Interstate Triad Concerto

The Johnathan Mones men’s choir and saxophone version of “Steal Away” was working just fine. The Savannah Gay Men’s Choir had some excellent voices in it and the black hunk, Jamie, who was accompanying on the soprano sax was as accomplished as he was handsome. I was one of the youngest one who showed up that night to sing in the choir for the first time, drawn because the director, Erik Switzer, had told me about this saxophone and choir composition, and the saxophonist was giving me chills by turning his eyes to me frequently and smiling and nodding. He made me feel like we were the only two men in the rehearsal hall.

The invitation had come two days earlier when Erik had picked me up at the airport and driven me to the very nice one-bedroom apartment on East Jones Street, within the pocket park section of the old city that I was being provided as a part of the six-month sabbatical stipend with the music department of the Savannah State University. Despite only being twenty-three, I’d already put in a year teaching music composition and both choral and instrumental performance at the Shenandoah Conservatory in Winchester, Virginia. I had been somewhat of a child prodigy, graduating from high school at fifteen and finishing both a BA and a masters at Shenandoah by the time I was twenty-one and being invited to stay there to teach after taking my degrees. Like most of partial Asian descent—despite my Western name, Neal Gordon, I was half, the mother half, Korean—my parents had pushed me hard academically. This had worked out in launching me into a desired career, but it had stunted my socialization, so that when I discovered I was gay, it helped making me a pushover for older men. There were plenty of men interested in the experience of doing an Asian.

It had made me easy prey for the mixed German and American black music conductor and professor at Savannah State University, Erik Switzer, when he’d come for a semester sabbatical at Shenandoah. After he had pursued, seduced, and bedded me, he arranged this semester sabbatical of my own to his university, a traditionally black southern university, to have a chance to compose something significant myself. I had come down here with no idea yet what that would be, but I was counting on inspiration to hit early in my sabbatical down here. This evening, hearing how well the choir and saxophone fit together, my mind was spinning on the possibility to pursue that combination. It was quite unusual. If I managed it, it would undoubtedly take notice—I just would have to gamble on it being good rather than bad notice.

The one thing I wanted to do in this six months of sabbatical was to do something different—and risky—both in music and in my personal life. The first thing Erik Switzer did in bring me from the airport into old Savannah to a fine one-bedroom apartment in a renovated vintage townhouse where all of the other units were stores or offices and that was provided at heavy discount by a college alumnus was to make the bedroom the last stop in the inspection of the apartment and to fuck me in a close-embrace missionary on the bed. That wasn’t new and different. He’d done the same in Winchester, professing to be fascinated that I was half Korean, as he was half black, and so young—and, he said, had so much musical talent. But I thought that, with luck, there would be other presentable men in Savannah who would be more of a risk. Erik was a handsome man, but he was beefy and quite a bit older than I was.

When he invited me to join his gay men’s choir, I saw this as a start for a six-month breather with some spice and excitement in it. I was given hope when I made eye contact with the black saxophonist. I’d never done fully black before, as Jamie obviously was, dreadlocks and all. I’d heard the legend that black men were specially endowed. Jamie was endowed with very good looks and youth as a start. It might be fun to know what other endowments he had the right to be proud of.

* * * *

“So, how did I do?” I turned at the sound of the voice. The black saxophonist, Jamie. The gay men’s chorus had practiced in the sanctuary of an old church in the historic area of the city, refreshments had been laid on for us in the fellowship hall afterward. Erik had brought me, but he was being swamped with questions and comments from the choir members after the practice, so it would be a while before we could take off. I was confident that he planned to spend the night at my apartment.

You do great in everything I can see, I wanted to answer to the young black saxophonist who had come to me by the refreshment table. I wasn’t that forward—or hopeful, though. “You play a sweet sax as far as I can determine,” I answer.

“Switzer tells me you are a music master on sabbatical at the university, so I was very interested in what you thought of my playing.”

“You are the best I’ve heard,” I said. He obviously was happy with that.

“I could hear your tenor voice coming through,” he said. “You have a great voice,” he added, returning the compliment. “So, what is your emphasis—voice or instruments?”

“Composition,” I said, “for either or the two combined, as we’re doing here. I have time down here to try to compose something unusual. Hearing the men’s choir put together with the saxophone has given me inspiration.”

“I’m glad to be inspirational for you.”

“Inspirational in more ways than the saxophone,” I said, pushing the envelope. The man was a real hunk. I gave him the look that all active gay men recognized. I had no idea if he was active or not—or a top or bottom, if he was active. I saw no reason not to take a chance, though. I had come to Savannah to take some chances.

He caught the ball. “This is a gay men’s chorus,” he said, “and you are singing in it. Can I hope that you are—”

“Yes, I am. A submissive,” I added to pin it down.

