My First Real Threesome
1978. . . it was the Summer of this song. . .
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8JPXwst6P4&ab_channel=AlejandroGabrielAtia%2FMusic
Stevens County Washington, where an old high school friend persuaded me to come in the Summer of 1978, was a hilly, forested expanse in the Northeast corner of the state, right on the Canadian border where the Columbia River crossed over. My friend needed transport up there to finish off her paralegal internship, and I was in a period collecting unemployment after being laid off from a temporary appointment in the mailroom of a VA hospital. 1977 had been an eventful year, following several eventful years, but I was still seeking that supportive, counterculture community in the hills somewhere. What hadn't worked out between Silicon Valley and the Santa Cruz Mountains might be found in the quaint old logging towns of Colville and Kettle Falls, near where the Kettle River joined the Columbia.
There was an eccentric collection of bohemian men and women who still managed to garner some respect from the conservative denizens of those hilly communities. It had something to do with everyone having to work hard to make ready to survive fairly harsh winters. Perhaps not as rugged as Alaska, but real winter nonetheless, where the size of your woodpile has a great deal to do with how comfortable you were going to be, and the stock of fruits and veggies you had canned would be extremely important to your family feasts when the snow flew.
It was orchard country. . . largely apples, but a lot of peach, apricot, and cherry orchards in the bottom land around the river, which was actually referred to as the Lake, because it was Lake Roosevelt, built up behind the Grand Coulee Dam that Woody Guthrie immortalized some forty years before. The hippy types tried to make a living there doing everything from setting up various craft of bodywork shops, still a new sort of thing even in California, let alone rural John Birch country, to small acre farming, thinning contracts on Forest Service land, working in the few restaurants and bars in town, and tending to the 49 East Ski Area in the Winter. A certain amount of dope was also being merchandised clandestinely. I was introduced to one circle of friends and persuaded to go back to San Jose, pack my meager belongings and two old bolt action service rifles into my '61 Chevy pickup and camper shell, and strike out like a latter day pioneer. This was considerably different from my periodic sojourns in the Santa Cruz Mountains, where I was still close to family and familiar networks of friends. This was a major departure. . .
But this story will not fully detail that madcap Summer into Fall. There were a lot of unique and memorable moments among the lodgepole pines and tamaracks of the great North woods, and one heartbreaking romance with a sweet young girl. But in the midst of all this I experienced my first actual threesome, and found it both surprising and exciting all at once.
There were always impromptu events, excuses for parties and beer and music and wild dancing, whether it was a harvest and craft fair over in Pend Oreille County along the Idaho border, or the Kettle River Raft Race, where I got to take in a genuine wet t-shirt contest for the first time. After nude beaches in California, maybe that's not such a big deal, but given the drunken festival atmosphere of the affair, it had an exotic appeal. But somewhere down on the long and winding road between Addy on US 395 South of Colville and Rice on the Lake South of Kettle Falls, a true Earth Mother and her logger husband hosted the North Star Music Festival on their small ranch where they raised rabbits, turkeys, chickens, and one monstrous hog named Brunhilde.
I was friends with a few of the musicians who were going to be playing bluegrass music of one sort or another out there. Having been a "roadie" for a band some buddies of mine had assembled back in the Bay Area, it was assumed I would be doing similar stage work. . . but there really wasn't much of a stage. some plywood sheets stacked on a few concrete blocks, barely a riser. The sound system was minimal, so there wasn't really much roadie work to do either. I had driven my truck out to the ranch with Jim, a rangy, long haired 'Nam vet who had worked with me in an organic peach orchard in Kettle Falls, and then harvesting wild baby's breath and mullein for the eccentric hippy entrepreneur who managed the orchard. We were put to work clearing a field of knapweed and other scratchy underbrush for parking cars and other rigs arriving at the event.
After that, there wasn't much to do but hang out and drink beer, smoke dope, help clean up after the communal meals cooked on a wood burning kitchen range that had been dragged out into the farmyard. Woodstock it wasn't but it was a pleasant enough affair for the late summer. This one young teen girl who had also been part of the baby's breath field crews came out with her wilder friend. I was sort of courting her, and she was awfully sweet, and certainly liked her dope. But she couldn't stay for the weekend. I hung out after dark as the clouds came and went that night. . . the Perseids meteor shower was active, and there were a few good tracers to be seen. I flirted shamelessly with a number of women, including this one tall biker chick with long straight hair, and her less tall, curvier roomie who had that indeterminate short curly hair that sometimes said lesbian and sometimes said "I don't really care one way or the other."
