Date: 3 Oct 1996 21:50:54 PDT
From: leeryder@bbs.eyecon.com (Leeryder)
Organization: Eye Contact BBS
Subject: bed&bath

Here's the first chapter of a book I wrote; if you like it, e-mail me
and I'll send you the rest.

                            The Hitchhiker

     Sunday morning, June 2, I dumped my dorm-room belongings in
the bed of my pickup, and I headed north without first beating
off. Although I would never have begun an all-day drive without
pissing, without eating, without combing my hair, without
shaving, I nonetheless started out without jacking. My alarm woke
me at five-thirty-five, and I would have had plenty of time, but
I dawdled over the sports news and blew my opportunity instead of
my load.
     Early on, traffic distracted me. I created stories about the
people I passed, such as the big-titted lady driving the yellow
convertible -- I pictured her as a whore. I imagined her down on
her knees sucking the red, swollen cock of the young man riding
beside her. When I passed two well-dressed women in a sports car,
I imagined them dyking. I was one horny dude.
     Mid-afternoon, as lewd thoughts blotted all others, I pulled
off to pull off. At four o'clock I drove into the redwood-
surrounded rest stop and parked in the shade, my pickup the only
vehicle visible. Listening, I heard a bird chirping, insects
buzzing, no traffic, and I entered the men's room confident that
relief was at hand. I chose the furthest stall, locked the door,
and dropped my jeans. I sat on the folded-down toilet seat; I
wrapped my hand around my cock.
     I now welcomed the visions that had distracted me while I
had been driving, and I dedicated one slow stroke to each; up the
shaft, squeeze the knob, back down the shaft. I thought of a
friend; up the shaft, squeeze the knob, back down the shaft. I
remembered my last blow job; up the shaft, squeeze the knob, back
down the shaft. Pausing, I removed a small tube of Astroglide
from my shirt pocket, dripped three drops on my rod, and stroked
again: "Yes!" I gasped as the sex-lightning flashed, and I began
jacking earnestly. Minutes later, my hand was a blur, my breath
came in gasps, and I was nearing reward when somebody knocked.
     "Pardon me," the somebody said, "but are you driving the
blue Chevy pickup?"
     "Uh huh," I gasped.
     "Could you give me a ride to a telephone? This one doesn't
work."
     "I could give you a ride," I conceded, hand slowing. Could I
ever, I thought.
     "I'll be waiting outside," he said.
     "Be right with you," I said, and I abandoned my monkey-
spank, confident of greater thrills later on. After all, the only
thing I had not done was spew; and orgasm, though by definition
climatic, is actually anti-climactic given normal male
physiology.
     I pulled up my shorts, stuffed my hardon inside, and
buttoned my jeans. I washed the lube off my hands. Outside, I
studied my passenger as I approached him, and I did a massive
double-take since he looked exactly like my ex-roommate.
     Actually, he didn't look exactly like Justin, but the
resemblance startled me. They were (are) both six-foot, wide-
shouldered, clean-cut, and semi-blond. Also, as Justin would have
been wearing, the passenger wore a tank top and cut-offs. He
asked where I was going, and when I said Sequoia Junction he made
me an offer: if I would let him ride along he would fill up my
gas tank. Minutes later, we were traveling through dense
evergreen forest.
     Me -- (holding the steering wheel with my left hand, offering
my right) "My name's Todd Lyons."
     Kevin -- (shaking my hand) "I'm Kevin Grady, and I really do
appreciate the ride."
     Me -- (both hands on the wheel again) "Do you know the
Sequoia Junction area?"
     Kevin -- "Yeah, I grew up in Parnum. That's about twice the
size of the Junction and about twenty miles south."
     Me -- "My grandparents own a linen store in Sequoia. They're
retiring, and they want me to take over the business. Maybe
you've seen it, Bed and Bath?"
     Kevin -- "Sure, it's on the main street right past the
signal. My dad bought mom a headboard there."
     Me -- "What's there to do for fun on, say, Saturday night?"
     Kevin -- (smiling) "Not a lot. The high school kids take
their dates into Parnum and go to the show. For guys our age, not
much."
     Me -- "You're in college?"
     Kevin -- "Exactly. I just finished my junior year at USF, the
University of San Francisco. I was hitchhiking home, and a ride
dropped me back there at the rest stop. I needed to call my folks
to say I'd be late, but if you take me straight through, maybe I
won't be." (surveying the scenery) "Jesus but it's great to be
back in the woods."
     Me -- (impelled by unsatisfied urges) "Is S.F. as gay as they
say?"
     Kevin -- (grimly) "I had some trouble -- you would too. We're
what they call meat."
     Me -- "Meat?"
     Kevin -- "Revolting, isn't it. Meat includes anybody with a
build and a decent face. Brad Pitt is the ultimate meat, him or
Tom Cruise, who they call Cruisy Tom. There was this one fag . .
. the expression doesn't bother you, does it?"
     Me -- "No, go on."
     Kevin -- " . . . this one fag that came up to me right on
Geary Boulevard, in the middle of the day. He wanted to suck on
my dork."
     Me -- "You didn't let him of course."
     Kevin -- (decisive) "No way, I'm not into that shit."
     Me -- "Anyhow, you likely had a girlfriend keeping you
happy."
     Kevin -- "I did sophomore year. I about lived with a nurse,
but then she transferred to Oregon State, and I was on my own
again. I'm fairly shy around women."
     Me -- "So you spent this last year dick-in-hand?"
     Kevin -- (squirming, looking out the window) "Pretty much." 
(changing the subject) "Where do you go to school?"
     Me -- "I got my business degree from Holt a week ago. What I
hope to do is, learn the furniture business, then get my MBA at
night, from Bayview State maybe." (checking Kevin's profile and
realizing I had much to gain, little to lose) "Were any of your
college friends gay?"
     Kevin -- "I'm not real sure. Were any of yours?"
     Me -- "I doubt it. I mean, there was this one kid everybody
thought was a total bungholer, but he never came on to me. Then
there was a buddy on my baseball team that used to look me over
in the shower -- but I might've just been imagining things. What
did you mean by 'I'm not sure?'"
     Kevin -- (thoughtful, staring out the window) "I've got this
fraternity brother. Last month, the weather got warm, and we went
camping. It was pretty hot that night, so we slept on top of our
bags, and when I woke up, he'd moved next to me." (Kevin adjusted
his cut-offs.) "He was rubbing his dick on my leg. We were
sleeping without any clothes on."
     Me -- "I assume he was boned. It wouldn't have been very gay
if he hadn't been boned."
     Kevin -- "He was boned, majorly boned."
     Me (all ears) -- "What was his dick like?"
     Kevin -- (with a shrug) "Like a dick."
     Me -- (lying) "So clue me. This kid's seen only one rigid
dick."
     Kevin -- "I didn't see it. It was dark, and besides, I wasn't
interested in what it looked like. It was what it felt like that
bothered me."
     Me -- "Okay, so did he squirt?"
     Kevin (snickering) -- "Did he what?"
     Me (grinning) -- "Did he cum? Did he spew? Did he blow his
pecker-snot all over your leg?"
     Kevin -- (laughing out loud) "Yeah he did." (shaking his
head) "I couldn't have told any of my other friends that story."
     Me -- "I could. I've got this total friend, Justin. We've
always talked about everything, even beat-offs."
     Kevin -- "I've never talked beat-offs with anybody."
     Me -- "Talk has advantages. I'm a true jack-aholic, and if I
hadn't known Justin was as bad, I'd have thought I was weird."
     Kevin -- (turning to face me, hitching his leg on the seat)
"How do you define jack-aholic?"
     Me -- "It's a guy that has to do it every day or he suffers.
It's a guy that's always planning his next gooey squirts. It's a
guy that gets a hardon in civics class, a guy in love with his
dick."
     Kevin -- "That's a typical teenager."
     Me -- "They never seem like it with their clothes on. So, did
you have a roommate?"
     Kevin -- "Three of them. Our dorm rooms are quads."
     Me -- "How do you manage your sex life?"
     Kevin -- "When I needed to wax . . . you know the
expression?"
     Me -- "Wax weasel? I've heard it."
     Kevin -- "Mm -- when I needed to wax there was this friend
that loaned me the key to his apartment."
     Me -- "He must've known why you wanted it."
     Kevin -- "Nah, he thought I needed to use his computer."
     Me -- "What did you do with your junk?"
     Kevin -- "I'd shoot it in toilet paper and flush it."