“This is the South. I’m black. Does that . . . have you ever?”

“I never have but have been looking forward to it. And I am half Korean. That sometimes is as much an impediment in the South as being black might be.”

“I can’t see that it would be anything but intriguing. Can I give you ride home from the rehearsal, or do you have your own transport?” Was that a direct proposition, I wondered.

“I don’t have a car—at least yet. I came with Erik, but he looks like he’s going to be busy for some time. If you are planning to leave soon—”

“I can leave right now. My car is a couple of blocks away. You could tell Switzer you’re leaving while I get the car and I could pick you up in the front of the church.”

“It sounds like a plan.” It actually sounded like a very good plan, maybe one he had cleverly devised. Erik was less likely to ask that I not accept the man’s offer if he had already left to fetch his car and would be idling at the curb.

Erik wasn’t pleased that I wasn’t leaving with him, but he, indeed, was being swamped with choir questions and business, so there wasn’t much for him to say. He knew too that he was my mentor here in Savannah, and he had six months of coverage with me.

I went out to the steps in front of the church to wait for Jamie to bring his car around. There was some sort of warehouse across the street, with big trucks arriving, even this late in the evening, and unloading goods. A couple of truck drivers had come out of their cabs and were standing around and talking as the trucks were being unloaded. The men looked like rough-and-tumble, meaty hunks from where I stood, and I felt myself stirring. These were men from an entirely different world than the safe, refined music world I had been steeped in, and they fascinated me. With the intent of a freer, riskier life I had come to Savannah with, I’d been ruminating on the possibility of discovering men like this. If I found it was something I didn’t like or couldn’t handle, I’d be returning to my own world in northern Virginia in a few months anyway.

Jamie didn’t drive me directly back to my apartment. With my enthusiastic acquiescence, we went to a jazz bar, the Good Times Jazz Bar, not far from my apartment, where we had a couple of drinks, listened to some live jazz, and engaged in a bit of conversation after he’d been called up on the stage and had played some smooth, haunting music with his saxophone. Jamie obviously was a well-known and welcome musician in downtown Savannah. It was making me very comfortable—and mellow.

“The jazz seems to be smoother, more romantic and introspective here in Savannah than where I’ve heard it before,” I said when he’d returned to our table.

“Each region and city serves up jazz a bit differently from others,” Jamie said. “The personality, history, and experience of the city or region is folded into their music. You’ll hear it in their jazz. Savannah is deeply embedded in my music. Yes, introspective and classic in Savannah. And, I hope to think that the music I produce is romantic. That’s just me, a romantic.” He was looking deep into my eyes and gliding my fingers over the forearm I had leaning on the top of the table between us. “Are you ready for me to drive you home now?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling myself panting at what was to come. I had no question that he’d propositioned me—or that he understood that I’d said yes.

“You know, I never thought about it before but I’m finding I’m thinking about it now,” he said before we got up to leave.

“Thought about what?” I asked.

“Making love to a Korean.”

“Making love to a Korean or fucking one?” I asked. I obviously had gone over my limit on drinks.

“There’s a difference?”

“Yes, there is.”

He laughed. “I can be romantic,” he said.

* * * *

He lied. He wasn’t romantic. He was forceful and controlling and fucked me at great length—on my sofa, me bent over the arm of the couch, my arms and head dangling toward the floor; and on the floor in front of the sofa, me on all fours and him mounted behind and above me and pounding away; and on my bed with him on his back and me riding a cock that, yes, bore out the legend I’d heard about black men and their endowments. He was built huge.

The coupling wasn’t anything like I had experienced before with the arousal slowly building through wine and discussion of music that smoothly transitioned into the realization of intimacy, a few kisses, fondling, a brief adjustment of clothing and positioning, an intaking of breath on penetration, stretch, and possession, followed by moments of rhythmic give and take, release, and smooth transition back into wine and discussion of music. There was no give and take in this. It was all Jamie taking almost from the moment we entered my apartment. Hot, sweaty, deep panting and moaning, primeval struggle, with Jamie overwhelming and mastering me, thrusting inside me, forcing me open, laying me out, vulnerable and powerless to his conquering and control. And that thick, long, black shaft, invading, relentlessly pounding, using, owning. Such exhilaration—I had never been dragged long the tops of the clouds like this before. Often in sex I conjured up the image of dancing on the clouds. Jamie beat me down and dragged me across the clouds by my hair.

Rolling off him after riding him on my bed and after I had cooled down and felt my heart beat return to a steady rhythm, I turned toward him and took his now-flaccid cock in both of my hands, reveling in how thick it was, even in repose, and how black it was, and how I could take it in both hands without the fingers overlapping. I felt it stirring, and I knew we’d fuck again—that he’d fuck me again.

