple years, I would be embedded, a solid member of this small historic community.

Dynamic stability: Join the military and see the world, get GI Bill and college, push my limits, be all I could be, yada yada. Nixon was gone. The VietNam war was over. The military would be fairly safe now.

The deciding factors: 1) Sherry and I jelled too slowly. 2) Winters there were brutal. And 3) the town had no bookstore. Boring...

Before committing myself to military service, I wanted one last fling, one last grand run on the road. I sold my bicycle, shipped my excess baggage to Dad in Southern California, packed my passport and rucksack, grabbed my guitar, kissed upstate New York adieu, and stuck my thumb out.

-----

I thought I was going to Canada. My plan: Thumb to Buffalo, then Toronto and Montreal and Quebec City and Halifax. I landed in Mexico City instead. Go figure.

My first ride was with a nervous businessman who put his hand on my knee. I jumped out at the next stop light. My second ride was with a nervous housewife who put her hand on my knee. I jumped out at her home.

Bette was a little older and shorter than I was, with cropped strawberry-blonde hair and blue eyes, an oval face, and a thin pinkish sundress that nicely displayed her full breasts and strong legs.

I tossed my rucksack and guitar in her station wagon's back seat and scooted onto the front bench seat. We introduced ourselves, talked about destinations and distances. She made a sharp turn; I slid towards her. Her hand settled on my knee, a little jittery. I put my hand atop hers. At the next stoplight, I put my hand on her neck. She leaned over. We kissed.

Bette turned into a suburban driveway, punched a remote control, and pulled into her attached garage. The door closed behind us. She led me into her house, turned to me, held me, kissed me. We left our shoes at the door.

Bette led me to her bed. I pulled the sundress over her head and unsnapped her lacy pink bra. I left the bra hanging from her shoulders, cupped on her round breasts. She wore no panties.

"Would you like to undress me, Bette?"

She nodded, "Yes, I would, I really would."

Bette undid my belt, dropped my Levis and briefs to the floor. I kicked them away. She reached under my tee with one hand and rubbed my chest. Her other hand held my stiffening cock. I raised my arms. Still holding my cock, her other hand pulled my tee over my head.

I stood naked, my arms still held high, her hand rubbing my torso. I leaned forward, put my hands on her shoulders, and bit her bra, pulling it off her breasts with my teeth. She let it drop to the floor, then resumed her handling of me. I tongued one nipple, then the other, then back again, and again. She sighed.

"Do you want to go fast or slow, Ron?"

"I'm in no hurry. Are you?" I sucked her tits harder.

"I have all day, all week. Oooh... My husband is gone most of the time, on business trips. He won't be back anytime soon. Oooh, that feels so good..."

"Does he ever come back without warning?" I really wouldn't like to be shot by a jealous hubby.

"I took him to the airport yesterday morning. He won't be back till a week from tomorrow. He has never come back early, never. Oooh, yes..."

I pushed Bette back on the bed and lay beside her. I kissed her mouth as I fondled her head, her neck, her throat, her breasts. I worked my hands from her shoulders, down her arms, and held her hands, our fingers interlocked. My kisses moved from her mouth to her neck. She squirmed and moaned.

I gently pushed her legs apart and moved myself between her knees. She spread her thighs more. I kissed down from between her breasts to her belly, her navel, to just above her light bush. I slid further down between her legs and kissed one inner thigh, then the other, while I ran my hands along her legs to her feet and back.

I nuzzled Bette's vulva. She groaned. I licked up her slit from bottom to top. She twitched. I licked around her labia, separating the inner and outer lips, drawing patterns across and around them. She whimpered. I slid my tongue into her vagina, then circled her clit. She moaned louder, "Oh, oh, oh, oh..."

I glanced up and saw that Bette was pinching her nipples. I used my fingers to separate her labia, then pushed one finger, then two, into her cunt. Her muscles contracted on my fingers, grasping me tightly as I pushed in and out. I tongued her clit directly and moved my fingers faster. She screamed and gushed.

I gently soothed her pussy with my tongue. Yes, I well remembered my lessons from Judy and Ann.

"Oh Ron, that was wonderful, wonderful."

"We're nowhere near done. I want to cum in your mouth while I lick your clit."

Bette started to climb on me in 69 position, but first I pulled her so our mouths were together. We explored each other's tonsils. I pulled her further so her tits were at my mouth. She licked my nipples and fisted my cock. I kissed one tit, fingered the other, and fingered her soggy pussy.

I pulled her further so our head were between thighs. She swallowed my cock. I slurped her slit, her clit, filled her hole with my tongue. She tongued my cock, then filled her mouth again. She dropped my cock as she came again, then attacked me with greater urgency. I felt my balls swell, my juices rise. I exploded in her mouth, down her throat, filling her guts with love.

I held Bette atop me for a long while. Her firm breasts pressed into me. She held my cock in her mouth, sucking tenderly. I lazily tongued her cunt and rubbed my hands over her smooth back and tight butt and solid legs. She sucked harder. I grew harder.

I finally rolled Bette off me, snuggled against her, then spread her legs. She stopped me before I took the missionary stance.

"Ron, I'm not on The Pill. But I don't think I'm fertile now."

"Don't worry, Bette, I had a vasectomy. I'm shooting blanks. Here, you can feel the cut."

I guided her fingers to my scrotum. She felt the gap in my tubing. She sighed with relief.

"OK Ron, that's good. I want you in me now!"

I moved between her thighs. I slid fully into her depths. She cried and wrapped her arms and legs around me, her heels into my butt, driving me deeper into her. I fucked with long slow strokes, then faster and shorter. I felt her excitement build and burst. As she screamed and her cunt contracted on my cock, I spasm'd. I poured shot after shot into her. She held me tighter. We kissed fiercely.

I rolled off Bette. We lay side-by-side, arms across each other, gasping.

"Ooh Ron, that was a good start. What are you doing for the next day or so?"

"Fucking you, hopefully. Do you have any other plans?"

"Just a shower, some lunch, and more sex. You up to that?"

"With your mouth, Bette, I'll be back up in no time."

She dropped me at a turnpike ramp east of Rochester the next morning. Hey, nice way to start a trip!

-----

Like I said, I thought I was going to Canada. But there's a basic rule of vagabonding: follow the rides.

My next ride was with a guy in a Firebird, wearing casual clothes and short hair, a few years older than I, shorter and muscular. A duffel and garment bag were on the back seat.

"Hey there, I'm going to Baltimore, want a ride?"

Hmmm, I thought, wrong direction, but a 350-mile ride! Sure! Yeah, I had time and no firm destination. One of my favorite little books ends with this: STRANGE TRAVEL DIRECTIONS ARE GOD'S DANCING LESSONS. I decide to go dancing.

(The book was by a wandering hobo who made a living sharpening tools. The title is SCISSORS SAM SAYS STAY SHARP. The book is about keeping one's blades and mind sharp. It's my second bible.)

Frank was a USAF airman, on a one-month leave. He was driving around visiting buddies and family. He was a wild and crazy dude. He drove fast -- until he saw any adult bookstore beside the highway. Then he drove faster, parked outside, ran inside, and emerged a few minutes later with a brown paper bag, which he threw in the car's trunk. I always waited outside. I didn't need to waste money and rucksack space on porn.

Frank stopped at a dozen sleaze stores at least. He wanted to stop at a whorehouse in Harrisburg too, offered to treat me to a girl, but I told him I was already well-fucked. I told him about my previous day and night with Bette. He laughed.

"Well, you aren't quite Jody, but you're close."

Jody is a military legend, a mythical demigod-demon. Jody is the guy who preys on your woman while you're on duty away from home. Jody romances your lonely wife or girlfriend, entices her, fucks her, fathers her kids. Jody is the cuckoo. But I hadn't pursued Bette; she had enticed *me*. So I was just almost-a-Jody.

Frank dropped me outside Baltimore. I got a couple rides, found myself on the western outskirts of DC in the dark. I unrolled my sleeping bag under a highway overpass and slept. Only June, but the night was hot and muggy and miserable. I decided I hated DC.

Next morning, a couple rides got me up into the piedmont. Another housewife kissed me but didn't take me home -- not lonely enough, I guess. A CIA analyst and his young son were going rock-climbing in Shenandoah National Park and took me to a good spot. And the next ride was a real winner.

-----

Jesse and Jimmy had just graduated from prep school in Connecticut and were driving to Houston to see friends, then to Colorado for a summer-session at university. Wow, DC to Houston in one ride! Further, actually -- I'll get to that in a minute.

Jesse drove his Camaro down the length of the gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway, then cut over across Arkansas through the Ouachitas (south of the Ozarks) into Oklahoma and down across east Texas. We stopped often for photographs and munchies and beer. We tented near Mt Ida, the crystal capital of America. We rolled through endless plantations. We reached Houston.

Their friend Dave was another recent grad of the same prep school. Dave lived with his folks in the Riveroaks neighborhood of Houston. That's the Beverly Hills of Texas, I was told. Money money money. Dave's dad's den had originals by Picasso and Matisse on the walls. We lunched and swam at the Riveroaks Country Club, wearing our tees and jeans. The staff probably scrubbed the pool after we left.

Dave's folks were gone for the night. He invited some girls over, six girls for us four guys. We had all the couplings and triplings you could imagine. When the group fuckfest died out, Dave and Jesse and Jimmy retired to separate beds with one girl each. We spread blankets on the den floor for me and the other three. Picasso and Matisse looked down upon us as we fucked and sucked and slurped.

Michelle the swimmer with cropped black hair sat in my lap, arms and legs wrapped around me, her cunt impaled on my cock, my mouth impaled on her tongue. Long-distance runner Diane with the long blond ponytail kissed and fondled frizzy-red-haired Jessica the dancer.

Michelle and I disengaged our faces. We watched as Jessica laid Diane on her back, spread her legs, and kissed her tits and belly and vulva. Diane moaned and writhed under Jessica's expert tongue-lashing.

Michelle climbed off me and straddled Diane's head, feeding her wet dripping cunt to Diane's active tongue. I raised Jessica's jaunty butt off the floor; she rose to her knees and spread her legs, keeping her mouth on Diane's pussy. I slid on my back between Jessica's legs and licked her clit.

After Jessica's next orgasm, I scooted back out, knelt behind her bubbly butt, and slid my rigid ramrod into her velvet vagina. My persuasive pounding distracted Jessica from tonguing Diane's cunt. Diane moved away and pulled Michelle atop her into a vigorous thrashing 69.

I continued to do the dirty dog on Jessica. She clenched the blanket in her fists and wailed, "Oh fuck oh fuck oh oh fuck me fuck me oh oh OHHHH!!"

Jessica collapsed. Her abused cunt pulled away from my still-stiff cock with a plop. Michelle rolled off Diane. Diane looked at me, her face drenched in Michelle's juices.

"Hey Ron, that sounded like fun. You got any left for me?"

"For you, baby, I'm just starting. But my knees hurt a little. Wanna ride me?"

"Fuck yeah! Lie back, take it easy, I'll do all the work."

Diane crawled over and kissed me. She soaked my face with new flavors. Then Diane climbed on me, mounted me reverse-cowgirl, and started sliding up and down my cock, her long blond ponytail whipping across her lean back.

