Jen a Girl a Car a Road getting Her Kicks on Route 66Chapter 10
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Jen: A Girl, A Car, A Road-getting Her Kicks On Route 66Chapter 6 free porn video
TULSA, OK
Only thirteen and a fraction miles of Route 66 used to pass through the "Sunflower State". I say used to because, in 1960, Old Kansas Route 66 was decommissioned and the entire mileage abandoned when the new Interstate system by-passed Kansas altogether. From the start of my trip in Chicago, I'd been skipping back and forth between the newer four lane Route 66 and the older versions. Since the Kansan abandonment was only three years old, I had no trouble finding and driving on it.
The Kansan thirteen odd miles of the original Route 66 ran across the extreme southeastern corner of the state, taking in Galena, Riverton, and Baxter Springs, before crossing into Oklahoma. Kansas was quite proud, and remains so, of their little piece of The Mother Road and not a bit happy to lose it.
In fact, Kansas had its own special Route 66 marker--a black "66" on a yellow sunflower. To further help visitors stay on track and on the old route, the state also painted the standard "66" federal badge and number directly onto the road in some places.
The introduction of the Will Rogers Turnpike in 1953 was the beginning of the end for the Kansas segment of Route 66. The turnpike made it possible, as an alternate, to drive directly from Joplin, Missouri to Tulsa, Oklahoma for quite some time before the Interstate system followed suit and thus, both new routes by-passed Kansas completely.
Cruising along in my split window Vette coupe, which you can read all about in the Chicago part of my story, I felt horny again. Damn, it'd only been a short time ago since that truck stop back in Missouri. I've told you before how much I like and need sex. But after my Missouri sexcapades, I really needed to take some recuperation time before my next serious roll in the hay. We'll just have to see.
About that time, I drove into Galena, Kansas, five-hundred and ninety miles past Go. Once more, my pre-trip planning and notes came to my aid as I thought about the history of the area. A lot of mining labor troubles had occurred here during the 1930's. I suspect there's a lot of history on that topic, but mining is not one of my interests. I kept driving.
Six miles further down the road I came to Riverton, Kansas, and a special object of interest. That object was one of the few remaining Marsh Rainbow Arch Bridges--this one across the Spring River. These bridges date from the 1920's and are of all concrete construction. Like all road lanes of the original road, the bridge floor was eighteen feet wide--two nine foot lanes.
Two main side supports, resting on piers, are in the shape of rainbow-like arches with spokes radiating downward onto more piers. They serve the dual purpose as supports and bridge railings. The origin of the bridge name is obvious.
There is a second such bridge that spans Brush Creek just north of Baxter Springs. Seeing at least one of the bridges was my major reason for visiting the Kansas section of Route 66. I took numerous pictures, of course. They are architectural beauties and the product of the civil engineer, James Barney Marsh.
Anyway, there was a temporary barricade to prevent vehicles getting out to the bridge. I'm not sure the bridge was used anymore anyway. So, I had to walk some distance to get to the bridge itself.
I got some pictures and moved closer. As I moved, I heard some noise, sounds, something, coming from a grassy bank across the road and at the foot of the bridge. I eased over that way, quietly and carefully.
What I saw, took my breath away. A naked couple was doing a sixty-nine on the grass. He was on the bottom--she was on top. My first impression was that neither was all that attractive. But that didn't seem to stop them from what they were doing. Click, click, click went my camera.
The middle aged guy was puffing already. The girl, a bit overweight, suddenly spun around and rose up. Click. She reached down and positioned his cock. Click. With a groan, she impaled herself. Click. Then she went to work in ernest. Click. Oh, hell--click, click, click some more as I moved around a bit for different angles.
I thought they were much too busy to notice me. But, I guess I was too much out in the open because the woman suddenly called out to me rather breathlessly and without breaking her stride.
"You could get better pictures in closer. Fact, why don't you just come and join us. Bert here likes threesomes."
Startled, I blurted out, "Sorry, I'd really love to, but I'm on a pretty tight time schedule today and can't afford the time. I barely have time to get the bridge pictures. I'll take a rain check, though."
