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from A Squandered Life / Disneyland '68
Disneyesque.... (hey, the guy took me to Disneyland).
Some time and some rides later, I found myself just outside Los Angeles when I got a lift from a chubby bearded guy in a Porsche. He was very friendly and super chatty. He asked if I was hungry and took me to a diner not far from Malibu Beach. We stuffed ourselves with junk food and carried on chatting. It was getting late so he asked if I had a place to stay the night. I hadn't so he offered his.
Somewhere out in a midly hilly suburb we pulled up in front of a fairly nondescript bungalow with it's own garden and driveway. Inside it was more like a beach house than a proper home, but it was comfortable enough. He showed me a bed in a little cupboard of a room and said, “but my bed is much larger and more comfortable and we can share if you'd rather.” I said no, thanks, this was fine and threw my bag in there and got ready for bed.
I was half asleep when he re-appeared, completely naked, leaning casually on the door frame. He said he was concerned that I might bump my head on the shelf just above the bed and asked was I sure I wouldn't rather share his. I recall looking over my shoulder, blearily taking in the sight of this rotund hairy naked figure leaning in the doorway, saying, “No thanks”, and turning back to go to sleep.
In the morning, without any reference to his nocturnal shenanigans, he asked if I'd ever been to Disneyland. I said, ”Well, no, actually.” He offered to take me. I was thinking of getting out of there, but here I was in some unknown part of suburban LA without a clue as to how to get back on to the coast road which had long since disappeared into the tangled morass that was the city's road network. As if he'd been reading my mind he said, “I can drop you the other side of town afterwards if you want.” I thought, gee, Disneyland, how could I refuse.
And sure enough, he took me to that cheesey place and I saw the wonders of Fantasy Land and Adventure Land and the rest of it. It was gratifying in the sense that I knew I would never have to go back there again. And true to his word, he took me to the south end of town and bought me another meal at a beachside diner.
We even went swimming. Or at least I did. He watched as I went out into the waves, and as I came ashore he asked if I minded if he took some photos. I thought, well, why not (hey, the guy took me to Disneyland). I even hung from some rings on some beach climbing apparatus, with him snapping away. Somewhere out there that guy may still be getting his jollies from those snaps. In due course we said manly farewells with a manly shake of the hands and he clambered back into his Porsche, waved, squealed off back into the sprawling city, and I started trudging south again.
In fact, most of the rides from then on were from guys who either propositioned me or offered me a joint (never both, so far as I can remember). The latter I accepted and puffed like a pro. The former I declined politely and was soon deposited back on the road.
One nice but nervous young guy said to me, “How come you didn't get worked up when I asked you?” I couldn't think of a sensible answer before he continued, “Some guys get really angry and I have to be prepared to defend myself.” I looked over as he reached down by his far side and produced a gun. “Oh,” I said as he showed it to me briefly and tucked it away again. A little while later he said, “Do you mind if I drop you off now, because I really need to find a guy to get it on with.” Sure enough, there I was back on the roadside as he executed a U turn and, with a wave, shot off back the way we'd come.
© 2013 Deacon Martin