Michelle looked at me. "Me some too," she said, and climbed onto my face in the same direction as Diane. I slurped Michelle's juicy pussy while she turned Diane's head around and frenched her. Jessica knelt over my outstretched legs in front of Diane and worshipped Diane's tits.

Diane broke away from Michelle's kisses. She looked to the ceiling with closed eyes and a grim grimace and pounded frantically on my willing willy. As Diane started to wail, Jessica muffled her with her own mouth. Michelle and I fought over Diane's tits. I won. No, everybody won. No losers here.

Dave got everybody awake and clean and presentable before his parents returned home in the morning. I was invited to stay another day and night. Dave drove us guys around Houston in his folks' BMW.

Dave dropped me back at the mini-mansion while he took Jesse and Jimmy to see other friends. I had a nice chat with Dave's MILF mom Doris, a lanky blond tennis-toned goddess. We talked about places and times. She insisted on cutting my long hair so I could make it past the steely-eyes at the border.

I showered after the haircut. Doris slipped into the shower with me. We shampooed and scrubbed each other thoroughly. She knelt under the spray to blow me. I bent her over and took her from behind. We got very clean. Then we screwed on a huge sectional couch, and had to shower again. We were respectable when her husband and son and his friends arrived for dinner.

With Dave's folks at home, we 'youngsters' couldn't play there that night. But Jessica's nearby home had a pool house perfect for partying. A few more guys and gals gathered there. We all wailed until 2:00 AM.

The next morning, Doris gave me a couple bottles of Kaopectate to forestall Montezuma's revenge -- she didn't trust Mexican hygiene. And Dave gave me... a spring-loaded collapsible black top hat! It fit easily into my rucksack, and came in useful, sooner and later.

Jesse and Jimmy had to leave for Colorado now, but they were not yet rid of me. Jesse drove us through San Antonio and on to the border at Eagle Pass, Texas. I thanked them profusely. What a great ride!

-----

I walked the pedestrian bridge across the Rio Grande / Rio Bravo to Piedras Negras, Coahuila. The Mexican customs man checked my passport and my money, then told me to open my rucksack. The collapsed top hat was on top. He picked it up and asked, "What's this?"

I grinned, popped it open, and set it on my head. He scowled and waved me on. His comment could be roughly translated as "crazy focking gringo!"

I walked the couple blocks to the bus station and bought a ticket to Mexico City, the Federal District, a.k.a. Mexico DF.

I checked my guitar and rucksack and took a seat in the very front. My seatmate was a medium-sized longhaired girl named Marina wearing a light sweater and a short skirt. She was returning home after finishing her freshman college year in Austin, Texas.

The scheduled twenty-hour drive to Mexico DF stretched closer to twenty-four hours when the bus blew a tire sometime after midnight somewhere south of Saltillo. Other passenger busses stopped; their drivers and mechanics assisted in the laborious manual-labor tire-changing process.

Marina and I had chatted and napped a bit before the breakdown, and we dozed again during the stop. A few sips from the bottle of mezcal I had bought in Piedras Negras probably helped.

Our bus finally rolled. All other passengers settle down to sleep. Marina and I were mostly awake now, whispering, holding hands, smooching a little in the dark, sipping some more mezcal. Our touches became more intimate. Marina slipped her panties off.

I unzipped my jeans, pulled them off my butt, sat back. Marina sat in my lap facing forward. She rode me reverse-cowgirl, about the only genital-genital position possible in the bus seat. We didn't move much. We didn't need to. The roadway vibrations were stimulating enough. I unobtrusively fondled her nice breasts.

No screaming, no loud groans, just satisfied moans as I turned Marina's head to join our mouths together.

******************** 11B: Fun in the Federal District

We disembarked at the huge Mexico Norte bus terminal. I kissed Marina adios before we left our seats; her family was waiting. I located a big bulletin board offering rooms for rent. I stayed in the capitol for a couple weeks, wandering around, shooting photos, getting fucked, having what fun I could.

I took a room in a posada near the Zona Rosa, the 'happening' downtown district. The innkeeper, Norma, was a tidy woman, maybe a bit younger than my parents were. Her daughter Maria was a pneumatic 15-year-old glowing beauty. I complimented Maria on her clothing style. She loved to hear me sing Beatles songs. She smiled a lot. I never touched her.

Norma's boarders ranged from folks staying just a few days (like me) to some who had spent years there.

Margie from Scotland, and Tilly from Ireland, shared a room. They worked for a TV network, translating USA and British soap operas into Mexican (Maggie) and Argentinean (Tilly) dialects of Spanish. I vainly eyed their Celtic charms. They were polite to me, nothing more.

Carlos was an older man, some sort of uncle of Norma, maybe just an honorary uncle. Both Norma and Maria called him Tio. He worked for the Montana de Piedad (Mountain of Pity), the national pawnshop. He probably could have gotten me a nice discount on an old Nikonos underwater camera I fancied.

I found girls on the street to sneak into my room. Just one at a time; but Norma eventually caught me with one lovely and told me I must leave, she did not want Maria exposed to this life. I sincerely apologized. I packed, put my stuff in a storage locker, and went looking for other quarters before I left to return stateside. More on that later.

I learned the simple "rules of the road" of Mexico City traffic.

1: Right-of-way belongs to whatever gets there first.

2: Anything with less than 4 wheels does not matter.

Abide by those rules, and you *might* survive as a pedestrian or bicyclist. Maybe.




Ron's Journal 05B



Armed soldiers stood on every street corner and midway down every block. I felt very safe from street crime. I wandered into many little shops and eateries and practiced my student Spanish with shopkeepers and their kids practicing their student English with me. Sometimes we practiced other tongues, too.

-----

I wandered the neighborhood around big sunken circular Insurgentes Plaza the day I left Norma's.

"Hello, how can I help you?" smiled the girl behind the counter of the small photography store.

"Hola, I need ten 36-shot rolls each of Panatomic, Plus-X, Tri-X, and Kodachrome, and four big shielded film mailers, por favor." It was time to mail my exposed film back home, not carry it around.

I completed the purchase, then reached in my bag for my two classic compact German cameras to reload. I had an ancient Nagel Retina for the B&W films, and a much newer Zeiss Ikon for color work. I loaded the Retina with slow almost-grainless Panatomic for some well-lit shots I had in mind.

"Wow, we don't see many cameras like those here! Where are you from? By the way, my name is Magdalena."

"Mucho gusto, Magdalena, I am Ron, and I'm mostly from California and New York. But I travel a lot."

"You do much photography? You must, with all the film you're buying."

"I've been photographing since I was a little kid. I just about grew up in my dad's darkroom. But I've only gotten really serious lately, like an old addiction that's snuck up on me. I'm mostly a guitarist."

"Oh, you're a musician? I'll tell you what, Ron, I'm just about to close the shop for lunch and siesta. Would you like something to eat, and maybe make some music? And you can tell us about your travels."

Us? Magdalena drew the blinds, flipped the sign from ABIERTO to CERRADO, and led me through a door in the back of the shop. We climbed stairs to the apartment above.

"Juanita! We have a guest!" Magdalena called out. "She's my sister. We run our parents' shop. They're in Cuernavaca for a few days. We can do what we want here," she confided.

Magdalena led me into a small kitchen where another girl was assembling sandwiches. I was introduced. We munched the tortas, and chatted, then adjourned to the parlor.

Magdalena was almost a foot shorter than my 6"5' elevation. Juanita was a few inches taller and bustier than her little sister. Both seemed in their early twenties, had oval faces, black eyes, almond skin, long black hair in ponytails, and bodies nicely displayed under loose white blouses and colorful short skirts. No bras were in evidence.

Yes, they could do what they wanted when their parents were away. What they wanted first was music, but that didn't last long. Getting naked was next, then slurping, then the usual. They helped each other, too.

"Hey little sister, this long loco gringo boy uses his fingers rather well on the charango and cuatro. And his mouth works pretty good on that harmonica, too. Let's see how he does with other instruments. Can you play my concha, Ron?"

Juanita pulled her skirt off and sat on the edge of the couch, her legs spread. No panties. I looked at her dark muff and exposed pink slit appraisingly. She reached down and spread her labia. A faint sheen of moisture was visible.

"Hmmm, that looks like it might be playable. But I'd better see if it's in tune."

I knelt between Juanita's legs and gently stroked her thighs inside and out. My hands circled her vulva. She purred.

"That doesn't sound quite at the right pitch. Let me tune you up a little."

I raised her arms and pulled her blouse over her head. She was naked before me. I massaged her firm breasts, boobs that needed no bra for support. She hummed louder. I ran the fingers of my right hand just outside her labia while brushing a nipple with my left hand.

"Still not quite in tune. Magdalena, help me fine-tune your sister, please."

Magdalena grinned, sat cross-legged beside Juanita, and smoothed her big sister's other breast. Juanita groaned a little.

"OK, I think you are at concert pitch. It's time to play a few notes."

I fingered Juanita's pussy more actively, circling faster, probing, avoiding her clit. I leaned forward and kissed her inner thighs, dragged my tongue around her mons, then licked up the length of her slit. She moaned louder.

"Yes, this is playing well. Now I'll perform a traditional melody."

I moved my right hand from Juanita's pussy, reached under Magdalena's short skirt, and cupped her mons. She groaned and sucked her sister's right breast. My tongue delved into Juanita's tunnel, licked her slit from taint to clit, circled her clit, probed her depths again. I explored Magdalena's pussy from top to bottom with my fingers. Both sisters groaned louder and gasped.

"Ah, stereo music, a sonata for two voices, excellent."

I intensified my efforts. Magdalena was frantically sucking Juanita's right tit and rapidly pinching and twisting her left nipple. My left hand fingered Juanita's slit while I sucked and tongue-strummed her clit. Juanita came hard, squealing and squirting and squirming violently. Juanita's cunt grabbed my two thrusting fingers. I bit her clit and she screamed again. Her fingers grasped my hair hard, pulling my face into her delta.

I kept attacking Juanita's vulva until she pushed my head away, "no, no, no more, no..." I gently licked, soothed, cooled her down. Then I turned my attention to Magdalena.

I spread Magdalena's legs, moved between her knees, licked her thighs. Juanita pulled Magdalena's blouse off over her head, kissed her mouth, handled her breasts. I drove my tongue around and into Magdalena's pussy. I felt her shaking just before she screamed into her sister's mouth. My face became even wetter.

"The first movement of the sonata, the allegro, went very well. Now for the second movement, the largo."

I pulled Juanita up and bent her over the couch arm. I entered her from behind. Long, slow strokes, in slow largo tempo. Just continuous stroking, a steady rhythm, no pounding, more like long pulsing. The sisters kissed, groaning.

"And now for the final movement, the presto. Trade places, girls. Juanita, put your pussy in Magdalena's mouth. Are you ready? ?Listo? Very good, muy bien. A-one-and-a-two-and-a..."

I pounded Magdalena's pussy, hard, fast, pulling her bouncy butt against my groin. She gripped Juanita's thighs as she hungrily slurped her big sister. Juanita twisted her own nipples and cried. Magdalena cried. I roared and spewed liters of love into her loins. I continued to pound even after Magdalena's clutching cunt had drained me dry.

I staggered back. My softening cock popped from Magdalena's cunt. I pushed the sisters apart and plopped between them on the couch. Magdalena pulled me towards her and softly licked my wet willie. I ran my hand over Juanita's crotch. Juanita crawled around and laid her head on my thigh, licking out at my cock, sharing slurps and kisses with her sister. We all dripped.

