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.
******************** 7A: Fucking in The City, 1970
I pretty much fucked-up my life in San Francisco.
My little blonde wife MariLyn and I found we were shitty parents and lousy lovers together. I only used her as a sex toy suitable for fast pounding. We didn't really like each other any more, and we knew we weren't mature enough for decent child-rearing. We finally decided to do the only responsible thing: we put our under-two-year-old daughter up for adoption. I would not see our daughter again for almost 30 years.
We moved to a cheap slum room at Fillmore and Grove. City Hall was a few blocks down Grove; Rev Jim Jones' suicidal People's Temple was a few blocks up Fillmore. We called our building The Shithouse. Bugs and lousy sanitation. Junkies everywhere. Schizophrenic fellow tenants. We were not much better, pretty constantly drunk and stoned and fucking around.
I spent much of my time elsewhere. My Cherokee friends Jim and Tahoe ran a commune in a large third-floor apartment at the corner of Haight and Ashbury. They called it The Madhouse. (They later relocated to a coastal rural setting and called that place The Funny Farm.) Ex-Madhouse residents sliding to lower social rungs usually ended up in the Shithouse, before moving on to worse fates.
Dick The Prick slid from the Madhouse to the Shithouse. He and the Shithouse manager Little Dave often shared my wife MariLyn. At the Madhouse, Charly usually shared his wife Suzi with me, and I sometimes joined in with Pat and Jan and Freaky Freddy. Jim and Tahoe didn't share, and they protected shy runaway Cleo. At the Shithouse, Big Kathy (who owned the world's smartest dog) usually shared me with her roommate Thin Lynn, and I sometimes helped Roberto with Joan and Dom. Weren't we all generous?
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I walked into The Shithouse manager's basement studio apartment. My wife MariLyn was naked on her knees and elbows on the party-size king bed. The manager Little Dave leaned back against the headboard with his cock in MariLyn's mouth. Dick The Prick was on his knees behind MariLyn's butt. His thick cock slid slowly in and out of her cunt, her hanging tits swinging with his rhythm. All were naked except for Dick's red beret.
The room was heavy with smoke of opium and Nepalese rope incense. Ed, the previous manager, a hot-looking blonde gay guy, had lined the room's walls and ceiling with imperfect mirrors. The strobe light flashed through the smoky haze and caught the trio's movements in the wobbly-mirrored surfaces like a nightmare.
Little Dave saw me enter the room, and waved at me.
"Hey Ron, what's happening? You want her back anytime soon?"
"Naw, that's OK, I just gotta tell you that the upstairs toilet broke again."
"OK, I'll fix it in a few minutes." He repaired it three days later.
Little Dave had been a broadcast engineer. He worked on a network crew that covered the 1967 Six-Day War from Lebanon. He stayed behind and wandered around the MidEast. He talked of buying a baseball-size mix of opium and hashish in Afghanistan for a couple bucks. Once he starting kicking Buddha's gong around, the networks didn't want him back. That's how he ended up managing The Shithouse.
[NOTE: "Kicking Buddha's Gong" is ancient slang for being addicted to opium.]
I went to the far end of the first floor, into Big Kathy and Thin Lynn's room. They were 69'ing in bed, with dark Lynn atop blonde Kathy. Calypso The Wonder-Dog, a big black lab, was curled beside the bed.
Calypso looked at me, gave a quiet 'woof', and laid her head down again. Lynn looked at me and smiled.
"Hey Kathy, we have a guest, a really big tall one. Do you want Ron's tongue or cock, and where?"
Lynn raised her pussy from Kathy's mouth to allow her to speak.
"Get over here and stuff that thing into Lynn," Kathy ordered, then pulled Lynn's snatch back to her face.
I undressed, took a big swig of white port, went to their little sink, scrubbed my groin area, and knelt behind Lynn's butt. Kathy grabbed my vasectomized cock, mouthed me deeply a few times, then inserted me into Lynn's cunt. After about every dozen strokes, Kathy swallowed me again. She nearly bit me off when we heard a loud crash out in the little back yard.
Lynn looked up and laughed, "Sounds like Patti threw another TV out the window," then resumed slurping Kathy.
Patti was Cherokee Jim's older sister. They were both US Army VietNam veterans, living on disability checks now. Jim had been a sniper and was sure that his killings meant he was damned and going straight to hell. Patti had been a nurse and was wounded in a VietCong attack. Jim just drank; Patti was on heroin. She got grumpy often. When she did, she tended to throw things through windows. Jim didn't trust her in The Madhouse commune, so she was stuck in The Shithouse.
******************** 7B: Fucking on the Navarro, 1970
I'm not sure whose idea it was, but some of the more ambulatory of our crowd decided to join friends in escaping The City for the summer. The getaway location: a camping area on the Navarro River.
The Navarro runs through the steep Coast Range to the Mendocino Coast a few hours north of "San Narcisco". A lumber company owned the redwood forestland near the river's mouth. A state park is about a dozen miles inland on the river. The coast is often foggy. Just a few miles inland, the sky is often clear.
A couple miles of riverside west of the park comprised a sort of lawless zone that the state and county didn't much bother policing. That's where we camped and played, on sunny open riverbanks, and in cool groves of giant Coast Redwoods, the world's tallest trees. We called it Camp Navarro, or Banana-Slug Flats.
A bunch of us rode in Crazy Dave's ratty Ford Econoline panel van, crowded in among duffels full of camp gear etc. I rode shotgun, facing the dashboard sticker reading
REALITY IS A CLUTCH
. Charly and Suzi and Dick The Prick and my wife MariLyn were on the floor just behind the front seats, drinking Red Mountain wine and passing a joint. Pat and Jan and Freaky Freddie were slurping and screwing in the back; someone went OUCH whenever the van hit a bump. Grateful Dead music howled from the cassette-deck speakers.
"The Senator was so shit-faced when he staggered out of the bedroom, he nearly fell down the staircase, but the hookers grabbed his belt and pulled his pants down, and he tripped and just puked down the stairs. Our houseboy was so pissed at having to clean that up that he stuck his dick into the Senator's drink whenever he had a chance," Crazy Dave laughed, then took another hit from the joint. He swerved to miss a sea lion laying at the edge of the coast highway.
Crazy Dave was from a politically prominent Southern California family. He told of having to show the ever-changing girlfriends and 'escorts' of visiting Governors and Senators etc where the bathrooms were in his family mansion. Dave didn't like the political life. He worked as a pest exterminator.
We rolled northward unhurriedly along the twisty scenic Pacific Coast Highway, threading the rocky Marin-Sonoma-Mendocino coastline, past Bodega Bay and the Russian River and Sea Ranch, and turned inland at tiny Navarro-By-The-Sea. Seven miles later, we rolled into Camp Navarro.
A village of planned and impromptu shelters nestled into the forest and down to the river south of the highway. Accommodations ranged from large military-style tents, to plastic tarps strung over ropes between the trees, to rusty truck-camper shells set on the ground, to dugout redwood logs. Backhoe trenches in a grove just north of the highway were used as latrines.
