Halfway

"I don't understand why I can't stay with you in Philadelphia," I said, trying to keep the whine out of my voice. Of course, I knew precisely why I couldn't, but I wanted him to say it. I wanted Larry to clear the air and admit to me that he had a family to go to in Philadelphia. I don't know what I'd do then—or what he'd do with the truth out in the open—but I was tired of his evasions. "You had no trouble with me staying with you in Harrisburg. If you don't have a family you don't want to know about me in Philadelphia, why would that be different from Harrisburg?"

That he had no trouble with me staying with him in Harrisburg wasn't exactly true either. We'd been in one of those small one-bedroom transient apartments at a Homestead Suite near the state capital complex, where he'd kept me pretty much locked down and he didn't bring anyone back to. I could understand that. He was an aide to some sort of important Pennsylvania state senator, and I was a rent boy he'd lured off a pole in a club. But it isn't like he'd just shown up at the club occasionally to take me out for a spin. We'd lived together for the two months of the spring legislative session.

"I told you, Angel," he said, the knuckles of his hands on the steering wheel white as we drove on I-81 from Harrisburg toward Philadelphia and his voice showing the tension as well, "I don't have a permanent home in Philadelphia. I stay with my parents. I hardly can take you there. I'll get a room for you somewhere."

A room somewhere. I almost snorted at that—and at the obvious lie that he was living with his parents when he was in Philadelphia. Still, it had been a small victory that he'd agreed to take me back to Philadelphia at all. He could have left me in Harrisburg—even have said he expected me to be there ready to be locked up in a hotel suite for him to play with when he came back for the fall legislative session. Fat chance of that. Although, who knows what I would have done. I think the club would have taken me back. I think I was a crowd pleaser when I was there—something different than the usual dancer rent boys. There were those who were turned on by half and half—halfway there, I thought of it. The boobs had been done, pretty much just buds but still a handful. I doubted I'd go further than that.

And nicely sensitive tits they were too. That's how, back in Harrisburg, Larry had cut off any discussions about his living arrangements in Philadelphia. Embracing me from behind, both of us on our knees on the bed. Larry running his hands up under the hem of the silky slip he liked me to wear, until he could cup and squeeze my breasts. Nuzzling my neck with his lips and then stifling my questions by possessing my mouth. French kissing me as he entered me with that big dick of his that always made me melt.

Chances were good that even if he admitted to me that he had a wife, two children, a dog, and a cat waiting for him in Philadelphia, I would be content with sitting in a small hotel room, waiting for the chance to have that dick of his working inside me and his hands squeezing my tits—just his; not a succession of drunken louts. But the evasions were driving me wild.

"Look, Larry, if you have a family in Philadelphia, just—"

"Oh, for the love of Christ, could you just get off that? Here, I'm pulling off the highway to get gas. This is the halfway point between Harrisburg and Philadelphia."

"Good," I said, as he nosed the Buick onto the off ramp. I barely caught the name of the turnoff, but laughed when I saw that it was a place called "Halfway." Not much of a place, though, just a few buildings on either side of the bridge over the highway. One of them, off to the south, was a gas station, though. "I have to take a piss and do something about this chipped nail anyway," I said. I looked down at my lilac-colored nails and the little chunk out of the index finger nail on the right hand.

"I'll just be a jiffy," I cheerfully chirped, as Larry stopped at a pump and I took up my purse and opened the passenger door.

"Take your time," he answered, his voice showing that he was still pissed at my wheedling at him on what we were driving into in Philadelphia. "Take all of the time in the world," he repeated, letting the words come out in little puffs of relief of tension.

I should have paid more attention to what he said—and the way he said it. When I returned from the ladies room, the Buick wasn't standing at the pump. It wasn't parked over at the side, either. And I looked across the road to a greasy diner with semitrailers parked next to it and to the small strip motel beside that, one with the sign Halfway Diner and the other with the sign Halfway Motel, and still there was no Buick.

Then I looked back at the pump. The small duffle bag with some of my stuff in it was sitting next to the pump. My gaze went to the gas station window then, where I saw two guys, one thin and young and the other burly and not so young, staring at me like I was the afternoon entertainment just about ready to give them a show.

