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From: The Naked Trucker <NakedTrucker@juno.com>
Subject: Trucker Encounter III: "Forty-Five Days of Summer"
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---------------------------
Trucker Encounter III:
---------------------------
"Forty-Five Days of Summer"
---------------------------
By The Naked Trucker
---------------------------
(NakedTrucker@juno.com)
---------------------------

How does a trucker become a trucker? The obvious answer is that
you go to trucker school. But it doesn't quite work out that way.

The average tractor-trailer driver training program, usually
offered at a commercial school, lasts for anywhere from three to
six weeks. The first few days are spent learning the Commercial
Driver's manual, then taking a series of written tests
administered by a state Department of Motor Vehicles. They
include a basic driver's knowledge exam, plus a series of written
exams that lead to various endorsements such as air brakes,
transportation of hazardous materials, driving double and triple
trailers, driving passenger vehicles, etc.

The next couple of weeks of a student's program consists of doing
various driving maneuvers on a large parking lot - turning,
straight backing, angle backing (known in the trucking biz as
"alley docking"), parallel parking (both driver's side and "blind
side"), and hazardous weather maneuvers. The final weeks are
spent actually driving on the road - highways, rural roads, city
streets - practicing as a student driver in actual traffic. At
the end of the program comes the road test that leads to the
Commercial Driver's License, or CDL.

But when a student graduates from a truck driving school, he's
hardly a trucker. Like other fields such as law or medicine, it's
not until the student gets out into the field - the real
workplace - that he begins to truly learn how to be a *trucker*.

The job market for truck drivers is wide open. Hell, starting
from scratch, it's never taken me more than a couple of hours to
land a job. And when a student graduates from a truck driving
school, he'll usually find several job offers waiting for him.

At the same time, you don't want to put a freshly minted trucking
school graduate in a $100,000 piece of equipment in which he can
wreak havoc. Therefore, most trucking companies send their newly
hired, fresh graduates out on the road with a seasoned driver-
trainer for several weeks.

When I was certified as a driver-trainer earlier this year, I did
so with a great deal of hesitation. One of the risks to being a
driver-trainer is that you never know who you'll get stuck with.
A newly hired trainee might be a safe driver who is willing to
learn the ropes, or he might be an hot-shot who thinks that he
owns the road - risking not only his own life, but yours and
everyone else's when he gets in the driver's seat of that 40-ton
monster.

But there's another factor. You can also get stuck with someone
who's a total dork. An absolute asshole that you have to
virtually live with in an enclosed space for a month of hell.
After all, much of the life of a long-haul trucker is spent in a
six-by-eight cab, and drivers share *everything* with each other -
every burp, every fart, every hang-up, every blow-up, every
frustration, every piss break... Even straight drivers get to
know each other intimately in the course of driving together day
and night, especially when you wake up in the middle of the night
and get out of bed to piss in an empty water jug or orange juice
bottle, knowing that it's too damn cold to go outside half asleep
to water the tires.

But it's not total intimacy. A truck like the one I drive isn't
as confining as smaller trucks. My tractor is a condo, meaning
that you can actually stand up inside. There are two bunk beds -
a lower bed with a comfortable spring mattress, and a fold-down
upper bunk with a foam mattress. There is storage space for
clothing in cabinets as well as under the lower bunk, as well as
compartments for a small refrigerator and TV/VCR. The front of
the cab has two high-back air-ride seats which are more
comfortable than the seats in any car, and for one person, there
is a lot of space. When you get two people in any truck, however,
things can get a bit cramped, so the most important quality for
two drivers is that they get along with each other or, at the
very least, develop a respectful toleration for each other. After
all, team driving is a 24-hour-a-day gig.

In the course of driving with a partner, the drivers talk about
almost everything - politics, sports, music, relationships... The
one thing straight drivers don't talk much about is sex. Hell,
everyone gets horny, but straight drivers don't even talk about
how they get their rocks off on the road.

When I became a driver-trainer, I reserved the right to reject
any trainees I thought I wouldn't get along with. And I planned
to exercise that right. I didn't want to get stuck with a beer-
bellied, belching, farting redneck who would bend my ear with
tales about the rifle rack in the back of his pick-up and the
bitch he left back at home. Yeah, I know it sounds sexist, but
that's how drivers tend to talk about their wives - as one more
piece of property, just like the pick-up and the rifle rack.

