Category: Travel

I’ve hitchhiked a fair bit – mainly in the UK, mainland Europe and Australia. I’ve never had any real problems aside from perhaps not getting along too well with the person who’s picked me up, or falling asleep (which seems rude, but it’s better than them doing it). Hell, I’ve had some great experiences, such as realising I could actually hold a conversation in French for 20 minutes, or discovering courtesy of the lesbian truck driver who picked me up in Cambridge that Belgium is a lot more relaxed about homosexual marriages.

I hitched a lift in five stages from Sydney to Byron Bay, the last ride of which could have taken me 1000km north of Brisbane had I not been hopping off for the diving. All well and good. But I also have one bad story to tell. Not “bad” bad. I’m still alive and bear no (physical) scars, but this was a weird one.

I was in France some time ago and had been picking up lifts here and there in predominantly short bursts, as is the way near urban areas. After one hour of “thumb out” I had a lift from a guy with two little kids inthe car who drove me to an out-of-town shopping area where I grabbed lunch and walked to the nearest motorway slip. Plenty of traffic. Thumb out. Look friendly (and clean – this is a trick in itself).

It was a hot day and I was wilting. Rucksack to one side of me, sweat soaking into my cap and my skin doing a good impression of the bacon rashers I wished I’d had for breakfast. Eventually, a small car pulled up and the driver smiled at me and waved me to open the door. Score.

I made the usual apology for my French not being any good and asked him if he was going in my direction. I didn’t pay much attention to the fact he was shirtless and wearing shorts. Had I been on a beach or driving down the shops back home in this weather, I’d likely have done the same.

“Yes”, he was going my direction. Fantastic. I shoved my rucksack in the back and clambered into the passenger seat, pausing only to throw my hitching sign over the gay porn mag on the dashboard shelf… hang on.

You know when you see something for a fraction of a second, but it’s burned onto your retinas? This was one of those moments. My brain made sense of what it had seen around the time I started to fasten my seatbelt. And realised those weren’t shorts the guy was wearing, they were underpants. And he seemed too pleased to see me. Ah, ****.

Too late and he’d set off so I just hoped he wasn’t going to show me his willy and ask if I wanted to go back to his place. Conversation was brief as I pretended my French was even worse than it was, and I settled for staring out of the window for some considerable length of time.

This was a good thing because every time I glanced to my left, he was *******.

Only rarely did the little one-eyed pink bit stray outside of his shorts, but once was enough and I started counting the trees we were driving past. In addition, I couldn’t help but ponder about the extra mirrors he had set up. I think they’re designed so you can keep an eye on the kiddies in the back seat in case they try to strangle one another when they’re not busy asking “are we there yet”?

This guy had them (them – more than one) trained on his groin. Oh good grief. I’m a bit of a perv, but come on. Freak.

As the minutes dragged by I also started to notice an odour. Eventually I realised what it was. And I **** you not, people. A smell any self-respecting teenage boy with their own bedroom will recognise. The smell of…

Stale spunk.

I’d have been happier had I not sussed this one out, but it was too late. Breathing through my mouth didn’t help as it made me feel like I was somehow swallowing. My stomach started doing flips, and I just don’t get travel sick.

So… there I am. Sat in a car that smells of dried cum. With a near-naked guy beating off like a nervous monkey. And a stash of magazines featuring muscley young lads in cowboy hats in front of me. Not a situation I ever thought I’d find myself in. And hopefully won’t again.

In fairness, the guy didn’t say or do anything more inappropriate that tugging on his cock while he was driving – and he dropped me off exactly where I asked, which meant I got to my destination ahead of schedule.

But still… the lesson here is to check for gay porn on the dashboard of any vehicle you enter. I suppose this works both ways – if you are gay, I guess it’d be a bonus.

No, it’s not put me off hitching. I’m still keeping my eye out for the fit girl playing with her pussy while she’s driving. She has to be out there somewhere.