Cruise Ship Regeneration Ch 05A
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Ron’s Journal 05A free porn video
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.
This piece can be appreciated without having read all the previous chapters. But read them anyway.
******************** 9A: Don’t Know Where I’ll Be Going Next – 1972
‘Sisters, lovers, water brothers,
And in time, maybe others…
I don’t really see,
Why can’t we go on as three?’
I was sitting at the top of the steps of the DeYoung Museum in Golden Gate Park, playing guitar, singing the David Crosby song TRIAD, slowly finger-picking its sliding open chords. Two young Chinese girls sat next to me, listening, hand-in-hand, leaning together. I played the instrumental fade-out, stopped.
Lin smiled at me. ‘Nice try, guy, but not right now.’
Zhou nodded, ‘Yeah, maybe after we’re eighteen, OK?’
Ah well, can’t win them all, I thought to myself, watching them walk away, their tasty toned legs and butts moving seductively under their school uniforms. Probably just as well that the jailbait didn’t bite.
I slipped my vinyl guitar case’s strap over my shoulder, swung aboard my ten-speed bike, and pedaled out toward the beach. I had some other favorite spots for singing and gathering non-paying audiences.
My life had stabilized somewhat from its prior chaos. I moved up from intermittent day labor to an actual steady job, walking deliveries between downtown offices — blueprints, contracts, media, whatever. It meant constant hiking, no heavy lifting, and weekly paychecks, for more than minimum wage. Much better than heavy labor, for sure.
I also made money by singing and playing guitar on street corners, often with my tall blonde bearded friend Bama (from Alabama) on soprano sax. He eventually hooked up with my wife MariLyn — and he is goddam welcome to her. They are still together. We do not communicate. But that story is for another time.
Bama and I often played at a corner entrance to Ghirardelli Square. An older Caribbean guy who played loud and hokey Calypso songs thought it was ‘his’ corner. We had to fight him for it. He finally ‘won’, sort of. Bama and I moved on, eventually into professional careers. And decades later, that old guy was still singing Calypso on the same corner for a few bucks a day. Be careful what you fight for, you might get it.
Sex was rather sporadic at times. 1090 Page Street was no longer a free-fuck zone. I intermittently 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, usually. I sure was not ready to cruise for guys.
Little blonde MariLyn and I were off-and-on and not yet divorced. We did not really like each other much any more, but we sort of needed each other, were used to each other, shared a history — co-dependent?
In one of our ‘on’ phases, we met Rick and DiDi at some Haight Street party. Rick and DiDi and her sister Shari lived in a basement apartment near Golden Gate Park, around the corner from the old Jefferson Airplane mansion on Fulton Street. They invited us to visit, then to move in, then to keep their place when they moved back East a couple months later. They left their cat Mama Fuck-Fuck with us.
Our sessions were usually interesting. A typical evening went like this:
The bedroom was mostly filled with a blanket-covered king mattress on the floor. UV fluorescent tubes made the dark walls full of blacklight posters glow eerily, casting the only light on our contorting bodies. The scene looked like a blackened infinity of space with floating holograms.
Thin wry Rick was on his back on the bed. Crazy MariLyn rode his cock, curvy raven-haired Shari rode his tongue, the girls kissed and groped. I leaned against a cushion with Shari’s big sister DiDi impaled on my rigid rod, her back against my chest. I fondled DiDi’s generous breasts as we watched the others tripling.
MariLyn bent forward, vigorously sucked one of Shari’s breasts and pinched the other nipple, as Shari rode to a noisy wet orgasm on Rick’s mouth. Shari eventually cooled, leaned into MariLyn and worked her boobs while her groin danced on Rick’s pubes. MariLyn spasm’d and came with her patented vibrato howl.
I rolled DiDi onto her back and crawled between her spread knees, my head between her sumptuous thighs. This was not the time for gentle teasing foreplay, nope. I dove right into her vulva, slurping her slit, tongue-fucking her tasty tunnel, sucking and strumming her prominent clit. My tongue circled her labia and she emitted an ever-louder series of ‘ah-ah-ah’ cries. Finger-probing and another attack on her clitoris brought her to a juicy moaning-screaming climax.
‘Damn Ron, you make me feel beautiful when you do that!’ DiDi whispered breathily.
‘You’re pretty good-looking even when you aren’t screaming,’ I confided, then stuck my tongue back inside her vagina.
Shari crawled over to DiDi and kissed her. They both nuzzled my trembling tool, licked, sucked, kissed. Shari straightened, lifted her leg over my face, settled her pussy on my mouth, and continued sharing my cock with her sister. Before that tender thigh blocked my vision, I saw MariLyn 69’ing with Rick.
