It was too obvious.
But I stopped. I haven’t taken a autostop since I was in college. I always thought a pretty girl standing on the side of the road with her thumb in the breeze had to have a 250-pound boyfriend in the bushes, ready to order my car at the knife point.
I see from a distance that you’re cute, your long brown hair whipping on your face in the wind. When I get closer, I can see your faint cuts, cut so short that the cheeks of your ass whip invitably.
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