Be warned that this story contains explicit sexual activity between males. So if for moral or legal reasons you shouldn't read such material, please read no further.
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Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.
ANOTHER HITCHHIKING ADVENTURE
by Macout Mann
2
It was about 8:30 when I was dropped at I95. I walked up the ramp, stopping just in front of the "No Pedestrians, etc." sign, and stuck out my thumb. It was another bright, sunny day, and I was once again wearing denim shorts and an unbuttoned blue chambray shirt.
There was plenty of traffic, but nobody wanted to have pity on a poor wayfaring stranger on the side of the road. As I waited for a ride, I thought more and more about Colin. Had he fucked Madeline Welby? Colin and I had kept in touch, less so as time had gone by; but I decided I had to know. I took out my I Phone and sent him and email. It was 1 AM tomorrow where he was, so I didn't expect an immediate reply.
"Dude, I spent last night with the Welbys. Turned out you were the only acquaintance
we had in common. I've been wondering. Did you fuck Madeline when you were in
London last year? I had a weird experience in the middle of the night."
Another half hour and I took off my shirt again. Some folks won't pick up a shirtless dude. Think they're low class or something. Gays are more likely to stop. At least that's the conventional wisdom. I think "real men" don't give a shit one way or another. So you are almost as likely to get a ride barechested as not. And anybody's that was on the road back in the '70s or '80s will tell you that it's a hellova lot harder to get a ride anyhow these days. They say you could get from coast to coast in four or five days back then. Takes that long to get across a state sometimes now.
Finally, a big box truck stops. I jump in. The driver has got to be the most unattractive human being I've ever laid eyes on. Great big slobby fat motherfucker, bald, snot running out of his nose, pimples all over his face. But what the hell! A ride's a ride.
"You been havin' good luck?" Whatever he said, he sounded like he was whining.
"Not so far this morning," I answered. "I been standing here for almost two hours."
"Well, I'm not going very far, but where I drop you off a couple of queers might come by and pick ya up."
"It's happened before," I said.
When I said that, it was like I'd pushed a fucking button. He started pinging on me like something else. After yesterday and last night I didn't need to get off. Even if I did, I'd have resisted his advances. I pushed his hand off my knee and away from my bare chest. I didn't know how far it was to the next exit, but I'd ask him to let me out when we got there. Instead he pulled into the breakdown lane, leaned over and asked "How can you resist me?"
"Dude," I answered, "even if I hard up for a blow job, it wouldn't be hard to resist you."
"Baby-faced motherfucker, get out! Right now!" he yelled.
So I found myself out on the interstate with no exit in site. Fortunately, my shit wasn't all that heavy, just my sleeping bag, a couple of changes of clothes, shaving gear and a toothbrush. So I started walking north, with my thumb stuck out as I walked. It was mostly wetlands as far as you could see.
I put my shirt back on. I was beginning to wish I had some of Reg's lube. Might make good sunscreen.
Suddenly, a horn screeched right behind me. I turned around, and there was a state trooper's car, blue lights ablaze. The trooper couldn't have been more than three or four years older than me. He got out and demanded, "Don't you know you can't be up here on the highway?"
"Sorry officer," I said. "I know I shouldn't be here." I decided to try for sympathy. "But this dude that gave me a ride started hitting on me; and when I wouldn't go along, he made me get out...about a hundred yards back."
"Well," he smiled, "I can understand how that can happen. You got I.D.?"
I handed over my driver's license. He checked me out. I came up clean.
"I guess I can give you a break, since you were being propositioned by a queer. I'll give you a lift to the next exit. Get in back."
I quickly found myself in a tiny prison. Steel grating between the front and back seats. Back doors locked with no way for me to open them. He explained my plight to his dispatcher, turned off his flashers, and roared off.
"The next exit's just a couple of miles up," he advised, "but there aint shit there. I'll take you up to 373, where there's some fast foods and service stations. Hell of a lot more traffic up there."