At one point, these two women hung out in the hotel room of one of the bands that passed through the area to play at the one club in Colville where the rednecks and the hippies all did cowboy dancing on a small dance floor. I had come along with them. . . the band was backing a singer they weren't particularly thrilled to be backing, but they got to show off some of their own chops because the singer in question wouldn't open or close the gigs. An odd arrangement. The band was really pretty good. . . I can't remember the singer's name. Well, actually, I did look him up after some further thought, and he had some repute as a songwriter and producer, and a limited regional following in Arizona. What brought him to Stevens County? Well, sometimes you gotta tour to get beyond your regional fanbase. He wasn’t bad, it was just an unusual way of presenting himself. He has since gone to his reward, so I will respect his reputation and his following
They even played a version of “Baker Street. . . “
Smoking dope with these guys and the women in the hotel room was just another social highlight of my Summer as a working peasant in the North. The women had these pills. . . capsules really. . . which I can only describe as black bombers. They were obviously some sort of speed, because I was up for damn near 36 hours after I took one. But that's how I came to know Becky, the curly haired one.
By the second night of the festival, things were beginning to wind down. There would be no communal breakfast in the morning. Sitting in the circle around the fire singing in jam sessions devolved again to people crashing again in various nooks and crannies of the farmhouse, under trees listening to the coyotes making some of the god-damnedest noises I had ever heard, and a lot of storytelling. But I realized it would soon be morning and I really needed to get some sleep for the drive back to Kettle Falls. I headed toward my truck as the gray dawn started to lighten. . . only to hear distinctive sounds of sex as it rocked on its springs. Jim and Becky were in there, hard at it. I muttered a bit. . . I have been in this movie before. . . waited until things settled down and then announced loudly, "Hey, either throw out my sleeping bag or shove over. . ."
They shoved over. . .
Jim was lying on his back with this look of weary bliss on his face. Becky was curled up beside him, but smiled at me as I crawled in to the camper. She was not what you would call a gorgeous hippy woman, she was older than me by a few years, and her tits were just starting to sag. But she had an open and engaging smile, and I felt I was not intruding in the slightest.
I had spent the night once with a married couple, the wife of which was a coworker of mine. Not sure how that came to pass, But we just cuddled awkwardly all night, and didn't have sex. Another time a girlfriend of mine, having flirted with someone else at a club in San Jose, dragged me into the bedroom of her roomie, who had ended up with that dude. It was funny. . . my girlfriend and I hadn't fucked yet, but we watched them fuck, and I remember stroking her roomie's shoulder while my girlfriend stroked his butt as it went up and down. After they climaxed we giggled back to her room and then fucked. But no one had swapped partners or anything.
Becky started it. She leaned over and gave me a deep soul kiss. I was surprised and a little shocked. I got over it quickly.
Becky was naked, and she started to reach into my sleeping bag, tugging at my belt buckle. I sat up and got my jacket and shirt off, somehow tucking my glasses away on the shelf of the camper bed. My arms around her, I drew Becky in for another deep kiss while she opened up my jeans and grabbed my cock. Jim was half dozing but grinned at me as he realized what was happening. Arching my back I let her pull my pants off my hips and I finished working them off with my stocking feet. . .
In some ways, it became a blur after that. Did she suck my cock? Did she just climb on me and work my hard dick into her hairy snatch? Did I manage more than one position with her? I just know her cunt was hot and wet, and at least half that wetness was Jim's load. Her soft tits had brown, crinkly, but erect nipples. They were hard and salty in my teeth. I remember collapsing back after I came, feeling both tired and satisfied. And then Jim was on his hands and knees again between Becky's legs, earnestly fucking her again with a look of determined bliss on his face.
We all eventually fell asleep for about three hours, loosely entangled in sleeping bags and tarps. Then we managed to get ourselves together and go into town to the same joint where the bands played, which was also a 24 hour restaurant. After all the granola and oatmeal at the festival, it was time for bacon and eggs hash browns, and strong coffee.
That was the first threesome I ever had where we all actually fucked. I went out with Becky a few more times, including the night of my 25th birthday, when there was a display of the Northern Lights across the entirety of the sky. . . we lay for several hours on the roof of my camper watching them as there pulsed a dim phosphorescence across the canopy of the dark night. Another time I gave her a ride back to her place in the woods outside of Colville, where a cluster of four old CCC cabins were. She was a sweet and comforting lover. We both knew we were not to be partners, but enjoyed each other's company and having some fun sex.
Becky was one of those women who made me feel less lonely, even as I pined for other women. I'm glad to have known her. . .
