GAY SEX STORY
"Gay Hitchhiker"

At last, I’m on my way west. Last week, I became a qualified stone mason. In a month, I start work for a contractor. Good-bye Boston! Hello California!

I thought I might hitchhike or try to get a lift at a truck stop, but my friend Mark, who works for a shipping outfit, got me this ride. “Strictly speaking, it’s illegal,” he told me. “But I know a driver with a big rig who likes company. You'll save him looking for a gay hitchhiker on the highway.”

So, after last night’s class party, here I am at the depot at 7 a.m., on the last day of June. Mark introduces me to Aaron, an easy-going guy, about ten years older than me. The three of us gab for few minutes, then Mark says, “I’ve got to go. Have fun guys, and Paul, keep in touch.”

Aaron leads the way to his 18-wheeler. “This is ‘home’ for the next five days, maybe six. I only stop for lunch and sleep – breakfast when we get up, dinner before bedtime. Speaking of sleep, it doesn’t look like you’ve had much.”

When I explain about the celebration, he says, “Well, maybe you’d rather stretch out in the cab tonight. It’s fairly comfortable. You’re welcome to share my bed,” he adds with a grin, “but I might keep you awake. It’s up there. Right now, tuck your backpack behind the seat and let’s get started.”

The first day is slow going – heavy traffic and then rain. At 9 o’clock, Aaron finally pulls into a truck stop. After dinner, I opt for the cab. On top of last night’s party, I’ve been lifting, cutting, and fitting fifty-pound rocks for the past two weeks. I’m exhausted. I dozed off several times today – and I’ve probably not been great company.

In the morning, after breakfast, we’re back on the road. The temperature and humidity have shot up, and Aaron is flipping a dial on the panel back and forth. “Damn,” he says. “The air-conditioning is fucked. Let’s roll down the windows.”

That helps a bit, but a few minutes later he’s struggling out of his shirt. “Can you give me a hand with this? I need to keep one hand on the wheel.”

“Sure,” I say, and when it’s off, I’m gaping at his muscled body – and he’s aware that I’m admiring it. “I go to a gym whenever I can,” he says. “I’ve seen too many flabby truckers.” The he looks at me and suggests, “Why don’t you get comfortable, too? Don’t be bashful.” And when I peel my shirt off, he adds, “You’re in great shape.” He surveys my body openly, as if sizing me up. “Splitting rocks hasn’t done you any harm.”

We talk about keeping fit and other stuff. In spite of the open windows, we’re both sweating, and I watch it trickle down his burly chest. Around noon, he pulls up beside a take-out stand. “If you get us a couple of sandwiches and something to drink, we can eat on the go. I know a secluded place where we can swim. Are you game?”

“Sure thing – any way to cool off sounds good to me.” A couple of hours later, he swings onto a secondary road. “The pond is down there,” he says when we cross a bridge, “but I’ll turn around at the crossroads ahead. There’s space to park on the other side.”

When we stop, he leaps out. “Follow me,” and he heads down the embankment to a deep pool bordered by huge trees. His boots and pants are off in a flash, but I notice his taut ass and hefty cock before he dives in. My own is swelling, just thinking about what it would be like to sleep with him. When I walk to the edge of the pool, he’s treading water and looking at me. “That muscle between your thighs is impressive,” he says. “I’ll bet it gets lots of exercise.”

“Not much,” I reply, feeling embarrassed, and I plunge in. When I surface, he continues his teasing, “Maybe you frequent the wrong places.”

I’m not sure what to say. Being gay is not something I advertise. Oh yeah? taunts an inner voice asks. You were waiting till he saw you naked, before you dove in – and you’ve just imagined being in bed with him, which he’s invited you to do. What are you waiting for?

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