I finish tugging on my jeans and replacing my belt. I don’t want to go. I have a truck full of merchandise halfway to Boston that has to be there on deadline. I always look forward to leaving Atlanta, not because I hate the city of Peachtree, but because of my first rest stop, because of Lucien. I know very little about Lucien. He says that his mother caught him with the high school quarterback in a compromising position and threw him out of their trailer. I’m not even sure that’s his real name or if any of it is true. I think the story is.
Lucien is made of piss and vinegar. A lot of young kids in this town lose their way. The factories are gone. Drugs call. Cities call. Always farm work to be done, but you can’t check your Facebook standing in acres of wheat. Despite not having a GED, Lucien was an entrepreneur. He was barely 17 and horny as a dog, but there’s not a lot of one night stand material in a town of 450. Cordova had a grocery store, a post office representing three zip codes, hardware store, pool hall, coffee shop, and a doctor’s office, but what they didn’t have was a male whore. Plenty of female prostitutes and lot lizards around the diesel gas stations, but not a hot blooded male in sight. So, he opened up shop.
He lives at the nearby motel in a guest house behind the pool area. The town used to be a stopping off point for Laney, the next town over where a mineral spring resort used to exist. The motel used to handle a lot more traffic. The groundskeeper used to live out there in that little house, but over time it fell into disrepair. Within a year Lucien had enough cash to renovate it and claim it. It still looks like he’s in the process of moving in – books and bottles haphazardly scattered on the shelves, curtains but no blinds, some boxes of Kraft Dinner in cupboards.
He’s finishing off a cigarette as he rests nude on the mattress. The sheets are in the laundry, the comforter piled on the floor. I want him again. He’s barely 20 but can do things with that ass that have made men pass out. I called a week in advance to make an appointment, just in case. His number is in hundreds of trucker’s phones and address books from here to Vancouver, along with some farmers and highway patrol offiers. I never see them. Lucien showed me his phone once. I’m apparently in there as Yellow Truck cause my cab is yellow. I’m below Yappy Dog Owner and above Zeke with One Ball. I know I’m just a nameless cock to him and a hundred dollar bill, but I still dream of taking him back to Georgia with me and getting to enjoy that body every goddamn day. I’m sure every client of his dreams of the same thing.
As long as Lucien remains here, we all get to share. His afterglow cigarette is near done by this point. “What are you looking at?” he gives me a lazy smile.
“You,“ I drawl. The late afternoon light bathes his skin in a health glow. His penis looks like a hood ornament. "Christ, just the sight of you makes me all randy again like I’m 13 years old again.”
He likes that compliment, I can tell. “Well, my next client comes in about twenty minutes but you know the rates for a blowjob at the like.”
“Instead of you blowing me…can I suck on you?”
He smothers the cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand, not even having to look where it is, although there aren’t many stubs in there. “You give good oral?”
What the hell do I say to that? “I once made a girl start her period.”
He bursts out laughing, clutching himself as he rolls over onto his side. “Well that’s some claim!” he says when he recovers, “This one is free.”
“Really?”
“If you don’t make me cum, you owe me double.”
I grin. Cheeky bastard. “You’re on.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m zipping my pants up again and wiping both my mouth and my cockhead on a handkerchief. He’s panting, cleaned cock twitching, legs akimbo. I watch him soften as he lightly fondles the sensitive skin. “God damn, I didn’t think I would actually cum again so quickly.”
“Have some faith in your clients!” I pretend to be offended, “I feel bad for your next guy though, I drained you dry.”
Lucien makes a pshaw motion and waves a hand dismissively, “He just wants a handjob. He’s too scared to fuck me.”
“What’s his name in your phone?”
He snickers. “Armadillo Boots.”
“A Texan, I’m presuming. Yellow Cab is a lot more respectable.”
“Respectable as you can get for visiting a whore, I presume.”
I frown. “Lucien, don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re a damn fine commodity and when you retire half the trucking industry is gonna go into mourning. We’re gonna make a monument out of your ass. Rename Laney to Lucien or sumtin’.”
Gosh golly, I made him blush!
He groans. “Get out of here, Yellow, you’re embarrassing me.”
I chuckle and reach for my baseball cap. “Alright, alright I’m going. Boston calls. I’ll be back through here in about 10 days, gotta make a run to Buffalo first. Keep a time slot open, I’m gonna make you dinner next time.”
“Really?”
He doesn’t seem to believe me. “Really.” I walk over to the bed and kiss him lightly, “Take care Lucien, thank you.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” He smiles, looking a bit tired and used and wiser than his 19 years. Like many men on that list, I am probably in love with him. It’s a long, lonely way to New England. I send him a postcard and magnet from Niagara Falls. When I see him again, both are displayed the fridge.
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Captions are fictional.
Original Flickr image link before it was removed: https://www.flickr.com/photos/jimtoide/8640454619/in/contacts/