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-in-law. 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-in-law 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.