The Haul

He remembered her sweat, how it beaded up between her breasts in the sun, how it ran down her back as she straddled him, how it dripped off of her hair and splashed onto his face. It was animal. It was her. It was passion pouring on him like warm honey. How he longed for that, now, as he sat in his truck, making the run from San Francisco to Seattle. He was hauling 70,000 pounds of lettuce, listening to the cackle on the CB and the pounding of the windshield wipers. He sat high above the four-wheelers that whipped by him. In the city, he would have been worried about how the bastards cut him off, and how they paid the inertia of his load no mind. Out here, on the long stretch between Shasta and Eugene, he had plenty of room. His thoughts wandered.

The air was cool, but not cold. It was almost springtime. The rain poured down in fits and starts. Sometimes, it would beat down ferociously; other times, it was a mist. The heat in the cab was comforting. Before heading over the Siskyous, he had stripped off his clothes. It was how he liked to travel. Especially during the summer, he could open the windows and feel the warm air rush over him as he drove. It was sort of like flying inside of the head of a whale. He sat there, looking at the passing scenery, barreling down the highway at 70 miles per hour, naked as a baby. There was something exciting about that juxtaposition of power and vulnerability. He often thought of her.

On those long stretches, in the winding darkness, he remembered her. How pretty she was, in her cotton dresses or her ripped jeans or her thick sweaters. Nothing could hide her beauty. Her eyes were enough to make him hard. They were like onyx against her vanilla skin. Her smile tore him apart. Her hair was a cage that captured him like a fly in a web. But…it was her scent, her smell, her aroma, her sweat that drove him like a bull elk through the deepest of forests to her. When he thought of her…her back arched in orgasm, her eyes closed, her mouth open and loud, her sweat coating her skin like a thin gauze…he could not control his feelings. How many times he spilled the contents of his balls upon his belly and bare legs he could not begin to count. His chest would heave, his stomach contract, and he would roar above the drone of the enormous Peterbilt engine that hurled him down the highway. For spasm after squirting spasm, 70,000 pounds of lettuce would plummet toward the markets in Seattle.