"Oh Ron, that was pretty nice. Are you doing anything tonight?" Magdalena asked.

"I was just kicked out of my room. I was going to find another room for tonight."

"Oooh, I'd like to have you again. Juanita, would it be OK for Ron to stay here?"

"Well, Mama and Papa won't be back for a few days. Yes, Ron, will you be our guest?"

"I would be honored, dear ladies. I need to clean up and retrieve my stuff from storage."

"Wait till after siesta time. We could all use a rest now, I think," Juanita said, just before she swallowed my cock again. Some time passed before we actually rested.

-----

Magdalena re-opened the shop. I returned with my rucksack and guitar. After closing time, Juanita made dinner; we ate, and made music, and sucked and fucked again, and again. Eventually, I slept in the middle of the bed the sisters shared.

I wandered the city the next few days. I saw museums and fortresses, great parks, intriguing architecture, archaeological sites. I experienced the cacophony of Plaza Garibaldi. Dozens of competing mariachi and ranchero bands. Kids spewing gasoline from their mouths, blowing flames. The gaudiest of prostitutes. I didn't need the latter, not when I had Magdalena and Juanita.

I glanced into a cantina down a side street and saw a big gringo at the end of the bar. He saw me and waved me in. He bought me some pulque -- hmmm, that's definitely an acquired taste. He said he was Bishop Bob of the Free Baptist Church and that pulque was a sacrament. He put his hands on my shoulders.

"In the name of God and all the angels, I hereby ordain you as a minister of the Lord! Hallelujah!"

Then he fell forward onto the bar. He snored and drooled. I left, but now I was officially Reverend Ron.

Sometimes I was back at the sisters' shop for siesta. Sometimes I was too far afield, and I just napped someplace comfortable or not at all. But I was back in their bed every night.

One night, we had another hot session on the couch. We exhausted ourselves. We lay sprawled, panting.

"That was quite amusing," said a contralto voice from the doorway. The sisters and I jumped.

"Tia Theresa, what are you doing here?" Magdalena cried, trying to conceal herself behind a couch cushion. Juanita and I didn't even bother to cover ourselves.

"Oh, I just thought I would see how my nieces are doing, all alone here. But you're not alone, are you? And you are certainly not bored. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

Theresa was in her mid-thirties, maybe a decade older than I was, elegant in a tailored business suit that accentuated her splendid body. She was a little taller than Juanita, almost to my nose in her three-inch heels, with laughing black eyes, pursed red lips, prominent breasts, and a take-no-prisoners attitude.

I stood, naked. My deflated long cock nosed in her direction. I walked to Theresa and took her hand.

"Mucho gusto, miss Theresa, I am Ron, and you are beautiful."

Theresa looked at me, up and down. She laughed and started unbuttoning her jacket.

"Yes, I am beautiful, and you seem energetic. Let's let the girls rest."

She continued unbuttoning and removing clothes with one hand while she grabbed my stiffening cock with her other hand and led me to the girls' bedroom.

You want details? Sorry, it was a blur, a wet carnal blur. Sucking and fucking, right-side up and upside down and sideways and every which way. Theresa was very good at keeping me ramrod-stiff in her cunt, stiff enough for multiple orgasms for her, while keeping me from going over the edge. I was her sex toy. Maybe this was karmic revenge for the way I'd treated my first wife MariLyn.

Theresa sent me back to her nieces when she was done with me for the night. I lasted long enough to blast a load into Magdalena. I passed out on top of her. The efforts of all three women were needed to roll me off. I regained consciousness a few minutes later, covered with bodily secretions. Whew, what a smell!

Juanita and Magdalena dragged me up and shoved me into the shower with their Tia Theresa. We cleaned and dried each other. Juanita and Magdalena giggled and poured coffee for all of us. We drank naked.

"Girls, you caught a lively one here," Theresa said, fondling my now-limp cock. "My sister and your father will be back tomorrow. You can't keep him here. Ron, why don't you come stay at my place for a few days?"

"Will you still share him with us?" Magdalena asked. "We don't want to miss out on the fun."

They spoke and negotiated as if I wasn't there. I was just a piece of meat. Their conversations went a bit faster than I could follow, but I thought I heard Theresa talking about how her girlfriends would like me. I felt uneasy. I visualized myself chained to a bed in order to pleasure a cabal of MILFs.

And I'd had about enough of Mexico DF. I was nowhere near the end of my tourist visa, but I did need to get back stateside. I still had to arrange my enlistment.

I smiled and told Theresa, "I'll see you tomorrow." In the morning, I slipped out quietly with my guitar and rucksack and made my way to the central railroad station.

******************** 11C: Return to USA Babylon or whatever

The train ride to Arizona was fun. I rode first-class to Guadalajara. The seats were soft and the windows were sealed but air conditioning did not work. I rode second-class to Nogales. The seats were hard benches but the windows were open and moving air cooled us off. The car was full and boisterous and I was not the only guitarist aboard. We passed bottles of wine and mescal, made music, laughed, had a great time.

Mexico DF to Guadalajara was a mostly flat run across Mexico's high central plateau. Guadalajara to Tepic (near San Blas) was an amazing descent from a mile-and-a-half-high elevation down to sea level. The train coursed through a tropical jungle, almost Hawai'ian. Tepic northward to Mazatlan was fairly interesting, sometimes with jungle to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. North from Mazatlan to Nogales was mostly miserable, hot, dry, arid. At least second class had open windows for ventilation.

Vendors got on at one station, hawked their wares till the next station, then got off to ride back and try their luck again. Prices dropped as the turnaround neared. A kid tried to sell me a great handmade blanket for fifty bucks. Just before he got off, I bought it for four dollars.

Armed troops in khaki uniforms and black moustaches patrolled the passenger cars every now and then. The pair I saw seemed like a stereotypical joke. There was the tall skinny guy with bandoleros strung across each shoulder and big pistols holstered on each hip. His partner was short, fat -- and he carried a fucking Thompson sub-machine gun, yes a Tommy Gun, careless waving it around at all the passengers.

I had previously ridden in first-class with a group of gringo college kids from Portland on vacation. We got along well, especially auburn-haired hourglass-shaped Elaine and her blonde friend Liz. They shared a private compartment. I snuck back into first-class at night to visit them. They were very friendly. The beds in the compartment were rather small, but we managed.

I knelt naked on the floor, a blanket padding my knees. Elaine and Liz sat naked side-by-side on the small bed. They kissed furiously, their legs spread, Elaine's thigh quivering atop Liz's. I tongued Elaine's pussy for a few minutes. I moved to Liz's pussy, then back. Liz mouthed Elaine's generous breasts as Elaine neared her next climax. As Elaine spasm'd, Liz swallowed her loud moans.

Elaine leaned into Liz. I concentrated on Liz's vulva with my tongue and the fingers of one hand while I rubbed Elaine's thighs with my other hand. Elaine's hands were busy with Liz's breasts. Liz grabbed my hair and pushed my head deeper into her pussy. Liz came again, wetly, screaming into Elaine's mouth.

I scooted up and sat between the two women. Elaine bent to swallow my momentous member. Liz kissed my face and neck and then started slurping and tweaking my nipples. I lasted for almost five minutes before giving Elaine a protein blast. Elaine happily sucked me dry. She sat up, kissed Liz, kissed me.

We sprawled on the little berth with our legs hanging off the edge, our feet playing together, our thighs twitching. We kissed and slowly fondled. Elaine threw a blanket over us. We huddled together, chatted.

"We'll be juniors at Reed next semester, Ron. What are your plans?" Elaine asked, cupping my testicles.

"I went to San Francisco City College," I said, only slightly shading the truth, "then an electronics school. I'll work as a radio engineer to make money to go to university. I have a good prospect already." Yes, only slightly untruthful. I didn't expect Reed College students to sympathize with my military plans.

"What do you think are the most important things you've done with your lives so far, guys?" Liz queried.

Elaine pondered. "Probably working as a lifeguard. I know I've helped save a couple people."

I frowned. Had I actually done anything important yet? I equivocated. "Let me think about that for a minute. What about you, Liz? Have you done anything significant?"

"Well, what I felt best about, was when I climbed Mt Hood. That was a personal achievement. Nothing really important in a big-picture sort of way though. C'mon Ron, what's your big thing?"

"This is a tough question. Hmmm... I know I've done all sorts of petty shit, negative shit. I've probably caused more pain than joy. I haven't really saved anyone. Maybe what I've done that's most important is to have loved some poeple more than I've hurt them. Maybe it's learning not to be selfish. Yeah, that's been hard, but it's important, I think.

"Elaine, your lifeguarding is very important. I think helping other people is what's really important. One of my favorite sayings came from a guy who wrote about keeping tools and minds sharp. He said, SERVICE TO OUR FELLOW HUMANS IS THE RENT WE PAY FOR OUR SPACE THIS PLANET. I think he got that right. What I've done in the past isn't as important as what I'll do next, and for the rest of my life."

Elaine and Liz both kissed me. Liz said, "That's pretty profound." Elaine swallowed my cock again.

The train reached Nogales, the end of the line. I left the station and stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of cheap Mezcal Gusano, the kind with the worm. I lugged my gear to the USA border checkpoint. The customs man checked my passport, then told me to open my rucksack. The collapsed top hat was on top. He picked it up and asked, "What's this?"

I grinned, popped it open, and set it on my head. He scowled and waved me on. I couldn't make out his muttered comment, but it was probably similar to what the Mexican customs guy said a couple weeks earlier.

I thumbed to San Francisco and beyond, and enlisted in the US Army. But those tales are for other chapters.

NEXT: Almost the last hitch-hiking adventure, almost.



Ron's Journal 06



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

I highly recommend that you read all previous chapters before starting on this piece.

******************** 12: You're In The Army Now -- A New Begining

I reported to the Los Angeles Induction Center in late autumn 1974. A good-size crowd of enlistees was weighed, prodded, poked, inspected, injected, dejected, sorted, sifted, bent, folded, spindled, mutilated, stamped, and then hauled off to LAX airport to be shipped to basic training bases around the country.

I had chatted up a couple friendly girls while being processed. Ellen and Doris were medium-height redheads, both trim and about 20 and not quite beautiful. They looked almost like sisters but were cousins, from Orange County near Disneyland. This was their chance for new lives, too.

Their motivation was similar to mine. They had finished a couple years of junior college but could not afford full-time school, and felt dead-ended. The Army was their gateway to better futures. We chatted about the experiences that had led us to unexpected choices. We got on nicely together.

After the processing and paperwork, I took Ellen and Doris to Chinatown to eat and to talk about our pasts and futures. We continued our chats as we walked past the exotic shops in the twilight. 

They invited me to share their room that night. We had a nice loud wet FAREWELL TO CIVILIAN LIFE celebration. No, they didn't go down on each other, just on me. But it was fun anyway.

Sometime after midnight, we were snuggled together in a queen bed, idly rubbing and petting each other. I leaned to suck one of Ellen's nipples, then turned to do the same for Doris. One hand from each side lightly stroked my cock. I reached down to feel two damp pussies.

"Who wants to do what to whom next?" I asked quietly.

"I need to be so fucked that I can hardly walk tomorrow," Doris said.

"Me too," Ellen giggled. "Shouldn't take more than a couple hours."

