Chapter 1: Starting the Adventure
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, True Story, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Petting, Safe Sex, Nudism, Slow, .
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: Starting the Adventure - It was the summer of 2013. I'd had an epiphany. I'm an author. I could do this from anywhere! So why was I doing it from a basement in Seattle? By July, I was in an F150 and a travel trailer with no destination but the road in front of me. This memoir is based on the true story of my travel down U.S. Highways since then and my life before. Only the names, places, and events have been changed to protect the innocent and keep several wonderful women and a couple skanks from tracking me down!
This story is a memoir of sorts and cuts back and forth a lot between my adventure on the road and my memories from before—sometimes long before. I find myself daydreaming a lot, but I call it plotting the next story. Like my time on the road, I sometimes get lost along the way.
In July of 2013, I moved into a travel trailer and became a full time RVer. I eschewed freeways and decided to follow some of the old network of highways that cross this nation. This is based on the true story of my travel down U.S. Highways since then.
I took the road less traveled. Now where the fuck am I?
A Few Years Ago: Pushed from the Nest
Treasure and I hadn’t slept in the same bed in a year. I spent most nights asleep in the recliner in my office. Had my pillow there and a blanket. It was a big empty house for two people now that Maddie had her own apartment. Most of our conversations were about proper editorial use of various terms in the manuscripts we edited and the books I published for income. Neither one was paying the bills and we were dipping further into our retirement savings. That formed the other half of our conversations.
There was one thing that had remained constant through years of marriage. I got up at five. Sound familiar? My stories are full of characters who get up early in the morning. It took me about five minutes before I could stand up straight enough to walk to the bathroom after I got out of bed. My back had been deteriorating steadily for several years, even after we bought the $10,000 bed I mistakenly thought was going to be our new playground.
I picked up the newspaper from the front steps—something I could usually do without having to get dressed. I stumbled to the kitchen and made coffee while I scanned the headlines and read the comics. I made a second pot at six-thirty, frothed hot milk for Treasure’s latte, and woke her up. I left the newspaper and coffee beside the bed and went to make breakfast.
Those morning wakeup calls are still some of my fondest memories. That was when Treasure would smile and thank me for the best cup of coffee ever.
The house was expensive. The mortgage was high. The maintenance was a killer. I grumbled in the kitchen that I could work from anywhere. Why was I writing from a basement in Seattle? I should be out seeing the country while I was still young enough to enjoy it. Treasure and I had always talked about traveling more. We could live on the road cheaper than maintaining this monstrosity that I’d come to view as a prison.
“You should go do it,” Treasure said.
I hadn’t even realized she’d come from the bedroom. Nor that I was talking aloud. She wore a robe. I hadn’t seen her naked in a long time. I detected a slight emphasis on the word ‘go’.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” I said. “We should get the house on the market, I suppose. And see a lawyer.”
It took six more months to get things ready. We divided up what we wanted, settled our finances, and filed for divorce. July first, I moved into my new home—a sixteen-foot travel trailer, towed by a new F150.
Then a miracle happened.
I woke up after my first night in the little trailer and made coffee. I just got up and went to the stove and made coffee. It took me a few minutes before I realized that I had no back pain.
17 August 2013
I was on my own, cutting through Montana with nothing but the road, my thoughts, and me. How’d Tony put it? “Me, myself, and I. Which asshole would you like to speak to?” I’d been through road construction like you would not believe all through Montana. One of the decisions I made before I pulled out of Seattle was that I would avoid Interstates and freeways. They were for people who had a destination. I had only a journey. This U.S. Highway was actually just a one-lane dirt track fifty miles long, occasionally interrupted by a stretch of pavement. I drove behind a pilot truck with a sign that said ‘Follow me’, and the line of cars and trucks—mostly trucks—followed in a cloud of dust. I was glad my trailer was safely in an RV park while I went exploring Glacier National Park. I couldn’t have pulled it over Going to the Sun Road in the park anyway, and this construction outside the park would have been murder on it. By the time I got out of the war zone—er ... construction zone—my shiny black F150 was two-tone dust and mud.
I’m sure my throat was the same color. I needed coffee.
McDonald’s serves a pretty decent cup of Joe. I’d had it with paying $3.50 a pop for an espresso when I can make drip coffee in the trailer that is just as good. If it’s decent coffee, I’ll drink it. Even half-way decent. And McDonald’s always has clean restrooms. I was bursting when I got there. My bladder’s only good for thirty miles or thirty minutes—whichever comes first.
