tagGroup SexRon's Journal 03

Ron's Journal 03


Author's note: My uncle Ron died recently. While sifting through his files, I found journal folders marked MY STORY, writings about his life. I have edited these accounts 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.

I highly recommend that you read all previous chapters before starting on this piece.

******************** 5: On The Road -- Sex, Drugs, Rock'n'Roll, etc

My parents' divorce and the subsequent dislocations had rather fucked up my studies, my aspirations, my life. So, I went on to live a rather fucked-up life for a while, with no aspirations.

The summer after the Summer Of Love, I was a scruffy hippie, a street freak in San Francisco. (I had wanted to be a beatnik but I was too late.) I panhandled on Haight Street. I consumed drugs and alcohol and poor food. I slept in filthy crash pads and abandoned buildings. I shoplifted. I had dirty sex with whoever would have me.

I hung out at 1090 Page Street, a huge former Victorian mansion divided into apartments. The open basement was a large studio space where local bands rehearsed, bands like Canned Noise, and Cleveland Wrecking Company, and of course Fried Suck And The Acid Queen. Little nooks around the edges of that basement were convenient for fast fucking or fixing.

A thin girl with long brown hair wearing a dark flowered gown sat in a corner puffing a joint. I sat next to her. She passed the doobie and put her arm around my shoulders. I filled my lungs, pressed my lips on hers, and blew smoke into her. She did the same for me. We repeated this a couple times, with tongues.

She rubbed my thigh. I reached into the front of her gown and fondled her volcanic breasts. She rubbed my crotch. I pulled down my jeans. She lifted her robe, showing nothing underneath but pale flesh and a thin dark bush. She stood, then slowly lowered her cunt onto my stiff cock, seated herself firmly, writhed with my hands massaging her tits, and came rather quickly. Her pussy dripped.

I rolled her over into the old missionary position, and pounded away until she came again. I soon came, with a grunt. Out came my red cotton bandanna for a quick wipeoff, and then we sat back and passed the doobie again.

The band took a break from rehearsing. She rose and walked off. No names were exchanged.


I cleaned up a bit when I ran into a group of Hasidic hippies organized around a folksinging rabbi whom I had long admired. Their commune had a large log house in the steep wooded hills of western Marin County.

My place there was as the house goy, tending to tasks on Shabbas (the sabbath) from which the orthodox were prohibited. Aaron, the group leader, said he had a very holy car, it would not run on Shabbas. Of course, it did not run on many other days either.

When the rabbi was on the road touring, adult supervision at the commune was rather lax. These were all hot young people. We sunbathed nude, and passed joints and wine, and talked about light and sound and life. My circumcised cock was right at home here.

At meals, we sat on cushions around the gathering room wearing little, arranged boy-girl-boy-girl, and we fed each other's mouths with morsels and wine and kisses.

Fun was fun; but no unmarried intercourse, that was the rule. I could live with that, as long as I returned to 1090 Page Street every few days for real fucks.

But my feet were itching. I wanted to see the world. So I packed my rucksack and grabbed my guitar and stuck out my thumb again.

I thumbed the blue highways across the USA. I ran into many nice people and very few assholes. The guitar made me a "wandering minstrel". I sang for rides, sang for my meals and drinks, sang my way into a few beds.


One bright afternoon, I was thumbing on a back highway in flat eastern Colorado holding a sign that read FURTHUR. A dusty red pickup rolled up, stopped. A young fuzzy blonde head looked at me, called out the open window.

"I'm just going to the next town, about 30 miles away. Is that OK for you?"

"Yes indeed, thanks ma'am."

I hoisted the rucksack and guitar in the pickup bed and climbed into the cab.

"Hi there, I'm Lucinda. So where are you from, and where are you headed?"

"I'm Ron. I left San Francisco a few days ago. I'm just traveling. I hope to get to Boston maybe. Some friends told me I might do OK making music there."

We chatted a bit about our pasts and futures and whatevers.

"You look like you haven't eaten much lately." (Right, I hadn't.) "Would you like to stop at my place for dinner?"

"Sounds good to me."

We rolled eastward as the shadows lengthened, and stopped at a small neat house on the outskirts of a ranch town. I helped carry in some bags of groceries and merchandise from the truck. I admired her trim strong body, her blonde head almost reaching my chin.

"You got any clean clothes in your pack there? Go take a shower and change into something clean, and then you can sing for your supper."

