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He thought for a moment. "Yes?"

"Well, I think I just answered it. As far as you'll take me...."

--------------------------------------------------------

"How far are you going?"

The smiling eyes that popped up between the headrests in front of me were middle-aged, the hair was graying, the voice was soft. I lay down my book. "All the way, I'm afraid. Two days of this..." - I extended my hands and gestured around the bus.

He smiled sympathetically, and sang a line of a Simon & Garfunkel song. "'Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike...' sorry; before your time, I expect."

"I know it," I assured him, and sung the next line to prove it. "Oldies radio never forgets."

"You look too young to be listening to that. I'd have thought Duran Duran..." he pronounced it Durran Durran... "was more your style." I shook my head, and changed the subject. I really didn't want to get into a conversation about pop music with someone - what, twice my age? "Where are you heading?" I asked.

"Oklahoma City. It's my son's birthday on Monday, and his mother thought it'd be nice..." he trailed off. "I haven't seen him for three years, so it's going to be quite the event." A silence hung between us. In a few hours time, I'd probably be glad of somebody to talk to, but right now, I couldn't think of any response whatsoever. I glanced longingly down at the novel I'd been reading, decided it would be just too rude to pick it up again, and feigned a yawn. "I think I'm going to try and catch a little sleep. It's been a hectic day."

I stretched to switched off the reading light above my head, fashioned a pillow from my jacket and leaned against the window. Two days. Why hadn't I saved up for a plane ticket, like I originally planned to?

I was 18 years old, and I was three hours into my first ever solo road trip, halfway across the country to see some family friends in Albuquerque. Actually, it wasn't quite solo... my aunt Jean and uncle Barry; my father's sister and her husband... would be joining the same bus in Springfield, but that was 24 hours away. I had my book, I had my journal, I had my Walkman - hey, I even had some Durran Durran! But I did wonder whether any of them could keep me from going completely ga-ga, long before I met up with Jean and Barry.

I counted out the rest-stops: Pittsburgh, Dayton, St Louis - the guy in front of me was right, I was really off to see America and, deep down, I wondered if that was why I chose to bus it, rather than take the easy way out and fly? Everything is so fast these days, nobody seems to have the time to actually sit back and enjoy anything, least of all travel. It was just one airport lounge after another, with a couple of hours of recirculated air in- between times. The bus might not be the most comfortable way of getting around (although it wasn't uncomfortable), but at least once it was over, I could say I'd done it. I had seen the country as something more than a blob of green from 30,000 feet.

I drifted; awoke with a start as the bus halted and the driver introduced Pittsburgh. It was 5.30 in the morning, and we were here for an hour. "It's hard to find something to do in Pittsburgh for an hour in the daylight," the man in front turned and said. "Whatever do they expect us to do here at the crack of dawn?"

"I just want to stretch my legs," I said. "A coffee, a hot meal..."

"Mind if I join you?" he asked; and then, "but say ‘no' if you do, really. I know what it's like traveling alone, sometimes you just really get into the rhythm of it, and couldn't care if you never spoke to another soul again."

"Oh, I'm not that far gone," I laughed. "Please." And besides, I thought, if I don't sit with him, you can bet your life that one of the other passengers will join me instead, so it might as well be someone who doesn't look too shabby. Or shady. Another line from that song came to mind... "she said the man in the gabardine suit was a..." well, there's a potential psycho-killer, there's a possible pervert and there, more than likely, is an escaped crazy-person. No spies, though. I expect Paul Simon caught a different bus.

We talked while we ate; or, rather, I talked, he listened, breaking in occasionally with what turned out to be some very well-judged remarks and observations. The faintly patronizing air I'd detected earlier ("Durran Durran" - for some reason, that had really bugged me) was gone; in its place, there was a sweet shyness, a polite warmth, a 36-year-old travel agent named Bryan, whose marriage had gone south... literally... when his New Yorker wife ran off with an Okie five years ago, and who now shared a Manhattan apartment with two cats and his sister.

And then there was me, chattering away about anything and everything - school, parents, boyfriends... I may not have squeezed much into my 18 years on earth, but I'm sure he suffered through every last detail of it and, looking back, I still cannot believe that he didn't just run out of the cafeteria, screaming. I mean, did he really care what Jenny said to Judy, about how Sandra did this and then Sandra found out and... on and on until, I suddenly realized, the hour was up and I hadn't even thanked him for paying for my sandwich. And that was another conversation, as we walked back to the bus, about how my loser boyfriend (ex-boyfriend, I decided; I was going to dump him as soon as I got home next week) never paid for anything and, half the time, acted as though I should be paying for him....

Again, looking back, if I was him I'd have taken a seat as far away from me as I could. But he dutifully escorted me up the aisle to the same seats we'd vacated, settled into his and then turned to me with an urgent hiss. "Don't look now, but there's a pod of whales heading straight towards us."

I looked down the aisle. He was right - struggling to squeeze their way up the bus, a family of four that could have passed for a crowd was zeroing in on the only empty seats in sight; one next to him, one next to me, and two across the aisle.

