Dexterous Dexter 04

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, which I am adapting and editing. 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. The DEXTER GOES SOUTH series is fairly independent of the earlier Dexter accounts, although some characters here are introduced in DEXTEROUS DEXTER 01. This current series chronicles Dexter's travels in Mexico and Central America. For readers' convenience, most Spanish language speech and signals are presented in loose English translation.

DEXTER GOES SOUTH #1 - SCHOOL'S OUT - I RIDE ACROSS MEXICO, June-July 1972

So I frenched and fucked my friends adios, and left Greater Los Angeles, riding south to Panama.

Well, there was more to it than that. The planning and logistics took some doing. The advice was free.

My high school graduation gift was a new motorbike of my choice. I weighed the trade-offs. A heavy cruiser would be comfy for long hauls on good roads, but not so good on gravel or dirt, and would suck gas. A light trail bike would be fuel-efficient, but not good for hauling gear, and would certainly be tiring and painful on long rides. I compromised on a Yamaha 350.

I had a fairly flexible schedule. My road time would be about July 1 to September 1, with maybe an extra week leeway at each end. I allocated that as three weeks across Mexico to Guatemala City a.k.a. Guate (WHAH-tay), three weeks to Panama and back to Guate, and a final three weeks to return by another Mexican route. If I had to fudge some days, I would likely add time to the middle Guate-Panama-Guate segment.

The time and vehicle dictated my gear choices.

I got a travel pack with panniers to hang from a sissy bar. This arrangement allowed room for a passenger behind me. I had an ultra-light tent weighing just a kilo, a wool blanket as a ground pad, and a goosedown bag. I do not much like cotton for travel outerwear but I managed a sturdy and light clothes kit. Yes, I took a helmet, and a basic tool kit.

I had a light camping mess kit and an electric immersion heater. I took two half-frame 35mm cameras: a spring-wound Canon Dial-35, and an Olympus Pen-FT SLR with its ultra-light 24mm, 50mm and 100mm lenses, total weight just over a kilo. I took my little bamboo sax and a soprano ukulele. My needs were simple, yes.

I would not be collecting souvenirs, except to mail home. I would also mail home my film after developing it. Most big cities had photo labs where I could process film on my own. No sense risking exposed rolls. No sense lugging all those rolls around the continent either.

Then there was the well-meaning advice.

My Panama-raised brother-in-law Dan was a bit negative, but he had not traveled north of Costa Rica, so his info on Nicaragua, Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala was second-hand. I listened anyway.

"Dextro baby, you gotta lose the California license plates. They see those, they'll chew you up and spit you out. Get some C.A. (Central America) plates. Most of the army guys there are OK but every city cop is a crook, and so are the customs scum. Costa Rica is OK, but the rest of C.A. is just corrupt as hell."

My Mayan-born classmate and fuckbuddy Rosalita fixed the license plates problem. (She was my language coach; I was her cunning linguist.) Her family flew south during Easter break for the Americas' greatest Semana Santa (Holy Week) festival in Antigua Guatemala. She brought back five pungent greasy boxes of Pollo Campero takeout, and a 'legal' set of C.A. motorcycle plates and papers, lacking only the bike serial number for me to fill in, heh heh.

My bisexual buddy Alex's family had driven to Costa Rica and back the previous summer. He had a warning.

"Be real careful whose dick you offer to suck, Dex. Queers and bi's can survive in the big cities, and are accepted by Zapotec Indians around Tehuantepec, but everywhere else, you're risking your life. Machismo kills. You'd better stick to girls on this trip. There are lots of them, and they're cheap and friendly."

I was all packed up and provisioned, loaded with maps, and hot to trot, by June 25. That looked like a good starting date. So I frenched and fucked my friends adios, and headed south.

---

My first day was an easy ride past the Salton Sea to Yuma. I planned to get a cheap dinner, then pitch my tent alongside what was left of the Colorado River. Early evening, I stopped at a pizza parlor, ordered a small special and an Anchor Steam beer, and spread maps over my table. The cute young woman in a cheesy corporate skirt-and-shirt uniform who brought my order looked down with interest.

"Going somewhere, cowboy?" she asked in a lilting accent.

"Yes, to Panama. Want to come along?" I invited teasingly.

"Merci, you don't know how much I am tempted now," she said.

"Temptation is only ignored at your own risk, or so I've heard."

Twenty-four-year-old Marie was a tall curvy well-tanned redhead from Quebec. She said she had moved here because she did not like the cold and prices up north. She was saving money for her own next travel south. We chatted about past and future adventures and ambitions and whatever.

