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INTRODUCTION & DISCLAIMER – When pre-law student Glen and his pretty cousin Betsy herself a pre-med student attend a music festival near Bennington Vermont as part of a group of six, they hope it will be like the Woodstock festival of 1969 two years earlier, both of which they were too young to attend at the time. But poor organization, anti-social behavior and bad weather turn the event into a living nightmare, and Betsy and Glen are like fish out of water in the chaos. And things go from bad to worse as Betsy and Glen find out the hard way of the dangers that lurk in Vermont’s dark forests near the Long Trail and Glastonbury Mountain…

Please note this story involves themes with female characters using the toilet and having their periods including menstrual sex, so if these themes are not your thing this story may not be for you. Otherwise, enjoy your trip back in time to the early 1970s and be sure to rate and comment. All characters and events are fictional with similarity to real person’s living or dead coincidental and unintentional, and only characters 18 and over are in any sexual situations.

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RHODE ISLAND, USA, SUMMER 1971

In the two years since it had been held, the Woodstock festival in summer 1969 had reached legendary status, making myself, my older sister Susan and our cousin Betsy envious of those who were able to attend the event. The reason we did not attend was a simple one, at the time we were minors and had no means of attending Woodstock and our parents if the subject mooted would have said ‘no way’, but now we were young adults attending college we were able to attend an event we hoped would be just as good.

The music festival we were attending had a simple enough name, ‘The New England Rock and Pop Music Festival’. It was to be held in Vermont, in some fields near the forests of the Glastonbury Mountains, Bennington the largest town in the region. It had an amazing line-up of bands and solo artists in a variety of different music genres, a good number of up and coming groups and singers in support/lead-in acts and promised great entertainment too in addition to a variety of music.

Held over the Labor Day long weekend, the festival would start late on Friday afternoon, run all through Saturday and Sunday, and finish up around noon on Monday, festival goers then returning home during the afternoon and back to reality on Tuesday. The whole thing sounded awesome, I had been counting the days for weeks and now it was finally here.

I stood with my cousin Warren at the front of the house where he lived with his parents and older sister Betsy, our things packed for a long weekend away and waiting for Betsy to appear and our ride to turn up. Friday morning had dawned bright and sunny not only on Rhode Island but according to the weather forecast, all across the North Eastern Seaboard from Maine down to Maryland.

“So Warren, I bet you’re looking forward to seeing all these musicians in person this weekend?” I asked my cousin.

Warren shrugged and adjusted his thick-lensed glasses. “Yeah, I guess.”

My skinny bespectacled cousin could not have sounded less enthused had he tried. Warren, with his blonde hair neatly parted wore a beige colored shirt and slacks of a similar color could not have looked more out of place attending a music festival. And with Warren having just graduated high school in June and starting his freshman year of college in coming weeks, why would my aunt and uncle allow him to attend such an event, much less insist that he attend?

Truth was, despite his square and studious manner and seemingly responsible persona Warren had been driving my Aunt Martha and Uncle Larry nuts this summer, and indeed for some time before that. Growing up, our families had been very much into music but Warren had the most talent of all of us. He could actually read music before he started elementary school, could turn his hand to any type of musical instrument. If older sister Betsy was playing the piano or practicing with her clarinet, Warren could repeat what she had played straight afterwards without looking at the sheet music.

Unfortunately, his musical talent had gone to his head during his later years of high school and Warren had become an insufferable music snob. All of us had been involved in the music extracurricular activities at high school – band, glee club and as the chorus for the drama kids putting on the school’s musical – but the older yet far less wiser Warren thought his talent put him above this, and expressing such opinions served to make him rather unpopular with the other musical kids not to mention the teachers. He would even go so far as to make comments about songs by well-known musical artists – even the Beatles and Elvis Presley – he did not care much for, saying how he could have rearranged the vocals and used different keys and pitches to make the songs better.

Given Warren was such a square anyway, he wasn’t exactly going to be spoiled for choice in places to sit for toroslar escort lunch, so after being frozen out by the music/drama kids Warren was banished to the worst table to sit at school for lunch, the table where the special education students sat. Not that he interacted with them, he spent his time working on operas and classical musical concertos which he was composing.

