Authors: Alexander Hammond
THE HITCHER
As a teenager she’d called it ‘Hitching’. To herself of course. She’d never told anyone about it. It was her secret and one that she guarded jealously. She feared losing it. That must never happen. She couldn’t live without it. She wouldn’t live without it. Now, in her mid twenties, she continued to enjoy her gift, too caught up in its magic to recognise the signs of her total and utter addiction. And like all addicts, enough was never enough.
When she’d nudged into her early teens, metamorphosing from a boyish rake of a girl into a body that was full of promise of what full maturity would bring, life had been the uncertain and cruel affair that comes with puberty. A body and a range of new emotions and experiences changing her almost by the day. Tooth braces and the unwelcome discovery of period pains hadn’t helped her introduction to the onset of eventual womanhood. She had been miserable and depressed. And then of course there had been boys. Insensitive, unsophisticated, single minded in the pursuit of their own burgeoning needs, there couldn’t be a less endearing creation than the male in his early to mid teens. At least that’s what she thought then. Now, more experienced, she realised that they did have their uses. An unbridled enthusiasm and a much-appreciated stamina were benefits that sometimes made up for their painful emotional immaturity and lack of experience. Not that this had been apparent to her as she made her difficult journey on the way to adulthood. Inevitably she found herself liking boys and being drawn to them in spite of herself.
She could laugh now at her teenage angst but then it had all been very real. Night after night she’d regularly confessed her deepest thoughts to her diary, writing feverishly on her bed, surrounded by soft toys and posters of boy bands. There was one boy. A tall and unusually calm persona for one so young. Apparently untainted by acne and arrogance, the boy played guitar to himself at break and excelled on the running track. He exhibited none of the ‘jock’ proclivities associated with sports and yet he was tolerated by the other boys due to his athletic prowess. All the girls worshipped him. There had been a very long line to stand in wait for his attention. She was close to the end of the queue; indeed she believed she was so far back she’d never reach the front. She had been mistaken.
A wretched party had been the venue. Thumping music, too many people and the uneasy combination of school kids and illicit alcohol. Through the gloom she’d glimpsed the object of her adoration in a clinch with a pouting classmate. The envy surged through her like an electrical current. As they fumbled awkwardly in the shadows, consumed by desire and the newness of each other, she’d ached to be in the girls place. Her desire to experience what this girl was enjoying right in front of her eyes was almost a living thing. That was the moment it first happened.
A brief moment of disorientation followed. Later, when she was more used to the sensation, she called it ‘the wobble’. She remembered giggling as she’d first confessed it to her diary. A second or so later she looked into the eyes of the object of her affection. She was unalarmed. It seemed so natural. She felt him grope at her buttocks as he pushed his tongue roughly into her mouth. She felt the hairs on his face scratch against her cheek. His breath smelled vaguely of beer which strangely did not repulse her as she felt herself responding to the sheer excitement of the moment. She felt herself kissing him back. That was when she realised all was not as it seemed. She saw a ring on her hand wasn’t hers. She saw the blue nail polish she would never have worn. She became aware of breasts were smaller than the ones she prided herself on. She wasn’t the instigator of the kiss, she was the experiencer. As the passion of the embrace heightened she became aware that she was somehow a passenger in her classmate’s body. Shocked by this realisation, her reaction had been stark fear. In that moment she was once again the observer staring at the frenzied passion in the corner.
As she lay in bed that night she remembered the experience with alarm and excitement. She could still smell him. She shivered as she recalled feeling his erection through his jeans as they’d gyrated together in their exploration. She had never felt so aroused, indeed she still was. She buried her hands between her legs and relived the scenario second by second. When it was over and the flush of arousal had passed she tried to look at the situation logically. She was undamaged; she’d enjoyed the experience, and the two would-be lovers seemed not to have noticed her hitching a ride.
Next day she’d tried it again at school. It didn’t work. She found that no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t again experience what other people were experiencing. Eventually she’d put it down to alcohol, a claustrophobic smoky environment and a vibrant imagination. That was until she went to stay with her older sister.
