Peach State Boy

(or, When I Became A Trucker)

It was Thursday evening when I pull'd The Foam Pad into the back lot of a truck stop off I95 at Kingsland Georgia. Rain had been falling off and on all day. I was tired despite a number of rest stops and a few naps and I was looking forward to some beans, then another hour or two of driving would take me into Florida where I'd stop for the night. The lot was near full, tractor-trailers drifted about, their yellow and red marker lights ghostly in the drizzle like fishing boats seeking berths in a foggy port. My old caravan fit nicely alongside a fifty foot flatbed loaded with steel; I left my engine running and lights on so I could walk around and check all my lights and tow. I reached up to lower the volume of the CB just as an anonymous driver was proclaiming to whoever might be listening that a news item he'd read said that 95% of all truck drivers display'd homosexual tendencies. I wonder'd if he was bragging or complaining as I put on my sandals to go out.

The air was warm and humid; the temperature had risen by ten degrees during one hour as I drove south about a hundred miles north of here. I figured I must be on the warm side of the front that had been causing all the widespread rain of the past few days. A shiny new rig sidled in close to the caravan as I returned to the front door. I waited to open my door while the driver climbed down into the drizzle. He looked little more than a boy, half a head taller than me with his hair a shock of reddish gold afro; his countenance was pleasing with a straight nose, bright eyes and a ready smile. He was wearing a loose cotton shirt tucked into fitted, beltless jeans. I guessed that when he was younger still he must have been one of those boys that men thirst for.

We exchanged such pleasantries as social rules require of men confronting one another in a confined place.

Hi, he said, my name's Peter, like the truck.

He pointed at the side of the tractor where it said Peterbuilt in bright chrome. I scanned the length of the rig but there was not another mark on it; it looked brand new. Almost by way of explanation but with a touch of pride in his voice the guy said that his father was a dealer and sometimes he got to make the deliveries. He didn't look old enough to be driving. I invited him in for beans and tea. He accepted, saying that anything would be better than whatever was available in the vending machines of this truckstop.

This particular day I was wearing only my new muslin shirt I'd purchased at the Civil War Museum in Baltimore. Its made on a pattern of the 1860's for folks who dress up for re-enactments, a bit long, like some of my tee shirts, and works well with a tied belt and nothing on under it. Usually when I'm not wearing any shorts I am careful to kneel or crouch but this time I threw caution to the wind and bent over to pick some small stone from the tread of my front tyre. He could not help but to see my nates in the glow of the sodium vapour lights reflecting from the acreage of his aluminium box trailerand to be sure he lifted the tail of my shirt and ran his smooth hand over the curve of my cheek.

—Are you bragging or complaining, he asked as he passed by.

—Yes! I said, and take off your plimsolls when you come in.

The rain came down more heavily as I went inside and by the time he'd done his walk-around his afro coiffure looked more like a drown'd rat. I met him with a towel and while he dry'd his hair, and help'd off each plimsoll with the other foot, I announced that I'd decided not to drive further tonight and changed the menu to cheese and wine.

Ok with me, he said, I'm old enough to drink. Do you mind if I take off my shirt?

A few moments later, after hanging his shirt and jeans on the clothesline and making the requisite comments all first time guests make about how neat the caravan was on the inside, he was folding his lanky frame, clad only in the briefest of speedos, into the forward seat at the galley table.

This place reminds me of my little brother's room at home; I really miss the little bugger when I'm out on these delivery trips. He's just like you, the guy went on, with all the stuff he collects and the way he hardly ever wears anything on his bottom.

I had lit a couple of candles and was setting the table with wine and cheese and crackers, goblets, silver and napkins, and had a moment to look beyond this boy/man's beautiful face. His hairless chest belied his claimed age; the dense thicket of golden hair on his thighs and shins reminded me of my self when I was sixteen. I sat across from him and we toasted the open road and talked of our families and our travels. I retrieved some cold pizza from the fridge and refilled our glasses; when I sat again our ankles touched. I asked him where he would sleep as his tractor was not a sleeper. He glanced over my shoulder toward the back of the caravan but before he could say anything I made the invitation plain.

—There's plenty of space back there if I put some junk away and I even have a spare toothbrush.

—Thanks, he said, I've got an overnight bag.

By the time he return'd from locking his tractor I had made space for him and turned on the sun lamps, then I cleared the table and set out some ice cream, but all I was thinking about was what else we might eat. My tumescence was holding up the front of my shirt.

He toweled off again and sat in front of the pint of chocolate-chocolate ice cream.

My favourite! he exclaimed.

At The Foam Pad we aim to please, I replied, you aim too please, and be sure to put the seat and cover down after you flush.

Small talk continued until I cap'd my pint and stood to return it to the freezer. When I returned to the table he had cap'd his ice cream and was about to stand but I straddled the golden naked leg he had extended from under the table.

Your hair is beautiful, I said, may I touch it?

He tilted his head towards me and I bounced my palms on the springy golden afro. My friend Greg from New Hampshire had hair like this and I'd often wondered what it felt like. But again all I really wanted to do was pull him down under my shirt. My pre-cum drip'd onto his thigh. He reach'd for me.

This may be a completely ridiculous question to ask someone with a beard such as yours but if you've got a razor and will let me shave your tent pole so it looks like my little brother I'll give it a good sucking.

I gave his head a little squeeze and turned away to return his pint of chocolate-chocolate to the freezer. In the toilet I keep a bag of disposable razors; I brought one to the table and then went to the tanning salon to remove my shirt. He followed me in.

I suppose I could end this narrative right here and leave the rest to your imagination but the rest is beyond imagination. He removed the thong briefs he had been wearing all this time and I could see that he was as hairless as he wanted me.

How old is your little brother? I asked.

—Ten, he said, as I spread my legs to him.

Looks like someone beat me to this, he said as he explored.

Some of my fantasies like it that way, I replied;  but the last time I'd shaved was a week or more ago and I mostly only clean the underside.

I was at his mercy. The agony and the ecstasy have nothing on this experience. He dry-shaved from tip to root but left a little curl of hair across my groin like a young boy might grow when the pre- is removed from his pubescent. He shaved from root to perineum, occasionally using his tongue to lick up the blood from any tiny nicks.

Then we 69'd.

He really was a boy. He tasted like a boy. Garp said it best when he observed that a sleeping boy's breath smells sweet; whilst that of a grown-up (when the boy becomes a man) smells "sour, stale, faintly foul in his sleep. It was as if the process of decay, of slowing dying, was already begun in him." I would add that the same could be said of one's cum and one's sweat.

When I came my orgasm was akin to that first time long ago; I wanted it to go on for ever. When he came it was like a fantasy come to life. But he had more than that in mind and turn'd me around for a go at my other end using his tongue and some of my own cum for starters.

All the other trucker-fuckers I know won't let me do this to them, he whisper'd in my ear as he enter'd my rear, they won't even let me shave them, but they're quick to jump my ass; you're my first time.

I'm honour'd, I allow'd between gasps, not least cos you honour me with the moniker "trucker".

Someday, before its too late, I'd like to meet his little brother, and teach him to drive a caravan.