Interstate Triad Concerto

Well, actually, I had had such fantasies. What he'd written, though, was more reason to settle this sooner rather than later.

* * * *

He said his name was Gabe Johnson and in almost the same breath he said my name was Neal Gordon, so there wasn't any use of me trying to deny it. He didn't include any sort of a threat or blackmail statement, but he didn't have to. He said I should put that there is any blackmail aspect out of my mind.

And he was every bit the thuggish truckdriver type of guy I had been mooning about.

"I just want to fuck you," he said, "in the way your profile said you wanted to be fucked. I don't want to scare you or force you to do anything you don't want to do. I want you to want to do it as much as I do. I want you to have a ball with me balling you."

I suppose I should have taken that as reassurance, but it only was reassuring if it was true and there was nothing making it have to be true. I still didn't recognize him from anywhere when I sat across from him at a side table in the low-ceilinged and dimly lit Bar Bar, which I wouldn't have known was a gay bar if all of the couples matched up around me hadn't been the same gender.

His photo on the Web site was him. Maybe he was a bit older than pictured, but he was just as hulky and former Marine like as photographed. He was bald, but curls of salt-and-pepper hair pushed out of the V of his tight T-shirt under the leather jacket. I knew that one of his pecs was covered in a swirly, colorful tattoo that came down his left arm in a sleeve inking, but that wasn't apparent the way he was dressed here. He met my expectation of a truckdriver, even to the point of the age somewhat beyond forty--a truckdriver who kept himself in good muscular shape. In taking control of our meeting, he also fulfilled my idea of what he'd be--what I wanted the hookup to be. In other words, I should stop looking for something to be worried about, go with him, and find out how my expectations of being fucked rough by a truckdriver panned out.

I had cleaned myself out and, as he had directed, was wearing a black, lacy pair of panties under my jeans and a black bra under a billowy white cotton, long-sleeved shirt, but no one would have known it as conservatively dressed as I was. I'd bought the panties and bra, easily stripped off by hooking between the cups, at a sex shop out Waters Avenue in the Midtown district, letting the sales girl think it was for my girlfriend. She flirted with me like she'd be happy to wear the panties for me. They had a slit up the back.

I'd put a diamond stud in my right ear, a practice that no longer was a clear signal of gay submissive, but might still be with someone Gabe's age. I'd put the gold bars in my nipples too. He had trapped me by knowing who I was, but I had decided to go with it. I'd been telling myself it was what I wanted to do.

The lace panties were scratchy. I hadn't considered that would be a possibility. I wondered if Gabe told me to wear them because the scratchiness made me fully aware of being aroused by the situation and the look of him.

"You don't remember where our paths crossed?" Gabe asked when he returned from the bar with our beers. It was obvious that he was controlling this date. He didn't even ask me what I wanted to drink; he just went up to the bar after we'd seen each other and he'd gruffly told me to sit at the table. He could see that taking command and being gruff was what I was being submissive to. I expected him to continue doing that until he'd gotten what he wanted. If this was roleplaying here, this was what I wanted too.

"No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"I guess you only had eyes for that black dude with the saxophone. You left with him, didn't you?"

Ah, that was it. It was at the gay men's chorus practice. I didn't remember seeing him there, though. "Yes, Jamie gave me a ride home from practice," I said, indicating that I now knew how he knew what he did about me. "So, you're in the gay man's chorus too."

Ignoring that question, he honed down on his main interest. "And he fucked you good, I'll bet."

I didn't answer that, which was giving him an answer.

"I see you remember now," he continued. "I'm in the bass section. You were introduced to the choir in general. So, do you like black cock?"

"I liked his," I said, standing my ground.

"But you're cruising for truckers? You want real men who jockey eighteen wheelers? Muscle men with eight inches? You want to ride eight inches of trucker cock."

"I was just shopping on that Web site," I said. "I was just playing around."

"But you were wondering what it would be like to be fucked by a trucker."

"Yes."

"Well, now that you see me, do you want to do some playing around? You gonna let me fuck you?"

This was what I'd signed up at the Web site for; this was what I'd come here for, wasn't it? "Yes," I answered.

"You wearing the lacy panties and bra like I told you to?"

"Yes." I unbuttoned my shirt enough for him to see I was wearing the bra underneath it.

"Good boy. Drink your beer up and come out and get in my truck. See how a truckdriver can drive you. Ride my cock like a good little piece of ass."