I was pulling out of the parking lot when I spotted the girls in short-shorts and t-shirts jumping up and down across the street trying to attract people to their carwash to support the high school cheerleaders. Carwash? Cheerleaders? Wonder if they do trucks. I took my dollar-a-cup coffee and drove across the street.
“You do trucks?” I asked the woman who came out to meet me as I drove in.
“This is Montana, cowboy. Bay 2.”
“It’s donation. You know, thousand bucks or whatever spare change you’ve got lying around.” I laughed, handed her a ten and pulled into the spot she pointed to. Even if all they did was rinse the top layer off, it would be worth it. Three juvenile girls ran up, reminded me to close the windows and told me I didn’t need to stay in the truck. I got out with my coffee and watched them go to work. Apparently the upper classmen were out on the street hustling business because they were ... better at hustling, I guess. These little girls were just that. Little girls.
“Is this for the freshman cheer squad?” I asked the woman who had taken my money.
“Freshmen, JV, and varsity,” she responded. “The older girls get the younger ones to do as much of the work as possible.”
“Are you the coach?”
“I’m actually the mother of one of the coaches. I don’t even have a girl on the squad and I get stuck out here supervising the teenies.” We laughed and talked a bit. Turns out her daughter, the coach, wasn’t much older than the varsity cheerleaders.
“I’m afraid those little girls can’t even reach the hood of the truck.”
“They are little at that age. We’ll let them work on what they can reach and the seniors will show up eventually. You’re not in a hurry, are you?”
“Hurry is a suburb of Seattle I left behind me months ago.”
It was obvious when the seniors showed up. I don’t know what it is, but a miracle occurs between the ages of fourteen and seventeen. I guess it’s called puberty. As I looked around, I could pretty much pick out the freshmen, sophomores, and juniors. But when the seniors showed up to take over scrubbing the truck, there was a whole different game to watch. The little girls had grown into young women.
I moved to the back of the bay so I could watch without being on display to the entire community. Nobody needed to see an old dude with a cup of coffee and a hard-on watching cheerleaders getting wet. They all introduced themselves with a wave and a little cheer jump. Julie was about five-two and robust. She hadn’t lost all her baby fat, but there wasn’t an ounce of it I wouldn’t have been willing to nibble. She was bubbly, cheerleaderly, and ... well, the bouncy parts bounced ... a lot. Megan was blonde, about four inches taller and thinner all over except in the boobs. Here’s the girl that screws the quarterback. And when he’s not looking she does the halfback, tackle, and tight end. Correction. She has the tight end. It was encased in skin-tight pink hot pants through which I could clearly see her bikini line. I reminded myself she was seventeen and I didn’t even have Montana plates on my truck.
Then there was Alice. I looked past her at first glance and then I came back to her. Shit, she’s tall! Black hair, smallish tits and thin, but with such a tiny waist that her hips flared out nicely. But tall. Yeah. Close to six feet. I’d either look up at her or really get a good look at her. I have to tell you, I’ve always had a thing for tall thin girls.
A Long Time Ago: Carly the Clown
Nearly every tall thin woman I’ve written about has been based in some way or another on Carly the Clown. That is not a disparaging remark.
Back when I was working with an unnamed theater group years ago ... Well, the important thing was that Carly was part of that group and I thought she was heavenly. She was 6’ 1” and thin. Her boobs scarcely bumped out her shirt. Her hair was black and, when I met her, she was one of those totally natural girls who didn’t shave anything. But damn! That girl kissed with her whole body.
It was the middle of September when I gave her a lift one evening. We were talking and laughing—having a great time. When I got to her apartment, she leaned across the seat to give me a thank-you kiss. The minute our lips touched, the lights flickered. I think it sucked the electricity right out of the power lines. The little thank-you kiss turned into a you’re-welcome kiss. I made sure she knew she was welcome any time. We made out in the front seat of the car for a quarter of an hour when some dude flashed his headlights at us and I realized we were parked across three spaces. I was just letting her off, after all.
“Um ... see you next week,” she said.
“Definitely,” I answered. I was so slick back then.
When she got out of the car, I had to turn the window defogger on in order to pull into traffic.
The next week, September really arrived, complete with the rain that marked the season’s change.
“Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” she asked as we finished a breath-taking kiss on Friday night in front of her apartment.
