When I was going to university I used to take off alone on weekend hitch-hiking trips. In those days hitch-hiking was much easier than today, people being less worried about crime. I guess my main goal on these trips was sexual adventure, although that seldom amounted to much. The sexual experience I still remember most vividly was far different from what I was looking for.
One Sunday evening found me outside a small town 200 miles away from campus, and needing to get back in time for a Monday morning class. I had been standing in the same spot for at least two hours without getting a single response to my sign and my radiant smile. When a car finally pulled to a stop, it was heading the wrong way. Inside was a man who looked to be in his thirties. He shouted across the road that he was heading into town to look up a friend, but if his friend wasn't there he would be coming back and would take me all the way to where I was going.
In what seemed a very short time he came back, heading the right way now. 'How are you?' he asked, as soon as we were underway. 'Fine.' 'How's this?' he said, putting his hand on my cock. Now I must explain that in those days, the early 1950s, college students didn't have the casual attitude toward homosexuality they seem to have now. 'Homophobia' was a real phobia among straight guys like me. We teased each other constantly about being 'queer,' and were worried about it privately, believing that a single experience could make you 'turn queer' at any time. So you can imagine my dilemma, not wanting to have anything to do with this obviously homosexual male, yet not wanting to be put back out on the road with zero chance of getting a ride. My decision was to let him do what he wanted with his hand, as long as he didn't get inside my pants. The kind of virginity-protecting rule common among girls in that era, but not common with boys. He proceeded to massage my prick expertly, finding the rim of the glans and soon making my prick bulge inside my tight-fitting shorts. But every time he reached for the zipper, I pushed his hand away. Meanwhile he kept up a steady line of talk, quizzing me on my sex life and coaxing me with 'Let me take it out. It feels like you've got a good one.'
If it is true, and I believe it is, that sex is 95 percent mental, I was going along on the other five percent. It was as if my mind was completely separated from what was going on below. I carried on a normal conversation, answering his questions freely, while down below my penis was living a life of its own. But suddenly I connected, with 'Oh my god, I'm going to come!' I swept his hand away, but it was too late. I zipped open my fly and tried to get my prick out of my jockey shorts, but it was too late for that too. Surge after surge of semen was being pumped out into my pants. By then the car had stopped. The man handed me a handkerchief. I got out and started cleaning myself off. He had got out of the car too and came around to my side with his cock out, masturbating frantically. I think he came, but it was too dark to tell.
When I had cleaned up as best I could, I got back in the car. I returned the soiled handkerchief, which he put under the car seat, it wasn't difficult to guess for what future use. All he said, however, was 'If you'd let me do what I wanted, you wouldn't have made such a mess.' We drove on in silence for many hours. Dawn was starting to break when we arrived. He made a feeble suggestion that I go to his hotel with him, but let me off at my rooming house.
The next morning's class was English Literature, and the lecturer brought up the question of whether Shakespeare was a homosexual. 'Of course, if you're a homosexual yourself you naturally believe he was,' the lecturer said. My ears instantly turned red, and maybe my whole face. For I had indeed assumed Shakespeare was homosexual. 'Does this mean I've turned queer?' I thought. It was a great relief when experiences over the next months convinced me this was not the case.