Soon, we fell apart panting. Then we passed the hash pipe and dove in for more sex. Cats crawled on us. Rick blew me while the women daisychained. Everybody had fun.
—
Rick and DiDi and Shari moved on. (Rick left me his medical card so I could buy new glasses.) A few weeks later, MariLyn moved on again, taking Mama Fuck-Fuck with her, along with Bagheera and The Fluffmeister and a couple neighborhood stray cats too. I had to get a roommate to share rent. Mark was straight, an obnoxious cabbie, with loud girlfriends he did not share, but he always paid in full and on time.
My weekdays were for drinking vast amounts of coffee and working. Weeknights were for zoning and hanging out, maybe with some underground cartoonist friends (and their girlfriends). Weekends were for getting away, maybe just on bike-camping rides along the coast, or thumbing to rural communes. More on that later.
I ran into the cartoonists by chance, or maybe it was fate? Suzy-Q was a secretary at the delivery service that employed me. Her guy Dave had a day job in the graphics department of a major utility and spent his off-hours drawing underground cartoons. Suzy-Q threw picnics where pavement-pounders and ink-slingers co-mingled. Both tribes had intense interest in sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll, naturally.
‘Hey Ron, can you come over this evening and help me with some stuff? Dave’s gone for a few days, and it’s more than I can handle alone,’ Suzy-Q asked me at the end of a weekday workday.
Who was I to refuse? We pedaled to their flat in the Mission district.
Suzy-Q was maybe nine inches shorter than my 6’5′ height, with wavy brown hair and shimmery hazel eyes, a pleasant freckled face, adequately curvaceous body, strong legs — she had been a pavement-pounder too.
The help Suzy-Q needed involved strong-arming boxes and furniture around. Yeah, it was non-trivial. We finished. She poured cold wine and cooked dinner, a tasty ramen-miso-tofu-mushroom Vegan stew. Hey, Vegan food HAS to taste good, because otherwise, nobody would eat that crap. But I digress.
The stew consumed, we lounged on her parachute-covered thrift-shop sofa. Our shoes were off. Her twitchy bare feet were in my lap. Her white cotton skirt was skootched-up to mid-thigh. The wine jug was nearby.
‘Ron, I haven’t seen you with MariLyn much lately.’ She relaxed into my foot massage.
‘Yeah well, we’ve been on-again-off-again aw
hile, and we’re off-again now.’ I sipped the cheap Chablis.
‘Weren’t you going with Althea the last couple weeks?’ Althea was a very cute new-hire.
‘The sex was great at first, but she wanted bondage. Not my bag. I think she’s moved in with Van.’ Van was a fairly prominent underground cartoonist, very kinky, infamous for his unusual death a few years later.
‘Oooh, that feels good. You have good hands. How about that crazy girl from Mendocino?’
‘Who, d’you mean ZigZag Girl? Wow, she was, like, all over me for a while. Then she went to Santa Cruz and ran into some street-corner guru who gave her a new mantra. She was always a sucker for mantras. Ommm…’
Why the interest in my love life?
‘Ron, would you massage my legs too?’
Oh, *that’s* why. I got it then.
I slowly worked her sturdy ankles, well-exercised calves, unscarred knees. She un-did the top few buttons of her paisley blouse. She sipped her wine, then held the glass out and poured some onto her right thigh.
‘Oh, I’m clumsy, I spilled some wine. Would you lick it off me, Ron?’ She gazed at me innocently.
Who was I to refuse? I bent to my task. I was quite thorough.
Somehow, her panties (if any) had vanished. Somehow, more wine was spilled, further up her body. Somehow, wine and Suzy-Q’s internal juices were mixed in my mouth. Somehow, our clothes disappeared, and we were 69’ing, and groaning, et fucking cetera. Good thing the parachute covering the couch would not stain.
I did not sleep on the couch that night. We did not sleep much at all.
We blearily pedaled to work the next morning. After work, I biked out to my apartment and grabbed a minimal move-in kit: toothbrush, razor, a couple briefs and tees and socks, cutoffs, sweater, harmonicas, notepad, hash pipe, Tarot deck — just the bare essentials.
I stayed with Suzy-Q until Dave returned. He was not into sharing. Some other cartoonists, also not into sharing, had girls who found me rather attractive. Suspicions were raised. I eventually appeared in several underground comix. I was not portrayed favorably.
—
Most weekends, I got out of The City. I was always welcome at The Funny Farm commune, and I visited other communes in the hills north and south of ‘San Narcisco’. You may have heard of Wheeler and Morningstar and Oceansong and Sunburst and Estero. Alas, if they were known, then they were too public for my comfort, although they usually had fuckable girls passing through. The big public communes were under surveillance. The small stealthy communes were quieter, less infiltrated.
