Ron's Journal 04

I went back to my Yucca Flats apartment. MariLyn was back from work, smoking a big joint. She grabbed me and pounded me too.

I was almost afraid to go out after that, afraid I might run into Sharona or Yoko, and be pounded again. But hey, I've had worse days.

NEXT: I wish they all could be California girls.

********************

8: California: Different Strokes

I was not chained to Los Angeles during this era. The mime action really only pulled in money from late Thursday afternoon till sundown Sunday.

Not that I really needed much money. I paid no rent. I lived on a diet mostly of V8, chicken salad sandwiches, white port, used comic books, and lots of sex. My needs were simple.

I often needed to get away from Hollyweird's hypertension.

Being in L.A. always kicked-up my adrenaline. Every time I came back to those hyped streets, my pulse and blood pressure zoomed, and events seemed to pass in slow motion. L.A. always boosted my sensory frame rate. I could not take much of this for very long.

I had good friends living on a little rural plot on the coast north of San Francisco. Heaven!

When the mime money flow dried up on Sunday, I'd hitchhike north, lay over at the "Funny Farm" as it was known, then head back south again in time to start picking up the Thursday money. I learned to thumb the distance in about 10 hours either way -- only take long rides.

I had interesting rides. I got a ride around Salinas with a rock star in his pink-and-purple Rolls Royce, but it broke down before long and I continued thumbing.

I got a ride with a serious presidential candidate, a local congressman, the only Republican challenging Nixon for the 1972 nomination. In his car (an airport rental), the radio news announced the death of FBI director J Edgar Hoover.

"I'm glad the bastard is gone," the politician said emotionally.

No, he was not after my body. He just liked to talk to EVERYBODY, find out what people thought, their words unscreened and direct. He was a straight-shooter, and one of the few GOPs I would ever consider voting for.

One ride was with a dark-suited middle-age man in an Oldsmobile Toronado. He drove the highway at an average speed of 120 MPH. I got a little nervous.

"Ummm, aren't you worried the cops might bust you for speeding?"

"No problem. They all know me. I'm deputy director of the California Highway Patrol."

More than a few late-night rides were accompanied by a radio DJ playing IN A GADDA DA VIDA in full, giving said DJ a half-hour away from the microphone, for pizza or sex or a long slow shit or whatever.

And more than a few late-night rides had me in the back of a pickup truck or VW van, snuggling under a sleeping bag with one or more girl riders. Lots of young folks hitchhiked then, the girls often in pairs for safety. Double the pleasure, double the fun. Wow, I loved those nights.

___

Each time I arrived at the Funny Farm, I would greet my Cherokee hosts Jim and Tahoe, then get stoned and look for a fuckmate, then crash from fatigue. Jim and Tahoe had moved their 'Madhouse' commune from the Haight-Ashbury to the coastal woods. We had been friends for years.

The coastal commune had interesting visitors, often musicians. Some of the Jefferson Airplane-Starship crowd or the Crosby-Stills-Nash-Young band would wander over from their nearby 'ranches'.

Once, Keith Richards visited them, wasted as usual. How wasted? Well, the word on the street was that whenever there was a shortage of drugs, it was because Keith had used them all.

Anyway, Keith went into the brush to drain his bladder, and squirted a rattlesnake. The snake struck his exposed pecker. Ouch. Medical help was rushed in, but to no avail; within a half-hour, that snake was DEAD.

{rimshot}

I will not talk much about the drugs consumed there except to mention that one friend worked in a pharmacy and regularly brought jugs of amyl nitrate for our consumption. We would sit in old easy chairs around the outdoor firepit, passing the amyl around, snorting merrily. Good thing we were already sitting down; that shit is like a meaty punch to the head.

___

A rough girl named Cleo rolled in one afternoon on her Indian. She wore skintight buckskin leathers. Not fancy store-bought flash, but from deer she'd bow-shot herself, then field-tanned the hides using the deer's brains, then fashioned the skins into the clothes that literally fit her like molded-on gloves.

Cleo was tall and lean, with adequate breasts and close-cropped black hair and deep black eyes, and the sharpest spiciest scent of any woman I have ever known.

Cleo dismounted from her cycle, pulled off her helmet, unsnapped the wide belt supporting her Bowie knife, and spit in the dirt.

"Hey Ron, ain't seen you in a coon's age. You horny? I sure am!"

Cleo was no longer the shy runaway girl I knew back at the Madhouse. Damn, she looked good! Sweaty, dusty, cunt-buzzed and road-weary from the run from Vegas, but damn delicious, like peppered jerky. I smiled.

"You need a shower first, or do you just want to rut like hogs?"

