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reprint rights or explore other uses, please email to "twylamarie at
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   It's very hard to put your life in writing like this.  If you liked what
you read, can identify with it, or simply didn't understand it or found a
typo, drop me a line.  All thought and input are appreciated.

   #####

   (The events described below happened after the "A day at the Lake." If
you haven't read that piece of writing, doing so might help you understand
the story below better.)

   After our spat at the lake, I was so angry and disappointed with Nathan
that I broke up with him.  I was mad at him for basically destroying my
"big moment" by forgetting protection after he promised he'd bring it.

   He tried to apologize, but I wasn't having any of that, so he ended up
mad at me too.  Suddenly, I was being a bitch and not forgiving him or
something so this was like all my fault and I was the bad person.

   Whatever the reason, the fact is that we just didn't get along anymore,
and while I thought that I had the last word in the conversation because he
was not going to have sex with me and he wanted to, it turned out he had
the last laugh.  He told everyone in school about all the things we HAD
done together (which was a lot compared to others in our cliques or even
our school.)

   When secrets like that get out in a small and very incestual little
town, it doesn't just stop with the students or even the faculty.  The
story also gets told at the store where you work on the weekends, the
construction sites where your mom delivers lunchtime meals, and even in the
lunchroom at the factory where your dad hands out the paychecks.

   I suddenly had an amazingly tarnished reputation for a girl who was
still a virgin, and while the boys at school started being nice to me the
girls turned into royal bitches.  I was treated like a whore wherever I
went and whatever I did.  In a time before the Youtube, Facebook, Twitter
or barely even email, the news that Twyla had sucked a dick - and maybe
even enjoyed it - had gone "viral."

   And it killed me.

   My teammates turned on me to the point where I quickly decided to drop
off the track team.  I lost my weekend job for a trivial reason pretty much
completely unrelated to my work ethic, and my only brother who never liked
me much anyway started making a point of not even looking at me at the
dinner table.  (He later became a missionary which is funny because he we
didn't even go to church then.  He already had the whole "shame" thing down
pat.)

   My dad knew and wouldn't talk to me about it.  (Or anything else).  My
mom knew and never hesitated to use it as another reason to tell me what a
disappointment I was.  It was just not a good situation - at all.  It was
also not the only problem in my life.  So many things seemed to all crash
down at the same time.  My scarlet reputation and asshole sibling aside, my
home life was a warzone because my parents fought 24/7.

   My grades started suffering quick because I was so unhappy at school
that I couldn't bare to be there.  (The teachers had all heard the rumors,
and just like the students, the male teachers started treating me
"different" in that soft smirk/raised eyebrow kind of way and the women
teachers just started just treating me like scum.)

   Perhaps the biggest problem amongst all of my darkening clouds, and the
one I really didn't see coming, was an emerging serious drug abuse problem
fueled by an absolutely huge haul of speed, coke, smoke, alcohol and other
assorted goodies I had found quite by accident.  (When I say huge, I mean
HUGE.  So large I didn't even dare tell my friends about it.  Later in life
I actually lived with a drug dealer and probably shared a bed with him for
three years before I saw a stash of drugs as large again.)

   A few months earlier, I had been a young girl who had maybe taken maybe
20 hits off of joints in my prior 16 years, done a single line of some weak
speed once before a track meet and had never even seen coke other than on
TV.  I learned to do drugs fast.  As my alienation as school increased and
the parental war zone at home got louder at night, I was quickly digging
into the stash at least twice a day.  I got so brazen that I was smoking
pot on the way to school and would sometimes sample pills at night before
bed when I had no idea what they would do to me.

   (Rarely did they just put me to sleep.  Mostly they kept me awake and
agitated.  There was also the night I accidently popped a powerful laxative
that somehow got mixed in with the rest - the less said about that the
better.)

   By the time the days were getting short in November I was a full fledged
hot mess, inspiring calls from school to my parents with fail notices on
multiple classes.  I had no job.  Few friends.  Parents who were too busy
arguing with each other to even notice when I wouldn't eat any meals for
three days straight or smelled like the inside of the ashtray from a 67 VW
bus after a Dead concert.  I would pass out at a party and not come home
all night and my parents wouldn't know.

   For the most part, they only ones that would hang with me were the army
of losers and stoners that had always been outside of my social circle
before with two exceptions.

   One was the only flamboyantly gay boy that I had ever met in my life. 
We had met in kindergarten and grown up together.  He had always been "that
way" sort of but now that he was a teenager it was becoming obvious and
awkward.  We retreated together into our own little destructive world
fueled by my drugs, his outrageousness, and our shared infatuation with
men.

