One my most recent trip to the Midwest I drove 2000 miles. Most of them off the Interstates. Chicago-St. Louis-KC-Iowa-Minneapolis-Chicago. Neither my traveling companion, Brock, nor I saw a single hitchhiker. That icon of America disappeared during the War on Terror. I asked other drivers and friends if they had seen any hitchhikers. Everyone said no.
I started hitchhiking in the late-60s. My high school was located outside of Boston on 128. I ran track. There were no bus lines or trains running between my town and the high school. Hitchhiking was the only transportation for anyone wanting to be on a sports team. I would stand at the 138 exit. 14 years-old. Dusk. Men would stop for me. Once in the car they would ask if I had a girlfriend. Their questions became more lurid. My neighborhood was only 5 miles away. They drove under the speed limit.
"You ever have dreams about naked men?"
My hand rested on the door handle.
"No."
"Not even Tarzan or Hercules?"
Their interrogations were remarkably alike regardless of their car or age. It was almost as if they were reading from a script. They all smelled of Aqua Velva. Some of them looked like priests. None of them were Tarzan. By sophomore year I had the dialogue down. They drove me home with high hopes. Some even offered money. $5 to let them suck my cock. That was the cost of Levis.
"Sorry, I'm saving myself for my girlfriend."
I remained a virgin throughout high school.
It now seems like a waste.
Then again I was more into Ben-Hur.
For a classic film warning about cruisers, click on this URL
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