“TRUCKIN”

I’ve seen him several times before in some greasy spoon or truck stop in the middle of nowhere America. We must haul similar routes up and down the dusty desert highways. It has been at least two weeks since the last time I saw him. He is now sitting at the end of the bar in a small and filthy diner in a Utah town off the back roads. Twenty minutes later he is standing three feet in front of me paying for his diesel at the counter. This is as close as I’ve ever been to him. He collects his change and is gone.

I’m a truck driver for a private freight line out of Montana. I spend my days running everything you could think of down to Texas and back. I have to deal with a lot of lonely days and even lonelier nights out on the road, but the pay is good. Of course there is a lot of sex for the taking when you breeze through these little towns. The local girls, or boys, are more than ready for a little action to break up their dull lives. I prefer the men out here. They are men, masculine, sweaty, and a little rough. Definitely not the pansies you find in the bigger cities. You know, the pretty boys with the hair products and the fancy clothes. The problem is real men are hard to find. I’ve been running into Jerry here and there for the last six months, but I can never get close enough to say anything. He’s always just leaving or talking to some other old fool driver. I know our paths will cross again, and I’ll finally get a chance to make my move. I’ll be down again next week from Billings, not to long to wait.

Out on the highway again I think of Jerry. I don’t know his name so I made one up for him. The first time I saw him he was walking from the restroom of a truck stop out to his rig. I knew then I had to have this six-two, sweaty young stud with dark, almost black wavy hair that hung just below his ears. I’d guess him to be around twenty-six. His body bulges in all the right places. He was wearing dirty 501’s with a hole in one knee, a dirty wife beater that clung to his perfect hair covered chest and tight abs. I could tell he had a six- pack from the way the tank stuck to his moisture-laden body. He was lean and buff at the same time, like a collage jock that works out hard but never slows down long enough for his frame to get bulky, just hard and cut. Obliviously he’s out of his rig a lot judging by the color of sun darkened skin. I could see from the way he was walking that he was freeballing under his jeans by the way his cock laid against his left thigh and balls against the right. He was hung big. Just the way I like them. I thought I was going to blow when he walked back across the lot towards the dinner and stood outside of the window I was sitting behind. When he lifted his arm up to shield his eyes from the sun and the sweat from his pit rolled down the side of his pec and into the fabric of his tank I swear I could taste it. He was the most perfect blend of looks and maleness I have