"Quick," he continued. "Shall I jump in beside you?"

I giggled. "Please!" I shifted my bag onto my lap, as he made a half-dash, half-leap, out of his seat and in alongside me. "It's okay, we're together," he said as the younger male whale paused beside us. "You should have that one."

The whale's eyes narrowed, and I said a silent prayer that I'd decided to stick with Bryan. It didn't say a word, but disappointment was scrawled all across its face... "I wanted to sit with the pretty little chickie... I wanted my fat, sweaty legs against hers for the next 12 hours...." I mouthed a silent "thank you" to Bryan, swore to myself not to chatter any more, and launched straight into a childhood memory of a drive up to Niagara, with an incontinent grandmother leaking pee the whole trip.

The sun was beginning to rise, a wan light that bathed the inside of the bus with a brittle red glow, and I was surprised to find myself so wide awake. The coffee obviously did the trick. Bryan, however, was fading... watching out of the corner of my eye, I could see his eyes closing, his head nodding, and then jerking upright again. "Tired?"

He nodded. "Getting there."

"If you want..." I patted my shoulder. "It's a bit bony, but...."

He smiled. "Thanks, but I'm okay."

Oh. I must have looked away a little too quickly. His hand was suddenly on mine. "No, I didn't mean it like that... assuming that's how you think I meant it...."

There was a hint of concern in his voice, the awareness that, whatever he thought he was saying, I was hearing something else. And it was weird, but just picking up on that concern gave me a sense of... I don't know how to describe it, a cross between incredible power, overwhelming tenderness, and absolute confusion as my mind struggled to work out what to do with it.

I felt as if I should rise up, the Earth Mother scooping her children to her breast, to punish their misdeeds with unconditional love. But how do you do that when you're a 18-year-old virgin, and the child is a man more than twice your age? In the same position today, it would be easy. But then?

I reached out a hand to touch his arm; his hand folded onto my fingers. "I'm sorry," he said. "Nerves... to be honest, I'm not looking forward to this weekend at all."

"You still have feelings for your wife?" I ventured.

"Oh God, no. But Edgar..." - that was his son. "It's going to be hard seeing him, knowing he's being raised by another man."

"Yes, but you're still his father," I replied, wondering where this sudden burst of wisdom came from. "And he knows it. You're going to have a wonderful time."

He smiled and took my hand; squeezed it, then let it fall. It landed on his lap, but for some reason, I didn't remove it. Neither did he. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. "You're going to make some lucky guy very happy one day, I can tell," he whispered.

One day. How about today? I kissed him back, only I went for his lips. There was a moment's hesitation, and then I felt him reciprocate. One arm encircled his neck, the other clasped his back; I felt his arm squeeze between my body and my back rest and, as I jogged forward, my knee collided heavily with the seat in front of me.

There was a rustle as the whales were disturbed. "He's old enough to be her father," a disapproving voice whispered, and I opened an eye to see two fat, florid faces staring at us. I broke the kiss. "Yes, I suppose you are, aren't you daddy?" I asked; grinned broadly as our audience turned furiously back around, then returned to Bryan's lips... his tongue... his mouth.

When you're young, you can make out for hours without things ever progressing especially far. Even if you want to "do it," there's always something to stop you - your parents might walk in, the phone might ring, you're not that sort of girl, whatever: I know, because I'd used all those excuses at one time or another, and the boys I was with accepted them, because they shared the same fears themselves.

Only once... well, once-and-a-half... had things gone any further; the first time with a boy named Tommy, who showed me his penis when we were 14, and dared me to touch it (I did, but I washed my hands thoroughly when he'd gone); and once a couple of weeks ago with Billy, my boyfriend (ex-boyfriend), who somehow unzipped while we were kissing in his car, wrapped my hand around a thin, pink twig, and made an awful lot of noise and fuss about something that really didn't take that long. But Billy was just a kid. I was with a man now, and I knew instinctively that the ground-rules had changed dramatically. I just wasn't sure how.

I let my hand slip from his back to his side, and then to his thigh. His jacket was bundled up on his lap; nervously, my fingers darted beneath it and began searching.... He broke away from my lips, his eyes posing a question that I really couldn't understand. I took a shot in the dark. "It's okay, no-one's watching." And then, "I have done this before, you know." Once. For 20 seconds... okay, maybe 30, if you count it going soft again. He eyes remained fixed on mine; I broke the moment by kissing him again, and renewing my hunt down below.

What was I expecting to find? I don't know. Something I could recognize from past encounters, a thicker-than-usual marker-pen that twitched when I rubbed it, and made a damp splodge on the car seat when it was done. But this wasn't it. My fingers felt its warmth first, pumping through the fabric of his pants. Then they encountered its bulk, its thickness, its length.... They scrambled around, but there seemed to be no end to it; even when I lay my palm flat against it, there were vast lengths at either end that remained untouched.

