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Please check the header! The following story contains some form of gay sexual content describing purely fictional events. If this is "not your bag", do yourself and us all a favor and hit the "n" key NOW!
Readers under a "legal" age somewhere who happen to be reading this are used to being told to ignore the existence of this material. Doesn't seem logical to me, if they happen to like and enjoy it. As above, if they don't, they too can hit the "n" key and be done with it. Since I have no control whatever over who does or does not read this, I think this paragraph is silly. Some hot-shot lawyer said it has to be here. Enough said.
Now, on with the show! (Hi, there, Senators!)
Oh: permission to archive and/or re-post granted, so long as the author is credited. Otherwise, (c) Bruce Bramson 1996.
Bruce Bramson
GRAPEVINE
A hogger sees a lot of interesting things from the cab of a bigrig! It just never seems to occur to folks roaring down the freeway that truck drivers are in a position to look right down into their laps, even in a closed car. Of course, convertibles and sunroofs help out a lot! I can't count the number of times I've glanced down at a passing beemer to see a hand and arm groping a hairy cunt; and just about as often the arm and hand will be jerkin-off a nice prick! Many's the near-accident I've seen from a distance when a driver took his eyes off the road to watch his partner pop.
Of course, seeing this stuff can make a driver a tad horny. It doesn't help much that most rigs get this bouncy rhythm going, especially on concrete highways. Not to mention that it can get pretty hot sitting behind or on top of 400 HP of throbbing diesel engine. That's why a lot of times on the long, hot, summer valley runs, I shuck everything but my shorts and sit sporting a woodie for mile after mile...
99 has to be one of the worst roads in California! It's hard to imagine an "antiquated freeway", but 99 is that for sure. The rig hasn't been built that can truly smooth out all the expansion-joints between Sacramento and Bakersfield! Consequently, it's pretty difficult not to wind up down that way horny as the dickens!
Now, there are both guys and gals that dig truckers. Both usually drive sporty cars, converts or at least sun-roofs; a guy can usually spot 'em by paying a little attention to the rear-view mirrors. The dead giveaway is when they come up fast to pass, then slow down and "fall in step", taking a real long time to get by, groping themselves like crazy or giving a breezy high-five. Nowadays, a lot of 'em have CB's, too, and we can chat each other up by radio.
So it should come (heh!) as no surprise that there is a lot of "R & R" going on at the rest-stops and truckers' motels off the freeways. Personally, I like the fun and games at the rest areas, because driving a BR is actually a fairly tough job and I need a good night's sleep in order to put in a good day's drive. But there's not much use trying to sleep when you've had it up all day, been cruised by two or three good lookin dudes, and are right on the edge of poppin yer wad just from bouncing in the seat all day!
My usual routine puts me at a rest stop a bit south of B'field in the late afternoon, and it's a rare layover (heh!) that I don't get some help with my "problem". Sometimes I set it up ahead of time with some of my favorite guys (guess I should point out here that I am one of the many gay truckers out there), but other times I like to take "pot luck", and I'm not often disappointed. At "thirty-something" I'm still in good shape, with dirty blond hair that I wear pretty long, nice smooth pecs and a pretty treasure trail pointing right down to the pleasure zone. I fill a pair of Jockeys pretty nicely (if I do say so myself!), and sport a reasonably well-turned set of pegs. It isn't often that anybody turns me down!
So, I'll pull into the rest area of an afternoon, let the rig idle a while to cool down, fill out my log (heh!) and check out the area. I know what's going on (or down!) in at least half of the sleeper cabs there, and with a sharp eye it isn't unusual to see a driver who seems to be alone and asleep one minute, suddenly has a partner the next - he or she had to come up for air! And there's the well-worn path to the johns! Gawd, those places do get busy sometimes, but I tend to stay away from that crowd, 'cause there are those times the fuzz likes to pull some funny business in there, and I don't much want to get busted - just want to bust my nuts and get on down to Wheeler for a good sleep before the long grapevine pull the next day.
Funny thing is, though, that as much as I want to get my rocks off, I want to do it with someone else in the same frame of mind. Yeah: I admit there are times I just open the door of my cab and wait 'till some dude walks by and sees that I'm stripped to my shorts and givin Willy a slow stroke now and again: once the dude sees that, I'm only a few licks away from blowing a wad down his throat, and I can be on my way. But those quickies don't really satisfy the way I like to be satisfied!
