I was driving a truck east, San Francisco to New York on Interstate 80, the mighty blacktop ribbon of adventure. I’d convinced the company the trip would take seven days, sure that the fastidious man in the back office would call Triple-A and find the most expeditious route and what could be done safely. We hadn’t quite caught on to the Internet then. Triple-A mapped out the I-80 route and recommended six days, nine days with sightseeing. The truck rental was for a minimum five. I knew I could do it in three, but I pulled the seven days’ per diem, cash, and hotel at $40 a night, cash, and turned the key.
I stopped not in Reno but in Wendover, NV, on the border of the Great Salt Lake, and gambled the cash. Surrounded by Mormons not quite practicing, I smashed the blackjack table, down a thousand at first but up five hundred by late morning. Per diem was a curse sometimes but a blessing when the streak hit. I slept in the cab out of principle.
I had made a straight shot out of SF and not slept until eastern Nevada, so it was happy hour when I reached Salt Lake City. I passed most of it; it’s hard to find a parking space for a 24’ box truck. But outside, before the climb to Park City, before that sudden southern maiming of the 215, I pulled off on instinct and found a restaurant for stupid food and cheap beer.
A woman I knew had suggested stopping in Salt Lake City. She lazed across the pillows and played with what was left of the hair above my eyes. “You need a haircut,” she said. “Just buzz it all.”
“I know,” I said.
“Stop in Salt Lake,” she murmured. “I want you to.”
“Regardless,” I rejoined, “thanks for the tip. I just might.”
She stroked me.
So now I swaggered in, not because of any confidence, but because sitting in the driver’s seat and stomping gas and brakes when idiots try to kill themselves in front of you can take a toll on your hips. I ordered vodka rocks and it didn’t take long.
A woman of thirty or so yelled at me from the end of the bar, impossible to ignore.
I took my time.
By nine, we were side by side; after all, every other seat was taken. The heat of her thigh pressed against mine, but I stayed facing forward. She twirled her hair. She LOVES this song. I sipped my drink and ordered another. She gently wrapped around my arm. She promised a ride back here in the morning. I paid our tab.
We rode in her Camaro and explored the possibilities before, giggling, we stumbled up the stairs of the complex and kicked open the door. She adjusted her bra with a certain self-righteous air on the threshold, but we both knew better and it was on the floor of the foyer soon enough.
It had been a while for both of us, in our own worlds, and we betrayed a relief that anatomy was just as we’d left it, and in fact, was better than we remembered. She hungered and I fed her, I was thirsty and I drank. And then we came to the point. She, twisting and squirming, desperate to be filled, took the condom I proffered and applied it expertly. I only want you, after all, I don’t know you. And she fell back, and I kissed her forehead.
And she tilted her hips.
“I’m a virgin,” she offered. I considered.
“I’ll go easy,” I assured her.
“No, I can’t. I have to wait.” And she fondled my cock and guided it inside her.
The feeling was intense and amazing, I won’t deny it. Looking down, I saw myself penetrating her, opening her, driving her, making her shift slightly left and right from the pressure. I straightened so I wouldn’t need to support myself, and began pinching her nipple with one hand and rubbing her mound with the other.
It was more than she could take. She pulled away and started crying. I stroked her hair but said nothing. She rolled over. Understanding, I grabbed a handful of her hair and we found the way.
She dropped me off at my truck two hours after our happy hour. She nodded and smiled; I figured I should say something but the feeling was similar to pulling a five on a sixteen. I just nodded back and fired up the diesel. By morning I was across Wyoming.