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8JPXwst6P4&ab_channel=AlejandroGabrielAtia%2FMusic
Stevens County Washington, where an old high school friend persuaded me to come in the Summer of 1978, was a hilly, forested expanse in the Northeast corner of the state, right on the Canadian border where the Columbia River crossed over. My friend needed transport up there to finish off her paralegal internship, and I was in a period collecting unemployment after being laid off from a temporary appointment in the mailroom of a VA hospital. 1977 had been an eventful year, following several eventful years, but I was still seeking that supportive, counterculture community in the hills somewhere. What hadn't worked out between Silicon Valley and the Santa Cruz Mountains might be found in the quaint old logging towns of Colville and Kettle Falls, near where the Kettle River joined the Columbia.
There was an eccentric collection of bohemian men and women who still managed to garner some respect from the conservative denizens of those hilly communities. It had something to do with everyone having to work hard to make ready to survive fairly harsh winters. Perhaps not as rugged as Alaska, but real winter nonetheless, where the size of your woodpile has a great deal to do with how comfortable you were going to be, and the stock of fruits and veggies you had canned would be extremely important to your family feasts when the snow flew.
It was orchard country. . . largely apples, but a lot of peach, apricot, and cherry orchards in the bottom land around the river, which was actually referred to as the Lake, because it was Lake Roosevelt, built up behind the Grand Coulee Dam that Woody Guthrie immortalized some forty years before. The hippy types tried to make a living there doing everything from setting up various craft of bodywork shops, still a new sort of thing even in California, let alone rural John Birch country, to small acre farming, thinning contracts on Forest Service land, working in the few restaurants and bars in town, and tending to the 49 East Ski Area in the Winter. A certain amount of dope was also being merchandised clandestinely. I was introduced to one circle of friends and persuaded to go back to San Jose, pack my meager belongings and two old bolt action service rifles into my '61 Chevy pickup and camper shell, and strike out like a latter day pioneer. This was considerably different from my periodic sojourns in the Santa Cruz Mountains, where I was still close to family and familiar networks of friends. This was a major departure. . .
But this story will not fully detail that madcap Summer into Fall. There were a lot of unique and memorable moments among the lodgepole pines and tamaracks of the great North woods, and one heartbreaking romance with a sweet young girl. But in the midst of all this I experienced my first actual threesome, and found it both surprising and exciting all at once.
There were always impromptu events, excuses for parties and beer and music and wild dancing, whether it was a harvest and craft fair over in Pend Oreille County along the Idaho border, or the Kettle River Raft Race, where I got to take in a genuine wet t-shirt contest for the first time. After nude beaches in California, maybe that's not such a big deal, but given the drunken festival atmosphere of the affair, it had an exotic appeal. But somewhere down on the long and winding road between Addy on US 395 South of Colville and Rice on the Lake South of Kettle Falls, a true Earth Mother and her logger husband hosted the North Star Music Festival on their small ranch where they raised rabbits, turkeys, chickens, and one monstrous hog named Brunhilde.
I was friends with a few of the musicians who were going to be playing bluegrass music of one sort or another out there. Having been a "roadie" for a band some buddies of mine had assembled back in the Bay Area, it was assumed I would be doing similar stage work. . . but there really wasn't much of a stage. some plywood sheets stacked on a few concrete blocks, barely a riser. The sound system was minimal, so there wasn't really much roadie work to do either. I had driven my truck out to the ranch with Jim, a rangy, long haired 'Nam vet who had worked with me in an organic peach orchard in Kettle Falls, and then harvesting wild baby's breath and mullein for the eccentric hippy entrepreneur who managed the orchard. We were put to work clearing a field of knapweed and other scratchy underbrush for parking cars and other rigs arriving at the event.
After that, there wasn't much to do but hang out and drink beer, smoke dope, help clean up after the communal meals cooked on a wood burning kitchen range that had been dragged out into the farmyard. Woodstock it wasn't but it was a pleasant enough affair for the late summer. This one young teen girl who had also been part of the baby's breath field crews came out with her wilder friend. I was sort of courting her, and she was awfully sweet, and certainly liked her dope. But she couldn't stay for the weekend. I hung out after dark as the clouds came and went that night. . . the Perseids meteor shower was active, and there were a few good tracers to be seen. I flirted shamelessly with a number of women, including this one tall biker chick with long straight hair, and her less tall, curvier roomie who had that indeterminate short curly hair that sometimes said lesbian and sometimes said "I don't really care one way or the other."
