I watched the scenery pass, mindful of its beauty in a detached way — I’d seen so much of it in the past hundred hours that I was, sadly, almost inured to even the most spectacular views, and in spite of lingering trepidation surrounding the potentially befriggered intentions of my chauffeur I felt I could fall asleep in a trice should I be so stupid as to allow such a thing to happen.
After several minutes, the guy struck up a conversation, asking me from whence I had come to this part of the world. He told me his name, which I now cannot remember. Given the pressing issue of his lecherous actions, it hadn’t yet occurred to me that the sight of someone hammering up the Blue Ridge Parkway on foot (he’d first observed me at least forty miles to the south that morning) and toting a minimum of possessions was, all predatory instincts on the part of observers aside, apt to arouse a modicum of curiosity.
“I started in Asheville,” I told him. “I’ll be visiting my cousin in Roanoke.” I didn’t tell him he’d be able to find me in Roanoke at all points in the foreseeable future.
He had little to say about that, and mentioned that he was from Martinsville, meaning he was going way the stinky hell out of his ecosystem in order to transport my carcass (now cloaked in as much clothing as I could tolerate) to the Roanoke Valley. Granted, he didn’t seem like the sort of chap who had anything better to do, but I hoped he didn’t think I was going to change my mind about anything. He hadn’t asked for my name, which was good, though perhaps he’d expected me to surrender it when offering his own.
“So, pussy’s your thing, huh”? he asked out of the blue. He sounded almost comically downtrodden, and, with my face turned toward the window on my side of the car, I smiled (grimly, I imagine).
“Yeah, I guess,” I said gently. He’d put me in a shitty position because even though I knew what he was asking, it’s not likely that I ever would have chosen the words “I like pussy, not dick” to describe my biological inclinations, whether trying to make a good impression on a new lady friend or not. I’m a class act! But for better or for worse, there were no witnesses, and it wasn’t as if I was ever going to reveal any of these twisted events to strangers on the Internet. Well, maybe anonymously.
“Mmm,” he said. He was probably used to such responses. And people think the obese have it hard! my high-strung superego yammered into the echo chamber of my sun-cooked mind. Try being an aging and probably closeted homo for a day!
“You masturbate?” he asked. He had begun working at the button of his pants. Oh Christ. We were passing the Roanoke Valley overlook and I could see the city itself now, a couple thousand feet below us and fifteen or twenty miles distant. “Not these days. I’m too tired,” I said inanely. At that point
(OK, screw this. Even though I assure you all that I did nothing shameful or depraved that day, I don’t think I need to tell the rest of this terrible story and should never have brought it up in the first place. No one is commenting, and clearly, no one cares. Invent your own plausible ending to my story, and let’s all go back to yacking about creepy right-wingers and magic chocolate and drugs that make you go PTHHHHHHHHHH! and cognitively compromised creationists, OK? OK.)