Please note: The following story is protected under international copyright and all rights are held by the author. For more information or to obtain reprint rights or explore other uses, please email to "twylamarie at ymail.com" 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.