I fucked him with an almost lewd copulatory energy, plunging into the boy’s asshole with over­worked possession. He raised his hips like a whore, needed me to shove my swollen meat up into him as deeply as possible. And I let him have all that I had to give. I pumped it into him, reaching around to grab onto his young tits, and fucked into the wench’s hole until an intrigued, consummated grub of sperm cor­ruptly burst from my rigid cock, and shot into his sore asshole, the salaciously scummed sex liquor mixing into the wanton pubertal guts of the boy.

By Lane Edwards

(Male Review.November.1984.)

I’ve been a self-employed trucker for the past ten years. I now own a small fleet of tractor-trailer rigs, and have learned how to work long and arduous hours. Sometimes, if I have a cross country run, I’ll work nonstop for twenty four hours, rest some, and then it’s time to hit the road. Trucking is a hell of a business. You’ve got to be one tough son of a bitch in order to make it. The nature of the job can prevent you from forming solid relationships, or at the very least it can make trying to create a friendship an ex­tremely difficult task.

Many of the truckers that I know are into fucking just about anything they can stick it into, especially if it’s female. But, for me, the waitress scene, the in­terstate hooker hangouts, and the quickie motels are simply not what I’m looking for. The relationships found in that lifestyle are not for me. During my first few years of trucking I was working so hard, and so constantly, to pay off the fifty thousand dollars that I owed on my rig, that I really didn’t have the time to deal  with identifying what it was that I was going to “want” from life, sexually. ALL I had time for was pickups, deliveries, paying off the bank, and stuffing my face. There wasn’t enough time for proper food if I was ever going to pay off that first rig.

Those were crazy years. I was twenty three, and fortunately had the stamina, the strength, and the stubbornness to see it through. I am now thirty three and the bank is paid off, and I’ve worked through identi­fying what it is that I want from life. Let me tell you, it’s more than pickups, deliveries, and paying off the bank. That is unless what I happen to be picking up is hot, hunky, and has something substantial between his legs.

It all started the week I’d made my last truck payment. The title was MINE, free and clear, and I was hauling perishables from Sacra­mento to Chicago on Interstate 80, feeling like I’m riding on the wind, I’m so glad that my rig is paid off, and for the first time in years I see a hitchhiker. Now, I know that I must have passed over a thousand and one hitchhikers in my long endless series of cross country hauls, but I’d never really looked at any of them. But this one, standing there shirtless with his thumb stuck out, was too deeply tanned, too wild and bestial looking, with his long blond hair blowing in the Nevada wind, to pass by. Something looked very substan­tial between those legs, compacted tightly into those close fitting worn jeans.

I put on the brakes, and pick­ed up the sultry looking blond number before some other trucker got the chance to grab on to this too good to be true example of youthful male virility. I remember that he had magnificent tits. My mouth about started to drool just looking at the small droplets of sweat dripping from his nubs. I wanted to suck on those titties then and there.

“He’s probably straight,” I remember saying to myself as he swung his backpack into the cab.

“I’m going to Chicago,” he said.

“Going that way myself.”

His name was Michael. He was twenty, and was hitching east to see his parents. He was a student at UC Berkeley, and had just completed his first year of college. He was voluptuously, deeply muscled, and possessed the most erogenously assaultive blue eyes I have ever seen.

“I’m gay,” he said. It sounded like a confession. It was too abrupt, and it didn’t fit. It was too soon to say anything like that. In fact, it sound­ed stupid. He even seemed uncom­fortable saying it. His ravaged blue eyes never left me.

I remember saying, “So what?”

“Just thought I’d tell you.”

“Was that an invitation?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I guess I’m not too good at coming out. It’s one of the reasons I’m going home for the sum­mer. I plan on coming out to my family. I think that maybe I’m coming out … well … I’m kind of practicing on everybody else.”

His eyes left my face and glanced at my crotch. It was as inevitable as the hot sun on the desert floor, scorching the Nevada wasteland. And my thick cock began straining against the confines of my jeans. It was hard — fucking hard. I couldn’t have hidden it if I had tried.