With high school over for Warren he no longer had the problem of where to sit for lunch – and I think everyone was glad to see the back of him – but problems had followed him out of school and into summer. At church Warren had failed to win friends and influence people when he gave the organist who had been performing this role since before the Second World War tips on improving her playing, which was not well received.

Even less well received was Warren intruding upon the Sunday school class, advising the women running it that they were teaching the kids to sing in the wrong key. And not content with simply being a busy-body he took it upon himself to take over the piano playing from the lady who undertook this role every Sunday.

Having seen the younger and less ego-centric Warren’s amazing musical talents, the owners of our town’s major music store had given him a part-time job as a sales clerk a few nights after school, on Saturday mornings and during school holidays. It should have been Warren’s dream job, and at first it was just this, but then the same problems that caused Warren issues at school, home and church soon followed him to work.

Warren probably should have realized that the tall man in a cowboy hat, jeans and boots only liked two types of music, one being Country and the other Western. With the cowboy seemingly easy to please and requesting records by any of Glen Campbell, John Denver, Charley Pride or the late Jim Reeves, Warren should have sold him any number of these. He should not have attempted to sell him Wagner and Mozart records, and losing the cowboy’s business in the process.

My cousin also shouldn’t have tried to persuade the teenage girls who were interested in purchasing one of the new Sonny and Cher cassettes that their money would be better spent on records of various operas. And most definitely he should not have said to the two women who entered the shop to buy some bubblegum pop records as birthday gifts for their middle school aged daughters that it was understandable that the daughters at their ages would have such terrible taste in music, but that the mothers should not be encouraging it and should buy some better records or cassettes of classical music for the girls.

Obviously too many mistakes like this costing the shop valuable sales caused them to terminate his employment, and despite both Uncle Larry and Aunt Martha presenting Warren with a newspaper and looking through the ‘Help Wanted’ ads for a summer job before college, my cousin had not done so and spent all his time indoors down in the basement, composing concertos and operas. No wonder he was so pale for late summer. Perhaps starting at college where he would study to become an accountant (more my aunt and uncle’s decision than that of their son) would teach Warren the error of his ways especially why he ended up fired from the music shop?

Warren’s journey to learning the errors of his ways seemed to be getting off to a slow start today, as I saw him open his backpack and adjust the items within. These were his notes on the operas and concertos he was working on, and several books. One was about appreciating opera in the present day, a second was an analysis of various European classical composers of the 1700s and 1800s, and the third was a biography of Handel.

I shook my head, but did not comment. I didn’t need to. From behind us came a young female voice, “Warren, are you seriously taking those books with you to the festival? Is your number one goal in life to get beaten up?”

Both Warren and I turned around to see 19-year-old Betsy walking down the front path, carrying a backpack of her own things she would need for the weekend which I presumed did not include books about classical music or opera.

Like her younger brother Betsy had blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin, but she was taller, her slim figure standing five ten with bare feet. Warren’s growth seemed to have stalled at five feet seven and perhaps his short stature contributed to his egocentric behavior.

Warren was dismissive of his older sibling, regarding Betsy like she was a bimbo rather than the straight-A science major student on track for medical school she actually was and sighed, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand Betsy, but I need these books so I can see what types of mistakes the musicians at the festival make to compare them with classical music and opera and make sure I don’t repeat them in my compositions. Plus many of the acts will be inferior and not worth watching, so it will help me to pass the time until I can watch tosya escort musicians of my own talent.”

Betsy shook her head, her pretty face filled with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “Warren, promise me you won’t repeat any of what you just said when we get there? If you get beat up, Glen isn’t going to jump in to save your ass. Isn’t that right, Glen?”

“Right Betsy,” I said. “Warren, your sister is right. If half the guys at this concert see you with these books, they’re going to kick your ass, then chase you all the way back home to Rhode Island and kick it again twice as hard.”

Warren shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows, perhaps I can teach them to appreciate better music?”

“There’s no getting through to some people,” Betsy said, rolling her eyes. She turned to me, looking for our ride. “So when are the others getting here?”

