Hitchhiker

A buddy and I were cruising in my old convertible (top up) in a huge state park for the first time looking for the Frisbee golf course. With plenty of cold beer but no herb, we were a bit out of sorts, as Frisbee and ganja go together like bacon and eggs.

I'm driving on this deserted stretch of two-lane highway when we passed this chick slowly ambling along by herself, thumb barely out—a passive hitchhiker. She was real good-looking with a pretty though spaced-out face, long straight brown hair, slim legs and butt in tight jeans, and big, pendulous boobs, bra-less beneath a worn-thin Molly Hatchett tee-shirt. Molly Hatchett was a hard-rock band very popular at the time.

"Very fuckable," my buddy Ames said.

This was one of the few occasions in my entire life that I was not particularly horny, having just fucked my new girlfriend all that morning and most of the previous night. So, for him, I made a U-turn and drove back to her, telling him to let me do the talking, as he had a habit of screwing up.

"Got a joint or two or three?" I asked her. Her face immediately went from somber to happy. I took that for a "yes," so Ames got out to let her in.

She paused, "Y'all aren't cops are you?"

"When's the last time you saw cops drinking beer cruising chicks in an old drop-top Buick?" I responded.

Grinning from ear to ear, she slid over into the middle of the front bench seat between us, pulled out a bag and some papers, and said, "All right, let's party! I'm Dixie!"

Ames made some lame joke about her "Dixie cups," but it went right over her head. We cracked fresh brews as she fired up a big spliff.

We've just about finished it off when she smiles and asks, "Y'all horny?"

Ames leans forward, looks me straight in the eye, and says, "Shall we do her? Heads or tails?"

"She's all yours, dude," I replied.

Before I could even take the last hit off the doob, Dixie's got his shorts down to his ankles and is slurping shlong. He pulled her tee-shirt up around her neck, so I'm driving with one eye on the curvy tree-lined road and the other on her curvy body, tits swaying in time to her bobbing head. I could not resist playing with her dangling boobs just a little bit. Very soft and pliable natural D cups.

He's trying to wiggle her jeans off as she's trying to squirm out of them next to me, so, being a former Boy Scout, I naturally lent a hand, copping a generous helping of her soft buns as I pulled her panties down.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when she put on a most sincere expression and said, "It'd be just fine if you screw me while I blow him. Then y'all can switch. Oh, and I swallow."

Though I was not real horny due to my just-finished fuck-a-thon, Mr. Johnson was nevertheless coming to attention. Even so, something was telling me not to mess with this chick.

"Naw, darlin', somebody's gotta drive, and I wouldn't think of letting Ames behind the wheel of my Wildcat. Ames, dude, you think you can twist a couple more funny cigarettes and get head at the same time, or is that sensory overload?"

And so he did. At this point, she's totally naked sucking like a Hoover on high, and he's smiling and rolling joints on her back, sitting there in the passenger seat nude but for socks and tennis shoes. Funny as shit sight.

Dixie's got her ass hiked up high there in the middle next to me as she's blowing Ames on the passenger side, and I'm driving, with my window cracked to evacuate the smoke. It was late Summer, the area heavily foliated, and I smelled the scent of cum—probably from those "cum bush" plants—and I chuckle out loud as I simultaneously keep one eye on her wet pussy, soon to be a cum bush itself!

Dixie climbs up on Ames facing him, lowers her pussy onto his hard cock, and proceeds with the old up-down in-out as he fondles and sucks the dark silver-dollar-size nipples on her big, swaying boobs. Ames was a very happy camper, as was Dixie. In a few minutes, we're slowed down by a conversion van and in a picnic area with families and kids close on either side, so I told them to climb over into my car's big back seat before someone sees them, gets offended, and calls the cops.

Before they do, the van comes to a sudden, complete stop, so I have to stop too, and a six-year-old kid with his family at a picnic table on the right hollers out, "Mommy, Daddy, Look! That lady ain't got no bra on!" pointing directly at my car.

I floor it around the van and make haste out of there as they hurdle the seat into the back. I smelled the "cum bush" again, even though I'd shut the window. I figured the scent was coming through the A/C vents, dismissing the thought as I checked the rear view mirror for possible problems.

All I could see, though, was Ames' head and shoulders as he now had Dixie in a doggie-style position in my cavernous back seat, but I could hear her loud and clear repeating, "Fuck my gash; fuck my gash." I'd heard guys call pussy gash, but I'd never before (or since) heard a girl refer to her vagina as a "gash." Kinda funny, I thought.

Ever since we'd gotten to that park, I'd had a bad feeling. No specific reason, just one of those feelings you get, you know. Still searching for the Frisbee golf course, I read every sign. The next one indicated that no alcohol was allowed, and that the park was patrolled 24 hours a day. That prompted me to gather the empty beer cans into a bag and stash them along with the full ones under the seat, conceal her bag of weed in the special hiding place behind the dashboard clock, and toss the roaches out the window.

Approaching another picnic area, I told them to get down out of sight—into a missionary position or something—and they did right away. And not a moment too soon. At the four-way-stop, a state trooper patrol car turned right behind me! As calmly as possible I informed Ames and Dixie that Smokies were on our tail and to not even think about looking or showing themselves in any way.

A very worried Dixie said, "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," over and over and over. What was she so worried about, I thought to myself? Driving my own beloved Buick, I'm the one who's got the most to lose here. Obviously undeterred, Ames continued to screw her, reminding me to not drive over the speed limit. If we got pulled over, that would be the end of his fuck, and wouldn't that just be the end of the world!