My 6'5" body emerged after showering, my face closely shaved but for a mustache, my long black clean hair tied back in a neat ponytail, dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt. Lucinda was cooking burgers and chili, and had tossed a green salad.

I played and sang a couple songs about rambling. Lucinda set the table and poured glasses of cold beer from a quart bottle. We ate and drank and poured more beer and chatted on.

Lucinda said she had grown up and gone to school here; she loved the little school and town libraries. She inherited the house after her folks died in a tornado. She worked as a bookkeeper at a ranch supply store. She did not think much of the uneducated cowboys hereabouts. She was a couple years older than I was.

After dinner, she poured some Cuba Libre drinks, cheap Mexican rum in Royal Crown cola. We sat on the couch. I played and sang a bit more, some funny and rude songs I had written as well as some rock and folk standards. The sun was down. I was apparently going to stay the night.

"Your fingers work pretty good on that guitar there. Are they good for anything else?"

"Well, let's find out."

Lucinda took my hand and led me into a small spare bedroom mostly filled with a kingsize bed. We removed our footwear, then faced each other.

Lucinda unbuttoned my flannel shirt and pulled it off me. I unbuttoned her calico blouse, unsnapped her pale bra, and pulled them off her.

Lucinda dropped my jeans and briefs. I dropped her denim skirt and creamy panties.

Lucinda was shoulder-high to me. She looked up in my eyes and asked, "What now, you Pied Piper you?"

"How about I work today out of your tired muscles," I said, stroking her fatigued face.

Lucinda lay facedown on the bed, arms akimbo. I straddled her butt and started massaging her neck, her tight shoulders, her smooth sides. She murmured sighs of relief.

I turned around, straddled her back, and worked on her firm butt, her fine thighs, her strong calves, her sweet feet. She purred with pleasure. Her pussy moistened.

Lucinda mumbled happily, "That was real nice, but now I need a shower too. Y'all come in with me."

We crowded into the small shower, too confined for any sexual acrobatics, but we had fun soaping each other thoroughly. She nearly orgasmed when I shampooed her hair, my fingers massaging her scalp till her knees weakened. She pulled my head down for a long strong under-the-waterfall kiss. She turned off the spray and we toweled each other dry. We went back onto the bed.

"Now we've had some nice appetizers, guy. How about the main course?"

And so we fucked and sucked and slurped the whole night through.

Lucinda's and my bodies fit together well. We moved into a favorite and most intimate fuck position, with her strong legs wrapped around my waist, rolled onto our sides, face to face. My arms were freed from their missionary-position task of supporting my weight. Our hands had easy access to faces, chests, nipples. Prolonged kissing was easy.


Eventually, we slept. Eventually, roosters crowed and dogs barked. Eventually, the sun rose. Eventually, we awoke, pulled out of our spooned positions, looked in each other's faces, and said: "Race you to the toilet!"

Lucinda won the race. Eventually, we both drained and cleaned up and crawled back into bed.

"Say big guy, could we maybe start the day with another rubdown? I can't stand being rode hard and put away wet and uncurried."

We started with her supine, face-up to the rafters.

I straddled her belly and soothed her head, her throat, her shoulders, her breasts of course. I slid down and continued gently stroking and rubbing, no deep pressure, just light touches, down her pubes and thighs and shins and feet.

I rolled her over and repeated my back work of the previous night.

I had just reversed myself atop her butt and was working on her thighs when we heard the front door hinges creak, then footsteps across the floor.

A soprano voice called, "Hey Lucinda gal, I got some fresh berries for your breakfast..."

A fluffy brunette face peered in the open bedroom door, blinked, blinked again.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you were..."

"That's OK Sally, it's OK. This here is Ron and he's a magic man with magic hands. Ron, this is Sally, she's a clerk where I work, and she's my neighbor and friend."

I looked up at the curvy figure in a wheatstraw sundress and I murmured, "C'mon and join us."

Sally blinked a few more times, made a quick decision, and pulled off her dress and all else.

"That looks like fun. You good with massages? My back really hurts!"

I dismounted from Lucinda. We scooted over and Sally lay beside us, tits down, butt up.

"So you're Ron, huh? Well honey, I could really use some of what you were doing to Lucinda there."

I carefully repeated my head-to-toes procedure on Sally, then returned to Lucinda for another round.

"Time to roll over," I said.

