1
Gorilla drove a truck. He couldn’t remember why people started calling him Gorilla. He wasn’t especially hairy, though he had broad shoulders and could lug big weights. He also had a bit of a gut, but this was the product of too many hours spent sitting in the cab driving the overnight interstate. He had a sleeve on his right arm which extended across the top of his chest, and a smattering of tattoos on his left arm and leg. He also had some amateur ink on the topside of his cock. He had a meaty cock. It was quite thick and had a good weight to it; not too small but also not overly large.
Gorilla was always on the lookout for hot, sweaty sex with men.
Tonight, Gorilla found himself driving into Atlanta. He’d been at the wheel for a long 13 hours since leaving Oklahoma City, driving through Memphis and Birmingham. A ridiculously long drive, almost inhumane. The sun had set, and his trucker cap no longer needed to keep the setting sun out of his eyes, so he wore it backwards. It’d been a long haul, but he was paid well for it. He was looking forward to a big meal and a solid night’s sleep before de-palleting at the warehouse tomorrow at dawn. He’d driven to Atlanta a few times before, and by this stage in the drive, and despite the steady supply of no-doze pills he’d been chewing, he was almost on autopilot. He guided his wheels to a 24/7 gas station and parked the rig near the diesel pumps. This would be home for the night. His full balls hung low inside his denim jeans.
He smeared some cheap deodorant under his pits to make himself slightly more presentable. He climbed down out of the rig and walked into the roadhouse next door. He’d been here before, and he barely needed to bother with the menu. Steak. Well done, thanks ma’am. Charcoal as you can make it. Side of potatoes and greenbeans, please. And a beer. His 42 wheels would be parked until sunrise.
Gorilla was thirsty. The beer arrived quickly and half of it disappeared in a few quick gulps. His meal was excellent, as usual at this roadhouse. He had another beer while he was eating.
At the end of the meal, he paid his check, left a tip for the waitress, exited the roadhouse and started to head back to the bunk in his rig for some well-earned shuteye. But first, he needed to take care of business – he needed to use the bathroom.
The bathroom was a stand-alone block, halfway between the roadhouse and where he’d parked. It was small, and somewhat stinky. The air felt stale. There was only one cubicle.
Gorilla entered the bathroom and noticed that the cubicle door had been ripped off its hinges since he was last in Atlanta. Fuck. He really needed to take a shit.
He pulled his jeans down and they collected around his ankles. Nature took its course.
*
Carlos was a sexy Mexican dude who sang and played guitar in a heavy metal band in Atlanta. He had the look down to perfection: long, wavy brown hair, black t-shirt, denim jacket, dark Latin eyes and a skinny build. White socks inside black skater shoes.
Carlos loved nothing more than being on stage, covered in sweat under the bright stagelights, knowing every pair of eyes in the room were fixated on him. He was sexy as fuck, and he knew it. None of the women in the room could ever have him. He wasn’t interested in them. Often, during their set, he’d try to pick out a sexy denim-clad metal dude from the front row and hold his gaze for just long enough to suggest what might be possible later that night, if only. He knew he had a sexy pout and a long tongue, both of which helped to get his bait on the line when catching his front row prey.
He’d been out drinking with his bandmates tonight, and the beers had gone down well. He was walking home with his earbuds in, with Slayer shredding his eardrums. As he passed by the roadhouse, he realised he really needed a piss. He saw the bathroom and went in.
Gorilla drove a truck. He couldn’t remember why people started calling him Gorilla. He wasn’t especially hairy, though he had broad shoulders and could lug big weights. He also had a bit of a gut, but this was the product of too many hours spent sitting in the cab driving the overnight interstate. He had a sleeve on his right arm which extended across the top of his chest, and a smattering of tattoos on his left arm and leg. He also had some amateur ink on the topside of his cock. He had a meaty cock. It was quite thick and had a good weight to it; not too small but also not overly large.
Gorilla was always on the lookout for hot, sweaty sex with men.
Tonight, Gorilla found himself driving into Atlanta. He’d been at the wheel for a long 13 hours since leaving Oklahoma City, driving through Memphis and Birmingham. A ridiculously long drive, almost inhumane. The sun had set, and his trucker cap no longer needed to keep the setting sun out of his eyes, so he wore it backwards. It’d been a long haul, but he was paid well for it. He was looking forward to a big meal and a solid night’s sleep before de-palleting at the warehouse tomorrow at dawn. He’d driven to Atlanta a few times before, and by this stage in the drive, and despite the steady supply of no-doze pills he’d been chewing, he was almost on autopilot. He guided his wheels to a 24/7 gas station and parked the rig near the diesel pumps. This would be home for the night. His full balls hung low inside his denim jeans.
He smeared some cheap deodorant under his pits to make himself slightly more presentable. He climbed down out of the rig and walked into the roadhouse next door. He’d been here before, and he barely needed to bother with the menu. Steak. Well done, thanks ma’am. Charcoal as you can make it. Side of potatoes and greenbeans, please. And a beer. His 42 wheels would be parked until sunrise.
Gorilla was thirsty. The beer arrived quickly and half of it disappeared in a few quick gulps. His meal was excellent, as usual at this roadhouse. He had another beer while he was eating.
At the end of the meal, he paid his check, left a tip for the waitress, exited the roadhouse and started to head back to the bunk in his rig for some well-earned shuteye. But first, he needed to take care of business – he needed to use the bathroom.
The bathroom was a stand-alone block, halfway between the roadhouse and where he’d parked. It was small, and somewhat stinky. The air felt stale. There was only one cubicle.
Gorilla entered the bathroom and noticed that the cubicle door had been ripped off its hinges since he was last in Atlanta. Fuck. He really needed to take a shit.
He pulled his jeans down and they collected around his ankles. Nature took its course.
*
Carlos was a sexy Mexican dude who sang and played guitar in a heavy metal band in Atlanta. He had the look down to perfection: long, wavy brown hair, black t-shirt, denim jacket, dark Latin eyes and a skinny build. White socks inside black skater shoes.
Carlos loved nothing more than being on stage, covered in sweat under the bright stagelights, knowing every pair of eyes in the room were fixated on him. He was sexy as fuck, and he knew it. None of the women in the room could ever have him. He wasn’t interested in them. Often, during their set, he’d try to pick out a sexy denim-clad metal dude from the front row and hold his gaze for just long enough to suggest what might be possible later that night, if only. He knew he had a sexy pout and a long tongue, both of which helped to get his bait on the line when catching his front row prey.
He’d been out drinking with his bandmates tonight, and the beers had gone down well. He was walking home with his earbuds in, with Slayer shredding his eardrums. As he passed by the roadhouse, he realised he really needed a piss. He saw the bathroom and went in.
