Please note: The following story is protected under international
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and all rights are held by the author.  For more information or
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reprint rights or explore other uses, please email to "twylamarie
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It's very hard to put your life in writing like this. If you
liked what you read, can identify with it, or simply didn't
understand it or found a typo, drop me a line. All thought and
input are appreciated.

#####


I know ASSTR is supposed to be about erotic fiction. My stories,
though, are all real. They happened. To me.

You'll find as you read that my past isn't one that I will ever
be able to share with my children or grand children.I am writing
this anonymously.

This is how it all began - those years of living outside the law
and outside of the norms of society.  You might call it a case of
unintended consequences.  

I was a long time ago. Somehow the idea that truckers did a lot
of speed so that they could drive all day and night became a big
story on the local news. A safety issue. The state patrol set up
some stings at a truck stop where the trucks came in to be
weighed and randomly searched the cabs of the big rigs as they
stopped.
 
It was supposed to be a surprise of course, but truckers had CB
radios. Truckers going through town heard about the police search
ahead on the highway, quickly consumed what they thought they
could get away with from their various drugs, and then threw the
rest out their windows before turning into the scales.
 
 I had just turned 16, about to enter the new school year and I
was training for my first year as a varsity member of the cross
country team.  I had run this same route by the side of the
highway every early morning all summer, and while it wasn’t
uncommon to run across a dead animal or a bottle filled with piss
out there, most of the other trash on the roadway tended to be of
the fast food variety mixed with beer cans and cigarette butts.
 
This morning it was very different over the course of about 2
miles of roadway.  There in the weeds were hard liquor bottles,
mostly broken but a few pints still intact and half empty.  These
got my attention so I became more aware of what was at my feet. 
I quickly found a bag with about a quarter ounce of weed in it,
and another with small chunks of what could only be hash.
 
I was no stranger to most of this stuff – I was a high school
student after all – but money was tight and this was Iowa.  We
could afford a few joints now and then if we pooled our money
together, and we had all seen a few flakes of hash brought home
from kids we knew who visited family up in Minneapolis, but the
idea of holding bags of measurable quantities was like winning
the lottery.
 
I wasn’t going to let a good thing go to waste, so I gathered up
what ever I could find – hiding the liquor bottles deep in a
stash in the bushes so I could get it later, and smaller items in
my pockets and the cups of my bra.
 
I quickly developed a good eye once I knew what I was looking for
and also found baggies with pills, small amounts of leaf and even
a few vials of powder.  There were also a few girlie magazines,
small pipes and bongs, dirty underwear - men and womens - and
other items of undetermined nature.  (I later in life realized
one had been a butt plug)
 
Anything and everything that might embarrass a professional
trucker if they were found in his cab by the patrol was strewn
across the ravine next to that highway.
 
I collected anything that looked interesting and didn’t look too
dirty to touch and was busy hiding it in the bushes when I
stumbled on something else entirely.  This was a metal tin that
looked like it once held a Christmas cookie selection, now worn
and stuffed through months or years of loving use.  It was
obvious that this was someone’s stash can.   While the rest of
what I had found had obviously been chucked from a moving vehicle
and could have been found by anyone who came by walking instead
of at 60 miles an hour, this was quite obviously something that
the owner intended to come back for. It was hidden behind the
trunk of a tree off in a ravine. 
 
I opened the tin to find a baggie filled up to about four fingers
with a white rocks similar to the stuff I found in the vials, and
also a blue cylinder I later figured out was a “grinder” to turn
the rocks into fine powder.  I also found about 30 rolled joints
in a baggie and a small bag of perhaps 100 black pills.  I didn’t
know exactly what all of this was, of course, but I knew it was
valuable and now it was mine.  I hurried away from that
particular spot and moved down the highway inspecting and
collecting baggies, bottles and bundles as I went.
 
I collected things I found for perhaps two hours total – finally
begging off when I realized I would be late home even if I took
short cuts and also satisfied that I probably had most of the
goodies either stashed on me or where I could find them later. 
 
Also, I had to pee and I decided that I would sneak off to the
bushes before I was on my way.  On a whim I grabbed one of the
magazines off the stack and took it with me to the cornfields,
thinking it might be good to have something to wipe myself with.
 
Once situated deep in the corn, I took a moment to dig out a vial
and used the little attached spoon to treat myself to what was
inside.  (I didn’t know what to expect for sure, but such vials
held cocaine on TV.  This held powdered speed – a friend
identified it for me later.  All I knew was that it made my heart
race and I liked it.)
 
I squatted down and dropped my track pants to do my business, and
the cover of the magazine I had grabbed caught my eye. This was a
particularly filthy rag I was to find out later – I had no real
basis for comparison - a photo illustrated story of a trucker
that picks up a very young male hitchiker, takes him to a
warehouse, strips him and handcuffs him, then repeatedly takes
him anally & orally.  It was violent, obscene by any standards
and totally hot in its own sick way. 
 
I remember that I was disappointed as the original owner had used
a cigarette to burn through spots on the pages where the mens’
genitals might have been seen entering mouths or orifices – I had
never seen this even in pictures - but it was still obvious what
was going on.  Over the course of my pee and the time I lingered
after, I paged through the thin volume twice, simultaneously
mesmerized and repelled by that I saw.  
 
It made me sick – but also tickled me inside in a way that I
didn’t quite understand. I read through the magazine cover to
cover once again before I finally pulled back up my pants.
Instead of wiping myself with the pages – I took the magazine
back to my carefully hidden cache of bottles and other treasures
and put it back on the stack, content that my friend Billie Rae
might like it even if the rest of my friends would find it
horrifying.
 
(A few years later, porn like this would be readily available to
people on something that we had heard of but never seen called
the internet.  We knew a few people that had something called
AOL, but computers were very rare and slow then and the few
photos our friends had downloaded seemed to be of Playboy
playmates.  The only served to make us all feel even more awkward
about our young bodies.)
 
I am sure that with their efforts the patrol took a lot of coke,
crank, meth, pot, and alcohol out of the hands of truck drivers
that day.  Instead, that day it wound up in my hands instead, and
over the next several weeks and months it wound up in the hands,
lungs, noses and bloodstreams of myself and several members of
the high school cross country team and just about every stoner in
school. 
 
The drugs and alcohol would take root in their usual ways. 
Abuse.  Bad decisions while under the influence.  Addiction.  The
stories heard but lessons unlearned in countless high school
classes made real in our own lives.
 
The other things – that terrible porn magazine mostly – left
imprints that would also change a few lives, mostly for Billie
and I.  We paged through that magazine a hundred times together
over the next months – fantasizing about it – obsessing over what
would make those men do what they did- and eventually what we saw
in that magazine we would recreate in our own lives in ways. 
 
Looking back, I am sure that this is what the patrols plan what
happened.  We had been unwitting innocent bystanders made
collateral damage by the war on drugs.  Had I known then what I
know now, I would gladly have run home as fast as I could that
day to call 9-1-1 and have had them take that devils horde away.
 
Instead, this cache of porn, pot, pills and powders defined my
life for the next 8 years. It was a time filled with sex, drugs
and wild behavior, but it wasn't all pretyt.

The rest of the writings here tell more of my story.