Dear Forum,
I'm a junior at a large Midwestern university. Last month I'm driving back from Spring Break and I've just gotten on the interstate when I see a young woman hitchhiking. Even from afar I can tell she's gorgeous, but as I pull to a stop I see she's a taller, bustier version of the actress Amy Smart. Total knockout. She's wearing this tiny little denim skirt and what I guess is called a halter top. It turns out her name is Charlotte and she's a sophomore at my school. She hops in and we settle back for the long ride back to campus.
She's not in the car two minutes when she starts complaining about how hot she is. She gathers the back of her honey-colored hair and asks me if I'll gently blow on the back of her neck.
"Umm, not while I'm driving," I say, keeping my eye on a Toyota Celica about four cars ahead that seems to be driving erratically. "But there are some moist towelettes in the glove box that are infused with lemon and witch hazel."
"It's just that I'm so hot," she says.
"Well, I'd put on the air conditioner, but it's just...well, once the compressor kicks in, my gas mileage goes to hell. Excuse my language."
"No, that's okay," she says, pulling her top away from her breasts and blowing a stream of air directly down her cleavage. "I like it when it's hot. But when I get hot, I get really wet."
"Well, that's just the body's cooling system," I remind her. "As your sweat evaporates..."
"No, I mean I'm really wet," she interrupts. "Even my panties are soaked."
And with that, she lifts her hips clear of the seat and starts skimming her underwear down her firm, tawny calves. She captures the waistband in her toes and slowly lifts her foot clear of the center console to bring the panties up to my face. (What is she thinking?)
I hold my arm out to arrest the progress of her calf, lest my vision be obstructed by her panties, but it's the garment tag that catches my eye.
"Oh, well here's your problem," I offer. "These are Lycra, a synthetic blend that doesn't wick moisture very well. You should really consider going with natural fibers, like cotton, for all your undergarments. That way, the skin can breathe and you're a lot less prone to yeast infections."
I assume she's heard me, but instead of acknowledging my sound advice, she just reclines her seat and puts her feet up on the dashboard. "Umm, I'm sure that's very comfortable," I caution her, "but I worry that you're inviting a Grade 2 hip fracture in the case of an accident."
"That's okay," she says, opening her legs ever wider. "I'm very limber, if you know what I mean."
Well, unless they've recently changed the definition of limber, of course I know what she means. What a weird question. Is she toying with me or something? "Be that as it may," I say quite firmly, "I think you're seriously underestimating the G forces involved in a collision."
"Trust me, I'm used to having my legs pushed back really, really far." As if to demonstrate, she places both her hands beneath her left calf and lifts her leg up until her toes are touching the headliner. "Look," she commands. "It doesn't hurt at all, not that I mind if it hurts a little."
Well, I don't know if she's aware of it, but at this angle I can see something I don't think she wants me to see, but which a gentleman would never describe. Also, her filthy little toes have left a smudge mark right next to the overhead light. Great. Thanks a lot.
Suddenly, Charlotte makes a big show of clambering between our seats to retrieve something from the backseat. As she reaches for her backpack, her breasts are practically smashed against my face. It's all I can do to lean back against my doorframe, lest she think I'm one of those losers who's always trying to brush up against women when they're in vulnerable positions. Those guys make the rest of us look bad.
She plops back in her seat and pulls a Bing cherry out of a produce bag. I can hear her sucking on the fruit, but my attention is diverted by a giant semi coming up way too fast on my tail.
Just as he starts passing me on the left, she says, "So, Dave, do you wanna take my cherry?"
"Umm...no," I say, glancing at my sideview mirror. "I just brushed my teeth. But thank you."
"Mmmm, that's a shame," she says. "I like to lick the inside, where it's all pink and juicy."
"Yep," I say, keeping an eye on the semi's progress, "and they're also a rich source of anthocyanins, which protect your artery walls."
I briefly flash my headlights, just so the truck driver will know it was safe to merge again into the right lane. It's a courtesy, yes, but I also think truckers like it when we adopt some of their safety protocols.
"Look, I can tie a cherry stem into a bow with my tongue."
"Hey, look at that," I say, genuinely impressed. "I guess if you could figure out a way to wrap packages with your tongue, you'd be all set, huh?"
Well, that's the whole story. Charlotte got out at the next rest stop and caught a ride with some frat guys who seemed kind of iffy to me. But I'll definitely look her up when I get back to school.
--D.S.,
Bloomington, Ind.