Those cops followed me through the park for the next ten minutes, I driving as though it were my drivers' education final exam. Had the picnickers reported us? Did the cops think I looked suspicious? Suddenly, their lights came on and the siren blared. My heart stopped. They roared past me and disappeared over the hill. Whew! Eventually, my heart starting beating again, but not regularly until sometime the next day.

"OK, you fuckers, we're in the clear," I announced to the back-seat copulators.

Somehow, I just knew Ames had gone limp.

"Frisbee Golf Course -- Next Left," read the next sign. I turned and stopped when I saw the restrooms, jumped out, and took a whiz. As I left, Dixie was vigorously sucking Ames' deflated cock back up to size. When I returned, she was just swallowing the first of his several squirts of cum.

"Very nicely done," I commented, noticing the huge smile on Ames' face.

"I'd sure be glad to suck and fuck you" she offered once again, staring at the obvious hard-on bulging beneath my shorts.

"Naaah. Nothing personal Dixie, but I just don't want to make Ames feel shabby by comparison," I joked.

I took one long final gaze at her naked young body. Damn, she was fine! Why didn't I just go ahead and do her? I couldn't say, but something inside was telling me "Don't."

"Oh, there's my boyfriend!" she shouted with glee, quickly wriggling back into her jeans and tee-shirt.

"Boyfriend?" Ames and I uttered in dismay at the same time, ducking down in full expectation of gunfire. A skinny dude with long scraggly blonde hair had just pulled up in an old beat-up El Camino and gone into the john.

Dixie explained, "Yeah, him and me came up here today for me to make us some money suckin' and fuckin'. Oh, yeah, I need to get 50 bucks from y'all."

So, Dixie was a working girl! No wonder that she was so freaked about the cops following us.

I looked at Ames, who said he was broke. That was typical. I opened my wallet and gave her two twenties and a ten—all the money I had—hoping we'd make it back home on the 1/4 tank left in my gas-guzzling V-8.

"Thanks, fellas. You SURE you don't want a piece of me?"

"No, Dixie, my current net worth amounts to two Frisbees and the clothes on my back."

"That's no prob. Saturdays are two-for-one, and I always have fun suckin' and fuckin'! I LOVE it!!!"

Maybe Dixie was not a marketing genius, but she genuinely did enjoy her work.

Work is all about attitude, and Dixie certainly had a superb one. She gave us each a nice wet kiss, then we said good-bye and watched her boobs bounce beneath the Molly Hatchett tee-shirt as she ran over to her boyfriend's car and jumped in. Off they drove out of sight.

Ames and I got back in my car, turned the A/C on high, and cracked a couple more not-so-cold Buds. He said Dixie gave one of the best BJs he'd ever had and fucked like a pro.

"Maybe that's because she is a pro. Fifty dollars and you're welcome, old buddy," I clarified.

"Oh, yeah, thanks, man. I owe you one," he said.

How many times had I heard him say that?

I spotted an automated ice machine next to the other vending machines and suggested we get some to cool the rest of the beer down, so we scraped some change together and walked up together to get the ice. While we're trying to coax the machine into taking dimes, four dudes roared up on Harleys. The Syndicate, I noted on the back of the veritable giant's denim vest. He could have very easily passed for Big Foot. Probably related. The other three, hairy as grizzly bears and just as tough-looking, were shirtless. I surmised that none of them had ever spent as much as a minute in Sunday school. And they didn't exactly smell good, either.

They clopped up onto the porch next to us to get soft drinks, bashing a particular spot on the old machine with their fists until it spit out its entire supply of Orange Crush. As they sat there downing them, we overheard them talking: "That chick could sure suck a dick," said Sasquatch.

"She sure loved my big cock in her pussy," said one of the grizzlies, adding, "We must've pumped a good quart of cum into... what was her name?"

"Molly Hatchett," said the other bear, and they all broke up laughing.

Realizing what had happened, the smile on Ames' face immediately transformed into an expression of abject worry, and we scrambled back to my car with the ice.

"I screwed a chick who'd just had the shit fucked out of her by four bikers!!!" he literally screamed. "Shit, what the hell did I pick up out of that cunt?"

"Well," I replied, "for starters, AIDS, chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes, and genital warts come to mind. Might be a good idea to see a doc, bub."

So what I had smelled earlier was not a "cum bush," but rather the bikers' cum in Dixie's bush. Needless to say, it was a very somber afternoon of Frisbee golf.

It wasn't until after I'd dropped Ames off and pulled up into my drive at dusk that I glanced at the clock on my dash and remembered the herb that I'd stashed behind it. Dixie had obviously forgotten about it, too. It was a good half ounce—about $50 worth in those days—so I recalculated our transaction with Dixie: A suck and fuck for Ames at no charge + half a bag of ganja for fifty bucks for me. Sounded like a square deal.

Ames went to the doc to get tested for STDs and shit bricks until all the results came back, fortunately negative. In the mean time, he realized he had the crabs—something they don't test for—and the worst case I'd ever heard of, too. It took four applications of pediculicide to get rid of them. He pulled off one with some tweezers and showed me, and I swear that sombitch was big enough to star in a Japanese horror flick!

I guess you could say he was not whistling "Dixie," and I was glad I'd trusted my instincts.