I walked over, perched on the duffle bag, and lit up a cigarette, just like I knew where Larry had gone and that he'd be back in a few minutes. Inside, though, I doubted that Larry was coming back for me. This was typical Larry—running out in the middle of what was not even an argument.

* * * *

"Uh, miss," and then as I turned my head toward the gas station building, the voice adjusted to, "Um, sir."

The younger, thinner of the two men who had been watching me from the station window was approaching me. He had a cooking pot, with lid, in his hands, holding the pot's handle with one hand and the pot lid with the other. I had the sensation of him hunting for his dinner and stalking something to trap in the pot by scooping the prey up. He was much to the same age as I was—perhaps just shy of twenty—and seemed embarrassed in approaching me. He wasn't exactly ugly, but he was scrawny, with a bad case of acne, and looked beat down.

His problem with gender identifying me was natural. From the back I could be taken as a woman, especially if my painted nails were in view, as they were just now, as I was still worrying the split nail. I was holding my lit cigarette out, supporting that arm with my hand on the elbow—sort of a Bette Davis pose, which I cultivated. And my hair was curly, full of body, with lighter blond highlights, and descended to my shoulders. It was one of my best features with men when I was having sex; they loved to run their hands through my hair.

When I turned, though, the possibilities skewed toward the male. I wasn't wearing facial makeup. When I did, I could easily pass as female. And my loose flannel plaid shirt and worn jeans weren't a help in discerning sex. The shirt was loose enough to hide my breast projection. And I wasn't built big enough to noticeably fill out a basket.

"Yes?" I responded, giving him a smile, which made him blush. He was approaching me in jerks and starts. Looking past him, I could see the older, hulkier man standing in the window. He was much more like the men I usually encountered and serviced, and the expression on his face, although quizzical, could, I think, quickly go to interest if I vamped him. I had no intention of doing that, of course, but I sensed my vulnerability—and probably abandonment—and needed to keep all of my options open.

It was then that I realized what was missing. I was sitting on my duffle bag, but I'd also brought a suitcase. Nearly all of my clothes were in there. Thank god that my makeup kit was in the duffle bag. "Shit," I exclaimed.

"Excuse me? I'm sorry. It's just that—" The young man had taken a step back and was withdrawing into himself. Visions of turtle and shell ran through my mind.

"Sorry," I quickly said. "It's not you. I just thought of something unfortunate." I had to adjust my voice to a lower register than I had started in midsentence, thinking that it might be best to be male for the moment. "I'm sorry, I'll move from the pump if a car comes up. I'm just waiting for my ride to come back."

"It's just that . . ."

"Just what?" I asked.

He pointed to my lit cigarette and then to the pump. "A spark could set off an explosion."

Ah, the stealthy approach explained. "Sorry, I'll put it out." I started to rub it out on the sole of my loafers, but this sent the young man into panic.

"No, please," he exclaimed. As he did so, he held the pot out.

Ah, that explained too. I gingerly put the cigarette in the pot and he slammed the lid down like he was the hero of the bomb squad. The town was saved. My hero. I gave him another smile. I guess I could suck him off, but he hardly looked the type who would be much fun in a fuck. My eyes went to his crotch, but I couldn't tell. The jeans were baggy. Now the hulk in the gas station window . . .

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. "It doesn't look like—"

"No, it doesn't look like he'll be back soon, does it?" I said, with a resigned sigh. "Is the diner across the street any good?" I said that as I stood and lifted the duffle bag. But before he could answer, I exclaimed another "Shit!" as the seam in the bottom of the duffle gave way and out spilled most of the contents. Some of the contents were sex toys, which caused the young man to blanche, retreat a step, and look totally embarrassed.

They weren't his sex toys being revealed, though. I downgraded the possibility that he could be any use to me in exchange for servicing. The hulk in the gas station window, on the other hand, was sporting a big grin.

I turned the duffle over and scooped the escaped contents back in it.

"It's the best diner in town." The guy at the pump said in a meek voice. And then he laughed, releasing the tension in the air. "I guess you'd have to say that it's the only diner in town—and that this isn't much of a town."