I'm a junior at a large Midwestern university. Last month I'm driving back from Spring Break and I've just gotten on the interstate when I see a young woman hitchhiking. Even from afar I can tell she's gorgeous, but as I pull to a stop I see she's a taller, bustier version of the actress Amy Smart. Total knockout. She's wearing this tiny little denim skirt and what I guess is called a halter top. It turns out her name is Charlotte and she's a sophomore at my school. She hops in and we settle back for the long ride back to campus.
She's not in the car two minutes when she starts complaining about how hot she is. She gathers the back of her honey-colored hair and asks me if I'll gently blow on the back of her neck.
"Umm, not while I'm driving," I say, keeping my eye on a Toyota Celica about four cars ahead that seems to be driving erratically. "But there are some moist towelettes in the glove box that are infused with lemon and witch hazel."
"It's just that I'm so hot," she says.
"Well, I'd put on the air conditioner, but it's just...well, once the compressor kicks in, my gas mileage goes to hell. Excuse my language."
"No, that's okay," she says, pulling her top away from her breasts and blowing a stream of air directly down her cleavage. "I like it when it's hot. But when I get hot, I get really wet."
"Well, that's just the body's cooling system," I remind her. "As your sweat evaporates..."
"No, I mean I'm really wet," she interrupts. "Even my panties are soaked."
And with that, she lifts her hips clear of the seat and starts skimming her underwear down her firm, tawny calves. She captures the waistband in her toes and slowly lifts her foot clear of the center console to bring the panties up to my face. (What is she thinking?)
I hold my arm out to arrest the progress of her calf, lest my vision be obstructed by her panties, but it's the garment tag that catches my eye.
"Oh, well here's your problem," I offer. "These are Lycra, a synthetic blend that doesn't wick moisture very well. You should really consider going with natural fibers, like cotton, for all your undergarments. That way, the skin can breathe and you're a lot less prone to yeast infections."
I assume she's heard me, but instead of acknowledging my sound advice, she just reclines her seat and puts her feet up on the dashboard. "Umm, I'm sure that's very comfortable," I caution her, "but I worry that you're inviting a Grade 2 hip fracture in the case of an accident."
"That's okay," she says, opening her legs ever wider. "I'm very limber, if you know what I mean."
Well, unless they've recently changed the definition of limber, of course I know what she means. What a weird question. Is she toying with me or something? "Be that as it may," I say quite firmly, "I think you're seriously underestimating the G forces involved in a collision."
"Trust me, I'm used to having my legs pushed back really, really far." As if to demonstrate, she places both her hands beneath her left calf and lifts her leg up until her toes are touching the headliner. "Look," she commands. "It doesn't hurt at all, not that I mind if it hurts a little."
Well, I don't know if she's aware of it, but at this angle I can see something I don't think she wants me to see, but which a gentleman would never describe. Also, her filthy little toes have left a smudge mark right next to the overhead light. Great. Thanks a lot.
Suddenly, Charlotte makes a big show of clambering between our seats to retrieve something from the backseat. As she reaches for her backpack, her breasts are practically smashed against my face. It's all I can do to lean back against my doorframe, lest she think I'm one of those losers who's always trying to brush up against women when they're in vulnerable positions. Those guys make the rest of us look bad.
She plops back in her seat and pulls a Bing cherry out of a produce bag. I can hear her sucking on the fruit, but my attention is diverted by a giant semi coming up way too fast on my tail.
Just as he starts passing me on the left, she says, "So, Dave, do you wanna take my cherry?"
"Umm...no," I say, glancing at my sideview mirror. "I just brushed my teeth. But thank you."
"Mmmm, that's a shame," she says. "I like to lick the inside, where it's all pink and juicy."
"Yep," I say, keeping an eye on the semi's progress, "and they're also a rich source of anthocyanins, which protect your artery walls."
I briefly flash my headlights, just so the truck driver will know it was safe to merge again into the right lane. It's a courtesy, yes, but I also think truckers like it when we adopt some of their safety protocols.
"Look, I can tie a cherry stem into a bow with my tongue."
"Hey, look at that," I say, genuinely impressed. "I guess if you could figure out a way to wrap packages with your tongue, you'd be all set, huh?"
Well, that's the whole story. Charlotte got out at the next rest stop and caught a ride with some frat guys who seemed kind of iffy to me. But I'll definitely look her up when I get back to school.
--D.S.,
Bloomington, Ind.
~TheDoc - ICQ7765825
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