Some weekends I caught rides through Petaluma or Cotati and Occidental out to Morningstar Ranch commune beyond Coleman Valley. My friend Lucky Lurch was building a cabin there, on a raised wooden platform on a not-too-steep hillside. It might have gone better if Lurch had used a level and plumb-line. I almost slid off the platform before we added walls.
Lucky Lurch was about my size, almost six-and-a-half feet tall, with long black hair and a craggy smile. We were musically similar too. We both played acoustic guitars with harmonica holders around our necks. We would sit together trading jazzy blues riffs and yes, we attracted fuckable females. No, we did not check ID’s, so I will not go into details here.
Other weekends, I might go up to Lake County to Angwin Hot Springs, noted for its ‘gerbil-pile’ fuckfests. Or down to Zayante above Santa Cruz, home to a psilocybin ‘magic mushroom’ farm. Or up to Bolinas Lagoon for a mud-fuck. Or… but you should get the idea by now. Many destinations were available.
I got back with Suzy-Q one weekend when Dave was out of town again. Instead of just laying around the flat fornicating, we loaded basic camping gear on our bikes and rode down the coast.
We got as far as Devil’s Slide that night. We eased around a chainlink fence and climbed the old steel watchtower, a World War II relic for lookouts on the alert for Japanese attacks. We watched the fog roll in below us under a nearly full moon while we screwed atop our island in the mist.
We 69’d to our mutual benefit, then went tantric, wrapped in a sleeping bag, with Suzy-Q in my lap, my cock sheathed in her torrid tunnel, her arms around my neck, our mouths locked together, sharing juices and flavors. We heard sounds in the sky. We watched a line of birds fly by, silhouetted against the lunar near-disc. Waterfowl heading south for the winter?
We skipped the nearby nude beach the next morning — too chilly. We rolled down into Half Moon Bay. We had to scoot around the town center, blockaded by a ‘police action’. The sound of gunshots gave us energy to pedal faster, eastward into the hills. We rode trails to San Andreas Lake, yes, the one for which the famous fault is named.
We pitched camp beside the lake. We were only a couple miles from SFO airport but it felt like a mountain retreat. Our ‘camp’ was mostly a tarp hung from ropes between trees, with a groundcloth under our joined sleeping bags. Another couple had a similar setup fifty yards away. We noted each other fucking. Nobody offered to share.
We rode down to the El Camino Real the next morning, then back up to The City. We fornicated for the rest of the day. Why not?
—
Other weekends, I thumbed to some friends’ spread near Austin Creek Redwoods above the Russian River. I was regaled with local news stories like these:
* A cold snap is driving the Sasquatches down from the hills. A trio were found dumpster-diving behind the Goonieville Safeway and could only be enticed away with dollops of squirrel burgers and hashish. A sticky confrontation was avoided.
* The strong winds a couple weeks back played havoc with the Scartop Ranch spread over on Cazadero Ridge. A 150-foot redwood crashed down onto their meth cooker, 16 grow-lights were destroyed, and a hen with her tail to the wind laid the same egg nine times.
* After a flash flood in the March 1970 storm took out the Crippled Gulch Bridge on Upper Sweetwater Ridge Road, the county roads department put up a DANGER – BRIDGE OUT sign. But since then, nobody has gone over the edge, so last week they took the sign down.
* Rafting season on the Russian River begins soon, and shark-spotters are already wiping binoculars in anticipation of another glorious year of bloody carnage. At the mouth of Austin Creek below Cazadero, it’s expected that pumas will also make a fair catch of ‘raft-rats’. Last year a number of French, German and Japanese rafters/kayakers contributed to the upkeep of our carnivores.
* A joint Federal-State task force stormed the Scartop Ranch spread over on Cazadero Ridge last week. Three acres of sinsimella were confiscated, along with two flare pistols, a smudge pot and a Mexican War cannon. The hens were so frightened that they’ve started laying cammo eggs.
* The pride of Sasquatch reported in Goonieville a few days ago have been seen in the Austin Creek park area heading north, and not a moment too soon according to the G’ville feral community. ‘Those BUFFs [Big Ugly Fat Fuckers] were scamming the dumpsters before any of us people could get to’em,’ groused one permanent transient.
* River sharks still have not put in their appearance at Johnson’s Beach in Goonieville, as it is not canoe season quite yet. But a few were seen whipping around their spawning grounds on the upper forks of Russian Gulch, and they seem excessively fast. Gonzo from Scartop Farms on Cazadero Ridge thinks he might have flushed a bit too much meth into the Gulch drainage during the last raid. ‘With the quality we’ve been getting, those boogers’ll be a bitch to evade,’ he opined.