* * * *

I gave up, lying back on the bed--in my apartment, where we'd gone because Gabe admitted he was married, with a wife and kids at home. I let him take it all the way he wanted. We'd moved into it--the meeting up at the door to my apartment; his controlling kissing and fondling after we were inside the apartment and he, with a leer, had thrown the bolt; the nervous moments of offering and receiving drinks and settling on the sofa; and then the immediate ignoring of the drinks, going directly into him trapping me under him and tearing at my clothes.

I broke away, saying that maybe we should take it slower.

He shocked me by slapping me across the face and sending me, reeling, back into the sofa. "You don't want it slower," he said. "You want a trucker. You want a trucker's dick inside you, taking it hard."

I extricated myself from him, rolled off the sofa, and stood, only to be shocked when he stood as well, slapped me hard again, and put his fist into my belly, causing me to go down. He had his jacket and shirt off at that point, showing off his bulging muscularity and his tattoos. There was no question who would win in the fight--I also could tell he was holding back, manhandling me but not doing the damage he was capable of doing. The slaps and fist didn't have the power behind them I knew he possessed.

"This is the trucker way," he declared. "You agreed to take it by being here, and we take it. You do what you're told. Get up. Get on the bed. Lie on your back. Spread your legs for me."

I got up, but when I moved toward the door to the outer hallway rather than the bedroom, he hooked his foot on my ankle and I went down in a heap. Standing over me, he reared his arm back and snapped it forward, twice, slapping me again. He could have closed his fist, but he didn't. He could easily have done more damage. He didn't.

His eyes were flashing. I think he was pleased that I was putting up some resistance.

Standing over me, he growled, "Do you want me to dick you or not?"

The moment of reckoning. Had I let this get set up for nothing? Did I really not want to experience it rough--being under the complete control of a muscle daddy. Would I lose him if I resisted further?

"Are we going to fuck or not?" he repeated. He apparently had gone as far in this reluctance game as he was going to go.

"Yes. But be good to me," I whined. "Don't hurt me."

"Good as in well fucked, a trucker's way--my way--or something sissy? I don't do sissy. I don't think you want sissy. You wouldn't have gone looking for a trucker if that's what you wanted."

I was confused. He'd told me to wear lacy panties. He'd seemed to have been aroused when, in messing with me on the sofa, he discovered I was wearing them.

"Any way you want it," I whimpered.

"Good answer." He lifted me like I didn't weigh anything at all, carried me into the bedroom, and dumped me on the bed. I was naked other than the black lace panties and the bra. He reached down, flipping me onto my back with a grip on my calves, spreading them apart, and stood hovering over me, between my legs, at the foot of the bed, leering down at me, as he slipped his pants and briefs off. He was in magnificent erection. His body was beautiful for a man his age--all muscle and tattoos.

He reached down, unhooked the bra, and pulled it off my back, looking intensely down at my body, which seemed to please him and turn him on. He ran his hands over my chest, thumbing my nipples. I moaned for him and pushed my chest up into his stroking hands, working my pecs like they were breasts.

Pulling his hands back, he continued leering as he split open the condom packet and rolled the Trojan Magnum on his cock.

There was no further preparation. Apparently, this was the trucker's way: Get in, do it, get out, get back on the road. He grasped my ankles and put them on his shoulders. He didn't bother stripping me of the lace panties; they had a slit up the back. He didn't bother with opening me up with anything but his shaft. "The tightness, the need to force it in, your screams are half the fun," he said. I writhed under him and gasped and groaned, and, yes, did a bit of loud response, as he invaded and stretched me, using just his spit as lubricant, but I gave up, settled down, arched my back, stared at the ceiling fan, and took it, as, his cock buried inside me, he grasped my ankles, spread-eagled my legs, thrust deep, setting up a rhythm, and fucked the shit out of me.

Telling me to keep my legs spread in a high, wide V, which I did with the help of my hands holding them, Gabe grasped my throat with both hands and used breath control on me in the same cadence with the thrusts of his shaft. It was certainly a new, invigorating experience for me. I came for him twice, creaming the inside of the black lacy panties, which Gabe had left on me.

Later, out in the living room, after I'd tossed the flat beer and delivered fresh ones, he said, "That the way you wanted it?"

"Yes," I had to admit.

"What are you? Some kind of Asian mix?"

"Half Korean. My dad was an American soldier."

