Hitchhiker In Yellow Shorts

Thole <poondu@bigfoot.com>

Along this Way, with my Self so entwined with my fantasy, its hard to know which events are truth and which fiction; they are all truths in my heart and it has been said before in my writing: If it didn't really happen this way then it should have.

Northbound in Chula Vista looking for the get-on ramp, driving in a tunnel of wet drizzly warm day. Yellow shorts along the road; shorts of the style boys wore when I was a lad.

Plimsols, no sox, a small rucksack on his back and a shirt in one hand. His other hand would occasionally swing around, his thumb asking for a ride.

 I had been visiting friends, now northbound to find one or more of the free beaches in the vicinity of San José.

Yellow-shorts was walking along on the edge of the traffic. He would hear a car and turn with that thumb out. The car would pass him and he would turn with it.

Watching him from afar. Two, three, five cars and a truck, and another car. Then a long space then my turn.

He turned at my approach, that thumb flicking out, asking for a ride, then for whatever reason, he pulled it back and turned away as I closed on him. I'd already made up my mind to pick him up and was slowing. Came up behind him, coasted past, opened the door of my old Bluebird, stopped.

He looked in at me and stood there. —You want a ride, or not?

—How far you goin'?

—I'm going all the way.

—Which way, to where?

—Wherever the wind blows me.

—I'll go all the way with you, he said as he stepped aboard. Is this a school bus?

—Maybe she used to be, now she's a land yacht. I call her The Foam Pad after a sailboat I once lived aboard. Leave your shoes off there with mine, I said as I pulled on the door and released the brake.

He steadied against the motion and kicked off his ratty plimsols. —Do I have to leave off my shorts too? he asked, perhaps noticing that I was nude.

—I'd like that but I will not ask you to. Clothing is optional here. You can if you're able; you may if you will.

He stepped past me and stood, barefoot, pack still in hand as if he were not yet sure of his decision. We'd gone half a mile and started up the ramp when he asked if there was a place he could hang his wet shirt.

—On that line over the galley table.

He did that and returned to the front and asked if it was ok to sit in the navigator's seat. My shorts were there, laid out for quick access. I took a quick glance at him through the mirror. —Are your shorts wet?

—No, they're ok.

He sat then and rummaged through his pack as I drove. Set the cruise; check the temperature. Now he is on his knees beside me with a wad of bills. —Here, this is all I have; how far will that get me?

—Put it away. No charge for the ride. If you want to go more than a day or a meal then perhaps you will be willing to work for board. Do you know how to wash dishes? Can you drive?

He looked to be big enough to drive, perhaps a head and some shorter than my 5-6, thinner, but not frail, could have been a mature eleven or maybe even 13. There is a timelessness about a boy in that magical time. We chatted a little as The Foam Pad found her way through mid-day traffic. Eventually he fell asleep only to jerk awake at the next interchange. I suggested the bed might be a better place to sleep but that he would have to leave off his clothes to sleep there.

—Are you telling me I have to get naked?

—No. I'm telling you that if you want to sleep in or on my bed you have to leave off your clothes. NO clothes in my bed, clean or dirty, that's all. If you want to sleep in your clothes you can make your bed on the floor. Your choice.

Drove another hour. He fidgeted on the seat, from time to time rearranging the erection behind his button fly. They might have even been girls’ shorts, the brass buttons were visible, five of them down the fly, inviting, not hidden as they would have been on boys' shorts. The only other fly I know of with buttons that show are the flap on Navy bell bottoms—...bell bottom trousers, coat of navy-blue, he loves a sailor and he doesn't know it yet... —That erection you have in there would be much more comfortable if you let it out for a breath of fresh air.

He glared at me for an instant. —That's the kind of trap my step-dad would make and then he would slap me for playing with myself.

—I'm not going to slap you little one; I would never do that, unless perhaps for a birthday spanking on your bare bottom. Playing with yourself is quite all right. Sometimes a little lonely, sometimes a spectator sport, but in any case healthy and often satisfies your hard-on for a while.