* Multiple ambulances responded for an emergency call to the Hera’s Friends Wimmyn’s Retreat west of Healdsburg. A nineteen-woman daisychain got stuck together and had to be pried apart with padded crowbars.
* The 5th annual Turf’N’Surf Suicide Bike-a-thon is set for next mo
nth – tough twisty roads in rough West Cownty terrain. The boys down at Club Forestville are already sharpening their Ben-Hur hubcaps and dreaming of the spandex pelts they will bag this year. Mike ‘Muck’ MacGeun still brags of the 5-header he scored along Wolf Creek in ’69. ‘And I’d’a made it six if that dwarf hadn’t hit the water,’ he said, downing another mickey of white port and taking aim at a passing unicyclist.
* People driving past the old quicksilver mine on Sweetwater Springs Road at night report sounds of activity from the condemned site. UFOs are suspected, but locals say it’s just the Kobolds returning.
* Ed ‘Mucho Minnows’ Minkowski, the honorary mayor of Rio Nido, walked into Dave’s Cycle Repairs And Hog Heaven and picked up a crank assembly that Dave had just finished welding. Then he put it down again, very quickly. Dave grinned, ‘Burned yourself, didn’t ya, Mucho.’ ‘No,’ replied Hizzonner, ‘it just don’t take me very long to inspect ‘cycle work.’
* The Sasquatch pride reported in Goonieville awhile back is suspected of crossing Anderson Valley near Boonville on their way north. The dumpsters behind Boontling Liquors were overturned yesterday, and Ken ‘Kahuna’ Kirby’s prized Hawaiian Koa wood surfboard appears to have been chewed up. The Kahuna guesses that he should not have used so much hemp oil in the board’s finish.
* Prostitution charges against residents of the Sacred Heartache commune in Rio Nido were dropped when the presiding judge learned that the girls were giving it away for free, not selling it. He got some for free too. Everybody is happy except the arresting officers, who got nothing and never will again.
* A giant squid, a huge white sperm whale, and several harpooned Orcas were found beached on the sandbar at the mouth of the Russian River yesterday morning. Tracks detected in the sand indicate at least one peg-legged person left the scene. Sheriff’s deputies and auxiliaries conducted a hovel-to-hovel search in the nearby hamlet of Jenner but found nobody unimpaired enough to have walked that far.
* Deputies responded to a disturbance at the Pink Elephant Tavern in Monte Rio last night. One man, a drifter swinging a pointed stick and cursing, was taken into custody. His identity is unclear, ‘Call me Ishmael’ is all he would say. A public defender has been appointed.
NOTE: Locals have nicknames for Sonoma County towns.
Goonieville = Guerneville,
S’nasty-hole = Sebastopol,
Rodent Park = Rohnert Park,
Wops-a-dental = Occidental,
Geezerville = Geyserville,
Chickaluma = Petaluma
******************** 9B: Maybe I’ll Just Keep Bumming Around – 1973
I somehow made it through the winter to late spring. By summer, I was ready to travel again. I quit my job and gave up the apartment. I packed my rucksack and guitar and the FURTHUR sign and stuck my thumb out. On this trip, as in others, I played guitar and sang wherever I was allowed, paid in tips or beer or tacos or bed. Yes, some girls still took me in, if only for an hour or a night or three.
I hitched north on the Redwood Highway. Two girls in a blue VW bug picked me up north of Petaluma, heading for Eureka, a great long ride. Mid-afternoon, we stopped on a sunny overlook over the Eel River off The Avenue Of The Giants. We threw a blanket on the ground, got naked, drank Champipple Cocktails (Champale malt liquor plus Ripple wine), and sunbathed. I kissed their bubbly butts. Nothing more, too public.
Jill was a honey blonde, maybe a foot shorter than my 6’5′ height. Lacy was chestnut-haired and a few inches taller than Jill. Both had great hourglass shapes and firm legs, with white shorts and tight midriff-baring pullovers, Jill’s with wide red stripes, Lacy in blue stripes. Both pulled on long Humboldt State sweatshirts when we stopped at their lapboard cottage in the Humboldt Bay fog zone.
Logs and kindling were lit in the living room’s corner fireplace. As the room temperature increased, our layers of clothing diminished. More Champipple Cocktails were consumed, then some hashish, then some genitals. Yes, I sucked their lovely breasts, and ate them both, and fucked them both, and was sucked by both. Yes, we curled up under blankets before the fire. Yes, they kicked me out in the morning.
Latisha
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