Lucinda went onto her back. Sally rolled onto her side, watching us. I repeated the gentle full-frontal rubdown, not getting too busy around her aureoles or pubes, not yet.

I looked at Sally. "Your turn."

Sally rolled back, supine. I worked my magic again, then nibbled her tits and rubbed her inner thighs. She sighed loudly. I moved down between her thighs, spread her legs, licked her brown jungle, her juicy slit.

"Oh, that's nice, oh yes, oh yes..."

Her knees pinched my head. I tongued her up and down and sideways and back. I wrote Latin, Greek and Kanakata alphabets on her cunt lips, punctuated with deep thrusts. Then I concentrated on her clit.

Before too long, she came, she came hard, chanting, "oh shit oh shit oh shit..." into my smile.

I moved back to Lucinda for more of the same. Sally just watched at first, then massaged us, then kissed our bodies. After Lucinda screamed, I kissed Sally's mouth, rubbing Lucinda's juices onto her face and lips. She kissed harder.

Yes, we all fucked and sucked and slurped like manic ravening weasels -- right until the eight o'clock town bell rang.

"Oh shit, we'll be late for work! C'mon, let's go! Ron, would you like to have dinner again tonight?"

"Sounds good to me," I said, helping them gather and don their clothes. "Did you say there was a library in town?"

"Here's my house key, and the library is only a short walk down the road, and help yourself to any leftovers in the fridge. Gotta run now! See you tonight!"

Lucinda grabbed me for a quick kiss, and Sally did too, and then they both ran out the door. I wonder what excuse for tardiness they gave their boss?

The library kept me occupied for the next few days, and Lucinda and Sally kept me busy the next few nights. We alternated nights between their adjacent houses. If today is Tuesday, then we must be having dinner and sex at Sally's, hey?

That weekend we shared a nice picnic by a pond in the county park. With my hair tucked up under the straw hat Sally gave me, I played guitar and sang rude verses, quietly, so as not to scare the locals.

"That was pretty funny, Ron. You got any others?"

"Well, I was in Washington state and I heard a Merle Haggard song and I thought up this version:

We all smoke mary-wanna in Seattle

We all take our trips on LSD

We all burn our draft cards down on Main Street

'Cause we like livin' right and bein' free

And I'm proud to be a hippie from Seattle

A place where even squares can learn to ball

We all wear Old Glory on our britches

And peyote's still the biggest trip of all

We love to make a party our of lovin'

We fuck and suck and slurp the whole night through

If we can't find a friendly hole that's empty

Then one already filled will have to do

Yes I'm proud to be a hippie from Seattle..."

That's about where they told me to shush my dirty mouth.

Then we drove out a lonely farm road, spread a big blanket in a field, and fucked and sucked and slurped like wound-up weasels under the open sky.

But we knew I could not stay. There was no long-term place for me here. A few days later, Lucinda and Sally drove me to the next town eastward and kissed me goodbye, and I was on the road again.


By late summer, I had reached the East coast via Minneapolis and Chicago. I looked up Lindy, a pen-pal near Philadelphia, and Sandra, another pen-pal near Atlantic City, both too young for sex, but sweet to talk to and kiss. Yes, back in my lonely days after the divorce and my first upheavals, I cultivated pen-pals.

I thumbed across the northern Appalachians and found myself in Buffalo on a stormy day.

The crashpad where my ride dropped me was an old abandoned brick warehouse. Electricity was cut off but water still ran in the plumbing. Various folks were camped out on the ground floor.

I was invited up the stairs to an office space with mattresses on the floor. My invitation came from a young pretty black girl wearing cutoffs and a green tee, tall and fleshy, her hair in a short afro.

"Hey white boy, get your skinny ass up here! What your name? I'm Lucinda."

"Sweet, I knew another Lucinda not too long ago," I replied. "I'm Ron."

"I bet you did, sugar" she grinned, slamming the door. "You ever had any black ass before?"

"Not that I recall," I answered, "does black pussy run crossways or something?"

Lucinda punched my shoulder. "C'mere and find out!" she laughed, and passed me a bottle of cheap sweet wine.

I leaned my rucksack and guitar case against the door and blocked it shut with a wedge of wood.

And I quickly learned that black and white cunts both aligned the same way, both had similar geography, and both became similarly excited and juicy and smelly and and soft and twitchy and lots of fun, finger-licking good, yes!

