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It was one of those country drives with the Scott Street gang. Morningstar Ranch, the earliest, biggest, and most notorious of the country communes, was over an hour north in Sonoma. We parked at the front gate and walked a quarter mile up a driveway, ankle-deep in dust, through lush woods. Eventually we came to a clearing with a large vegetable garden and, uphill from that, a log building. The surrounding woods were full of tree houses, huts, and tents. The tourists were hardly distinguishable from the natives except that it seemed the men in loincloths and the bare breasted women probably lived there. By that late in the summer, it had become a tourist attraction, drawing hip pilgrims and, for tits without a cover-charge, bikers and bunches of teens. The Scott Street gang dispersed. I was enjoying Morningstar thoroughly: wandering trails, sharing smiles, and here and there tokes. There was laughter and good cheer everywhere. Eventually I found myself in front of the main building. There was a wide stairway leading up to a porch where laughing, chatting chicks entered and left a door, apparently preparing a meal. I started up the stairs and suddenly stopped. At the top of the stairs, about my eye level, a young woman sat in a chair, nude from the waist down, her legs spread open toward me. CUNT !!! Sunlit! Normally just the thought of it would stretch my jeans. But what was even more startling, once I could lift my gaze to her face, was her expression: a glazed demonic leer with a glint of sadistic exhibitionism, and behind it all, pain. And it was the pain that backed me down the stairs, as cats and chicks clomped up and down around me ignoring her. Maybe they lived here and she was part of the scenery. But I couldn’t get passed the pain.
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