tagErotic CouplingsNude, Not Lewd, Well Maybe That Too

Nude, Not Lewd, Well Maybe That Too

byerectus123©

Note--All oral, vaginal and anal sex is consensual among these participants who are 18 year old and older. No sexual violence or mayhem takes place.

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NUDE NOT LEWD, WELL MAYBE THAT TOO

Back in the late 1980s when the sexual revolution was uttering its last roar, most of us thought just about any vanilla sex was simply a bore.

My wife and I were newly married. Neither one of us was a virgin, in fact my wife was quite the opposite. She was youthful TV star in 1970s Hollywood. I used to jerk off over her sharp pointed tits even back then before I knew her. Then her career petered out. There is a reason they use that expression, she lost her virginity in a double wide trailer to the same actor who played her grandfather. Back then it wasn't called sexual abuse, it was called the casting couch. Put out or get put away. Of course in those days being promiscuous was a way of life.

Lisa didn't stop with Granddad but was bedded by a bevy of first and second rate stars that I'm sure you would recognize if I shared our family secrets. She also fucked a bunch of roadies who probably ended up in rehab. To say Lisa was bisexual would be an under exaggeration. A number of these actors invited her home for threesomes with their wife's or mistresses. Be assured, a good time was had by all.

What does she look like? Like most TV actors she was short. To make the men look tall the women had to be shorter. She came out of a world dominated by woman who had good sized jugs, a heart shaped ass and a narrow waist. Think Annette Funicello with dirty blood hair, or Jane Fonda, probably a better example but a little taller. Of course Lisa was considerably younger then either of them. At the time of this recounting she was about 28, hot as a pistol and her hormones were running on high test.

As for me, I’m a real man. Well, not exactly. A real man wouldn’t put up with all the shit she puts me through. But I'm no Bi, I like to say that out loud, but I didn't escape Hollywood without a number of compromising situations that enlarged my sphincter.

My dad was a well know cinematographer. Now that was a real man. He filmed for Houston, Penn and other well known directors, fucked my mother every other night and a bevy of starlets in between. I was his assistant. You can still see my name right up on the silver screen under my dad's.

My real name is Harmon but people call me HJ or by my middle name which is Joseph or Joe. I had started work in 1974 and was a cute mop head at that time Beetle Mania was a vocation for many. Our dearest John Lennon was still alive and we thrilled to his coming and goings.

Having neither a full wallet nor a 10 inch dick. I wasn't in demand by the ladies except by a few tired cougars that roamed the abandoned cinema stages and for the lack of chairs I'd have to fuck them standing up. You don't get down on the dusty floor in a multi-thousand dollar costume and wig and these gals didn't merit trailers.

Why, of course I wasn't gay, but I was cute, call me pretty rather than handsome. But I did get high at more than one wrap party and woke up in a costume designers bed the next morning. He was a guy who could not have limp wrist-idly crossed Santa Monica Boulevard at night without some passing gaggle of college kids in a sedan calling out "fagot." Now does that make me gay? Or bi? Maybe?

But cocaine, the white powdered nose candy was quite a scene eraser. I couldn't remember much of anything the next morning after I’d spent the night with Jose’ Godot, although my ass was sore and I couldn't get an erection for three days. My ball sack was as empty as a 35 mm film canister and for some reason I woke up wearing a padded bra under a cashmere sweater, though naked from the waist down.

I was quite friendly with a successful male lead who to my surprise was not the he-man his movies made him out to be. I'm sure you know who he was, he was killed racing his high powered sports car around a hair pin curve out near Malibu. Out of respect for the dead I won't mention his name. I was supposed to have accompanied him that night on his way to a party but I was busy wrapping a silly horror film.

Did we have sex? Well, I don't like to admit it but he was the first one who broke my cherry when I was fully conscious and willing. On many occasions he more than reciprocated on his belly. He used to say,

"Ah the glory of being butt fucked, the world would be at peace if every dictator had a fat cock in his ass."

Maybe he was right.

He took me on a few trips to Nevada and paid for everything. You couldn't help but say yes to anything sexual he suggested. I couldn't resist him. I let him have his way with me always, but he also wanted me to penetrate him as well. I must say having a famous actor on the end of my dick was an extra thrill He was so cool and beautiful. Like a lot of Hollywood actors, his preference would have been to have become a director himself. A pity he didn't live to see the success and universal respect he garnered after death.

