This trip is all over the map in terms of behavior, but some angry bits towards the end demand this episode of Couples Off the Interstate (KOI) be entered thru the NC/R Category.
KOI 04 Camping at Silver Mines
Summer, 1971
Dave had odd taste in women. Given his good wit, his dark, Mediterranean-styled handsomeness, and a well-muscled, not to say hunky body, he might have angled for just about anyone and had a good chance of landing her. To top things off, he was diabetic, and had to self-inject a dollop of insulin into his thigh once or twice daily. What a great, Byronian prop with which to engage feminine sympathy!
I remember two occasions from a wild freshman college spring semester when truly awe-inspiring girls, virtual strangers to Dave, touched on him as an instrument of therapy and revenge following collegiate romantic tragedies. But Dave never followed up on the beauties, and always preferred kids of unremarkable looks and often alarmingly housewifely personalities. By and large, the kids seemed to come to him, and to stick around for ridiculous lengths of time, so that Dave was often juggling two or three "active" relationships that were not always unknown to one another. A remarkably ethical cocksman, Dave enjoyed worrying about his lucky surfeits, and worrying us about them. ("I wish I had his problems," Jim Bean would complain from his dormitory bed.)
Loie was not far out of Dave's usual line... In the summer of '71, she was the only one he had going...
Dave had met Loie at the community college, to which he'd flunked following that wild freshman spring semester. Loie was a little older than any of us, maybe 23. She had an open, practical, South St Louis housewifeliness that contrasted strangely with her fairly heavy drugging. The drugging - some Sopors and Quaaludes but mostly just grass with occasional acidic holidays - had increased with the collapse of her premature marriage. The divorce had sent her back to her supportive but reasonably lassaiz-faire mother.
Loie's looks included a cute, expressively plain face, in the sort of Dylan'sLittleSister mode that I've always found to be fairly sexy, if sort of goofy... a little ferrety, with a pouty mouth and greygreen eyes that might have been called "flashing" in a prettier face. Ah heck, let's give Loie her due-her eyes
could
"flash", and if Molly Ringwald had a pretty face so did Loie. Her head was topped off by unruly brown hair, bobbed almost artlessly to float halfway up her neck.
There, at her neck, was where Loie's real appeal began. It was a smooth, long neck, sliding to Loie's thin tan shoulders, where the smoothness continued, to long arms, trim sexy hands, and from there attention dropped to looong legs for a 5'3" girl, beautiful feet... legs all extraordinarily slank, smooth and tan and wonderfully long-muscled along narrow bones, up to a well-defined, small but round, butt, and from there back up the thin back. (Loie was thin-chested, too; but you wouldn't even notice that. Her breasts were pert and round, young firm tan - check-off-your-own-list.)
Becca and I knew Dave too well not to have hinted about our recent discovery of our own polyamorous (omniamorous?) proclivities. Becca, for that matter, could press the amusing oddity of it all onto Dave with a quick sideswiping aggressiveness the poor guy had to use all his Southside Dutch dirtydozening skills to turn back. When Loie was around, there was some occasional couple-to-couple flirtation, but it kept free of danger as we maintained the fantasy on a light "theoretical" plane. Dave feigned anxiety at the very suggestion of, er, "orgy." Loie was more verbal, more aggressive, even, in her teasing parries. And I couldn't help but notice - or imagine - a flare of interest in her eyes as she snapped off her dismissive retorts.
So it's not that there was any real intention leading up to what happened later that summer. When the plans for the campout were made, the principal motivations were escape from familial surveillance, freedom to drop psychedelics in a lovely natural setting, and - mainly - the desire to entertain Jim Bean.
Jim was an aspiring hobo Dave and I had known since high school. He had left college and drifted north a year earlier. He wrote back to us after he was safely reclassified 4-F, letting us know that he intended to come home to visit, just for a while. Knowing Jim's love of canvas and dirt, we figured that he'd appreciate the chance to break out of his family's tiny tract house for a couple of days, fish his old haunts at Silver Mines Rec Area, and smoke a lot of gaggy black Parodi cigars along the river.
Jim had made something of a career out of shyness and social pessimism, but Becca had remarked on his sound resemblance to a soft-brown-eyed, bearded Clint Eastwood, and apparently one or two women had overcome his modesty in the year he spent up north. There were some allusions to his having had a traveling companion, either a grizzlybear or a girl, on the BN lines for several weeks the preceding spring. But it was the same crotchety, conservative young Bean we collected in Becky's Bonneville on our way to the campground.
