Woodstock 18: MJ & LSD & Sex


August 15, 1969

Notation: Woodstock, the legendary music festival taking place on the cow field of a dairy farm was also a miserable manure infused mud pit.ndary969 Festiv

August 15, 1969

11:15 AM

Other than watching the lower cow field expand further and further from east to west, from north to south.

Within the shelter of their tent, from where Sharon watched, the ever expanding gelatinous mass of humanity appeared to merge onto and into each other, again proving that if one moved a leg, someone would immediately occupy that space. If one had the need of a toilet, better have someone to hold your space for the time — the long time it took one to find someplace to urinate or defecate.

Rain returning.

From her higher viewpoint, having sight of the entire cow field, Sharon could not believe what she was seeing as waves of torrential rain poured upon those thousands of people who had nowhere to go.

Under useless sleeping bags, or whatever hand held covering they could come up with, soaked to the bone in this open field, the violent deluge rendering areas of the cow field into of mud.

And it wasn't only mud!

The town of Bethel is located in the foothills of the Catskill mountains.

This three hundred acre cow field that had been chosen for the Woodstock Festival had been woodland a hundred years earlier that had been claimed and cleared for farm land using this three hundred acre field as a cow pasture.

This a cow field federalized by the herds manure for the past century, it’s presently saturated ground now churned up by hundreds of thousands of feet, the old cow manure mixing with mud— smelling far differently than simply mud or manure— appeared so dark it looked like puddles of chocolate syrup.

Sharon Murphy watched and read and slept, until…

August 15,1969

5:00 PM

Rain slacking…

Temperature back into the mid-nineties...

At this place on the far southern up-slope of the saturated three hundred square acre cow field, the far distant pavilion reduced to television size.

Wearing minimal clothing, sitting outside their tent in canvas seated lawn chairs, Clyde and Sharon Murphy watched and listened as…

5:07 PM

Richie Havens took the stage, played a forty-five minute set and was followed by…

Sound for the concert coming by way of special speaker columns having 16 loudspeakers on square platforms going up- hill on 70-foot high towers that weighed half a ton apiece. Each platform carried four fifteen inch D140 loudspeakers.

Behind the stage were three transformers providing two thousand ammeters of current to power the amplification setup.

Amazingly the music and lyrics coming to Sharon and Clyde came loud and clear, although at this distance the performers on stage appeared more so as faceless humanistic movement.

Thirty-two musicians, a combination of local and world-famous talent, scheduled to performed at Woodstock.

Richie Havens was followed by an unscheduled blessing by yoga guru Sri Swami Satchidananda.

The other performers on day one were: Bert Sommer… Sweetwater… Melanie… Tim Hardin… Ravi Shanker… Arlo Guthrie and JoanBaeaz.

August 16, 1969

1:15 AM

Rain starting again...

As though within a giant shower, the moist heat once again cleansing Sharon and Clyde’s sweat slicked bodies.

At this time of morning, contented, sharing what they believed to be their last joint, Sharon and Clyde now sitting fully nude listened from within the triangular mouth the tent as Joan Baez famously played the end of her set in a torrential downpour…

With day one ending at approximately 2:00 AM. on August 16.

2:10 AM

The rain slacking...

Slacking rain becoming earth hugging mist.

Rain or no rain!

Manure scented mud or not!

Hopped up on eight hours of pounding ‘rock and roll’, liqueur and assorted drug — as security was limited since off-duty police officers were banned from the festival grounds, and as the privately paid Woodstock security team consisting of no more than an estimated dozen members to keep an eye on 450,000 people…

Four-hundred and fifty thousand people!

Near a half million drunk, stoned and hopped up hippies and beatniks!

Why even try?

“La Bamba!”

A huge portable radio turned to top ear blasting volume.

“ ‘Ritchie Valens’…” The early morning, New York Disc Jockey pronouncing “...sadly dead these past ten years, yet, for our anti-Vietnam brothers and sisters at the Woodstock Festival”

Station volume turned to maximum...

“La Bamba!”

Twenty high light battery operated lanterns from twenty different tents eerily lighting the night.

Space considered; the only somewhat less muddy, less evil smelling space available, a large circular opening on the far southern fringe of the cow field where people…

A dozen...Two dozen… A hundred… Two hundred people joined by Autumn Dawn and; yanked to her feet, still nude and, more than willingly followed by her nude husband, dragged into the raggedly, ever widening— mostly nude or in process of shedding their clothing — delirious circle by Franklin AKA Morning Lust, who was warmly stoned, Sharon and Clyde Murphy willingly, joyfully dragged into the maddening melee where husband and wife instantly joining in, danced and screamed with mob like wild abandon.

Thirty-six year old Clyde Murphy purposely loosing himself in the youthful crowd.

Unaware he r husband was no longer behind her, mid-aged Sharon Murphy danced and screamed for a number of minutes, until, suddenly yanked from the erratic mob-like circle by Margery Binkowski, AKA Autumn Dawn — minutes from the needle prick and injection of heroin — demanded! “Open your fucking mouth! Stick out your fucking tongue!”

No matter the changing sounds of music.

The dancing: hardly recognised renditions from America’s hundreds of nationalities.

The dancing as frenzied movement of bodies and arms and legs.

“Open your fucking mouth! Stick out your fucking tongue!”

Infused with wild spontaneity, and stoned on pot, for an unfathomable reason, opening her mouth, Sharon complied as a small brown tab was placed onto her tongue by Margery Binkowski, who hated mid-aged Sharon Murphy for being the female that her teen-age son had finally— though this the reason the mother had brought seventeen year old Franklin to Woodstock in the first place: to have completed vaginal, or maybe even anal intercourse with a female other than his mother. And most certainly not a woman a year or two older than she herself.