   The second was a "in-crowd" girl from high school who would meet me away
from the campus but wouldn't even talk to me during the school day.  We
were secret friends in more ways than one- she had seduced me one day when
we were getting high in the fields just a few miles from the school we went
to.  It was actually quite beautiful except she treated me like I was not
fit to be with except when we spent time between each others legs.

   Most days it was Twyla, my "male-girlfriend" and whatever stoner was
willing to put up with us in order to leach off my stash until Billie Ray
scared them off with his weirdness.  At night I was alone unless my
"girl-girlfriend" Jean had a babysitting gig, in which case I had a place
to go for a few hours - unless her jock-star boyfriend was coming by in
which case I was doomed to be alone.  I increasingly spent evenings with my
new and totally accepting clique of druggies and dropouts.

   Being a teenager sucks in the best of cases, but being me was just
without hope.  The only pleasure I had in the world was a woman who treated
me worse than an emotionally abusive husband.  My only real friend was a
guy who was more into men than I was.

   But, enough with my pity party.  Here's where I'm going with this.

   Go to and NA meeting or an AA meeting or any girls-only office lunch
fueled by alcohol and you'll hear the same basic story told.  "I broke off
with a decent guy and fell into bed with the devil himself." I laugh at
this because I know the devil if anyone does - and slept with him for
years- actually most of these girls really just gave the gift to Mr. 
Wrong.

   But, these women have a common experience that a lot of women can tell -
and I am one of them.  When the time came, we gave it up to the wrong
person at the wrong time in the wrong place for the wrong reasons.  My
whole own inspiration for meeting my own `Mr.Wrong" emerged from two very
wrong sources.

   The first was a piece of gay pornography I had found along with my drug
stash that fateful day near the highway.  Both the trucker and the fuckee
in the book were totally handsome and my gay friend and I spent hours
obsessing over the pictures.

   The second was a book called Belinda by someone who would turn out to be
Ann Rice of "Interview with a Vampire" fame, though this was a pen-named,
quite naughty novel of an underaged girl who seduces men thrice her age and
destroys lives and reputations in the process.  One line from the book just
struck me as so fucking hot as Belinda describes sex with a blue collar man
with the words "It was truck-driver grind - but it was good."

   Floyd County had no shortage of truckers - and after spending the day
flipping through that porn book with Billy and a night reading that trashy
tome yet again, I decided I was going to get one.  (Today girls might say
"ewwww" to the idea of a trucker as a sex symbol but there was a time when
urban cowboys and truckers were cool.)

   There were no laws preventing minors from being in bars around my place
then, though they were generally frowned upon, so I dressed up like a lady
just to be sure I fit in.  It was between Thanksgiving and Christmas, cold
and wet, so I took the formal emerald green"cocktail style" dress I had
talked my parents into buying me for my cousins wedding and stole an unworn
set of black heels from my mothers closet.  The dress was strapless and I
had no strapless bras so I went without.  I had no pantyhose and panty
lines showed up under the dress so I put on the thinnest panties I could
find.  I wore a wool overcoat - knee length - that was red.  The green
dress and red coat matched the season.  I worse my hair down and fluffy and
stole my mothers earrings and necklace.

   The ensemble was one a grown-up might wear during the holiday season,
but I was still a high schooler though and my skin was a little rough. 
(Part of it was a puberty thing, and perhaps more was the steady diet of
speed I had been getting into for a few weeks.  I hadn't slept a decent
nights sleep since before Halloween.) I wore a lot of make-up to hide the
acne.  A lot.

   So I looked good I thought.  Cocktail dress, high heels, lots of makeup.
A little young maybe - but I thought I looked like a career girl dressed
for an office party.  (Or so I convinced myself.  I look back on it now and
realize that I looked more like a fashion challenged hooker - but more
about this later.)

   I had started driving well before my winter of discontent, or I'm sure I
never would have gotten my license.  I borrowed Joeys Nissan promising I
wouldn't drink and drive, and immediately drove out to the bar to have a
drink.  I picked a place close to "motel row" where the truckers pulled in
to sleep when the rules said they were not allowed to drive anymore without
rest.  It was dark and filled with real blue collar guys.  I walked in,
ordered a clear soda that looked like it might be something alcoholic, and
within about 10 minutes had 6 men standing around me at the bar chatting me
up.

   I purposely walked away from the bar into the rear of the dark lounge so
that I could get away from the prying eyes of the bartender, and they all
followed me and I picked up more on the way.  Soon I had an assortment
offering to buy me drinks - and they were real ones since they walked
forward to the bar instead of me.  I was in that bar perhaps 20 minutes
before I had a first class drunk going on - and knowing that I did I
periodically excused myself to go to the restroom and while there filled my
nose with some of the best cocaine I had in my stash.