She just grinned and returned her concentration to her fuck stick ride. I retreated. I really wasn't on a tight schedule, but I just didn't fancy joining those two for some reason. I returned to Swifty and headed back to the Mother Road.
Baxter Springs, six-hundred and three miles past Go, was once a key staging area for cattle being driven from Texas on the Shawnee Trail. The town was also the site of the Baxter Springs Massacre in 1863, when Quantrill's Confederate Raiders came to town. The Confederates captured an entire detachment of Union troops and then executed them.
Jesse James is alleged to have targeted the town bank later in 1876, but no substantial proof of such exists. But Henry Starr, the so-called "Cherokee Bandit," later did rob the bank in 1914. Henry was nephew to Sam Starr, husband of Belle Starr, "the Bandit Queen," made infamous by Richard K. Fox, editor of the National Police Gazette.
It was also there in Baxter Springs that I stopped at an area between sixth and seventh streets to take a look at historic old Fort Blair. The American frontier and the Indian wars are another special interest area of mine. Fort Blair, also called Fort Baxter, was established by Union troops in 1862. I knew that the raid by Quantrill's Raiders had massacred some Union troops here, including some Buffalo (Black) soldiers, but that is about all I knew.
And then, so help me God, it happened again. I was exploring and poking around some of the restored area of the fort. As I approached the end of an old building, a Black soldier in Union blues came around that corner. Without saying a word, that trooper challenged me with a leveled musket with a spike bayonet pointed right at my swinging boobs!
"Oh, my God," I yelped in surprise as my hand automatically rose to my mouth
With that, the soldier turned on his heel in a drill perfect about face and disappeared back around that same corner, out of sight before I could come out of my shocked trance. At last, I carefully peeked around the corner. The apparition was, of course, long gone.
Then I yelped in startled surprise a second time as a voice behind me quietly said, "Don't be alarmed Ma'am, if you just saw a Buffalo soldier. It's a common occurrence here."
It was the site administrator or ranger or whatever.
"God, that's two scares in less than ten seconds. Are there any more surprises coming?"
The ranger chuckled a "Don't think so," and then went on to explain, "After the Civil War, this old fort was abandoned while nearby Baxter Springs began to grow. Houses were eventually built over the former site of the old fort."
"That was a shame," I replied.
"Yes, well, the Baxter Springs Historical Society has just gotten interested in resurrecting old Fort Blair and has begun the purchase of houses sitting over the old site. However, according to one of the locals, the land and at least one of the houses, came with the ghost of one of those long ago heroic Buffalo soldiers."
"That must of been a surprise."
"Yes, it was. Allegedly, when one elderly resident was making negotiations for the sale of her house, she said, 'If you buy the house, the ghost goes with it.' The old lady went on to describe a dark man, wearing a military uniform. The soldier had not been known to cause any trouble, he just liked to show up every so often."
"That must of bee a bit disconcerting to some--like me."
"I'm sure it was. The real-estate agent, for one, was so frightened when she encountered the spirit, that she turned and fled and hasn't been seen since."
"Well, that ghost sure startled me. It happened so quickly I didn't have time to get scared. This isn't the first time I've had an encounter with a ghost on this trip. That's what's really beginning to frighten the daylights out of me, especially since such visions have never happend to me before. How many more, I wonder?"
"Well," replied the ranger, "If you're not intimidated, enjoy the rest of your visit at our fort. Meantime, I'll be around to answer any questions you might have before you leave."
"Thanks."
He was a damned good looking guy. Too bad he had a full shift left and I didn't have the time to wait around to attempt to seduce him. But I thought about it, and did stay around a while longer, until I'd seen all I was going to see. Miss Swifty rumbled back to life with a twist of the key and I pulled back out onto the hardroad.
There's much more history in this little corner of Kansas and this little piece of the Mother Road, but I'll leave that for you to discover. Just past Baxter Springs, I drove Miss Swifty across the sate line Into Oklahoma.
"Oklahoma--OK," in the words of the Rogers and Hammerstein musical, was the birthplace of the Mother Road in the actions taken by Tulsa's Cyrus Avery. It was also he who picked the famous double six symbol. I gave more detail on the birth of Route 66 earlier in my story.