So, more likely I'll check out the other drivers. I'll pull on my Levi's, drop down to the ground, grab my persuader and pound tires, check brakes and rigging, watchin outa the corner of my eye to see which hunky driver is watchin me! Once I see a hogger that turns me on and who I see is givin me the eye, a good grope at my crotch is usually all it takes to get a high-sign, and I'll be up in that other cab ready to chow down! Even though I don't drive a sleeper myself, I'm sure glad most other long-haul dudes do: and I'm also glad I'm not some six-foot-five bean- pole, either!
I admit I've been accused of being greedy: on the other hand, I think a lot of drivers feel sorta the way I do, that getting done by another driver beats a run-of-the-mill BJ from some flamin queen. So I have been known to hit on more than just one driver of an afternoon (my record is nine), and each steamy load I put away makes me hotter than hades; so when I finally find an obliging dude that's as horny as I am and who grabs my jeans and shoves 'em down and grabs my prick, I'm in trucker's heaven! I usually pop my cork with no more than a half-dozen strokes. Many a driver has been thankful I always carry a BIG cum-rag in my back pocket!
So, after a coupla hours of playtime, it's the short run on down to Wheeler Ridge and the bunk-house there; some decent chow, a hot shower and shut-eye. Not that there isn't a fair amount of carrying-on there, as well; but I'm usually sated, and like I said, I need that beauty-rest!
I do remember connecting there once, though, with a really neat dude that was hikin' his way south. I'd seen him in the diner, and knew at once he wasn't a "regular". Truth is, I figured he was hostlin with some other guy. So when I found him alone at the breakfast counter the next morning about 5 I was a bit surprised. He struck up a conversation, and I soon found out he wanted a ride over the hill. So, Okay: I know this isn't the coolest thing to do -- pick up some guy I didn't know from Adam, for the most difficult part of the trip: but, hey, he wasn't at ALL bad looking, wasn't dirty, and wasn't under age (though I admit he looked like he wasn't all that far past being jail-bait).
So I took him under my wing. I figured the porno mags amid the clutter in my cab would clue him in, and that he wouldn't be surprised to find the plastic piss-bottles I use to avoid too many pit-stops, if he'd made it this far south via the truck route! So after breakfast we ventured into the cool morning air to my venerable Peterbilt. The engine caught quickly, blowing blue-white smoke-rings till the fuel warmed up; I hopped back down to check the rig around while the engine was warming up and air filled the brake reservoir. I sent Jack (that was the kid's name) back to get my thermos re-filled with coffee, eased the rig over to the fueling area and did all the needful there. Jack sauntered back with the coffee, and we climbed into the cab: it was just goin on 6 when I hit low-over and took some pedals and we rolled out on to the main road.
So I'm jaded: but getting a BR under way is, well, sexy! There's skill involved, especially in an older rig like mine that doesn't have the automatic tran and all the other bells and whistles the newer rigs have. You have to know just where the clutch "takes hold"; when to double- clutch; the big stick is close to a yard long and still takes some effort to move; and "shorty", for the rear axle, even with the air-assist, has to be coaxed "just so", or you can take a few teeth off the transfer gears with a gawdawful crunch! So, you walk it up the gears, matching the engine's speed and torque to the load: second-over; third-under; third- over. The transition from third-over to fourth-under is tricky, but goes smoothly if you do it right. Eventually you have something like 80,000 pounds of machinery moving smoothly down the highway, and you can begin to relax; and in the present instance, I could begin to pay a little attention to my passenger.
The ride is fairly smooth here, on black-top, so not too "bouncy" just yet. Jack seems at home, clearly no stranger to a BR and all the manipulations necessary to getting it up to speed. He complimented me on my skills, and I told him he hadn't seen the half of them! Actually, I referred to what was ahead - the famous Grapevine - but, a sly smile on his face suggested perhaps he took a different meaning. Okay by me! I had a chance to study Jack's appearance now, and it was rather nice; his levis were tight on his thighs - I like that! - and he showed some basket. He had a jacket on, so I couldn't tell too much about his upper bod, but I knew it would be only a short while before he would be shucking that coat, if not a lot more, because it was obviously going to be a typically HOT day in the southern San Joaquin valley, and working this rig over the 'vine on a hot day can put the temperature in the cab well into the nineties, even with all the windows and vents wide open!
