The biggest bull mother trucker on the highway just met his match!
Jez Hereford is the biggest bull mother trucker that hauls ass up and down the east coast until the cops book him for drug possession – he keeps to schedule with the help of speed. The bleeding liberal judge gives him a choice: his license for six months or play mentor to a street feral who confesses a passion for trucks. But Jez is about to learn it’s not trucks the feral craves, but what the big rig drivers have between their legs.
Ebook ID: 5112_1161
lyd Category: Men-4-Men
Length: pdf Pages / words
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“In view of your enviable driving record and a little because of your colorful but tendentious defense I’m reluctant to confiscate your license at this time. However, make no bones about it, I will ban you from driving for a very long time if you appear before this bench again.”
“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled with as much humility as I could muster, which wasn’t much.
“Mr. Hereford, I have not finished. I am not allowing you off scot free. There is a price to be paid. I’m a magnanimous man so I’ll give you a choice. The confiscation of your license for six months...” He paused dramatically to let that sink in. I would have accepted anything in preference even if it meant sucking the old geezer’s todger. I could confidently say that because I knew there was no way it would be the alternative. If it had been I would have given serious consideration to losing my license for half-a-year.
As it turned out, his alternative wasn’t much better.
“There is in this court, awaiting sentencing, a young person of an artistic bent who has decided that the cost of canvas is too expensive and has therefore made the sides of public buildings and spray paint his media. He, like you Mr. Hereford, is protesting against The Man, whoever he may be. I see a match made in heaven here. He has expressed what I believe is a genuine interest in the trucking industry so therefore my alternative sentence is a six-month period of mentoring this young man by taking him along on your long-distance journeys. Do you need time to decide?”
It was a no-brainer. How difficult could it be having a young guy tag along on my trucking expeditions? Had I known the truth I might easily have opted for the other option.
The trouble began as soon as he turned up at the haulage company the first day of our mutual probation. He wasn’t on time. Nowhere even in the proximity of the time he was due to join me. In the end I rang the cops and told them if he wasn’t here within the half hour I was heading out. He arrived with thirty seconds to spare, clambering aboard the rig as I wheeled the big truck out of the loading yard to the jeers of my buddy truckers. It was gonna be a long six months. If the little fucker lasted that long.
“Seat belt,” I snapped as we left the yard.
“Never wear them,” he grizzled.
“My truck, my license, my rules. Seat belt.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
I slammed on the breaks just before we left the yard, a row of rigs behind me venting via their horns. Leaning across him I slammed open the door. “Out,” I commanded.
If I didn’t show him who was boss right now he’d shit all over me.
I waited. I could hear him grinding his teeth, probably deciding whether this was time to stand his ground or make a strategic retreat. He snapped on his seat belt and slammed the door closed. Round one to me although I knew this was just the beginning.
We drove in silence to the outskirts of the city. I was concentrating too heavily on avoiding suburban drivers who think roadways are for getting from point A to point B with their shopping or their school kids instead of what they’re actually for: hauling long-distance freight. When I’m on the road, amateurs had better look wary. A couple of times I saw my passenger flinch when he thought there was to be a collision. Dunno what he was worried about; he was safe way up above the crowd. It was the little people below who’d get squelched.
Finally we reached the open expressways and I put my foot down but kept on the lookout for speed traps and cops on bikes. The silence couldn’t go on forever. It was my rig, my rules, so it was up to me to break the impasse.
“Jerry,” I said, glancing over at my passenger who was curled up like a ball of snarl against the door. “But everyone calls me Jez.”
There was no response from the ball. I wasn’t about to let the fucker’s petulance get me. “The magistrate tells me you’ve got an interest in driving these big rigs, that’s why you’ve been partnered with me for mentoring. What’s say we get started on a few basics otherwise it’s gonna be a long journey.”
Barry Lowe’s dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature faded about thirty years ago when he realised what he wrote best was about the wild, whacky, wonderful world of sex and that his vocabulary would never rival Patrick White’s or even Evelyn Waugh’s. Since then he’s been happily churning out the odd gay sex comedy for stage as well as a mountain of newspaper columns and an avalanche of erotica for print and eBooks. He is also the author of Atomic Blonde, a biography of 1950s sex goddess, Mamie Van Doren. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Wally.
Check out his website at www.barrylowe.net.