“Susan said about 9.30 …” I began, but stopped as I heard a noisy car engine, turned around and saw the beat-up old van driven by my sister’s boyfriend driving down our street, Tyrone going too fast as usual while blaring loud music. Despite all of us standing on the verge, Tyrone felt the need to beep the horn as he drew up, startling Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, the elderly couple next door who were working on their garden.

Mr. and Mrs. Lewis glared at us, Betsy and I giving them apologetic waves in response.

“Hey squares, get your asses in the car, we haven’t got all day!” Tyrone called out, laughing and waving as he stopped the van and climbed his 6 feet 3 inches tall lanky body out of the driver’s door, my sister Susan leaping out of the passenger seat. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis regarded Tyrone and Susan with a great deal of suspicion and apprehension, and to be honest if I was either of them, I would have done the same.

Tyrone’s long dark hair was loose, his beard and moustache unkempt. His flowery shirt was open from the top all the way down to the top of his flared jeans, showing a jungle of hair all over his chest and stomach, a silver chain contrasting with the dark hair. As was often the case Tyrone felt the need to scratch his balls whenever the need or desire overtook him, and did just this in full view of everyone.

Susan’s dark hair was only marginally longer than that of her boyfriend, which was understandable as she was a girl. It was very obvious that Susan was a girl, my sister wearing a bikini-style top that showed that she was a very well-endowed young lady, her midriff on full display for all to see. On her bottom half Susan wore a pair of hot-pants so short she might as well have just been wearing her panties, and in fact the material of Susan’s shorts covered so little that anyone could see that my sister was wearing white panties today. One could also see the shape of Susan’s vagina in the front of her tight shorts, something I most definitely did not want to see.

Like Betsy, Susan was tall at 5 feet 10 so her long legs were on display thanks to her very short shorts, as were her feet due to strappy sandals. My sister had taken the time to shave her legs, but clearly had run out of time to shave her armpits, several days of dark growth clear in her pits visible as she raised her arm up to adjust her sunglasses.

“These aren’t squares Tyrone,” Susan laughed, indicating the three of us. “They’re cubes. I think they missed their spots in the Partridge Family’s bus and are free-loading on us for a ride.”

“Thanks Susan, it’s nice to see you too,” I said to my sister.

“Well at least you and Betsy have made some effort to look the part,” Susan observed somewhat cattily, as Tyrone lit up a cigarette and took a puff, before handing it to Susan, my sister taking a drag and blowing out a smoke ring before passing it back to her boyfriend. “But this one, he’s going to stand out like a Negro in a Cowboys and Indian film.” Susan indicated Warren and laughed.

Although my sister was being a bitch as usual, Susan was right. Betsy wore a purple tie-dyed tee-shirt, a matching purple hairband on her forehead and flared blue denim jeans with patches such as a yellow smiley face, a nuclear disarmament symbol, a full moon and various cartoon animals stitched on, white sneakers on her feet.

Like Betsy I wore flared blue jeans – not patched obviously though – and sneakers and a tee-shirt of one of the rock bands that would be performing this weekend. I stood two inches taller than my sister and female cousin and towered over Warren, and I was clean-shaven with my dark brown hair cut reasonably short and neat befitting a pre-law student. But while pre-med student Betsy and I were without doubt studious and conservative in nature and definitely band geeks at high school, neither of us looked out of place attending the music festival.

Warren though was a completely different matter. As usual he looked like he had climbed into a time machine sometime in 1959 and travelled twelve years forward in time to 1971, missing all of the 1960s in the process. trabzon escort But even if Warren had been this age in 1959 I think the other teenagers would have considered him too much of a square to hang out with them. Hell, if Warren went back in time to 1949 or even 1939, I think the teenagers then would have rejected him for being too square.

Betsy and I looked at each other and we could just about read each other’s minds. Where was the sixth member of the group? Perhaps she was sick and wouldn’t be coming after all? That would be a good thing, but if we expressed it aloud would we jinx it?

However, it proved a moot point as we heard the van’s door slide open and a young, high-pitched female voice call out, “Hey Tyrone, where are we? I thought we’d arrived already.”

Tyrone responded. “Ellen, we’re just picking up Betsy, Glen and Warren like we said when we collected you this morning. It was less than 20 minutes ago. Remember?”