If she’d have been born thirty years previously Cassie would have been a flower child. The Hitcher adored her. Ten years her senior, her sister lived in Bohemian splendour in Greenwich Village, writing piercing political pieces on her blog and embracing pretty much everything that life had to offer. Her sister never patronised her. Never treated her as a kid. Always listened to her. Important recognition for a sixteen year old. She’d almost confessed her bizarre story and would have done so had it not been for the arrival of Cassie’s latest boyfriend.
Carl was, in her opinion, utterly gorgeous. He made his entrance to the untidy apartment in understated elegance, resplendent in a well-constructed appearance of unkempt affluence. “Hiya, you fucking old fraud,” Cassie had laughed at his arrival. Stunned by her sister’s greeting, she was even more confused at his chuckling at the outrageous welcome. That evening, as they all ate dinner and drank wine, she began to realise that there was much she had to learn about adult communication. She also realised that Carl was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Through the mock shabbiness of his clothes she caught glimpses of a physique that made her almost gawp. His manner, replete with a piercing dark humour, had her hanging on his every word. When he occasionally looked at her it was almost too much to bear.
The evening at an end, she’d helped clear the dishes almost in a dream. She watched enviously as ‘Goodnights’ were said as her sister and Carl made for the bedroom. While cleaning her teeth, all she could think about was how she wished that she was her sister right now. The ‘wobble’ followed and, immediately recognising it, she embraced it.
In that moment she was her sister. She lay smiling on the bed as Carl began to disrobe in the half-light. “She’s very sweet,” he said. “She’s going to be a heartbreaker when she grows up.” A moment later she was shocked to hear Cassie laugh. “Quit talking about my little sis and take care of business.” ‘My God’, she thought, ‘She’s actually joking at a time like this.’ Carl grinned and removed his shirt. She felt the flush of appreciation as her sister admired the show. She felt her increased heartbeat as her sibling anticipated the moment. When the boyfriend had removed his shorts and had made for the bed she felt her body come to a new height as her sister began to open herself and embrace what was to come. She luxuriated in her sister’s longing for the lean hard body. She saw and lived the comfort Cassie felt at seeing his erection, delighted that her body could stimulate such immediate arousal.
In that hour she learned, experienced and eventually understood a level of closeness and intimacy that she could never have dreamed of before: the importance of gentleness and consideration; the stimulation of controlled aggression; the all-enveloping bliss of total surrender to the moment. The musical instrument that was a woman’s body that, in the right hands, could be played to perfection by an artiste. The rugged terrain that was a man’s body. A realisation that they too could be brought to heights that stripped them of their controlled persona and reduce them to the raw animal that was uncontrolled bliss.
She’d slept well that night.
Only when intimacy beckoned, she learned, could she hitch. And she did, again and again. By the time her seven-day break in New York was over she knew her sister and Carl significantly better than she had ever believed possible. She also knew that she had to have what they had. Regular and quality sex. She was too immature to notice that she only experienced the emotions linked to sexuality.
Upon her return to school she thrust herself into the melee and within six months had been so disappointed with what the local boys had to offer she’d driven herself half mad with frustration. The unsophisticated fumblings of her peer group almost repulsed her. Even when she hitched to her classmates the results were inevitably the same. She began to despair. As her disappointments continued her frustration grew as her needs went unsatisfied.
Her seventeenth birthday had been the first turning point. A classmate’s vacationing parents had made the inevitable mistake of letting their son arrange a party during their absence. A senior boy; she’d managed to gain an invite as a few months previously she’d given him a blow job that had sent him half mad with the quality of her technique. It was her sister’s star turn. Sadly his own ministrations were both inadequate and frankly embarrassing. Hoping for a re run he’d urged her to come over. For the first two hours she managed to fend off his unwelcome advances then, as midnight approached, she’d made for the bathroom upstairs. Walking down the long hallway she saw one of the senior girls, a lissom Barbie look alike, knocking on one of the bedroom doors. The Hitcher, for reasons unknown to her, stopped in her tracks and watched. “Open up lover,” hissed the girl. “It’s me.” The door opened and the girl slipped in. Instinctively the Hitcher concentrated, embraced the wobble and, a moment later, felt herself inside the secretive doorknocker. It was dark in the room but the Hitcher hardly noticed. She was too intent in trying to come to terms with the feelings of her subject. Unabated rampaging arousal. She watched through the girl’s eyes as she feverishly locked the door behind her, almost manic with excitement.