Ironically, Oklahoma was also the first state to deal the Mother Road its first official deathblow when in 1953, the Turner Turnpike, later incorporated into I-44, was opened between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. That action by-passed about one-hundred miles of Route 66. In so doing, it dealt the first of many deathblows to the multiple business that serviced those closed sections of road, a pattern that would continue until the road and the businesses it supported were dead and gone.
The Will Rogers Turnpike between the Missouri border and Tulsa opened a few years later. It would be far from the last time that this would happen in the history of this unique road. In fact, in time, this major by-pass would lead to the total decommissioning of the entirety of Route 66 as other states followed suit.
There was just no stopping the federal government's new program to provide wide four-lane, straight-as-an-arrow, limited access highways across the nation. Slowly, section after section of the old road would be gobbled up and tossed on the garbage heap, until 1984, when the last segment of Route 66 was decommissioned and people thought it was all over. HA, Ha. Long live Route 66.
John Steinbeck sort of began the nostalgic revival of interest in U.S. Route 66 with the publication of his novel, The Grapes of Wrath in 1939. Just the mention of Route 66 conjures up in many, the vision of Oklahoma and the "Oakies" fleeing the dust bowl and the depression of the 1930's in their westward flight to California in search of "the better life." A quote from his book says it all:
:
"66 is the path of a people in flight,
refugees from dust and shrinking land,
from the thunder of tractors and
shrinking ownership, from the desert's
slow northward invasion, from the
twisting winds that howl up out of
Texas, from the floods that bring
no richness to the land and steal
what little richness is there. From all
of these the people are in flight, and
they come into 66 from the tributary
side roads, from the wagon tracks and
the rutted country roads. 66 is the
mother road, the road of flight."
The Mother Road has never really left the American consciousness since--not during its piece-by-piece dismemberment, nor in the years since its total decommissioning. New Route 66 museums continue to spring up. The road's nostalgic memories continue to grow unabated.
When I drove through on my 1963 trip, a fair amount of the old two lane route was still in use, though the newer four lane, unlimited access version was fast making it obsolete. And that was still before most of the Interstate system was built.
I wanted to drive on as much of Oklahoma's three-hundred-eighty to four-hundred miles of old 66 as I could find. Crossing the state line, I encountered the first small community--Quapaw at six-hundred and nine miles past Go.
Quapaw was another area of past lead and zinc mining. Not a great deal was left. I did have the need of another pit stop for both me and Miss Swifty, so I pulled off the road into a mom and pop gas station so common on the old road of the past.
As I walked back to Miss Swifty, a young stud was standing next to her, admiring her.
"Sharp car. She brand new?"
"Yes, she is. I just bought her a short time ago--in Chicago. I'm on my way to L.A. with her. I'm doing the Route 66 thing."
I noticed a cardboard sign leaning against his leg, but the back side was towards me. I couldn't read what was on the other side. He also wore a stuffed back pack. That wasn't the only thing that was "stuffed," by the way. Interesting.
"You hitchin'?"
"Yep. I'm headin' to Tulsa and the university there. I need to catch a ride pretty soon as I'm due back for a party there tomorrow night at my fraternity. By the way, my name is Bob."
"Jen, here. Well, it's only about ninety miles, but I'm taking the old portion of the Mother Road as much as I can, so it'll take me a bit longer than usual to get there. You're welcome to ride with me if you want."
"I'll take you up on that offer, Jen. A hot sports car and a gorgeous babe. How could I turn that down?"
"Oooh, flattery will get you everywhere, Bob."
I unlocked and said, "Get in, Bob, it's time we got moving."
Swifty growled into life at my turn of the key. Like a macho male, I shifted into first and couldn't resist showing off a bit. I spun a spray of gravel as I gunned Swifty onto the pavement. I got good rubber as I shifted into second, again with the shift to third, and yet again with the shift into fourth.
"Wow!" was all Bob could say in awe.