“I’d love to. Can I bring a bottle of wine?”
“That would be great. See you at six.”
That was all it took. We actually did have dinner that night, but the lights were flickering all evening. I waited until we’d gone a step beyond kissing, holding her tiny breasts in my hand as I dipped to lick her nipples.
“I’d love a glass of wine now,” I said. We hadn’t opened it with dinner. “I don’t object to where this is heading, but I wanted to be on the road before we drank anything.”
“As long as you’re okay with this heading into my bed, then we can drink anything you want.”
That first night we made love was earthshaking. I already had her shirt off and she had mine open to the waist. We sipped our wine and I ‘accidentally’ spilled a little on her. It ran down her chest and I lowered my head to lick it up. I had to be sure I got everything, so there wasn’t much of her long, elegant torso that I didn’t lick.
“I’m a little sticky. Would you like to cool off in a warm tub?” Carly asked me as she nibbled on my ear and stroked my cock through my too-tight jeans.
“That would be great.”
“I use a diaphragm, so we can’t make love in the tub. Okay?”
“Let’s enjoy the bath and then make love,” I answered. “Carly. Just so you know, I do want to make love to you.”
“Oh, yeah,” she answered. “Oh, yeah. Last week, after you kissed me in the car, all the windows steamed over in the apartment when I walked in. Oh god, Ari. I want you so much.”
We slipped into the tub and Carly leaned back against me between my legs. Just feeling her back and butt against my cock kept me rigid. For my part, gently washing her front as she lay back was an experience I’ll never forget. I’d never been with a woman who didn’t shave, at least under her arms, but I shampooed all her hair and found the silky texture of her pits as erotic as the thick curls between her legs. We finally stepped out of the tub and dried each other on a single towel then went to her bed.
I can’t say that making love to Carly was necessarily the best sex of my life, but I knew the instant I entered her that this was my lover. We might not always be lovers, but whenever we were together we would be lovers. There was something about this woman, taller than me, hairier than me, but as sensuous and lithe as any lover could be. We fit together.
I look back on that time with a sense of yearning. We got together periodically over the years. Even when she moved to Colorado on her way to LA, I found a way to visit one summer and coming together was as easy as it was the first time. The lights still flickered. I don’t know where she is now, but somehow I know that if I ever come upon Carly the Clown, we’ll still be lovers.
Back to Alice
Oh yes. I was talking about Alice. It wasn’t just her tall, thin frame that drew my attention, but the almost cat-like grace with which she moved, playfully tossing a sponge to her friends or dodging the spray across the truck.
“Okay, watch out!” Megan shouted. “I’m going to spray the conditioner on.”
Conditioner? My truck was going to come out shiny and silky soft. I chuckled as Alice ducked over toward me to avoid the spray.
“Hey. That’s a nice truck. New?”
“Yeah. Pretty new. It was a dirty little pig, though.”
“It’s going to be all shiny now. Are you from around here?”
“Oh. No. I live on the road. My address is on my license plate.”
“That’s just a license number.”
“Yep. I pull a travel trailer and just go wherever the truck points.”
“I want to come.”
“I’m ... uh ... not sure I can do anything about that.”
“Oh! You have a dirty mind.”
“That’s how I get paid.”
“I’m a writer. I write mysteries, thrillers, and erotic romances.”
“You’re kidding. Those are my three favorite things to read.”
“Aren’t you a little young for erotic romance?”
“I’m eighteen, so I’m not jailbait if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I just ... well, I know you are in high school.”
“I got a late start. Okay, I flunked seventh grade. I’d just found out about sex and was a little distracted. I got my act back together, though. I’ve got grades good enough to stay on the team and get into college. I got early acceptance to the University already.”
“Well, even if you aren’t jailbait, it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to talk to you here about erotic romances.”
“What if I told you there was a place you could talk to me about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m a year older than my friends and my folks sort of stopped supporting me when I turned eighteen. They still let me live at home and usually feed me, but they’re really focused on my little sister to make sure she doesn’t turn out like me.”
“You seem to have turned out just fine.”
Alice checked to see if anyone was watching and pulled a card out of her back pocket. She wore cut-offs that barely covered her butt-ledge. Her phone bulged out of one pocket. She handed me the card. It was a ‘free admission’ card for Roxie’s Foxes.
“The gentlemen’s club where I work. I start at six. Stop by and you’ll see more of this.” She pulled her crop top to the side with her bra and exposed a nipple. “I want to know more about what you write and how you manage to live on the road.”