"Well, kiss each other again, and I'll be hard again in about ten seconds."

As they kissed, I ate each of them to screaming, and I was even harder. Yes, it was a hard, hard night. 

We hugged good-bye in the morning. Ellen flew to Washington state, Doris to northern California, and I found myself on a 747 bound for New Jersey.

Since it was late in the year, I was in a short Basic Training cycle, barely seven weeks. I was not being mis-trained to sink-or-swim survive in VietNam so I didn't sweat it. For me, the briefer, the better.

At age 25, I was older than most but not all of the new enlistees. I was not an athletic highschool jock but neither were most of the new grunts. My long lean bicyclist's body served me well through all the physical exertions. At 6'5", I was not quite the tallest guy there either. Snowden was a half-foot taller than I was, and WOW could he run long distances!

We ran in formation to everything. We ran to firing ranges to lie down in snow and shoot M-16s, and we ran to other ranges to play with pistols and grenade launchers and gas masks and claymores. No matter our later specialties, we all trained as infantrymen. Grunt grunt...

We trained from 5 AM to 6 PM, six days a week, and then some. Sleep was broken by more training. We learned to sleep standing up. When awake, we whined like hell, or bragged, or prayed. I meditated on the Tarot, the greater arcanum, the path from ignorance to enlightenment. That helped.

The USA had lost its war in VietNam recently. Losers are not happy guys. I observed that Army morale was low and discipline was lax. Basic training was NOT the kick-ass experience I had expected. And my senior drill sergeant was later busted for extorting bribes from recruits.

I finished Basic just before Christmas, on 21 December. The next Advanced cycle, at the same base, started just after Old Christmas, on 7 January. Most of the newly-minted E2 Privates took two weeks of leave (vacation) to see families. I did not feel a need to. I volunteered for a couple days holiday duty, and was given that whole period on pass, a freebie for me.

What to do? I took the train to New York City. I got a cheap subsidized room near Times Square. I wailed.

The Army had given me a new pair of ugly Goldwater glasses to replace those I had lost before, but they were NOT my look. I stopped at Greenwich Village Optical and got a pair of round wire-rim glasses with Photo-Sun coatings that automatically darkened in bright light. These prescription sunglasses passed military muster, barely. I was happy to not look TOO military.

I bought a Mexican 12-string guitar. I looked up some old friends -- not Clem The Chemist, he was in federal prison now, for brewing designer drugs. But I surprisingly found an old friend too.

___

I was walking on the outskirts of the West Village, dressed in my best denim civvies under a peacoat. I passed a shop, HEINEKE IMPORTS - ETHNIC CRAFTS, displaying the very distinctive flags of Mexico, Guatemala, Brazil, and California. I did not really pay attention, but some inner voice told me to turn around and look again.

I peered in through the glass. That face looked familiar...

I walked towards a tall blonde woman standing by a desk.

"Excuse me. Hope? Are you Hope Heineke?"

She looked at me blankly, then with a little shock.

"Yes? I'm Hope Heineke. What? Ron? Is it Ron Carson?"

Hope walked towards me slowly and said, "Well, I'm fucked! What the hell are YOU doing here?"

Hope looked in my face, finally stepped up and hugged me. I hugged her happily. She pushed me back.

"Damn, you look good! Is that really you, Ron? I can't wait to tell Faith and Ann!"

Now it was my turn for further surprise.

"What, your sisters are here too?"

"Well, not right now. Ann and Lucia just left for Guatemala and Chiapas to buy goods, and Faith and Bonifacia will be back from Brazil in a few weeks. They left me and Juanita to hold down the shop while they enjoy warm weather and buying sprees. But Nita and I get our own working vacation in central Mexico in a couple months."

Despite our growing up across the street from each other in a Los Angeles suburb, and our brief but intense youthful sexual adventures, I hadn't seen the Heineke sisters for a long time, and I never expected to encounter them again, especially not here.

Hope told me their story. The sisters had gone to Hofstra University in successive years. They all liked New York, and set up an import business, spawned by their Latin American travels. They were doing well.

And they were all committed lesbians, with Latina lovers.

"Ronnie, you were our favorite boy. We sure had fun with you there, whose house was that, Judy? Did you ever find that girl again, who was she, Maria? Yeah, you were a good sex toy. But we all have life partners now. We all share a big loft upstairs. And we're all really really happy. But what about you? Where are you staying? What are you doing? You still have that funny mandolin?"

"I'm a guitarist now. And I'm just poking around the city for a couple weeks. I'm staying at the Soldiers And Sailors Club in midtown."

"The Soldiers And... Ron, are you military now? Wow!"

"Yes ma'am! I've been living a pretty depraved life these last few years. I thought I'd knuckle down, get GI Bill, do something other than wander aimlessly. I just finished Basic training."

I gave Hope a short-short version of my past seven years. Marriage, divorce; Hollyweird, San Francisco, Santa Fe; rambling, music, decisions -- just an overview. She looked at me appraisingly.

"Ron, we have a girl you might get along with. Angelina works half-days here in the shop; the rest of the time, she's studying at NYU. She has a room in our loft. She'll be back this evening. Would you like to come for dinner? Just rattle the front door at six, OK?"

I assured her that wild horses couldn't stop me, yada yada, and I went back to my room uptown to retrieve my new guitar. And a full change of underwear. Just in case.

Today was dark vivacious Juanita's day to cook. She produced a fabulous feast of Pollo Abado and Chiles Rellenos with all the trimmings. Too bad I couldn't marry her.

We adjourned from the long dining table to a cozy nook. Hope and Juanita cuddled on a loveseat; Angelina and I sprawled in beanbag chairs. We all had goblets of red wine.

Unlike the Heineke sisters' lovers, Angelina was a tall pale thin 22-year-old Acadian redhead from New Brunswick, chin-high to me. Her voice was lightly accented and musical.

"So you're the famous little Ronny, eh?" Lina said. Nita giggled. Hope smirked.

"What, me, famous?" I looked around innocently.

"Hey, you think we don't hear all 'bout you from the girls?" Nita smiled. "All 'bout how they measured your big dicky, and those hot-hot-hot sex games, and the stuff you did when you were a little neighbor chico loco? How 'bout the time you saved their butts from that shitty boy, that cabroncito? You kicked his nasty goat ass, right? You were their little hero!"

Oh wow, that was back in sixth grade. A big local bully, Dwight, stood in front of their house and shouted that they were shit-eating catlickers, they were gonna be priest-fucking nuns, crap like that. I heard him and ran across the street to shut him up.

"Well, I didn't actually kick his *ass*. He shoved me down and jumped on me, and my feet sort of got in the way of his nuts. I ruptured him, a complete accident, that's all."

The women howled.

"Our hero!" Hope intoned while pat-patting her heart with both hands.

"Aw shucks, ma'am. I guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do," I drawled modestly.

We poured more wine, chatted. I played and sang, including a couple French-Canadian songs I had learned. The evening flew by. But by 11:00 o'clock, these working women had to wind things down. I was invited to stay on the couch and was given a nice fluffy quilt. Lina looked at me awhile, then closed her door.

I was awakened early by a soft kiss on my forehead. I opened my eyes to peer into Angelina's freckled face. She squatted by the couch, looking at me.

"M'seur Ronaldo, I am going to be rattling pans and making rude noises while I prepare breakfast. I just wanted to warn you. And to thank you for being here last night. You were lots of fun. You're a nice guy. Do you drink coffee, or tea, or what? Would you like a juicy omelet, and pommes duchesse?"

"Mmmm, buenos dias, mi Angelina. I drink gallons of coffee, or even thick milky tea, and I love omelets and potatoes, and you're pretty nice too. Thanks for the sweet wake-up. You are much gentler than I."

I had mentioned my method of awakening slumbering soldiers in the barracks. I would pick up the end of their steel bed frame about a foot or two, and drop it heavily. If that didn't work, I just tipped the bed till they rolled to the floor. No oversleeping allowed.

Lina's jean-wrapped butt wiggled as she walked to the kitchen side of the open loft. She had already tossed more coal into the potbelly stove in the middle of the loft space, its stovepipe rising like a black magic beanstalk. Luscious smells wafted through the warming air. Pajama-clad blonde Hope and dark Nita emerged from their room as pale-red Lina set the table and served.

We did not dawdle over breakfast. Lina did a quick kitchen cleanup, then ran downstairs to prepare the shop for opening. Hope and Nita sat and sipped some more coffee with me, then dressed for work. Hope came to my chair before leaving.

"Ron, you can check out of that Midtown place if you want. Nita and I decided that you can stay here as long as you like -- as long as you're good, anyway," she laughed.

"Why, that's a powerful tempting offer, Miz Hope, ma'am" I drawled, tipping my imaginary Stetson hat, "I'd be mighty obliged for your hospitality."

Hope punched my shoulder.

"Here's a key, pigboy. Put your stuff in this chest here. We'll see you this evening."

Hope kissed my forehead while Nita feigned jealousy.

That evening started much as the previous, but improved. Lina stewed a tender chicken-and-veggie verano with wild rice pilaf. We drank wine. I played and sang.

Nita put on a Cuban record and we all cha-cha-ed around, swapping partners, getting a little sweaty. We were all down to tees and jeans. Some good joke brought us together with arms around each other's shoulders, laughing, Hope and Lina next to me. They all smelled so good!

Eleven o'clock again, and time for bed. The women retired to their rooms. I lay on the couch watching the glow through the high loft windows and the flickering flames in the pot-belly stove front grill.

Lina's door opened. The angel emerged, approached, wearing a thin wrap.

"Ron, you don't have to sleep on the couch if you don't want to. I'd like you to come with me."

We held each other naked in her bed. We kissed softly. We heard groans from Hope and Nita's room. The loft partitions were not soundproofed.

"Ron, make me groan like that."

Lina's freckles extended from her forehead, all across her chest, down to her red bush. I kissed her breasts; her skin flushed; her freckles seemed to glow. I slid down her body. I licked her navel. I nuzzled her bush. I licked her slit. She groaned quietly. A good start, I thought. More licking. More groans. I threatened her clit. I slowly pushed in my fuckfinger and wiggled it. She yelled. I sucked, slurped, circled. She chanted loudly, "ron-ron-ron-ron-ron-ron-RONNN!"

Lina seemed happy. I moved up and kissed her face. She lay back and pulled my groaning cock into her hungry cunt. We started in missionary poses. Soon, she wrapped her legs around me. We fucked slowly at first, then faster, ever-faster, slower again, then faster to our strong climaxes. We were not quiet.

"Hey you two, get a room!" came Hope's voice.

"Too late! Got one already!" Lina yelled back.

I stayed inside Lina, stiffening again eventually, fucking again, but very slowly, almost silently. We eventually slipped apart and slept, wrapped together like old soggy spaghetti drying on the sheets.

Hope woke us the next morning by clattering pans as she cooked blueberry waffles and fluffy scrambled eggs. Coffee flowed. Lina ate quickly, ran downstairs to setup the shop. With refilled coffee cups in our hands, Hope and Nita dragged me over to the couch and plopped me down between them. Hope turned my head to face her.

"Ron, we haven't seen Lina this happy since she started working for us. She was with an abusive asshole in Nova Scotia before she came here. We want her to stay happy. Keep her happy, Ron. If you do *anything* to hurt her, I'll cut your balls off with a rusty knife, ya got that? And don't give me your Yes Ma'am shit."

