Getting a New Peterbilt

In a matter of minutes, both girls were dressed, grabbed the four hundred bucks I had left for them on the bureau, blew me a kiss, and were gone. And just like my experience with Donna, I was left lying naked, with a wet, limp dick, staring at the ceiling and wondering 'what had just happened?'

I can say one thing about Donna though; she did address me by my name probably five or six times. I don't think either one of the El Paso bimbos ever mentioned my name once -- I guess in the larger scheme of things, at least Donna had a better sense of customer service.

Back on my regular stool at the Iron Skillet, while I dined on chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans (a trucker's staple and an all-time favorite of mine), I told Maggie all about my experience with Annabelle and Marisela.

"So, every man's fantasy," she teased.

"I don't know," I said as I pushed a pile of mashed potatoes and cream gravy onto the piece of chicken fried steak I had on my fork.

"You didn't like it?" Maggie asked, a little surprised by my unenthusiastic response.

"I guess it wasn't what I was expecting," I said. "I mean when you're paying attention to one girl -- then the other girl acts like she is bored or is somehow left out. Besides, they were both just girls -- kids as far as I was concerned. They were apparently old enough to legally drink, but they weren't that much older than my son. And when I got thinking about it -- after the fact, that is -- it just seems a little creepy."

Maggie nodded politely and said, "Sterling, you work hard, and you need a sexual release occasionally -- like every normal healthy adult." As she slid a piece of fresh rhubarb pie across the counter to me, she cautioned, "Hon, there's a lot of people out there who will hurt you. You just need to be careful."

"Yeah, I know Maggie," I said as I scraped the last bit of potatoes and gravy onto my fork before pushing my dinner plate away and centering the pie in front of me. I started to tell her how lonely it was out there on the highway -- but working in a truck stop, she probably knows that as well as I do. I took my first bite of pie and said, "I work to support my kids, I work to make the payments on my truck -- but other than that, I don't know what in the hell I'm doing out there every day pushing a rig up and down the interstate."

Maggie wrapped her hands around mine, and looking me straight in the eyes, said, "Sterling, you work because you're a good man -- don't worry, the rest will fall in place."

As the weeks and the miles slid by, I continued to feel more and more alone. As I laid in my bunk during mandatory rest breaks, I'd leave the engine idling, so I'd have air conditioning in the cab. In order to fall asleep, I slowly stroked my personal gear-shift lever as I listened to the melodic rumble of the engine. My Kenworth had a PACCAR 660 cubic-inch straight-six. I knew each cylinder had a bore of 4.8 inches and a stroke of 6.1 inches. So, let's see, I calculated in my head -- radius squared times π, times height equals volume. And the radius is half the diameter -- so 2.4 squared is about 5.75, and 5.75 times π is just a little over 18 (remember, I was doing this in my head). And 18 times 6.1 (the stroke) is 110. Then 110 times the six cylinders is 660 cubic inches. Wow, I thought to myself -- my high school math is still there. I've still got it!

Now, to be honest, I didn't actually remember all that from high school. It was reinforced in the military -- I spent most of my Army career with the Corp of Engineers. So, we had to calculate how much concrete it would take to fill a post hole, or what was the volume of a fox hole or a crater, etc. So, my math skills were reinforced over time. But I was still pretty proud of myself for being able to do it in my head. And, 'Doing it in my head' was about all I was getting these days on a regular basis.

Still awake, I continued to slowly stroke myself as I began to wonder. So -- my dick is probably five and a half inches long (hard, of course), and let's see, what's its radius? Using the old Boy Scout trick of measuring inches by the distance from your knuckle to your finger's second joint as an inch -- I figured my pecker must be at least an inch thick. So -- half of an inch is 0.5; squared would be 0.25 inches. Then times π would be about 0.8 inches. And then times the stroke (as I kept slowly stroking myself) would be about 4.3 cubic inches -- round that up to say 4.5 inches. Wow, my cock is four and a half cubic inches, which sounds tiny compared to my truck. But my dick can't pull a 40-ton tractor and trailer at eighty miles per hour -- so I guess it's all relative.