He glared at me a moment more but then his eyes softened, teared a little. —I don't want to be gay, he cried, and that's what gays do.

—No. You have that wrong. Boys in their natural state are not gay. Boys play with themselves and with each other and some play with men, but they are not gay. Sex with your own kind is part of the exercise of growing and exploring. Some boys go on to discover girls and some boys don't. But none of that is gay. Gay is a lifestyle one adopts in order to display and celebrate their homosexuality. But it is not a required step. One can be homosexual and not gay. Sometimes "celibate" is a word to use, sometimes "queer". Or "weird".

I pulled The Foam Pad into a rest area and slipped her in between two big freighters. As the Bluebird rolled to a halt I turned to him. —Look, I said, you're not gay. In fact you're very unhappy; you're just about crying. You need a hug.

He smiled through his tears at the pun as I moved to where he sat and took him into my arms. Then he cried. He cried about his mum and her alcohol, he cried about his stepfather who hated him, his stepbrother who was afraid of him, and his schoolmates who beat him up. He cried for himself whom he hated for what he was. I kissed his tear-stained face, licked away his tears and told him I loved him for who he was, for what he was, clothed or nude. Let's have a cup of tea and you can tell me your storey.

And what a storey it was. Father left years ago perhaps over molestation charges, perhaps marital problems, mother turned to alcohol and drugs, the boy became a latchkey kid. He eventually ended up in a private school though he was not sure where the money for that came from. While the school was a challenge to his intellect it was more like being incarcerated. And it was also there that he had his first homosexual experiences.

—We lived in dorms with rooms for three boys each. My roommates were all my same age; I was ten that year. One of my mates was sort of a bully and the other was sort of a wimp. I ended up between them. Like, the beds were in a kind of U-shape around the room and they were across from each other and I was at the bottom. I came in part way through the term so these two already had a certain relationship going. The bully was a slob and the wimp was neat. But the bully made him clean up his stuff as well. And make his bed too. I don't know if they did any sex but the threat of violence was something you could feel.

—I put up with it for a few days. The wimp-boy would look at me with sad eyes. The bully tried to order me around and when I stood up to him he tried to befriend me and tell me that his "housekeeper" would be happy to take care of my stuff as well as his. Finally I took the side of the wimp and told the bully he should clean up his own mess. That really ticked him off but we never fought about it; it was a standoff, two against one now. And the wimp just about fell in love with me. Maybe that's what it was: love. I never thought of it like that. He would pull his desk chair over next to mine and sit close to me and ask for help with his homework. We would lie on my bed and read together, sometimes reading aloud when the bully was not around.

—Him and his gang would call us fags but we weren't the only ones called that—sometimes they even called each other a fag—so I didn't put too much into it. This wimp-boy grew stronger against the bully and bolder in his coming on to me. His name is Jared by the way and I didn't think of it as him making a pass at me, or coming on to me then. We was friends, best friends. Maybe later even special friends.

—One time bullyboy went home for a holiday and that night Jared didn't go back to his bed when we were done reading at lights out. We looked at each other and there was something unspoken; I felt it pass between us as if we were talking with our minds and we got under my covers together. We slept in PJ's that night. I could feel his boner against me and I'm sure he could feel mine but we didn't say anything. The next day we didn't say anything about it but that night after showers we just got under my covers nude. We didn't even read, just hugged. Our noses were touching and our boners were touching and we just lay there for a while. Then we kissed. Not like he kissed me first or I kissed him first; we just kissed, like we were supposed to. And then we held each other’s boners, like we were supposed to.

—The next night started out the same way but we moved right along. Petting and humping against each other for a while but then he took the lead and turned around to suck me. It blew my mind. It felt so good to be inside his mouth like that and his cock right in my face. So I did the same to him and it was like we were programmed to do it. Humping and coming, no sperm you know but one orgasm after another until we were both exhausted. We fell asleep sucking on each other and woke up that way in the morning. Jared looked at me and said —I guess that means we're fags for sure, eh?

