TRUCKER PASSING
I was always tired after my shift at the construction site. Dust in my hair, sweat soaking my shirt, my boots dragging. I never wanted to spend money on a ride, so I stood by the same road every afternoon, thumb out, waiting.
And like clockwork, the same truck slowed down. Same deep rumble of the engine. Same grin behind the wheel.
The driver. Broad shoulders, thick arms, scruffy jaw. At first he wore a white tank top, gloves on his hands. He asked about my day, and I asked about his. We’d laugh, bragging about girls we’d been with. It felt like locker room talk, but there was always something else hanging in the air—like he was testing me, like he knew I noticed more than I should.
The next few rides, the tank top was gone. He said it was just summer heat. His torso was right there in the open—sweat gleaming across his chest, veins running over his arms. My throat got dry every time I sat beside him. I tried to keep my eyes on the road, but they always dropped to the way his abs shifted when he turned the wheel.
I told myself I was straight. I told myself not to think about it. But the air inside that cab grew thicker every day.
Then one afternoon, he pulled up again. I opened the door and froze.
He wasn’t wearing shorts. Not jeans. Not his work clothes. Just briefs. Tight, clinging, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I slid into the passenger seat anyway, heart pounding, trying to act casual.
“Man,” I said, forcing a laugh, “it’s like you’re getting less and less clothed every time I get in this truck.”
He didn’t look at me at first. He kept his eyes on the road, a little smirk curling on his lips. Then he finally turned his head, eyebrow raised.
“You think I’m seducing you?” I asked, my voice low, bolder than I meant it to be.
He chuckled, deep and rough. “Is it working?”
The silence that followed burned hotter than the summer sun. My chest heaved, my palms sweaty. Then I grabbed his wrist, hard, and he shifted gears with one hand while letting me pull him closer with the other.
Our mouths crashed together. His lips were rough, tasting of salt and heat. He growled into my mouth, and I let out a sound I didn’t recognize.
The truck swerved slightly before he pulled us to a stop on the side of the road. Without a word, he dragged me into the back, tossing me against the bunk mattress. His body pressed down on me—solid, heavy, unrelenting. His briefs brushed against my jeans, hard and needy, making me gasp.
He kissed me like he wanted to own me, biting my lip, his tongue pushing in deep. My hands clawed at his back, my chest rising and falling against his.
Clothes came off in hurried tugs. Skin on skin, sweat mixing, moans filling the cab. I’d never felt anything like it—raw, desperate, wrong and perfect at the same time.
In the back of that truck, I wasn’t straight. I wasn’t anything but his. We lost ourselves in each other, the windows fogging, the road forgotten.
By the time it was over, I knew I’d never wait for another ride again. Only his.
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