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?"