I pulled into a small truck stop outside of Elko, Nevada, and I bought him lunch. We hardly had a word to say, and although the greasy spoon was crowded with truckers, waitresses, and cowboy locals, we were only aware of the undercurrent of carnal tension that was building between us. I couldn’t take my gaze off of those blue eyes, which seemed somehow almost inflamed with the salaciousness of his beautiful youth.

The fact that we were going to have sex was inevitable. There wasn’t any point in going anywhere with the rig. Whatever was perishable in the trailer would keep. I was the one who was perishable, and I was ready to perish under the meaty weight of his naked body. Trucking could wait.

Without a word we crawled into the small bed area behind the cab and stripped. His cock was pink, juicy, and stood straight up in the air. It was, indeed, an invitation. I wrapped my wet mouth around his warm, meaty cock head, and tasted the lushness of his smooth young phallus. A drop of clearish thick scum had oozed out of the over­sized piss slit, and I could taste its distinctly milk like saltiness.

His hips slowly shoved his cock down my throat, slowly increasing the tempo of his deeper and deeper thrusts, until there wasn’t any doubt that what was happening was that this young stud was throat fucking me, reaming me out with his ruinously rammish cock.

I slipped him out of my mouth, ran my wet tongue down his loose ball sac, and finally stuck it directly into his sweaty ass crack, tasting the sweet cherry hole deeply embedded inside his ass.

I remember asking him if he’d ever been fucked. “No,” was all he said, his eyes looking blue and afraid.

My cock was ready to burst its load at just the sight of his virginal cherry hole. And I remember that I had to control myself, hold myself back from prematurely shooting a wad of jism all over him, when what I really wanted was to royally fuck him out, fuck him to his nubby little tits, to own him, to experience the private lushness of his animalized bowels. And I laid him on his tight little belly, and entered his hairless asshole with my finger, slowly explor­ing him, opening him up to be fuck­ed — fucked by a man — fucked by me.

The inside of the boy’s asshole felt wet with his yet to be fornicated ass juice. I inserted two fingers, and pushed them up and into the boy, slowly finger fucking him, prepar­ing him for the advance of my bestially thick trucker’s cock. He loosened up his hole, gaping it open, allowing me to enter into him just past my knuckles with most of my hand. He seemed totally prepared.

I fucked him with an almost lewd copulatory energy, plunging into the boy’s asshole with over­worked possession. He raised his hips like a whore, needed me to shove my swollen meat up into him as deeply as possible. And I let him have all that I had to give. I pumped it into him, reaching around to grab onto his young tits, and fucked into the wench’s hole until an intrigued, consummated grub of sperm cor­ruptly burst from my rigid cock, and shot into his sore asshole, the salaciously scummed sex liquor mixing into the wanton pubertal guts of the boy.

We fucked our way slowly to Chicago. I knew that I would be late with my load, but it was the load in­side of my balls that I was intent on. And I’d deposit that load of sperm up his shitter at every chance that came along. Once, just outside of Cheyenne, I stopped the truck, and fucked him in his mouth in a moun­tain field of June wildflowers. It was incredible! I remember placing my hands around his blond head, my cock disappearing down his throat, mouth ripping, thrusting it down his gullet, and finally erupting a load of hot scum so violently full that it ran its thick coitally oozing way out of his mouth, and down his chin. His blue eyes looked up at me as if he were asking for more. I pulled my still hard cock from his mouth. He thought that we were done. We were not done.

“But what if somebody sees us? We’re right here in the open,” he said.

“I’m going to fuck your hole standing up,” I told him, not really caring if someone saw us — of course, as I fucked him a car passed by — but it kept right on going. And I kept right on penetrating his shitter.

I ground myself into him roughly, shooting another glob of sperm into Michael’s Adonis like asshole. I was determined to make up for lost time.

We fucked ourselves across America. I could honestly give some terrific tours to any tourist group that wanted to cruise by the best fucking spots anywhere west of the Mississippi. I know them all.

I remember not wanting Chicago to loom its ugly head on the Illinois horizon at the conclusion of that trip with Michael. But, then again, it was inevitable. The landscape turns from rural to urban in a flash travell­ing Interstate 80 toward Chicago. And I guess that Chicago is as in­evitable as the sunrise over Lake Michigan. The sun rises over Chicago like a painted bitch suck­ing the soft night up with her whore lips, and replacing the darkness with the fraudulent apathetic hope of light. There is no hope in Chicago, only the hydrated soullessness of light from a coldly nar­cotic sun. I hate Chicago. I didn’t want to give Michael to Chicago. But, of course, I had no choice but to let him out in that dispassionate ci­ty by the lake.

