On a Steel Horse She Rides

The red blinking low-battery warning on my cell phone, though silent, blared in my eyes like a nuclear self-destruct message in some dystopian sci-fi. How befitting and typical that I fucking ran out of gas in the middle of Wyoming on my way to a retreat to deal with stress. The high winds of the prairies rip across the road on this barren wasteland like cosmic winds on the spartan landscape of Mars. Endless gusts howl through odd bulwarks of wood appearing perhaps fifty feet from the shoulder of the road that I can only imagine are some sort of wind barricades. The long, untamed grass leans a certain direction that easily foretells the prevailing and perpetual wind patterns that dominate the vast, undeveloped expanse around me.

I had been traveling for days by car. I left Boston three days ago, heading to Salt Lake City for a three week retreat - a fringe benefit reward for my mental breakdown at work from the stress. My employer offered me a free flight, but I opted to drive. I needed that time separation between the stress I was leaving and the unknown to which I would be arriving. But this was a nightmare.

I found myself deeply regretting my decision to mindlessly follow GPS, which doesn't always consider certain practicalities. For the past fifty miles my only companion had been the high winds buffeting my car from one side of the road to the other like invisible waves on the high seas of overgrown grass. The emptiness is creepy. I haven't seen another vehicle for the past hour, and nary a gas station for over a hundred miles which also happens to be the distance to the nearest interstate.

Since I ran out of gas and pulled to the side of the road, the only vehicle I had spotted was a huge excavator on the horizon that wasn't even on the road. Maybe it wasn't even being driven by a human. I thought maybe everyone disappeared and the world is now ruled by possessed vehicles from Stephen King's Maximum Overdrive.

My phone battery blinks 1%. I try one more time to launch Uber - knowing how ridiculous it is for me to think anyone would be nearby. "NO CELLULAR SERVICE," my phone announced sardonically right before it displayed "SHUTTING DOWN."

All of a sudden I am Marty McFly and it is November 12, 1955. Do I really have to hitchhike? How do I even do that? Do I really stick my thumb out? "Fuck me," I quietly mutter to myself. Salt Lake City, my destination, feels like another planet away at this point. The whole point of this trip is to relieve my stress, increase relaxation and 'elevate' my health according to the brochure that now mocks me. I'm going to fucking lose it!

It was only 4:39 PM when my phone died so I'm hoping for at least one more hour of daylight. I see more excavators roam like Silent Running drones in the distance. They could be twenty - hell, they could be fifty miles away, and uphill, and no apparent road to get there. I have to wait for a car.

Next problem. I've got to piss. There are literally no trees in every direction, but then again, there aren't any people either. I suppose the wind is the only thing I need to calculate here. Hoping with the wind to my back and the car in-between, I'll have have a grotto of calm air. I unzip and show my dick to the Wyoming wilds and feel the calming pleasure of relieving my throbbing bladder. It feels like minutes go by and I'm only half empty.

As I was mindlessly drawing piss hieroglyphics onto the dusty pavement, I heard the unmistakeable high pitched whistle of a turbocharged tractor trailer engine. How it rolled up so close without me hearing it, I could only blame the bellowing wind around my car.

I hurriedly flopped my dick back in my fly, slightly peeved that my bladder wasn't completely empty, but overwhelmed with relief that humanity had survived the zombie apocalypse.

This massive truck had slowed and began drifting to the right, obviously coming to my aid. Thank god in heaven. Perhaps I'll make it to the next town even before the night blankets the landscape.

As the truck rolled up, I heard the loud but familiar PSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHT of the air brakes. I walked to the driver's side of the 'rescue' vehicle, and realized I had never been this close to a semi truck. Up close they are ominous steel beasts. The diesel engine prattled on at its low baritone drone like a Tibetan monk deep in song. I can see the thin aluminum skin around the front fender oscillating in sympathetic resonance with the low rpm idle of the powerful motor.

As I glance up, the driver's side window lowers, and I catch my first glimpse of a human for the past three hours. Aviator glasses, a Pabst Blue Ribbon ball cap, and long hair cascaded down on the small, delicate and unexpected frame for a 'trucker.'

"Just catchin some views of the beach, or did your Ford POS break down?" A distinctly, undeniably female voice pierced through the low hum of the semi.

