Dear Diary 1
January1961
We were attempting to time our orgasms so we could come at the stroke of midnight, with my cum warming the inside of her pussy. It was the evening of New Year's Eve, about five o'clock, and we were drunk, naked, and covered in 'Tanning Oil' that was sold in little bottles labeled 'Baby Oil.'
The bottle had a baby in a diaper on a butterfly-shaped white and pink label. The oil was most slippery when applied to damp skin and dangerously slick when water was added.
My sister lost a darning egg up her vagina one weekend. She had to have it removed in the emergency room because it was too far inside her and too slick for me to grasp. She was young to be doing such a thing, but she still made the local paper with a 'Police Call Record' article that said, 'Local woman rushed to the hospital to remove item from body cavity. (Emergency call no. CG 1-00006).'
This story about a New Year was fifty-plus years ago, so at the moment of this writing, I cannot recall this beauty's name, but her most important redeeming feature at that minute was that she wanted to fuck me. I had been suffering a seven-week dry spell planting trees in the forests fire's burned area in the remote North-east corner of California.
For this New Year holiday, I was in West Sacramento in Frontier Village, a new trailer park on West Sacramento Boulevard. I was nineteen years old and had a year of training as a nurse's aide while attending Sacramento's Nurses College the previous year. I wasn't cut from nurses' cloth, so I had changed my education's focus this year to trying to learn how to fuck. I focused on the young ladies in my nursing classes from the year before to teach me.
I'd saved enough of my summer income not to need a job. Now that I'm unemployed, I planned to be unemployed for the entire winter,and I will attempt to draw unemployment insurance.
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Much of this is quoted from the pages of my Diary.
November 27, 2022
Dear Diary
Yes, I kept a diary all these years. The following is the fill-in to the notes I penned all those years ago.
This is the truth, as best as I can recall.
Back in 1961, the draft was a factor in every swinging dicks life in America. We were expected as Americans to appreciate and understand the freedoms that military service allowed us. Men and women were and are needed to defend our freedoms, so service for many was and still is a way to learn a trade, learn how to be employed, and learn and develop the skills necessary to be effective in military service to our country. Man, how things have changed. And in my aged opinion, not for the better.
I was not expecting to get drafted at mid-nineteen, but friends all around had gotten pulled into the Army via the National Guard method, it seemed.
My Dad was at sea a lot when I was younger, so I became aware of an increasing presence of some time in service to the country as an obligation to my family, and a much stronger influence was a growing understanding of my patriotism.
I was actually looking forward to it from about aged ten or eleven, I think when I realized that there would be no future for me to stay in my little town in Northern California for the rest of my life.
About age ten, I saw the Navy as a sure way out. More than seventy years later, I realized that after deciding it was a way out, my destiny was to leave my little town about the time I did. No one knew the unspoken secret in my head: I was going to leave.
When the time came to shit or get off the pot, I toured the recruiting offices for the different branches of the military, all lined up in adjacent offices on the second floor of the old post office building on Tehama Street.
The draft had pulled two very close friends.
Three others were removed from home serving weekend duty once a month, to active duty for two years.
When I had withdrawn from my college classes, I was immediately a ripe target for the draft.
I didn't want to get drafted, so, I interviewed at all the open offices that day. I was offered Nuclear Submarines in exchange for a six-year enlistment in the U S Navy. I was assigned a reporting day of January 2, 1962, if I recall correctly.
My father was very happy and proud enough to take me to his neighborhood bar. He and his drinking cohorts shouted me enough beer that I eventually went home with the big-titted barmaid cocktail waitress about my mom's age, but maybe a hundred pounds lighter.
The first thing that happened was she dropped her shiny black cocktail uniform panties, revealing a vagina covered with black and gray pubic hair, both curly and straight. Then she dropped my Levis and sat on my cock on her hard wooden ottoman.
She rode me for a few minutes, then said, "Dale, your father is a real pussy eater. Has he taught you his tricks?"
I had no idea of either eating pussy the way my father did or being asked about it.
"Of course." It was a lie when the reply rolled out of my mouth, "We have discussed it."
"Follow me." She replied.
We went into her bedroom, where she removed the rest of her waitress uniform, and I saw her stretch marks, rolls of mom fat around her waist, and the hair surrounding her cunt. Her tits hung like the balls of the bulls in the fields on the farm. Her nipples were hard, wrinkled, and pointed downward toward the rolls of fat surrounding her waist and nearly to her cesarean scar, stopping just above her outward knotted navel.
She was definitely a different sight from the high school girls that I had been fucking. They were fresh as new own hay and fuzzy with pubic hair shaped like a heart or an arrow pointing to their vaginal crease.
This barmaid had pubic hair down the sides of her legs, up to her navel in a strip, and around her nipples, I noticed as I took in her nakedness.
She saw my look of amazement and then asked me, "Are you a virgin?"
I proudly said, "No." But not very convincingly, as her next question proved.
"Have you ever been in a vagina without a rubber?"
"No."