"Thanks," I said, wedging the turned-over duffle under my arm. "I guess I'll give it a try. If the guy in the Buick comes back—"

"I'll tell him you are over at the diner," the young man said, hurriedly as he backed off. "And the motel over there isn't too expensive if you need . . . my name's Dan. I work part time over there too. The other guy, in the station, is Gus. If there's anything . . ." He sort of let that trail off, though. I think he was so overwhelmed by the situation that he didn't hardly know what to say. I felt from the way he was hopping around and backing off that he couldn't wait to get back into the building to tell Gus what he'd seen fall out of my duffle. I was pretty sure that Gus knew better than Dan what had been on display.

On second look, he looked sort of cute. The shyness became him, and when that acne was gone . . . well, he was at least worth a smile and having on my side.

"Thanks . . . Dan . . . you've been very helpful. My name's Angelo. When the Buick comes back."

"Yes . . . sir . . . I'll tell him you're over at the diner."

And then, as Dan skittered back into the gas station building, I clumped across the road, stopping every few steps to ensure that I still had control over the duffle. As I drew close to the diner, I could see through the picture windows that several sets of eyes were watching me.

I laughed. It was probably the most entertainment these people had in a month of Sundays. I guess it was something that I could still laugh at this predicament.

All were silent and facing the door as I entered the diner. All men, no women. I found this a bit disconcerting and, for no reason I could put my thumb on, foreboding. I found myself sorry I hadn't pulled my hair back in a pony tail or hadn't painted my nails that morning. Without my facial makeup I was halfway between here and there. I wasn't sure which to be. So, I stayed as neutral as possible.

Directly opposite the door, which jangled and almost made me jump when I opened it, standing behind a lunch counter, leaning into the counter with his arms spread wide and hands pressed into the back edge of the counter, was a tall, dark-headed, thin guy wearing a short-sleeved white shirt that showed sleeve tattoos on both arms and a spider web tattoo on either side of his neck running right up under a scraggly beard. His eyes were boring into me and he had a half grin on his face.

"Been sittin' over there for a while, ain't cha?" he said in a gravelly voice. "Been left to fend for yourself?"

"He's just run an errand," I answered. "I decided I was hungry and the young guy over there recommended this restaurant."

"Not likely," came a deep voice off to the side, which was met with laughs from more than one. Seven men of various ages and sizes—all definitely blue collar, though—were sitting in booths on the north side of the diner. It immediately registered with me that these must be the guys who matched up to the bunch of semis parked in tandem at the side of the diner. I looked over to the other side of the diner. Back in the corner, sitting in a booth, was a big-muscle dude, probably in his fifties, with wavy gray hair and the look of money about him. A blue denim shirt and pressed jeans and a peek at very expensive cowboy boots in the space under the booth. He also had some sort of flashy ring or two that were catching the light and reflecting off the diner walls and ceiling. He was smoking a cigarette, nursing a cup of coffee, and appeared to be reading a newspaper. Only appeared to be doing so, though, I could see. He was as interested in me as any of the others were.

While I was still looking at him, he lifted his coffee cup to indicate he wanted a refill, and the guy behind the counter was there so fast with a pot that I surmised that the older guy in the corner was the big daddy of this tiny burg.

While the tattooed waiter was gone, I gingerly put the duffle on the floor, being careful that nothing fell out—with the thought that if one of my toys saw the light of day in here, the truckers would have me on the floor and using it in nothing flat. I'd had considerable experience with long-distance truckers. Once again I missed the leavening effect of having a woman present.

The tattooed waiter returned. "What can I get you?"

"Serving breakfast or lunch?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered.

I took a quick look at the menu and ordered a big breakfast. I probably should have taken inventory of what was left to me first in monetary means, though, as I suddenly realized that most of my cash and all of my credit cards were in the suitcase that was inside a Buick somewhere down the road toward Philadelphia. I did have some cash on me. Just not enough to be throwing it around on "everything and the kitchen sink" breakfasts.

That didn't stop me from cleaning off my plate. Who knew where my next meal would be coming from?

Between trips to the big daddy table and the truckers' corner, the tattooed waiter hovered in front of me on the other side of the counter while I ate, giving me a half leer.

