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.