It still amazes me how, with my failing memory from years of debauchery and drug abuse, I can still recall the most minute details of Woodstock. 1969 was an awesome year for memories, or so I'm told: the moon landing, Vietnam war, and its protests, bra-burning, which would never happen at 2019 prices, and that gargoyle, Nixon, in the White House. Also, Sharon Tate had been murdered by the infamous Manson family the week before the festival. I still remember vividly that August morning, climbing into a friend's VW van with epic Frank Frazzeta artwork front to back. My mother, Moonbeam, had washed all my tie-dyed tee shirts using new Fab, now with lemon-fresh Borax. My four traveling companions and I were ecstatic for what surely lay ahead. With the sweet scent of Acapulco Gold wafting through the shag-carpeted van, we cranked the radio up and in succession heard Honky Tonk Women, Bad Moon Rising, Sweet Caroline ...bum bum bum... and Come Together. It was classic rock in real-time.. ”My mother said, “It’s about time you found out what your father has been doing. If our spouses can cheat in our marriages so can we. I’ll even let you take pictures of your wife and I. I wouldn’t let your father do that. The bastard would post them on the Internet and I wouldn’t want that.” I said, “Then that is where we should start then.”My wife handed me my camera and then she kissed my mother very passionately. I got a very sexy picture of their lips and their breasts pressed together. They did not break for a long while. It was no act either they loved kissing one another. I followed them up to our bedroom where they really got intense. Mom smiled whenever she could but usually her mouth was on my wife’s pussy. Mom loved pussy. Maybe it was the lack of cock, maybe it wasn’t. Those two women were very familiar with each other’s body and what the other one liked having done to her. I watched with intense delight as they took turns giving the other orgasms. I had never seen my.
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