Message-ID: <7789eli$9801251941@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/7789.txt> From: The Naked Trucker <NakedTrucker@juno.com> Subject: Trucker Encounter IV: "Moving in Tandem" (m/m) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: NakedTrucker@juno.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <34CA7363.39E9@juno.com> ----------------------- Trucker Encounter IV: ----------------------- "Moving in Tandem" ----------------------- By The Naked Trucker ----------------------- (NakedTrucker@juno.com) ----------------------- One of the questions I'm commonly asked is, "Do truckers get fucked?" The answer is the same as it is for married guys who jack off: Of course they do. It's just that most of them won't talk about it. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. One of them is the fact that there *are* a lot of truckers on the road who envision themselves to be straight regardless of how many guys have gone down on them. Many of them are married, most of them would never think about taking the active role in sex, whether sucking someone off, fucking them, or (gasp!) allowing themselves to be fucked. It's almost like "situational" sex, the same type you find in prison - guys who would otherwise be satisfied with their wives or girlfriends get horny on the road and after a while, their own hand isn't enough to satisfy them. But as they're happy living in their denial, there's plenty of gay guys out there who will be happy to service them. Does this trucker get fucked? Damned straight I do. Or damned gay. Your choice. All gay stereotypes aside, as anyone who has ever taken it up the butt knows, it doesn't take a woman to get screwed, and it doesn't even take a queen. It takes a man. And any man who tells you that it didn't hurt the first time he took an enormous schlong through the back door would probably also lie about his first cigarette, saying that it went down without a major coughing fit. It's also been postulated that the best fuck*ers* are fuck*ees*, and I believe it. I've been told that I'm a hot fuck - from both ends - and, if that's true (a remaining semblance of modesty prevents me from taking it for granted), it's because I know what it feels like from both ends. And, as a trucker, I can tell you that some of the most satisfying fuck scenes I've ever had have been with other truckers. Those who don't fit the all-too-often-true trucker stereotype of being grossly overweight (from sitting on your butt behind the wheel all day), smelling like you haven;t showered for a month, having lousy dental work, and talking like the backwoods boys in "Deliverance" can be some of the hottest guys around, and in the same way that "gaydar" operates on Castro Street or at Christopher & Gay, it also operates among truckers on the road. As truckers, we know that we often fulfill the fantasies of guys who are drawn to our rigs at a rest stop like flies are drawn to shit - trucks truly *are* magnets. And when we're willing to get it on with a "civilian" driving a four- wheeler, we can up with the right lines to make the scene like a porn movie. "Yeah," I've often said to guys while biting my lip so I didn't start laughing, "suck that trucker cock! Take my hot trucker load..." When two truckers get together with each other, however, we don't have to play that game - we actually live it every day. One of the hottest fuck sessions I've had took place in early September as I was hauling a load from Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, down to Cullman, Alabama. I had gotten off I- 81 and crossed over into Tennessee on I-40. It was getting late and I was hitting ten hours behind the wheel, the federally mandated daily limit for commercial drivers. I pulled into a truckstop not far from Knoxville and, as I usually did, went for a parking space near the very back of the truck lot. There are a few reasons that I like to park at the back of the lot, as far away from the building as possible. I'll tell you the obvious one first: As you go into the building that houses the restaurant, trucker store, TV lounge, showers, and other features, you can check out the other trucks that are parked on the lot. Who's in the cabs, who has their inside cab or sleeper lights turned on, who's sitting at the wheel that might be cruising, and so on. Another reason is that when the truck parking lot isn't full, there's more flexibility if you have to move the truck. One of the nightmares of being a trucker is that you never know when a "reefer" will park next to you. That's a tractor- trailer in which the trailer has a heating and refrigeration unit designed to keep food products cold or hot. They can be identified by the external unit on the front of the trailer, or by the separate cylindrical fuel tank under one side of the trailer. Although a driver may turn off the engine of his tractor, the reefer engines tend to run all night and they're louder than a tractor could ever be.I've driven both dry vans and reefers, and will take a dry van any day. The final reason I park at the back of the lot is to maximize the distance I have to walk to get to the truckstop's main building. Despite the macho image truckers have, the fact is that we basically sit on our asses all day (or night) behind a steering wheel. Yeah, when you "lump" a run yourself - do your own loading or unloading - you can get some more exercise, but even then, most lumping is done with electronic