Hippies On The Beachbyfluidline1©
Ch. 1: GOA
A tiny piece of land that one wouldn’t probably see on any of those globes put on display on a desk. And if one would, the name would take up more space than the tiny dot it represents.
Goa. A land of archival temples and churches, of narrow alleys and modern highways, of gentle, swaying palm trees fringing some of the loveliest beaches dotting the south-western coast of India.
Goa. Along with the beaches of Kerala, a few miles further down south, and often referred to as the Indian Miami beaches.
Goa. A place, it is said, made by the Gods themselves and where the tourist influx is so great throughout the year, it is impossible to tell who is the native and who is the foreigner.
Goa. The Indian army overthrew the last Portuguese bastions in India, with not-so-surprising ease, (as most Portuguese were trying to flee the country anyway) as late as in 1960. In so much of a hurry were the Portugal to flee; they forgot to pack up and carry with them the preserved dead body of St. Xavier. It still lies in the ancient church as mute testimony to the Catholics original brain wave of converting the starving Hindu masses (already burdened by the thieving British) by literally buying them off.
And finally, Goa, where the booze flows in bigger torrents than the water off some of the water falls that dot the rocks in monsoons, and with the right connections, you could find everything: from the ordinary herb, ganja (cannabis indicia) to refined heroin.
Goa became one of the unofficial headquarters of the “flower children” that sprung up in the sixties. It remained, in fact, their only recognized headquarter from the mid-sixties to the late seventies, having been driven out from most other parts of the world.
Back during those days, the very idea of any Indian youth wanting to go to Goa for a picnic was not at all considered to be an idea at all. In particular, the youth were warned of the impending danger of coming across those “horrible, dirty and long haired bastards” who strolled around the beaches without a stitch on, and thought nothing of making out on the beaches in full view of the public.
Without a doubt of course, the elders also knew about the perils of the youth lured by the local whores; not that they were particularly concerned about soliciting their wares to them, the foreigners paid more, but the possibilities did exist.
And so it was that I decided to take a week off and visit Goa without informing to the elders about the actual destination. I was curious about the whole thing, and, never having visited the place, my curiosity finally got the better of me.
With my best friend Vijay, I caught an early morning train that was expected to reach Goa late in the evening. Fortunately for us, we could tell the elders that we were taking the train to Bombay, which also left at about the same time that the train to Goa did.
The train reached Vasco, a port, some twenty miles or so off our intended destination at Goa.
“It’s a pity they don’t have railway stations near the beaches,” Vijay had remarked.
I am twenty-one, a six foot slightly built boy, around a hundred and twenty pounds, with long brown hair that covered most of my forehead and hid all of my collar. My complexion is wheat-like, and with my rather large nose, dark wide eyes and thin lips, I suppose I look every inch the innocent boy next door, which I am. Vijay, on the other hand was around five feet eight, slightly fairer, a hundred and sixty pounds of muscle and very much like the guy who knows the ways of the world, which he did.
I guess, we were as different as chalk and cheese in almost every respect. I am the financier, Vijay, the guy who got the works that were needed. I spoke fluent English; Vijay could barely utter a legible sentence in that lingo. I was studying for my engineering while Vijay was studying for nothing.
Above all, I had never had any sex; Vijay was an expert.
“Man,” a friend of ours had told us. “You get to see literally everything. Those foreigners really have a bang! I mean, you don’t get to see just tits and pussy, you actually get a ringside view of hot fucking if you are smart enough to choose the right spot.”
I’ve had a fixation for white women. It has been an obsession with me ever since I had seen the first adult movie of my life, beamed onto the white wall of my bedroom, from a cheap 16mm projector, courtesy of a dozen friends who had no such luck of having their independent bedroom like I did.
I had watched two women and two men make it with each other in every which way that would be possible. I had been astonished at the sizes of the performer’s genitals. Whether it was the men’s organs, or whether it was the women’s breasts. I had felt sick when I had seen the two guys in the sixty-nine, sucking on each other, sicker when one man sodomized the other. But, strangely, I had been turned on when I saw the two women going down on each other. The image of the large breasted blonde American working her mouth up and down the huge organ burned into my brain. And had stayed there.
