Be warned that the 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
Chapter 4
Normally I'd put my shit in a locker in the bus station, but in Charleston both the bus and train stations are way out of the way. So I decided to carry it with me. I didn't have much, just my sleeping bag and a small duffel with a couple of changes of clothes, a razor, and a toothbrush.
I walked around the area and checked out a couple of the antique shops. It soon became apparent that a young dude with a duffel bag and a sleeping bag wasn't welcome.
I'd done an assignment last term, however, that involved the economics of the retail antiques market. So I was really interested in seeing the shops in Charleston. The third one I checked out brought out the owner, who followed me around like I was about to cart away his most priceless possession. I finally stopped and faced him.
"You're pricing these Hepplewhite chairs like they were `of the period,'" I told him. "Obviously they're not." Then I walked out.
I had no idea, of course, but the expression on his face told me I was right.
Mobile, where I'm from, is the oldest city in and the first capital of French Louisiana; but although it dates from 1702, it doesn't have the historic aura that Charleston has. As I walked toward the battery, the beautiful pre-Revolutionary houses that lined the street block after block gave me the feeling that I was back in the Eighteenth Century.
At Charleston's battery I could look out and see Fort Sumter, where the War of Northern Aggression began. Then walking back into downtown on the way to the City Market, I passed St. Michael's Church, built in 1752. Damn.
The Charleston City Market is supposed to be one of the city's biggest attractions. It is historic, but you've got something like it in every city that attracts tourists. Stuff unique to Charleston, but tourist junk however you cut it.
I did get hit on while I was there. Dude in his thirties. "Hello," he said. "Just passing through?"
"If I wasn't I wouldn't be carrying this shit around with me, would I?" I answered.
"Well, I could let you have a place to store it. A place for you to hang out too." He let his hand brush his groin.
I grabbed my cock in full view of all the tourists gathered around. "It'll cost ya, dude," I said.
He quickly retreated. A couple of guys close by though that was very funny.
It was noon and I checked out a nearby restaurant, A. W. Shucks. It was expensive. At least I thought so. But then everything in Charleston seemed expensive to me. It did have shrimp and oyster po-boys, but I opted against my better judgment for the shrimp taco. Had some weird toppings like corn relish. Cheapest thing on the menu at nine bucks. Wasn't bad.
I asked a dude how to get to Folly Beach. He told me to get on Calhoun St. Said it was about twelve miles to the beach. I figured I'd do what I did on the road to Savannah. If I hadn't got a ride in an hour, I'd abandon the project.
I walked with my thumb out as far as the bridge over the Ashley River, then started hitching for real. A half hour later a Ram pickup stopped. It was driven by a high school aged kid. Very Anglo. Blond hair, blue eyes. Dressed in a white t and denim shorts.
"Where you headed?" he asked, like he thought I was on the wrong road.
"Folly Beach," I answered.
"That's where I'm going," he said. "Hop in."
Turned out that's where he lived. He asked why I was going there, and I said, because I'd never been there. We reached Folly Road and he turned toward the ocean. I told him about me and what I was doing. Well, not everything I was doing. And damned if he didn't ask me about getting hit on by gays.
"Everybody that giving me rides asks me about that," I laughed. "Sure it happens, but if you say `no,' most of 'em will go ahead and take you where they're going. Some will kick you out. They don't bother me none. Once you've done some hitching, you get pretty tolerant."
I thought my answer gave him the opportunity to pursue sex, but he let it drop.
Folly like Jekyll is a barrier island, but Folly is only three or four miles long and less than a half mile deep at its widest point. There's the beach, many cottages, and only a few businesses lining the main street coming onto the island.
"Anyplace in particular you want to go?" he asked.
"I was just goanna hit the beach," I responded. "See what there is to see."
"Well, there's the lighthouse at one end and the county park at the other. We live up toward the lighthouse."
"How about you drop me where you're headed and I'll hit the beach from there."
I paid the few bucks admission to the beach. I've always thought access to public beaches should be free, but... What the fuck? I had a good view of the decommissioned lighthouse, and I started down the beach. There were some dudes surfing, and I stopped to watch them. The surf was a little better than down in the Gulf but not much. A couple of the surfers came ashore and we chatted. One lived on Folly and the other in Charleston. They broke out some beer and offered me one.