He was turning into a pretty nice guy. Asked me where I was going and where I was from. I asked him how he liked being a trooper.
After about ten minutes we reached Exit 373, the town of Yulee, Florida. He gave me the obligatory lecture about how dangerous it is to hitch, be careful who you get in a car with—"But you already know that," he laughed—and stay on the on ramp in front of the sign. I thanked him and told him I'd shake his hand, if it wasn't for the bars. He said that that was all right, that I was much too dangerous to shake hands with, and unlocked the back doors so I could get out.
It was already eleven-thirty, when he headed up the ramp, seeking motorists or other hitchhikers to torment. I'd been on the road three hours and gone thirteen miles.
I walked over to the closest store, a Flash Foods gas station and convenience store. Bought myself some sunscreen, a sandwich and a Coke, then hit the on ramp.
Three hours later I was still standing there. Finally. A Jeep Cherokee rolled to a stop. I ran to jump in. The driver coulda been me. Barechested in cutoffs. I couldn't say for sure how old he was, but he was one good-looking son-of-a-bitch.
"Hi!" he said. "I aint goin' too far, but I can get you up into Georgia."
"Anything would help," I responded.
"I'm just headed home, up to Jekyll Island," he said.
"Oh, I've heard of that," I responded. "Supposed to be a neat place."
We exchanged the usual questions and answers. "Where're you headed?" "Been having good luck getting rides?" "What sorta work you do?"
I told him I was a senior at Auburn. He was a sophomore at Georgia. His dad was a banker in Brunswick, but wanted to live on Jekyll. Henry—that was the driver's name, but he preferred "Hank"—loved the island.
"My dad grew up in Savannah," I said. "He always said that swimming in the Gulf was like being in a bathtub, but swimming in the Atlantic was something else."
"Yeah. And the tide's real great right now," Hank said. After a moment of silence he made a proposal. "Hey, I can't offer to put you up. My dad would probably shit bricks if he even knew I'd given you a ride. But come on over to the island with me. You've got a sleeping bag, and I know a place where you can lay out. We can hit the surf, and I can take you back to the freeway tomorrow morning."
"What the hell?" I responded. "This is supposed to be `an adventure.' Why not?"
Thirty miles into Georgia Hank took the exit onto US17 and soon we were on the causeway to Jekyll.
Jekyll Island ought to be remembered as the birthplace of the Federal Reserve. It was a playground for the fabled robber barons, the Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, Chases and their ilk. And it was on Jekyll the the idea of a national banking authority was hatched.
In those days there was no access to the island from the mainland. When it became too cold at Newport for pleasure, yachts were sailed south to Jekyll, where "cottages" had been constructed for frolic in more southern climes. Some of these "cottages" had thirty or more bedrooms.
During the Second World War, the Atlantic Coast was mined, and the yachts could no longer reach the island. After the war, the State of Georgia condemned it. It had not been occupied for so many years. And by that time, it was no longer a treasure that its former owners felt was worth fighting for.
Georgia created The Jekyll Island Authority to administer the island. Although it is technically a State Park, the authority has run it more like a private resort. Not so fashionable as Hilton Head or Sea Island just up the coast, but its beaches are among the least crowded on the Atlantic. Year-round residents, like Hank and his family, are permitted, but they cannot own property. They take a ninety-nine year lease. Residents pass on and off the island with ease. It costs dearly for others to pass from the causeway onto the island, however, and non-residents must pay every time they pass, even if they are staying at one of the island's hotels.
Hanks jeep sped past the toll booth, having the necessary sticker on the windshield. He drove to Beachview Drive and turned north. Toward the north end of the island there was a deserted beach, strewn with driftwood, not favored by tourists. "This is a good place," he said. "I'll check in with my folks and then be right back."
Sure enough, in less than a half hour he returned. He brought a sixteen-inch pizza. "Most everybody likes pepperoni" he announced. "If you don't, too fucking bad."