Now, striding across the narrow road and making my way with Vijay to the bus stop, I was determined to see a white girl naked in the flesh.
* * * * * *
The Calangute (pronounced Ka-lung-oot) beach is one of the finest beaches in Goa. Somebody had told us that one could wade into the sea for almost a mile and the water would still remain at chest level. The beach was awfully big, surrounded by lush, thick growth of green shrubs between the sea and the road.
We booked a double room with a view of the beach from the balcony. The foreigners had booked most of the other rooms. But, Vijay mentioned a name at the reception, and it worked wonders.
We had never seen so many foreigners in our lives before. It wasn’t like we had come to Goa; it seemed like we were in England! (To this day, I’d bashfully admit that whenever I think of ‘white tits and pussy’ I think of a English girl).
We spent the next day checking out the whiteys. The foreigners moved in large groups and spoke a number of languages. I thought I could recognize French, Italian, German and Spanish. Besides, of course English. American, I told, Vijay, laughing over a drink of the local fenny, was completely different from English! Vijay did not get the joke.
“So you better watch out, Vijay. If I get mad at you, I shall start speaking Spanish with you, if I get madder, I shall switch over to Greek and Latin, but if I really, really get mad, I will start speaking American!” I laughed.
Vijay pretended to laugh with me, draining a glass of the deadly fenny.
In the evening, I witnessed something that made me sick to the pit of my stomach. A dozen or so hippies were sitting in a circle, passing the pipe. They were all without shirts and blouses and I felt myself go hard as I took in the breasts of various sizes and shapes. Some girls wore bikinis so short that I could detect hair sticking out from under them.
What deflated my erection was the sight of a girl trying to coax a baby monkey to suckle her breast. The guy sitting next to her was squeezing the breast, as if trying to force out milk into the monkey’s mouth. The rest of the gang hooted and cheered.
I turned away, nauseous. “Shit! This is insane!” I said.
“I wonder if she lets the monkey fuck her” Vijay had replied somberly.
The same evening however, we had a quiet stroll along the beach by the side of the thick shrubbery where we had noticed a lot of them disappearing into every now and then. It was seven in the evening and the sun was a burning red ball as it slid down the distant horizon. At a point about half a mile from the hotel and the mad rush, we heard a stifled moan followed by heavy breathing and grunts.
We looked around to ensure that we were not being watched. Satisfied that we indeed weren’t, we casually walked into the clearing of a particularly thick surrounding of the shrubs.
And sure enough, I got to see my first piece of real live naked white flesh. The thin girl with long greasy auburn hair was atop an equally thin guy, also greasy haired. They were stark naked and she was riding him, her hands covering his, which in turn were fondling her smallish breasts. She was humping him like there was no tomorrow. A few feet away, a heavily built guy was lying with his back against a palm tree, his shorts pulled down to his hips. A large breasted girl was kneeling between his legs, bobbing her head over his dick. In the light of the evening, I could clearly see his cock sliding in and out of her mouth.
I felt my cock beginning to rise in my jeans. God, if only there had been a bit more of light! We continued to peer through the shrubs till it became dark. That was enough for us to vaguely make out the figure of the thin guy standing over the thin girl and jacking himself off over her face. The other couple was too far away and in a darker area, but last we saw was of the guy slamming himself back and forth over the girl who had her legs raised high over the ground.
We went back to the hotel and I almost agreed when Vijay proposed that we get a couple of local whores to the room. I was randy, but not careless. So when Vijay went out ‘to relieve’ himself (in search of an easily available whore), I masturbated in the bathroom, jerking my stiff cock furiously, the images of the couples in my brain and watched my spunk spew from out of my cock and onto the dirty wall of the bathroom.
The next evening, we spotted the couple. They were swimming together in the otherwise empty sea. We were sitting in the balcony, puffing on the ganja that Vijay had brought from home. (He always had a supply)
The man was well over six feet and built like a bull. He had wide shoulders, thick, powerful hands, blond hair and a very, very white skin, not yet tanned by the hot sun. He seemed to be in his mid twenties.
The girl was about five-seven. She was quite big, but next to the guy, she looked almost petite and slender. She too had long blond hair that fell to her shoulders, long stocky legs, round buttocks and large breasts.
