Tag Archives: regret

On The Road #9, Ann & Jerry part 3

A NOTE: This is the third story from an April stop along a river in eastern Pennsylvania. For the story just before this one, which explains Jerry’s behavior, see On The Road #8, Ann & Jerry part 2

I have been purposefully vague about Ann and Jerry’s identity and the location of their summer cabins in the Pocono Mountains. With this story you’ll understand why I am protecting these delightful folks, whom I cherish. If you should recognize them I’d love for you to get hold of me and tell me your experiences with them.

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Jerry and I spent a second day fixing up their cabins, tightening screws and checking wires and clearing brush. But mostly I remember Jerry always eager to get out the chess set. After breakfast and after lunch. The minute a break was declared. To this day I doubt he cared that much about getting the cabins in order for their guests — he had a chess partner!

At one point we had put up the kings and rooks and pawns and I found myself in the garage. I don’t remember if I was looking for a tool or getting paint, but I do remember concentrating on something when in walked Jerry. As matter-of-factly as if we were discussing what color to paint the screen door he told me he’d always thought of having sex with a guy and he’d like to get it on with me.

That, my friends, caught me off guard. I was in my early twenties and had never been propositioned by a man in his seventies before. Much less a man who’s wife had been cooking me meals and with whom we’d all been sharing stories and the comforts of their home.

But mostly I reacted to his age. I couldn’t imagine sex with him, no matter how much I had come to like him. To be kind (I told myself it was to be kind. Actually it was from years of making it a default reaction to lie about my sexual intent. But that’s another story) I told him I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that because he was married.

“It’s because I’m too old, isn’t it?” Jerry asked.

I lied, no, it’s because he was married and I liked Ann and wouldn’t feel right about it. Some of which was true. But mostly it was a lie. I was reacting to his age.

And that, dear reader, is one of the regrets I carry from my hitch hiking days. Not being honest to Jerry. Why wouldn’t I have been? He was certainly honest and open with me.

And, of course, I’m curious what it would have been like to smile and have fun instead of defaulting to my usual excuse-finding escaping when the dicy and much desired reality of lust comes dancing about.

On The Road #1, a regret

This account from my hitchhiking days includes a reference to encountering the scary Las Vegas police. For that story see Cops while hitchhiking #2nevadaPhoto

Shortly after my encounter with the scary Las Vegas police I got a ride with a trucker pulling an empty flatbed trailer. It wasn’t long before his destination pulled him off U S Highway 95 and I found myself with the sun setting in a very small desert town. There was one intersection, a convenience store, and a spattering of homes.

The prospects of getting a ride looked rather bleak.

I walked across the intersection, looked back to see the truck turn and pull away, and then noticed a lone sedan pulling through the intersection in a most hesitant way. Two guys about my age checked me out as they drove past. They pulled over and stopped.

It turns out they were on an adventure of their own. On their road trip they had given a guy a ride who had ripped them off. They had no money and were trying to get back to Oregon.

I did have eight bucks or so, enough for a tank of gas in an American sedan back in 1968. We filled up and headed north toward Boise. They were very cool, fun, good looking guys.

It got good and dark before the first driver suggested his buddy drive for a while.

A tank of gas was less than eight bucks back then and seat belts were an option most cars did not have. As the first driver laid across the back seat his buddy grinned and observed, “I know what you’re going to be doing back there.” The first driver admitted he had not given up driving because he was tired. Rather, he was horny.

Talk about an opportunity dropped in my lap! I opened up to them that I was gay and loved to give guys blow jobs. They didn’t freak out about it. Just then the Beetles’ new hit came on the radio, Why Don’t We Do It In The Road . . . 

Now, I know, dear reader—I must be the only guy (and we can probably include you gals here, too) who looses his cool when sex comes knocking on my window of opportunity.

I’m still convinced we could have done it in the road all the way to Boise. But my tendency to find excuses and make conversation and keep myself avoiding what I really want kicked in. I babbled and babbled, lost in my own assumptions of other’s being uptight about enjoying sex when, really, it is I who gets upset and mindless when opportunities present themselves.

Yes, I do forgive myself for being human and I tell myself I probably share this frustration with most of humanity. But darn it. When am I going to stop and pay attention instead of go in automatic find-an-excuse-not-to mode?

My greatest regrets are not for the mistakes I’ve committed, my friends. They are for opportunities I turned my back on.

Why Don’t We Do It In The Road, indeed.