Woodstock 11

Notation: 35,000 people were expected. Instead, approximately 450,000 people attended the...

Woodstock Festival of Music and Love

Bethal, New York

August 12, 1969

9:12 AM

Touching Sharon’s knee, startling her. “If you want to go skinny -dipping, baby...” the guy that had handed her the joint said with a snarky leer “...I’ll ‘see’ you there!”

Thinking, Not on your life!

Knowing the four couldn’t leave their spot, because as soon as so much as an elbow was moved, another would take it’s place.

Sweaty and still dabbed with dried Calamine Lotion from yesterdays mosquito and chigger bites, ‘oh, yeah’! Sharon absolutely wanted to go for a swim! 

And stoned as she was, skinny-dipping… glancing a Lust’s somewhat ‘accidentally’ exposed penis… didn’t sound too bad, at all!

However…

9:15 AM

Feeling dizzy. Two or three quick draws on the joints offered her by people in passing, and now two from this old skankey make believe hippy —  the wetness from his lips that had clung to the joint he had handed her still sensed upon her lips, causing an additional up-bound twitch within her stomach.

Furthermore...

The thought of this person even seeing her as she was, all but nude beneath this wet, near transparent, tightly clinging dress causing an additional twitching within her stomach sending a sour taste of bile into her throat.

9:17 AM

Going to puke! Sharon thought as, grabbing Lust’s elbow… “Feeling sick.”

Standing. Eagerly looking about for the quickest way through and out of this tightly pressed crowd of thousands of people that were crushing onto her.

“Going to puke!”

Crossing her arms about her chest as though a ramrod. Moving. Pushing. Forcing her way through the people in an urgent rush to get before and beyond.

Those close enough to see the purse of her lips and terrified look and urgent rush — having been in the same gut churning position themselves, attempted to move out of Sharon’s way, but having nowhere to go, the most they could do was to turn sideways, giving the panicked woman a few extra inches of space to shove her way through.

9:19 AM

The far southern fringe of the crowd coming closer…

People not yet far enough away from each other, but no longer able to hold back, room enough for— doubling over, enough room to turn her back to the nearest person and, bending at the waist, Sharon brought the remnants of the Egg-O and Cherry Cool Aid upward and outward.

Following in Sharon’s shoving, pushing, squirming wake, Lust remained a yard or two behind, until…

9:23 AM

Her stomach still quaking, through vomiting but unwilling to leave the rejected contents of her stomach in the open for someone to step into, Sharon wondered how she was to cover her mess when, God complying, the gray sky opened sending a tropic like torrential downpour of warm rain obliterating what, seconds earlier had been the voided contents of Sharon’s stomach.

Off to the south- eastern section of the field, towards the direction of the Murphy tent and Lust and his mother’s lean-too, there are fifty snaking lines of people, both male and female, waiting for entrance into one of the fifty mobile toilets, all holding umbrellas or standing bare-headed being beaten by the downpour.

The two other mobile toilet locations to the far south and far west of fifty toilets each, having the same long lines of thoroughly saturated people.

Drench and shivering, huddling onto Lust’s body for warmth. “I’m freezing!” Sharon said as the two made their way to their Woodstock homes.

9:27 AM

“Where you been?”

Grabbing a blanket and wrapping it about herself. Having breakfast…” she said through chattering teeth “...then Lust and me went to see how the pavilion was coming along.”

Stated not as a question, but more so a statement. “Like that queer guy, do you!” Clyde said.

“Yeah, I do!” Lowering the blanket from about her head. “What of it!” Stated not as a question, but more so a statement.

Clyde Murphy was what one might picture as a typical person of Irish decent: A handsome man: six toot two, blue eyed with black hair.

Due to the physical aspects of being the proprietor of a hardware store, although into his middle years, at age thirty-eight, Clyde’s body was trim and still noticeably muscled.

Married to Sharon — whom he truly did love — since the age of nineteen and true to her for these past sixteen years, Clyde Murphy had begun to feel the need for… at least in his opinion, the ‘temporary’ need of a new face and different tits and a different pussy, along with whatever different moves and sensations a new woman, a different body would bring to his, at least in his opinion, ageing sexual psyche.

