Dexterous Dexter 03byHypoxia©
Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, containing accounts of his life. I have adapted and edited these notes and will post them when I can. These stories include bisexuality, incest, interracial and mature and group sex, etc. All sexual activity depicted here involves persons at least 18 years old.
His younger friend Dex told the following tales to Ron. These stories stand alone from the RON'S JOURNAL series. I highly recommend that you read the previous chapter before starting on this piece.
YET MORE OF THE ACCOUNT of Dexter and his senior-class cohort of Mentally Gifted Minor program (MGM) kids at Piedmont High School and the environs of sluburbian Los Angeles, rolling through the year 1972.
The Mustang was now available full-time. Wendy and I and various of our mostly-MGM circle went on day-trips or overnighters most weekends. We hit wild beach parties and mild art exhibitions. We watched rocket launches on the big screens at CalTech-JPL. We went to Tijuana and Death Valley and Santa Barbara and Las Vegas and goddam Disneyland, where we bunny-fucked in the phony cave on Tom Sawyer's Island.
Wendy and I, and Doreen and her loving stepbrother Kirk (no shared DNA), made a run to the Mount Wilson and Griffith Park observatories. Then we cruised what my old friend Ron calls Hollyweird. We saw Ron doing his bizarre mime act at Hollywood and Vine, with that big fucking snake wrapped around his neck. I almost failed to recognize him.
Ron had been one of us MGM kids. He was dragged away from Piedmont HS in his senior year and had some fucked life experiences that quite ruined him. He had aged greatly in the last three years. He took a few more years before getting his shit together. He never lived up to his early promise, poor bastard.
I asked Ron about his life there. He said he had a weird semi-estranged wife, some hot steady girlfriends including high school girls, but no real home. He was just drifting. I never want to be adrift like that. I was very happy when he finally stabilized. Our friendship resumed many years later.
From Hollyweird we rolled down Sunset Strip to Santa Monica. We saw the freak show on the boardwalk. We viewed local reality from the big Camera Obscura. We watched the spinning Earth roll its minor Sun past the Pacific's wet horizon. We munched tacos, drank beer, and took a room at an inn atop the palisades. We smoked hash on the balcony, watching the lights of Malibu strung out in the distance.
The room had two king beds but we mostly used just one, except for sleeping. We all kissed and fondled. We worked all possible combinations of 69's. Side by side, the girls rode the guys, and kissed. Side by side, the guys rode the girls, and kissed. We slithered through daisy chains. We drowned in cock and cunt.
In the morning, after more sex, we ate omelets in the inn's breakfast room, then drove to a West L.A. church, run by a 'hip' priest, for the folk-rock mass. This was a lightly-clad hugging congregation, so we had nice body contacts. We spent the afternoon at a drag strip, sucking fumes and noise, then went home.
Wendy's hot-tub party circle expanded a bit more.
Three MGM kids from neighboring Palomar High joined Doreen and Wendy and I one interesting night. Susanna was a lanky chocolate girl from Jamaica, heading to Berkeley with a Political Science major; she later became a slick environmental lobbyist. Paul and Paula, originally from Quebec, were thin and swarthy, another brother-and-sister act whose affected androgyny and sexual ambiguity did not much mask their voracious appetites. They later founded a successful advertising agency.
Watching blond Doreen and dusky Susanna 69'ing was awe-inspiring, these contrasting beauties diving mouth-first into each others' vulvas, rolling and thrashing and moaning. Watching Paul and Paula 69'ing was dizzying, distracting, disturbing, because we could not always tell who was who.
Paul's cock was very long and very thin, and curved like an archery bow. He could not slide it all the way down any of the vaginas or throats there, but he seemed to fit well into Paula's and Doreen's rectums. Paula's clit was also long and fairly thick, like a little finger's last joint. She could twitch it around and point at people. Doreen said it looked like a baby boy's fat penis.
Susanna seemed to like long slow lazy fucks almost as much as Wendy and I did. Susanna and I spent about an hour lolling on the chaise, copulating quietly, whispering, and watching the others' frenzies. Paul and Paula never did ANYTHING slow or lazy or quiet; their non-stop nervous energy would drive a speed-freak gerbil insane.
"Dex, how the holy fuck can he keep doing that?" Susanna murmured in my ear.
Wendy and Doreen and Paula were bent over the tub edge, side by side, their butts and pussies fully exposed. Paul was behind them. He would fuck one for a dozen quick strokes, then hop to the next, then the next, and back, and again. This had gone on for a half-hour or so. Maybe the girls came a lot, but their pussies must be sore by now.