"Alcohol's illegal on the beach. They want you to hit the taverns. But if you keep it outa sight and there's not a lot of people around, the cops don't fuck with ya too much," the boy from Charleston said.
After a while they went back to surfing and I continued down the beach. I'd long since shed my shirt. I found a secluded spot underneath a deck and swapped my jeans for my denim shorts. Ever so often I'd go into the water to cool off.
It was obvious that there were few stores on Folly and they were all around Center Street, the main drag leading on and off, so when I reached the middle of the island, I wandered up to a Kangaroo Express and bought some convenience store sandwiches, chips, and cokes to take along with me.
Returning to the beach, I plodded on toward the other end of the island. I found some people my age from time to time to hang with, but nobody I was interested in hooking up with.
By the time I reached the entrance to the park, it was after five. There were assorted "parking fees," but walk-ins could get in free. At the same time, the officer on duty looked askance at me.
"No camping out in the park," he admonished.
"Oh, I understand, officer," I replied. "I'm just going to look around."
There were plenty of places where I could crash for the night. I just hoped that he wouldn't remember and come looking for me. I'd done more walking today than I had in years and was really tired. I could use a blow job, but after last night it wasn't something I had to have. I still checked out the rest room without finding any action. So I found a secluded spot, broke out my food and had supper before stripping down and getting into my sleeping bag. I was asleep almost immediately. It wasn't even dark.
It was eight o'clock when I woke up. I'd slept around the clock. My shorts had dried overnight, so I put them on along with a shirt that I left unbuttoned and headed back to the entrance to the park. Damn. The same officer was on duty.
"Hey, I thought you said you were just looking around and weren't going to camp out." He sounded really pissed.
"I'm sorry, officer. I got to watching the surf while the sun was going down and just fell asleep."
"Well I'd better not see you again!"
"I'm headed to the mainland right now."
I began my trek down Ashley Avenue, the one street that runs the length of the island. I'd put my thumb up whenever a car would come by.
A Suburban stopped after I gone about a half mile. It was driven by a guy in his thirties in a dark pinstripe and rep tie.
"You headed to Charleston?" he asked.
Yes sir. Sure am," I replied. I climbed in and he took off toward Folly Road.
"My family's staying here at Folly Beach, while I'm trying a case in Charleston," he volunteered.
"I've just been up here messing around," I said. "I'm really heading to Atlanta now. Going to see my granddad, then back home." I had thought about giving Mr. Fournier a call, but decided against it. It's never as much fun second time around.
"Well then," he responded, "I'll take 17 into town. Not that much out of the way for me, and easier for you to get onto the interstate."
"Thanks a lot," I said. "You mentioned trying a case. So you're a lawyer?"
"Yes. I'm an associate at Jones Day in Atlanta. One of our clients is involved in a tricky dispute over an estate up here. I'd hoped we could get a settlement, but instead the wrangling has led to a trial.
"So since I had to be up here a couple of weeks, I decided to bring the wife and kids. We usually vacation down at Jekyll Island."
"Really?" I said. "I was there earlier this week. Very nice."
"Yes it is, and not quite as snobby as Hilton Head or Sea Island.
"So you're hitting all the hard-to-get-to beaches on the East Coast?"
"Not on purpose. I had some time to mess around and I'd never been to Charleston. I'm from Mobile, a senior at Auburn and am doing an internship later in the summer. Did a hitch a couple of summers ago and decided to try it again."
"Oh? When I finished college, I wasn't sure I wanted to go to law school, so I hitched to the west coast and back while I made up my mind. So I know what you're talking about."
"Is that why you picked me up? My dad used to say that five kinds of guys pick up hitchers: guys that have hitched and know what it's like; guys that are tired, sleepy, or lonely, and want somebody to talk to; good ole boys that are looking for somebody to party with; Christian zealots that want somebody to preach to; and gay guys."
"I can relate to that," he laughed. "But I can't really say why I stopped for you. I'm glad I did, though."
We crossed the Ashley River on US17 and entered Charleston proper. It wouldn't be far to where the interstate begins and I still hadn't had breakfast. So I asked to be dropped at a Mickey D, thanked my lawyer friend and wished him luck winning his case. An Egg McMuffin tasted pretty good, since I hadn't had any "real" food since noon yesterday. Yeah, I know. There are lots of dudes of the road who have to eat out of dumpsters. But I'm not one of 'em.
After breakfast, I walked the few blocks to I26 and stuck out my thumb.