I wished him good luck with his coming out. Coming out is never easy. I was glad that he’d been so abruptly honest, even if it had originally sounded strained. Such innocent honesty is rare — particular­ly on the road.

“Thanks for the ride … and thanks for a lot more than just the ride. Will you call me?” he asked.

“I’ll call you,” I said.

That was the summer I fucked my brains out. We all have summers where we end up screwing more than any of us have a right to expect to. And that was my summer of sum­mers. I meant to call him … I really did … but one day finds me in Little Rock, and the next day will find me in Houston. It’s hard to call anybody. In the back of my mind was the knowledge that there was a tattered scrap of paper with Michael’s number scrawled on it in the cab’s glove compartment. Every time I picked up another hitch­hiker, every time I’d fuck another wandering soul’s tight asshole, I’d think about calling Michael. I’d think about that goddamn phone number just sitting there. I wanted to call. But I didn’t.

That was the summer that no stones went unturned. I picked up travelling young men in rest areas thumbing to Presque Isle, Maine, and I’d fuck them in Skowhegan on the side of the road in the truck. I grew to favor the flavor of sweat, and the smell of the road between their legs. And I’d sniff their stink­ing crotches with pure excitement. I fucked constantly. Yet none of them were Michael. None of them had that spark, that aberrant sense of bankrupted sexuality, and not one of them had comparably blue eyes. I fucked them from Cincinnati to Sioux Falls but none of them were Michael. He’d left a scar on my psyche, and an ache between my legs that not even fucking every putrid asshole on the road with his thumb stuck out — asking for it — could begin to erase.

I once picked up a handsome looking dude, dressed in full leather, probably because he was the exact opposite of Michael. They couldn’t have been more dissimilar. He was hitchhiking out of New York — where else — and we fucked in the truck in a truck stop in New Jersey. I remember him pressing himself into me. His whole effect was just too assaultive, too cocksure, in that he was more than interested in fucking my asshole, but not at all interested in reciprocating the favor. I couldn’t move under the weight of his body. And the look on his face was one of pure oppression. He seemed to be somewhere else, far off into a land of fantasy that was a million miles from where I was. I was nothing more than a bucket for his fuck. He pressed his hairy chest and his leather vest down onto me with unrelenting savagery. Sweat from the heat of the road had soaked his leather, and the black curly hair of his chest acted like an abrasive against my smooth skin.

He aggres­sively intertwined his legs with mine, the pressure of his cock grow­ing monstrously against my crotch. I pleaded with him to go slow, but he said he never met a trucker who didn’t like it shoved up his asshole. He brutally thrust his hard cock into me, and to secure his hold grabbed my ass, the pressure so in­tense I could barely breathe. He ram fucked it into me with voracious viciousness. He locked onto me, the smell of his sickening sweat and leather mingling with my own sweat of fear. I was afraid, but I was turn­ed on at the same time. He then tore into my asshole, and fucked me un­til he gasped out a blowing load of come into my bleeding bowels that was a hot enema of sperm fueled in­to my ass. And I remember spend­ing the better part of that afternoon ensconced inside the truck stop toilet stall, pushing his stinking froth out of my anus with cramped contractions. I’d really been ripped. I bled, and I just stayed there until some of the bleeding stopped. The guy in leather disappeared. I never saw him again. And although I can­not say that I thoroughly enjoyed that fuck … sometimes I catch myself thinking about it, and liking it, while I am fucking someone else. It was one buck fuck. But then it was a logical conclusion to that summer of sex; and while I’d fucked my brains out, the back of my consciousness told me that the summer was not quite over — almost, but not quite.

That was the day I decided to make a major decision. I cancelled out on a job, left New Jersey, and drove the whole fucking rig straight to Chicago. Now that’s one long lonely drive. It was early morning of the next day, when I finally pulled into the windy city. Once again the sun had wrapped her warm painted lips of light around the urban sprawl, but I was glad because my eyes were bloodshot tired of night driving.

