tagGroup SexRon's Journal 05

Ron's Journal 05


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.

******************** 9: Rambling: The Road Never Ends

By late summer, Hollyweird was running dry for both my then-wife MariLyn and me. My sex club of highschool girls had graduated and would leave for college after the summer. I knew that Mir was going to New Mexico and Lori would head for Florida. And intense Keri was getting testy about me remaining married.

Little blonde MariLyn was tired of the sex shows and phone sex. (The less said about our sex shows for that slobbering sugar-daddy banker, the better.) My mime routines had gone stale. We both missed our San Francisco friends and the clean air there. We relocated back north to The City By The Bay.

MariLyn and I continually separated and re-engaged. She still shacked up with various of our doper/wino friends, and with me occasionally. She got a room in a boarding house near Castro Street, back before it became the Gay Mecca. The landlady was immensely obese but home-brewed the best coffee in town.

I sometimes crashed with MariLyn, sometimes with friends, including some underground cartoonists, and their supposed girlfriends. I was depicted in some stories, and not very nicely. If you see drawings of a naked moustachioed Lurch with a hardon, that was me.

I went back to day labor for awhile. Some was pretty rugged.

I was often assigned to a construction materials wholesaler, located next to a Kaiser Permanente cement and gravel operation. Kaiser's pink cement-mixer trucks bore the corporate slogan FIND A NEED AND FILL IT. We thought it should be more like FIND A HOLE AND FILL IT. This matches some guys' philosophies, hey?

My work there usually consisted of unloading boxcars. One day, two of us had to unload 45 tons of 80- and 100-pound sacks of dry cement, on our shoulders, hauling them across a narrow plank to a waiting pallet. We finished the 8-hour task in 6 hours, got paid for a full day, and drank a lot of WPLJ to kill the pain.

WPLJ is White Port & Lemon Juice. Heated, it is a miracle drink. Boil a pot of water on a fire. Open a mickey (half-bottle) of white port and squirt in a few shots of lemon concentrate, then shake to mix. Heat the open bottle in the pot of water till the port starts to steam. Drink it hot. The alcohol is absorbed into your blood system in about 15 seconds. Instant drunk, hey?

Another assignment had us carry an upright piano up steep twisty stairs to a spiffy hilltop house. The customer, looking like an aging WASP jock, appreciated our careful work, gave us beers, and offered to share his Filipina mail-order bride with us. She did not seem too happy about the offer. I respectfully declined. Unwilling sex is not a turn-on for me.

"C'mon, you guys did a great job there, you deserve a reward."

"You want us to fuck your wife? She looks like she doesn't really want to."

"Don't matter what she wants. If I want her to, then she'll want to, too."

"Sorry man, I can't get my dick up for a scene like this."

I moved from day labor, to walking deliveries downtown. This was still casual day-by-day work -- work when money is needed, stop when it ain't. Miles of walking, and no heavy lifting. Much better than unloading boxcars.

I also earned money by singing and playing guitar on street corners, often accompanying my tall blonde bearded friend who played soprano sax and preferred to be called Bama. His fast raspy Alabama drawl was... unique. Grating, like drunken fingernails on a chalkboard.

"Goddammit Ron, don't be such a fucking pussy about this. Y'all just gotta walk into that lez bar with me and order drinks. C'mon, let's mess with the dykes. Ain't like they're gonna rape us."

"You're a real dickhead, Bama. Some of the gals in there are bigger even than us. And meaner. They'll hurt us!"

"Y'all just been pussy-whipped, Ron. Fuck it, I'll go by myself. I'll charm their butts off, just y'all wait and see."

Bama entered alone. The beefy big-titted bouncer punched his lights out and rolled him out the door. Ouch.

Hot-headed Bama competed in chess tournaments, and consumed moonshine and strong hash, and eventually took my wife MariLyn -- and he is goddam welcome to her. They are still together. We do not communicate.

Sex was rather sparse. 1090 Page Street was no longer a free-fuck zone. I occasionally nailed MariLyn or a cartoonist's girlfriend or some of the old doper/wino gals I had known before, but I had nothing regular or even stupendously exciting. I sure wasn't ready to cruise for guys.

I let my day-worker friends talk me into going to a bar/club one night, the Holy City Zoo. We had been smoking opium. I grabbed a stool at the bar.