"Hey, for a white boy, you ain't too bad! You gonna stick your big tongue in there again?"

"Well, I thought I might just slurp around for a while first, like this," I demonstrated.

"Fuck yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about!" she said as I pushed her legs over my shoulders.

A massive thunderstorm split the black night outside, while inside, I was splitting that steaming black pussy. I thought maybe the huge electric generators at Niagara Falls had short-circuited and were powering the night sky for many miles around.

Impaling her, I closely watched Lucinda's face and body in the strobe-light flashes of nearby lightning strikes as massive thunderclaps shook the warehouse. Our hair stood straight out in the titanic static charges. Our skins crackled. I could not quite synchronize my cock-strokes with the thunderbolts, but I sure tried.

Holy shit, there is NOTHING quite like an energetic fuck while the night sky is crashing down around you!


The sky cleared the next day. I thumbed onward, got a ride across the border into Canada, thumbed on through Toronto and Montreal out to Quebec City. A very stormy season there; I could not see a damn thing; so I thumbed back to Toronto and found a crashpad in Yorkville, the hippie district.

The crashpad's livingroom floor was strewn with sleeping bags. The place was run by little Stevie and his taller girlfriend Babette. Fair wiry Babette had instruments scattered around their bedroom: guitar, mandolin, banjo, bowed psaltery. We sat and played together, and screwed when Stevie was away.

Stevie returned while we were still screwing. He peered in the door, blinked, and said, "Pass the Vaseline" as he undressed.

I was walking down Yonge Street one afternoon, my hair hanging long, when a passenger van stopped beside me. The driver asked if I would like to go to a free concert? Sure thing. I climbed in beside some other street freaks.

The van drove to the downtown CBC studios. The CBC was shooting a nationwide TV broadcast of THE DOORS and they needed an appropriately freaky-looking studio audience. Thus the van.

The band were dressed in white. They looked bored. Jim Morrison waved his tight cock-filled crotch at our faces from a few feet away. Some girls (and a couple guys) waved their tongues back at him. I do not know if that display made it to the national video feed.

After the show, the same van dropped us all off where we had been found.

I continued thumbing westward on the Trans-Canadian Highway, around the Great Lakes. I thumbed under the giant goose in Wawa, Ontario. I slept in a laundromat in Thunder Bay. I was devoured by blackflies near Kenora.


By the time I reached Winnipeg, winter was approaching and I was tired of Canada. I panhandled a bit ("Got any spare change so I can leave here?") and bought a Greyhound ticket for San Francisco.

I had some fun in Winnipeg before I left. I asked around and some kids pointed me to a local crashpad. It was a two-story wood-shingle place with a depressing basement where aspiring bands practiced.

The usual low stratum of humanity flowed through there: runaways, deserters, illegals, ex-cons, dreamers, musicians, etc.

One upstairs room housed a group of four First Nations guys, Cree Indians who had all graduated from juvenile hall by turning 18. They taught me to swear in Cree and rough French. I passed along a couple Hawai'ian curses I had learned.

One of the Cree guys brought in his girlfriend Carole, an older Ojibway Indian gal with a round face and straight black hair who taught physical therapy. Her personal version of physical therapy involved being penetrated by as many cocks as possible and stuffing her mouth with numerous gonads.

That evening, Carole pulled a very long train with about 20 guys (including me) and maybe half as many girls. Carole was a non-drinker, non-smoker, a straight arrow who got high from hormones, she said.

Carole was installed on a narrow bed. She took double and triple and quadruple penetrations while jerking-off bystanders. She took cocks up both her nether holes while eating pussy, lying on either her back or her belly, sandwiched.

With two cocks in her mouth and one in each hand and in each nether hole, she milked six guys at once. If she'd had prehensile feet, she would have gone for eight at a time, she said. And with a bigger mouth, she would have done nine or ten. What is the record for simultaneous sex partners?

After the first half-hour, Carole seemed to cum continuously whenever a cock split her cunt or her anus.

After two hours of this, Carole's tongue was hanging loose and all her soggy mucous membranes were red and raw, but she said she still wanted more. The bed and the floor around it were flooded with juices.

Things only slowed down when all the other participants wore themselves out.

I came in her mouth or her cunt four times. It's good to be young.

This was Carole's evening, but the other girls in the room were fucking and sucking too. And a lot of extracurricular sexing happened in nearby rooms, as evidenced by vociferous moans and grunts and screams.

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