Truck Me All Night Long

Truck Me All Night Long By J.D. Walker I swatted my alarm clock five times before it finally stopped buzzing. It was four o’clock on a Thursday morning. Jesus f**k, it’s too early. You’d think I’d be used to this by now, but with each passing year, it just got harder to face. I guess I didn’t want to admit to getting older. It probably didn’t help that I stayed out late almost every night, usually getting up close and personal with some cute little twenty-two-year-old whose ass was ripe for the f*****g. I never screwed the same guy twice, and they tended to be much younger than me. Maybe I thought that plugging the tight hole of a guy twenty years my junior was a ticket to the fountain of youth. My d**k was always happy to give it a try, whatever the reason. It was starting to wear me out, though. Stumbling to the bathroom, I bumped my thigh on the dresser and damn near stubbed my toe on the toilet before I got the light on. What a great start to my day. As I brushed my teeth, I stared blearily at my reflection in the mirror over the sink. My face was haggard, with dark purple bags prominent under bloodshot eyes. Crows’ feet dug valleys in the corners. The harsh lighting overhead was not kind. I should slow down a little, find a steady f**k rather than chasing it down. Or at least, that’s what I’d tell myself before I’d go out and do the same thing all over again the next night. Perhaps I lacked the motivation to change. Once I was done with my shower, I dried off and put on the uniform I’d laid out right before I dropped into bed at midnight. My wallet was beside it. Some things were on automatic for me, no matter how tired I was. Dusty black boots went on last. I made my way to the kitchen to drink my wake-up beverage of choice and fill up my travel mug. God bless Mr. Coffee. Breakfast would be later in the day when I took a break between load deliveries. Grabbing my keys, coffee, and cell phone, I headed for the front door, where I picked up the work bag I took with me every day on the road. It had my gloves, hard hat, particle mask, some bottles of water, a back brace and protective glasses, among other things. I locked the door behind me and went down the steps to my old Chevy truck, Hercules. The only guy I’d been with for years, Herc just kept on giving, no matter how much the mileage piled on. Good thing, too, since my budget didn’t run to rebuilding engines, or even buying new tires, that often. By the time I made it to the interstate, it was four forty-five. I put my cellphone on speaker after I dialed in to dispatch. A deep male voice answered on the second ring. “When’s your old, ugly ass gettin’ here, buddy?” My mother used to tell me my face had character. She was a kind person. Couldn’t say the same for Adrian Mitchell, though, the owner of the voice on the other end of the line. “What, no s*x last night, honey? Need me to help you out?” I offered, as always, knowing he’d say “no.” Adrian was much older than my usual trick, but damn, he was a fine piece of ass. I’d definitely break my “twinks only” rule to tap that, and he knew it. At forty-four, he was a couple of years my senior, but sure didn’t look it, lucky bastard. Added to that, he was in a committed relationship, as he was always pleased to tell me. “I have no problems in that department,” he smugly replied. “So you say.” “I’m in a committed relationship, idiot.” There was that word again. “And even if I wasn’t, you’re still chasin’ twink ass like it’s the Holy Grail. You won’t admit that it’s time to give it up, settle down with one guy, maybe even someone who is—God forbid—age appropriate. You’re getting old, man.” I’d heard it all before. But it seemed to hurt a little more this morning, for some reason. Maybe I needed more coffee. “Anyway, we’ve got a busy day ahead of us,” Adrian continued, oblivious to the pain his barbed comments tended to cause, as usual. “You’ll be here in ten, right?” “Yeah, yeah. I’m good for it.” Adrian hung up on me. Fucker.