I had Miss Swifty up to 120 miles an hour in not much more than the blink of an eye--well, maybe two or three blinks. Swifty performed effortlessly, seemingly enjoying the the stretch of her "muscles".
"I'm truly impressed, Jen."
"With what?"
"The car and how you handle her. With you as a female as well."
"There's that flattery again, Bob. Careful, it might get you somewhere."
He chuckled with a bit of a smirk.
Bob was as gregarious as I. We began an almost nonstop conversation, swapping stories, joking some more, and just general bullshit. But we were also sizing each other up in the process. His eyes were as busy as mine--at least when I didn't have to watch the road.
The readers that have been with me since the start of my trip already know that I'm a twenty-three year old, natural red head. They also know I sport a handsome and quite ample pair of swinging boobs. Swinging because they're unfettered. I normally wear halter top, short shorts, sandals and no underwear--top or bottom.
I'm no Greek goddess, not by any means. Nor am I a ravishing movie starlet, but I'm not all that far from such depictions. If I do say so myself, I do turn male heads all the time, not to mention some female ones from time to time.
Bob was a typical, more or less, college stud in the near Adonis category. Tall, broad, handsome, and fully packed. At least he looked fully packed and as he eyed me over, the package he sported grew considerably. I don't think much more needs to be said.
A short six miles down the road brought us to Commerce, the home of Mickey Mantle. I'm not a baseball fan, so that was of little interest to me. Bob didn't even bring the subject up. He was interested in me.
More small towns, dead to near dead, went by: Miami, Afton, Vinita, and Foyil, until I drove into Claremore at six-hundred and Eighty miles past Go for a pit stop for me again. I'd been drinking Pepsi almost nonstop and you know what happens then.
Claremore is also the home town of the famous Will Rogers and has tons of memorials, museums, and memorabilia relating to him. I wasn't all that interested in that man any more than I had been with Mickey Mantle and Bob had a time problem, so we kept going.
Then I got an idea. I turned to Bob and asked, "Would you like to drive a bit? I need to relax a little."
"I sure as hell would like to get my hands on you, uh, that is, on your girl here."
Freudian slip? Whatever, I slowed and pulled over. We both got out and swapped seats. Bob pulled Swifty back onto the roadway and handled her very deftly and expertly. He accelerated swiftly through the gears to better than ninety miles an hour very smoothly. Typical male, I guess.
Now, driving on Route 66, even the more modern four lane version, took a bit more concentration than driving on the modern, Interstate replacement. Most roads, even four lanes, before the Interstates, were UN-limited access roads. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry's driveway or farm lane, or any other country road and highway, not to mention all streets and businesses in a town, had direct access to the the roadway. Each access point was a potential accident site. So, what I'd in mind doing next would require Bob to drive and keep his eyes off me a bit. Ha Ha. Dumb me. The road was momentarily free of traffic in the passing lane.
"Bob, pull up beside that semi ahead and stay even with the driver's window."
Bob nodded and smoothly added in power to quickly cruise up beside that big rig. As he eased up to the tractor window, I eased my right hand into my halter top and massaged my boobs. In that low Vette, I had to nearly hang out the window for the driver to see much, but see he did.
I pushed the halter up and exposed my boobs to swing freely in the fresh air as I tweaked and played with my nipples. The truck driver watched with a grin from ear to ear. Bob also looked. He looked so long and hard he nearly ran us into the side of the truck.
The trucker gave two blasts from his air horns as I let him look a little longer. Still facing the trucker, I said to Bob, "Hit it, big boy, lets go."
Swifty shot forward on down the pike, accelerating rapidly. When I turned around to look at Bob, I saw the waistband of his shorts was down low and the head of his cock was more than peeking out above it. Clear liquid was making the tip of his glans shiny. Far from taking Bob's attention away from me, I'd rather drawn it my way more than ever.
"Oh, did ole one-eyed Pete there see something he liked, maybe?"
"Oh, God, fuck," was his response.
I reached over that darned high center console, my bare boobs swinging away from my chest in the process, to drop my hand into his shorts and grab onto his throbbing cock. My stroking began slowly enough, but the tempo increased rapidly to a blur of motion. Bob was too aroused to hold out long. He suddenly erupted like a small volcano. Cum shot into the air and dropped back all over his tank top covered chest, his belly, and my hand on his dick.
