Finally, a white van pulls over to the hard shoulder. The driver leans over to the passenger side and winds down the window.
"Hop in," he says simply.
As white vans go, it's been kept in reasonably good nick. It doesn't actually scream serial killer at me. The driver is older and fits the stereotypical profile for a tradesman, some fat over muscles and a thick grey beard. I'm begging not choosing, so I say "Thank you," and hop in.
As we pull away, he flicks the stereo on and Black Sabbath blares out. We drive for a little way out of the suburbs.
"What's in Nottingham?" he asks, indicating the little cardboard sign I'd been waving from the verge for the last hour and a half.
"A couch," I say simply.
He doesn't reply at first. Or maybe, in a way, the silence is part of his response. "I wasn't planning on going as far as Nottingham."
There we are. This was on my list of possible scenarios. Not on the bottom of my list -- bottom was not getting a lift at all - but I'd hoped to avoid it. It was too optimistic to hope for a purely good Samaritan, maybe. He gets silence in return, at least for the length of a Tony Iommi solo. I know I'm taking the implied deal, but I'm not sure of the proper way to seal it. "I'd be very grateful...if..."
He nods and my stammer fades into nothing.
After another pause that lasts half a mile, he looks over at me. "You do this sort of thing a lot?"
The answer should be so obvious that he's almost mocking me by even asking. "Nah," I say, looking down at my knees.
"Yeah," he says. "No worries. You've landed on your feet tonight."
"Sure, sure," I say, trying to reassure myself.
This time there's no pause. "Okay. Here's the deal. I'll make sure you get to Nottingham if you let fuck you now and then again in a few hours just before I drop you off. Think of it as a half upfront and half on completion type of arrangement."
I'm momentarily stunned by the change in tone. Just as he's about to take it as a tacit agreement, I find my voice.
"Plus twenty quid."
He looks at me in surprise for a moment. "Fine. Since it seems you're a real charity case. I'll need to stop at the services first."
Look like I've judged it right. I might struggle to find another ride, but he's not going to find another fuckboy easily at this time of night either and the sum of money clearly wasn't large enough to have given him pause. Having something in my wallet will at least allow me to spring for a round at the pub and get the lay of the land before I have to decide which of my mates to tap for a bigger handout.
Logically, that deal makes sense, although it does technically mean I'm now a prostitute rather than just a 'really grateful' hitchhiker. I slowly marinate in the enormity of this as I stare blankly out the window at the passing road lights.
A few minutes later, he pulls into a little service station. He doesn't park at the pumps, but instead heads straight into the shop. I can see the counter through the window and there's no queue. Still, he's a long time. Eventually, he pays for what looks like a small box of condoms and a tube of lube, but as he gets in the car, he cracks the plastic wrapper and pulls out a cigarette. If he notices my surprise, he doesn't show it and we drive off again.
It's not long before he pulls off the A6 and onto the side roads. We pass a couple of small villages and then he parks up in a lay-by.
"Here'll do," he says. There are not enough trees to call it a wood, but there's probably enough to call it cover. There are no lights from either street lights or houses here and he reaches past my crotch to pull out a flashlight from the glove compartment.
We get out and make our way into the gloom. We have to navigate a ditch first and then find a hole in a small hedge, but then the path is easier. He's clearly been here before. He finds a spot by one of the bigger trees.
"Well, then," he says, flicking his fag away.
I stand there like an idiot. I'm not really sure how this is supposed to go. He looks me up and down.
"You ever been fucked before?" he asks.
He clearly doesn't want to know about my fumbles, my emerging sexuality, and my emotional struggles. He doesn't want to know how much I can remember of trysts conducted through the drunken haze of university nights. He doesn't want a body count or a ratio of hetero to homo hook-ups.
"Yes," I say.
"Drop your trousers and bend over that tree," he tells me.
"Would you like me to blow you first?" I ask. I'm stalling. The direct nature of his instructions gives me no reason to think he's going to be gentle with me.
"Knock yourself out," he replies. And then he unzips his trousers and his cock springs out. He's already hard. It's big. Somehow I knew it would be.
I test the ground with my feet. I decide it's solid enough that I can get to my knees. That's probably easier that squatting down and trying to keep the dirt off my clothes.
The last time I sucked a cock, I decided I wasn't gay. A decision I'd mostly stuck to over the past six months. Oh, well.
I wrap my lips around his dick. "Good boy," he tells me. His hand is already behind my head keeping me in place. It had been a forlorn hope that I would be able to tease him and please him. Instead he takes control, thrusting his manhood as far down my throat as he can. My gag reflex flutters for a second and then I get it under control. I can do this, I tell myself. It's just been a while.
Shifting position makes things easier. I move my body down more and tilt my head up so there's more of a straight line down my throat. Then I make sure to look up at him as he face-fucks me. Eye contact -- that's what all the women's magazines say is the secret of a great blowjob. And of course, I'm supposed to be a pro now.
He doesn't notice though. He's looking off into the distance. He does take advantage of the extra depth to push even further and fast into me. It doesn't take long before I get the first taste of salty liquid, as a little bit of pre-cum leaks out.
I pull away for a second. "Want to come in my mouth?" I ask him.
