I hate conferences. I know they are an unavoidable part of being a college professor, but they are a big hassle for me. The one I went to in Atlanta a few years ago was a case in point. I had to drive up there from Gainesville (where I teach history at a major university) because I had been chosen to represent our faculty at one of the smaller schools in Atlanta. The conference was in winter, it rained all the way up, and the temperature was at or near freezing the whole time. I fumbled through my presentation, and by the time the conference ended, I was frozen to death and only too happy to get back to sunny Florida.
The drive back was long and dull, and the price of gas was through the roof (the school does not reimburse us for gas) so when I saw the sign for a truck stop with cheap gas, I hurriedly pulled off and waited in a long line of cars to get to the pump. Although I saved a few cents on the price of gas, it was nevertheless an annoying experience because all the cheap gas places tend to remove the little lever on the pump that lets you automatically fill up while you do something else (like clean your windshield). By the time I had finished taking a quick leak, I was ready to get back on the road, and so I was completely unprepared for the young man I found standing next to my car door.
"Hi, Professor," he says. "Could you give me a lift to Gainesville?" I stood there for a minute examining the young man. He appeared to be around 20 years old with longish, dirty-blond hair, about 5 ft. 10 in. tall, medium build and carrying a dingy green backpack. When I had recovered from my astonishment, I asked him "Do I know you?" He laughed at that, and said no, of course not.
"So how do you know who I am and where I'm going?" I asked.
"A couple of things, but mostly the faculty sticker on your windshield."
Of course, I thought. I looked over at the orange and blue parking decal affixed to my windshield and realized that this would broadcast to everyone where I worked. If nothing else, he was clever, I had to give him that.
"So, how about it? Can I catch a ride to Gainesville?"
I figured "why not?" I was as bored could be, and perhaps having a passenger in the car would make the miles go easier, so I told him to hop in. He slipped into my 4-door Toyota sedan, stowing his backpack on the rear seat as he got in. I watched as he took a quarter from his pocket and set it on the dash. I asked him what that was about, and he dismissed it, mumbling something about "good luck." A few minutes later we were back on the interstate heading south towards Florida.
I soon discovered that my passenger was surprisingly intelligent for a hitchhiker that hangs around gas stations. We were soon engaged in an intense discussion about the sociological and cultural effects on American society resulting from the conflagration of World War II, which was vastly more insightful than many of the ones I had been engaged in at the Atlanta conference. I began to relax and feel comfortable with my new passenger, and as time passed, we eventually turned to other topics of a more personal nature, like sex.
I don't know exactly how, but for some reason we found ourselves relating to each other stories about getting blowjobs in a car. I am a happily married man, and of course my wife and I have experimented with various erotic sex activities while we have been on long trips. My passenger related a hilarious tale of a blowjob at 70 miles per hour that ended with the windshield being covered with hot jizz and partially obscuring the driver's view. We both had a good laugh at our crazy experiences, and then he asked me if I had ever had a guy give me a blowjob.
