GENRE: Gay Erotica
LENGTH: 3,033 words
RATING:

A man’s journey to a new home, a new life, gets momentarily derailed when his car breaks down at a rest stop. Thankfully, he’s rescued by a hunky trucker -- in more ways than one.

NOTE: This story appears in Rob Rosen's best-selling collection, Short Spurts.

EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

I pulled into the rest stop a little past six in the morning. I’d already driven nearly eight solid hours, leaving behind the smog infused dusk of L.A. and arriving into the fog dense dawn of San Francisco. Well, nearly San Francisco and nearly dawn, anyhow. See, I still had about a half an hour to go, and I had to pee, badly. The two mocha javas I’d nursed along the way were now eager to make their exit from my aching, tired body.

I hopped out of my beat-up jalopy, had a quick look around, spotted the only other vehicle in the lot, a massive semi, and hightailed it into the can. There were two urinals, side by side, and one crapper. I headed for the first of the porcelain receptacles, whipped my dick out, and moaned with delight as a steady stream of piss hit the blue, aromatic disk below.

Just then, the door to the stall opened and out walked what I assumed was the driver of the truck. I jumped an inch, startled by the presence of someone else. Groggy as I was, however, I was now instantly alert. After all, we were alone, out in the middle of nowhere -- mostly -- and with no one to hear me shout -- definitely -- if I was to be mugged, or worse.

Fortunately, from my quick appraisal of him, I knew I had a good three inches and thirty pounds on the guy. I guessed truckers came in all shapes and sizes, sexes even, but I’d never seen a more unassuming one before that moment. Actually, truth be told, as I glanced at him while he washed his hands, he was kind of cute. Handsome even.

He was pushing forty, I guessed, with long muttonchops, an aquiline nose, full lips, broad chest, thick legs covered by tight denim, and black boots. Five eight, I’d say, maybe one-hundred-sixty pounds, sopping wet. Like I said, not the standard trucker type.

“Howdy,” he said, perhaps sensing my attention.

“Oh, um, hi,” I replied. “Good morning,” I added.

“Yep, that it is.” He turned, smiled, and crinkled his blue eyes at me. “Almost, give or take a few minutes.” He turned to look outside as the sun began its gradual ascent above the hilly horizon. “Gonna be a nice one, too.”

“Hope so,” I said, now finished with my leak. I shoved my prick back in my jeans and zipped up.

He frowned. “Don’t gotta do that so fast, pal,” he said.

“What? Zipper up?”