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.