I pulled into a gas station and called Michael. I guess that I was sort of surprised that such a hot piece of man would even remember who I was. But not only did he remember — he sounded anxious to see me again. As I climbed back in­to the cab to drive to his house I told summer to hang onto herself for just a little longer. It wasn’t autumn yet.

Michael lived in a very middle class residential neighborhood. Every house had its little lawn, and its own sense of almost fatigued identity. A sign read “NO SEMIS: RESIDENTIAL ZONE,” but I went through, anyway. If some Chicago cop didn’t like it, tough shit. I was going to see Michael. And that was that.

I parked the rig in front of a brick ranch type house. Michael was sit­ting on the front step. There he was … shirtless, religiously tanned, and grinning from ear to ear.

“Don’t you own any shirts?” I ask­ed, and he laughed. I was imme­diately taken once again with the in­credible blueness of those eyes. I remember asking, “Going my way?”

“Which way is that?”

“Anywhere you want to go — anywhere at all.”

“I could use a ride west, that’s for sure.”

“I think that I could arrange something like that, but, ah, you’ll have to share the bed. It gets kind of cramped in there.”

“I think I can handle it,” he said, grinning.

We didn’t go anywhere right away. We fucked like a couple of sex starved jackrabbits right in front of his parents’ house in the rig. My aching cock surged with the spontaneous knowledge that it was going to fuck out Michael’s wet, ethereal asshole. And I just put him on his little fuck belly, sticking my mouth down to his rank little cherry, and deposited a wad of saliva to lubricate his anus. Waves of orgasmic regeneration surged through my too tired to be exhausted body. I was off again and sexually in the running.

“Fuck me, fuck me,” he begged, and I pounded it into him, his un­dulating hips rising up to allow his swollen rectum to suck up my cock, while I continued my frustrated fuck into his broodingly salivated tunnel. I fucked the boy until his own defil­ed naked psyche asked me to stop. And I fucked him some more.

That was the time I told him that he was going to have to also fuck me. He didn’t need to be told twice. My own sperm had just been jismed into his butt, and he went about the process of pumping his own pre­ciously white spawn into my strain­ed open hole. The pressure of his youthfully thick meat felt like a ton of stud up my asshole, and I came again just from the good pumping out he gave my gut.

I’d never met anyone quite like Michael. The combination of man and boy sexuality was such a turn on to me that I realized I was going to have to do something about it. We left Chicago together, and once again fucked ourselves across the landscape of America. It was almost time for his fall college term to begin, but after our trips together, and the complete way in which he made me want to pump my grub into him so constantly, I was not about to let him elude my grasp. We’ve now been together three years, and he’s almost ready to graduate. I’ve taught him how to drive a rig, and he can jack these sons of bitches around with the best truckers there are. And we’ve become partners in more than one way.

When Michael is not in school he helps me with driving some of the long hauls. After he graduates he’ll be a full-fledged partner in my now three-rig firm. We’re employing two other men, and Michael’s degree and experience in accounting will prove to be a viable business asset.

Next summer, just for the hell of it, we plan on a couple of long distance hauls. We no longer have to do it, but are in the position of wanting to do it. There is a dif­ference. The field of June wildflowers just outside of Cheyenne has become a favorite yearly fuck spot, and I’m looking to plug into my lover’s tight little asshole there again.

I’m a long way from the days of perpetual debt, perpetual work, and perpetually not dealing with what it is that I want from life. Sometimes Michael and I’ll do a three way, but I have to admit that it’s still Michael I remain mainly in­terested in. I will never forget the half naked look of the sexually starv­ed beast on his face that first time he crawled into my truck.

Trucking has been good to me, and although it can be rough work, it’s given me the opportunity to not only partner myself with someone as fabulous as Michael, it’s also allow­ed me to see a good portion of the world from a perspective that is rather unique. I’m able to fuck my brains out across America with the man that I love. I wouldn’t have it any other way. So the next time you’re travelling, and you see a rig with the name “Nelly’s Nest” on it, honk at us, and we’ll honk back at you. And if, perhaps, we’re pulled over, and you don’t get a response, you’ll at least understand why.