As the girl turned, the Hitcher was aware of her shortness of breath. The girl was on fire. Her subject roughly embraced the occupant of the room, running her hands though long cascading hair and pressed her mouth on soft lips. The Hitcher’s mind reeled. She heard a giggle and felt her hands pushing up a micro skirt and under a thong. One part of her almost rebelled, but the other part was caught up with the passion. She felt a slim, long nailed hand press urgently between her own legs and was shocked to feel she was soaked. Moments later she felt a deliciousness as the girl’s lover hitched up the Barbie clone’s t-shirt and grabbed her breasts, squeezing, exploring. As she felt a moist tongue on her nipple the Hitcher thought she’d explode with the intensity of the feelings. She could literally smell the object of Barbie’s attraction. A strong scent that demanded exploration. She felt light headed as she ripped off the girl’s thong. She plunged her head between the perfect legs and tasted her.
That night the Hitcher learned two things. Her hitching options had now multiplied significantly, and sex between women wasn’t always the soft focus nonsense portrayed in art-house movies. It could be hard, aggressive and demanding. She liked it. No, she adored it.
As the months progressed, she learned to pick her subjects carefully. By the time she’d reached eighteen she was a veteran. By frequenting the right bars and clubs she learned to select the objects of her interest with skill and precision. She hitched and enjoyed the most perfect of men and the most beautiful of women and sometimes, to her utter delight, both at the same time. She hardly bothered trying to do it for real as her own experiences paled into insignificance when compared to those that came with her gift. She all but gave up trying. ‘Why bother?’ she thought.
By twenty-one she considered herself a connoisseur of the erotic. In her search for the ultimate rush her exploration widened and she took to stalking those who she felt were sufficiently hedonistic to provide her with the stimulation to satisfy her need for a bigger hit. She gave herself over to the eclectic, the exotic and the bizarre.
One evening, as she stood naked in a dark room with her arms bound above her, enduring the lash of a masked man’s bullwhip, a thought occurred to her. She felt her subject twist as the leather resounded on her back and briefly savoured the feelings of subjugation and submission and the release that they promised. As the whip fell again she arched her back and savoured the fine line between pain and pleasure. She was in too deep to realise that she was all but lost in her search for the ultimate experience of sensuality. As the whipping continued she was torn between her new thought and the possibilities it offered and the deliciousness of her total abandon to the man abusing her. The pain of her predicament focussed her thoughts but the arousal of her ‘Hitchee’ confused them. She tried to concentrate on the thought process whilst part of her savoured the submission of her subject. One more stroke was enough. It was time for an experiment. She jumped out.
She sat in a large hotel lobby and watched couples collecting their keys at reception, returning from dinner and nights out. She studied each couple carefully until she found what she wanted. It didn’t take her long. She rarely made mistakes. Her selection made, she initiated her experiment and hitched.
It was different. Incredibly different. Thrillingly different. She felt her muscular arms enveloping the woman. She felt the woman’s hand glide to her crotch as the embrace built in passion. She felt her erection press uncomfortably against her shorts. She marvelled in the sheer difference of a man’s experience of closeness. She revelled in his awestruck appreciation of the girl’s body. The power flowing through the man’s body threatened to overwhelm her. She felt the soft moist ring of the girl’s mouth close over his penis. So this was why they liked it so much. Their whole sexual experience was so much more localised than a woman’s. She felt the man trying to keep control, not letting the moment take him too high. And there it was. She’d never even thought about it before. He was saving himself. His thought process was an amazing mixture. A controlled abandonment to the sensation, an appreciation as to who was performing the act on him and an awareness that after it was over he would need to perform.