"Pretty exotic. The men driving my trucks would enjoy getting into you."

"So, it was good for you?" I asked. I hadn't been sure about that. He'd taken it for granted and hadn't given any sign of satisfaction or otherwise other than jerking and gasping as he came.

"Don't you mean wasn't it good for me too? You settled down to it. You took it like a champ."

"Yes, was it good for you too?"

"Yes. You know what an Interstate Triad is?"

"No, I've never heard of it."

"It's a wild week with truckers. You set up a route that takes goods to three cities in an eighteen-wheeler, delivering to one city, picking up, delivering the new cargo to the next city, and then back to the first city with another cargo. A day traveling on the road, an overnight in a hotel, and then twice more, getting back to your base city."

"OK, so what's with that?"

"Didn't you see it on the truckers' hookup Web site?"

"No."

"The arrangement is that a sweet young thing--like you--goes along for the ride and gets ridden by the truckers--during rest stops and at night in the motels. All expenses paid for the chicken. I arrange them from here in Savannah for the Web site. You want an adventure in trucker sex, this is a great way to get it."

"Hmmm," I said.

"You interested? I could set it up. A week on the road. Three or more trucker dicks in you, depending on who's on the drive. You agreeing not only to the trucker fuck but to the dress-up as well shows you're game for this. You certainly would be a trucker's delight."

"What cities would this be?" I asked.

"From here, it's usually Savannah to New Orleans to Nashville, and back."

Music cities, I thought. I paused, but not for long. "Sure, I'm interested," I said.

I looked at Gabe to see that he was smiling and opening up another condom packet that had been sitting on the coffee table.

"Let's do it right here," he said, "Like dogs do it."

He put me on all fours on the sofa, mounted, and penetrated me, and rode me like we were in a rodeo.

* * * *

"So, you some kind of Jap?"

His name was Lyle. He was maybe forty-five, tall, thin, wiry--almost gaunt. He might have been a looker in "the day," but he had a lot of hard living on him now. He was wearing a flannel shirt over what might have been the top of long johns, over stained jeans and cowboy boots. He wore a baseball cap on a head of stringy gray and auburn hair that was held back in a ponytail. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he drove I-90 from Jacksonville to New Orleans. It was just after 1:00 in the afternoon and they were just clearing the western fringes of Tallahassee. But, if he had a nice erection and a good backswing...

"My mother was Korean. My father an American GI," I answered. I don't know how many times I'd had to say that in my life already.

"Guess that's all right with me, as long as you are as good-lookin' as you are and are hungry for cock--speaking of which..." He unzipped himself, whipped it out, moved his hand to the back of my head and pulled my mouth down onto his cock. He'd been looking at the road signs real close and I'd seen him zero in on signs for an approaching rest stop on the highway, so I wasn't surprised when he pulled over into one.

I'd given him a blow job like this on I-95 before we'd reached Jacksonville to turn onto I-10 going west, and he'd told me then that he'd first lay me in the afternoon after we'd cleared Tallahassee. Obviously, he'd done this on this route before. He said we were hauling refrigerators to New Orleans from off a Japanese cargo ship that had docked in Savannah. This was when he told me he didn't like anything Japanese. He'd only now been serious enough about that to find out that my connection with Asia was Korea, not Japan.

"Rest stop," Lyle said, which was rather self-explanatory, as he was pulling into an interstate rest area as we began moving into rural country west of Tallahassee. He parked in the semitrailer area and we both went into the men's room, being the only ones in there. We presented side by side at urinals to take a piss. I'd already seen his cock--twice--up close and personal, but he showed a great interest in how I was hung, so I left it out after urinating and he reached over and touched it until we heard someone coming into the men's room.

"Let's go back to the truck," he said. "It's more private like."

As we approached the truck, he said, "Get in the back compartment." The truck had one of those cabs with a sleeping section, reached by separate doors, behind the driver's cab. I stepped up onto the high step so that I could reach the handle of that back compartment. When I had the door swung open, Lyle gave me a boost up and pitched me forward into a claustrophobic small cabin dominated by a bed built into the back wall that was deeper than a normal vehicle bench seat. When he'd closed the door behind him, we were in total darkness.

"Lay back and take it, little darling," he said. I didn't struggle against him.

He stripped us both in darkness, put his hands all over my body, and had me on my back on the bed. He'd somehow greased up his hand and he was working on getting his fist inside me as he held me in a captive embrace--or at least I thought he was going to take it there.