Hence...

Apparently Clyde’s earlier show of bravado over: ‘what happens in Woodstock stays in Woodstock’, meant more so for what he, the husband does in unsupervised Woodstock over what she, the wife does in unsupervised Woodstock.

The pounding of rain on the canvas tent near drowning Clyde’s accusation. “Haven’t fucked the kid yet. Have you?” This definitely stated as a demanding question.

“Why...” Sharon belligerently asked as she pulled the drenched dress over her head, then quickly re-wrapped the blanket about her naked, good-pimpled body “...you want to keep our fucking all in the family?”

Taking a long moment for Clyde to comprehend the sarcastic remark.

“Oh, you heard.”

“Yeah. Lust told me last night you got stinking drunk and stoned and fucked his mother.. So, like you said, ‘what happens her, stays here.’ So, yeah, I haven’t fucked him, yer.”

“ ‘Yet’.” Clyde facetiously said, adding, “You planning on robbing the cradle?”

“Yeah. I haven’t fucked him… ‘yet’.” Adding, “And he say’s he’s twenty.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yeah! If that’s what he told me, why not!”

Angrily referring to Clyde's disappearance into the mob yesterday leaving her to fend for herself…

“So why don’t you keep getting lost in that mob of people, feeling up whatever hippie girl lets you feel her up, and fuck whoever and as many hippie girls that will let you fuck ‘em! And for the future, like you say, my husband, ‘it’ll all stay right here at Woodstock’.”

Sharon Murphy was not an argumentative woman and was extremely slow to anger, so the tone of her voice and set of her face telling Clyde whatever he wanted to do, he had his wife’s permission to do.

And in so doing, the husband gave the wife tacit permission to do so also…

Without fear of her becoming pregnant, as Sharon and Clyde Murphy had been trying to become parents for years without success so…

So of course! This husband considered this wife to be the matrimonial partner that was incapable of conception.

Of course, not the problem of this picture of a husky Irishman.

9:35 AM

Apparently, at least in Clyde’s mind, an accord being reached between he and his wife, having slept in the shorts he’d been wearing the day before, standing…

As the pounding rain upon the canvas of their tent abruptly stopping, along with a near binding triangle of light that shown from the tents opening.

Stretching, Sharon warmly noticed her husband’s purposeful display of his muscled arms and stomach, along with the well pronounced erection pushing at the fly of his khaki shorts.

“Hungry! You want to come along?”

Thinking about White Lake and a nude swim with Lust. “No, I ate.” she said, nodding towards the stretch of material within his shorts. “And if you wan’a pee, better find someplace besides those rolling toilets.”

The sunlight intense, squinting as he left the tent. “Nice thing about being a guy…” Clyde said over his shoulder “… ‘cause guys can pee just about anyplace.”

“So I’ve noticed.” Sharon said, rummaged about the large canvas bag containing whatever clothing and underwear she’d packed, feeling for…

Here it is! Finding the skimpy two piece bathing suite she’d brought along.

Letting the blanket that had draped her shoulders fall, nude now, stretching her legs forward, about to wiggle into the bathing suit bottom...

9:40 AM

Looking across the seven feet to Autumn Dawn and Morning Lust’s lean-too.

Wearing nothing more than a ratty T-shirt, looking towards Sharon as she looked at him, an erotic mental message of sort silently transmitting, their eyes touching and holding...

But for his ratty T-shirt, the middle aged woman and — though he had said he was twenty— seventeen year old boy both fully nude ‘saw’ each other.

Sitting up, as apparently his mother, still asleep, or, more then likely, Sharon thought, still passed out. A triangle of black pubic hair showing, the mother’s legs stretched outward, the outside of her left thigh pressing against her naked son’s right hip.

From beneath the bottom of the T-shirt — barely seen, however proving he truly was blonde, the son’s long penis stood at rapt attention between his thighs, as the young man’s hand absently caressed the inside of his mother’s bare thigh…

His boner! Me? His Mother?

