Murphy's Law kicked in big time when my ten year old Chevy truck gave up the ghost just on the other side of the Nevada border on a stretch of highway affectionately called, "The Devil's Highway". I was never very talented when it came to figuring out what was wrong with the horseless carriage's operating system but could tell from the way it just shuddered and emitted a couple of puffs of black smoke that the prognosis was not promising.
I sat in the dark for the better part of an hour thinking about how my luck seemed to have gone downhill ever since I walked away from a twenty year marriage and took to the highway searching for my disappeared youth.
It was a sad discovery that my ex-spouse had already beaten me to the punch by fucking my own accountant and now was sole owner of most of my life-long assets with no chance of recourse on my part. The weasel of a back-stabbing prick was always sniffing around my wife's ass but I never suspected he had it in him to actually bonk her on the sly. My two children had conveniently re-located to distant jobs and told me in no uncertain terms they did not want to get involved. When I made a reasonable request to retrieve my dog and my guns, I was informed by a smiling young thing of a para-legal with a piece of metal in her septum that my Hilda had had my constant companion Spike "put away" out of concern for his indigestion problems and that my guns were donated to the breast cancer awareness fund in a spirit of generous giving. Her face informed me it was the funniest thing she had heard all day. With absolutely nothing else holding me hostage to the big city, I hit the road in a Route 66 spur of the moment road trip totally without planning or serious thought.
I came up out of Texas a bit red-eyed more from lack of sleep and a faulty A/C in the truck than from crying or bemoaning my misfortune. The Arizona desert was cold and scary with a moon that hinted at more trouble on the horizon. If I had one of my guns with me, I would have put a round right through the block in final salute as if the battered truck were a beloved mount on its last legs and in terrible pain. I just played the radio non-stop knowing that I was draining the last breath out of the battery of my faithful truck.
In the rearview mirror, I saw a glow of headlights approaching from behind me and I figured it might be an opportunity to get a ride into some kind of inhabited area with the scent of coffee brewing or even a bed in a sleazy motel that didn't charge you an arm and a leg.
The headlights were decidedly odd since it seemed like there were three of them abreast with others behind them. If it were a car or truck, it certainly was an odd design.
I stepped out of my car so the driver or drivers could see I was basically a non-threatening older white guy with empty hands. The sound of the approaching lights informed me that this was a gaggle of motorcycles making fast time on the empty highway. Fortunately, I was skylined against the foothills and I felt certain they saw me from some distance. I had a little ball of fear in the pit of my stomach thinking I was about to be a victim of some outlaw biker gang and buried in an unmarked grave in the Arizona desert.
The headlights blinded me at first and when they swept up and surrounded me with a circle of bright beams I was momentarily disoriented and out of focus unable to distinguish who had come to my rescue.
"Hey, Billie, look what we got here! I think we got us a lost sheep looking for its mama."
The sound of laughter coming from unmistakably female throats put me more at ease because I figured with a lot of women around the men might not want to get involved in some criminal act that would be informed on them at a later date. It was only after several minutes of chattering conversation of a female vein that I came to the realization I was surrounded by an all-female road gang with a filthy vocabulary that surpassed my Marine Corps boot training.
The one I took to be the leader was probably my same age and she was firmly in control.
They stuck me behind a young Hispanic girl with a patch over one eye. She glared at me with the other good one and I could sense she was waiting for me to comment on her lack of a second eyeball. I sat with my legs wrapped around her all leather outfit and clung to her waist with my arms not wanting to fall off and become "road kill" for some errant buzzard. My impression was that there was no hint of softness about this girl. She was muscular all over and I could feel her full bosom hanging heavy on my thumbs like a pair of dive bombers ready to "carpet bomb" me out of existence.
I was outnumbered about twenty to one and made no effort to escape their clutches. At least they were taking me somewhere and not leaving me out on the empty road waiting for something or someone worse lurking in the darkness of the desert night.
By the time we arrived at our destination, I had managed to become quite hard between my legs and the looks cast over the Hispanic girl's shoulder promised payback for my insolent display of masculine lack of control. The desert night air was cold and I huddled close to my ride's leather jacket inhaling the scent of the leather and the sharp pungent hint of spicy female.
.... There is more of this story ...