The Hitchhiker

by Jennie Oconnor

I always wanted to pick up a hitchhiker and have wild passionate sex with her. Until the time that I did pick one up.

There was a gorgeous blond at the entrance ramp to the Hollywood freeway on Sunset. It was summer and she was wearing a very tight tank top, no bra, a pair of very short Daisy Duke shorts and bright red cowboy boots. Her long blond hair whipped in the wind and her thumb sported crimson nail polish. Her other hand caressed her round hip and teased the shredded bottom of her Daisy Dukes.

I marveled at the fact that no one had picked her up yet, but I knew I just had to. This was too good to be true.

I screeched to a dust-blowing halt, rolled down the passenger window and, hoping I wasn’t leering or drooling, said jauntily: “Need a ride?”

“Sure, lady,” came back the huskily sexy answer. I flung open the car door and she got in.

Well, actually, she insinuated herself in with a number of almost choreographed moves, beginning with turning her back to me and bending over – oh my god – until her beautiful ass hit the seat. Then she tossed her hair and looked over her shoulder at me wantonly. Next, she pulled her long, long left leg with the red boot glinting in the sun inside the car. She stretched that leg over until her creamy calf made contact with the gearshift in the floor.

She gave me another come hither smile – full red Angelina Jolie lips, and then some – and started to swing in her right leg. Not to be outdone by the spectacular dance of the left leg, the right bent at the knee into a little kick as she lifted up slightly and the red booted leg slid sinuously underneath her delectable bottom. Then, with a soft prolonged sigh, she raised her arms languidly, rested them on her glistening knee and turned to look at me.

I croaked out: “Where to?”

 “Portland,” she breathed.

 “No problem,” I said and roared up the entrance ramp.

©2014 Jennie OConnor.