Still awake, I tried to put my cubic displacement into perspective. Let's see, how many times did Kelly and I have sex? When we first moved in together, before we were married, we probably made love every day -- so say 360 times. Then, after we were married, but before kids, we probably had sex every other day, so say 180 times for two years. That's 360 more times for a total of 720 times. Then after the kids started coming, we probably dropped down to three times a week for the next three years -- that's 450 more times for a total of 1,170. Then probably over the next six years, due to military exercises and deployments, we were probably down to two times a week on average -- that's another 600 times for a total of 1,770.

By my last year in the Army, we were down to maybe once a week, so adding another 50 brings the total to 1,820 times. And then since I started driving -- well, I guess we would have been lucky to do it twice a month -- so that's another 75 times for a total of 1,895. Round that up to 1,900 times. Humm... so over the course of sixteen years, I've probably fucked Kelly at least one thousand nine hundred times. So... times my cubic displacement of 4.5 inches. Wow, I guess I'd given her over 8,500 cubic inches of dick. It didn't sound so bad when you put it that way.

Just thinking of her and all the great times we'd had in bed together finally got me off, and I finally shot a huge load up and across my chest. And as Big Blue idled softly into the night -- I drifted off to sleep.

Several weeks later, I found myself at a highway rest stop on I-10 in Louisiana. It was late at night, maybe midnight. Old Blue and I were trying to make it to Pensacola before my mandatory break, and 'We've got a long way to go and a short time to get there.'

As I was standing at the rest stop urinal, I couldn't help but notice that someone had scrawled on the wall in front of me, 'What are you looking up here for? The joke is in your hand.' I'd seen the graffiti before, but somehow it always tickled me, and I must have at least snickered.

I hadn't actually noticed the guy standing at the urinal next to me, but as I snickered, he suddenly said, "That's no joke you've got there in your hand Buddy, that's a real nice piece of meat."

Not sure if he was talking to me or not, I looked over at him. He looked just like your typical truck driver -- burly, unshaven, and wearing a Denim shirt. "What?" I said.

He looked down at my dick, which was still in my hand. He smiled and said again, "Nice piece of meat you got there, man. I bet it could use a little attention right about now."

I just stared at him.

"Come on man; I can give you a great blow." He said as his eyes kept moving from my face to my limp pecker. I still wore my wedding ring even though Kelly and I had been divorced for almost two years, and I guess he saw it. "I bet my blow job is better than your wife's."

I didn't speak, but just slowly turned to face him. The stranger quickly sank to his knees, moved my hand out of the way, and replaced it with his. My dick was as limp as a wet noodle, but he stroked it several times and then quickly slurped it into his mouth. My zipper was slightly pinching me, so I undid my pants and moved them down just an inch or two. That extra room made it more comfortable for both of us.

I didn't look down, but shamefully up to the ceiling. I tried to envision Kelly sucking me -- or any woman for that matter -- but my mind was just blank. Kelly hadn't given me a blow job since our youngest was born, and though I loved it, I don't think she ever did. That made the mental image of her sucking some strangers cock in the parking lot of the Double Eagle even more hurtful.

This guy's mouth was amazingly wet and warm. And even though I never did get a hard-on, he got me off in less than two minutes. I didn't know you could shoot your load without an erection, but I guess you can. Of course, this guy really did seem like he knew what he was doing. I bet he probably sucks ten or more dicks every time he hangs out in the rest area -- so it's no wonder he's so good at it.

As my climax subsided, I couldn't help but look down. To my surprise, he spit out my load. Why in the hell was he so keen on sucking me off if he was just going to spit it out. But what really grossed me out was discovering that he was whacking his own cock while he was sucking mine.

I don't know why that grossed me out, but it did. I quickly pulled up my pants, and as I turned to walk away, he promptly stood and handed me a business card. The card simply read, 'Bill -- Trucker Sucker,' and gave a local Louisiana phone number. "Call me the next time you're in the area," he said as I started to walk away. "All boundaries respected," he added as I headed for the door.

I threw his card in the trash can as I walked to my truck. I made Pensacola before daybreak, but I felt terrible. I have no idea why I let him suck my dick. I'm not a fag -- I've never had even the slightest gay impulse in my life. If that guy, or any guy for that matter, had approached me while Kelly and I were still married, I would have punched him out. What in the fuck is the matter with me?