Placing the LSD tab onto Sharon’s tongue, Autumn Dawn, AKA Margery Binkowski then melded within the ragged, widening circle.

The taste buds within Sharon’s tongue instantly accepting and digesting the mind altering drug, LSD, causing its characteristic hallucinogenic effects via interaction with the serotonin receptors in the brain.

“La Bamba!”

Once again into her floating pink bubble. Hair slapping from side to side about her face. Her breasts slapping from side to side about her chest. Sharon’s head twisting and bobbing along with the vibrant tones of Ritchie’s thumping guitar.

New York radio stations recording changing to…

Music changing to: Arlo Gunthre; ‘Amazing Grace’.

Sharon’s arms waving along, as she imagined were the wings of a soaring eagle.

Sharon’s feet no longer solidly earth-bound, rather as bounding skyward from the taunt vibrating cover of an unworldly trampoline.

Ritchie gone. La Bamba gone.

Arlo Gunthre; ‘Amazing Grace’, gone.

Now new non-comprehensible words along with non-comprehensible gut pounding ‘earlier generational’ music of sorts filling the black night.

Female hands reaching from behind taking hold of Sharon’s, mid-aged sagging breasts. A probing, grasping vulva pushing tightly onto the juncture of Sharon’s right buttock.

No semblance of any music known to Sharon pounding within her head.

Male hands taking hold about her gyrating waist, pulling her hips back.

Feeling a prod from between her inner thighs as a thick cock attempted to enter her from behind.

“Clyde?”

Fuzzily realising that it was not her husband.

Dimly aware that she was possibly being raped, or in her hypnotic state imagining a cock attempting to find entrance into her gyrating pussy.

Though, safely within her LSD caused pink bubble, not really caring because it felt nice, because the searching sensation of the probing onto her clitoris felt nice. Wonderful, in fact.

Suddenly reaching it’s goal, the hurried in and out sensation going with the screaming, screeching music— wherever the mind numbing jumble of music was coming from within the shadowy ragged circle of hundreds of arm waving, dancing and screaming totally, by one means or another, totally inebriated people — along with those knowing each other, or those that were strangers to each other— onto their backs; clinging sweaty bodies becoming muddied as, thrashing on the wet, manure infused ground, men onto women, men onto men, women onto women; mindlessly in need of orgasm! Openly fucking, or in process of doing whatever needed to satisfy their alcohol and drug sated psyche demanded.

As was thhirty-six year old Clyde Murphy, who’s thick Irish cock had found it’s drunk and stoned way to... and was now deeply implanted within a dark haired, bodily tattooed, nineteen year old hippie girl’s hairy, terribly smelling pussy.

What happens at Woodstock stays at Woodstock! Right?

As...

Safely within her LSD caused pink bubble, not really caring because it felt nice, because the searching sensation of the probing onto her clitoris felt nice, wonderful, in fact.

Suddenly reaching it’s goal, the hurried in and out sensation going with the screaming, screeching music— Wherever the mind numbing jumble of music?

Violently jerked away.

The man that was behind, whom ever the man was that was behind and within Sharon, was no longer there. The strange, rhythmic cock that had been ensconced within her vagina no longer ensconced as…

The stranger violently jerked from Sharon’s back and from between her thighs and from within her vagina — Forcefully flung to the soggy ground, where whomever he was, screaming to the sky, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound...” involuntarily ejaculated into the night.

The stranger gone.

Pulling Sharon Murphy to the misty, cotton candy covered marshmallow like ground.

The face above her familiar.

The handsome young face above her vaguely familiar— Yesterdays physical joining behind the mini-bus where, minimally sheltered from the thundering rain storm but a shadowy memory now, and the cock loosely entering and departing her widely spread, middle aged vagina not so much.

Literally not so much within the muscle tightening, grasping width of Sharon. However, for the second time, this thin penis easily reaching fully into her uterus...

The ear-splitting pounding music...

The frenzied sing-song screaming of those still upright and those no longer upright...

The foul scents of sweat and mildew smelling clothing and bodies…

Of urine and manure and shit all beyond the shimmering illusion of Sharon Murphy’s psychedelic, LSD induced hallucinogenic floating pink bubble'

Opening her eyes, the face inches from her face fuzzily coming to view. “Franklin?”

“Yeah.” High on maharajah, but far from feeling the effect of LSD “...I love fucking you, Sherry!”

The seventeen year old boy’s movement becoming frenzied. His words barely heard above the surrounding tumult. “I love you!” Said at the moment of ejaculation.

As…

Hidden within the hundreds of manure scented thrashing bodies, ejaculating quickly and finished with the nineteen year old hippie girl with the tattooed body and terribly smelling hairy pussy, Clyde Murphy searched for Autumn Dawn, AKA Margery Binowski.

Those many still erect, still somewhat rhythmically screaming and stamping along with whatever came blasting from the late night… now early morning New York radio station.

Those no longer thrashing in sexual ecstasy.

Those asleep, or more likely passed out reaming here , as this higher place on the wet, manure scented ground no better, or in most cases somewhat better than from where they had come.

Lifting Sharon to her feet, ineffectively attempting to brush the grounds debris from her backside, steering her towards her and Clyde’s tent as...

Sharon’s feet no longer solidly earth-bound, rather as bounding skyward from the taunt vibrating cover of an unworldly trampoline.



Next: Woodstock 19: Day Two