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 is pretty much a standalone story, but I highly recommend that you read all previous chapters anyway.
******************** 5A: On The Road -- Colorado to almost fucking Canada, 1968
Fuzzy blonde Lucinda curled into my right side, her sleek thigh moving over mine. I stroked her butt.
"Damn Ron, you sure feel good here. I've been getting used to you."
Fluffy brunette Sally curled tightly into my left side, in similar but mirrored position and action.
"Lucinda girl, you sure you want to let this guy go? He's pretty good."
I rubbed their sides, from butts to shoulders, but I especially concentrated on those fine butts.
"You know what'll happen if I stay. I'll have to get a job. Yikes."
They both slapped me, but not too hard. Ah, I knew their ticklish spots. Payback was sweet, very sweet.
My stay with Lucinda and her friend and neighbor Sally in that small eastern Colorado ranch town was splendid and sexy but quite short-term. I was a tall kid, free and legal, on the road, with no plans other than to see the world, and no destination except that written on my hitchhiking sign: FURTHUR.
My possessions were simple: A guitar in a vinyl sack. A rucksack for all the other necessities. Basic camp gear: mess kit, canteen, wool blanket, nylon sleeping bag and string hammock, ropes and tarp for shelter. Clothes: jeans, cutoffs, tees, briefs, size 16 socks and sneakers, flannel shirt, sweater, jacket, rain poncho. Tools and toys: repair and sewing kits, soap, compass, harmonicas, notebook, pocket radio, books, flashlight. Cheap dried foods. And all the maps I could handle.
The guitar made me a "wandering minstrel". I sang for rides, sang for my meals and drinks, and sang my way into a few beds. The harmonicas helped too; I could make music while scrunched into tiny spaces.
Some of those tiny spaces were pretty hard on my thin 6'5" body. Imagine sharing the back seat of a VW bug with another person, both with packs or rucksacks in our laps, and my bagged guitar shoved in there too. Tortures of the damned, I tell ya! Made me wanna blow a mean lowdown wail on my blues harp, the Squashed-In-A-Bug Blues.
From Lucinda and Sally's town, I thumbed northward along "blue highways," through flat ranchlands and eroded badlands. Most of the rides were short, with truckers and ranchers and workers, and some lonely wives and curious young women.
---
A farmer gave me a ride in the back of his pickup and dropped me at the outskirts of a high-prairie town late one day. I went into a nearby Mexican eatery and ordered a couple tacos and a cup of water. Marcella the cute waitress asked about my guitar and my travels. Pablo the owner asked if I could play for a while.
I sat on a high stool by the counter, and played, and sang. Customers stayed, listened, and consumed. Every half-hour, a fresh beer appeared by my elbow. I sipped and sang and played until night deepened.
"Pablo, Marcella, it's been great, and thanks for the beer, but I should go now. It's pretty dark out. I need to find someplace to camp for the night."
"Camp out? Oh no,
hijo
, you're not gonna camp out, no way. We have a cot in the back room. You can sleep here. Just stay put and sing some more,
?si?
Marcella, bring this boy another beer."
I played until closing time. Pablo's chubby wife Frida shut down the kitchen. Frida's cousin Marcella brought me a full dinner and a pitcher of beer and a kiss on the cheek. She sat next to me, and munched an enchilada, and chatted about life and fate, while Pablo and Frida's teenage son Jaime swept and cleaned, and their little daughter Katrina harvested the tables of salt, pepper and sugar shakers for refilling.
Marcella bussed my dinner remains. Katrina solemnly squeaked that I should follow her. I hoisted my guitar and rucksack to a small room with a single bed, table, and chair. She pointed out a shower stall and told me to help myself, then scampered away. I shaved, all except my wide moustache, and fell into the shower.
I pissed on my feet (to prevent athelete's foot, right?) and shampooed my long slick black hair. I felt a breeze, then a hand on my shoulder. My eyes were full of suds. I felt, not saw, Marcella slide against me, her fine strong tan twenty-five-year-old stretched-hourglass body fitting just into my arms. I rinsed my hair and eyes and saw her quite clearly, her sharp dark eyes, high cheekbones, perfect nose, full lips. Her lips traced a path along my collarbone.
"Ron, you are a nice guy and a good guitarist and a funny singer. You look pretty damn good too. Are you lonely tonight?"