Business was slow. Marie sat next to me as I finished eating.

"Have you come far already? Where are you staying tonight?"

"This is my first day on the road. And I thought I would camp out."

"Non non, that won't do. You will stay at my place. We close here at nine, cheri, and I get off a half-hour later. You will wait here until then, oui?"

"Merci beaucoup, I will do just that. But I must buy some gas first. I'll be right back."

I did, and I did, and I was.

Marie's apartment was only a half-block from her workplace. But the night was young, so she climbed behind me and held on. I took us for a spin along the river and canals. I pulled over on a levee spur, extracted the blanket from my pack, and spread it on the ground. We sat, looking to the northwest, the barren desert mountains lit by the full moon. Marie nestled against my shoulder.

I pointed straight ahead. "Go far enough that way, you're in San Francisco, The City by The Bay. Can you hear the foghorns?"

I pointed off to the far right. "Travel far enough that way, you're back in Quebec." I felt Marie grimace.

I twisted around and pointed right behind us. "Fly to that compass point and we're in the Yucatan."

I gestured to our left. "Swim in that direction and we're in Fiji, dancing naked under the palms."

I pulled Marie close to me. "But right now, we're just right here." I kissed her. She kissed back. Her mouth held mine for wonderful minutes.

Marie huddled against me. "Dexter, you're really just out of high school? You don't seem so young."

"The simple things I do are all complicated; I look pretty old but I'm just back-dated, yeah," I sang, quoting Pete Townsend.

Marie giggled, "And a cynical romantic, too! Dexter, are you always like this?"

"When I'm enthralled by surpassing beauty under a full moon, yes indeed, I am."

"This place is lovely but it's not the most comfortable, is it? Let's go home."

I rolled up the blanket. We rolled down the road. We rolled into her apartment's garage space. We rolled around in her bed. My tongue rolled around her face, her mouth, her chin, her breasts, her navel, her mons, her labia, her clit. She rolled around and moaned. Round, round, roll around, we roll around, oh yeah, doo wah, doo wah.

Somewhere around her dozenth scream, the apartment door opened. Marie's bedroom door was already open; we had not bothered to close it. A shaggy blond head peered around the doorpost as Marie screamed again: Lucky Thirteen!

"There's a cycle in our garage. That belong to you?" Yes, I grunted.

"Everything OK in there?" the blond head asked. Marie screamed again.

"Yeah, I guess so. Sorry to bother you guys. Don't mind me. G'night."

Marie gasped, "Oh Doris, this is great, I just keep cumming and cumming, and we haven't even fucked yet!"

"Well that's pretty interesting. You guys mind if I watch?" She sat on the bed, not waiting for an answer.

"I am worn out. My pussy is about to dissolve. I must rest now. Doris, you must try Dexter. Is that OK?"

"What, this guy has a magic tongue and you want to share him? Sweet! Dexter, is it? Is that OK with you?"

"Nice to meet you, Doris. Actually, I was hoping for some penetration now. Marie, come sit on my cock."

I rolled onto my back. My flagpole was at full-mast. Marie somehow forced herself to straddle my hips. She aimed my cooperative cock into her soggy pussy and then just sort of fell onto me, zip-zap-zup, ramming her vulva into my pubic bone.

"Oh."

Marie sighed loudly. She leaned forward with her hands on my chest.

"Ohhh..."

Marie bit her lip and whimpered. She moved up, down, sideways, filling herself from varying angles.

"Oh mon dieu, I am so fucked. Oh merde merde..."

Doris had by now removed her own skirt-and-shirt uniform (emblazoned with a fast-food corporate logo) and ducked into the bathroom. She emerged and sat down on the bed again. She reached over and stroked our hot sweaty conjoined bodies.

"Yes, pretty interesting. You guys are a real turn-on, y'know? You need any help, honey?" Doris leaned into us and kissed Marie's near breast. "Hey Dexter, or whoever you are, does your tongue still work?"

"Your pleasure is my desire, Doris. But don't wait too long."

"Not a chance, fella." Doris straddled my head, lowered her pussy to my face, then bent forward to kiss Marie's mouth, fondle her breasts, and finger her vulva. My tongue and cock were happy. Both cunts were getting much happier.

Marie was gasping again as she slid up and down and around my stiff shaft.

"Oh oh Dexter oh oh sacre bleu oh fuck oh..."