Both Betsy and I stifled sighs as Ellen emerged from the back of the van, pushing her long red hair back from her face and blinking her green eyes in the early morning sunlight. Well-endowed like my sister Ellen’s very short summer dress exposed much of her white bra and cleavage, and a bit unsteady on her bare feet Ellen’s long legs came apart as she climbed out, showing us and indeed everyone in the street that she was wearing white panties today. Like Betsy and Susan, Ellen at age 19 stood at a lofty five feet ten in height even with bare feet like she had now. What had they been putting in Rhode Island’s water supply in the early 1950s?

“Sorry guys, I feel asleep smoking and lost track of time,” said Ellen. Her crazy eyes were one clue, and the smell of the smoke that lingered around her a bigger clue that what Ellen had smoked was not tobacco but a certain green plant with five leaves on each stem.

“Can you believe I thought we’d gone all the way to Vermont?” Ellen giggled. “Silly me.”

I could well believe it, Ellen was nutty as a fruitcake and definitely not the brightest bulb in the box, but I said nothing.

“Can I please use your bathroom?” Ellen asked Betsy.

With Betsy and Warren’s parents not home, Betsy reached into her backpack and handed Ellen her own set of keys. “Knock yourself out Ellen, it’s upstairs, second door on the left.”

Tyrone who had just finished smoking his cigarette with Susan laughed. “Seems a strange time to take a shower or a bath, Ellen.”

Ellen giggled. “Oh shut up Tyrone, you know I need to go to the toilet.” She turned to the rest of us. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you waiting too long, I just have to pee.”

She turned and still a little unsteady on her bare feet, turned and walked up the front door into the house. Tyrone watched her depart and laughed. “It’s great Ellen’s coming along this weekend, she’s always good for a laugh and so much fun. Always has been.”

“So how long have you known Ellen?” Betsy asked Tyrone.

“Oh, like years and years,” said Tyrone. “Well, ever since we were really little kids. She’s my sister’s cousin.”

Warren was out of it reading his opera book, and Susan distracted by uncomfortable panties caused by her tight shorts sending her underwear into her vagina and between the cheeks of her bottom so they didn’t pick up on what Tyrone was saying. Betsy and I did, and exchanged a puzzled glance.

“Your sister’s cousin?” I asked.

“Yeah, Ellen is my sister Jill’s cousin,” affirmed Tyrone.

“So are you and Jill half-brother and half-sister?” asked the puzzled Betsy. “Or step siblings?”

Tyrone looked confused, shrugging his shoulders and scratching his balls. “Nuh, Jill and I got the same mother and father.”

“You’re full siblings then,” I said. “So is Ellen Jill’s second cousin?”

Tyrone thought about this. “No, I think first cousin. Ellen’s mom and Jill’s mom and my mom are sisters, so that’s first cousins, isn’t it?”

Susan’s barely covered 19-year-old body proved a distraction for Tyrone so the two immediately began making out, Tyrone’s hands all over my sister’s ass, putting his hand down the back of her panties at one stage. So he didn’t see Betsy roll her eyes and mutter sarcastically under her breath, “That means Ellen is your first cousin too, Tyrone.”

Needing to take a breath after putting his tongue down my sister’s throat, Tyrone asked, “Talking about cousins, you know who are like the weirdest cousins ever? You four guys.”

“We’re double first cousins Tyrone,” said Betsy. “Our parents are two brothers who married two sisters.”

“Yeah, never seen that before,” said Tyrone. “And you don’t look like each other much. Like you and Warren are blonde with blue eyes, and Glen and Susan have dark hair with brown eyes.”

“It’s just genetics Tyrone,” said Betsy. “Like Ellen, with her red hair and green eyes she’s inherited a lot of recessive genes.”

“You’re real smart Betsy,” said Tyrone. “No wonder you’re going to be a doctor. So if your Mom and Glen and Susan’s Mom are sisters, and both Dads are brothers, that means you’ve all got the same grandparents, right?”

Considering that Tyrone couldn’t work out that Ellen was his own first cousin as well as his sister’s cousin, this was an amazing observation on his part. “That’s right,” I affirmed.

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