"Feel better now?" I asked.
"Oh, God, fuck," was his only answer once more.
I still hadn't replaced my top, so Bob had a tough time deciding between watching the road or my swaying boobs. His still semi-erect cock remained peeking out at me. Increasing traffic made his decision for him. He had to watch the road more than me.
When he could breath normally again, Bob said, "My fraternity's having a big bash tomorrow night. I'm sure the men would enjoy having you around. I know I would. Will you come?"
Well now, the thought of a university fraternity house just chock full of young studs with raging cocks was quite an enticing thought. My answer was a forgone conclusion.
"I'd love to. What time?
"The buffet starts around five and the party goes on from there until..."
We drove on in silence until we neared Catoosa. I replaced my top and told Bob I wanted to stop and see the big, blue painted whale I'd read about. It's a walk in model that kids walk into through the whale's mouth and then climb a stairway to reach a slide that dumps them into a swimming area below. There was also a reptile zoo in a sort of Noah's Ark contraption. The place was a real tourist attraction.
After taking the requisite pictures, I said to Bob, "We have a lot of daylight left yet and I'm starved. Why don't we grab some stuff at a store and picnic in the country for a quick bite?"
"That sounds good to me. I'm half starved myself."
As we checked out, the kindly, middle aged, grocery store man asked, "Going on a picnic are you?"
"Yes," I answered, and almost as an afterthought asked, "Know any good spots to have one?"
With a decidedly mischievous look, he answered, "I think so, yes. It's only six miles east of here, but well worth the look see for your picnic. It's the old Timber Ridge Cemetery. You should be alright in broad daylight."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing. You'll be fine."
"Well, how do we get there?"
After noting the directions he gave us, I said, "Well, that's back the way we came, but six miles isn't too far to have to backtrack."
We picked up our sacked purchases and went back to Miss Swifty. We drove out on State Route 412 and found the place easily and quickly. We set up in the shade under a large oak tree. We didn't rush our picnic, but neither did we loiter overly long. Bob tried to get amorous, but I put him off by saying, "Not now, Bob, we have to get back on the road for now, but your turn's coming."
We packed up and got back in Miss Swifty. I brought her back to life and headed her back to town. We'd barely gotten underway when, out of nowhere it seemed, came this dark skinned little kid on a bicycle and we hit him, hard. The sound of the crash was terrible. I jammed on Miss Swifty's extra big racing brakes and screeched to an immediate halt. Bob and I piled out of Swifty like she was on fire and ran the short distance back to where we'd hit the bike. Goddamn it, no body--no bike!
"What the hell" Tell me this isn't happening yet again?"
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We walked in a daze, back to Swifty and her front facade. We found several deep scratches and a small dent in left corner bumper. There was also a few scratches in the paint of the fender that went deep enough to scratch the fiberglass body.
Once again, I cried, "What the hell? Those marks weren't there this morning. I swear they weren't."
I told Bob about the ghost experiences that had been happening to me on this trip. Apparently, this was another one. "And," I added, "they're scaring the shit out of me now. I'm not scared of the ghosts; I'm scared of what's wrong with me that I can see them. Am I crazy, psychic, or what?"
Even though I didn't want to take the time, Bob said we had to report the incident to the police. So, we drove back into Catoosa to the police station. Who'd believe a ghost story? I wondered. After we told our story, the officer just chuckled. For a third time, I asked, "What the hell?"
The officer just raised both hands shoulder high, palms outward towards us, and proceeded to tell us a story. According to this apparently locally well known story, a young Indian boy was struck and killed by a car while the boy was kneeling beside his bike there on the road. The boy was buried in Timber Ridge Cemetery in the first row, next to the gate at the bottom of the hill. Right near where we picnicked.
The story goes on to relate how, not long after the boy was buried, drivers began to claim sightings. They claimed that as they came over the hill, they would spot a young boy kneeling next to his bike and that they often had to swerve to miss him.
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