   By an hour into my adventure, I was 10 foot tall and bullet proof.  (A
very mid-western way of saying I was high as a kite and everything was
going right.) The crowd had thinned out a bit thankfully as many of the men
- particularly the older ones - had gotten the signal I wasn't interested.
My attentions were mainly on a younger guy wearing jeans and a cowboy hat
and a classic cotton shirt, but a 30 something man wearing a traditional
truckers uniform of work pants and a long sleeve oil cloth of a shirt
wasn't giving up.  (He was cute too if you liked truck drivers and I did.)

   I found myself having dueling conversations with both for another half
hour.  Finally, the younger man excused himself to get rid of some beer,
and the older man sensing his chance asked me if I had any interest in
taking a drive in his rig.

   I was actually looking for a way to remove myself from the competition
that had been going on, and while I had my concerns about getting in a
truck with anyone, he had already told me he was locked down for the night.
(Meaning he had reached his limit on hours behind the wheel and would be in
real trouble with his boss and the state if he pushed his luck.) I figured
it would be a ride around the block and then back to my car.  I really had
lost interest in anything sexual at that point, so the rig ride appealed to
me as an "out" and I went along.

   We were outside in a flash - and in the back lot where the trucks were
before I'm sure the younger man was done zipping up his pants.  It was icy
and muddy back there and my shoes were sticking in the muck, but it wasn't
far and we were at the truck before I the cold found its way into my
jacket. It was indeed a big rig - with a few large ladder like steps
required to get into the cab.  My trucker - a man who had introduced
himself as Dale from Alcoa, helped me up before walking around and taking
the drivers seat.

   It took a minute to get everything ready to pull out - and I was
concerned my young trucker friend might find us and make a scene.  But
there was no sign of him as Dale pulled us out smoothly and we were quickly
on the roadway where a little dust of snow was beginning to accumulate in
the gutters.

   I have heard that modern big rig trucks are comfortable, well equipped
and feature lots of electronics and gismos to make a long haul bearable. 
This was a long time ago now, and the cab was pretty utilitarian and not
very clean.  It smelled of cigarettes, sweat and old coffee.  It was a
sleeper cab, meaning there was a small twin sized mattress behind the seats
separated by a curtain from the main cab.  Although I was curious and even
had a brief fantasy about what it might be like to have my first fuck
courtesy of a trucker in the back of a big rig, the sheer smell was enough
to turn me off to the idea.

   Once free of competition, Dale was a nice enough guy.  Polite, if a bit
slow witted, and with the drawl I would come to know later as distinctively
from Tennessee.  He was also a bit surprising.  We were underway for less
than a few minutes before he told me where to find a small folded packet
made from a magazine page.  Opened, it contained perhaps a half gram of
white powder and I took a few sniffs using the end of my borrowed car key.
Mine was better and I had more of it - but I didn't say so.  That would
have been rude.

   It wasn't very long until he started with the kind of empty lines that
every woman hears and ignores.  I was very pretty - was so interesting to
talk to - the usual thing.  He asked me about my dress and I realized I had
worn my wool coat throughout the evening indoors - and so I unbuttoned it
and opened it so that he might see the shiny dress, though the shabby truck
cab did it no justice.

   I don't know what I expected to have as a reaction when I went into
model mode, but Dale was remarkably direct.  I had lifted my ass from the
seat slightly with my feet on the floor to "straighten the line" on my
dress and show how it fit across my waist and fell on my thighs.  I wasn't
trying to seduce him, but enjoyed showing off.

   When I sat back down, Dale reached over and grabbed my left leg
practically at the ankle and pulled me over to face him in my bucket seat.
He kept my foot, though the muddy shoe dropped off of it, and slowly moved
his hand up and down caressing it and also slowly sliding up my leg.  I was
facing him and his hand was now on my calf and his movements were actually
quite nice I remember.  His inane male patter continued as he told me how
nice my legs were, then he asked me if I would pull up my dress to show him
more.  I could have acted offended, but lets be honest, this was just what
I had wanted.  So I pulled the skirt practically to my panty line and gave
him the view.  He whistled in appreciation.

   We drove like that - saying nothing - for maybe two or three miles. 
That's actually quite a bit of time when you're sitting quietly and a man I
staring at your legs and the crotch of your panties up your skirt instead
of the snowy road ahead.  Finally, he asked me if I would give him a view
"up top" too, which kind of made me giggle.  ("Up top" Who says things like
that?) I rearranged the top of my dress and dropped it below my breasts
creating a shelf for my boobs with the material of the dress.  It sounds
cheap and tawdry - and it was cheap and tawdry now that I think about it,
but I was enjoying giving him the view every bit as much as he was enjoying
receiving it.