—We only did it that once. Never had another chance. Bullyboy returned from his holiday and life got miserable again. Finally I decided to run away.

His face was clear now and I guessed he felt better. We put our cups in the sink and I hugged him again. Back on the road he took the seat he had before and leaned back. When he unfastened the top button of his yellow shorts I knew he would stay with me for a while. Over the next few miles he undid the rest of the buttons and slid his shorts away. Mostly I tried not to look—I really was busy driving—and I wanted him to get over his discomfiture quickly, to get so used to being nude so he would have to be reminded to dress when we went out. He was beautiful, so I told him.

—You have a bodacious boner, a stupendous stiffy, you do justice to the term woody. You are very beautiful. I shall name you boner-boy. By the way, I said, how do I call you?

—Remember when you said you would go whichever way the wind blew? You can call me Windy then.

He said I could call him Windy. Is there an allegory there? Or a better question: which allegory...

I drove. He played. Sprawled on the seat, stroking himself slowly. Mostly I ignored him but for occasional glances when I looked for my kerb-side mirror. Finally he moaned and then yelped. The first shot had hit him right on the nose and was dripping into his mouth; as I watched two more shots splattered his chest and a fourth landed on his belly.

Congratulations, I said, you come well. Too bad it is being wasted on your chest and belly.

—You'd rather have it in your mouth, eh?

—You got that right.

He milked the last of it from his erection and held his hand out for me to lick. Yum! Nothing like a fresh boy albeit a bit cold already. The rest he wiped up with his still damp shirt and hung it back on the line. —That's ok. I told him, we’d give it a wash when we stop for showers. Go in the back in the clothes locker and find two matching tee shirts.

The Foam Pad found space on the end a line of trucks. We'd fueled already and bought a shower in the team unit. There was a wait long enough to park and return with my shower bag. When we'd stopped at the fuel island we'd donned the matching shirts. Red with that old "Keep On Truckin'" icon emblazoned across the back. He'd asked if I was going to put on shorts, if he should put on his. I told him I always fueled around dressed this way. Just don't bend over.

One other thing: If anyone should ask, you're my grandson.

Drivers lounge. Hairy eyeball driver. I told the boy he could make a hundred dollars in a few minutes if he showered with that guy. Told him how I used to pimp several kids when we travelled as Boy Scouts. Some evenings we would make a thousand dollars in a few hours. The kids used to walk up to a driver waiting for a shower and offer themselves: We wash backs and fronts, special rates for hand polishes.

—But I'm your boy now, he said, not a rent-boy.

Shower time. Our turn. I removed my cock ring to shave. He asked about it. The ring that is. Unlike most young boys who seem to have perpetual erections, an old man has trouble getting it up, keeping it up. The ring helps that. It is also a tool to help with some of my fantasies.

—Like what?, he asked. Me maybe?

—One fantasy is that the cockring is like a slave collar; I am enslaved to the person who puts it on me.

—So who put it on you last time?

—Me. I did. So I am a slave to my own fantasy.

—What if I put it on you, would you be my sex slave then?

—That would be as if one of my favourite fantasies became real.

Whilst his shorts and shirt were kicked around on the floor, we washed each other, back and front. We danced along the edge of mutual masturbation and took turns on our knees in front of one another, testing the idea, taking the measure of what we both knew would be, sooner or later, inevitable. It was only a matter of time. Of him coming to terms with what he missed from his young friend in school, with what he most wanted to do, to learn, to have done to him in turn.

Back aboard The Foam Pad, as we hung his clothes to dry, I remarked that if he was as queer and as weird as me he would probly outgrow the shorts before he wore them again. —Come on, let's have a little supper and find a book to read.

In the bed we took turns reading for a while. Then he said it was time. Time? I said?

—I want to buy you for a slave, he said.

—Ok, I said laying back with hands over my head, I am at the slave market with my hands tied up to the wall so buyers can have full inspection of my body. Put the ring on quickly before I am hard just thinking about it.

