They griped I was like a sea of ice. ‘Can’t you just be a little more extroverted? A tiny bit… The camera won’t bite, honey.’ they would always repeat, in endless sing-sangy voices. And I flipped my hair and gave them the glint in my eyes they had asked for. They claimed I was like a body without soul. I was doing my best, I honestly was. But when they would arrange the floodlights and zoom in the cameras I would automatically lose my identity. Every click flash was adding up and I ended each day just like those mannequins you can style any way you please. My eyes would lose all glimmer and the best they did was cover it up by extra-sparkling eye shadow. They barked I was a normal girl. ‘She ain’t got nothing special about her. She’s like the girl next door, there’s millions of her out there.’ I could hear them complain and bad mouth, but every time they would come to the conclusion that I was the best when the light was on. Professional all the way. They fussed I was like a book. You also never quite knew when you would reach your destination, you were exposed to the elements, and you were somewhat vulnerable. Much of my hitching was done while I was a hippie, some was done as a soldier, some done as a cowboy. All three had their constituencies on the highway, though they weren’t always the same people. Except of course the sexers, they found all three genres attractive. When I was a hippie I had beautiful long shoulder length blonde hair with a slim body, nice legs and nice ass. From afar I was told I looked quite a bit like a girl. I could flare my hips and project my crotch in a feminine way, which made me even more appealing to an oncoming driver. I think at times guys stopped because they weren’t sure of my gender initially, and when they saw I was a guy, said “Oh what the Hell, I’ll pick him up anyway.” Despite my good looks and skill at creating good first impressions hitching was not always enough to get me where I was going. I spent more than one.
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