It wasn’t even my car to begin with. I know better. When a light comes on my dash and stays on for a while, I mention it. I take it in to have it looked at. (Unless it’s the low tires light. That thing is always on. The dealer has gotten into the habit of resetting it, shrugging, and saying, What’reya gonna do?)
When the tow truck driver asks, “Where do you want to take her, buddy?” I have to think a minute.
One of the lingering effects of Hurricane Sandy on this part of the country is that the gas lines here have been impossibly long. Many stations in the tri-state area took a week or more to regain their power. Drivers slammed those that were open, draining them of their gas. Drivers from places hit worse than we have been crossing the nearby state borders to hit Connecticut’s gas outlets, causing impossible gridlock in every direction around every service station. A week ago Saturday I wanted to get out of the house for some lunch in the middle of the day and found I couldn’t get anywhere; I sat for ten minutes on a street heading north at the end of my block, not moving, even though the gas station everyone was trying to get to was over a half-mile away. I turned around and tried to head in the opposite direction to the tiny village I’m near, only to find the line to the mom-and-pop station in its center was just as long. I finally drove back home and made myself a sandwich.
So when he asks the question, I really have to think about the answer. Finally I pick a local dealer. They don’t sell gas, so getting there won’t be an issue. They’re fairly far away, but close enough to a depot that I can just catch a Metro North train for a stop and walk the couple of blocks home. “I can give you a ride to the station after, if you need,” the tow driver says, when I explain to him. It’s a nice offer. I accept.
He’s not talkative on the drive out there. Mostly he’s on his radio, calling in the tow to his headquarters. Or on his cell phone, listening to voice mail and steering with one hand. It’s not until I’ve gotten a receipt from the dealer and am back in his car that he says anything much to me. “You should’ve had that light looked at earlier.”
“It’s not my car,” I growl. I’m just the guy who gets to clean up other people’s messes.
“Oh,” he said, understanding instantly. He’s pulling down the street toward the station. Rush hour’s approaching. There’s a line of cars turning into the drop-off area with us. “Married, huh?” He’s looking at my left hand.
“Yup,” I say.
“Guy or girl?” The question’s amiable. And reasonable. This is one of those states where either’s a legal option.
It’s not until he asks the question though, that he really snaps into focus for me. Until that moment I’ve regarded him as his function. He’s the tow truck guy. He shows up, he takes me someplace, he gets my credit card. I forget his face after. That’s how it usually works, after all. Now I’m looking at the person. He’s as tall as I. Six-three, six-four. He’s a burly dude. Goateed. Blond-gray. A big fucker. The kind of overalled, blue-collar guy you’d send in to a central casting call for tow-truck driver types. Undeniably masculine. “Why do you ask?” I say, kind of amused.
His furry, thick arm is lying atop the steering wheel. He’s looking straight ahead at the line of taillights in front of us. “Just wondering if it’s a lucky chick or dude that gets you at home,” he says.
When I get out of the truck, he’s got something else to ask. “You get texts at this number?” he asks, holding the work order he’s made out for me earlier.
“I do,” I tell him.
“Anyone else see them?”
“They don’t,” I say.
“Talk to you later, then,” he says, with a grin.
It’s one of those promises that makes a long wait on the platform a little more bearable.
It’s a week later. Now he’s here on my bed. Pants around his ankles. Sneakers still on. His black T-shirt has the towing company’s garish logo. He’s got his hand around his dick and he’s pushing down on the back of my head. “Suck it,” he says.
I’m obeying. I’ve got a mouthful of his thick and powerful meat. He’s trimmed short his blond pubes; his balls are shaved smooth. His dick’s so thick that it’s tough to open my jaw wide enough to accommodate it. He doesn’t care. He slaps his palm on the top of my head and shoves me down. My eyes water as his cock head batters the back of my throat. My instinct is to gag, but I breathe through it. When I come back up, though, my nose and eyes are both streaming.
“Good cocksucker,” he says. “Maybe I should make you a regular. You want that?”
I’m too busy trying to get him in my throat to speak, but I nod and grunt.
“My own pretty little married cocksucker. You want that?”
He smells both like soap, sweet and fruity, and like the sharp metallic tang of motor oil. He takes his dick out of my mouth and slaps my face with it. It hurts. He’s got considerable meat. This isn’t some display of alpha pretentiousness. This is a fucking facial beatdown. It feels like he might leave bruises.
“Yes sir,” I whisper.
“Nice,” he said. “How long you been sucking dick?”
When I tell him, it excites him more than anything I’ve done so far. He shoves my mouth back on his meat. When my head rises, he pushes it back down. He’s setting the pace, he’s showing me exactly how far to go down and how fast to rise. It feels like he’s dribbling my head like a basketball—his cupped hand touches it only at the peak, then releases it in a shove—but the novelty of that is kind of hot. Plus I’m really digging the squirts of precum he’s letting loose, the more excited he gets.
“My own married cocksucker. My own personal married cocksucker,” he growls, bobbing me up and down. “My own pretty personal married cocksucker.” He keeps adding adjectives, like he’s playing a saucy version of some long-forgotten Victorian parlor game. “My own pretty cum-hungry personal married cocksucker. Sucks better than my own boyfriend by a long shot. Fuck yeah, you do.”
Then he blasts. The load hits the back of my throat so hard that I nearly choke. I exhale as best I can, though, and hold my mouth down on the dick. When it’s safe, I swallow. His sperm is bitter-tasting. It’s the most acid load I’ve taken in a long time. I gulp it down, though, like a pretty cum-hungry personal married cocksucker should. His hand is on the back of my neck, holding me down there until he’s sure I’ve gotten every drop. Then it relaxes.
He’s up. He’s on his feet. He’s pulling up his pants. Like I said, he hadn’t even taken off his shoes. I race to put on my clothes, since he’d taken them all off, and walk him to the door.
Today a neighbor waves at me in the street, when I’m on the way to the store. “You been having a lot of car trouble?” he asks. “I’ve seen a tow truck outside your place a couple of times this week.
I shrug. What can I do? I seem to say. Can’t help car trouble.
Can’t help hoping I’ll have a touch more of it in the coming weeks, either.