Kneeling between my spread legs his deft fingers made quick work of the task at hand and then he leaned across me to untie my hands from the wall. Skin touching from knees to neck, his nose inches from mine, he said I was his sex slave now and he ground his boyhood into me. —First thing is you have to suck me.

I petted him and stroked him first, and explored him with my tongue. When I sucked him I let my ringed cock hang above his face but he did not take the hint. Then he bade me straddle his thighs and he lay on his back making me come on his belly.

We settled into a routine. He picked up the challenge to not dress and for a week he lived nude. I on the other hand suffered the indignity of dressing to shop, to fuel, but we went walking in the woods and drove and slept together nude. Every day I sucked him whenever he called for it, sometimes nearly every hour. Each morning I would wake to his ministrations and then he would command that I straddle him whilst he made me come and I would wash him with my semen.

As we wandered across the land we would explore: the hot springs and hills, each others minds and bodies, sometimes hand in hand, eventually even cocks in mouths. His first suck was an historic event. I want to be your slave now, he said one day. But first, he said, my birthday is tomorrow and for a present I want you to fuck me.

I told him it would hurt, I told him that often times once a boy had that experience he craved it until he was no longer a boy. He said that he already craved it for it was unknown to him and he wanted to find out. We must prepare you for that, I told him, to lessen the pain and to heighten the arousal and anticipation. Have you ever had an enema?

Once he was clean inside and out we installed a butt plug. I have two. One is the wooden handle from a ten-inch mill bastard. There is a groove that fits well in a boy’s' sphincter. There is a length of small silver chain on the small end as an aid to retrieval. Talk about yanking one's chain. He wore this plug all morning and every chance I got I would pull the chain. A few times the resulting stimulation caused him to orgasm right there on the spot. After lunch, after another enema and another shower, and a lot of licking and playing, we installed a larger plug for him to wear to the beach. This one is the handle from an old worn out #2 Phillips. Squarish, with rounded edges, fairly blunt at the insertion end, a nice sphincter groove nearly an inch in diameter, finished with a disk of firm leather of a lovely red colour. A boy wearing this plug resembles a baboon but I didn't tell him that.

This beach, a small cove between the jutting arms of tall cliffs, was locally respected as a place for skinnydipping and other nude activities. Occasionally one would find families however for the most part it was a haven for boys and their men. For this boy it would be his first nude experience in the company of others of his ilk. The butt plug he wore would serve the secondary purpose of warning off others; he was taken, reserved, under my protection.

The approach to the beach was by a narrow trail down the steeply canted and eroded cliff. We left The Foam Pad among a few other cars and campers in a wooded lot and with towels and snacks in his backpack and my tote bag, and kites in hand, headed out. There is a delightful exuberance in walking nude through woods, barefoot as well. Feet feel the sand and grass, skin in touch with the air all over. Some days it is hard to tell where one's insides leave off and the rest of the world begins: this was one of those days. —How many others do you think are there already?

—Well, I answered, if there is only one per car then that's a few for sure but more likely there are two or several. Maybe a bunch. That camper next to ours has some kids bikes on the back so could be at least one family. See the small size of some of those footprints?

Before he could ask once again for my assurance that it was Ok for us to be nude we came out of the wood to the head of the cliff. Below by a couple hundred feet we could see a bunch of people, including several kids. The tide was on its way out, there were castles abuilding. He grew even more excited. So did I.

From the cliff-top we could see a small cove between tall buttresses of variegated stone. Over eons the pounding sea had eroded pockets into the walls; some had worn through making tunnels and caves. In the warm sand above the high-tide line we saw for sure one family unit. Windy pointed them out and suggested we set up right next to them. The trail down was shaded yet from the morning sun and cool zephyrs gave rise to goose flesh but at the bottom, on the beach, we were warm enough. The family was of five tho only three were together on their blanket. The mother, nursing the youngest, who must have been at least three, pointed out her two older sons near the waterline. Windy helped spread our blanket and then was off to find them. I left the rest of our stuff there and wandered off to explore and boy-watch.