Sending a message Sharon could not process.

Knowing she was watching. “Ready for that swim?”

Their eyes still holding. “Yeah…” knowing he was watching, standing as she slipped the bathing suit bra over her breasts “...I’m more than ready.” Thinking, For anything.

His outstanding penis wilting and drooping along his inner left thigh. “I’ll bring a blanket.”

“No bathing suit?”

“My shorts will do.”

“The same ones you wore earlier?”

Smiling. “Why…” he brazenly asked “... you think they were too, uh revealing?”

Notation: Forty -two years into the future, Marsha Lipensky asked Sharon Abrams AKA Sharon Murphy.

“You think he knew?”

His dick was hanging out?”

“Yeah.”

Sharon and Marsha’s eyes meeting. “No doubt!” Sharon said.

Woodstock

9:54 AM

The cooling, pounding rain having stopped a few minutes earlier, leaving in it’s stead a humid, ninety-one degree morning with steam rising from the grass, or whatever passed for grass on this barren, three hundred acre cow field.

She in a skimpy two piece bathing suit. He still wearing

nothing but that old T-shirt.

Saying and anticipating something she never, ‘never’ in her imagination would say or anticipate were Sharon Murphy in the real world...In her real Cincinnati, Ohio world.

But here? In this muddy, smelly wholly unsupervised world of the Woodstock Festival of Music and Love!

For the first time since the exciting thought of an acting career was replaced by he hum-drum life as the partner of a hardware store in Cincinnati, Ohio, did Sharon Murphy feel a sense of excitement such as she had never before felt, and it trawled from her brain downward, all the way downward into the nether- region of her uterus.

“No, baby…” standing two feet apart “… I thought your shorts looked just fine.”

“You going to bring a purse or a bag or something?”

“Yeah, I guess. Why?”

Turning, reaching into the lean-too. “Need something to hold our makings.” Lust said, grabbing a dry pair of shorts and the small leather zipper bag containing maharajah, cigarette papers and a plastic lighter.

Awakening. Sitting up, Margery's heavy breasts hanging to her lap, “Where you off to?”

Pulling the dry shorts on, “Sherry and me, we’re going to the lake for a swim.”

“Okay. Have a good time.”

Looking at Sharon, “Getting hungry.”

“Clyde’s over at the wagon getting breakfast for the two of you. Your son and me ate earlier.”

“Good.”

Motioning for her son to come closer. Whispering directly into his ear. “Get fucked, will you.”

Whispering back. “I’m doing my best, Margery.”

10:03 AM

Doing their most to skirt the crowd, and not run into Clyde.

Walking to the far south-eastern end of the field, actually into the woods, where there must have been hundreds of scattered people looking for a tree or a bush, that would not, of could not wait in line for a mobile toilet to become vacant.

Soon the close by woods began to smell as an outside toilet.

Better watch where you step!

Seeing heads turn as she and Lust passed closely near by.

Thinking people would consider her as an older woman paying the way for her young lover?

Think her keeping a ‘boy toy’?

Embarrassed?

Each time Sharon took a hit earlier this morning, it was the barest of hits, inhaling no more than the sliest fume as possible.

Or possibly, working their way through the field, it was the residua effect of a maharajah induced contact high.

Embarrassed?

Fuck them and whatever they think! Sharon Murphy felt pride in the handsome young man walking alongside, and she didn’t even care if his dick was showing.

Matter of fact, thinking of his dick, Sharon Murphy was horny as hell.

At last, onto the road.

“You been there, Lust…” Sharon asked “...You know the way to White Lake?”

“No, but…” turning to the north “...it’s this way.”

As the road was jammed with vacated vehicles, having to walk on the far outside of the soft shoulder.

“Your name is really Sharon?”

“Yes.” Looking at him. “Of course!”

Taking her hand. “You can stop calling me by that stupid name.”

“What should I call you then?”

“My name’s Franklin.”

Next: Woodstock 12: White Lake