   It occurred to me that Dale had slowed down and he was quickly making a
wide right turn into the parking lot of a large two story motor hotel.  We
stopped in the lot and Dale shut off the engine and played a bit with a few
knobs and dials.  He jumped from the cab and walked to my side, beckoning
me out when the door opened.  I couldn't find my shoes and he simply picked
me up and slammed the door of the truck.

   I was too big for him to carry really, but he did all the way to the
stone and wrought iron stairway to the second floor.  I remember the stone
step was like stepping on a block of ice and I quickly bounced up the
stairs to get off them.  I found the cement slab from the external 2nd
story walk way was just as cold, and asked him to hurry up to get to the
room.  I was freezing even with my wool jacket.

   We got to his room and the door opened to a blast of hot dry air.  We
entered and he shut the door and drew the drapes.  He turned on the light
to the bathroom, asking me if I needed to use it, and I took advantage to
go in and do another line from the vial I had with me.

   When I came out, he was already shirtless and bootless (and thankfully
sockless) and was standing with open trousers and an already erect though
small and very scary looking cock.  I don't think we had exchanged 10 words
since entering the door, but here he was with his crown jewels in his hand
for me to admire..

   I think the implication of what he wanted was clear, but I had no desire
to repeat the mouth full of salty fluid that I had experienced for the
first time with my recent ex-boyfriend.  This was going to be my night - so
instead of doing what he wanted, I took off the jacket, then my dress -
hanging both matter of factly on a small hook that was sticking from the
wall.

   I stood there in my underpants and fished a condom out of my purse. 
(The school nurse had given me a supply.) I walked across the room and
handed to him.  Then I sat down on the bed, removed my panties and tossed
them on the floor in front of him.  It was like dropping a gauntlet in a
way.  "Hey!  Come fuck me."

   I laid on my side with my head in my hand while I watched him open the
foil wrapper and roll it on.  I had never seen one on before - and found it
to look rather silly and even unattractive.  He walked across the room with
it on - his dick bouncing as he walked - and was on top of me before I
could spread my legs open.  It was a good thing I was wet already because
he was in me as soon as I opened wide enough.

   I didn't know what to expect but it was not bad.  None of the pain I had
been warned to expect.  Almost involuntarily my legs went up and wrapped
around him, and my ankles locked behind his legs.  He was already in me
deep, and stayed that way - not so much pushing himself in and pulling out
as withdrawing a bit and then attempting to thrust in deeper with each
move. I wrapped my arms around him which drew his face into my chest and
held on for dear life.  I was panting and moaning and screaming - all those
embarrassing things you swear they only do in the porno movies - within
minutes.

   I have no idea whether we fucked for 6 minutes or 60.  He didn't attempt
a change of position nor did I want him to.  In addition to the deep
continual thrust he also began biting softly on my boobs, and finally bit
down repeatedly just on the very end of one nipple - actually pulling it
with his teeth at times and pulling it away from my boob as he drew back
for the next forward thrust.

   It kind of hurt and I wanted to cry, but instead I cried out and it
didn't hurt so bad.  It was actually kind of awesome.  I was quickly slick
inside and out - both from the heat of the room and from the almost violent
thrusting.  I had gone off twice and lost any ability to move or even speak
when I finally saw his face change and I knew he was done.  He lay there
for just a moment and then got up and quickly walked to the bathroom.  (I
didn't know it at the time, but I later figured out he went to flush the
condom.)

   He came back, asked me if I would mind spending the night as it was late
and snowing and would be hard to get me back to the bar.  I just smiled and
shook my head and shut my eyes.  My mission to finally lose my "v" was a
success and I was a sweaty mess.

   I slept through the night for the first time in weeks, and when I woke
up he was gone.  He had taken my underpants - and he had been through my
purse because the vial was gone.  My shoes were in his truck which was no
longer in the lot.

   There was also $100 on the bedside table, part of which I used to call a
cab back to the bar.  (I didn't put two-and-two together about that hundred
dollars on the bed stand until a long time after the fact.)

   When he came to get me, I recognized the cab driver and he recognized
me. (Again, it was a small town.) There I was shoeless and in an evening
dress at 10 AM on a Thursday morning leaving a seedy motel.  I must have
been quite a sight.

   The news of my cab ride got around fast - and I'm sure my parents heard
it though I never hear anything more than a few snide remarks about I over
the years from mom.  She was mostly pissed about the shoes I think.  She
had written off her interest in me long ago.
   <end>