Doris responded nicely to my tongue. She kissed Marie harder, and groaned, and wiggled, and groaned again, and again. Marie stiffened. Her cunt clenched my cock, spasmed, throbbed. She yelled into Doris' mouth. Doris yelled back. Then Marie slowly fell sideways, off my still-hard hardon, ker-plop.

Doris straightened her lithe legs. She fell forward and swallowed my very juicy steel rod. We jerkily ate each other for several minutes. Doris apparently came a few more times. I was not quite at the brink.

Doris pulled off me. "I need you inside me in the worst way, NOW!" She took Marie's former position atop me, sliding onto my cock, moaning. I rolled her over without withdrawing and started a good old missionary fuck, wham bam cram thank-you ma'am damn! I pounded. Doris vocalized. Marie reached in to squeeze my bouncing balls. And I came. Loud. Long. Wet. Cowabunga!

We all lay disheveled on the messy sheets for a few minutes, gasping, leaking, moaning.

"If that was the worst way, then the best way must be pretty OK," I told Doris. She groaned.

We rose and cleaned ourselves but did not bother changing the sheets -- too much work right now. We changed rooms instead, crawling into Doris' bed. We slept spooned together. I'll let you guess where I was positioned.

A false dawn barely brightened the window shades. A musty mouth explored mine. Our two tremulous bodies embraced and fucked quietly. A hand on my shoulder pulled me, rolled me over, pulled me close. I kissed its owner's mouth. Our other two bodies fucked almost as quietly. We all dozed off again.

I awoke mid-morning in an empty bed, to the scents of coffee brewing and ham frying and bread toasting. I walked sky-clad through the door and into a visionary kitchen. Two contrasting but very good-looking young women, both naked except for waist-tied aprons, were bumping bodacious butts as they collaborated on breakfast.

Bounteous blond Doris tended the range. Sweet red-haired Marie saw me; she hastily emptied her hands of plates and silverware. She ran to me and hugged me fiercely.

"Oh Dexter Dexter, you marvelous man! Oh Dexter, I am in love! My heart sings! My body sings! Oh Dexter!"

I kissed her, to shut her up. I can only take just so much adulation at once, y'know?

Doris turned off the range-top flames and seductively scooted over to me. "It's my turn now." Her mouth joined with ours in holy communion. Our tongues danced and diddled and dawdled. We grouped.

"Marie darling, you sure brought home a good one! D'ya think he's a keeper?" Doris eyed me hungrily.

"I don't know, Doris. What do you think it would take to convince him to stay?" Marie appraised me.

They both untied their aprons. Four hands reached for my cock. Two tongues licked my nipples. I groaned.

"Umm, do you think we could maybe talk about this after breakfast?"

I was escorted to a chair at the table. Food and juice and coffee were served. Stories were exchanged.

Doris was a girl-next-door Scandinavian from North Dakota -- round in all the right places, muscular in the right places too. Like Marie, she was sick of northern winters and prices. How did she end up in Yuma?

"Well, my cousin told me that his dream was to tie his snowblower to the top of his car and drive south. When people pointed at it and asked what it was, he'd know that he'd come far enough south. That's what I did, but without the snowblower. Yuma is a place where people only see snow on TV Christmas specials. It's about far enough, y'know?" And now she managed a sandwich franchise.

I told Doris and Marie of my travel plans. Yes, my schedule was a bit flexible, but I would need to call my sister in Tucson to say I would arrive a little late.

What could persuade me to delay my departure? Two tongues slurping my revived cock from opposite sides were mighty persuasive, I tell ya. Their associated pussies helped seal the deal. Then there were the tasty tatas. Hot damn!

We all sucked and fucked and slurped for the rest of the marvelous morning. Marie had to leave a bit after noon for her shift at the pizza palace. Doris could stay for another couple hours. Yes, she stayed. And she came. And stayed. And came. Et fucking cetera. She finally and reluctantly left for work.

I had six-odd hours to kill, and no reason to see the sights of Yuma Arizona. I read, and dozed. I knew I would need to conserve my strength for the upcoming night.

And it was a LONG night. Doris stuck her assistant manager with the closing and cleanup duties, and left work at the same time as Marie. They arrived together. They fed me. They attacked me. They fucked me for six straight hours. SIX HOURS! We finally hibernated at four AM.

I crawled out just before noon, just in time to energetically kiss Marie goodbye. I insisted that I really had to get to Tucson that day. Doris only let me escape after I promised to visit again on my way home, and any chance I had after that.