"Hah. Yea, having some trouble. Look, is there any way you can radio for a tow truck or is it possible for me to use your cell phone?" I inquire.

"Well, slick, have you noticed any cell towers for the past thirty miles?" She said.

"I guess not. I mean, can't we use your radio or CB?" I continued, "and by the way, the name is C.K. I'm really glad you stopped."

The sun was directly behind this godsend rescuer, and combined with her dark, reflective aviator glasses and ball cap, her face eluded me.

"You really are something, aren'tcha. Yes, I do have a CB, but how far do you think a CB reaches, Mr. C.K.? We've got at least 120 miles until the next town and I ain't seen another truck in the last half hour. Name's Bess."

"Nice to meet you, Bess. I guess I'm a little out of my element. I've never been to Wyoming...never been further west than Ohio actually. I'm trying to get to Salt Lake City. I'm from Boston, by the way," I responded politely, straining my eyes to get a look at her face. I never expected a female trucker, and now I'm gripped with the anxious question of whether and how long she saw me taking a leak on the side of the road.

"Well, C.K., lovely to chat with ya, but I...," Bess said, with an undertone of a dare, as if it's up to me to make the next move in this exchange - which, I suppose it is.

"Could I... hitch a ride to town, then?" I said in a manner that one attempts the basics of a foreign language among its native speakers.

"Hahhh! I was just betting against myself that you wouldn't actually use the word 'hitch'," She said, appearing amused the way a person watches a toddler amble about.

"Well I'm glad to provide some comic relief, but really, could you give me a ride?" I retorted, uninterested in being a sideshow considering my predicament and the waning sun. I still have to make it to Salt Lake City by tomorrow.

"Sure, slick, but" she replied and continued, "do you need to finish that...business you were attending to when I rolled up?" She said with the faintest 'knowing' smile on her delicate lips.

I suppose my city slicker, Bostonian ass expected a dude to be driving a truck, and if it wasn't a dude, I fully expected Rosie the Riveter at the wheel in the rare case of a woman. What I didn't expect was the farmer's 35 year-old sexy and sassy daughter with enough sarcasm to feed a small village. And now... the verdict is in, she definitely saw me taking a leak. This is a new low.

"I'm fine," I reply sheepishly - lying, knowing I was a long way from empty when I was interrupted.

"Listen, there ain't no bathroom in my truck, contrary to what four-wheelers might think, and we've got at least two hours until we reach an inhabited town" she said.

"Look, I uh...," I awkwardly blabber.

"Well, Mr. C.K., you can sit in here and hold it and wriggle like a six year old, or you can ride comfortably. Up to you. Don't worry, I won't watch," she said - now with a big shit-eating grin, just enjoying watching my city-slicker ass squirm from six feet above me, saddled on her steel Clydesdale.

"I'll be back...," I say, wishing I had a tail literally to tuck between my legs.

Jesus Christ. Of all the mother fucking people to rescue me. Please, just, maybe a car, with a nice old couple will drive by and rescue me from my rescuer.

I 'walk the plank' back to my car.

I hide around the front right fender of my rental, trying to imagine a babbling brook to help get myself back in the mood. I unzip, and try to clear my mind. I have never been one of those guys who could just piss at will in front of anyone, but this is really next level. I glance a side eye back at the supersized, enormous semi with its deep red exoskeleton, chrome trim and opaque tinted windshield. She's fucking watching me, I know it. There is nothing I can do.

I look outwards to the swaying grass dancing to the wind's whims, and finally a stream starts. After a few moments, I'm just about finished, and.....HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" I scream. The fucking hell is wrong with this witch? I grab my backpack which has all of my money, my paperwork for the retreat facility in Salt Lake, basic overnight clothes and my laptop.

I lock the car doors and head back towards my only ride out of this tumbleweed hell.

I walk around to the passenger side of the tractor trailer. She was nice enough to open the door for me. I climbed the two giant stairs and pulled myself into the cab.

"Really, the horn?" I said flatly, and continued, "you scared the shit out of me."

"My elbow bumped the steering wheel," She said with a mischievous look that conveyed to me that this was not going to be as tranquil as the back of an Uber.

"I'm not stupid," I said, sending the ping pong ball back to the other player in this stupid game of wits.

"Well, ya got me there. But I wish you could have seen yourself jump when I did it!" She exclaimed gleefully with an under-toe of evil.