"Oink oink," she said, kicking off her stomping boots as she walked into my cabin, unlacing her skins, getting naked real fast. I was quick to follow suit.

Cleo threw me on my bunk and hopped on top of me.

"Lick my pussy. Don't be slow."

Cleo scooted over my head and dropped on me like a thunderstorm. I do not know what all I tasted there.

Was she sweet? Fuck no! Piss and sweat and lymphatic secretions and deer brains and fuck knows what else, like a shamanic stew minus the hallucinogenic mushrooms.

Forget that her pussy muscles could squeeze my tongue down to a pencil-width; the taste alone nearly bit my tongue off, chewed it up, and spit it out!

And I loved it.

I reached up to her tits and her hands were already there, pinching her thick nipples. I pinched harder. She retaliated by reaching down and pinching mine. If my cock had not been swing free, I would have cum right there and then.

I put my tongue into ATTACK MODE, working furiously on her lips, hole, clit, all I could reach. She pounded my face, and came yelling, and squirted, and came and yelled some more, and finally slowed down and almost shut up.

"Whew baby, that was a nice start," she said, rolling off my face; "Does your dick still work?"

"Oh, it probably will for a few minutes, till your cunt breaks it off. Maybe you should start off with a cucumber or a mop handle."

Cleo reached to her naked left hip, saying, "Shit, where's my fucking knife? I'll have your balls for that one!" Her smile was a snarl. Her short black hair was spikey with sweat.

"OK, we'll have safe sex then -- safe for *me* anyway," I said as I rolled her off the bed and bent her over the edge, her legs splayed apart, her muscular butt poking out horizontally, her arms pinioned under mine.

I bounced my cock up and navigated into her wet open cunt by dead-reckoning.

Cleo was obviously looking for a good fast brutal pounding, and that is exactly what she got. After a few minutes of happy abuse she yelled and came again. Her pussy muscles brutally pinched my cock till it squealed and fired a 21-gun salute. I yelled a bit too.

Cleo rolled back onto the bed and said, "OK, now that that's over, come up here and 69 me like you mean it. I need some enhanced flavor."

Cleo grabbed my long black hair and dragged me to her, kicking and screaming almost. I plopped down on my back. She spun around, bit my cock, and dropped her crotch onto my face again, in the other direction this time.

Cleo positioned her hips so my tongue was on her clit while my nose stuck deep into her happy hole, bubbling her vivid juices with every snort.

This is what I love best about 69ing: drowning in wet pussy.

She sucked me till I stiffened again, and I licked her till she came again, and then she licked me again until I came again AND till I got stiff again, and then we rolled around and fucked some more, till she finally ran out of greed. Whew, that girl sure knows how to have a good time!

I think we were both pretty much fucked-out by dark. We slept wrapped around each other, stinking to high heaven, and awoke around midnight.

I dragged her out to the cold-water shower pipe on the side of my cabin and we hosed-down under the full moon, shivering and laughing. Then we dressed, and headed over to the communal kitchen to see if any stew and wine remained.

___

Our timing was great. I needed to return to Hollyweird in a couple days, and Cleo was making a run to San Diego then, so I rode with her all the way down, no thumbing necessary. We rode 400-odd miles together with my crotch stuffed into her butt and my hands holding her buckskin-covered tits or wandering over her torso and thighs.

She took the US-101 Cahuenga exit and rolled up in front of my Yucca Flats apartment just as gangs of escaping Hollywood High students streamed past. Cleo kissed me like she meant it and roared off.

And Mir and Lori were in that student stream, walking up behind me, looking at me a bit strangely.

"Are all your rides that friendly?" Mir asked, shaking her long dark hair and large breasts.

"Oh, Cleo is an old pal, but she always leaves me feeling like I'm the dry bones of the catch-of-the-day at Clifton's Cafeteria. She's a helluva role model, I tell ya."

"Go clean up, you road toad," Mir said, rolling her eyes as dirty blonde Lori giggled, and they dragged me upstairs into the apartment for yet more wet torture. Yeah, I've had worse days.

___

The next week, rather than head back to the Funny Farm, I decided to thumb the short distance out to San Bernardino ('San Boogaloo') to see my little sister Lyn. She and her older sister Sue had finally both finished high school and escaped from Mom and the noxious "step-family" that molested them.

Sue had recently married a guy who had been born the same hospital, the same day and almost the same hour I was -- did she have a big-brother complex?

Sue's guy Randy was a trucker. Two days before the wedding, he was loading his semi, and the forklift tipped over on him and broke his leg. He was married in a wheelchair, stoned to the gills on painkillers -- was that a good start to married life?