At one point, these two women hung out in the hotel room of one of the bands that passed through the area to play at the one club in Colville where the rednecks and the hippies all did cowboy dancing on a small dance floor. I had come along with them. . . the band was backing a singer they weren't particularly thrilled to be backing, but they got to show off some of their own chops because the singer in question wouldn't open or close the gigs. An odd arrangement. The band was really pretty good. . . I can't remember the singer's name. Well, actually, I did look him up after some further thought, and he had some repute as a songwriter and producer, and a limited regional following in Arizona. What brought him to Stevens County? Well, sometimes you gotta tour to get beyond your regional fanbase. He wasn’t bad, it was just an unusual way of presenting himself. He has since gone to his reward, so I will respect his reputation and his following
They even played a version of “Baker Street. . . “
Smoking dope with these guys and the women in the hotel room was just another social highlight of my Summer as a working peasant in the North. The women had these pills. . . capsules really. . . which I can only describe as black bombers. They were obviously some sort of speed, because I was up for damn near 36 hours after I took one. But that's how I came to know Becky, the curly haired one.
By the second night of the festival, things were beginning to wind down. There would be no communal breakfast in the morning. Sitting in the circle around the fire singing in jam sessions devolved again to people crashing again in various nooks and crannies of the farmhouse, under trees listening to the coyotes making some of the god-damnedest noises I had ever heard, and a lot of storytelling. But I realized it would soon be morning and I really needed to get some sleep for the drive back to Kettle Falls. I headed toward my truck as the gray dawn started to lighten. . . only to hear distinctive sounds of sex as it rocked on its springs. Jim and Becky were in there, hard at it. I muttered a bit. . . I have been in this movie before. . . waited until things settled down and then announced loudly, "Hey, either throw out my sleeping bag or shove over. . ."
They shoved over. . .
Jim was lying on his back with this look of weary bliss on his face. Becky was curled up beside him, but smiled at me as I crawled in to the camper. She was not what you would call a gorgeous hippy woman, she was older than me by a few years, and her tits were just starting to sag. But she had an open and engaging smile, and I felt I was not intruding in the slightest.
I had spent the night once with a married couple, the wife of which was a coworker of mine. Not sure how that came to pass, But we just cuddled awkwardly all night, and didn't have sex. Another time a girlfriend of mine, having flirted with someone else at a club in San Jose, dragged me into the bedroom of her roomie, who had ended up with that dude. It was funny. . . my girlfriend and I hadn't fucked yet, but we watched them fuck, and I remember stroking her roomie's shoulder while my girlfriend stroked his butt as it went up and down. After they climaxed we giggled back to her room and then fucked. But no one had swapped partners or anything.
Becky started it. She leaned over and gave me a deep soul kiss. I was surprised and a little shocked. I got over it quickly.
Becky was naked, and she started to reach into my sleeping bag, tugging at my belt buckle. I sat up and got my jacket and shirt off, somehow tucking my glasses away on the shelf of the camper bed. My arms around her, I drew Becky in for another deep kiss while she opened up my jeans and grabbed my cock. Jim was half dozing but grinned at me as he realized what was happening. Arching my back I let her pull my pants off my hips and I finished working them off with my stocking feet. . .
In some ways, it became a blur after that. Did she suck my cock? Did she just climb on me and work my hard dick into her hairy snatch? Did I manage more than one position with her? I just know her cunt was hot and wet, and at least half that wetness was Jim's load. Her soft tits had brown, crinkly, but erect nipples. They were hard and salty in my teeth. I remember collapsing back after I came, feeling both tired and satisfied. And then Jim was on his hands and knees again between Becky's legs, earnestly fucking her again with a look of determined bliss on his face.
We all eventually fell asleep for about three hours, loosely entangled in sleeping bags and tarps. Then we managed to get ourselves together and go into town to the same joint where the bands played, which was also a 24 hour restaurant. After all the granola and oatmeal at the festival, it was time for bacon and eggs hash browns, and strong coffee.
That was the first threesome I ever had where we all actually fucked. I went out with Becky a few more times, including the night of my 25th birthday, when there was a display of the Northern Lights across the entirety of the sky. . . we lay for several hours on the roof of my camper watching them as there pulsed a dim phosphorescence across the canopy of the dark night. Another time I gave her a ride back to her place in the woods outside of Colville, where a cluster of four old CCC cabins were. She was a sweet and comforting lover. We both knew we were not to be partners, but enjoyed each other's company and having some fun sex.
Becky was one of those women who made me feel less lonely, even as I pined for other women. I'm glad to have known her. . .
2 años atrás
"In some ways, it became a blur after that. Did she suck my cock? Did she just climb on me and work my hard dick into her hairy snatch? Did I manage more than one position with her? I just know her cunt was hot and wet, and at least half that wetness was Jim's load. Her soft tits had brown, crinkly, but erect nipples. They were hard and salty in my teeth. I remember collapsing back after I came, feeling both tired and satisfied. And then Jim was on his hands and knees again between Becky's legs, earnestly fucking her again with a look of determined bliss on his face."
Those are magical moments from all three of your lives.