The gal on the next stool was tall, dark, very drunk, and wore only a spun wool dress with nothing under it. She grabbed my hand and stuck it in her cunt and worked my digits around like I was a slow vibrator. She came on my fingers, pulled them to her mouth and licked them.

Her boyfriend came thundering out of the pissoir. I did not think she was worth fighting over, so I left. I blame the opium.


I somehow made it through the winter and spring and early summer. By midsummer, I was ready to travel again. I packed my rucksack and guitar and the FURTHUR sign and stuck my thumb out.

I hitched to Seattle and Tucson and Denver and El Paso, crossing the border bridge for Latina pussy and wormy mescal. I hung my nylon-web hammock between trees in Yellowstone and Yosemite and Zion.

I played guitar and sang wherever I was allowed, paid in tips or beer or tacos or bed. Yes, some girls still took pity on this wandering minstrel, if only for an hour or a night or two.

One swoop took me from Denver to Chicago to Boston. And there I again found Will Sykes, my almost-twin. He had married Cassie, an English girl whose mother had moved to Providence, Rhode Island.

Cassie was thin, dark hair and eyes, small tits and ass, rather bony, but with a great accent and style.

Will and Cassie had an apartment over the bookstore they managed outside Boston, and a VW van for roaming the countryside. They had visited MariLyn and me in San Francisco the previous spring, staying only a few short teasing days. Will had not yet told Cassie about our prior hookups with the Hermann sisters.

Will had told her by now. On the second morning I slept on the sofa in their parlor, Will had gone down to open the store, and Cassie invited me into their bed.

I did not hesitate long. We screwed like weasels. Cassie knew all the tricks, and then some. When she came on my tongue, she moaned. When she came on my cock, she chanted "oh oh oh oh oh oh..." in time with my strokes. I came twice that morning. She was multi-orgasmic. Sweet.

We descended to the store and I tried to be helpful.

The pattern was set. Weeknights, Will and I shared Cassie in their bed. Weekends, we would drive the van on backroads around New England. Will and I alternated driving, and alternated fucks-and-sucks with Cassie in the back of the van. Or we would stop somewhere private, draw the window shades, and all go at it together in the usual geometries.

We renamed the van DER SEXWAGEN.

Cassie loved being tag-teamed, with cocks in her mouth and cunt. Too bad she didn't have a loving sister in the USA.

I stayed with Will and Cassie for a few wet and wild weeks, and then thumbed westward again. I would be with them again in a couple years.


My best run was in early fall. I drifted southward from Yellowstone, across the Colorado Rockies and into New Mexico. And in Santa Fe, I reconnected with Mir.

I had not seen tall dark curvy Mir in over a year. I remembered she was going to school in Santa Fe. I checked the student directories available in the town library, and there she was, address and all.

The dorm rooms all opened outside like an adobe motel, not to an interior hallway. I set down my rucksack and guitar, and knocked.

The door opened. An older, more beautiful Mir stood there in jeans and t-shirt with her eyes wide open, her face frozen in shock.

"RON!!" she yelled, and launched herself at me. The impact was considerable. We managed to remain upright. I grabbed my gear as she dragged me inside.

Yes, our reunion was passionate. Yes, we were soon naked in bed, trying every position we were familiar with, and a few new ones. Yes, she yelled a lot. Yes, we both laughed and cried a lot. Yes, I smothered in her large breasts and drowned in her pussy.

"Mir, do you have a lover here?"

"Errr, well, I slept with one girl a couple times, but most of my life is filled up with studies. I really haven't had time for another lover. It's a good thing I don't have to share this room. How about you? Do you have any new girls or anything?"

"I've just seen some old friends. And I tried a guy once, but I think that's not my scene."

"Wow, you really did a guy? What was that like?"

"It was OK as an experience, that's all."

"Where are you coming from? Where are you going? How long can you stay here?"

"I'll stay as long as you'll have me. I've just been thumbing all over the country, mostly the West and Northeast. Sometimes I go back to San Francisco for a few days. But there's really only one place I'm heading next."

I held up the FURTHUR sign.

"Ron, you can stay with me here, but you'll have to feed and entertain yourself, and you can't interfere with my schoolwork. Do you have any way to get around? You can borrow my bicycle if you want."

And that is how I found myself pedaling a 3-speed fat-tire girl's bike down Canyon Road and around the Santa Fe Plaza with my guitar on my back, maybe with bags of food in the big front basket.