“You’re so black there,” I murmured. “Blacker there than over the rest of your body. I’ve never been fucked by a black cock before.”

“Or one this big,” he said, and gave a little laugh.

“Or one this big,” I acknowledged.

“Bigger than my thumb,” he said, reaching over and running one of his thumbs around on my lips until I opened my mouth to it and pulled it in, sucking on it, as I two-handed stroked his shaft, engorging it again.

“And I’ve never fucked a cute Asian—a half Korean—before,” he said, his voice husky. “Do Koreans give good blow jobs?”

Not waiting for his thumb to come out of my mouth so I could answer, he extracted the thumb, ran his fingers into my head, jerked my head down his muscular torso, and forced me to take his black shaft in my mouth. I unhinged my jaw and took the cock as best I could, gagging on it as he forced it deep.

No, I’d never taken black cock here before, either.

After some sputtering mouth work that returned him to full staff, he rolled over on top of me. The fuck was rough and hard—and glorious. So far I was loving Savannah.

* * * *

Jamie had given me a couple of avenues of thought to pursue in the week before there’d be another gay men’s chorus practice, where I hoped he would be again to practice his saxophone accompaniment to our song because I hadn’t gotten contact information for him. He knew where I was living now, but I doubt I had impressed him enough in bed for him to show up on my doorstep salivating before the next choir practice.

On the level I was in Savannah on this sabbatical to pursue, he’d given me a lead on the composition I might try to develop. Finding that there were so many differences in what jazz on the saxophone could be and how that might relate to regions had me going to the Internet to track down and compare the different treatments. I hadn’t thought of the saxophone accompanying choir music before encountering the Johnathan Mones “Steal Away” piece at the men’s choir. I wasn’t really interested in composing a piece for choir, but the thought of the saxophone and how many different styles of that that could be put into a composition had me weighing possibilities in my mind.

That line of pursuit wasn’t all innocent work related, though, as I had to admit to myself. If I centered a music composition on the saxophone, I could maybe convince Jamie to spend a lot of time with me in trying this and that sound out against other instruments. I had rented an electronic piano on which, using my computer, I could pull up the sounds of different instruments and even layer them on each other, and, with that, I could get a very good idea how the composition would sound while I was composing it.

Being able to see Jamie often segued into the other level my thoughts went to. Jamie was black and Jamie was a forceful lover. Both of those were new areas of sensation for me—and both were arousing. And it went further than that. Jamie was a rough lover, which sent me into new and deeper levels of arousal that I hadn’t thought existed before I came here. I had gone with some men before, but they’d all been highly civilized and refined. Jamie was rough, and thinking of him and the night we’d met and fucked also brought up the rough-looking truck drivers I’d seen on the street in front of the church the choir rehearsed in and how I’d briefly fantasized how sex with one of those burly, rough-edge, blue-collar men would be like. Would it be even rougher and more demanding than I’d found with Jamie? Would I like that?

If I was going to explore and experiment with the hope of abandoning it and going back to refined academics, this sabbatical in Savannah would be a good time to do that. I’d developed this curiosity about construction worker types—and black men.

While trying to concentrate on the music composition that had brought me here, the question of truckdrivers and rough sex, the truckdriver issue kept intruding in my mind. I was on the computer putting some instrumentation combinations together in search of a couple of bars of key theme music when, on a whim, I checked whether there might be a gay dating site specifically for truckdrivers. There was.

I opened the Web site up. I wondered if it was only for truckdrivers, or men claiming to be truckdrivers, or whether it could be used by submissives looking for truckdriver tops, and, if so, whether there were a number of hookup possibilities here in the Savannah area. The only way to find out, of course, was to sign up for the site and enter it.

I’d never had done that in Winchester where I taught at the Shenandoah Conservatory. I’d never have done it where I lived full time. But I was in Savannah, a long way from Winchester. I’d come down here with the thought of trying out some activities I wouldn’t feel free to do in Winchester. I don’t know if I’d go with a black man for casual rough sex in Winchester. I never had. There was probably no impediment to that other than something psychological. I’d done it without a second thought here. I knew there was nothing really different about hooking up by computer in Winchester as opposed to here in Savannah—but it seemed so.

I took the plunge. With a delicious, tingly feeling of the illicit, I roamed around in the site, seeing, basically, three different types of personal ads. The largest group, by far, were truckdrivers, identifying as tops, and seeking submissive to go on long rides with them. The next largest group was truckdrivers who identified as submissives and were interested in being taken on long rides by burly truckers. The smallest group, and the most dinged on, were men who weren’t truck drivers but who were seeking to be ridden by burly truckers. I saw that there were plenty of men stepping up as players who claimed the Charleston-Atlanta-Savannah triangle as home and stomping grounds, although, as truckers, there seemed to be a great willingness to hook up across much broader regions.