forklifts. Therefore, I take *any* opportunity I can to stay fit when I'm on the road, knowing that even if there's a YMCA or Bally's where I'm going, there may not be a place nearby where I can park my rig. It was about 8:00 in the evening when I pulled into Tennessee, hit the truck stop and, finding it almost full, backed into one of two spots left on the last row. They were the two end spots, and I took the second one, allowing just enough space for another rig to park to my right. He would be up against a high wooden fence on his right side, but I would at least be between two trucks and wouldn't feel as closed in. I was lucky so far. None of the trucks on my nearby left had a reefer unit. After I shut down my engine, I kicked my feet up on the other seat, sat back, and enjoyed the peace of being in the back of the truckstop, with crickets literally chirping in the background over the a second high wooden fence behind the vehicle. I was also hoping that the next rig to pull into the row and take up the last space would be another dry van that wouldn't kill the quiet. About ten minutes later, I saw another tractor-trailer pull off of the CAT scales, which give the total weight of a truck and its load, then maneuver to park next to me. As it backed up, I checked under the trailer and relaxed - no reefer tank. I couldn't see who was inside at that point, so I took out my log book and caught up on logging my driving hours for that day. As I finished, the door to the truck on my right opened, and out stepped a shirtless hunk wearing a pair of cut-off shorts. I normally don't go for guys with blond hair, but this driver looked like John Schneider back when he was doing "The Dukes of Hazard" - one of the few blond-haired guys I wouldn't mind creaming over. My new neighbor walked to the back left side of his trailer and, a few minutes later, I heard him quietly say, "Shit." Then the quiet of the back row was jolted by the sound of a hammer coming down on steel. Again. And again. I didn't even have to wonder what the sound was. Since the truck had just pulled off the scales, I already knew. Did you ever notice the writing on the doors of a tractor? There are usually a few permit numbers, a registration number and, on full-size rigs, the code "GVWR 80,000." That means that a combined tractor-trailer *and* its load have a gross vehicle weight rating of 80,000 pounds. If it weighs 80,500 pounds, it's over the limit and can be taken out of service by state inspectors at the weigh stations you see on the highways. But it's not quite as simple as saying that the total vehicle and its load have an 80,000 pound limit. To protect the roads, each set of axles on a tractor-trailer have separate weight limits. Of the 80,000 total pounds, the maximum weight for the front axles of the tractor is 12,000 pounds. The two "drive axles" at the rear of the tractor (over which the front of the trailer sits) can't be over 34,000 pounds, and the rear axles of the trailer also have a 34,000-pound maximum. A vehicle and its load may only weigh 75,000 pounds, but if the drive axles are, say, 35,000 pounds and the trailer axles are light, the load is still illegal. Fortunately, there's a way of compensating for weight differentials: moving the tandems. Tandems consist of a series of holes you can see under the trailer from the rear side. A metal pin goes through them and holds the rear axles in place, and the pin - and axles - can be moved to redistribute the weight of the load inside the trailer. It's not uncommon for the pin of a trailer that hasn't had its tandems moved for a while to jam, and it can be a bitch to pull the pin out of the holes to move the axles. It's a job that can be done by one driver, but he often has to get in and out of the tractor several times to get it right. While one driver has to keep the bar released until it's in the right position, a second driver can release the bar while the rig is moving so it snaps into place in its new position. Since it's so much easier with two people, it's also one of the few times that a nearby driver will automatically offer to assist the driver who needs his tandems moved. And, in this case, it was an opportunity to meet my new, hot- looking neighbor. I slipped on a pair of shorts and Reeboks, got out of my rig on the passenger side, and walked to the back of the closely parked trailers. "Let me guess," I said as I approached the rear axles. "You know it," confirmed the driver, "this damn thing's overweight and the bar won't pull out. Can you give me a hand?" As I listened to his baritone twang that revealed his Southern roots I noticed that he had already worked up a sweat, and I thought of more than one way I could give him a hand. "Sure," I said, "how about rocking her and we'll get this thing loosened up. How much are you overweight?" "The drive axles are at 34-8." At 34,800 pounds, that meant that the tandems would have to be moved forward four holes to balance the load and move some of the weight to the back of the trailer. "Okay, let's do it. I'll pull the bar when you move." He got into the tractor and, watching me in his sideview mirror, put it in gear and inched backward. The motion caused the tension to loosen, and I was able to pull the bar out of its hole. I held up four fingers and moved them forward, and he gave an okay sign. Then, leaving his tractor brakes released, he applied the trailer breaks to lock the axles and moved backwards another