During the day, I would bike to the Plaza and sing for tips and beer and tacos, or roam around the ancient capital city and soak up history. Evenings, I would sit on Mir's floor and read, or strum the guitar softly, while she studied. Nights, we would tear into each other. Her bed was small, but sufficient for the two of us.

"How much more of the Kama Sutra can we do tonight?"

"We're on page 24 now. Let's see if we can get to page 30."

"I think we're going to need more Vaseline and Ben-Gay."

"I'll pick some up tomorrow, babe."

Mir invited me to sit in on one of her Political Science seminars. I kept my mouth absolutely shut.

On weekends, Mir and I and some of her friends would wander around the old city or hike up in the mountains above town. Although my only college work had been in a trade school, I was auto-didactic and well-read enough to not humiliate myself (or Mir) before these young scholars.

My tales of life on the road were well received if not always believed. What, me exaggerate?

I stayed with Mir for only a few weeks. Then she started getting twitchy about sharing her room, and my feet started getting itchy again.

I headed out, into what became another life-transforming journey. I would not see Mir again for almost four years.

Next: What am I getting myself into?

******************** 10: Rambling: Changes Whomp My Head

From Santa Fe I thumbed down to Tucson. I sat on a park bench there. Under the bench was a brown paper grocery bag. In the bag was a one-kilogram brick of Mexican pot. I looked around. Nobody in sight, nobody looking at me. I stuffed the bag into my rucksack and nonchalantly strolled away.

I thumbed on to Los Angeles and San Francisco, paying for rides with lids of grass. I passed out the remainder to friends in San Francisco. Then I thumbed eastward.

My great life transformation started deceptively.

I was at a freeway onramp in Reno one evening, standing with a fairly clean traveler named Ted. The FURTHUR sign was atop my guitar case. A big old Dodge Power Wagon with New York license plates stopped for us.

The big woman driving was Nancy. Ted got in beside her. The seat behind theirs was filled with luggage. And the big back section, padded with pillows and blankets and sleeping bags, contained Nancy's three daughters: Nettie, Sherry, and Vonnie. My rucksack joined the backseat luggage and I hauled my guitar and myself into the back.

We rolled, and I saw there was no interior light, only flashes and shadows from the highway.

I later learned some details. Children of yet another failed Catholic marriage, the girls were each just 9 1/2 months apart in age.

Vonnie was the youngest and tallest and leanest, with curly red hair and bright freckles on her rubbery Annie Oakley face.

Nettie was the oldest and shortest, with tight black curls circling her round face. Nettie was already a confirmed dyke, like her mother.

Sherry was medium in all ways except for her lusciousness and exceptional French-Canadian beauty framed by long wavy black hair.

Netty and Vonnie leaned into the back corners of the wagon. Sherry sat in a front corner opposite the door. I scooted in next to her.

I learned they lived on a small farm near the Finger Lakes in upstate New York and were heading home from a trip to San Francisco, where they had stayed with one of Nancy's old lesbian lovers.

I thought it best to sing for my ride. I strummed the guitar, sang some verses, paused to chat. Sherry's glowing eyes captured me, as did her blouse's open top buttons, revealing an enchanting swell of soft creamy breast.

I played and sang some more. The wagon's interior started warming up. Sherry opened another button, then another. I leaned over and kissed Sherry, and strummed some more chords. She opened more buttons, all the buttons, and she wore no bra.

I kissed down her throat, down her chest, between her breasts, and strummed more chords, and sang another verse. Sherry pulled her blouse aside and I kissed her nipples and strummed the guitar again.

As we continued this for an unmeasured time, I saw Netty and Vonnie were both watching us carefully. They were both obviously frigging themselves with their fast fingers.

The wagon's interior warmed yet more. Scents of female juices wafted into the air.

Nancy opened the wind-wings further to cool the interior a bit, and those scents blew away in the wind. Whew. I kissed Sherry's tits and mouth again, and played some more chords, and kissed some more.

Nancy stopped for the night 300 miles later in Elko, Nevada. The family got a motel room. Ted and I hit the road again. Nancy said I had been good company, and invited me to visit them sometime.

I later learned Nancy had a pistol in her lap the whole time Ted and I were in the wagon, just in case we turned out to be dangerous scum. My singing and strumming deceived her into thinking all was well and decent in back. Whew.

Damn, Sherry had such luscious eyes and lips and tits! And kisses like rose-petal perfume. And a welcoming smile. And a heart full of desire. I drowned in her open heart.

