The White Box - Sex Stories

The White Box

... wig covered my recently trimmed hair. Thick salt and pepper eyebrows and a reddish brown liquid makeup that I applied over my exposed skin completed my head. After removing my shirt, shorts, and sandals I replaced them with a black and red checkered flannel shirt and badly worn overalls. I covered my feet in woolen socks and what appeared to be badly worn hiking boots. In fact, they were almost new, one of the few items Dana had missed; I’d soiled them in the back yard last evening. My clothes and the ropes replaced my costume in the backpack. My final move was to pull a small hunting knife and a sweat-soiled ball cap from the backpack’s pocket. I used the knife to cut a six-foot walking stick from a sapling then began my sixteen-mile trek down to the highway. It was just after five that afternoon when I reached the road. People in the wilderness almost always stop for hitchhikers, especially when one appears to be a bent and broken old man—like me. I had only hobbled down the road a few steps when the beat up panel truck slowed and stopped, “Need a lift, old man?” “Mighty kind of you, young feller; seems I been walking more than a hundred miles. Truth is, I been walking a damned sight farther than that. I been on the go for the past three months, living up here in the woods on my own.” I threw the stick down and climbed into the seat. “You haven’t really been out here that long, have you?”  “Yes, I have; seems I made the mistake of my life when I moved in with my daughter. ...

... She’s a bigger nag than my wife ever was. I’m only going back now for my granddaughter’s birthday then I’m out of there permanently. I think I’ll even go back to work. Think McDonalds would hire me?” He laughed. “I’m Ned; how far you going?” “I’m Peter…other side of the city.” “I can take you down to the interstate--maybe even drop you off at the rest stop down there. Then you’d have no trouble getting another ride.” “That’d be great.” We chatted for the next two hours and when we stopped for gas I insisted that I pay, using an old and worn fifty dollar bill. He dropped me just in front of the restaurant. We shook hands and he drove away. I hobbled into the men’s room, taking the stall at the far end. Once my hair, eyebrows, and beard were removed I used alcohol to take off the remaining spirit gum and the makeup I no longer needed. That was flushed down the toilet. The gray wig was replaced with a red one, the long gray beard with a reddish brown goatee and mustache. My clothes and hair went into a plastic bag to be dumped into the trash. I wore a polo I’d picked up at the Salvation Army earlier in the week along with my shorts. I wiped the hiking boots clean and strode out of the men’s room a different person. Hanging out along the exit just past the gas pumps proved a good idea. A trucker stopped after only a few minutes. He drove me back down the interstate to Tuckahoe, a small town only about twenty miles from New York City. A few blocks away I found the train station ...