While driving north on Route One, we were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic around LA. The so-called expressway was slow and crowded with cars, trucks, motorcycles and buses. Horns were honking and exhaust was rising from cars that moved a few feet and then would not budge for five or so minutes. I thought about the people who drove this expressway everyday to work and then back home and imagined the number of hours they spent in their cars sitting in polluted traffic. This is insane. I bet they spend two or three weeks a year just sitting in their idling cars.
On both sides of the congested highway were glitzy malls, fast food restaurants, car dealerships, billboards advertising hotels, motels, lawyers, vodka, or beer, or whiskey, or soda and they all seemed to have pictures of glamorous, sexy women, holding a glass to their red lips and looking out with seductive eyes. Route Sixty-six had been littered with advertising billboards and florescent flashing lights, but nothing like the sprawling, crowded jungle of signs, buildings and cars around LA.
We drove past the Hollywood sign on the side of a high hill.
“Wow!” Carla leaned forward with her mouth wide open and looked up at it.
"That's probably the most famous sign in the world.”
"I can't believe I'm here. I love movies.”
“I do too, but there's a lot of junk made here that cost millions of dollars to make and it's all escapism.”
“I know, but I like romantic comedies. Sometimes they're silly, but I like to laugh.”
“I never watch romantic comedies—they're so unreal and stupid.”
“I always go with my best friend, Hannah. You'd like her.”
“I would, why?”
“She's fun. She's who I go to bars with. If my mom ever knew where I went with Hannah, she would have a heart attack.”
“Well, you almost gave her a heart attack thinking you were kidnapped.”
“I know, but that's what I mean, she doesn't know the real me.”
“I know the real you.”
Carla laughed. “That's for sure.”
“Tell me about the bars you go to with Hannah. I'm curious. I know you like looking sexy; you told me you like when guys look at you, but then you freeze and don't know what to do.”
“That's true, but I like going to those places with Hannah. I'm kind of her safety net so she doesn't have to go alone. We get all dolled up, you know tight dresses, lots of cleavage. You should see this mini-skirt I have. I feel so sexy in it. You'd get really hard if you saw me.”
“Yes, but if I came up to you and made a play for you what would you do?”
“I'd clam up. I'd blush like I did in the truck when you said you thought I was sexy, but if I have a few drinks, I loosen up.”
“Really, you didn't tell me that part.”
“I don't really like the taste, but you saw what happened when I drank at Anna's the other night. If the guy buys me a drink, it helps me relax and I can handle the flirting. I get horny.”
We were stuck behind a big truck and moving at a snail's pace--stopping, sitting, then starting before stopping again for several minutes—so I was enjoying learning more about Carla. It's funny how you think you know a person, and then they open up another part of themselves and you discover another layer. I remembered being in the truck with her going up to the hayfield and how different it was after I broke through and we fucked in the barn. I remembered her telling me she was insatiable. I didn't say anything when she said that, but I was intrigued and wanted to find out how insatiable.
“So tell me what happens when you relax and this guy comes on to you.”
“Why do you want to know?” She tilted her head and smiled coyly.
“Because I'm curious about you. I want to know who I'm going to Bolinas with.”
“I see.” She nodded, thinking of what to say. “Well, it all depends on the guy. Sometimes I tell him to please move his hand away when he touches my thigh, and sometimes, if I like his looks, I let him move his hand under my short skirt and let him know I'm interested.”
I was getting hard listening.
“Then what?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How hot he's making me and how drunk I am.”
My cock was bulging in my jeans.
Just then horns were blasting in the cars behind us and the truck in front of us was spewing fumes. Carla leaned back and I could see her nipples poking at her tight T-shirt.
“So if this guy makes you horny and hot, what do you do?”
“Like I said, it depends on what he's doing and how many drinks I've had.”
“Okay, so you've had a few drinks and he's got his hand under your skirt and he's rubbing your thigh, what would you do?”
When she saw the bulge in my jeans, she smiled, then bit her lower lip and moved her hand to my hard cock and started rubbing it.
“This is what I'd do and I'd whisper in his ear, “I want this.”
“And...”
“We'd go out to his car and I'd give him a blow job like I did to you in my bedroom, and then we'd fuck in the back seat.” She paused and saw the expression on my face and added, “It only happened once, usually, I chicken out, but I like turning guys on.”
Still, I was surprised to hear what she was saying. She wasn't as innocent as I first believed.
Just as Carla unzipped my jeans and reached for my cock, the truck in front of me started moving. I hadn't noticed until the car in back of me blasted his horn and jarred me back to where we were. She lifted her head and sat back in her seat. “To be continued,”she said.
Traffic started moving faster and I realized there had been an accident when we passed a tow truck and several police cars with their twirling blue flashing lights.
“So you're not the innocent good girl your grandparents and mom think you are.”
“Well, I'm not a slut, Josh. I just like going out with Hannah to a bar every once in awhile. What's wrong with that?”