"Not any more, my beautiful Marcella," I said, leaning my mouth into hers.
I worked shampoo into her thick black hair and erotically massaged her scalp. She soaped my arms and chest and butt, and I did the same for her. I got her tasty chest very clean. We washed each other's crotches thoroughly, and then moved down to legs and feet and back up again to groins. Our tongues traded slobber.
Drying each other took some time, what with all the slurping and sucking and fondling. Getting to sleep took quite a while too, what with all the slurping and sucking and fondling and fucking and crushing each other. Eventually, we snored. The best cure for snoring is a tongue stuffed into the offending mouth. Yum.
Some hideous demon clanged a hellacious loud bell right outside the door some time before dawn.
"Ron, I have to go now, to help set up for breakfast. You can sleep as long as you need to, no problem."
We sucked face for a few minutes. Marcella finally slipped out of bed, slipped on a red robe, and slipped through the door. I slipped back into slumberland. I escaped the realm of dreams a couple hours later.
I emerged in fresh clothes, toting my guitar and rucksack and the FURTHUR sign. Marcella shoved me into a chair and brought me a full breakfast with about a quart of the strongest sweetest coffee+cocoa mocha I have ever tasted. I started to protest the largesse. Pablo interrupted me.
"
Hijo
, you were good for business last night. I sold lotsa beer and
anojitos
(snacks). Think of the food as a sales commission. And you made us all feel good." Pablo glanced at Marcella with smiling eyes. "You ever come this way again, you be sure to stop in.
Mi casa es su casa
, no shit, boy."
Everyone hugged me adios except Jaime, who studiously concentrated on chopping vegetables. Frida came from the kitchen wiping her hands. She grabbed my cheeks and smooched me on the nose. Katrina hugged my knees from behind, bit my butt, and ran off laughing. Pablo gave me a manly
abrazo
. Marcella held my shoulders and kissed my cheek. Our eyes locked, and glistened. No tears! I grabbed my gear and left.
---
A dusty Studebaker sedan stopped for me. The driver was an older man in a threadbare black suit. I did not even have to see the bibles and tracts in the back seat -- his whole aura screamed out, PREACHER!
He asked me if I was saved. I did not really feel up to a religious debate. I told him about my experience a couple years before, when my grandmother sent me to Oral Roberts University for a summer session.
"Oral Roberts!" It was almost a curse, coming from his frothy lips. "That charlatan! That spawn of Satan!"
He ranted about Oral's sinful nature for the rest of the ride. Whew, I slipped by that one!
Please save me from the saved, OK?
Another late-late afternoon, a friendly (but not kissable) ranch wife in a pickup dropped me at a roadside rest somewhere beyond the North Platte River, historically "a mile wide and an inch deep" but now somewhat tamed. The truck radio predicted thunderstorms with heavy rain all night.
The rest stop was a little way off the highway. It had a restroom and running water, and picnic tables and a small BBQ grill sheltered under a wide steel roof. A nearby mostly-dry stream was lined with sparse shrubs and mesquite. I collected a pile of dry branches and kindling.
Dark clouds swept overhead. The sky turned almost black, two hours till sunset. A wind rose, much cooler than the hot still air of daytime. I saw a rainsquall sweep in from the north. Lightning crashed nearby. I was damn fucking glad I was under shelter, not standing out on a barren roadside hoping for a ride.
I changed from my cutoffs into jeans and a long-sleeve flannel shirt. I built a fire in the grill to boil water for cocoa. Rain and hail pounded down on the steel roof. Fuck, that's loud! I almost didn't hear the two motorbikes roar into the rest area until they rolled under the steel shelter.
Two lightly clad girls climbed off one bike, and one girl hopped off the other. All three girls wore shorts and light sweatshirts with school logos. All three were soaked and shivering. None wore helmets.
(Remember, this is 1968, back before there were laws for wimpy safety items like mandatory helmets. At least the drivers wore minimal gloves, and goggles to keep their eyes from filling with bugs.)
The passenger of the two-girl bike took control. She was tall and lithe, with shoulder-length brown hair.
"We've gotta get out of these wet clothes or we'll get hypothermia," she said. "C'mon, put on dry stuff."
She unstrapped two duffels from that bike's sissy bar and pointed at the duffel on the other bike.
