The Rest Stop at Dusk

I had an hour to go on the road, back to the home I hadn’t seen all weekend. It was dusk at the rest area, and the cars were gathering. I stuck my hands deep into my pockets not so much to hide the erection growing there as to adjust it so that it would be more visible. Then I stepped out of the car and walked past the parked vehicles and the staring eyes within them.

My visiting family was supposed to fly back home on the first day of the year. On new year’s eve, however, I discovered that instead of merely driving to the airport the next morning, I’d be making a twelve-hour trip to drive the family all the way to the east coast, then return again on my own. The trip out was miserable. The journey back, however, didn’t wear me down as much as I thought I would. So when I passed the rest area where occasionally I’ve been known to spread a little seed, I decided to stop.

At this time of day, during the rush hour home and after dark, almost every car held a single man in the driver’s seat. Some fiddled with their phones. Some pretended to be listening to their stereos. A few made no pretense why they were there. Their meaty hands rubbed over the bulges in their slacks as they cocked their heads and stared at me through the windshields. A couple I found unattractive; I avoided their glances as I passed. One kid caught my eye, though—a young guy with a pencil-thin mustache whose black knitted wool hat made his head look like a bullet. He leaned forward onto the steering wheel of his old Mustang to stare at me as I walked by. I held his glance for as long as was comfortable before I passed by his car and strolled up the sidewalk to the restroom.

The restroom urinals are right inside the men’s room door at this particular location, and the door’s always propped open. Anyone could poke a head around the corner from the waiting room and spy men peeing, if they really cared to. The outer doors protest loudly when they’re pulled open, however, and at this time of day there was very little foot traffic inside. The only person occupying the entire restroom was an older guy examining himself in the mirrors over the sinks, further into the washroom’s interior.

He was in his late fifties or early sixties, this guy, with a long braid of a dirty silver color hanging from beneath a distressed suede hat. His shirt was faded denim. That of his jeans was even more faded and worn. The boots he wore were pointy and so beaten that it was impossible to tell what color they once had been. He looked a little like Willie Nelson, in fact, though not as lean or likely to ask my assistance for FarmAid. He looked at me in the mirror, measuring me.

I stood at the innermost of the urinals and unzipped. It only took a few seconds for Willie Nelson to join me. He stood at the urinal next to mine, the tip of his booted foot nearly touching my black Converse. I didn’t even bother to pretend I was trying to pee. There was no need. Willie unzipped and pulled out a dick that made my eyes boggle. Soft, it had to be a good seven inches, and thicker than mine is hard; as it began to stiffen, I knew I was in for one of those rare massive dick sightings.

The thing was about ten inches when it finally stopped swelling and growing. He pulled back the hood from his monster and pointed it at me, giving me a broad, toothy grin. I nodded back, displaying my meat, as my eyes detected traces of yellow in his mustache and beard.

The outer doors swung. Willie and I took our places in front of the urinals, pushing our hips close to thrust our hard-ons into the shadows. Again, there was no need. The guy who joined us was the kid from the car, the one who’d stared at me on my trip in. He was wearing the Michigan white boy’s equivalent of hip-hop clothing—baggy pants with the waist hanging at the base of the ass, puffy winter coat, new sneakers with blinding white laces.

And he stared at me like he wanted to eat me alive.

Willie Nelson stepped back and displayed his dick again. He wasn’t exactly an attractive guy, but you don’t see dicks like his all that often. The kid’s eyes flicked from his massive erection to mine, and back again. He took a place next to Willie, his thumbs hooked into his pants pockets, the tips of his fingers rubbing the hard bulge they shrouded.

“You ever put out in a rig before?” Willie Nelson asked me. His voice was gruff. When he exhaled the words, he smelled of cigarettes and loneliness.

I nodded. I’d been fucked in a truck in a rest area the day I got my driver’s license.

“I bet you’d look real pretty in mine,” he said. The kid reached out and tried to wrap his right hand around the trucker’s dick. The fingers barely touched the base of his palm. His other hand reached out for mine and closed around it. His skin was ice cold. I reached out and cupped the kid’s crotch. I could feel his dick just beneath the denim of his baggy jeans, hard as metal and warm to the touch.

The trucker thrust his hand down the back of my jeans. His fingers snaked down my crack, probing for my hole. I was still clean from the morning’s shower; I let him do what he wanted. “Pretty little pink butthole on you, I bet. You want that, boy? You want this monster up in there?”

It was mentally tempting. And at my age, I don’t get called ‘boy’ very often. But it’s been too long since I was fucked, and I wasn’t going to be able to climb back on that bicycle with the trucker’s length and girth.

So I said nothing. I didn’t really need to. The trucker was stroking himself faster and faster, talking dirty to get himself off. “Legs spread, presenting that ass to me . . . shit. I bet you know what the fuck you’re doing, too. You know how to get a man like me off, huh?” The kid’s eyes glittered as they darted from me to the trucker. He ground his dick against my hand, but made no move to haul it out. “Yeah, sluttin’ your hole out to me, you fuckin’ whore, taking it like a bitch while I seed your little pucker, boy. You like that? You want that?”

The trucker used his free hand to squeeze his nipples through his shirt while he jacked himself rapidly, and then he jammed it back down my pants to connect with my hole again. My own dick was hard and wet at the tip, where a bead of precum had formed and attached itself to the kid’s wrist. The shiny filament connecting us glistened in the florescent light. The trucker’s head tilted back as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His finger shoved inside me slightly, but not very far. He grunted, and bucked.

When his load hit the back of the urinal, it did so with a hollow metallic collision, spraying out in one massive gush that immediately began to drip down the porcelain. A much smaller second dribble followed, barely making it out the tip. The pencil-mustached kid stared as if he couldn’t believe his eyes; almost immediately when it was done, he looked me in the eye, gave my dick one final squeeze, and scampered like a frightened bunny. Willie Nelson withdrew his hand from the back of my pants, zipped up looking vaguely embarrassed, and shuffled over to the sink to wash.

And I stuffed my erection down the right leg of my jeans, fastened and collected myself, and walked back to my car. Pair after pair of eyes followed me from the single men in their vehicles, parked in the shadows in the lot. I still felt them coming in my direction as I locked the doors and pulled out my phone.

I tapped out a text message to Spencer. I really need to engage in rambunctious sexual intercourse with you at your earliest opportunity, I wrote him.

You’re back in town? he wrote back immediately. What time? I told him to meet me at my place in ninety minutes.

And then I drove home with an erection that lasted until I saw him.