“I don't think you're a slut. I think it's cool that you let the good girl who wants to be bad out.”
“It's not easy being one way with my mom. It was killing me. The pressure to become an accountant when that's not what I want to be and not marrying Allen...if they knew about my on-line life, they'd be shocked.”
“Really,” I said.
“You're finding out a lot about me, aren't you?”
“Yes, but I'm not surprised. I'm glad you're letting me know more about the real Carla.”
She took my hand and squeezed it .
“I'm glad you accept me. That's what I need...a man who accepts me and who loves to fuck as much as I do.”
I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed her fingers. After over an hour of bumper to bumper, we were able to drive smoothly now that we were away from LA. We drove past dozens of suburban housing developments where all of the houses looked alike and next to them, stood high rise office buildings that gleamed in the late morning sun. I knew at one time this was all farm land or small towns, but now was congested and ugly.
We listened to music on the radio. For awhile, Carla napped with her head against the window. We parked in a rest stop and went into the trailer for lunch. We were tempted to lay down on the bed and mess around, but decided we'd better keep going if we wanted to reach Bolinas before dark.
Carla took over the driving, while I rested. The radio was playing some rock and roll and I enjoyed watching her hands drumming on the steering wheel and bopping her head from side to side. She knew the words to songs I had never heard. She asked me if the music bothered me while I was resting. I told her it didn't and I liked watching her play the steering wheel.
While she drove, we were now in more open space. I looked out at huge farms with long rows of various vegetables growing as far as I could see. Every few rows had huge hoses spinning and spraying long arching gushes of water over the acres of crops. I remembered seeing the trickling Colorado River and knew it had been diverted to irrigate these fields. I was aware of the world's water crisis and saw how these ignorant practices came from greed and desperation. It hurt to think where it was all heading.
It was mid-afternoon when we stopped at a gas station about fifty miles or so south of San Francisco. It was a busy highway with strip malls, and all the fast food places on both sides of the road. It felt good to go into the convenience store and get a coffee and snack and not feel like I was a fugitive.
Next to the gas station we noticed a bar called “The Pussy Cat.” It had a big sign with a red blinking florescent sign that said, “Ten Gorgeous Girls, Nine Gorgeous Costumes.”
“That's a strip joint. What a funny sign,” I said.
“Let's check it out,” Carla said.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. I've never been in one.”
“Me either, but I don't believe you want to go into a strip joint. Why do you want to check it out?”
“I just do. Come on. I've always wanted to see what it's like.”
“I think we should keep going. We're three hours away. I want to get to Bolinas before it gets dark.”
“Let's check it out. Come on. Fifteen minutes and then we'll go.”
I reluctantly said yes and we drove the truck and trailer to the bar next door and parked off to the side. The parking spots in front were all taken with a variety of cars, pickup trucks and motorcycles. Some of the cars were definitely high end ones. I noticed a red Porche and several shiny black BMWs. The sign on the door said No Cover Charge.
“I could go for a beer,” I said when I opened the door.
It was dark inside, but we could see the brightly lighted stage with a long metal pole in the center and a dancer in a skimpy costume holding it with both hands, arching her back with the pole between her legs. She was moving to the sound of a wailing saxophone and an insistent drumbeat. A long bar was on one side and half of the tables were filled with a variety of men, mostly in their forties or fifties, and a few women dressed in tight dresses, showing a lot of cleavage. I was certain they were prostitutes. Two waitresses wearing tight black shorts, tank tops and cat ears on their heads, carried drinks. It was crowded for an afternoon.
We found two stools and ordered two drafts from the bartender—a woman with bleached blonde hair, probably in her fifties wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans. I couldn't help but chuckle at the small cross that hung just above her cleavage.
We clicked glasses and faced the stage and watched the woman with the pole between her legs, sliding up and down with her back arched and her long black hair almost touching the floor, while her large breasts sat on her chest like balloons. She looked out at the audience of men--some wearing expensive looking suits, others in t-shirts and jeans and, at one table, four young, drunk sailors in their starched white uniforms who were watching with their tongues hanging out. One of the women wearing a red dress sat on an old man's lap and played with his white hair and licked his ear. Another was leaning against a bald headed man with a mustache. I could see her hand was between his legs. Several tables were at the edge of the stage and one of the men threw money, while the others sat staring up at the dancer with their eyes and mouths wide open. One man yelled, “Show me your tits!” Another yelled, “Ride my pole!”
I finished my beer and glanced at Carla watching the dancer, while I was watching the men and thought how desperate for sex they must be to come to a strip joint in the afternoon to gawk at a sexy woman earning money by tantalizing them.
“See enough,” I asked Carla.
“Yes, this is kind of weird, but I wanted to see it.”
“We live in a sex-starved culture. Why do you think pornography gets more hits on the internet than any other sites?”
Carla didn't answer.
“And women are no different than men,” I continued. “Most of these men are probably married, or were married and come here to watch a sexy, practically naked woman dancing with a pole between her legs, but women are no different.