The approach to the grapevine is deceptive: you're actually climbing a modest grade, but because of the looming mountains, it seems flat. But soon it's time to drop out of five-over, as the grade increases a little and the rig slows, the engine labors. Sure enough, it's only 6:30, but the temperature is climbing in the cab, so Jack sheds his jacket, and I can perceive a nice torso under a tight tee, and nice muscular arms with just a light dusting of hair. Hmmmm: just my type, it seems! I skip four over and go direct to four-under; then -- and this always startles me, no matter how often I do it -- we hit the 'vine itself, where the grade suddenly approaches three percent, and it's several quick down-shifts to the long, slow grind in second-over (if we're lucky we can stay there, unless some idjit cuts us off and we lose momentum!). Now, on the one hand, this part of the trip can be pretty dull, since you're poking along at around 25 mph; but the route is twisty, and there's other traffic you have to watch, like all those dumb fools in their beemers and cressidas roarin along as if they were at the Indy 500, with no IDEA how difficult it is to hustle a rig over this hill!
So, I'm settled down to the grind, watching the mirrors, holding the outside lane, gettin with the gentle rhythm (we're back to concrete and expansion joints again), when that old automatic reaction set in and Willy started to exert himself in my Levi's. To tell the truth, I was so absorbed in drivin, I forgot all about Jack, and without even thinkin about it I first made a "major adjustment" of my crotch, and shortly thereafter popped the top button on my levis, ripped open the rest and let Willy free. Only when I heard a low whistle from the other side of the cab did I suddenly remember my passenger, and when I glanced his way it was MY turn to whistle: he hadn't whipped it out yet, but the snake crawling down his leg made it clear that either the rhythm of the ride or my raging hard-on (or both) had taken effect.
Jack saw me cruise him, and answered by stroking himself through the blue cloth of his pants. At just that moment I realized I was gaining on the rig ahead, checked my mirrors and saw it was clear to move left to pass: had the signals on, when this idjit in a caddy pulled into the lane and cut me off. I was off the juice right away, and of course lost momentum and had to drop it down to first-over and fall in behind the rig I'd hoped to pass. Under these circumstances its 10 mph most of the way to the summit. So I said something rude and appropriate about the driver, and Jack said, "I like the way you handle this rig." I said, "Well, we're in for the long haul, so I'm gonna handle YOUR rig," and I reached over and grabbed that trouser-trout, and was rewarded by a very pleasant pulsation. I worked that meat with my right hand as I steered with my left; presently I felt a wet spot on his pants and realized he was lubin' like crazy, so I just said, "Get outa those things, you're gonna mess yourself!" So he shucked his Levis down around his ankles, and this really sporting cock sprang out, drooling wildly. Don't think I ever saw anyone lube like that!
At least this guy wasn't bashful! He reached over and got a grip on me, then went back and got a handful of his own pre-cum and used that on my dick, and I was in trucker's heaven again! This was certainly going to be one of the more memorable crossings of the 'vine that I'd ever make! Now, there's a rest stop about half-way up towards the summit, but I couldn't really see us stopping there, since I had no sleeper and didn't want to hafta take this dude in the mensroom. So I just kept my foot on the juice, keeping a respectful distance behind the rig ahead of us, and let the throbbing engine, the heat, the lilt of the cab as we humped the joints in the roadway, and (best of all) this guy rubbing my dick with his copious effusion, work their magic. His slippery prong in my right fist was no unpleasant sensation, either! I didn't even slow down for the rest stop: just let the fellow ahead of us set the pace, and grooved on this mutual JO scene right here in the cab of my own rig. Jack helped me shuck my levis, and steered while I shed my shirt. Soon he was tonguing my right tit, and it sure felt good! I had to take my hand off his cock a few times and shift some gears, as there are a few level stretches where we picked up a little speed, but somehow, I was content to follow the rig ahead right on up to the summit. As we approached the top Jack suddenly stretched his legs straight out against the firewall, grabbed my right wrist in an iron grip (my own grip was firmly on his cock) and let go with a huge load that went all OVER the place! While he was still dribbling cum, he reached over with his right hand and jacked me quickly to a state of orgasm, and I shot my own load all over the inside of the cab, hitting the steering wheel, the dash and the windshield, in one of the most explosive hand jobs I've ever had! The Tejon Pass sign flashed by just at that moment: we all reached the summit together.
Well, one way or another Jack and I put ourselves back together. Briefly, I was able to concentrate on my driving, and finally managed to pass the rig I'd been following for so long. As I pulled alongside, I glanced over and recognized two guys I knew, one of whom was busy with a rag mopping something off the windshield...
Just something about that long haul up the 'vine that gets to ya!
(c) Bruce Bramson, 1994
Dedicated to TRUCKER on the Backdoor BBS