He didn't take it as far as fully fisting me, but he certainly left the impression both that he might do that and that, if he did, there wouldn't be a damn thing I could do to prevent it. He may be wiry, but he was strong as an ox.

Panting heavily, he withdrew his bunched fingers and got his knees between my thighs. He switched on a couple of dim-lighting dome lights in the cabin so that he could see to get a condom located and rolled on his cock. He had a well-muscled body, hard as steel. I wouldn't have won a struggle if I'd tried--but I didn't try. I knew the deal. I lay there, my head turned toward the driving cabin, panting lightly, and then gasping and groaning, as he encircled my waist with one arm, arched my body up to him so that my pelvis was at a desirable angle, used the other hand to put his cock in position, and speared me. He fucked me in a straightforward, vigorous missionary position.

There was no "please" or "thank you, ma'am." When he'd come, he pulled out of me, rolled the condom off, tossed it in a plastic trashcan strapped to the front wall of the cabin, and cleaned his cock off with tissues that then found themselves in the trash bin as well.

"You can take a nap back here for an hour, if you like," he said. "A steak house OK for supper? Late, because I have to get the cargo checked in and another one loaded."

"Sure," I answered, cleaning myself up as best I could with tissues.

"You'll have three or four hours before dinner--early evening--to dick around in the French Quarter, if you like."

That was great news to hear. He dropped me off at the motel on the Interstate east of New Orleans and went off to change his load. I went into the city by taxi and managed a couple of hours roaming around jazz clubs to get a feel for what the jazz was like in the Crescent City. I even managed to get a pass by from a funeral procession being led by a trumpeter.

Lyle fucked me good--real good--on the motel room bed that night, and I was getting the experience I had signed up for in the Interstate Triad department, but, more lasting for me, was the chance I'd gotten to take in New Orleans' distinctive flavor of rhythm and blues smooth jazz music.

* * * *

In the morning Lyle took me back to the truck staging area east of New Orleans, where he turned me over to not one, but two, drivers taking a load of coffee beans from South and Central America up through the heartland of the States. I was going with them to Nashville, Tennessee, some 600 miles north via Interstates 59 and 65. As with Lyle's all-day haul to New Orleans from Savannah, with an overnight and multiple rides of me, in New Orleans, the truckers, Tex and the guy he was training, Anton, would take the day to drive to Nashville, handing off the driving periodically so the truck could continue to roll. We'd overnight in Nashville before I took the third, and final, leg of the Interstate Triad back to Savannah.

Tex was a gray-beard of indeterminate age, a bit paunchy, and decked out as a cowboy as befitted his nickname. He wasn't relating that well to Anton, most likely because Anton was black, muscular, had been a semipro football player, and, although it was Tex supposedly breaking in Anton, it was Anton who had two-thirds of the brains the two could put together. Also, faithful to the legend of black bull studs, Anton had a huge cock and knew how to use it. I'm sure Tex felt a little self-conscious about that.

After clearing Birmingham, Alabama, where the eighteen-wheeler changed from I-59 to I-65, headed due north, we stopped at Logan's Roadhouse in Fultondale for lunch. After that was when my service for them started. Tex had Anton drive for a while and he took me into the sleeper van behind the driver's cab and worked me over surprisingly well for an older man. He liked to take it doggy style. He wasn't big, but he did it with vigor and was long lasting. At a rest stop, they switched. Anton did it doggy style too, but, whereas he was taxingly thick, he couldn't hold himself in check. He fucked me twice, but it didn't take much more than a half hour for him to fire off that twice. He had a great, chocolate bod, but as it was nearly pitch black in the sleeper cabin, there wasn't much opportunity to enjoy that aspect of him.

We were booked into the Holiday Inn Express on Broadway, which was in the heart of Nashville, and, as with Lyle in New Orleans, they had to check the cargo in when we hit the town after 6:00 p.m., so I was told I was free until 9:00, when I'd meet them at a steak house before we returned to the hotel for fun and games. I covered a lot of territory and music venues in the time I had, getting a flavor of country music done Nashville style, incorporating a surprising variety of instruments, including, to my delight, the saxophone. After an unabashed country music concert at the Bridgestone Arena, I found a more intimate jazz club, the Cave, where I was surprised to find that the country music tones filtered through even in this club in Nashville. That's probably what gave me the solidifying idea for what I wanted to do during my Savannah sabbatical.