Thus was the great change in my life provoked. It manifested the following year. More on that later.


Ted and I went our own ways. I looped around and was back in San Francisco a few weeks later.

I went back to my casual deliveries gig, then decided to step up in the world. I became a bicycle courier, riding industrial-strength one-speeds up steep hills, drinking gallons of free coffee during the day and gallons of cheap wine at night.

But damn, my legs were strong! I turned down offers for modeling my strong, shapely legs and firm, tight butt. Maybe I should have accepted...

Most of the Quicksilver cyclists were scrawny hyperactive guys, about as you would expect for the work. A few were scrawny hyperactive gals. And a VERY few were extremely attractive athletic girls, whom I made a special effort to welcome to the job. Few rode off unhappy.

Mass Bike Streaks occurred. On warm sunny days, we would pass the word: 12:30 today. Male and female couriers gathered in an upslope alley off Montgomery Street, stripped, stashed clothes in bike baskets, and flew naked through the financial district, howling like hyenas. We would regroup in a downslope alley, dress, and go on with the day.

Besides the Quicksilver gig, I also made music on the streets for tourist coins. Bama on his sax, me with my guitar and voice, playing at Fisherman's Wharf and cable-car turntables and anyplace crowded.

We sometimes attracted other players. There was Jenny the fiddler, who almost fucked me, but not quite. There was Jeri the piper, ditto. There was Lee the banjo girl, firecracker-hot in bed, but she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

Came the late autumn, and the gentle San Francisco winter, and the spring, and I was quite burnt out. Even the girl bike couriers I hung with, or the cartoonist's or bike couriers' girlfriends I snuck away with, were not enough to shake me from my funk.

I had been in San Francisco off-and-on for seven years now, and my life was not significantly better, and was certainly worse than my suburban childhood before my folks' divorce. I decided to follow my heart.

And my heart led me to upstate New York, and to Sherry.


I had saved a fair amount of money from my work, enough to keep me going awhile.

First, I thumbed down to Palm Springs to see my older cousin Terry and his friendly wife Jill. Terry was long and lean; Jill was curvy and cute. They had an XKE Jaguar, a swimming pool, an always-full beer cooler, and an open marriage filled with friends and toys.

Clothing was prohibited in and around the pool. Terry and I tag-teamed Jill. Her breasts still fill my dreams. It was a fun visit.

I thumbed to Tucson. I found a houseful of students who welcomed visitors. Skinny sweet Tina was especially welcoming.

In San Francisco, I had bought a German 35mm camera kit and many cartridges of infrared and high-intensity film, and I shot more than a few unusual photos of lanky Tina's naked body writhing around, on or off my cock, exploiting odd slices of the visual spectrum.

"Hold up a second, I need to wipe your pussy juice off the lens."

"It would be cleaner if you hadn't gone for such a close-up."

"Yeah, I guess I should use a telephoto lens and back off a little."

"Hey, that telephoto looks like a really fun dildo!"

"I dunno, I don't think it's weather-sealed."

At this house, I learned that when nothing else is available, one can make excellent pancake syrup from sugar, melted butter, and tequila.

In Tucson, I learned about driveaway agencies. A certain car needs to be somewhere far away; I put down a deposit, pay for gas, drive it there, and get my deposit back when I deliver it safely. I thought, HA! GO FAR QUICKLY! NO LOUSY THUMBING!

I found a big Ford sedan headed for Albany. I checked ridesharing bulletin boards at the university. I found riders wanting to go to destinations along the route. They shared the driving and gas money, and we all got where we wanted, fast and cheap. GREAT!

After two days of almost non-stop driving with three other guys, I was reunited with Sherry.

The family expected me and welcomed me warmly. Sherry applied subtle makeup and looked positively hotly angelic. She glowed as if lit by radium.

Nancy went out for the evening. Sherry took me up to her room. We kissed, snuggled, made oral love -- and then Nancy returned early. Sherry scuttled off. Damn frustrating! But Nancy probably still had her pistol nearby.

I delivered the car to Albany the next day, got my deposit back, and thumbed back to the family. I crashed on Nancy's couch for a couple days, and decided to seriously court Sherry.

I got a room in town in a residential hotel. I got an assembly-line job at the local factory. I got a bike, and pedaled out to the farm to see the family constantly. Nancy had a brood of foster kids. I became their favorite visitor.

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