---

The Yuma-to-Tucson ride would have been easier if I had not been totally fucked out. I arrived in time for a blessedly non-sexual dinner. My oldest sister Melanie was fairly glad to see me and feed me and listen to my censored stories. Her husband Dan had more advice after I told him of my route plans.

"So you're heading for Veracruz and beyond? Then don't cross the border here at Nogales or over at El Paso, they both suck. No, you should ride through Tombstone and Bisbee and cross at either Naco or Douglas. Naco is about the quietest crossing anywhere. And you can taste some fine Bisbee Electric Beer."

The border crossing was easy. Crossing Mexico was harder.

I had days of long hard rides through Chihuahua and Torreon and Saltillo, to get past the northern desert.

I camped out rough one night near a mostly-deserted mining hamlet on a rugged dry ridge. A young Indian woman speaking poor Spanish came to my campfire, fed me some peyote, drank of my hot cocoa, and crawled into my sleeping bag with me. We saw mystic visions as we fucked. She faded back into the desert at sunrise, almost a dream.

Then came easier shorter days, past San Luis Potosi to my first major destination, Xilitla (hee-LEET-lah). Xilitla is a small village set atop a steep forested mountain. The village is OK, especially the oblong bird-infested town plaza, but the reason to be there is something totally else: Las Pozas.

Las Pozas is a strange concrete construction in a tropical jungle. It was built by a British royal bastard who hung out with surrealists. It looks like the love child of HP Lovecraft, MC Escher, and Salvador Dali -- and Dali had been a live-in guest there. Throw in a little HR Giger and you'll get the vibe. Totally bizarre. Totally unique. And you can rent a room, if you dare. Go sober. Hallucinogens would be redundant.

I rode down out of the mountains, to the coastal lowlands, to another world.

The descent from Xilitla to the Gulf coast was tricky, mostly due to prehistoric giant iguanas running across the road. Those fuckers were over a yard long! I did not dare to ride too fast there in lizard-land -- they are hard to dodge. And they are really messy when squashed.

When I saw girls walking through villages with long-beak macaws sitting on their shoulders, I knew I was not in Kansas anymore, so to speak.

Isola was one such macaw girl. Her loose white blouse and tight denims nicely showed her tasty physique. She flagged me down for a ride to her nearby village. Her family's whitewashed cottage was empty when we arrived. Her bed was soon filled with our steaming straining bodies.

Isola's macaw sat on a window ledge and critiqued our performance. Loudly. Isola also vocalized. Loudly. The bird did not seem impressed with me. Isola seemed quite impressed.

"Have you ever thought of leaving here, Isola?" I asked absently as I kissed her breasts gently during our third post-coital cooldown.

"Oh no, never," she said, slowly handling my now-deflated cock. "This is my home. I'm in college now. When I graduate, I'll teach here. I'll marry some local guy. I'll be happy here."

I did not know if I could ever find happiness in any one place.

In Papantla I saw my first ancient structures, the stupendous Ruinas El Tajin pyramids, and the volvadores (VOHL-vah-DOOR-ace), guys swinging by their feet tied to ropes spinning from a 100-foot-high pole.

I rode up to Xalapa a.k.a. Jalapa (ha-LA-pa), home of Jalapeno peppers and one of the world's great anthropological museums, filled literally with tons of pre-Columbian artifacts. And then down to Veracruz, home of vanilla. Vanilla liquor. Vanilla candies. Vanilla cigars. Vanilla condoms. No vanilla sex, hey?

Veracruz was the major Mexico-to-Spain port in colonial days. It was built in a malarial swamp. Posting there was often a death sentence. "I do not fear Hell; I have been to Veracruz," was the saying. Everyone who could, moved up the hill to Xalapa, the state capitol, almost a mile above sea level, well out of the disease zone. The swamps have since been drained but Xalapa is still the much more comfortable place.

---

I should mention my usual lodgings.

I only camped out when no towns were nearby. Rooms in towns were cheap. In larger cities, hostels are the budget choice for overnighting, if one does not mind unquiet companions. Just twenty-five or fifty cents a night, and hope the guy or gal in the bunk above you is not a bed-wetter. Posadas are much better. A posada may be something like a rooming house or a cheap hotel.

Girls were often included. Typical rates: three bucks for a one-medium-bed room, fifty cents for a girl, another fifty cents for another girl. One buck each if they stayed overnight. Having more than two girls at a time typically required a four- or five-buck room with a bigger bed. So, to stay on budget, I usually stuck with just one or two girls at a time.