Windy found the other two lads, Dick and Peter, building a castle in the sand. He fell to and helped for a while, until Dick asked about the butt plug he was wearing. As soon as the question was asked Windy went stiff just thinking about it. He told Dick that today was his birthday, he was thirteen, and for a present he had asked his man to fuck him. The butt plug was to help prepare him. Dick was impressed. Peter was impressed too but only cos Windy was stiff as a board. Dick said he would give Windy a present too then and they set out for one of the small caves leaving Peter to play with himself.

Dick, taking Windy's hand, led him away saying he knew of a special place. —I come here often, he said, sometimes with my dad, or with other kids. I know all about butt plugs too. My dad has me wear one for a few days before we go out once a month. Mine has a foxtail on it. Sometimes I even wear it to school but I take the tail off then cos it would look kind of funny hanging out of my shorts. Mostly I wear a cockring too but I took it off so the sand won't get under it and scratch me.

-What do you mean "go out", Windy asked, and why do you wear a cockring?

Dick replied that since he was eight his dad had been taking him to this party place where men and boys come. All the boys are naked except for collars, like dog collars, and leashes. Mostly the boys are seven to thirteen. Some fourteens but they have to shave all their hair. Well, even some twelves have to do that too. The boys are paraded around and then brought up on a stage to be auctioned off for the night. The money all goes to a charity and the boys have a good time getting fed and played with. I wear a cockring cos I like to. It matches my dads too.

Now Dick and Windy are in the cave standing nose-to-nose, dick-to-dick, holding each other’s bums, they kissed. Two boys alike, in like. Despite the two years difference in their age they were the same height. Dick was heavier, stouter, bigger boned (and bigger bonered too). Windy was lighter, not waif-like but svelte, still hairless, especially where it mattered.

—Your cock's a lot bigger 'n mine, Windy said.

—Ya, but yours sperms, right? And your balls are bigger 'n mine.  Let me give you part of that b'day present.

Dick slid down the other boy's front, hands still holding the globes he found so too his liking. Windy felt the primal instinct of his body take over and without a word between them began fucking Dick's face. When he came he exclaimed that it was the first time he'd ever spermed in another boy's mouth. Dick stood and kissed Windy again, passing back some of Windy's own sperm.

—Likewise, Dick said still holding the other boy's nates, this is the first time another boy has ever come in my mouth. It was yummy!

—Can I do that to you, Windy asked?

—Can I try out your butt plug?

—How about: Can I plug your butt?

—Let's do both, let me try your plug first and then you can plug me after you suck me.

—Sounds like a plan.

Windy and Dick were gone a long while however Dick's dad assured me Windy was in good hands. He winked when he said that and I knew they were having fun together somewhere. When they did return Windy was carrying his plug saying that he'd gotten sand in there and it was scratching him. Later, lying together on the sand he opened a new topic of discussion: —You said "our" back there.

—Hmmm?

—You said "our camper" when we started out this morning. Did you really mean me in that our? Like, is The Foam Pad partly mine?

—More like you are partly hers. We are partly each other’s and so from that premise yes she is partly yours. But only as long as you are aboard, that you’re part of us is not something you can take with you other than the memory.

We stayed for the sunset and then with Dick's family returned to the caravanserai for a cookout.

After Windy and I showered, I gave him an enema and reinstalled his butt plug. Dick showed up in ring and tail to invite us to dine with his family. Windy said he wanted a foxtail for his plug too, so he could be formally dressed in ring and tail. I suggested a kite tail might be more appropriate for a Windy boy.

After dinner, after marshmallows, after Peter was pried away from his older brother and sent to bed, Windy took my hand to lead us back to The Foam Pad. He wanted to know, since it was his birthday and all, if Dick could come and watch him receive his present. —Maybe he could even help blow out the candle, eh?

Well, I was not too sure of that idea. I'd never preformed for an audience. Windy said it wouldn't be an audience really, Dick would be part of the party; anyway he already knows all about that stuff.

What could I say except wonder what he meant by "blow out the candle"...