Juanita turned my head to her face and said, "And when Hope gets through with you, I got a nice sharp machete. You mess with our Angelina, I'm gonna chop you into bifstek machaca, si?" and tweaked my nose.

I stood, put my cup down, turned to them, squatted, reached my hands out, touched their faces.

"You have my word of honor -- I will do nothing to hurt Lina, nor you. On my heart, I promise."

They looked at each other, nodded, stood, pulled me up, brushed me off needlessly.

"Just behave yourself, pigboy. See you this evening," Hope said as they headed downstairs.

I spent the days wandering around the city, visiting galleries and museums, and music and book shops, and endless window-peering. I didn't do much photography. I went back to base on Christmas and New Years days to pull my duty. The rest of my days were in the city, and all my nights were at the loft.

Then the holiday break was over, and I had to return to base for Advanced training. I promised to return to the city every weekend during the training period, and I did.

___

I had signed up as a communications electronics technician, but the Army decided they instead needed a radioteletype tech, so I became a RATTman. I trained on KSR-33 teletypes, great clunking monsters whose keys required about 50 pounds of finger pressure. I got my speed up to 80 words per minute. My hands and fingers became STRONG. I could break a door lock just by twisting the knob off.

Advanced Individual Training (AIT) was nothing like Basic. We had classroom time, and some limited duty time, but the rest of our days and nights were free. I had not forgotten my earlier radio engineering training. I just breezed through it all.

The best part for me was the heated covered swimming pool just beyond the end of my big brick barracks building. After each day's class, I trudged through the deep snow to the pool, changed into my uniform trunks, and swam in warm water while steam condensed against the big windows. The pool was co-ed. The girls were required to wear one-piece black swimming uniforms. No close encounters were allowed in the pool. Any fraternization occurred elsewhere.

I did not fraternize. I did not need to. (Well, maybe a little, just a few kisses and fondles and feelups and fingerings...) Every Friday night, I was back on the train to New York.

My AIT cycle lasted eight weeks. I was in the loft every Friday and Saturday night. Days, all of us did the city. Nights, we chatted and danced and laughed and loved, except that I had to catch the Sunday night train back to base.

Long blonde Faith and equally-long dark Bonifacia returned from Brazil in late January; dirty-blonde Ann and bubbly little Lucia, very Mayan, got back from Guatemala a week later. Hope and Juanita would leave for Veracruz just after I finished my training. In our time together, I felt like I had been adopted into a big happy sexy family.

Then came my last weekend in New York. I was due to ship out mid-week, destination as yet unknown.

Angelina and I and the three other couples sat around the big dining table eating Chinese take-out; nobody had kitchen duty this day. We tossed out the paper plates and cartons, grabbed wine, and adjourned to comfortable seating. Ann threw yet more coal into the pot-belly stove, fueling it to a cherry-red glow.

Faith, the oldest of us and our honorary den mother, rose and came to me, took my hand, pulled me up, held my head in her hands, then dropped her hands to my shoulders.

"Ron, we've really loved having you here. You've been great. You've been wonderful with Lina. And you've been discrete. You haven't been a pig. You haven't intruded on anyone. You're a gentleman."

"Ron, my sisters and our partners have talked about this. We want to show you how much we appreciate and love you. We want to make love with you. No fucking us any more, we're past that, but we want to love you."

The space heated, and not just from the stove. Boni and Lucia brought out a pile of big soft weavings and spread them on the floor, surrounding the stove. Lina started undressing me, as each couple undressed each other. We soon all stood naked, hand-in-hand, a circle of flesh around a glowing pyre, sweating already.

Faith looked at Lina and asked, "May I?" and Lina nodded.

Faith laid me on my back and straddled my loins and leaned over and kissed me thoroughly. Then she slid down my body and took my cock into her well-remembered mouth. Her partner Boni straddled my head, facing her, and lowered her dark cunt to my tongue. I fed. Faith slurped me gloriously. I came fairly quickly -- no surprise.

Faith swallowed and moved back, and Boni leaned over and took my now half-soft cock between her lips. We 69'd happily, my tongue probing and crossing her pussy and my hands holding her breasts until she moaned loudly on my cock and came juicily on my face. Faith pulled Boni off me, rolled on her back, positioned Boni between her legs, and said, "It's my turn now." Excited Boni eagerly ate her partner.




Ron's Journal 06



Angelina came over and kissed me. I saw that Hope and Nita were kissing and stroking each other, and Ann and Lucia were 69ing. I watched both couples carefully. I love to watch loving women, loving.

Lina went to Hope and Nita and touched them and said, "You should have Ron now."

Hope and Nita lay on either side of side of me, nestling against me, kissing my face and each other, rubbing my chest, my sides, my hips, my legs. They leaned up and traded stuffing their breasts in my face, dragging their nipples across my mouth. Their hands circled my inflamed cock. I could get no stiffer.

Nita rolled me on my side, bent my body, wrapped her legs around my head, and stuffed her pussy into my mouth. Hope put her legs around Nita's head for the same and swallowed my cock. Our daisychain triad pulsed and shook, our hands exploring each other's bodies as we slurped and moaned. We all came, me last. We stayed together for some minutes, savoring our flavors, until we just fell apart.

Ann and Lucia had disengaged from their 69 to watch our triad. Ann dragged Lucia over to me saying, "We've gotta get some of this!"

Ann and Lucia started in together on my cock, first with just their hands, then with their tongues. I glanced up from watching their dancing tongues to see Faith and Hope with Lina between them. They were kissing Lina's face and breasts while fingering her, together, and she was smoothing their bodies in return. The image zapped my mind and I almost came again -- but then the tongues stopped.

Faith looked at Angelina, looked at me, and said, "I think they're ready now."

Hope led Lina over to me and said, "Take him, he's all yours."

Lina kissed me, then straddled my waist and lowered her open pussy onto my straining cock. She twisted a bit, realigned, slid down until we were fully engaged, my cock sheathed in her like a knife. She slid up and down. The other women had their hands and mouths on us both, fondling and kissing our bodies as we moved together. I raised my hips to meet her pelvic thrusts, faster and stronger, drowning in the sensations that seemed to last forever.

After an infinite timeless time of ascending pleasure, Lina came loudly, repeatedly, enormously, crying "RON-RON-RON-RON-RON-RONNNNN". And then again. And again. Her orgasms finally triggered mine. I shouted something, I don't know what. I felt myself empty into her, and again, till my innards had liquefied and voided, and only a dried husk of me remained.

The women continued to handle and mouth Lina and me everywhere. My whole body felt afire, sensitive to the point of complete overload, spasming uncontrollably. Lina looked as if she felt the same, constantly twitching and moaning. She toppled on me in exhaustion when the hands allowed. I was still inside her.

The hands left us. When I could open my eyes again, I saw the three couples coupling, each pair of partners wrapping around themselves. I tore my eyes away from the maddening sight and saw Lina move her eyes from our companions to my own eyes. She looked at me in wonder, and she kissed me.

Our kiss lasted another infinite eternity. I stiffened within her again, hardened, probed. I rolled her off me, sat up cross-legged, pulled her into my lap, and impaled her wonderful cunt again. We sat in the kundalini yoga position for what seemed like hours, breasts and mouths together, breathing together, existing together.

Juanita fetched a pile of blankets to throw over each couple. We fell asleep before the glowing stove.

We all slept late Sunday morning. Somehow, coffee and tea were prepared and poured, granola and yogurt and fruits were consumed -- nobody had strength for anything more elaborate. We stoked up the fire. We sat together on the spread-out weavings, still naked. My hands and eyes caressed these beautiful women. I cried tears of pure joy.

We spent the day that way, holding and loving our partners but touching each other as we talked of our hopes and dreams. It was the best day of my life, and the worst, because I knew it could never happen again.

We finally dressed and walked downstairs for a goodbye dinner at a nearby Punjabi restaurant. We washed down hot curries and vindaloos with cold beer, and joked, and laughed, and disturbed the other patrons, but too bad for them!

And then it was time to leave. I kissed the sisters and their partners goodbye. I picked up my duffel and guitar. Lina walked me to the uptown subway station and stopped me at the top of the stairs.

"M'seur Ronaldo, I don't know if I'll ever see you again. I won't say adieu. What do they say in Hawai'i? Aloha. Goodbye and hello. Goodbye for now. Hello if you ever return. I will never forget our time here. Never. Ever."

Lina kissed me softly on my lips, and turned and walked back to the loft; and my heart shattered and fell to tiny broken pieces as I descended to the underground maze that would take me away.

NEXT: Kansas sucks, and blows.

******************** 13: The Big Red One -- Sublimated Sex

I left New York on Sunday night and spent the next two days being pulverized by the base check-out process. The Army lives on paper and it fed well those days.

On Tuesday, we finally learned our next postings. I had put in for Panama or Korea. Ha ha. The posted list of names was entirely alphabetical. If my name had been just one slot higher, I would have been assigned to Army-Navy Liaison in Key West, Florida. Surf's up, dudes! Instead, I was going to a tank unit in... Kansas. Miserable fucking Kansas. Oh shit.

First Infantry Division. The Big Red One. If you've gotta HAVE one, have a big RED one -- that's the slogan.

I arrived in the midst of a blizzard that had knocked out all power within 80 miles. Portable generators were hauled from motor pools to barracks to keep the troops from freezing to death. Welcome to Kansas, where it's either too hot and too windy, or too cold and too windy.

I was posted to the communications section of an armored battalion headquarters. They already had too many RATTmen. And because of my civilian history, I could not get a SECRET clearance. So whenever SECRET traffic was sent or received, I had to leave. Pretty funny, hey?

The commander saw me running around with a camera and assigned me to be unit photographer. I was given the downstairs mop closet as a darkroom, about 6 by 12 feet. I bought all my own gear and chemicals and film and paper. I owned everything I shot. It was a dream job.

I shot every event and action involving the unit. I shot aerial survey photos from helicopters. I shot our month-long wargames in Germany, where I was the first one up every morning, the last one in at night, documenting everything. I sampled local moonshine schnapps. No naked girls, though. Too bad.

I shot many official and unofficial portraits. Guys liked me to shoot their faces in high-contrast, high-detail, every pore and scar and sweat rivulet showing, and to shoot them with their girlfriends in soft misty romantic moods. I charged enough for the unofficial work to cover my costs and pay for materials for the official shots, and a bit more.

Some of the unofficial shoots were hot. Troops and their gals rented motel rooms off-base and called me in for personal porno sessions. I was invited to share in the fun a few times. Like I said -- a dream job.

"OK Darlene, roll onto your side now. Sarge, lift her leg and slide right in," I directed.

"Ron, can you put that camera on automatic? I sure do want pictures of your cock in my mouth while Sarge fucks me. That OK with you, Sarge?"

"Yeah, that'll be super sexy. Ron, stick your dick in her face."

"I never refuse a direct order, Sarge," I said compliantly.

___

My old Hollyweird lover Keri was now an Army electronics specialist who was constantly on short assignments at various bases. She kept track of my location. Whenever we were nearby, we got an off-post motel room and fucked constantly. She was still so thin that she hardly dented her uniform. We made no promises to each other.

Girls were available in the off-post town -- for a price. I felt uncomfortable with doing business with an off-post prostitute. A few of my buddies decided to book a girl for the night. I was invited, but quietly declined. My buddies all got butt-shots in the post VD clinic a few days later. Ha!

