Lesbian Bodybuilder Picks Up Female Hitchhiker
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Lesbian Bodybuilder Picks Up Female Hitchhiker
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May 31, 2010, 12:43 PM EDT | Updated Dec 6, 2017
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I hitchhiked. Once. I was in the seventh grade -- far too young to be exposing myself to the perilous adventures of road-and-thumb. And yet, young enough to believe that the open road could be thrilling, mind expanding, educational -- the way of, as Jack Kerouac said, the "crazy, illuminated hipsters suddenly rising and roaming America, serious, bumming and hitchhiking everywhere, ragged, beatific, beautiful in an ugly graceful new way."
I wasn't as sop his ticated as Kerouac. I hadn't read On the Road yet. But I would have glamorized it as such. There had to be a little glamour. I felt the raw and the real and the dark, sometimes with excitement (sometimes with dread) so it was imperative to sprinkle fairy dust in there, somewhere -- even filthy fairy dust. There were too many dingy light bulbs in the world. One had to compensate.
Staring at a long road, cocking your head just the right way, the dirty and the shiny can attain a certain glow. You'll run into all kinds of broken, gorgeously cinematic sights -- like glimmering colors of shattered glass, curious looking rocks, abandoned cars, abandoned stuffed animals, or most recently for me, abandoned fun parks. My Torino overheating in the hot desert, I pulled my car next to a mysterious building. Spying a fence with a hole big enough to squeeze through I discovered a derelict go-cart/mini-put put golf course complete with a standing lighthouse, its roof perilously close to sliding off, piles of neglected go-carts, and tiny little houses with broken windmills.
Alas, I never saw such a thing when I hitchhiked as a kid. Just candy, creeps and critical elderly folks -- shaking their heads -- bad, stupid girls. I was camping with a friend's family, stuck somewhere in nowhere-land, Eastern Oregon and we were sick of roughing it. Her parents had us under tent, roasted hot dog, keep-the-watermelon-in-the-stream lockdown. We were itching for action -- innocent action. When we heard about a mini-mart five miles away, we hatched a plan. Not a terribly detailed plan, but a plan, nonetheless. We would walk.
Walking the distance for two 12- year-olds ain't nothing we figured. And besides, licorice, candy bars and an ice cold Coca Cola awaited. And more importantly, we could ditch her annoying parents.
But how to get back? And at night? "Let's thumb it," we said.
I knew it was a tricky predicament. I'd heard a few stories and rented a lot of movies. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Hitcher were key don't-pick-up-the-drifter pictures. My older brother had regaled me with tales from the TV movie Diary of a Teenage Hitchhiker the famed (in his eyes) warning of what happens when halter topped, Bundy bait extend their thumb. Through cinema, I understood the dangers of creepy "salesmen" driving from important "conferences," or thrill kill couples yearning for children, or men fond of goat cheese and slaughterhouses and setting instant photos on fire. They walked among us.
I discussed these various scenarios with my friend, and agreeing we didn't want to find ourselves next on the Green River Killer's roster of victims, we came up with some ground rules: No single men (I hadn't seen Two-Lane Blacktop so...), no young couples, and no groups of guys. We thought (I extended my hands in a cinematic gesture) two words: "Old people." And trucks. And even better, old people in trucks -- the safest scenario. We'd recline in the vehicle's bed, and if Ma Pa Kettle got any ideas, we'd jump out and head for the woods. But what I pictured looked like something Hank Snow would sing: "I was totin' my pack along the long dusty Winnemucca road, When along came a semi with a high an' canvas-covered load. 'If you're goin' to Winnemucca, Mack, with me you can ride.'"
So after many suspicious pull-overs, all of which we had foreseen (the creepily nice solo guy, the hootin' and hollerin' group of men looking for a party, the couples, who probably weren't all that bad...but I'd heard of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley...), we did indeed score a truck. A truck with not the quaint elderly couple, but an elderly man. A grumpy old man angered that we were hitchhiking in the first place. We sat in the back, munched our Hershey bars and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and let the wind blow through our hair. And laughed. It was all so hilarious. It was great fun. It was great dumb. We were probably lucky. For dramatic purposes, I'm sorry to say nothing bad happened save for the old guy's condemnation. But we felt like we were in a movie. The good hitchhiking movie. The positive hitchhiking picture.
And one of those good movies was a film I had seen and joked about on our road adventure. Frank Capra's 1934 s crewball It Happened One Night , wherein the sexy hitchhiking tradition of showing a little leg originated with the sassy Claudette Colbert and an amusingly frustrated Clark Gable. I so wanted to show a little leg but a 12-year-old shouldn't be doing such things. And most certainly when Clark Gable isn't by your side. Humbert Humbert should not be an option. And Humbert wouldn't have allowed it either.