Over the next twenty-four hours, we could occasionally see them among a gang of about twenty. But it was quite obvious that they preferred each other’s company to the gang. Plus, as Vijay remarked, they also seem to be in some kind of a problem.
“What do you mean, problem?” I asked, glancing at my friend and checking on the level of the fenny in the bottle. He had a habit of dispensing with worldly advice when he was filled with alcohol.
“I spotted them in the afternoon when I went to buy cigarettes. Saw them trading their stereo for a pouch of grass from that black kid over at the counter. I enquired with Rashid at the reception. They have obviously paid their bill for the whole of this week. They also have their return reservations fixed; some kinda arrangement where you can’t get a refund even if you want one.”
“So how’s that supposed to put them in some kinda trouble?” I enquired.
“Figure it out, mutt head. They are fixed up for grub. They are fixed up for room. They are also fixed up for a bottle of whisky per day. Apparently, they found out that they couldn’t stomach the cheap fenny. They also have non-returnable tickets. But guess what they are short of?”
“Score one for you, boy. Right. Pot. They are exchanging goodies they brought from home for the stuff.”
“C’mon, their friends have plenty of it with them,” I protested.
“Take a look, dick head. Close look. The others are also running out of the dough. Also, haven’t you noticed they don’t exactly share the pot? Their women okay. But pot, no sir.” He was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“So what do you propose?” I asked him, my eyes on the couple who was now finished up with swimming in the sea and walking slowly towards the hotel, arms around each other’s waists.
“These bastards have their dinner in the garden restaurant at the back of the hotel. I suggest we make ourselves visible when we are rolling up our joints. Maybe they will see us doing that and approach us for a puff. You will get your chance…perhaps,” he ended lamely.
“You mean we will get our chance,” I corrected him.
“No way, man. That’s too far off. Not yet. I can’t speak a goddamn word of the lingo. I don’t want to be misunderstood and get kicked in the sac, okay?”
“Oh, c’mon, Vijay. Isn’t it you who always said that fucking is a unique language that has no tongue.”
“Fucking has a lot of tongue,” he grinned. “I said that fucking has no language. How could I say that there’s no tongue?” He burst out laughing.
I was damned nervous. “Look, lets just play the play, right? They get tempted and beg for some stuff. What makes you think the girl would agree to get into the sack?”
“The sand, buddy,” he corrected. “No try, no woman. If you are lucky, maybe you can. If not, what the hell do you loose?”
“That guy is built like a ox.”
He laughed. “A couple of tokes and he makes like Gandhi” he replied. “Like water off a duck’s back.”
He always makes things seem so easy to do. And the greatest part about it was that he usually succeeds in pulling off such outrageous stunts.
“If I do get her in sack, I think I’ll come before I can lay my hands on her.”
“Grow up, boy. Xylocaine will do the trick.”
“Relax. It’s a surface anesthetic. It will sort of deaden the skin a bit.”
I figured I looked like a kid whose favorite toy was broken.
He laughed again. “Don’t panic, buddy. I used it myself when I want to fuck for a long time. It won’t burn your dick off. Alternatively, I suggest you get into the bathroom half an hour before we hit them and jerk off. Or, maybe you could do both. Your first time, your favorite fantasy girl…”
“Stop it, doctor,” I grinned at him.
And so we decided to ‘hit’ them and made our way to the garden restaurant at the back of the hotel.
I did both the things. Xylocaine and jerk off. Water off a duck’s back!
* * * * * *
The man and the woman were Germans. He was Michael and she was Steffi. Sitting across the table, I could see that both had deep blue eyes. He was dressed in a cut-off jeans and loose T-shirt. She was wearing a short wrap around blue skirt and a halter knotted at the middle of her chest.
He was a good-looking guy. Soft spoken too, in surprising contrast to his body. I could see those powerful muscles in his arms. He had big hands, I thought, as big as my goddamn head.
From close, she was a hell of a sexy chick. A cute nose slightly turned up at the end, full red lips (I suddenly had visions of them sliding over my prick), dimpled chin, a strong jaw and one hell of a lush body. Great, big tits, great ass and boy, those thighs.
We pretended to hide in the dark when we filled up our cigarettes with the stuff making sure that they could catch a glimpse. They were seated across from us. There were no signs of any of their friends, though the turn out at the restaurant was almost seventy-five percent white.