     We got to the Russian River Gorge about seven; we walked to
the rim of the canyon, looked down, and I moved behind him. My
hands on his shoulders, I said, 
     Me -- "I'm horny enough I bet I could shoot to the bottom."
     Kevin -- (nervously) "That'd be world-class distance. Look,
back there in the restroom, the stalls don't have doors, but if
one of us stood guard the other could . . . "
     Me -- (taking a quarter from my pants) "I'll flip you for
first."
     He won the toss, and we went to the restroom. I stayed near
the door while Kev went in the stall. The silence was total -- no
wind, no cars, nothing at all -- so when he popped the buttons on
his cutoffs I heard it, then his belt buckle clinking, then his
pants sliding down.
     Kevin -- "Anybody coming?"
     Me -- "Just you."
     Kevin -- "Ex-ell-ent!"
     [You can duplicate the next noise I heard by extending your
left forefinger, wrapping your right hand around it, and sliding
the hand back and forth. Try it now. You hear the friction?]
     Me (quietly) -- "Do you ever use lube?"
     Kevin -- (slight strain in his voice) "At home I do."
     Me -- "I've got some stuff."
     Kevin -- "Okay, thanks."
     Me -- "Should I drop it over the side?"
     Kevin -- "You can hand it."
     When I stepped in front of the stall, Kevin's donger pointed
straight at my face with its wet slit open wide. He was sitting
on the toilet seat, one hand cupping his balls, the other
squeezing his meat.
     Me -- "Hold out your hand."
     Kevin -- "Just pour some on."
     I poured six drops on his knob, watched it slide down his
shaft, then returned to my post. Standing, watching outside, I
listened to his fingers flog his mule in quick, slurpy strokes. I
listened to his breathing turn to snorts responding to his
accellerating hand, and finally, I heard, 
     Kevin -- "Todd, quick, there isn't any paper in here! Hurry!"