I hung with a biker group in a nearby town. I photographed their runs, their interactions with police, their bikes and their women. I even had photos of them published in EASYRIDERS magazine. Some of the mamas were very very friendly, although we had to be discreet.

"Hey there, Specialist Ron, why don't you show me just how special you are?"

"How special am I? Well, see this 210mm lens here? That's almost how long I am."

"Let's just see... oooh, that's BIG. How do you taste? Mmmm... pretty damn good!"

I learned my lesson long ago: Promise her love, but give her nine inches.

I kept up pen-pal correspondence with ever-waffling Sherry in upstate New York, with Clem The Chemist in prison, with Yoko in Hollyweird, with Jim and Tahoe on the Funny Farm, and with my sisters. I tried to correspond with Angelina but she said she wanted no part of a long-distance relationship.

My closest confidant and friend on post was Samuel, a young first lieutenant, short and pale and canny, a friend-of-a-sorta-friend. The sorta-friend was a San Francisco underground cartoonist I had sometimes hung with innocently. This cartoonist gained notoriety with his death, strangling himself while playing auto-erotic asphyxiation games. Samuel said he was writing a biography. I doubted that this would help his military career. He shrugged. What career?

"You spend your life here on photography," Samuel said. "You know it's sexual sublimation. You're in the darkroom all the time because you're not getting enough pussy."

My HOW TO SHOOT NUDES et cetera books often kept me occupied during darkroom sessions. Good thing I could lock the door.

I had told other troops about my New York activities. When I mentioned seven women, they usually shrugged and said yeah, right. When I told Samuel, he seemed to expect no less of me.

"So you're with all these amazing gals off-and-on for almost three months, and screwing one regularly -- and you didn't do much photography, right? See, like I said, it's sublimation, a substitution."

___

Other than the job, Kansas sucked. I took no leave, knowing that if I left, I would not return. And my dream job was not permanent. The new battalion commander did not see a need for a photographer. His new sergeant-major sent me to the motor pool for permanent clean-up detail. Some NCOs jealous of my former privileged status took the opportunity to make my life miserable. I was maximally pissed off.

I had joined for a two-year enlistment, thinking I could extend if I liked the Army. I did not extend. I used my saved two months of leave to exit early. I checked out of Fort Bumfuck just before Labor Day.

The check-out process included turning in all equipment, although I managed to get away with an extra field jacket and a parka. I packed all my personal gear and relocated to the open transit barracks for my last night on base. After a late evening of beer and bullshitting, I nestled into my bunk.

I had a rare erotic dream. My flesh was warm, excited. My cock was wetly ecstatic. And I slowly drew away from sleep and became aware that I wasn't dreaming. In the darkness, I felt a mouth gently and expertly working on my cock. Waves of pleasure were building.

I reached out and felt a head with short nappy hair. As my excitement grew, I sank my fingers into the nap and pushed my hips forward, face-fucking the invisible mouth's fat soft lips. Hands pushed my hands away and the head and mouthed moved at a faster tempo. I reached under my tee and tweaked my own nipples.

My cock was held deep in this anonymous throat. I spasmed, shooting globs of glop into my excited sperm receptacle. The mouth pulled my cock out slightly and vacuumed my jiz until I was drained dry, tongue and lips working with less pressure, until my cock started going limp.

The mouth left my cock. Warm juicy lips gently pressed against mine. I held that nappy head and smooth face for a few moments. Then my unknown fellator rose and walked away silently. I wasn't even sure of their gender. I pulled the blankets back over me and returned to sleep. At least I got a good send-off from the Army, hey?

NEXT: Sometimes, there is no escape.



Ron's Journal 07



Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.

I highly recommend that you read all previous chapters before starting on this piece.

******************** 14: I Live And Die For Chance Encounters

I had bought a big old Plymouth station wagon from my platoon sergeant. I filled it to overflowing with my belongings: a break-down photo lab, cameras, boxes full of books and charts, my current acoustic guitar, my few clothes. Even the front passenger seat was stacked full.

I drove westward across Kansas though torrential rains from the edge of a Pacific hurricane. The storm cleared by the time I rolled over the Rockies into Taos, New Mexico. I poked around quaint old photogenic Taos for a couple days, and then drove the High Road into Santa Fe.

I had plotted various options for my post-Fort-Bumfuck life. Since I was officially on active duty for almost two more months, I had thought to stash my stuff at Dad's in southern California and catch free military transport flights around the world. Spain and Greece attracted me; I wanted to see Sevilla, and Santorini. Then I wanted college, maybe a music school in Boston or the art school in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

But Santa Fe killed those plans. I found Mir again. Mir, my old Hollywood High lover.

I was driving in slow constant traffic just off the Plaza when I saw her -- older, leaner, more beautiful than ever, wearing sports shoes and a short black skirt and a fitted white blouse, pacing down the sidewalk. I stopped in traffic and burst from my door.

"Mir! Mir! MIR!!!"

She turned and saw me. She looked puzzled. Somebody honked.

"Mir! Wait right there till I park. I'll be right back," I called over the annoyed honking.

A city parking structure was on the next block. I ran back to Mir.

I stood in front of her, panting. She stood with her arms crossed, staring into my face.

"Ron? Is it really you?"

Mir hugged me, held me. I laughed and almost cried.

"C'mon Ron," she said, leading me to a coffee shop.

Mir filled me in on her last few years. She had just graduated. She would stay in Santa Fe until the winter semester started at Duke for post-grad work in Anthropology. She waitressed in this very coffee shop. She shared an apartment near the plaza with her... steady girlfriend.

"Ron, I'm really glad to see you, but you can't stay with me and Cecile. We're a team."

"Mir, I'll get a room here, I'll be nearby for you, whenever and wherever you want."

Mir shook her head and said, "Do what you want but I can't be with you sexually. We're over now."

I did not beg. I held her hand and thanked her and walked out.

I found a tiny casita not far from the Plaza, available for weekly rental. I moved in. I took coffee in Mir's cafe every day, but she made it clear that we only had a waitress-customer relationship now. I suspect she feared that if we were any closer, she wouldn't be able to escape me.

I still spent many days in the Plaza with my guitar, singing for tips and comestibles again, and for companionship. I was still a minstrel singing seductive songs. My baritone-tenor voice and fingerpicking skills were still aphrodisiacs.

I found Anita living in a casita near mine, a wild girl with Old Spanish blood, with an insatiable desire for rough sex. I provided that. We probably frightened the mice. I found Elena in a campground in the mountains above town. I moved this not-tall Greek girl into my room for intricate fun that we sometimes shared with Anita. I found other girls, brought them to my room to play with, or they took me to theirs.

But I never found my way back into Mir's heart. After a month and a half, I drove on, back to California.

NEXT: Diminished expectations.

******************** 15: California Dreaming: Mountain and Desert

My six-week Santa Fe layover had killed my quest for free overseas flights, and had also smothered my other ambitions somewhat. I switched into hang-around-and-see-what-happens mode.

Two important things happened rather quickly. I joined the Army Reserves. And I reconnected with my fuck-friends Will and Cassie Sykes.

I was somewhat coerced into the Reserves. I was in a park near my old hometown, a park where in earlier years I'd watched a AAA baseball team's spring training, and heard live music by big-name surf bands.

The park also contained a Reserves armory housing a medical unit. With nothing else to do, I wandered in.

The only occupant was a trimly uniformed woman. Valerie was shoulder-height to me, maybe a little older, cropped brown hair, nicely curved, a Spec 6 medic working full-time in administration. We exchanged pleasantries. She said I could have fun if I joined the Reserves. She poured me some wine. We chatted. She poured more wine. The afternoon passed.

She closed the office. I asked if she would like to go for a bite to eat. We munched the dinner specials at a decent taqueria, drank a few Modelo Negro beers, and a few more. After we drained our liquids, she took me home to her apartment. She nearly fucked me to death. And such a happy death!

Valerie liked to spin around on my cock. She laid me back. She impaled herself cowgirl style and humped frantically. She turned right by 90 degrees, her legs pointing to my left and humped some more. Then another quarter-turn, to reverse-cowgirl, and more humping. Then another twist, legs to my right, and further humping. And back to cowgirl. She said she liked different viewpoints. I didn't argue.

"Oh geez Ron, if you go in any deeper, I'll just fucking split apart!"

"That's what you wanted, isn't it? To explode into little gooey pieces?"

"Shit, does your cock run all the way up to my lungs? I can hardly breathe!"

"Baby, I'll cum right inside your skull. Here comes the brain fuck!"

I signed up for a four year commitment the next day. See what thinking with the little head causes? What the hell, I could sure use the money. And the pussy.

I looked up my ex-sex-toy and now ex-sister Bethany Hermann. She had recently published her first fantasy trilogy and was about to move to England. She told me that Will and Cassie Sykes had moved to the nearby mountains. I found them at the bookstore they managed near Lake Arrowhead. They invited me to move into their tiny three-story log cabin, owned of his parents. I accepted.

We went at it with about the same style as we had in Boston, without all the driving. I often shared the bed in their top-floor loft. Colder nights, we would cavort on blankets piled in front of the middle-floor wood fireplace. For privacy, I retreated to my unheated bed on the bottom floor, almost a basement, and boiled lots of tea with an electric immersion heater.

Will and I usually tag-teamed Cassie. I got adventurous one night and proposed a daisychain triad. Will was a little reluctant but Cassie dragged his face to her cunt and inhaled my stiff dick, and I took Will's long uncircumcised cock into my mouth. I finally learned what he tasted like. Not too bad.

I love triads. We always pulse and glow. This was my first as a cocksucker, and also Will's. He stayed reluctant. He did not really like switching and sucking cock. We only pulled these triads a couple times. Will started getting testy and sarcastic.

Things really broke down when my sister Lyn's old roommate Gwen found me. I drove her to the cabin. Will and Cassie suggested a four-way. Gwen begged off, saying she was still in a relationship with her young son's father. Will complained I was not contributing enough to our gatherings.

I took the hint and moved out.

(FAST FORWARD: Will died of Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma a couple years later, some time after a farewell three-way fuck. Cassie went back to Boston. I have not heard from her since.)
___

I was tired of living close to others. I wanted space. I found a cheap rental, a tiny cinderblock shack far out on the high desert near Joshua Tree, California. I slept on the shack's flat roof under impossibly bright stars on hot nights. Roadrunners ran across the roof (and me) at sunrise, a unique alarm clock.

Paved roads on the high desert were straight and long with mostly gentle grades. I pedaled my cheap 10-speed great distances out there. I ate too little, drank too much, but kept my body trim and tight.

The county's junior college had a branch campus nearby. I enrolled for classes in Desert Botany, Rock Climbing And Backcountry Rescue, Photography (advanced), a batch of required subjects, and to train as an EMT to supplement my Army Reserves medic training. Later semesters saw me in pre-med courses. The Reserves promised to pay my way through medical school if I qualified.

I took Spanish classes with a plump Cubana teacher, a physician's wife. They were of the elites that left after Castro's revolution. Mexicans laughed at my accent.

I practiced Spanish with fellow student Jenny, a couple years younger than me, a freckled Scandinavian girl-next-door. We lay on the town park's shaded lawn with flash cards, memorizing vocabulary. We practiced other oral skills in my bed. She had obviously practiced a great deal already. Jenny was too insatiable for me alone. She moved in with five Marine Corps cooks from the nearby base.