But Capra's joyful, sexually charged and whip-smart depression-era movie was on my mind as I stared down the pine-tree lined highway (it should have been Five Easy Pieces ). A road movie that's pure Americana, from the wealthy heiress fleeing her father only to end up on a bus with wise-acre newspaperman Gable, to all the adventures they do and see on the road (charming camping areas, waving to hobos on trains, sleeping on bales of hay and again, hitchhiking) -- this was so beautiful to me. I wanted to crawl into those moments. And I wanted that hitchhiking scene.
I loved it. Gable attempts to teach Colbert the rules of the thumb, while she turns down eating a carrot. Sitting on a split rail fence on the side of a rural road, the classy Colbert allows Gable to pick a piece of hay out of her teeth with a penknife (the raw carrot and hay to penknife always feels so sexy to me), and while he chomps on his carrot, they swap hitchhiking techniques. Gable is full of hitcher braggadocio, even suggesting he intends to write a book entitled: "The Hitchhiker's Hail." To him there are three ways to hail a car: "It's all in that ol' thumb, see...that ol' thumb never fails. It's all a matter of how you do it, though." He attempts the varied techniques, but to no success. No one pulls over. "When you get to 100, wake me up," Colbert quips. After countless cars pass them, she takes charge: "I'll stop a car and I won't use my thumb."
Out come the gams. Hopping off the fence, she casually walks to the side of the road and oh-so-sexily pulls up her skirt, exposing that famous shapely leg (with garter). Of course, the first approaching car screeches to a halt. While enjoying their ride, away from the dirt and dust, she gloats: "I proved once and for all that the limb is mightier than the thumb." To which he answers, "Why didn't you take off all your clothes? You could have stopped forty cars."
My friend and I didn't stop forty cars. But we stopped more than we should have. And though this wasn't depression-era Capra land, we loved the short adventure - an adventure that by then had already died out with rotary phones, communes, LSD movies and Charlene Tilton.
Hitchhiking -- I still yearn to try it again - though I'm sure I never will. But all those cars, all those personalities, all that candy, all those...Tom Neals. At 12, I hadn't yet seen the Edgar G. Ulmer noir masterpiece Detour , (starring a downtrodden, yet handsome Neal and the brilliant, hard-as-nails Ann Savage), but it would cut a deep impression on me later. Perhaps one of the most fatalist hitchhiking movies ever made (there's others, but I can't get to them all), had I viewed it that young, I would have pondered that experience. Tom Neal, a cheap hotel room, and a deadly phone cord. A ride.
I would have hitched with him. But I might not be here to talk about it. After all, as Neal wryly asks: "What kind of dames thumb rides? Sunday school teachers?" No, 12-year-olds. And, maybe, though doubtfully, one day again -- me. As long as Clark Gable's my Sal Paradise.
I was totin' my pack along the long dusty Winnemucca road...
Read more Kim Morgan at Sunset Gun .
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Picked up a hitchhiking gay guy. I'm not gay, but it ended better than expected.
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tl;dr: goddamnit. If you want it so damn bad, spoiler at the end of the post - if you don't read the post first, though, the joke is ruined
I'll have to go back a ways for this one, to the mid-eighties.
I was dead-heading a rig on I-10 eastbound in California (just outside Cabazon if you care) towards Palm Springs. Cheesy as it sounds, it really was a dark and VERY foggy night.
I was running slow enough as it was due to the pea-souper, but matters were worsened by being on a 10-percent grade, further forcing me to stay with the lower gears and being unable to take advantage of any breaks in the fog to speed up.
I was in a pretty pissy mood by the time I reached the top of the hill. There was little chatter on the CB, nor much traffic, to help keep my mind on the road. I was actually glad to see a hiker just over the hill.
Protips: It's illegal for truckers to pick up hitchhikers in the U.S., but we'll sometimes take a chance providing any of the following are true:
You are at the top of a hill or otherwise in an area where we are at our lowest speeds (truck stop, on-ramp to a freeway, etc.). Our rigs take quite a while to brake from highway speeds and we're not usually willing to wait for a hiker to run a quarter-mile or more to where we finally stopped, nor are we going to back up for you!
a. companionship - either/or to help keep us awake with conversation or maybe, hopefully, something more if you're our type.
c. (rarely) sometimes we're just being good samaritans, but don't count on that - mileage is literally our money, and time deadlines are controlled by federal law (being early/late on a run can have legal consequences for the driver).
