Hitchhiking in Spain with Homosexual Drivers
By
Tom Thumb, Posted Nov 15, 2006
 This was how I dreamed of Andalucia. However... |
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A 24 hour ride with a junky from Ibiza had landed me in the middle of Spain under a fig tree. I chewed some fruit and stared out at the burnt fields of olive trees and wheat. It wouldn’t make a bad bed for the night. I put my bags in the shade and waited in the sun as Spanish drivers passed me with the contempt they reserved for gypsies, hippies and other itinerant scum.
A 24 hour ride with a junky from Ibiza
had landed me in the middle of Spain under a fig tree. I chewed some fruit and stared out at the burnt fields of olive trees and wheat. It wouldn’t make a bad bed for the night. I put my bags in the shade and waited in the sun as Spanish drivers passed me with the contempt they reserved for gypsies, hippies and other itinerant scum.
After about six hours my smile had long since faded and it was all I could do to keep on my feet, hoping beyond hope that someone would see me. Would they notice if I just passed out in the dust? How long would it take before they gathered my body?
A couple of Moroccans
pulled up and though I made them laugh by greeting them in Arabic, they were only going five minutes down the road. They bade me a cheery farewell and I reflected that now I was no better off and didn’t even have any figs to eat. Just as well, perhaps, as my stomach was beginning to gurgle uncertainly.
But before pessimism could settle in a car drove out of a local farm and the driver wound down the window.
‘Donde vas?’
‘A Granada.’ I told him and he waved me over.
The driver was a short, nervous looking guy with short hair and stubble. He kept throwing me uncertain glances so I did my best in my beginner’s Spanish to get the conversation going. He mentioned something about ‘cojones’ and I thought he was saying that I had ‘balls’ to be travelling alone like this.
It was only when he mimed with his mouth that I understood he was referring to oral sex.
‘3000 pesetas.’ He offered. About $20.
‘No!’
‘4000 pesetas.’
‘No, you idiot, I don’t care how much money you want to give me. No!’
He went quiet for a moment and I decided to try and change the theme of the conversation. An Englishman abroad must above all try to be discrete.
‘So what do you so for a living?’ I asked him in Spanish. He replied that he was a painter and decorator. I complimented him on his choice of trade to which he countered:
‘5000 pesetas?’
‘Cabron! No!’ I yelled, rapping the window with my knuckle, shocking him into silence.
The atmosphere in the car wasn’t the warmest at that point but I was making miles along the road and it had been a long day waiting on the roadside. Further conversation seemed to be pretty redundant and evidently my admirer was of the same point of view; glancing over at me he pulled his penis out of his pants and began to masturbate.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I groaned and he made a gesture with his mouth again in case I hadn’t quite caught the idea.
‘6000 pesetas?’
‘No!’ I shouted, hitting the window so hard that I hurt my hand. He went quiet again but declined to withdraw his penis and continued to yank away as we rolled through the Spanish countryside.
It was a shitty position to be in but rides were slim in Spain and I figured that if I could at least get a bit closer to Granada I might hit the coast by the following day. I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t managing to get much of an erection together but he kept pulling away in the hope that things might improve.
We kept on like that for the better part of an hour and I tried to keep my eyes fixed straight ahead. The stiff upper lip and all that. It was only as darkness fell that he began to talk about his chico in Granada who has a penis 12 inches long. With the onset of night the situation took on an edgier light and I began to get a little nervous.
‘Okay, aqui, stop the fucking car.’ I ordered him and he pulled over at once to the gas station I’d indicated. He seemed a little afraid of me.
I got out of the car and didn’t bother closing the door behind me. As I marched up the hill behind the gas station I could hear him pulling away, no doubt to continue jerking off at the thought of what might have been.
As I dragged my bags up the field to make my bed for the night I drew a few strange looks from the drivers filling up their tanks. All I could think was that no one had better say a fucking word.