Sitting on my regular counter stool several weeks later at the Iron Skillet, Maggie asked as she poured me a cup of trucker's joe, "What's the matter, Sterling, you're looking so down?"

Without making eye contact, just staring down at the steaming coffee, I told her about my encounter with the guy in Louisiana. I didn't go into any of the sorted details, but it was obvious that I was deeply ashamed and thoroughly depressed over the whole thing.

She immediately took hold of both of my hands and forced me to look her in the eyes. "Sterling, you are a good man. You have just lost your way. You weren't prepared for Kelly to leave you, and you are adrift without your life partner. Some guys function perfectly well without a soul mate -- but you're not one of them. You may drive a truck for a living, but you're a homebody at heart."

I looked up at her. I had never actually looked her straight in the face before. I'd never noticed the color of her eyes -- they were a light steel blue. "Maggie, what do I do?" I said, my voice choked with emotion.

She leaned down, bringing her eyes to the same level as mine. "You are a lost soul Sterling, you need a partner," she said softly, her face just inches from mine.

"Where do I look, Maggie? I haven't been on a date in eighteen years. I don't even know where or how to start -- besides, who wants to date a trucker?" I pleaded.

She didn't say anything; she just brought her face a little closer to mine and smiled.

Like suddenly realizing you've started to slide on 'black ice' at seventy miles-per-hour, my heart jumped up into my throat. My hands tightened on hers as I felt for any sign of rings -- there weren't any. "Maggie," I said as a smile suddenly appeared across my face. "Maggie," I said again as I stumbled for words, "would you -- would you consider me?"

She didn't say anything but nodded enthusiastically as a tear slipped from her eye and started to slide down her weathered cheek.

"Maggie, where have you been all this time?" I asked, now starting to get emotional myself.

"I've been right here, Sterling," she said with tears now slipping from both eyes. "I've been here for eight years -- just waiting, just waiting for you to see me."

After gazing lovingly into each other's eyes for several moments, she let go of my hands and disappeared into the kitchen. She reappeared a couple of minutes later, without her apron and with her purse. "Let's go," she said as she grabbed my hand and led me out through the kitchen door to her car. Ten minutes later, we were in front of what I assumed was where she lived. It was a small cottage in a working-class neighborhood.

After almost dragging me to the front door, she fumbled for her keys as her fingers trembled with excitement. She tried to say something, but it was clear that she was just too nervous, and once inside, she closed the door and pushed me against the wall -- planting her lips squarely on mine.

She kissed me like I hadn't been kissed in years, and I kissed her back passionately. Our arms immediately wrapped around each other's bodies, and our tongues fervently explored each other's mouths. And then, I felt something I hadn't felt in years -- an erection. An honest to God stiffy, a hard-on like when Kelly and I first started dating. No, actually a boner, more like when I was sitting in my senior high math class, and I could see up Mrs. Springer's dress when she would sit without crossing her legs. I could always tell the day of the week by the color of her panties (Fridays were always red), and my dick would get so hard I'd almost tear up with pain.

Now I was almost crying again, but tonight it was with joy and passion for a woman that obviously loved me and had wanted me for years. And more importantly, she had patiently waited for years until I was able to look past the façade of a hard-working truck stop waitress and see a genuinely beautiful soul that cared for me -- not for what I was, but for who I was.

As our embrace loosened and our hands began exploring each other's bodies, Maggie broke her lip lock on me, and grabbing my hand, dragged me to the nearest hard chair. There she began unbuttoning my shirt, and as soon as she finished that, she sank to her knees and started on my pants. Maggie made quick work of my belt and the waistband button on my weathered Levi's. As my zipper came down, so did my jeans, and I think she was as pleasantly surprised as I was when my mighty K-whopper flopped into view.

Maggie briefly sucked on me, but I don't think that was what she had been waiting all these years for. As my pants were now down around my ankles, she pushed me back into the chair. Now standing in front of me, Maggie hiked up her dress, reached up to her waist, grabbed the waistband of her panties, and pushed them down to her feet. Quickly stepping out of them, she straddled my lap and promptly settled onto my throbbing member.