It was early July when I pulled my rig into the terminal in
Indianapolis, where a new crop of drivers had been hired and was
waiting to be assigned to driver-trainers for a month. I checked
in, caught up on my paperwork, then went to the dispatcher's
office where I would find out who they wanted me to take on the
road and turn into a trucker.

As I was handed the personnel file of the new driver, I sat down
and felt my gut tighten. His name was Henry, and he was hired out
of Murphy, Kansas - straight off the farm. Literally. Henry was
28 and, before going to driver training school, he had spent the
last several years plowing fucking corn fields on his family's
farm. Henry decided to become a trucker after the midwestern farm
scene became more economically depressed.

"Shit," I thought. Not only was I getting a country bumpkin, but
some boondock fart who had probably been stuffing it in sheep
butts. I could see it now. "Heeeeennnnreee," his mother would be
blabbing from the porch of the farm, "get your backside in here
for dinner, boy!"

What the hell, I thought, you have to take the good with the bad,
and it wouldn't hurt me to gain some experience as a driver-
trainer. I went out to meet "Heeeeennnnreee" and begin to get him
in shape.

And it wasn't as bad as I thought. Henry was tall - about 6'4" -
tall and lanky, he was a bit plain looking but not too bad. He
was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans that were a size too big.
At least he hadn't corrupted himself with cowboy boots, a truck-
driving staple I refuse to wear myself.

As I introduced myself as his over-the-road trainer, he had a
firm handshake despite a shy quality that gave away his country
roots. There was something likable about him, a natural and easy-
going attitude combined with a rural innocence that told me he
had no idea what going over the road was truly like. The company
had a 45-day training period for new hires, and in those first
few minutes I began to have the feeling that it would be as much
an adventure for me as it would be for Henry.

We were assigned a load that was going to Salt Lake City, and
headed out over Interstate 70 toward Kansas City, where we would
stop for the night. I spent the first few hours behind the wheel,
pointing out the various features of the Freightliner tractor,
explaining how handling it was different from the International
cabover on which Henry had trained at driving school. As we
pulled into a truckstop at St. Louis for lunch, I told him about
the various things truckstops had to offer.

As I backed the rig into a diagonal parking space, a woman was
walking by the truck in a halter top and tight shorts. "She's
nice looking," Henry said.

"Yeah," I responded, "not bad for a lot lizard."

"Lot lizard?" Henry asked, "What's that?"

Shit, I thought, they probably hadn't told Henry *anything* about
the real world at his driving school. I began to envision an
interesting experience or two along with way as Henry got his
education about life on the road.

"A lot lizard is a truckstop hooker," I answered, "a prostitute."

"You're kidding," said Henry, taking it in. "It looks like I have
a few things to learn about this job."

"That's what I'm here for, Henry. All they taught you at school
was how to drive a truck. In the next few weeks, we'll turn you
into a *trucker* by going over what they *didn't* teach you."

After lunch, Henry got behind the wheel of a Freightliner for the
first time, put it in first gear, and lurched out of the parking
space as he got used to the gear pattern and clutch action of the
tractor. "Let's get a weight on this load before we leave," I
said, directing him to the CAT scale at the truckstop. We hadn't
weighed out since picking up the load outside Indianapolis, and
were lucky not to have passed an open weigh station on the way to
St. Louis.

Henry maneuvered the rig out of the parking place skillfully and
slowly made his way to the scales. I began to get more
comfortable with him in the driver's seat - he had learned to
operate a tractor-trailer well, although you could tell that he
was being consciously careful on this, his first real run.

We weighed out within the federally mandated limits, then hit the
road heading west toward Kansas City. It was only 500 miles from
Indianapolis to Kansas City, but I wanted to ease Henry into the
routine. Starting tomorrow, we would do double that mileage, each
spending about 10 hours behind the wheel. On this first leg of
the run, Henry handled the rig well, and the midwestern hills and
soft curves would prove good practice for driving through the
Rocky Mountains over on the following days.

We pulled into a truckstop in Kansas City, and Henry ran into his
first challenge. The only parking spaces available were tight,
and you had to back into them carefully. He seemed unsure, so I
got out of the truck and guided him in with hand signals, after
which he was able to relax. He had gotten through his first day
on the road as a professional driver without hitting anything
more than a curb. We fueled the rig then hit the restaurant at
the truck stop.

Finally, we hit the sack with me on the bottom bed and Henry in
the top bunk. As we stripped down to shorts, I couldn't resist
noticing that, despite not working out or exercising, Henry was
fairly well-developed, probably a result of working the family
farm for so many years. He also had a more-than- adequate bulge.
Nonetheless, it was a long day, and sleep came fast.