"Too much coffee, I guess," I whispered back.
Just before Easter break, Wendy popped me a proposition.
"Dex, let's go to San Francisco for the week, just you and me! My folks' consulting company keeps an apartment for them there, but they'll be in St Louis then. C'mon, we'll have fun!"
I could not refuse. After school Friday, we stuffed our duffels into her Mustang and sped north on the newly completed I-5 interstate freeway. 400 miles in five-odd hours, no problem.
Arriving in The City, we dined on buffalo burgers and savory fries at Tommy's Joynt, then pulled into her folks' pied-a-terre on Telegraph Hill between North Beach and Coit Tower. We dumped our duffels, cleaned our bodies, and walked the North Beach streets. We stopped at a late-night coffee shop for pastries and picked up the waitress, to have our way with her.
Bella was maybe 25 or 27, an almost-tall classic Mediterranean beauty. She thought she could teach a couple of high-school kids some tricks. Ha!
Wendy lay on her back under hands-and-knees Bella in an almost 69, with mouths on breasts and hands on clits, while I methodically worked Bella's cunt to tatters, pistoning slowly but remorselessly. We flipped Bella on her back; I straddled her face, feeding my cock to her mouth and tongue, while Wendy ate her.
We pulled her into a triad daisychain, me eating Bella eating Wendy eating me, and then switched, of course. We teased her pussy with our fingers while biting her nipples till she came in pain and ecstasy. I fucked her while Wendy sat on her face and we kissed and fondled. We double-tongued her. We applied some sex toys. We wore her out.
Yeah, those older gals just don't have the stamina. Ha.
We awoke late on Saturday. We French-dripped some coffee, munched our pastries, and sent Bella home. Wendy and I strolled through North Beach to Chinatown, looked and smelled and tasted and photographed there. We drove to Golden Gate Park, sat in with the dozens of conga drummers and many hundreds of dancers swarming on Hippie Hill. We walked through the Haight-Ashbury to check the scene -- pretty burnt-out and depressing.
Then we hit the evening's goal: the monthly meeting of the SF Folk Music Society, in a rambling old Victorian mansion on a slope between the Haight and Twin Peaks. The house was crowded with players and listeners and yammerers, drinking and smoking and carrying on. I whipped out my bamboo sax, Wendy blew her panpipes, and we jammed.
I sat on a couch next to an older black-haired woman, maybe mid-30s, with a tight thin black sweater over her large breasts and very short black skirt revealing comely calves and thighs and bush. Wendy sat on her other side. The woman had obviously been absorbing wine for a while. She put her hands on my leg, looked closely at my face, and boozily announced that she was Donna and that she REALLY needed somebody to fuck her ass.
"Sorry, I try to avoid anal," I said.
"I can take care of it for you," Wendy said.
"How about a double penetration?" I asked.
"Oh shit, that's just what I need," she said.
We took Donna upstairs to a small empty bedroom. We all got naked. Wendy pulled a strap-on dildo from her big purse. I lay on the bed. Donna cowgirl-mounted me, then bent forward, whispering, "Nice, nice..." Wendy got behind her, lubed the strap-on, and slid it home. Donna gasped, "Oh fuck yeah, yeah, yeah..."
We moved together and settled into a rhythm, Donna doing most of the work. Most of the time, her mouth was on mine, our tongues dancing an intricate wet ballet. Every one of the dozen or so times she came, she started to moan loudly, and I pulled her tighter and filled her mouth with tongue to muffle her screams.
Eventually the motions of my cock in her cunt, and feeling Wendy's strap-on pounding through the thin peritoneum wall, provoked my massive orgasm, an unrelenting pulsing torrent of thick sticky teenage cum filling her vessel to overflowing. Wendy increased her pace. Donna screamed and screamed again into my mouth, and passed out, drooling on me. Jeez, yet another old gal without stamina.
We had not heard the door open, did not realize we'd had an audience, till we heard slow solitary applause, "clap, clap, clap." Wendy and I looked up and saw a couple standing in the doorway.
"That was very entertaining," the woman said, "but this happens to be *my* bedroom, and I would really like some privacy with my friend here."
Wendy and I pulled out of Donna's body; she rolled onto her side and snored. The woman in the doorway looked at our protrusions: Wendy's strap-on, my not-yet-limp dick. She licked her lips.
"Well, maybe I was a bit hasty. How good are you at using those things?"