I couldn't believe how wet she was and how easily I slipped into her. As soon as we were fully engaged, she began to slowly rock her hips back and forth, and her lips quickly returned to mine as she wrapped her hands around my head. I managed to slip one foot out of my pants and then, using my free foot, pushed the other foot free. Other than my unbuttoned shirt and my socks, I was completely naked. So, at this point, one of us remained clearly overdressed.

I felt around for the zipper on the back of her waitress dress, and finding it, pulled it down as far as I could. Breaking the suction on my face, but still holding tightly to my head, she leaned back a little, so I could at least see what I was doing. I grabbed the bottom edge of her Iron Skillet uniform and pulled the entire thing over her head and threw it to the floor. She was now down to nothing but a bra, and I immediately went to work on that. She returned her lips to mine, but I was still able to unsnap her bra and removed it without breaking our kiss -- allowing her to keep her lips locked to mine as I stripped her of her final garment.

The only piece of clothing she probably still had on, were her shoes. But I still had my socks on, so at this point, what difference did that make? As she continued slowly rocking her hips back and forth in my lap, I wanted more. I began to run my hands up and down her now bare back, deeply massaging her tired muscles. As my fingers found each joint of her vertebrae, I would tenderly massage each joint with my thumbs while my fingers continued to work the mussels in her back. She oohed and aahed as I gently massaged each vertebrate, and I quickly realized I must be doing something right as her pussy just seemed to be getting wetter and wetter.

Finally breaking our kiss, I pushed her gently back. I wanted to see her. I wanted to actually see her for the first time -- and not just as a slinger of truck-stop hash. But as a real woman, a woman that I had blindly looked straight through for the last eight years and never looked at. How could I have been so dumb -- so blind? So, shallow?

With her upper body now in plain view, and her hips still gently rocking back and forth, I wet my fingers at my mouth and began to gently tweak each nipple. She suddenly gasped for breath, and judging from the look on her face, bolts of lightning must have shot throughout her highly charged body. Sensing that I was on to something, I removed one hand from her breasts and rewetting my fingers; I placed them right at the top of her pussy. Her pubic hair was thick and coarse, but I could still feel her clit. I slowly started rubbing it in small circles -- first clockwise, then counterclockwise -- before pausing and then reversing back again. Her breath quickened even more as I sensed she was getting closer and closer to climax.

I moved my hand that was still tweaking her nipples, up to her neck and ran my fingers into her hair. Her breath was now nothing but erotic gulps of air. With my fingers in her hair, I grabbed a large clump and pulled her head back just as I stopped my wet fingers from circling on her clit and pressed hard -- her body instantly tightened and then began to shake uncontrollably. Her orgasm followed seconds later. It was the most intense I had ever felt in a woman -- ever.

As she screamed in ecstasy, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she wildly clawed at my shoulders and arms. But the astonishing flood from her pussy was what really shocked me. My lap was instantly awash in her hot, pungent juices, and of course, this triggered my own climactic eruption. Our combined juices were soon running down my balls, soaking the chair I was sitting in, and ran down my legs toward the floor.

Maggie eventually collapsed, exhausted on my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, and we simply hugged each other tightly for maybe five minutes after our respective orgasms subsided. As I eventually released my grip on her body, she uncoiled her arms from around me and slowly stood. She laughed at the incredible wet spot we had left on the chair and the puddle we made on the floor. And I marveled that I still had at least the semblance of an erection -- I was very proud of myself!

Taking my hand, she led me to the shower, and once we were cleaned up, she took me to bed. Pulling the covers back, she made sure I was comfortable in the center of the bed. Then after turning off most of the lights, she laid down next to me, kissed me briefly, and then in a long series of 'traveling kisses' down my neck and across my chest, before lovely slurping my rejuvenated boner back into her mouth.

"I'll be your 'trucker sucker' from here on out," she said in between long lingering slow deep throats of my throbbing love staff. Her use of that term shocked me, as I was pretty sure I didn't tell her about Bill's business card or use that term. But in my depression, maybe I did -- or perhaps it's just a more common term than I thought.