It was about three in the morning when I woke up to a faint but
familiar noise - the sound of skin stroking skin, with the
occasional heavy breath that accompanies someone jerking off,
trying to be subtle because someone else is sleeping in the same
room. I remember hearing that sound at summer camp, in a dorm
room, and in other situations in which I was sharing a room with
someone who was presumably straight. "Well," I thought, "Henry
may be naive, but at least he beats his meat like the rest of
us." Obviously thinking I was still asleep, his quiet but heavy
breathing became more intense before I heard a restrained groan -
obviously Henry shooting his load. Much as I was already hard at
that point myself, I was also damn tired, and I drifted back off
to sleep.

As we had breakfast and prepared for the rest of the run to Salt
Lake City, I didn't mention anything I had heard the night
before. It would be another long day, and we decided to drive
five hours on, five hours off, so neither of us would have to
stay behind the wheel for ten hours straight. We would catch up
on sleep during our respective breaks, during which Henry would
sleep in my bed (federal law prohibits someone from sleeping in
the top bunk when the truck is in motion).

Henry drove the first five hours, and I watched a video and
caught a couple of naps during his first shift. I woke up and
took the passenger seat for a while before we changed places,
then we made small talk through the rest of Kansas. It wasn't
until several hours later as we were entering Colorado that I
asked Henry, "By the way, how did you sleep on your first night
in a truck?"

"Better than I thought I would," he replied, "though I had to
move around a bit go get used to the bunk. I hope I wasn't
bothering you."

I decided to go for the gold. "Nah," I said, "I woke up once when
you were jacking off, but turned over and went right back to
sleep."

Needless to say, Henry's face became flushed as he stammered for
the right response. "Ummm," he embarrassingly responded, "I don't
know what to say."

"Don't sweat it, man. Everyone does it, and when your ass is
bouncing around in a truck all day, you're bound to get horny.
Hell, don't you think I whack off, too?"

"I guess I never thought about it," Henry reflected. He went on
to describe how he was raised in a religious home, and that
jerking off or having sex were things that simply were not talked
about.

"Look, Henry," I proclaimed, "I'm not trying to corrupt you."
(Like hell I wasn't.) "But it's a fact that guys get horny and
that truckers need to get their rocks off on the road. Hell, lot
lizards are too damn dangerous for any number of reasons, and
half the time truckers simply get it on with each other. It's
just not the kind of thing you hear about at trucking school."

Henry paused as the implications of what I had just said began to
sink in. "You mean... you've done it with other guys."

"Well, yeah, I have. Don't sweat it, man. If that's not your
scene, you don't have to feel threatened."

He took it all in, and we rode in silence for a while, passing
through Denver and climbing the Rockies toward the Continental
Divide. Henry managed to catch some sleep himself, and I could
only began to fantasize him beating off in my bed back in the
sleeper.

It was dark by the time we moved through the mountains toward
Utah, and Henry woke up and came forward to sit in the passenger
seat. There was the usual small talk then, out of the blue, he
said, "I used to check out the other guys in the locker room in
gym when I was in high school. I guess I have thought about doing
it with another guy."

I nodded and smiled - I wanted to communicate acceptance of what
he had just said. We went back to small talk, and about 20
minutes later I pulled into a rest area on I-70 near Grizzly
Creek, Colorado. It was Saturday night, and there were only two
other rigs in the truck parking area. Even though it was July,
there was a mountain chill in the air, and it was cool enough to
shut off the engine for the night (many trucks run their engines
all night in order to run the heat or air conditioning inside the
cab).

I got up and went to the back of the dark cab, but Henry stayed
in the passenger seat, taking in the fresh mountain air. "Wow,"
he said, "this is the first time I've been in these mountains.
Hell, I've hardly ever been out of Kansas."

"You're kidding," I replied.

"No, seriously. My parents took me to Washington as a kid, there
was a school trip to Chicago, but other than that... Hell,
Wichita is like the big city to me."

I sat down on the side of the driver's seat and looked at him. He
looked over as if there was something else he wanted to say but
the words didn't come and, on impulse, I leaned over and kissed
him. "Welcome to the wider world. It's not too bad out there, and
it can be a real adventure." I stood up and put my hand on his
shoulder, and he put his arm around my waist as he continued to
look out at the mountains. Perhaps this training run wouldn't be
so bad after all.