Although I had some closet gay experience, I am neither gay nor bi. My preference is fucking a good looking woman but sometime my wife will set things up and I'm afraid to stop the ball from rolling. That's what happened when she planned a nude beach vacation with her girlfriend Chloe and her husband Clyde. They passed as a married couple but like most things in Hollywood you don't believe everything you are told.

Chloe worked in Bullocks Wilshire in the fashion clothes department. This was back before they turned that charming building into a City College. Chloe looked like a fashion model. She was tall, a full head of platinum hair, as if a reincarnation of Jean Harlow. She was slender. Her eyes were large, her eyebrows well groomed, her waist was slender, her ass was not large but well formed and muscular, her breasts under her braless silk see throughs were long and elliptical but curved upward at her nipples. She was a real beauty. What she was doing with Clyde was a question I never asked.

A friend of mine who saw her said she used to be a highly paid international escort and I thought once saw her likeness on an old internet page of British escorts.Supposedly she was paid off in six figures to disappear from a congressional investigation of the New York Governor some years back.

Her "husband" Clyde worked at one auto dealership after another. At that time he was selling out the last of the famous Citroen Maseratis. For those of you too young to know, these were boat shaped cars, a wide front like a Buck Rogers spaceship and a narrow rear like a boy's ass. The car went up and down hydraulically and has a massive Italian Maserati engine.

How did this clone come about? Well, it was a trial merger of the French Citroen company with the Italian mega auto company Fiat in Torino. Fiat had by that point bought out most of the famous Italian sports car companies including Ferrari. Citroen, which had not had a US car entry since the early 1950s was hoping to get a piece of the pie with this monster, but the complicated vehicle, whose lights turned with the steering wheel was doomed by US stupid regulation that required dismantling its exotica and the cost of the newly required crash tests were too much for the Europeans to put up with.

When import of these wondrous vehicles was stopped, Clyde’s boss ended up with a small warehouse of these cars at a bargain price. Clyde was busy selling them for about 14 months until the last one left the dealership. He tried like hell to get me to take one but I had a new Cadillac and how many cars can you drive at the same time. Within a few years the Citroen Maseratis were collectible relics--but not rusting, most of the body panels were aluminum.

But I digress, Clyde rode the way of success selling them to Hollywood actors and had pocketed enough commissions to buy a small house in the Wilshire corridor. That was where my wife and I would go and visit and drink ourselves into oblivion. More than once, Clyde and I caught the two women in the middle of lesbian sex acts, my wife Lisa usually wore the red strap-on.

I was never attracted to Clyde. He was a little taller than I was, had a tricky mustache that made him look like a slickster. His hair was thin but he waxed it backwards. He always smelled of some Italian cologne, I think it was Bulgari. But on the positive side he was a terrific conversationalist, knew a little about everything and played piano like a professional musician, and he never made passes at my wife. I respected that. Some men would make a pass at her in front of me like I didn’t exist, like when we were in an elevator together in a Vegas hotel and two young guys invited her up to their room. That was when I pulled her closer to me and give them a dirty look. Of course I’m a sound sleeper, for all I know she partied with both of them while I slept.

It was at one of the all night soirees at Clyde’s place that the girls decided they needed more of a sun tan. National nudist day was touted in the LA Weekly, which was a free magazine. Back then it was as thick as a small phone book. This was before the Internet turned these great publications into tiny leaflets. In those days we never missed an issue, and they were free and filled with stories, food events, sex ads and politics.

Neither Clyde or myself discouraged the girl’s idea of an adventure. At that time we were only beginning to learn that the sun was a culprit of aging skin and a cancer donor. Just as well, otherwise we might have decided not to visit a nudist beach.

We considered driving 40 miles out to the Elysium Institute, which was the famous nudist camp out in the sagebrush mountain top in Topanga. We hesitated knowing that place had a reputation for weirdness and after a Playboy Magazine article made it well known we feared the place would be overcrowded and filled with undesirable thrill seekers with cameras.