Anyway, given how it was so dark and so little traffic, I decided to take a chance per 1) and the first part of 2)a. above.
I pulled over easily enough on the clear shoulder, and the hiker climbed in quickly.
My gaydar went off (not that I care). He was clean and well-dressed in a fussily precise manner, with delicate though nervous movements of his hands, and was wearing a fairly obvious amount of makeup. He was also carrying a ludicrously stereotypical "hobo stick" with a towel tied on the end as a pouch for carrying stuff.
My best guess was that he'd been cruising the area and kept the stick as a (lame, granted) excuse - better to be busted for hiking than soliciting - and that he'd either had no luck or was just finished for the night.
What the hell, any conversation was good enough to help keep me going, so I got back up to speed and waited to see what his story was.
To my astonishment (you'll know why later), the creep sounded like he was going to start making advances at me! Maybe it was just my state of mind at the time, but he kept making innocuous-enough sounding small talk and ending with annoying little laughs.
There was only one reason I could think of that he was hitting on me - and the reason really pissed me off worse than I'd already been.
Still, I kept outwardly calm, though my mind was racing. I decided I'd try to freak and/or gross him out just to get his mind off of ... whatever he had in mind. I wasn't worried about him attacking me - I'd have broken him like a stick. I figured if he got his mind out of the gutter, we could have regular conversation per my goal.
So I told him about an absolutely horrible accident I'd witnessed several years back, going into extremely gory details - he kept giving me strange looks but didn't seem all that distracted yet. I finally tried the old "make a sudden movement/noise" trick to scare him, which did the trick. He actually screeched and went silent for a moment, huddled against the cab door.
Worked too well, I guess. He shakily pointed at an oncoming gas station and said something about that's where he got off (better there than in my cab, amiright?).
I figured if he wimped out that easily, screw it, I'd figure out another way to stay awake, so I pulled over.
He clambered out rapidly, looked longingly towards the people in the safely-lit restaurant, then as he turned back around to close the door he gave me this smarmy "Have a nice day, hah-heh".
I leaned over and replied mockingly "Be sure and tell 'em Large Marge sent ya!".
I drove away in a glow of triumph, sure that he'd now understood that he'd mistaken me for a man! Can you blame me for getting so upset???
edits: gave in to the downvoting tldr fuckwads. Spelling correction.
"The stars at night are big and bright....."
Reminds me of an episode of cowboy bebop, heavy metal queen, when spike and the crew meet up with a trucker(i guess thats what you'd call her) named VT.
Have a free internet. That was awesome!
You know, i read this and chuckled a bit, then it dawned on me. This is from Pee Wees Big Adventure. The Pee Wee Herman movie. Well played OP, well played! You almost had me on that one! edit: Just read the comments below, I see OP points it out, didnt see that. My god I am a serious dork for having recognized the story for what it was.
tl;dr - gay hitchhiker flirts with truck driver, not realizing that large marge is not well endowed afterall.
Er, I suppose that could be technically be the tl;dr, but I believe it's more of a whoosh tl;dr.
Google "Be sure and tell 'em Large Marge sent ya".
Fuck. I fuckin' hate the whole "tl;dr" mentality, but there seems to be downvotes based on not having one, so let me clear things up:
This story was mostly made up (see below), but really was based on an actual "event" - clip from this movie
The protip section and the location were not made up. I hitchhiked a lot in the eighties, and so speak with experience as to why truckers will or will not stop. The location is my best guess as to where Pee-wee was picked up and where he was dropped off (the dinosaur truckstop actually exists in Cabazon).
So I crawled from the twisted, burning wreckage. I crawled on my hands and knees for three full days!
Had a woman trucker turn me in (in my lettered work truck) to my boss for "approaching too rapidly/braking in a very short distance) as she sat in traffic in a car. She stated that she drove truck and that she "didn't want to get me fired, unless I 'did this all the time'. She finished with the "feeling" that "I didn't show her enough respect .
I guess you can put a female in a truck, but you can't get rid of that "feelings" stuff that pisses men off because *it makes no fucking sense when it gets verbalized. Respect, indeed. If the broad had any real self-respect, she would have just thought "boy, he came up on my car awful fast" and let it go, like a professional. The way I do, just about every fucking day on the road.
Average word count for a mid-sized newspaper article: a bit over 800. source
Approximate number of words from all Harry Potter books: 1,084,170
Total number of HP books sold: at least 400 million as of mid-2008
Hundreds of millions of children can make it through over a million words - and you can't manage 800 words.
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