Bryan's breathing was more urgent now; it was obvious, even in my innocence, that whatever else may have been going through his mind had been well and truly wiped away. Still groping in the dark, literally and figuratively, my fingers sought out the zip of his pants, tugged at it, then slipped inside the opening. I met the thin fabric of his briefs; withdrew and tried again, fumbling with the button of his waistband, freeing it, and then plunging my fingers straight down the front, to confront the beast within.

Bryan shifted in his seat; his lap was still buried beneath his jacket, but his pants had slipped down a little... and just enough to free his cock, so that it appeared to hover upright in my hand. I squeezed it, then massaged a little with my fingers, trying to recreate what I'd done to Billy's, and feeling somehow surprised when Bryan's did not produce the same abrupt reaction. I broadened my grip, tried to make a fist around him, felt my heart pounding as I realized that my fingers could barely touch my thumb. And this was supposed to go where? I don't care how lubricated a girl gets, I couldn't imagine ever taking something this huge inside me.

I felt his hand join mine, gently wrap around my wrist, begin moving my hand up and down. I followed his lead, amazed at how easily his flesh seemed to roll with my movements and how, as my own muscles relaxed, he seemed to fit more readily into my fist.

Outside the window, America continued to flash by; at the back of the bus, somebody lit a cigarette... I wondered, for Paul Simon's sake, if they kept it in their raincoat, or if it was their last one. And my hand kept rubbing, up and down, up and down.

I wanted to raise the jacket and look at it, to see what I was doing. But Bryan was leaning forward slightly, his arm holding the edges down, masking the brisk motion of the cloth that my wrist and his prick were pounding against.

He whispered in my ear. "I wish we were anywhere but here."

"Why? What would you do?"

He chuckled. "What would you like me to do?"

Oh God, don't ask me! "Whatever you'd like," I answered unhelpfully, and hoped he'd pick the conversation back up. He didn't, so I jumped back in, my heart pounding in my throat. "Tell me what you're feeling right now."

"Your hand. Your beautiful tiny hand, wrapped around me, pumping me..."

"Pumping what?" I desperately wanted him to say the words... the "dirty" words... words that nobody had ever said to me in this context before; something that I could take away in my mind, to dream about when all this was just a memory. "Pumping my cock," he whispered.

"It feels good," I murmured. "It feels so good..." - and it did, hot and hard in my hand, so heavy that I was sure I might drop it if I didn't concentrate all my strength, all my energy, into holding it upright. My wrist was getting tired, but I didn't care. All that mattered was the massive fistful of man that I was pulling and pushing, the sensuous rolling of the flesh, the deceptive softness that melted into a rock hard center beneath my fingers.

I desperately wanted to explore some more, to touch the balls that lay beneath, but which I only brushed with the edge of my hand on the downstrokes, the super-sensitive tip that we'd all seen rudely caricatured on the walls in the locker room at school, but whose actual mechanics... even purpose... was nothing more than a few dry lines in the biology text books. I wanted so much, but didn't know how to tell him, could not find the words... and suddenly, there was no more time in which to search for them.

"Faster," he breathed, urgent in my ear, and suddenly the hot stiffness that I clutched in my palm was joined by an even hotter wetness that seemed to wash over my knuckles, trickle down my hand... instinctively, I pulled away; equally instinctively, his hand pressed me back. "Don't stop... milk me dry."

I resumed my frenzied pulling; his entire length was wet and sticky now - and his jacket must be ruined! But his erection was receding, shrinking in my hand, until the proud rod of a few minutes ago felt like nothing more than a mass of limp dampness. I held onto him for a moment more, as his breathing returned to normal and I felt his body relax against me.

I withdrew my hand and looked at it. It was wet, a thick white goo that trickled slowly down my fingers; I wanted to raise it to my face to sniff it (tasting it had never even entered into my vocabulary at that time; I'd have to wait another couple of hours for that curiosity to raise its head), but I didn't. Instead, I wiped my hand against the back of the seat in front of me; heard the whale exhale a noisy tut, sit forward and then slam itself back into its chair. But I didn't care.

Beside me, Bryan was already buttoned back up again, the jacket now hanging off the edge of his seat, and his lap a picture of tranquility. He kissed me once more. "You're a wonderful girl. But you probably already know that."

I giggled. "Well, not for the things you might be thinking about. I've only ever done that once before, and ... well, it was very different."

He smiled broadly. "Well, I think you're wonderful, and that was wonderful as well. And maybe, at some point, I'll get the chance to reciprocate."

"Oh, I do hope so." I still shuddered fearfully at the thought of his cock pushing into me. But his fingers? That was another matter entirely. I could feel my wetness against the crotch of my jeans, the warm juices that would suck his hand into my pussy. "Well," I said, glancing at my wristwatch, "we'll be in Columbus pretty soon, but after that there's no stops until we get to Indianapolis. And that's hours away. Maybe I should change into a skirt at the rest-stop."

He nuzzled my neck. "I think that's a wonderful idea. And, if you forget to put your panties on when you do...."

His hand lay on my thigh; I crossed my legs and held it there, then kissed him on the mouth. "I think you just read my mind."

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