Felice was on my cat-dissection team in Anatomy class. Four students shared each preserved cat, taken to a different home on alternate days. Felice smelled much better than a dead cat. She was also married to a Marine Corps lieutenant, an aggressive guy who did not really like seeing his wife hanging around with an Army puke like me. Felice and I came close, but not quite close enough.

That summer, a major corporation recruited a few Desert Botany students for a three-week survey of the landscape, looking for jojoba bushes, whose oil could replace expensive whale oils. Our workdays lasted from five in the morning till noon, when the heat was too great. We wore as little clothing as possible.

Octavia was one of my Jojoba Survey teammates. Only tough boots, and a skimpy bikini under a loose light long shirt, covered her delicious well-tanned body as we hiked up dry washes together looking for fertile jojoba specimens suitable for commercial cultivation. We always retired to my shack in the afternoon for a quick shower and some not-so-quick sucking and fucking with no danger of human fertility. My vasectomy was still in place.

"Ron, the sun is behind the mountains. Let's go out back and fuck like dogs."

"I'll be your hound, baby, and you can be my bitch. Let's howl at the moon."

"And what did the kid say when he saw his folks fucking missionary-style?"

"'Roll her over, Daddy, I want puppies.' Now get down on your hands and knees." 

I drove to a Rainbow People's gathering in a wilderness in southwest New Mexico later that summer. Once again, thousands of naked people lived, ate, shat, fucked, etc out in the open for over a week. Once again, my guitar was a workable aphrodisiac. I drove lithe young Naomi home with me from the gathering but she did not stay long, preferring her old boyfriend in San Diego. She took her Buffalo Springfield tapes with her.
___

My unemployment and separation pay from the Army ran out. I needed money; the local ambulance service hired me as an EMT. I was sometimes on-call 24/7, waiting with a portable VHF radio for emergency calls. Being one of the few EMTs around brought me well-needed community appreciation but not much sex.

Sex came elsewhere. Mabs was a park ranger and one of my perennial Desert Botany classmates. Her tasty daughter Leonie, about to leave for university, was as cute (and as hot) as a bunny. Leonie and I had many intensive botanical discussions; at least that's what we called them. My stamen was glabrous for Leonie.

Linda, ten years my senior, organized benefit events. Her stepdaughter Connie, seven years my junior, loved to ride behind me on the Kawasaki 650 I would borrowed from Dad. Linda and Connie split their time between an apartment in Santa Monica, a cabin at Lake Arrowhead, another cabin at Joshua Tree.

Linda and I fucked at a local hot spring whenever she was around. Connie and I fucked wherever we could. Too bad I never got them together. That would have been a juice-fest!

But almost as good: I knocked on the Joshua Tree cabin door when Linda was elsewhere. The door opened on Connie and her friend Sara naked in bed. Yes, they invited me in. Yes, we had fun fun fun. And my mouth work impressed them both.

"Connie, where the fuck did you find this guy?"

"Mom brought him by one day. He started playing harmonica. I could tell he had a talented mouth. I was right. Mmmm, eat me some more, Ron..."

"You just keep him right there, I want his cock."

Sara hummed and buzzed so strongly when sucking my cock that it nearly fell apart. She hummed and buzzed into Connie's pussy too, and Connie nearly fell apart. I learned a few oral tricks from Sara, and threw them right back at her. We were all happy. Bzzzzz...

Army Reserves kept me busy one weekend each month. I drove to a training base on the coast for a few months, usually crashing with another trainee. Jennifer and Ramona were especially good for overnights, individually or together. 

When that training was done, I settled in to my local unit.

A couple Army Reserves medic gals got close to me, very close, like naked-in-a-hot-tub close, like slurp-whatever-protrudes close. One, lanky light-brown Leah, preferred underwater fucks. Another Linda, short and dark and intense, knew all the Reserves medevac chopper pilots, and arranged thrill-flights in Hueys out as far as Hearst Castle and Death Valley and the Grand Canyon. Yes, I have buzzed Hearst Castle at night. Fun.

I had further training at the Army's medical center in San Antonio, Texas. I walked all over town, saw the sights, and fraternized with fellow trainees. Yes, 'fraternized' means 'fucked'. I wasn't impressed by the Alamo, a monument to slavers. On my return flight, I sat next to the President's mother, no shit. She spilled my wine, bought me several more, and taught me how to cheat at Tic-Tac-Toe.

When I graduated the junior college with a 3.8 GPA and a worthless AA degree, I knew I had to leave Joshua Tree. I headed for a coastal university town south of San Francisco. I was on the periphery of my old stomping grounds again.

NEXT: Grinding to a conclusion.

******************** 16: Northward Bound: The End of the Trail

I hadn't enough of the right credits for university so I enrolled in more pre-med courses at the junior college a dozen miles away. With my only income being GI Bill and my Reserves pay, I hadn't much money for gas, so I pedaled my old 10-speed on the hilly route to school, back and forth, twice daily because my classes had a four-hour gap.

Thus I biked over two centuries every week, and more on weekends, along the coast or up into the hills. I was fit: 28 years old, 6'5" tall, 165 pounds, zero fat on my body. With my military short hair and my usual shirtless and cutoff-jeans-clad body, I was probably every gay guy's wet dream, except bear-lovers.

I found a room in an old Victorian house on the edge of downtown. I also found two girls named Margaret. To avoid confusion, I will call them Peg and Marg.

I volunteered to teach First Aid and CPR for the local Red Cross chapter. That is where I met Peg, a chestnut-haired beauty, nose-high to me, quite curvy, and half-wild. She came to the class with her guy Lars and insisted on Frenching during CPR practice.

I later found that she was scion of a prominent and quite wealthy Central Valley ranching family, from a town named after her grandfather. I also found that her full juicy breasts bore absolutely flat nipples, with no protrusion at all.

I saw Peg's juicy breasts right away. Peg and Lars invited me to join them in a naked sauna after class. Peg kept 'practicing' CPR by Frenching us alternately.

Peg removed her mouth from mine and asked, "Am I doing it right yet?"

I pulled her back and said, "Let's try it again and make sure."

Peg moved to Lars, worked her tongue in his mouth, then said, "See what I've learned already!"

Lars grinned.

Peg later drove to my house by herself, pushed open my door, stripped off her tee and shorts (nothing underneath), and plopped in my extra chair.

"So, Sergeant Ron, what are you doing this evening? Eating out, maybe?"

Peg spread her legs wide.

"You probably have excellent taste in dining, but I should check first to be sure," I replied.

Yes, she tasted great. Everywhere. That's when I first found her puffless non-nipples. Dollar-pancake sized and colored aureoles, dime-like nipples. Getting them as thick as a dime meant she was very very excited.

I ate her. She ate me. We ate each other, fingers flying furiously. My cum overflowed her mouth and coated her long hair. We fucked missionary-style, cowgirl-style, doggie-style, panda-style, wolverine-style, back to 69ing, and then with my cock in her cunt in various bodily orientations, our legs wrapped for penetration, et cetera. She came often. I came enough.

I told Peg she was beautiful, because she was, whether she believed it or not. She told me I was handsome, and I felt flattered. Most of our conversation involved giving directions, and grunting loudly.

Peg became a great friend, not just for the sex, but because she was a cashier at the college cafeteria. I ate many big sandwiches for which she did not charge me. She was a lifeline of survival. And she offered me much more: her life. We were very close for the two semesters I was there. Very close. Almost permanent. Almost.

Marg was very different, a short Filipina with butt-length straight black hair. She was an Army Reserves medic in the Bay Area company I had transferred to. When I first saw her hair I *had* to run my fingers through it repeatedly. She took this as a proposition. She led me out to her van and fucked me half to death. Her slight buckteeth always seemed to imperil the integrity of my cock when she blew me, but I survived.

Marg and I tended to fuck wherever we were, including public beaches and parks and roadsides. She liked to be in control so she rode me like a cowgirl a lot. She left salacious notes under my door, in my locker, in my field jacket pockets. She mailed me nude photos of herself and her sisters.

At home one day, I heard Marg's familiar honk. I looked out my window and saw her van, with her standing beside it. And most of her family was with her, all staring up at the big Gringo she thought she had snagged. I was expecting another fuckfest so I had to dress rather quickly. Oops.
___

My room was at the front of the old Victorian house near downtown, next to the stairs from the street, my windows overlooking the street. A sticky sliding door opened from my room to the hallway. I usually left it open, with a curtain hanging over the doorway for visual privacy and easy access.

Behind my room was David's. David was a jerk, but the house lease was in his name, so nothing much could be done. Behind David's room was Michelle's, a tall fleshy (and flashy) redheaded aerobics instructor and a fairly committed lesbian.

Two straight Nam vets, Jerry and Jim, shared an upstairs room. They were gone most nights. Turns out, they were tending their pot plantation off in the woods. They brought home a harvest most mornings and kept the house high.

Another upstairs room belonged to Quentin, a grad student and teaching assistant at the university, and Nicole, his short big-titted English girlfriend. Quentin was gone about 22 hours each day. Nicole sunbathed topless in the backyard garden. Yes, she was quite pneumatic.




Ron's Journal 07



I've never been a worshipper of huge breasts. Udders don't turn me on. But Nicole's rack swayed me. And her.

Nicole came to me one afternoon for a back massage. I thoroughly massaged her sore back, shoulders, hips, thighs (front and back and sides), breasts, mons, and clit. Nicole's nipples and cunt deserved taste tests. She passed easily.

Nicole moaned like a haunted house when I mouthed those great firm real breasts. She came like a steam-engine when I slurped her clit, chanting "ug-ug-ug-ug". She screamed like a banshee when my cock brought her off. Just an innocent back massage, hey?
___

I was studying in my room one afternoon when Peg pushed past the doorway curtain.

"My back hurts, Ron. I need a rub. A real rub."

Peg stripped and lay on her belly on my bed, her feet towards the doorway, her face into a pillow. I stripped and straddled her butt and started working on her back. I moved around, faced the other way, straddled her butt again, and worked on her legs.

Barefoot and topless Nicole pushed past the doorway curtain, and opened her mouth, and shut it.

"Peg, would you like some more of this?" I asked, gesturing Nicole to come forward.

"Oh yeah, that would be... what? What?" Peg said as Nicole pulled off her bikini bottoms and straddled Peg's legs.

"Peg's ass needs some special care, really special care," I said as I slid toward Peg's head.

Nicole started kneading Peg's bubble butt deeply, all around, and down between Peg's thighs. I moved off the head of the mattress, knelt before Peg's pillow-propped face, and stuck my cock in her mouth.

Peg groaned on my cock as Nicole's hands worked into her cunt. Peg's hands grabbed my thighs and pulled me closer to her face. I tweaked my own nipples for further stimulation.

Michelle pushed past the doorway curtain and stopped dead. She surveyed the situation and smiled.

"Michelle, c'mon and help us," I said, "and Nicole, bring your cunt up here."

Nicole turned turtle, scooting forward back-down and tits-up, butt raised, supporting her body on her elbows and her braced legs, and stuck her pussy in my face. Michelle prudently closed and locked the sliding door, removed her tee and bra, slid between Peg's legs, and started eating Peg's pussy and anus from behind.

