Wonders of the U.S. Highways
Copyright© 2016 to Elder Road Books
Chapter 11: It’s Not About the Destination
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 11: It’s Not About the Destination - 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!
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
5 December 2014
I’d been in my little travel trailer for seventeen months and the year was drawing to a close. I camped after Thanksgiving down south of Tucson where I had absolutely no cell coverage and no Internet. I needed time to contemplate the lint in my navel and decide what I was going to do next. What had I accomplished when I ‘hit the road, Jack’?
I’d traveled 38,000 miles through thirty-six states and up into one Canadian province. I’d been to national parks and monuments, and some of the most beautiful and romantic places in the U.S. Most of them alone. In the not-alone times, I’d had seven lovers ranging in age from nineteen to fifty-five. But most of them had been for only a night or two.
What was the point?
A Year and a Half Ago: It’s About the Journey
I remember the first night I moved into my trailer. Maddie came out of the house in her pajamas and robe with fluffy slippers and knocked on the door. It was easy. For a few days, until I got the trailer stocked and everything moved into it, it was parked in the carport. She brought hot cocoa packets and a carton of milk. The first thing I’d moved into the trailer was my coffee mugs.
“So, Dad,” she began. She was using her most mature voice—the voice of reason. “What’s your goal? Are you out to discover yourself? Do you have a quest to see all the states? The National Parks? Old girlfriends?” We laughed. I pulled a bottle of crème de menthe out of the drawer that I’d designated as my liquor cabinet, although there was only a bottle of wine and half a bottle of scotch in it with the liqueur. I poured a little into each of our mugs with the cocoa.
“Well, sweetie, I don’t have a goal, I guess.”
“Not going off to get in touch with your inner being or something? What’s the point?”
“It’s not about the destination. It’s about the journey,” I sighed. “Sometimes you don’t need to have goal. The journey isn’t about getting from point A to point B. It’s about seeing what’s what along the way. When I pull out of the driveway on August first, I’m not even positive what direction I’m going.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Um...”
“I’m not going to let you just take off with no idea where you are headed until I know you are okay out there. I’ll take a week off work and fly back here from wherever we end up.” She was determined, and it wasn’t a bad prospect, either. I didn’t want her to feel deserted and I didn’t want her to be worried.
“In a week, we might still be in the State of Washington and I can just drive you home.”