It was obvious that Henry was starved for human contact. Not
necessarily sexual contact, though I had the impression that he
could be one horny son-of-a-bitch.

I was ready to go to bed as Henry stood up and moved toward the
sleeper area. As we looked at each other, I turned around and
pushed the upper bunk up toward the wall and into its locking
hinge. "I don't think we really need that. Besides, the bed is a
lot more comfortable than the foam mattress." Henry stripped down
to his shorts, and I was still wearing shorts, but I didn't want
to push him too far, too soon.

The shorts came off soon enough, though, as we spent the next few
hours exploring each other's bodies. Henry was obviously hungry
for affection. At the same time, he *was* a horny son-of-a-bitch,
willing to both give and receive. And step by step, he took to
man-to-man sex like a fish takes to water. Fortunately, we were
ahead of schedule for the delivery in Salt Lake City, so there
was time to think about other things and catch up on rest after
an active day *and* an active night.

For me, Henry was turning out to be good company for the next few
weeks. For Henry, it was a voyage of self-discovery as he shook
years of isolation on his parents' farm back in Kansas.

As I awoke after the first night we slept together, it occurred
to me that for the past two days, I had actually been wearing
clothes while I drove. Henry was still sleeping as I got out of
bed and walked a few feet to the driver's seat, taking in the
view of the mountains in the daylight. The truck parking area was
now deserted except for our rig, and I stepped outside to piss
and get shaken awake by the brisk mountain air. I started the
engine to warm up the cab and, after a few minutes, put the cab
in gear, released the air brakes, and slowly made our way back
onto I-70 heading west.

Henry had a long day and night as well, and I had closed the
light-blocking vinyl curtain that separates the driving area from
the sleeper so he wouldn't be awakened by the daylight coming
into the cab. About an hour after I pulled out of the rest area,
I heard the curtain open.

Henry walked out, still naked himself, sat on the floor of the
cab between the two seats, and put his head on my lap as I was
driving. I reached over with one hand and started stroking his
neck and back. I started getting hard right in the driver's seat
barreling along I-70 and; unfortunately, we wouldn't hit another
rest area until Utah. I pulled off at the next exit and drove the
rig into a shopping center parking lot, where we decided to take
an early break from driving... If only all of the women in the
supermarket knew what was going on in our rig, they'd have enough
of their own fantasy material to last a year.

The sex came naturally to Henry, and after some more romping back
in the sleeper, we took our seats in the front of the cab and
headed back toward the highway. I hadn't intended to do so, but
it seems that I had helped spawn another naked trucker.

"You know," I said as we gained speed on the highway onramp, "You
hardly seem like a Henry at this point. "Maybe we should start
calling you Hank."

"Hmmmmmm... I'll have to think about that one."

We finally arrived in Salt Lake City and did a drop-and-hook,
when you leave the full trailer and pick up an empty trailer at
the receiving company. We then headed down I-15 into Barstow,
California, to pick up a load for Atlanta, and spontaneously
decided to shoot at least one load with each other in every state
as we crossed the country. The beauty of it was that, as team
drivers, we managed to have enough time for everything. Since the
truck was in operation for almost 20 hours a day between us
(commercial drivers are limited to driving a maximum of 10 hours
per day, so teams can run the truck longer than solo drivers),
one of us would sleep while the other drove. There was still that
four hours a day when neither of us could drive, so we managed to
think of doing other things. Like each other. And somehow, since
we managed to make good time, those four hours were usually
extended so we could get some sleep with each other as well.

And that's the way it was for the next four weeks. Stop and go,
stop and go, fuck and drive... Through virtually all of the 48
lower states, Henry learned a lot more about being a trucker than
he had bargained for when he went to driving school.

I wasn't looking for a long-term relationship, and Henry was new
enough to the scene that I knew he would have some wild oats to
sow. We ended our 45 days of running together back in
Indianapolis, where Henry was given his own rig, about to begin
the same type of adventures I had been enjoying over the past
year.

I knew that the odds of lucking into another trainee like Henry
were slim, so I decided to go back over the road as a solo act.
As we stood in the busy terminal saying goodbye with a handshake
that lasted a second or two longer than most handshakes, yet
short enough that the other drivers around didn't realize how
close we had been, I said, "You take care of yourself, Henry. And
be careful out there."

As we looked into each other's eyes, he smiled and said, "Call me
Hank." I knew he would do alright for himself.

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