Peg seemed to go into sensory overload, moaning loudly, twitching moderately. She sucked my cock as if fellating a banana. Nicole was quivering as my mouth assaulted her pouting pussy. Michelle kept mouthing Peg from behind but reached over Nicole's shoulders to tweak her expansive nipples.

Sandwiched between three other bodies, Peg convulsed. Nicole thrashed and chugged and rolled off Peg. I pulled away from Peg's mouth. I had not cum yet. Michelle flipped Peg over and dove in to eat her out. The big sandwich had fallen apart.

Nicole stared at my still-stiff dick.

"I say, Ron, you look like you need some special care yourself."

Nicole pulled me onto my back next to Peg and impaled herself, sheathing my cock to the ultimate depths. I turned Peg's face to mine and kissed her. Michelle had her face in Peg's cunt, one hand at Peg's nipples, and one hand on Nicole's thigh. I had one hand on Peg's head and the other hand at Nicole's breasts.

We all moved together like a noisy fleshy Rube Goldberg machine.

After a few orgasms, we moved around. Nicole stripped the rest of Michelle's clothes off, laid her back, and ate her. I angled Peg on the mattress on her hands and knees so I could fuck her doggy-style while she and Michelle pleasured each other's breasts. A pleasant time was had by all.

Ah, the Big Sandwich. This was one of my greatest geometry exercises ever.
___

I found two lightly-dressed crop-haired girls, Greta and her friend Ilsa, standing on a street corner looking at a map. I rolled up on my bike, asked if they needed directions. They were German nationals, had come to town for a women's conference. We chatted as I walked them to their destination. I gave Greta my address.

Greta stopped by every few days. She came to visit Michelle more often than me but we always chatted. Greta usually arrived just as a girl was leaving my doorway. Greta would give me a crinkle-faced look and a head-shake. Was she impressed by my variety of visitors? Were my visitors impressed that I had a woman waiting outside my door when they left?

I joined a single's hiking club for weekend stomps into the coastal mountains with a variety of unattached people of all ages. Each hike was followed by a pizza-and-wine pigout and usually some couplings or triplings. The membership constantly shifted as singles became attached and new singles joined.

At one hike, I met Molly, and my life changed again, forever.

The group gathered one morning in a parking lot. I stood in my near-naked splendor, wearing just hiking shoes and cutoffs and a tank top, reading maps of our route and a botanical guide to the area.

A tall woman in denim shorts and a red blouse showing good legs and big tits approached me, chatted, and stayed with me during the hike. We walked slowly, discussing the botany and geology of the route, while all the other hikers seemed in a hurry to get somewhere.

Molly later told me that she was attracted because I was tall and good-looking, and because I could read.

"Hmmm, he has maps and guidebooks, so at least he's literate."

After the hike and the wine and pizza, Molly asked if I would like to see her place. I tossed my bike in the back of her old pickup truck and asked her to stop by my room so I could get my guitar and a jacket.

Molly drove to her cedar-paneled trailer in a park above the coastal cliffs. We lounged, drank more wine. I played guitar and sang. I kissed her mouth, and played some more. She opened her shirt. I kissed her breasts, and played some more. She lit candles and dragged me to her bed.

We were energetic, so energetic that we knocked a candle over and draperies caught fire. We splashed water on the flames before the trailer burnt down. That was the beginning of our hot relationship, lasting over thirty years now.

Molly was a big dark-haired Irish girl, over six feet tall, with a big Irish cop father even taller than I was. Her dad had also been a San Francisco bicycle courier in his youth, before WW2. He ran background checks on all her boyfriends. Somehow, I passed. Two decades later, I watched him die after a fall.

Molly was a computer programmer for the city, working in a downtown office. She often came to my room for noontime quickies. We would suck and fuck, then lay in bed reading geological maps. Her trailer park was near my room-to-school bike route, so I often stopped in for dinner or overnight stays. Her cat liked me. Yes, I passed the cat-scan test.

I was also involved with a couple other women from my Army Reserves unit, and with girls I charmed with my guitar, and sometimes with Michelle's visitors. I was a rather busy guy.

Sandra was head of nursing in my unit, an ER nurse in daily life. She stood over six feet tall, not much shorter than me, trim and athletic with straight auburn hair. She invited me to her place one night, then kicked me out of bed when a boyfriend came by around midnight. He left before dawn. I crawled back into her bed for sloppy thirds. I wasn't too proud for leftovers.

Sandra soon resigned from the Reserves and signed on as medical officer for a year-long round-the-world catamarin cruise. Lucky gal!

Trinh was the unit's wardmaster, responsible for setting up our field hospital. She was tall for a VietNamese, with slightly surgically enhanced breasts and a wicked sense of humor. She had me drive her jeep to field exercises, not always by the shortest route. We usually arrived a bit late and just slightly out of uniform.

Trinh had complete conscious control of her cunt muscles. She could move her strong cuntal ridges like fingers. Her vagina felt like a milking machine. (Yes, I tried one once.) And she cracked bad jokes as she squeezed me dry.

"Ron, how did you like that move? I call it the Alcatraz, because there's no escape."

I groaned as her grip tightened, like a strong fist.

"I watched the way you jerk off, how your fingers move. Here, does this feel like that?"

Her muscles jostled and damn, they felt like my hand.

"Yeah, I'm even better at jerking you than you are. My cunt can be your handy girl, OK?"

She could stretch my tongue into a long noodle too.
___

Juggling women can be complicated. At any moment, I might have any of various girls come through my doorway, often with Greta waiting outside, marveling at us. Somehow I avoided toxic simultaneous appearances, although I had near-collisions, and of course the Big Sandwich. No fatalities, whew.

Molly was especially wary of Peg and Marg. She had good reason to be. Molly had seen little Marg leave my house. She almost caught Marg sneaking out of her (Molly's) own place after a tryst. Molly and I socialized with Peg and Lars, went to their parties, crowded into their hot tub, shared a sauna. Peg and Lars had a convenient partnership, not a commitment. Yes, Molly was well aware of my closeness to Marg and especially to Peg.

As my second semester drew to an end, I had to make a tough decision. Should I transfer to university here? Should I work towards medical school and the Reserve's free ride? Molly was offered a job with a huge pay increase from a big computer shop north of San Francisco. Should I stay here, or move with Molly? Should I accept Peg's offer of a life together, with her family's money? Could I be a gigolo?

I felt physically closest to Peg, and mentally closest to Molly, except for her monogamous bias. I was not sure of my own ambitions.

My basic options were: 1) stay, free and single; 2) go, with Molly; 3) ride, with Peg.

Peg forced my decision.

We were in my bed on a night I had saved for her. We'd had tons of great sex. Peg rolled out of our third slurpy 69, scooted around, held me, kissed me, snuggled into my strong shoulder. She looked at me and spoke quietly.

"Ron, where will you go from here? Will you be with me? Will you be with Molly?"

I was a bit drunk and foolish. I stupidly spoke the truth.

"I don't know for sure. Molly and I seem to fit together well."

Peg snuggled closer and did not talk. We fell asleep.

That was not our last time together. Peg would come to my room, or I would ride to hers and Lars' place in the hills, and we would enjoy each other fully, but now with a pale curtain drawn between us. Neither of us said so, but she and I were both trying to change my mind. We failed.
___

Molly and I gave a farewell party for all her and my friends before her new employer moved our belongings to our new home, a farmhouse between the North Bay and the coast. We held the party in my rooming house's back yard. Beer and BBQ and hash and hugs abounded, and most partiers even remained clothed.

Peg and Lars gave us a special goodbye party. They hauled us to the hot pools at Esalan, in Big Sur. Ocean waves crashed below us. Naked people (mostly women) walked and lounged in the steam. The four of us sat together in a small pool, Peg opposite me, our toes in each other's crotches, rubbing. Our farewell fondles, hey?

Molly and I moved north and grew closer. We spent our weekends camping, on the coast or in the mountains. We lasted a full Saturday in a tent on a rocky headland, naked, high on psilocybin mushrooms, in a tantric yoga position, communicating telepathically and sexually.

We visited her folks at their Sierra Nevada Mountains cabin every few weeks. One night, after some especially energetic fuck-till-you-drop sex atop blankets spread over the thickly-carpeted floor of the cabin's den, we were panting and snuggling and murmuring.

"Hey, do you want to get married one of these days?" I asked.

"Sure," she said.

I rolled over and crashed. Molly later told me that she couldn't get to sleep for hours, wondering just what the hell she had gotten herself into. Her first husband had been a jerk.

Molly and I married under the oaks in the front yard of our freshly-painted farmhouse a few months later in Spring 1980. The local Unitarian marrying-and-burying guy officiated. Dad photographed. Mom passed out. Our do-it-yourself garden party drew friends and family from all over the continent: cousins, workmates, Army buddies, old lovers and their kids.

Jerry and Jim, the Viet vet potgrowers, brought a harvest. Peg and Lars gave us a spa pass. Close friends gave us a tinfoil pyramid containing Steve Martin 'Pharaoh' tee-shirts and tickets to the first KING TUT exhibition. Guests played horseshoes in the side yard. Some got totally pissed. More than a few slept on our floor that night.

That was the beginning, not the end. We never screwed anyone else. We came close. We had offers. But I guess we became too co-dependent.

Our closest encounter was with a short intense mouthy co-worker, Evelyn, whom we nicknamed Eager Beaver. Evelyn invited us to her central Berkeley home for a weekend, giving us the king bed in the guest room. We settled down and dowsed the lights. Evelyn scampered in and asked to join us.

We all looked at each other. I envisaged Evelyn energetically going down on both of us, and me pounding her. Then we envisaged her telling everybody at the office about the encounter. We cautiously declined.

Evelyn visited us many times for weekend layovers. She often got naked. We never quite got together.
___

I switched from medicine to computers -- less blood and shorter hours. I graduated from a North Bay college with a computer science degree, and was hired by Molly's employer. My bad heart forced me out of work a few years later. It will kill me soon. My hair was totally silver by the time I was 35. I am just as tall as I was, a bit heavier, and I am going blind and deaf.

Molly and I reunited with my beautiful adopted-out daughter in 2000. She married a celebrity chef. Our wedding was the best we have attended; theirs was next best, a formal masque in a gothic hall at Hallowe'en, with feasting provided by top Bay Area chefs. I wore a woven orange robe and a black feathered mask. We now have grandchildren. My genepool survives, despite the vasectomy.

We had good and bad times. I eventually quit drinking. Medicinal cannabis sustains me now.

We have traveled. We especially love driving through Mexico and Central America. We have ranged all over the Southwest and own a museum-quality collection of Native American crafts and arts. I have dozens of guitars and other stringed instruments, dozens of cameras, and not enough time to use them.

I have many regrets of my many fuckups in life -- but FUCK THAT! All my bad choices still led me to a great place. I very much enjoyed the vast majority of the girls (and a couple men) I have lusted over and loved. Would I change anything? No, because then I would not be me. Molly and I would not be where and what we are. We are happy.

I will not let myself be crushed by the bones of lives I never lived.

I have always loved drowning in pussy. I always will. Molly's pussy is still great fun. Her 38F tits ain't bad, either.

It's been a hell of a ride.

----- AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is the end of the main sequence of my uncle Ron's journal. I may edit and adapt and post more of Ron's stories if possible. Stay tuned. --Hypoxia