Where to go? We had heard of a small nudist beach in San Gregorio, California. That seemed like a better option then the mountainy briar patch of Elysium Institute in Topanga. Of course San Gregorio was a further distance away, on the road to San Francisco. The nudist beach was just north of the State Beach but on private land. It was more of a drive than it would be to Topanga, but we wanted a beach and decided to stay for the weekend. We booked two adjoining rooms with a nice view of the ocean at a modern motel nearby. We left Los Angeles before daybreak as it was a 4 or 5 hour drive along a breathtaking coastal vista. I woke up from time to time to enjoy it and then fell back to sleep. The girls slept like they were dead, their mouths wide open as if they were waiting for someone to stick their cock inside.

We came off the exit and thanks to Clyde’s navigator we found the motel easily. We checked into around 11am and dropped off our small suitcases.The accommodations were super nice. The two rooms were a suite that could be united if you opened the door in between. In that way the space in between converted into a small living room with a small table and some white vinyl covered chairs. The bedrooms and the two bathrooms just beyond the shared space made it seem as if we were staying in a small house rather than a motel. It amazed me how spacious the motels were once you got out of Los Angeles.

We left our suitcases in the rooms and went across the street to get a breakfast of coffee and donuts at a local shop. The donuts were yeasty and smelled so good, surprisingly fresh, unlike the industrial stuff we find at home. The coffee was great. The aromas filled the jeep as we headed out. With keen anticipation we made our way to the shore.

This San Giorgio nudist beach claimed to be the first nude beach in California if not in the whole country. How they had succeeded in relative obscurity surprised me. It is a narrow beach that sits at the base of a high bluff. You have to maneuver past mountains of driftwood to make entrance. Most of the nudists there are gay but as you walk past the obviously gay nudists you arrive at a section where non gay nudists park their carcasses. But beware, if you wander much further you can accidentally cross naked into the state park and risk arrest by Park Rangers for indecent exposure.

Americans foolishly tend to be ashamed of nudism, thinking it is disgustingly perverse. In Europe it is a common activity touted for its health benefits and as an example of clean living. It is not a place for sexual activity but a lifestyle. The nudest industry united by the FKK nudist organization exists in a grand scale attracting tourist from all over Europe to the Eastern Adriatic Sea nudist resorts and to the more modest German and French nudist camps.

Why not, bare breasted sunbathing takes place on most French beaches. In America we are too shy and timid about our bodies, but in contrast to European Nudist camps where you don't see or hear of them as sexual retreats, in America there is often a mixture of sex and nudism, usually behind closed doors or inside tents away from prying eyes but people sometimes, if rarely, get carried away and may perform out in the open to the chagrin of serious nudists who bring their children to the nudist camp.

So there we were, all crammed into Clyde's jeep that he'd borrowed from the used car department where he worked, pulling into the sandy Nudist’s Private Beach parking lot just off Highway 1, north of La Honda Road.

There is a gate that is usually unlocked, but we got there just behind some other tourist who had just pulled in, in front of us and left the gate open. There was a small metal lock box anchored to sizable cement block, with a taped sign asking for a donation. We put a $20 bill through the slit at the top.

The traffic had been light since it was a Sunday morning and we'd enjoyed the ride that follows the coastline but if not for the hot coffee we'd have probably fallen asleep. Once out of the jeep we grabbed our bags, towels and reading matter and hiked past a gaggle of gay folk, tanned red as beets wearing dark sunglasses and little else. There were bald muscle guys and the more fem gays with stylish hats and coiffures. Some were older and there were a number of quite corpulent older gay couples but we did spot some of the younger nudists who were fit and attractive.

The girls, walking ahead of us, were approached by a young man who was tall with a full head of brown curly hair. I didn't know what the attraction was until we caught up with them and got a frontal view of the guy. His penis, in the flaccid state, hung down halfway to his knee cap.

Neither Clyde nor myself, were any competition for this guy. He must have been an easy 12 inches or more when aroused. He smiled at us but I was sure he was thinking,

"I can get both of your women and fuck them to pieces minutes after."

He was probably right. The girls were red faced and giddy and it turned out they already had inquired and knew that he and his boyfriend were staying at the same motel we'd checked into earlier.

Clyde patted me on the shoulder,

"Good thing he's gay," he said.

"I'm not so sure he is," I answered.

