It was the long balmy summer of 1991. I was at an inoffensive service station somewhere on the A1, hitchhiking to my University friend Tom's house in Hertfordshire. It was an awkward destination in hitchhiking terms, requiring changing motorway or A-road several times. It was around midday and I had left my parent's house in Chorley at dawn. On average it took me about fifteen minutes to get a lift, however in this case I'd been waiting for over three-quarters of an hour.

On the one occasion a vehicle had stopped, I ran a hundred yards towards it and the driver got of his van. I guessed he had got out in order to help me with my luggage, but he gestured me to go away and then shamelessly started urinating against a bush.

A mood of melancholy had descended and I was debating whether Tom was good enough company to justify the anguish I was presently going through. I thought about what I would currently be doing if I had not undertaken what then seemed a foolish journey. I realised I'd probably only be asleep or lying in bed having sex with my hand.

There was a cluster of lorries on a nearby car park and I decided to literally beg their drivers for lifts. The driver of the first wagon I tried shook his head sternly. Fortunately, or so it seemed, the next driver was going to London and offered to take me all the way. My first impression was of a pleasant and harmless middle aged man in the vein of Rainbow's Geoffrey. Conversation, though poor, was less agonising than many I'd had at the hands of this nation's lorry drivers.

After half an hour's uneventful trucking we pulled in at a lay-by, and 'Geoffrey' explained that he was carrying yoghurt and some pipe or other had come loose. I had a look out of the window to see how he was getting along. I was horrified to see he had undone the front flap of his boiler suit, and was shaking his very substantial penis around. I quickly looked away and assumed he must have urinated against the truck and was simply very meticulous in shaking himself dry.

He pulled in at the next lay-by muttering about something still being loose. This time, he beckoned me to look out of the window and began to relate the subject of yoghurt transportation technology, pointing out parts of his vehicle to aid his unexpected lecture. Though well delivered, I found it impossible hard to concentrate on his explanation for he was simultaneously shaking his penis around!

Though the direction of the hand movements were perpendicular to the shaft, as is normal when 'shaking yourself dry', rather than the parallel 'strokes' associated with masturbation; I was frightened by his behaviour and my theory that he was shaking off excess urine seemed extremely tenuous.

We were back on the road, somewhere near Grantham, heading south. "Sleeping with your mate tonight, are you?" he asked. Detecting something sinister in his question I replied sheepishly. "Err, yes." His next statement confirmed my suspicions. "Lucky Bastard!" The next few minutes were at best uncomfortable. He then asked, "Do you think I've got a big cock or what?" It was indeed big, but I claimed I hadn't noticed. He then offered to show me again so I could properly answer his question, but I managed to persuade him it was not necessary.

He then told me of when he used to hitchhike and how a lorry driver had seduced him in a lay-by. I didn't feel I was in danger, because like Geoffrey from Rainbow, I felt I would easily defeat him in an unarmed combat situation; although I began to regret accepting a lift from this man. He went on to tell me he was meeting a Frenchman in London for purposes of oral sex, though he told me sternly "I'm not into any of that up the arse stuff, like!" He asked me if I would do anything for him at the next lay-by, claiming "you don't know if don't like it until you've tried it." I disagreed, though failed to come up with a solid argument in my defence. I told him to stop and let me out.

Feeling miserable and over a hundred miles from home I decided that I wasn't going to hitchhike ever again, but then I realised I was far from any public transport and had insufficient money to pay for a train ticket back. There was no alternative other than to carry on. I got picked up almost immediately by a retired gentleman, who took me miles out of his way, right up to Tom's door. It was one of the most agreeable lifts of my hitchhiking career. And when Tom's mother made me a slap up dinner, it all seemed worthwhile.

Feedback

Chicago replies: I knew instintively that he was wrong. I just couldn't put it into words very well at the time.
 
 

S. Roberts retorts: You now say that you instinctivly knew that he was wrong and yet how can this be so? You may well find that recieving anal madness is the biggest thrill a thrusting young buck like yourself has ever experienced. Your trucking bum chum was only too well aware of this and I feel that he must have picked up on some homo vibes emitting from your pants.

S. Roberts' final word:The natural and intstinctive reaction of people when first confronted with, say, a cigarrette, is one of fear and disgust. And yet it is one of lifes greatest comforts. But this fact only becomes apparent after having coughed and vomitted your way through your first several fags. The same may well apply in your case to sucking man juice. I'm sure from the way you discribe the experience and also from the way you look, that this is the case and that if you stick with it you soon will be blowing truckers the length and breadth of the land. Unfortunately this will also mean that you and I can no longer correspond and under no circumstances must you EVER approach me if you should see me in public. I hope that this last point is clear.