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My dad and I used to take long walks together up until about the time of my parents divorce when I was twelve. Ever since, I have enjoyed hiking either through the woods or along rural lightly traveled roads, and now in my twilight years I have discovered that walking is an excellent way to get my exercise without risking over stressing anything. I make a point, weather permitting, to take several short walks week nights and a longer walk on Sundays. Walking is relatively time consuming for the amount of effort put forth and my exercise regimen has permitted me to postpone nasty jobs around the house that the misses wanted me to do on many occasions.

On my outings I always wear shorts with knee length stockings, short sleeve shirt in warmer weather, and a brightly colored scout neckerchief to catch the sweat that runs down the back of my neck. I top off my outfit with a broad brimmed hat; straw for summer and cloth (Crocodile Dundee style) for winter. I have little doubt that I get well noticed as I hike about the rural area where I live.

In our area, whenever any family has something to celebrate or otherwise have some inflated balloons they don't know what to do with, they tie them to their mailboxes. Whenever I would see balloons tied out like this I would have to fight the strong desire to go over and give them a squeeze and see how sweet they smelled from their stint in the sun. Of course I would never dare do this because the chance of being seen, even for a quick sniff, would be almost a certainty. The locals tolerate my scout like outfit but would surely consider me a tad queer if I displayed a public interest in their balloons the way I would really love to.

It was a beautiful Sunday in June about five in the afternoon and I was about three miles from the house heading home. I was on one of the many winding black top roads in the area and as I crested a hill I noticed a mailbox with several party balloons tied in a bunch to the door handle on top. This was not unusual; in fact I had already passed another mail box several hours earlier on the same walk that had two rubber and one, ugh, mylar balloons tied to it. The mailboxes along that stretch of road were on the opposite side from the one I was walking on and as I got within 150 feet of its location a young guy, probably in his early forties, came out of the house that was set back about 75 feet from the road and headed toward the mailbox as well. It was most likely the party or whatever was over because of the time of day and I suspected he was on a clean up mission. I didn't want to make it appear too obvious but I slowed my pace to insure he would reach the rubber toys and have at least a few seconds to do something with them before I came abreast of his mailbox. The opportunities to see another live human play with or pop balloons aren't that great, and I always enjoy watching others finish off the fragile toys.

As planned the owner reached the mailbox first and turned and watched me coming up the road without touching the balloons. RATS, the guy was either going to wait until I had gone past, which would have forced me to risk embarrassment by turning around to watch him finish them off, or was planning on waiting until I was some distance down the road before he, perhaps, had some special fun with them himself. Oh well. The half a hard on I had when I saw him heading on his probable destructive mission quickly languished.

I saw that he was looking me over real well so when I got within about thirty feet I smiled and said, "Hello, beautiful afternoon isn't it?" I expected a response with some negative connotations because of the smirk on his face, but I was unprepared for, "Hey Boy Scout. Do you want these balloons to take home and play with?

As I walked toward him I felt twin emotions; annoyance that I was being made fun of and pleasure that sure enough I really would. The reality of course was that I wasn't about to spend the next fifty minutes or so walking along a public road in my 'scoutfit' while clutching a bunch of balloons, not to mention having to explain their presence to the wife and my daughters upon arrival home. My mind was racing for a suitable response that might net me some personal pleasure without risking exposing my unnatural love for the rubber toys to this leering joker that was addressing me.

I covered the distance between us all too quickly and as I reached the guy I smiled demurely and replied, "Not really. Boy scouts are too grown up to play with balloons. We just like to blow them up and bust 'em." I paused, giving him time to digest my message, "But if you don't want these I will be glad to pop them off for you." I think he was really expecting me to be all embarrassed or something because my immediate offer took him by surprise. He stammered, "Sure, here, you can break these for me," as he fumbled to untie them from the mailbox door handle.

There were five 11 inchers still nice and well inflated. I would guess by the condition of the rubber that they had only been out in the sun since lunch time. They were air filled and tied off with a short piece of kite string which was then used to fasten them to the mailbox. The kite string was quite strong and he almost ripped the neck off the first balloon he tried to free. In fact he couldn't snap the string so he slipped it over the end of the door handle. As he handed it to me I couldn't pass up the opportunity to remark, "I know some people are a bit nervous about braking balloons. I used to be nervous about braking balloons when I was a lot younger too, but I forced myself to get over it and now I really enjoy busting them." I was scrubbing the balloon he had given me between my two hands. The oxidation from the afternoon sun had made the rubber surface sticky and the balloon squealed loudly in protest. After a few moments to enjoy the sound the tortured balloon was making I continued, "Any particular way you want to see them go?"

The guy gave me a sort of pained look and just shook his head. I do believe he was a bit embarrassed by my conversation and was regretting calling me over to make fun of me. I continued to rub the balloon harder until finally the rubber tore from the stress and the balloon died with a fairly decent POOM. The demise of the rubber toy was expected yet the sudden sharp report as it busted caused him to give a start and it looked like he might be getting a bit red in the face as he quickly turned and started fumbling to release the remaining four balloons from the mailbox.

As he was handing them to me one of them escaped and dropped to the ground in front of the mailbox where there was a very shallow puddle in the tire track of the mail carriers vehicle from the rain we had had the night before. He looked at me and said, "Well, you can stomp on that one." I quickly shot back, "Nah. When I'm wearing shorts I like to flatten them under my knees. That way I feel the rubber letting go." I didn't mention how much busting them this way made me want to 'let go'. I squatted down and slowly pressed my right knee into the balloon. Considering the water which causes rubber to cut very easily and the fine gravel I was surprised at how far I was able to flatten it before it popped. The burst sprayed some water on the guy's pants leg and on me as well. I made a point of grinding my knee into the mud so that it would show some dirt for his benefit since most wiseacres like to see boys / men wearing shorts with dirty skinned up knees.

I inspected the balloons that were left and they were tied with the kite string too tightly to easily deflate. I was hoping I could blow one or two of the remaining ones up until they would burst; I figured he would like that. I knew I sure would.

I finished the next one off by rubbing and squeezing it as I had done the first. I made it last a good torturous thirty seconds or so. The guy didn't jump this time when it went POOM. He was holding the remaining two balloons and made a point of letting a nice white one drop to the ground. He grinned, "Bust that one with your other knee, then they will both be dirty." I gave him a quick smile and knelt with my left knee on the balloon. It hadn't landed in the water this time but a small patch of damp black mud. This provided a smooth surface on which I flattened the balloon and it burst with a loud BANG from over pressure. I had no trouble gunking up my knee which the guy seemed to enjoy.

Since he was still holding the last balloon I suggested, "Why don't you pop that one while I watch. They really are a lot of fun to break." The guy was pretty red in the face at this point and after my previous comment had no choice but to dispose of the balloon he was holding. He wasn't about to drag it out by rubbing; he just gouged it with his fingernails. BANG, and we were all finished.

I stepped back and flashed him a snappy Boy Scout salute and said, "Thank you for letting me perform my good deed for today. It was truly a pleasure." I was actually hoping to get his focus on my head and shoulders so he wouldn't notice the uncontrollable bulge that I was developing under my shorts. He mumble something as I turned and quickly strode off.

Fortunately there was a heavily wooded tract of land along the road that I generally used as a depository for my excess liquids and I was able to duck in off the road to relieve not only my normal bodily function but my unexpected sexual stimulation as well. Posted on 7/20/99

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