My cock had already shrunk to a submissive state as if I'd just swam in the frozen ocean.

We kept walking until we reached what looked like normal nudists, fat and good eaters, with big bellies. There was a small group playing cards, maybe Bridge, on the sand and shouting in German. We went a little further and found a quiet place behind some drift wood and laid out our towels and took out our thermal ice bag filled with drinks and strawberries we'd bought on the way.

North of Los Angeles, in Ventura County is the large strawberry growing center. From the freeway you can see miles of small plastic tents. I've even seen the same berries being sold in Paris markets. I stuck the food pack in the cool shade of the driftwood.

Clyde had a small transistor radio but he had difficulty finding a station. Finally he wheeled its selector past a Christian church sermon and he hit a pop station. We began to relax, the cool salted ocean breeze and the sun that broke though the clouds warmed us. I made a little mound of sand under my towel for a pillow and was already falling asleep.

We were all relaxing, Clyde had a thermos of a shaved ice margarita. After we finished the aluminum container the girls said they wanted to go for a walk. Off they went in the direction of the gay area. I didn't give it much thought but when they did not return in an hour I got worried.

Clyde and I headed out to make sure they were ok. We walked all the way to the entrance but could not find them, so we headed back to see if somehow we had missed them.

I spotted a tent in the area where the big dicked guy had greeted the girls earlier and we approached it quietly. When we got near we could hear noises that sounded like there was some fucking going on. Then I could hear my wife's voice. She was cheering on Long Dick who fucking Chloe, Clyde's wife.

When he pulled his shinny gland out of Chloe he laid down on his back on the floor, his cock still erect, he stood back for a moment. My wife in the meantime dropped over Long Dick, she topped him and grabbed his dick inserting it at the entry of her vagina. He swiftly shoved that tent pole rigging into her honey spot. She sort have danced over it as it went deeper and deeper, then she fell forward over his chest. The other guy, Long Dick’s friend wasted not a moment. He came behind her, spit on his finger and stuck his finger right up her ass and then deeming her adequately lubed with his saliva, substituted his normal sized cock for his finger and began to fuck her anally.

I was peering through the netting and there she was, on all fours doggy style and both guy were fucking her. I think it is called double penetration? And it was obviously entertaining to her. The buddy of the Long Dick, I didn't know what else to call him, was standing behind her with his cock going in and out of her ass like a steam engine. Long Dick, under her, with his dick in her snatch, was keeping time with his buddy, stroke for stroke.

I spied Clyde's wife Chloe on the side, she was masturbating, rapidly rubbing her clit as she licked the ass of the guy who finally pulled out of my wife's ass and stock his primed cock into Clyde's wife's open mouth as he came. She choked a bit trying to swallow it all down.

Meanwhile I'd lost track of Clyde, what nerve he had. He'd entered the tent and taken the place of the guy who'd pulled out of my wife and he was busy fucking my wife in her ass. I wasn't pleased at any of this but there I was, bent over watching this scene of debauchery though the tent netting, my ass up in the air when someone grabbed my hips and jammed an unlubed cock right up my ass. I shouted out,

"Oh My God!"

My wife turned and saw me and the guy behind me gripped my hips so tightly I could not have escaped if I'd wanted too. Then as he reached a crescendo I realized I didn't want to escape, I wanted to be fucked in the ass, it had been so long since 'd been butt fucked. I decided then and there to just stay put and enjoy every stroke.

I was lost in my dreams, my eyes closed and I didn't realize that my wife and her lover had exited the tent, I felt a smack on the ass and the cock fucking me pulled out only to be replaced by my wife's lover Long Cock. He was very long, his friend had opened me up but when he shoved himself forcibly inside me. He almost immediately struck virgin territory as he rammed my ass unmercifully, all the time holding me so tightly I could not move.

I felt his friend’s hands holding my feet and my wife had moved towards my belly and was actively jerking my erect cock, embarrassingly erect, with the goal of jerking me off. As I started to moan indicating my time was near, Clyde's wife Chloe, the cum queen, grabbed my cock away from my wife and stuffed it in between her tight lips. I came with a gush I'd not experienced in years, the pressure of Mr. Long Cock’s dick on my prostate must have been the cause.

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