The Kindness of Strangers Michael A. Kroll
Near the close of the 1960s, when I was in my 20s, the hippie phenomenon was coming to its predictable end. To mark this transition, I decided to hitchhike to my home in Southern California down Highway 1, universally referred to as "Hippie Highway". I had done this many times during my four years at Berkeley, but now it had the feeling of a last-gasp attempt to hold onto an era that would soon fall victim to labeling, becoming a subject of research and debate, a seminar, but no longer a living reality. This was to be my homage to a just by-gone history.
I left San Francisco about midday, and soon got a ride that dropped me at Pescadero Beach, a few miles north of Point Lobos. Alone, I hunkered down out of the wind behind a sign warning about a dangerous riptide, rolled a joint, and lit up. Not long after drifting into a kind of hazy reverie, a young couple stopped to give me a ride. I sat in the back, still floating, while they carried on an animated conversation in the front. That ride took me as far as Carmel. Now, the reality of the passing era made itself felt.
I stood opposite a shopping center for close to four hours, once crossing the street to use the Safeway bathroom. When a middle-aged man stopped and offered a ride, I quickly accepted, though he warned that he was only going as far as Big Sur. There, I waited for more hours, beginning to curse the drivers, particularly those without passengers, who pretended not to see my outstretched thumb as they drove past.
Dark had already fallen when I decided to walk. By now, few cars passed in either direction. As soon as I got out of town, I regretted the decision to walk, because now I was on a very dark, two-lane highway, with only the stars as illumination. Still, the only fear I felt was that nobody would pick me up at this hour.
That fear was soon alleviated when an older man stopped to give me a lift. I say "older man" though I doubt that he was then as old as I am now. He was, perhaps, in his mid-60s, with a paunch and thinning gray hair. To me, he was an old man, just as I must appear to be an old man to today's 20 somethings.
I told him where I was going, and he said he was going the entire way, and that I could ride with him. Ah, I thought, the wait was worth it. But I was wrong.
Not long into our ride, he learned that I was a university student. "These university boys today are really well built," he observed, without the usual round-about preliminaries. Not being particularly well built myself, I knew the reference was to something other than mere body type, and instantly, I knew where the conversation was going. I remained silent.
"You ever see any of those boys naked?" he asked, surprising me with his total lack of subtlety. "Sure," I answered, trying to keep my voice in neutral, though I confess I was already feeling a stirring below my belt, old man or not. After a mile or so of silence, he came right out with it: "I'll give you a dollar if you let me see your dick," he said, licking his lips.
A dollar, I thought. Poor old guy. I felt sorry for him. Plus, we were putting miles behind us, and he promised to take me all the way. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a ragged wallet, and deftly removed a dollar. "I don't want your money," I said, "but you can look at my dick if you want." By now, I was fully engorged. I unzipped my jeans and fumbled around to extract my now rod-hard cock from my underwear. It is the one part of my anatomy about which I feel no inferiority when compared to other males. When he saw my erection, he took in an involuntary breath, which was flattering, and tried to put his gnarled hand on it. I pulled away, pressing myself against the passenger door, telling him that he could look at me as long as he wanted, but that I didn't want him to touch me. But the more he looked at me, the more he wanted to do more than look at me. For many miles he begged to stop at a hotel and get a room, or, failing that, just to pull off the road and get into it. For many miles, I resisted, promising that I'd consider the offer if he just drove on a little further. By now, we had gone far enough that Highway 1 had become Freeway 101.
This back and forth went on and on, until, finally, he realized that the most he was going to get from me was a look at a young man's hard cock. Frustrated and disgusted with my empty promises, he pulled off the freeway at the downtown exit for San Luis Obispo Ð fully 120 miles short of my destination. He pulled into a darkened cafŽ's parking lot, said simply, "Get out," and drove off.
It was now close to two o'clock in the morning, and I realized there was no chance of getting a ride at this hour. Next to the closed cafŽ was a phone booth Ð another by-gone relic Ð which I entered, scanned the Yellow Pages, and began calling motels and hotels in search of a room for the night. There was none to be had. Some sort of convention was in town, and all available rental space was taken. This was not how I had planned it, and I really had no idea what I would do.
As I emerged from the phone booth, a man of about 30 or so approached. I had no idea where he came from, but he asked if he could help me. He was blond and attractive. Though no knock out, he looked particularly good in contrast with the driver who had just dumped me so unceremoniously. I explained my predicament, without providing any of the details of my last ride. "Why don't you come and stay over at my house," he offered. "I live alone and so you wouldn't be disturbing anyone."
I thanked him profusely for the offer, got into his car, with that slight nagging fear that was always there for the hitchhiker. Every ride is a potential last one; every stranger's car had the potential for a violent end. This was long before the gay revolution. Being closeted was still the norm, and finding other men to couple with was always frought danger, always anxiety producing.
As we drove, he told me his name was Alan and that he taught chemistry at the local university, Cal Poly. Instantly, I felt the fear evaporate. I guess I figured that a 30-year-old college chemistry teacher was about as safe a host as one could find.
He lived in a far-from-ostentatious house in a tract. When we got there, he offered me a meal, which I declined, though I did accept an orange, which we shared at the Formica kitchen table. After that, he gave me a bathrobe and showed me where I could shower.
I stood for a long time in the hot shower, as luxurious and reviving as any I'd ever taken, finally emerging into the living room in the bathrobe he had provided. "You must be tired," he said. "I'm afraid I only have the one bed. Do you mind sharing?"
Again, I felt the pull of tumescence under the robe. "Of course not," I said. "But I am quite tired."
"Me too," he said, leading me to his bedroom. I hadn't wanted to put on my sweaty, smelly underwear after that luxurious shower, and now I slipped quickly between the sheets, naked as the day I entered the world. He undressed down to his BVDs, and climbed in beside me, at first careful not to make body-to-body contact. By now, I was fully hoping for that contact. I think I'd been hoping for it from the minute he offered to drive me to his house.
I felt his foot against mine, but briefly, a tentative touch to test my reaction, which was to move my foot slightly closer to his. This was the signal he needed, and his seduction (which I had a hand in engineering) was sweet and gentle. As tired as we both were, we made love for a long time. There was nothing desperate about the passion the two of us shared in his bed that night. We explored each other's bodies slowly, and the very pace of our discoveries heightened the sexual gratification we both enjoyed. I don't remember how many times each of us came, but I do remember how delicious the feeling of cumming was after such thorough, passionate but not pushy exploration.
In the morning, Alan fixed me a complete breakfast, then drove me to a freeway onramp. We looked at each other, wordlessly acknowledging the gratitude each of us felt for having given each other this experience of gentle love making between strangers. He squeezed my shoulder once, said good-bye, and I exited the car.
I have thought about Alan many times since that magical night we shared. I wonder if he has thought of me. I never hitchhiked again.
The Kindness of Strangers 7 Michael A. Kroll