“Dry time!” Julie yelled. Alice spun away from me in time to catch a chamois so she could help strip the water from my truck. Strip. Yeah. Well. I didn’t need to be back at my campsite tonight. I could sleep in the truck. It was clean, after all.
I hung around town and went to Cabela’s to get some supplies that I needed. You can never have enough stuff from Cabela’s. I’d spotted the store near the interstate and decided to just stop in. About five-thirty, I realized I was just hanging around waiting to go to Roxie’s Foxes. Well, I figured I might as well try it out. I hadn’t seen an eighteen-year-old pussy since I was ... well, eighteen. In fact, I hadn’t seen any pussy in a good long while—even while I was married. I spent the next half hour munching down a venison burger in Cabela’s little café and then headed for Roxie’s.
I walked into the club at six-fifteen. Didn’t want to seem too anxious. I’d stopped at a cash machine and grabbed a couple hundred. I knew I’d have to tip and maybe I’d buy a dance. They charged ten bucks for a soda water once I was inside, but gave me a two-for-one dance coupon. I settled into a seat in front of the stage, one of only about four guys in the room.
The first dancer—Jewel—moved to the music pretty well and I tossed a buck on the stage for her during the first number. I sat back down and she pranced over, did a couple pseudo-sensuous moves, including turning her back to me and bending at the waist to pick up my bill and twerk a bit. She had a nice ass, but was covered with tats. I like a little ink, but I felt like I needed reading glasses for this babe. I was enjoying the show, though, and when her top came off I put another buck on the stage. She stopped me before I turned away, pulled my Stetson off, and put it on her own head. She pulled my face forward and buried it between her tits. I kept my mouth shut. I’d seen the guy on the other side of the stage licking her and didn’t want to kiss him second hand. I sat back down and an elegant vision sidled up to me and asked if she could join me. I looked up into the eyes of Alice.
I’d like to tell you all about the color of her eyes and their depth, yadda yadda yadda. But if you’ve ever been in a strip club, you know the lighting is such that you can’t see any of that detail. Just when you think you’ve locked in on something, a light hits you in the eyes and you can’t see anything. I just scooted over on my little bench and she curled up beside me.
“I’m glad you decided to stop by.”
“My curiosity got the best of me. They allow you to dance here at 18?”
“Yeah. Maybe we bend the rules a little, but I’m only here twice a week. Gotta earn my way in the world.”
“Don’t you get hassled by fellow students?”
“They’re rigid about checking ID on guys if they look younger than 25. Most of my classmates aren’t 18 yet and can’t get in. I’ll deal with it when they start having birthdays.”
I watched as Jewel lost her g-string. Shit. That pussy was wide open when she got on her hands and knees and crawled to the other side of the stage. She got a tip and clacked the heels of her thick platforms together.
“You need to tip her now,” Alice whispered. I pulled out another single and leaned toward the stage. Jewel crooked her finger for me to stay at the edge of the stage. She smiled at me and picked up the dollar bill I’d creased and laid on the stage. Her eyes never left mine as she slid the crease through her slit then shoved the bill in my mouth. She bent toward me and took the bill from my lips with her lips. Then she dragged my face down through her cleavage and onto her belly as she stood up and pushed me gently back to my seat. Shit! That was the closest I’d been to a tit in ... a long time.
“Doesn’t she have a great ass?” Alice asked.
“Yeah. I’d have to say so,” I answered.
“So what do you write?”
“Oh. Well, I like romantic stories. Plenty of sex, but more interested in the character development.”
“Good. I want more than Tab A into Slot B and come. What do you want here?”
“Well, it’s been a while since I actually saw Slot B, so I thought a little primary research was in order.”
“Just wait till you see Dakota. She’ll show you all the primary you want.” We chuckled at the joke. “Of course, if you’d like your research to be a little more hands-on, we’ve got the special running now of seven songs for a hundred or happy hour for just two hundred. Let me know.”
Two hundred for an hour? I’d already spent twenty of the two hundred I got from the cash machine. That wasn’t going to happen.
“Enjoy the show. I’ll be on in a little while. Save your two-fer card for me,” Alice said as she left me to think about how long seven songs would be. Damn!