A few moments of silence pass. I just want to be on my way. She adjusts something with her feet and hits a few switches on the dash panel that look more like a jet cockpit than a land vehicle, and she appears to be inputting a destination on a large iPad sized tablet's GPS application. I pull on my seatbelt, shut my door, and thankfully, we are on our way.

"So, why the hell are you so far north in Wyoming if you've been driving to Salt Lake from Boston?" She asks.

"Well, I wasn't really rushing, hadn't taken vacation in a long time and I wanted to see Mt. Rushmore," I said.

"Never seen it," She says in a somewhat bored tone as she keeps her gaze toward the horizon.

Even the winds are able to move the huge truck a few feet off course when a strong gust kicks up.

"My favorite movie is North by Northwest - and you know, the famous scene at the end happens on Mount Rushmore, so I thought it would be neat to see," I explain.

"Never seen that neither, I'm not one much for movies," she says.

"Well, Jesus, surely you've heard of Hitchcock," I say, incredulously.

"Yes, of course, I am aware of pop culture, even out here in Little House on the Prairie!" She bites back.

"I didn't mean to imply...."

"Oh calm down sporto, I'm just jerkin your chain," She says, back into her usual playful mode.

"So, we haven't really discussed payment for the ride," She says with a pure poker face.

"You can't be serious. I'm stuck out here and it's not like it's going to cost you extra gas," I retort, incredulously.

"200 bucks is fair," She says without even a blink.

"200 fuckin dollars? That's extortion. Plus I need that money for expenses because I don't know if you know this about your native land here but some of these gas stations don't take American Express!" I protest.

"Fine, I've got a better idea," She says, mischievously, as she stares down the horizon.

She then glances over at me, and out of nowhere, and says, "I want to see you jerk off in front of me. Right there, in that seat - while we are driving."

I stare at her as if her head opened up and a cloud of pink smoke puffed out of her brain cavity.

"You've got to be kidding. Are you nuts?" I said. But my words belied something dark inside me. I knew that she probably saw my dick while I was pissing in the wind. Every sensible part of me urged me to protest this ridiculous request. I can't tell if she is truly crazy, or pent up and desperate, or maybe this is what she does for jollies every time she drives this corridor and seizes upon her latest prey on the side of the road. Another fly in the web. Maybe she does it with women, too, or couples. Jesus Christ this is nuts.

"This is is insane. Stop the truck, I'm not fucking doing anything like that," I said, hoping this power move puts an end to it.

I hear the loud decompression braking of the engine as she pulls to the side of the road in this countryside wasteland. I never was good at poker.

"Get out," She said in a disappointed voice, the smile leaving her face.

"Look, you can't be serious. I don't do that kind of stuff in front of people. I'm not a porn star. I'm not a voyeur for Christ's sake", I say.

"Exhibitionist," She says under her breath.

"What?" I reply, genuinely wanting to know what she said or meant.

"You mean you aren't an exhibitionist. Exhibitionists do things in front of people, Voyeurs watch," She said, as if giving a community college lesson on Kink 101.

"Well whatever, I don't do that. I can't even piss in front of people......I could never, you know, get it up with some stranger watching," I say protestingly. Deep inside, however, I hunger for this wrangler of steel beasts to seduce me into eternal damnation, but those feelings are behind some firewall of inhibition and convention. I am not lying to her, I could never do these things in front of someone.

"You can try, and I'll drive you to where you want to go, or you can get out here. All I see are these prairies, all day. Endless miles of long rolling hills of grass. I park my truck. I sleep in the cab a lot, I wake up, and go back to it. I have no idea how I've made it this long without losing my mind," She says, in a moment of exposing vulnerability.

"So what's the matter, are you married?" She asks.

"Separated a long time," I reply.

"Then what's the problem? We are both consenting adults," She states pragmatically, as if her request is something within the normal bounds of adult interaction.

