I am not a hitchhiker.
But as times may call for it, I was a hitchhiker.
I was in college, Spring break time, and the van my buddies and I had taken down to the southern edge of Texas had failed entirely, with no chance of getting it going again, and no money to do anything else.
We were all on our own, and most found rides either on a bus ride, or with some other crowd of people that also were cruising their way north. I, unfortunately, did no have that luck, but this story is about not having that luck, and what transpired.
So, everyone is gone. You think you know people and then they are all like "see you later," and you get the message "fuck off, and see you later!" Maybe it's just me, and maybe I'm that guy, but I think to myself OK, I'll get back to Colorado from Texas on my own.
So, I set out walking. I had actually gotten a ride a couple of hours north before I was dropped off by a carfull of spring break strangers that were heading in the wrong direction. I was far south in Texas, and it was the end of daylight as I started making my way up 35 north. I walked for some time, not being accustomed to the hitchhiking thing, and then after an hour or so, I stuck my thumb out to let anyone driving by know I needed a ride.
Probably 20 cars passed me for over 45 minutes. Then one stopped and I quickly stepped up to it. As I approached the window, I got a bad feeling, and as I looked in the driver had that aura. The aura of someone that wanted to give me a ride to hell. I said "No thanks," and moved back to my position walking up the road. That car sped up, and almost immediately another came up behind it. It was an older truck, some kind of 90s pickup, GMC with a rumbly motor, and the driver pulled up alongside with a cowboy hat on and a slick and cool grin.
"You look like you need a ride," he said with cool ease.
I hesitated a bit. I felt like I just about got accosted and eaten with a side of fava beans, and here I was seconds later with a pickup picker-upper. I needed the ride, and the connection seemed a little bit better, so I went for it. I gave a quick, "thanks," and put my hand on the weathered handle and opened the door. I had a simple duffle with all my worthless crap and threw it into the seat next to me.
I slipped into the cab and smiled at the driver, with a word of hello. The truck had a bench seat, not bucket seats that you see with a console in the middle. The driver was the good-looking Texas type, and had a quiet but seemingly friendly demeanor.
He sped north as I adjusted into the seat, finding a seat belt. We exchanged pleasantries as he drove, simple hellos and how are yous. I explained that I was stranded in south Texas, on spring break, and he told me that he was heading to Dallas to pick up a relative that needed to move to Houston. After a time, the conversation dropped, and all that could be heard in the cab was the quiet slow drawl of old country music coming from the cheap tape player in the console.
"I'm Jack," he said to break the silence.
"I'm Tim," I replied, and the added, "thanks for the ride."
"No problem," he told me, "we like to be helpful here in Texas."
"Cool," I replied, with a quick, "thanks again."
We sat in silence for some time. I took my cellphone out and checked the status, wanting to send out a message about where I was and what was happening, to my girlfriend, and to let others know I was OK.
No bars here, so I turned it off and put it into my pocket.
We drove for miles, the engine rumbling easily, and us just settling into the scenery of light transforming into dark. The cab was comfortable, and as the glow from the dash became the only light, he looked over at me and said, "it gets boring on the road when you're driving," in a pleasant southern drawl.
"I know," I responded, "I have driven some miles myself."
Silence once again filled the cab, and then he said, "I get so horny driving these long distances. All I can think about is getting laid sometimes."
That seemed a bit forward, but I went with it and said, "I get the same way, it's hard to keep myself focused."
"I get that," he answered, "I'll try to keep myself focused."
I wondered where this conversation was going. I didn't want to have an emergency bail out from some crazy, looking to eat my liver on a Texas highway on a random night, but I was a bit intrigued. I asked him, "so what do you do when you're driving?"
He paused for a moment, and then said, "I usually just stroke off, you know, let loose and make myself better."
Wow, that was blunt, I thought, and then just kept silent for a minute or two.
Eventually, I said, "I do that too, when I'm in a car and on a trip."
For several minutes the silence was deafening. You could cut it with a knife. Then for some reason I blurted out, "so what do you do when that happens?" As I said that my cock hardened significantly.
He said, "stroke myself off, and then I clean up."
I asked, "what do you clean up with?"
He pointed at the glove box and said, "there's napkins in there, I usually just use those."
Without asking, I popped open the glove box and there was a whole bunch of fast food napkins. What was a hard on before, became a raging torrent of sexual need. It came clear in my mind where this was going, and I wanted it.
