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Re: Question


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Posted by Allwet on May 24, 2022 at 03:14:01

In Reply to: Question posted by Steven B on May 21, 2022 at 23:38:03:

This took place nearly 50 years ago when I had a driver’s ed class in high school. Most of the sessions were during regular school time but we had to go in a couple of times on Saturdays. The classroom was a trailer in the school parking lot, and as part of the class we had to train in “simulators.” I use that word loosely because they were really lame and ineffectual. There was no feel, the steering wheel could be twirled with one finger like one of those kiddie rides. They were not interactive; we had to try to follow the movements on a film and were graded on how close the machine recorded how we synched with it, not giving a clue as to how well were doing. Such was the state of technology back then.

On a cloudy Saturday in February 1973 I rode my bike to one of these sessions. Before climate change February was the rainiest month in Southern California, and the wild grass on the hills would be green from about December through April before turning dry and yellow in the summer, quite the opposite of places where they actually have four seasons. Rainstorms in LA were very predictable, often lasting a couple of days with on and off rainfall. Sudden cloudbursts were very rare, so I didn’t think to bring any rain gear with me that day. (I really didn’t own much rain gear, other than nylon windbreakers). Boy was I wrong (but right, for people of our persuasion …). The temperature was probably in the low 50’s F.

As I mounted my bike at the end of the class I could feel a few raindrops starting to fall, no big deal. The rain grew stronger as I exited the parking lot, and within a quarter mile I was in the middle of a drenching downpour. I was wearing 501’s that were in a medium state of fade, a plain white t-shirt with a navy blue, non-hooded sweatshirt over it. I also had my usual white briefs, white athletic socks and some kind of tennis shoes that I can’t remember. I felt the rain soaking through the front of my jeans and sweatshirt, quickly through to my t-shirt as if someone were spraying me with a hose, and the back wheel of my bike kicked up a wet, dirty stripe up my back. The sweatshirt's sleeves stretched past my hands as I struggled to control my bike and see where I was going. I could also feel something welling up in my pants. By the time I got home, less than two miles away, it was as if I had gone swimming, not a dry speck anywhere. No one was home, but if they had been I still would not have had to explain anything. Our laundry room was right off the garage so I walked in, stripped down to my briefs and threw my clothes in the washer.

Because this was so unexpected it was much more exhilarating than the usual rainy-day bike rides I used to take back then, which I planned and usually lasted more than an hour. The intensity of this storm and instant soaking I got gave me an even stronger “special feeling” than my normal intense level of teenage horniness, which I satisfied into my briefs in the shower.


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