I let time run a few beats to consider my options. Now with the sun not glaring down from behind her, I can really sink my eyes into this female enigma. She looks to be about 32-35 years old. The lithe landscape of her body belied her sedentary career choice. Heavy object lifting gave her supple but toned deltoids, but her thin wrists matched her otherwise ballerina stature. The sun has baked her left forearm with impunity, the inside of which showed a devilish creature tattooed in deep crimson hues. High cheekbones gave her an elven-like appearance, and her dark brown hair swirls wildly, juxtoposed against her hillbilly Pabst Blue Ribbon 'proof of purchase'-prize ball cap. Her aviator shades from Top Gun are mirrors in which I see two of me. An accurate visualization of the dichotomy within me. I wish I could see past those glasses though. If you can't see someone's eyes, do you really see them at all? I shake the snake dance mesmerization she's inflicted on me, and turn my concerns back to the here and now.

"You are literally holding me hostage. I can't do this. Even if I was physically capable, what if someone sees me?" I say as my last ditch effort to make the most of the shoddy poker cards that my rental car has handed me.

"I'm not forcing you to do anything. You can just wait for the next truck or car. Eventually one will come," She replied.

"Can we just start going while I think about it?" I ask, buying myself time.

"Sure, sport," She says with a bit of an evil smile forming in the corners of her lips.

My new steel prison roars back to life, and forward progress once again begins.

"Are you crazy? Like, should I be worried?" I ask, honestly.

"I like sex. I like porn. I like men. I like the idea of putting myself in a crazy situation that you would only read about. I'm ready to do anything to break the repetition. You are from a huge city. You can probably flip open your phone, swipe, and be on a date in less than an hour. I'm sure you meet new people just by walking out your front door. Here, you could go weeks without having a live conversation with another person and that wouldn't be out of the ordinary. I'm fucking bored. I'm fucking tired of just thinking these things in my head without doing them. So yes, I came over the hill to your broken down car, I guessed pretty well that you weren't from around here....and yes, I saw your dick, and it excited me. What excited me most was that you were afraid to be seen.

"Here, I'll even help the cause," She says.

As she steers the vehicle, she pulls up her shirt, revealing a lacy red bra that matched the color of the devilish creature tattooed on her forearm. With one hand on the wheel, she used her tatted arm to pull the cups of each bra to the sides of her breasts. Each breast was pushed toward one another because of the bra, giving her tits a restrained, protruding look. Her areolae were a deep red, almost brown, only slightly larger than quarters, but they stood in high contrast to her pale, un-sunkissed underwear-hidden skin. Her toned stomach stood in contrast to the soft and suppleness of her tits. Her nipples jutted out and turned slightly upward; taut and erect like pencil eraser tips. With each tiny bump in the road, her bunched tits described the imperfections in exaggerated fashion. I imagined how they would taste and feel in my mouth.

"I.....I....you....," Was all I could extrude from my dumbfounded brain into unintelligible babble.

"Never seen tits before?" She said.

"I've never had a random person just whip out their boobs. I've never done anything crazy like this," I say, trying to not stutter and sound like a forty year old virgin.

"Well, now it's your turn," Bess said, almost like a kid on the school yard daring me to show.

I hadn't even noticed, but now that I tune back into my own body, my flesh feels hot around my neck and ears, and I do a quick kegel and I get the definite bio-feedback that I've started to get a hard on. Her tits continue to bounce in unison with the truck's suspension. Probably the nicest tits I've ever seen. Or it could simply be the exquisitely naughty situation that I'm allowing myself to be in because if I wanted to, I could bring this to a halt, get out, and wait for another car. But do I really want to stop?

I glance at her face, and she turns away from the road and beams me with her aviator glasses, as if she can see the vulnerability-wrapped terror as a marquis sign scrolling across my forehead. She was obviously enjoying this scenario, and much less concerned than me.

Giving in to this madness, I undo the top button of my jeans. The anticipation of her seeing my cock excites me more than expected, and I feel more blood rushing into my loins. I pull my zipper down to its catch. As I slide my jeans down along with my boxer briefs, my dick flings upward once it is free from the confines of fabric. I am exposed, and it's a foreign feeling, but not unpleasant. I've had sex many times, even a one-night stand or two, but there is something entirely different in this situation. Something about the amalgamation of the coercion and exhibition intoxicates me well beyond the stiffest martini. I enjoy seeing my cock stand straight up at attention knowing I am not the only watcher.

"I like how you look. I like looking at you. Looks better up close with you all worried and squirming," My captor says.

"I'm obviously not too worried," I say as I point my eyes to my flag-poled dick.

"I wonder how many miles we'll go before you can make yourself come," Bess says as if she were discussing a business transaction.