As Vijay had said, it was a piece of cake. It took them roughly two minutes to walk to our table.
“Hello,” he had said, “Mind if we join you?”
I looked up. I felt my heart thudding against my ribs. “Sure, go ahead,” I had replied in my most Americanized accent.
“See you, Mahesh,” Vijay slipped out of his chair and rose. Damn him! I had asked him to stay put for at least fifteen minutes. In the local lingo he told me that he had got a hard on by just looking at Steffi’s boobs peeping out from the top of her halter and had to go to his girl of yesterday.
“See ya round,” I told him.
“You from here?” she spoke. Her voice was delightful. Low well modulated, soft and husky. Like the voices of some of those chicks on BBC.
“From around, yes, though not from Goa,” I replied casually.
I learned that they were from Munich. They had met at London, where they had gone to pursue their degrees, coincidentally, in politics. Both had dropped out. (Why wasn’t I surprised?). The two years they had spent in London had obviously helped their English.
We made some small talk and they offered me a glass of their whisky. Politely, I declined, gesturing towards my charged-up cigarette. They smiled and nodded looking hungrily at the fag.
“You want some?” I asked.
Hunger went to delight, and I almost leapt to my feet when Steffi suggested we go down the beach. The waiter smiled knowingly when I told him that we would be back later for dinner. Michael carried the bottle in his small handbag.
“So, how long you thinking of staying here?” I asked, as I fell in step beside the two. We were heading towards the direction of the shrubs. I was to learn that it was their ‘pot place’ as well as ‘fuck place’; evidently, the second followed after the first.
“Unfortunately, we leave next Sunday,” he replied. “Goa is most wonderful place, yes?”
I smiled, watching Steffi take his arm. “It certainly is.”
“You speak the English language well, if I may say so,” she said softly. My left arm brushed against her right hand (she was holding Michaels’s right hand and was between the two of us).
“Thank you. I attended missionary school”
“A what?” he asked.
“Missionary school. You know the ones sponsored by European countries and run by priests and nuns.”
He let out a laugh. “To us missionary means only one thing”
I laughed with him casually, though my dick had a different mind of its own. The damn thing jumped up when I realized what he meant.
When we entered the shrubs, we could see various groups scattered all over the area. Pot hung in the air and I could hear the strumming of a guitar. We had to walk quite a distance to locate a relatively private area, slightly away from a small group of hippies swaying to American Pie.
“Okay, we shall smoke here,” he said sinking to his feet on the grass. It was a good area that they had chosen. Very secluded. Yet, not so far away from the rest. In fact, we could catch glimpses of the small group from between the swaying shrubs.
We sat down, Steffi, between the two of us. I glanced at her legs; when she drew them under her ass, the wraparound skirt slid back to reveal the top of her gorgeous thighs.
I handed over the weeds to them, one each, and fired them up with my lighter. We leaned back and puffed.
“Ahhhhh!!!!” she purred, after inhaling the first snort. “This stuff is very good”
Good? I had shelled out a couple of hundred to Vijay’s guy back home. For that kind of money, it’d better be good, I thought.
We continued with our small talk. I stole frequent glances at her when she leaned down after taking a puff, or threw her head back. Down, and I could see the enticing bulge of her tits straining against the halter top, and back, they pushed against the thin material till her nipples punched out at those spots. It was obvious that she was not wearing a bra.
We were through half our second toke, when we heard a sharp giggle coming from the direction of the small group. We peered through the shrubs.
A girl was lying on her back in the middle of the circle of her friends, stark naked. The rest of the group was fondling her body. One guy had one tit in his hands another woman had the other. A muscular girl was on her knees, her head buried between the girl’s legs, while another guy was rubbing his prick over her face.
Michael laughed, and then broke off as the smoke caught in his throat.
“We like to play games when we are stoned,” he explained.
Steffi was smiling too, still looking at the group.
“And what nice games,” I agreed.
“You like that?” he asked.
“Who doesn’t?” I was surprised at my boldness. I figured it must be the grass.
“Then where is your girl?” Steffi pulled her eyes away from the group and looked at me when she asked the question.
“Unfortunately, we split a month ago.”