Three other dancers sat beside me for a song or two, but when they realized I was just tipping the stage dancer and not buying dances, they got up and moved away. Jewel did a good job of trying to get me to use my two-for-one and buy her drinks and God knows what else. I kept looking around, but didn’t see Alice anywhere. I got another ten-dollar soda water from the waitress just so I could get singles to tip the dancers. The waitress was cute enough that I tipped her, too. After a while, the DJ announced Sierra coming to the stage.
Alice crawled on like a cat. I was a mouse caught in her eyes. My first single was on the stage floor before she’d finished her first circuit. Apparently, Sierra was her stage name. She stood, looked me in the eye and scuffed the bill toward the back of the stage with her foot before turning to the other side of the stage. After other dancers who tried to shove their tits in the mouths of tippers, I wasn’t expecting the brush-off. But I was still hopeful.
The second number, she lost her top. She was a little bigger up top than Carly, but not much. Her areolae weren’t large and were just a shade darker than her skin. Her nipples were hard dark points in the center. I had another dollar on the stage before I realized I’d moved. Alice turned toward me and gave me a hug, her bare tits rubbing against my shirt.
“Look close,” she whispered. “This is what you wanted to see, isn’t it?”
I looked. Little bumps rose in the soft flesh of her tits as they slid across my cheek, almost but not quite touching my lips. Alice moved away and kept dancing. I had another bill out as soon as I sat down, thinking about what would happen next. I waited until the end of the song and Alice kept making her circuit of the stage, pretending to dance—sometimes grabbing the pole and swinging herself around it. Finally, I saw her hand drop to the ties of her bikini bottoms. She pulled the cord and turned away so I could see the back of the g-string disappear down her crack as she pulled it through.
I’ve seen lots of girls in my life—not hundreds, but plenty—and couldn’t remember lining myself up behind a woman whose pussy was as full and open when she bent over. It was better than any movie I’d seen. I don’t kid myself. Dancers in a strip club are there to earn the money, not to get turned on. If there was any glistening moisture around her pussy lips, it was just sweat. But looking at that 18-year-old flower from beneath her ass-cheeks made my nostrils flare as I imagined the scent of her arousal. I knew what it would be. A little sharp, but enticing. A flavor that I’d search weeks to find a word for and still never be satisfied with—sweet, tangy, spicy—what difference did it make. I’d try to find the word after I’d tasted her. Fantasy.
I took her another bill and she simply pulled my face between her breasts to make sure I felt exactly how soft and smooth they were.
I didn’t look at the next dancer. My eyes were closed as I sat in front of the stage. I felt the short couch shift and warm breath swept across my ears.
“A-ri,” she breathed in my ear. “Are you ready for some more primary research? We can go back to the naughty room.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got a hundred, is that special still on?”
“I’m going to make it really special. In fact, you’ve still got a two-for-one coupon. Two specials for one low price!”
She danced. Nearly an hour of rubbing against me and pushing her breasts into my face, letting my hands hold the outside of her thighs as she ground her pussy against my hard-on. There were moments that feeling was exquisite. Her bra top kept being pushed farther and farther to the side, exposing the color of her areolae and finally letting the nip free enough that I could catch it between my lips as she rubbed back and forth against my face. We both moaned softly.
“Help me along a little, Ari. Dancing for you has me all turned on. Nobody can see,” she whispered in my ear. My hands had already strayed to caress her little breasts and play with her nipples in the dark room. I sucked one into my mouth and Alice pushed my hand down to my thigh. Then she straddled my thigh and began to grind on my open hand. I got the message and my fingers went to work. Somehow her g-string slipped aside and I slipped inside. “Oh, god, yes!” she moaned in my ear. She had one hand supporting herself on my shoulder and the other had managed to open the buttons on my 501s and slip inside to stroke my cock through my briefs. I was going to make a mess pretty quickly, but what I was feeling on my hand told me Alice was about to make a mess as well. I found her little button and slid a finger on either side of it as I carefully rubbed up and down.
Alice slammed her lips against mine and her tongue into my mouth to muffle her scream as she came. Her grip on my cock tightened painfully and when she released the pressure, the relief was so great that I jerked as spurts of come filled my shorts. She panted as she collapsed against me and pulled my hand out of her teabag.
The last song of our set played and she sank onto me with her arms around my neck and her cheek rubbing against my beard.
“I want to go with you,” she whispered. “Do you have room for me?”
“You need to finish school,” I answered, nobler than I felt. I’d just spent nearly an hour with a high school girl’s tits, ass, and pussy in my hands. Now I’m getting conservative?