The tide was coming in, and after finishing the pizza we splashed against the incoming swells, roughhousing in what was in fact a lot better surf that the Gulf had to offer south of Mobile Bay. Tired out, we lay side by side in the sand, as it became dark and the full moon shined down.
"Hey man," I said, "I checked our football schedule. We're goanna play Georgia at home on November 16. Why don't you come down for the game? My gal for sure can match you up with a bitch that'll put out, whoever wins."
"You're on," he responded. "One of my fraternity brothers goes to every game wherever it's played. I'm sure I can hitch a ride with him."
"Oh, but I'm just a poor, fucking independent. Can you lower yourself to share a room with somebody like me?" I kidded.
"Shit, man, you're doing something right now that ninety percent of us would love to do; but we don't have the guts, and you do. I'd share a room with you anytime."
We lay silent for a while. Then Hank spoke again.
"Mind if I ask you something, John?"
"You ask, I'll tell."
We both laughed. Then he spoke. "I'd love to be you. On the road. But I keep hearing that hitchhikers are always being hit on by gay guys. Is that true?"
I had to giggle. "Well let me tell you what happened to me this morning," I began. I told him everything that happened up to the time he picked me up.
"Gross," was his response. "I don't know what I'd have done with that fat floozie. It that the only time you've been propositioned?"
"Shit no. It happens a lot. Usually the guys seem pretty normal. Not all gays are queens." I decided to go ahead and be honest with him. It might piss him off, so I'd lose my ride back to the interstate, but what the hell? "I'll admit that sometimes I'll let 'em suck me. Feels a hellova lot better that beating it. I aint ashamed of that."
"Goddamn! You fucking horn dog," Hank laughed. "I don't know if I'd have the balls to do that."
"You'd be surprised what you'll do, if you are horny enough." I still didn't feel like admitting everything.
When he finally left for home, I was ready to climb into my sleeping bag. The ocean air has a narcotic effect. I slept like a baby.
"Hey John!" Hank was shaking me. The sun was up. "It's already past seven," he said. "When I got home last night, I told my folks that I met this guy on the beach who was a senior at Auburn, and that you were a pretty neat dude. They've invited you to breakfast."
I groggily pulled my naked self out of my sleeping bag, exposing my piss hard to Hank. I turned my back to him and watered the sand. "That's real nice of 'em," I said. "Guess I need to put on some clothes."
"Yeah," he laughed. "I wouldn't care, but mom might be embarrassed."
I put on my best shirt and a pair of jeans and we set out.
Hank's parents were your typical upper class Southerners. Very polite, but also distant. Breakfast was ample. Good coffee, bacon and eggs, fruit, biscuits, and even grits. As soon as we'd eaten, Hank's father said he had to get to work and took off. Hank and I made small talk with his mother for a while, and then he offered to take me out to the interstate. He said it like the thought had just occurred to him.
Enroute we exchanged cellphone numbers and reiterated our plan for him to come over for the Auburn-Georgia game.
He dropped me off and called me a "horn dog" again. I had to wonder. I'd sure love to tap his ass.
I went over to the Love's Travel Stop, took a shit, changed back into my shorts, and rubbed my bod with suntan oil. Now I was ready to head north again.
Standing on the ramp, I remembered to check my email. Colin should have had time to reply. Sure enough, there was a response:
"John, you spent the night with Reg and Madeline? Hope you had as much fun and I did.
Yeah, I fucked Madeline. Reg too. How the hell did you wind up with them?"
I sent him an answer and returned to the task of trying to get a ride. It was about seventy miles to Savannah. I was thinking of stopping off there. It's where my dad was born. He had once taken Chuck to Savannah for some reason or other. I had never been. And they say the historic area is one of the country's most beautiful places. It missed being burned to the ground by General Sherman.
I was still at the same place four hours later. At least I was getting a good tan.