It was an ideal summer for camping. The weather was warm, but dry, minimizing the number of mosquitoes with which we had to contend. In the course of our highschool camping career Dave and I had discovered a place upriver from the park that was known only to a few whitewater canoeists and some of the more enterprising fishermen. The sportsmen had cut a fairly discernible trail between the park itself and an obscure road leading to the canoeists' river access.
Today the location is an extension of Silver Mines and fairly well-known, though still little-traveled. In 1971 our campsite, a rugged quarter-mile from the access ramp, afforded exquisite privacy. It was in a flat, powder-silt hollow, a little above the fishermen's path and obscured from it by light brush. A steady breeze floated down through the forest from the overhanging hills, providing a natural air conditioning and further discouragement for the bugs downwind. No one had worried us about our campfires on previous trips. Camping there, we felt as if we were as alone as Jim Bean in the Canadian wilderness.
On our arrival at the canoe access ramp, Loie cleverly volunteered to drive the Bonneville and its hitch to a safe parking spot down in the public campgrounds, while the rest of us portaged the camping equipment to the hollow and set up. We installed a four-person tent and small kitchen fly at the site. Jim had opted to sleep under the stars, and given the good weather the rest of us anticipated doing the same. The earth was soft, there, and the air mattresses would be little strained by the freeform humping each couple looked forward to enjoying inside their zipped-together sleeping bags. Jim huffed stoically at the idea that his lone-stag status would cause him any discomfort.
Jim left with his tackle soon after camp was set up. The low water, he figured, would assure good fishing this trip. Dave and Becca and I chose more passive recreation, lighting up a spliff right after the fire was set. Cushioned by the duffles of spare clothing and miscellaneous gear, we lazed around on our soft, downy bags, enjoying the sound of the river below and the breeze from the hills. Halfway through the second joint, I noticed Becca was also enjoying the sight of Dave's smooth, muscular chest, which he'd bared in the course of our earlier work.
"This is good stuff," I remarked.
"Pure Colombian," said Dave. "Loie's source. She also got us some of these."
He retrieved a cloudy medicine bottle from the pocket of his tight cutoffs. Some little brown pills could be seen within.
"Synthetic mescaline. Supposedly."
"I dunno."
"We'll see how the trip goes."
Dave shrugged. "Loie's taking her time getting back." He took a final hit, and stood up a little unsteadily.
"Wow. I guess I'll go see if I can find her."
"Don't get lost," said Becca. "But don't rush back. I'm horny."
Dave gave her a goofy smile, flexing his brown abs in mock embarrassment. Then he turned to walk dreamily down to the river path, bare-backed in tight shorts.
"Wow, a little of this stuff goes a long way," Becca said, her eyes following Dave.
The tip of her tongue flicked a speck of marijuana from her full lower lip, as she turned her brown eyes on me.
"Are you in the mood?" she asked.
Becca's Bavarian-Indian face is any somewhat broad, high-cheekboned, full-lipped, bright-eyed brunette face you want to imagine. Her lank darkbrown hair flowed past her shoulders in those days, parted in the middle to frame her sometimes pouting, often laughing face. Her red-brown body was athletic, but well-formed, lean and quick to fuck. Her medium-sized breasts were not altogether obscured by the billowy peasant-shirt she wore this afternoon. Her broad, farmgirl hips gave me some pause, considering her mother's excessive weight, considering I'd almost made a kind of permanent commitment to the eighteen-year-old girl. Maybe I was turning into a perfectionist; no one else would find anything wrong, but Becca's legs were somewhat too sturdy for my tastes, also, though even I would have to concede they were well-shaped by the muscle. Flexing muscle, in redbrown legs smoothed by new shaving the night before, shaving in preparation for this trip... in preparation for me. Smooth redbrown thighs, flexing impatiently around the wad of denim and panty in the crotch of her faded, cunt- high cutoffs. Becca's high mound beckoned, rolling back into the breathing of her lean underbelly. I reached out for it, rolled the ball of my palm into the warm dampness just below...
I flowed over to Becca's breasts, and her thighs clutched at my hand.
Her pretty, strong hands pulled my teeshirt over my head. I unsnapped her pants and she helped me wiggle them over her broad, trim hips as she pulled off her blouse. Her breasts were as brown as the rest of her, their tuff nipples low and hard. She waited for me, legs open, eyes liquid and lazy, as I stripped off my jeans. Bec's eyes checked out my springing white prong, and then she just lay back flat, with knees a little raised, lifting her rear a little off the ground, showing me the primrose-pink of her sex, gleaming with love below the sparse tendrils of hair on her mons. The meaty inner folds opened a little, kissing at what was about to come to them. My hands placed to either side of her lean waist, I remained on my knees and hooked myself into her, watching her lips curl luxuriously as my eager dick pressed deep into her enfolding flesh.