“But I want to do what you’re doing. And I could provide more ... inspiration.”
“Do you want to be in a story?”
“What kind of story?”
“A really good one. Write about tonight.”
I could feel her soft pussy as it continued to push against my wet cock. I could imagine a good story all right. I hugged her to me, then released her.
“Here’s my card. If you’re serious, send me an email and I’ll send you the story this weekend. Keep in touch. If you still want to join me when you graduate, I’ll swing back up to Montana to get you. We need to be clear on the rules, though. I’m not rich. I just travel.”
“I’ll save my money so I can pay my own way.”
“It doesn’t cost too much, but don’t think I go out and party every night.”
“Would you like to party in?”
“Send me the story.”
I slept the night in the cab of my nice clean pickup truck. I’ve got to make a more comfortable bed when I’m doing overnights away from the trailer. I’ll figure that out. I’ve got a few months.
31 August 2013
Thank you for the story, baby. Reading it made me come again, just thinking about your fingers slipping through my wet folds. It was just right. Well, we didn’t really spend a whole hour, did we? But otherwise you told it the way I want to remember it.
I know you expect an exotic dancer to say about anything to make a buck. Who am I kidding? Exotic dancer? Stripper? I behaved like a fucktoy. That’s why I have to tell you that I don’t do that kind of thing all the time. In fact, it scared me a little that I lost control with you and actually let you touch me there and make me come. I’ve had guys come in their pants before, but not me. I know a couple girls make arrangements to meet guys later and turn tricks. You could have fucked Jewel for the amount of money you spent on me. But I don’t do that. I’m using my body to earn money to live on and for college. Jewel’s selling hers for dope.
The thing is that I dream about the places you write about in your blog. Thanks for friending me on Facebook. I loved the pix of the Nez Perce battleground. So desolate and yet such a deep rich beauty. I can understand why they fought to keep their land. And I just wanted to be there with you, looking out over that wild landscape.
I guess that’s what I’m writing about. I still want to come with you. (Get it?)
I know I have to finish school and next year I’ll be in college and I can’t just abandon my own life to go live yours. But maybe you could write more about the trip. Why don’t you write about your other adventures with girls along the way. You can’t mean to tell me that I’m the only one whose pussy you’ve had your fingers in. You need to tell the story—the story that I want to hear, not the sanitized version you post for family and friends.
Can you do that, Ari? For me? Please?
Big wet kisses, baby.
15 August 2016
Three years on the road now. Well, I wrote about my adventures for Alice periodically, but I never got around to editing and posting them. After all, I write strong, character-driven romances and coming of age stories. It’s about the story, not about the sex. The story Alice wanted to hear was ... well, it was the story of the sex and the characters are the people I have known through my life. Alice is a very physical girl.
I kept putting off letting this story out because I’m really not the kind of guy to kiss and tell. And you have to understand that there are times that I forget what part of a story actually happened and what part I fantasized. As I told my daughter, Maddie (also a writer), some time ago, my characters are often more real to me than the real people I meet.
“Dad, Dad!” she said. “Back in the 1800s, life was hard and people worked in terrible conditions to make a pittance of a living.” Did she think I lived back then? “But at the same time dirty urban life was sapping the will to live out of people, opium dens became more common. Because people could go to the opium den and they’d live in the world in their heads for a while. That world was so much better than the reality they existed in. Dad, words are our opium.”
When did my daughter become so wise?
Then Alice convinced me to write and publish the story of my trip around the world. Seven Wonders of the World was like the crack in the dike. Pretty soon all these memories and stories came flooding out. When she finished reading the story this summer she started pushing me to write more about my travel the past few years as I wandered my way across the country again and again. And Alice can be very persuasive.
So, here are the further adventures of aroslav, the peripatetic author—Wonders of the U.S. Highways. There’s a lot of story and sightseeing in this account—kind of a travelogue through my life—but there’s an adequate amount of sex, even if it is slow at times. That’s what my life is like. And when I started writing about my adventures, it jogged my memories of some of the wonderful women I’ve known and loved in my life.
I get sidetracked a lot and—like the story of Carly, above—those memories from long ago become as important to me as the story I’m living in the moment. Bear with me. It’s my life. Based on the true story of my travels and my memories, only the names, places, and events have been changed to protect the innocent and to keep several wonderful women and a couple skanks from hunting me down.
The problem is that I’ve fallen in love with each of them.