Across the state line and the old cement turned into dirt. Mud and puddles in some places, but this was Jeep country now, and Nate’s Cherokee ate it up. If his GPS was right, this stretch continued into San Jon and then on to Tucumcari.
Strange to think that this muddy lane had once been called “America’s Main Street”. Two generations had driven along this national highway linking East and West, and another had seen the old road gradually replaced by the Interstates. I-55 to St Louis, I-44 to Tulsa, I-40 to Los Angeles, and never a traffic light nor a stop sign the whole length.
Apart from Oklahoma, of course, where there was a toll on the Interstate, and what had once been the world’s largest McDonalds bridged over the motorway.
Now there was nothing of the once vital highway but a narrow road through rangeland. The odd abandoned homestead. All fresh and clean after yesterday’s rain, under a wide blue sky. There were worse places to be, he thought.
Dammit. He should have stopped at the Visitor Centre. It had been an hour since a cup of coffee at the Midpoint Cafe back in Adrian. A lady tourist had been kind enough to take a shot of him against the famous sign: Chicago 1139 miles that way, Los Angeles 1139 miles the other.
He wished he’d been brave enough to ask for her to pose with him for a selfie, but he’d also been conscious that it had been several days since his last proper shower. “Nothing venture, nothing gain,” had always been his motto, but still, why set himself up for rejection?
The land dipped and the road rose to cross a gully. Nate slowed and pulled off. Time to relieve the pressure.
He got out and stretched. Nothing from horizon to horizon but himself, his Jeep, and the old road. He skidded down the slope to the gully, out of sight, pulled his cock out of his jeans and cut loose. The stream splashed noisily out. Pulling back on his foreskin for a cleaner flow, he aimed and signed his name on a handy rock. “Nate.”
Marking his territory.
Beneath the bridge rainwater had collected into a clear pool, dark in the shadow. He considered it. Nothing venture…
He had a bar of soap and a threadbare towel in the truck. He grabbed his last shirt and pair of clean shorts as well. Hang the expense!
He stripped off and soaped up in his private bathroom. Solid rock underneath, no snapping turtles to bother him, he might as well be in a marble tub, with hot steamy water to soak in. On that note, the day was warm but the water still had a chill. Once he got the grease out of his hair, he rinsed off all the soap, sliding the edge of his palm along his limbs. A certain amount of shrinkage going on down below, and he took a stroke or two, pumping himself up and thinking of that blonde back at the Midpoint.
An older lady, well into her thirties, but she looked pretty good, and he imagined himself slowly undressing her, just to check, you know. Tweak those nipples into life, hold those pert melons in his hands, feel the weight of them. B-cup, C-cup? Slide down her lacey underwear, stroke and part the curls beneath, see if they matched the ponytail above, spread her thighs wide and slide his length into her tight pink pussy as she moaned with the good feel of it.
He was going hard now, full and strong, imagining himself pushing in and out, pounding her into a climax, feeling his own rushing on as his fingers moved faster and faster over his shaft.
Shit. Was that a car he heard?