They were now at his home in Bakersfield, waiting for him to be ambulatory again.

Lyn lived alone then in a small studio court outside San Boogaloo. She had an interesting work-at-home job. She carved original sculptures that were reproduced and sold in craft shops. She sculpted little cars, animals, toys, plaques, furniture, witch houses, decorative items, whatever her boss ordered.

I had a standing invitation to crash in the big Yucatan hammock on her patio.

But first, I had to get there.

I got a couple real short rides, then was picked up by a young guy in a souped-up Mustang. He was medium height, cropped light brown hair, very fit. He had a look to him, and when our eyes met, something sparked and flashed.

We exchanged names. He reached over to shake my hand. Our hands stuck together. This was new for me.

We drove on for a few minutes, chatting. Paul took an off-ramp in West Covina, saying he needed to buy gas. As the gas pumped, he leaned his butt on the open car door, and I could not keep my eyes off it. And he saw that.

When Paul got back in, he asked if I would maybe like to go somewhere and talk for a bit. I nodded. He drove into a nearby park, to a quiet lonely section. We got out and sat on the ground together.

I leaned back, put my hand on the ground. His hand covered mine.

"You're new at this, aren't you?"

"I've never done a guy before."

"Will you kiss me?"

I leaned over into his muscular shoulders, my hand on the back of his head. Our tongues dueled softly, then harder. I felt the light stubble on his face. We held each other's heads with both hands.

Paul dropped a hand to my chest, rubbing me, then down my side, down to my jeans and my stiffening erection.

"Are you into anal?"

"No, not at all."

"Will you suck my cock?"

"I think I'd like to."

Paul unbuckled, pulled his pants and boxers down, pulled his circumcised boner out for me. I held his cock, stroked it, looked closely at it in the dim reflected light. I had not examined stiff cocks before, not even Will's when we regularly swapped the sisters. I did not know quite what to expect.

I bent over, sniffed it, licked it, put it in my mouth. I remembered some of the tricks that girls used when blowing me, and I thought about what I liked myself. So I did my best.

I held Paul's little head in my mouth while I jerked his steely shaft, lubricated by my saliva. I took him in deep. The film DEEP THROAT had recently been released and publicized and discussed, and I had heard about repressing the gag reflex. So I worked at him, and eventually pushed my face all the way down to his pelvis. I came back up, gasped, and did it again, and again.

I went back to kneading his shaft while strongly licking the underside of his head. I especially liked this technique myself. And it worked.

Yes, his cock throbbed, his balls bloated, and multiple shots of thick semen filled my mouth.

I had tasted my and Will's cum before, but mixed with pussy juice or girl's saliva. This was my first taste of it straight from the source. Not to bad, I must admit. I swallowed it all.

"That wasn't too bad for a first try. Now let me do you."

I raised my butt and bared my loins. Paul leaned down and pretty much did to me what I had done to him, but more so. He was good. He worked a hand towards my anus but I pressed a cheek down to halt the movement and he backed off.

I stroked my nipples and came pretty quick, pretty strong. Paul held my cum in his mouth, sat up, kissed me deeply, squirting my cum into mouth and swirling it around with our tongues before he swallowed it.

"You're sweet. You sure you won't fuck my ass or let me fuck yours?"

"I don't want anything in my butt, and I don't think I could stay hard for yours, sorry."

Paul pulled his pants back up, reached in a pocket for a business card, and passed it to me.

"Here's my number. Call me if you want more or if you change your mind."

I pulled my jeans up and put the card in my pocket. I wrapped my arms around him and we lay back on the grass, kissing or a few minutes.

"I have to be getting home. I'll drop you at the Fontana exit, OK?"

"You bet."

He dropped me off as promised. I thanked him for the ride and everything, and we kissed again. I threw away his card. This evening had been nice, but it really did not feel like it fit into my life.

___

I quickly got a ride to Lyn's San Boogaloo exit, and a short hike brought me to her darkened house. Asleep already? I lay in the hammock, gazed at what stars I could see through the smog, and thought and thought.

Lyn fed me breakfast in the morning, filled me with bad coffee, dutifully tried to sing along as I played harmonica, and then went back to her carvings.

Lyn is medium height with an oval face, long dirty blonde hair, nice bubbly tits and ass, strong legs, skillful hands. Her usual expression includes nervous laughter. She wore short shorts and a thin halter top and huarache sandals..

I looked at her trim figure, mentally compared her to the girls I'd had, and to Paul.

I thought, "What the fuck am I doing here? Where do I go now?"

The answers I came up with led me out of L.A., back to San Francisco.

NEXT: Coast-to-coast for the most.