Wendy blew me back to hardness while the couple undressed. Pretty soon, I had Mary bent over one side of the bed with my cock in her cunt, while Wendy had John on the other side with the strap-on dildo in his anus. We reamed them till they surrendered. And Donna slept through this fun. Too bad.
Wendy and I dressed and left Mary, John and Donna to their own devices. Good thing we did not have to clean up Donna; she was their problem now. We wandered back downstairs to the musical merriment.
The festivities were still going strong. We played along with various musicians, drank some wine, munched some munchies, felt-up some likely prospects. We enticed Saliha to come home with us. (We called the apartment home while we were here.)
Saliha was a fairly tall, fairly thin, fairly dark Turkish girl, a sophomore at USF. She wore tight jeans and a loose grey sweater. American blues and jazz music entranced her. She had two chromatic harmonicas and a kit of blues harps, and played them well. And she had zero desire to have a dildo or anything else stuck up her butt, said it reminded her too much of home.
We drove to the apartment. We laid Saliha on our bed. I tenderly but firmly ate her to her first two climaxes while Wendy kissed her face and smoothed her torso and arms. I sat up; Saliha lowered herself into my lap, her breasts against my chest, and we slowly fucked to our orgasms. That was about it for me for the night. I was wearing out. Was I getting old already?
Wendy and Saliha entertained each other the rest of the night, with fingers and tongues and noses and rubbed-together vulvas and even their toes. We spooned together to sleep, Saliha in the middle. As dawn seeped through the windows, Saliha awoke and squeaked that she HAD to get back to her room. We called her a cab. No, actually, we called her a sweetheart, and we called a cab FOR her. Heh heh.
We crawled out of bed late again on Palm Sunday. We dragged ourselves to a hot breakfast, then drove north across the Golden Gate Bridge, and up the coast highway to Muir Woods. These giant coast redwood groves are the best damn cathedrals on the planet, shit yeah. The groves are self-contained worlds of cool shade and near-eternal life. We wandered through the grove's quiet immensity for hours, lost in rapt wonder, worshipping the tree-filtered air and light, the calm ancient primeval strength.
Wendy drove the panoramic highway over Mt Tamalpais and down to the coast. We stopped to jog along a long sandbar. We drove north along the rugged coast, right atop the fearsome San Andreas Fault, along the edges of scenic bays and through tiny villages. We cut back inland at the mouth of the Russian River; any further north would mean a LONG drive back to San Francisco. The riverside road cut through the coast range, passing through more redwood groves and hamlets, and then across vineyards looking like Tuscany.
We reached the freeway. Less than an hour later, we were back in The City. We hit a market for foodstuffs, so we would not blow all our money on meals out. We got home, made a big chicken salad, found a college jazz radio station, and cuddled happily. We spent the night embedded in each other, dreaming together.
We stayed active through the week.
Monday, long jogs from Cliff House down The City's coast and back, and the length of Golden Gate Park and back. We sure needed the run. We brought a Japanese girl home. She had an extraordinarily talented tongue.
Tuesday, we checked out the Telegraph Ave scene in Berkeley. Not as bad as the Haight-Ashbury, but still a bit bleak. We jogged up the Berkeley Hills. We fucked another jogging couple. Too far to take them home.
Ash Wednesday, we drove south down the coast. An old WW2 watchtower sits on a peak atop Devil's Slide. We climbed the tower and gazed across the Pacific. Two girls and a guy climbed up with us. We all fucked.
Thursday, we visited The City's great museums and some art galleries during the day, and the Fillmore Auditorium at night for a Santana and Jefferson Airplane show. We took two stoner chicks home. Groovy.
Good Friday, we drove down to Stanford to groove on the linear accelerator and visit friends, ex-MGM kids from Piedmont HS. They had like-minded classmates. I counted at least twenty fuckers at the orgy. Whew!
Saturday we stayed local, walking the bay front and hills. We rode cable cars, sniffed Fisherman's Wharf, gazed at Alcatraz, strolled the rest of Chinatown, bought some opium and Tiger Balm and jade carvings.
Saturday night, we checked out the scene on Broadway, the topless and drag-queen bars that we could not enter because we were not 21. Lots of hot sexual action was happening on the street and in the shadows. It looked like unclean, rancid, dangerous action. Not for us. We walked back through North Beach, stopped at the same coffee shop for pastries, and took Bella home again. She had missed us. We wore her out again.