foot. When the trailer moved over the rear wheels, I let go of the bar as it was approaching the fourth hole in front of the original, and the bar snapped back into place. In only a few seconds, over a thousand pounds of cargo weight was shifted from the drive axles to the rear of the trailer. The driver shut down his engine, got out of the cab, and walked to the back of the trailer. Meanwhile, I was bending down on my knees facing the trailer, locking the bar back in place with a cotter pin. And as I turned around, my face went right into his basket. "Sorry," I said, getting up. "Hey, no sweat," he came back. "Actually, I was hoping you would stay there." I liked his boldness and, reaching out toward what I had just brushed up against, replied, "Well, if you're game, so am I." He responded by extending his own hand, and it only took a few seconds for both our pairs of shorts to come off, right between the trucks. Grabbing my own cock, I went down on him there at the back of our closely parked trailers. The light of the parking lot didn't extend back that far, and we knew that no one was likely to walk by our rigs since they were at the far corner of the lot at the end of the last aisle. In a few minutes, we were both on the ground, locked in a hot 69. As we were going at it, we actually moved under his trailer. Our cocks in each other's mouths, he then turned so that he I was on my back and he was straddling me, still connected cock to mouth. Then I felt his mouth move down toward my balls and approach the crack of my ass, and I moved my knees up on each side of his face. Under a trailer, there is a U-shaped bar that's used to hold a spare tire. Most trucks don't carry spares, since there are enough 24-hour truckstops and truck repair shops that, unless one of the single front tires on the tractor blows or goes flat, a trucker can usually drive on the remaining double tires until he gets to a shop to have the blown tire replaced. The U-bar for spares really has no other use... At least, I didn't think of one until now. As a trucker, I knew I had to be prepared for anything. And as a trucker who has found a lot of action on the road, the two things I've learned to keep in the pocket of my shorts at all times is a small tube of K-Y and a couple of condoms. As my new friend began rimming me, I stretched my arm out for the shorts, as I had the feeling I was going to need these components of my job. This guy was making my ass fuckin' hungry. As I held a condom and the tube of K-Y in my hand, the other driver turned me around and raised my legs, putting them through the U-bar on the trailer. I reached around for his cock and put a condom on him with one hand as I was lubing myself with the other, and with my butt high in the air and my legs resting on the bottom of the bar, he straddled himself over me, bracing his hands on the sides of the bar. My friend was well-endowed, and I grabbed the bottom of the bar, wanting to have the flexibility to pull back if he had the idea of ramming his rod into me. But he didn't. Yet. Placing his cock up against my ass and bracing himself over me, he looked like a weight lifter who had just completed two sets on a fly machine. He had well defined pecs and arm muscles and was well in control of his position ad he slowly entered my waiting ass. "Are you alright?" he asked, as his cock moved deeper into my butt. "Yeah, man, I can take it. You're in control." I felt his rod slip deeper into my ass until his entire shaft was inside me, then he slowly began moving in and out. Somehow, I knew I could trust him while I was in this vulnerable position, my ass up in the air with my legs over the spare tire bar under his trailer. Somehow, the thought of screaming, "Owwwwwww! Shit!" in a crowded truckstop wasn't tempting lest a wandering driver wonder what was happening under that trailer parked in the last space. As I got used to his large rod, I released my own grip on the tire bar, put some K-Y in my hand and started stroking my own cock, which was rock hard by this point. He slowly picked up speed, thrusting his cock up my butt with long, deep strokes as I started beating my own meat with greater speed. I lost track of time as he was pounding my ass and I felt my own juices simmering. Finally, he was fucking me with a frenzy as I was furiously hammering my own meat and I knew he was getting close to shooting his load. He quietly cried out, "I'm cumming, man!" as my own cock load exploded over both of us. Exhausted, we stayed in place for another minute before he gently pulled out of me and I pulled my legs out from the tire bar. He laid down right on the ground next to me and we nuzzled into each others arms as we continued to catch our breath. We almost fell asleep wrapped around each other but thought better of it. Other truckers often take a walk around the parking lot, and we weren't quite ready to provide a show for some innocent slob that would come upon us. As we crawled out from under the trailer, we finally introduced ourselves - his name, he said, was B.J. "You're kidding," I declared. "No, man, I'm serious," he replied with a smile on his face, obviously having gotten the same reaction many times before. "My parents named me William Joseph. Billy Joe - B.J." "Well, B.J., can you take it as good as you give it?" "I don't know," he acknowledged. "Why don't we go into my cab and find out?" We did. 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