"Any buses to Harrisburg stop here?" I asked. He was just standing there, making me uncomfortable. I figured conversation would lessen the tension in the diner. The truckers, who probably were being boisterous before I came in, were huddled together, giving me looks, and whispering and sniggering among themselves.

"Nope," the tattooed waiter said.

"I'll be happy to give you a lift to Harrisburg," a voice boomed out from the trucker's corner.

"You ain't goin' in the direction of Harrisburg, Sam," another said. Laughs all around.

"I could lift you, easy," sniped another voice, followed by sniggers.

"Any place around where I can get a duffle bag," I asked the tattooed waiter, deciding that it was best just not to get into a conversation with the truckers, although I probably should have just taken the trucker up on the ride, even knowing what it would cost me. I had a strong feeling that time spent here was going to cost me that anyway.

"There's a consignment shop across the road, next to the gas station," a voice from the other side of the diner said. A more commanding, assured voice. The voice of "I get what I want." A little shiver went through my body. This was the kind of man . . . well, this was the kind of man I gravitated to. The information had come from big daddy in the corner.

"Now, ain't that convenient?" the tattooed waiter said. "Only five buildings here, and all of use to you."

"Five buildings?" I asked. I looked out the window and saw four, two on this side of the road and two on the other. The gas station and two-story consignment shop on the other side of the road and the diner and motel on this.

"Yep," he continued, with a leery smile. "The gas station got you here, the consignment shop will get you a new duffle, this here diner fed your stomach, and, if you'd like, I'll show you the motel next door."

"Or you can get a ride with me to Harrisburg," the trucker who had offered the service spoke up.

"Yeah, for a ride of another kind," another one chimed in. Laughter on that side of the diner. The tattooed waiter just smiled at me. No reaction from the big daddy corner.

"That's four buildings," I said.

"You missed the big, rambling one on the other side of the highway bridge?" the tattooed waiter asked. "I figure you can get a job there, if you've been just dumped here by that fancy Buick."

"Thanks for the breakfast," I said, rising and putting money for it down on the counter, including a generous enough tip not to get any backtalk on that, even if I could ill afford it. "And for the direction to the consignment shop." I said this to the waiter, not trusting myself to speak directly to big daddy in the corner. He was just the sort of man who only needed to beckon and I'd be there. And this wasn't the place or time for that.

When I got out of the diner and was looking both ways to cross the road—although there wasn't much danger of busy traffic out here in the middle of nowhere—I looked north across the bridge over the highway. Sure enough there was a rambling two-story building across the bridge with a high fence around a lot behind in and more semis parked beside it. I could read the sign, a gigantic lit-up neon on top of the roof. It said "Halfway Adult Bookstore."

The place looked entirely too large to be just a bookstore and video shop. I'd been around the block; I knew what else would be going on there. So, I hadn't fooled the guys in the diner one bit.

* * * *

"Yes, of course. We have a few right over there. Anything else you need? Anything else I can do for you? I saw you sitting over at Gus' station. You been abandoned or something?"

God, had everyone in this frickin' town been watching me? And no women?

"I may need some clothes too until my ride gets back," I said. "Do you . . . oh, yes, I see the rack over there." Who was I fooling? If Larry was coming back for me, I wouldn't need to be buying any more clothes. "But maybe not, depending on how expensive . . ."

"Short of money?" He asked. "Not a problem. There are always adjustments . . . trades." This made me look at him. Maybe his early forties. Not particularly muscular but not bad looking. Not fat either. No sign of a beer belly or anything. Not fully white, though. There was something else in him. Black? Hispanic? He was giving me a steady look—an assessing one. I don't think he missed much. The painted nails and the blonde highlights in my long hair. He'd been standing at the door as I crossed the road—like he knew I was coming to him. Had I betrayed something in my walk? So many things to think about in transitioning back and forth: the voice, the walk, the way I held my arms. The men in the diner had picked it out almost immediately. Who would expect them to be so savvy in a backwater like this? Maybe it said something about what went on in this backwater.

So, who was I fooling.

"Maybe you need some underwear?" he asked, giving me a steady look. He was holding up sheer panties, not briefs. "Or maybe something like this?" He held up a slinky red, satin sheath dress.