Easter Sunday, we were in no rush, but Bella had to get with her family for the year's most important mass. We kissed her goodbye. Actually, many goodbye kisses, all over her body, and ours. We thoroughly kissed her sweet pussy a few dozen times, maybe. Who keeps count? She asked us to visit again, please, soon. She called us cruel shits for spoiling her for all the local action. We kissed again, and she left.
And then it was time to go. We skipped the super-speed interstate and drove south on old US-101, the El Camino Real, through San Jose and garlic Gilroy and San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara and merry Malibu.
We were back by midnight. We crawled into the hot-tub, seethed, relaxed, kissed, fucked -- until Juliana yelled at us to get our nasty asses out of there and go to our own beds, goddammit. Yes, home again.
Kirk had a Yamaha 125cc motorbike similar to my Honda 125. We sometimes took the girls out for weekend day spins. We rode southeast one weekend, Wendy behind Kirk and Doreen cushioning her lovely tits against my back, rolling to Lake Elsinore and beyond. We stopped at a private hot spring in the hills above Temecula.
Swimsuits were required there; too bad. We four were in a warm pool set away from the rest of the resort, sharing it with a couple of jock-looking guys and a flashy blond in a small bikini.
Kirk wanted to submerge in the slightly sulfur-tainted water, but he had left his swim goggles in his bike panniers. He left to fetch them. I snuggled up between dirty-blond Doreen and the flashy blond. Wendy snuggled between the two guys. They pulled themselves out of the pool and started necking, Wendy trading kisses and embraces with them. I was similarly engaged with the girls, still in the pool. Good clean fun, right?
The guys decided they wanted more. They tried to rape Wendy. Bad move.
Remember, I mentioned that Wendy and I practiced karate together? She broke their kneecaps. I jumped over to help. We flipped them into the cactus garden that surrounded the pool. They were quickly covered with jumping-cholla pads, whose vicious barbed spines can only be removed by ripping out bits of flesh too.
Kirk returned then, and when the guys crawled back to the concrete pool deck, he gave them each a kick to the head. "Don't fuck with us. Don't fuck with anyone. You got that?" And a couple more head-kicks.
Their flashy blond just watched them stumble away. She gestured Kirk to come to her. She pulled down his trunks and blew him spectacularly. Then she walked off. I don't know how she got home. Don't care, either.
I rode Alma-Li across the valley to our stints at my grandpa's shop and her grandma's farm one afternoon after school. Coming back, we stopped in Diamond Canyon again (as usual) and sucked and fucked, et cetera. We snuggled on the spread blanket and talked about our futures.
Almy and Kirk were both headed to CalTech, not that far away. She said her relatives were excited about the prospect of having a rocket scientist in the family. She had heard rumors that NASA was going to build space shuttles, "pickup trucks in the sky". She wanted to be in that program. She would have preferred to build a colony starship, but that might not happen for another few decades yet.
(FAST-FORWARD to early 1990: Almy's friend Duane was an engineer at Lockheed Aerospace, building the Hubble Space Telescope. Duane took us into the clean room in Sunnyvale for a private showing just before it was shipped to Cape Canaveral for launch. It was the most beautiful gem I have ever seen. And he gave us shuttle-team souvenirs: cast bronze HST belt buckles, from a limited edition of 100. We prize those.)
My plans were more nebulous, i.e. I did not have a career dream. I had business skills, from working on Grandpa's shop management. I had electronics skills and a photographic eye. But I could not really see myself making a living as an engineer or photographer, or a desk jockey in somebody else's business.
I wanted to see the world. I figured summer breaks would give me time to travel until I finished college. Not this summer, maybe the next, I wanted to ride a motorbike or 'cycle all the way from the Arctic Ocean to Patagonia, the whole length of the Americas. I would practice for that this summer by riding from here to Panama and back. This plan assumed I would not be drafted. I did not worry; I had a student deferment.
"Dex, you need a plan, or you could end up drifting, like Ron." Alma-Li was atop me, slowly sliding up and down my revitalized rod.
I shook my head. "I have lots of time for plans. Plans and goals, they can change." I thrust upward into her, held, then relaxed. "You've had yours, like, forever. Hey, what put you there?"
Almy settled down on me. "It was a song. I was eight years old. On the radio, a DJ announced a new record about a satellite. He played TELSTAR. Dex, I had an ORGASM when I heard it! My body and mind just exploded and I saw stars and galaxies and I almost melted down. Eight fucking years old! I knew space was for me. I still get little orgasms when I hear that song."