Licking my lips and feeling myself go hard, I started filling out a personal ad form, providing a photo I’d had taken of me posed on a chaise lounge, with my hands covering the goods and a half mask on my face. I told myself I’d just see if there was any interest that would be titillation fodder, although, of course, I wouldn’t actually hook up with anyone this way.

Within ten minutes I received a dozen messages of interest and offers to take me somewhere in their trucks and fuck the stuffing out of me—all of them from the Georgia-South Carolina area, five of them from right here in Savannah. Shockingly, one of them addressed me by name—Neal—even though I hadn’t given that name in the personal ad. Of course I wouldn’t give a real name. For this Web site, I had registered as Nate.

“Neal, or do you really want to be called Nate?” the ad had said. “I’m so glad you registered to the site. I had wondered if you were doable. I meet all the criteria you checked. Let’s meet and I’ll let you know where I know you from.”

Intriguing . . . and scary. And I no longer could think of this as just a game I could play with remotely. This man, registered as based right here in Savannah, claimed to know me already and proved it by calling me by my real name. I hadn’t been in Savannah long enough, I thought, for someone to know me and already have decided he wanted to hook up with me. Could I just walk away from this? I could try, but this had gone beyond the realm of a Web site where I could be incognito. The man claimed to know me and to have thought about me in a sexual way—and I had expressed interests in the Web site on my own. If I didn’t pin this down on the Internet, I’d have to wonder if he’d walk right up to me today, tomorrow, or the next day.

“I think you have mistaken me for someone else,” I wrote back. I didn’t add that I found his profile and his looks arousing, but I did. He claimed to be a trucking company owner, forty years old, a former Marine, and to be a rough top. If his photo was genuine, he was muscular and fit, if on the sturdy, a bit of a beer belly physique, tattooed, rugged and chiseled looking, not a real beauty, but believably a former Marine. I didn’t recognize him as anyone I knew or had ever met, though.

“I don’t think so,” he answered back. “Virginia, now living on East Jones in the city. I think by showing interest in truckers, you want to be dominated and taken rough. 8 pm, Tuesday night, The Bar Bar on West Saint Julian. Wear frilly panties, and a bra if you’re into that sort of thing. You look like you might be. Or would you rather I just surprise you and take you when the opportunity is there? Do you have fantasies of being kidnapped and forced?”

Well, actually, I had had such fantasies. What he’d written, though, was more reason to settle this sooner rather than later.

* * * *

He said his name was Gabe Johnson and in almost the same breath he said my name was Neal Gordon, so there wasn’t any use of me trying to deny it. He didn’t include any sort of a threat or blackmail statement, but he didn’t have to. He said I should put that there is any blackmail aspect out of my mind.

And he was every bit the thuggish truckdriver type of guy I had been mooning about.

“I just want to fuck you,” he said, “in the way your profile said you wanted to be fucked. I don’t want to scare you or force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I want you to want to do it as much as I do. I want you to have a ball with me balling you.”

I suppose I should have taken that as reassurance, but it only was reassuring if it was true and there was nothing making it have to be true. I still didn’t recognize him from anywhere when I sat across from him at a side table in the low-ceilinged and dimly lit Bar Bar, which I wouldn’t have known was a gay bar if all of the couples matched up around me hadn’t been the same gender.

His photo on the Web site was him. Maybe he was a bit older than pictured, but he was just as hulky and former Marine like as photographed. He was bald, but curls of salt-and-pepper hair pushed out of the V of his tight T-shirt under the leather jacket. I knew that one of his pecs was covered in a swirly, colorful tattoo that came down his left arm in a sleeve inking, but that wasn’t apparent the way he was dressed here. He met my expectation of a truckdriver, even to the point of the age somewhat beyond forty—a truckdriver who kept himself in good muscular shape. In taking control of our meeting, he also fulfilled my idea of what he’d be—what I wanted the hookup to be. In other words, I should stop looking for something to be worried about, go with him, and find out how my expectations of being fucked rough by a truckdriver panned out.

I had cleaned myself out and, as he had directed, was wearing a black, lacy pair of panties under my jeans and a black bra under a billowy white cotton, long-sleeved shirt, but no one would have known it as conservatively dressed as I was. I’d bought the panties and bra, easily stripped off by hooking between the cups, at a sex shop out Waters Avenue in the Midtown district, letting the sales girl think it was for my girlfriend. She flirted with me like she’d be happy to wear the panties for me. They had a slit up the back.

I’d put a diamond stud in my right ear, a practice that no longer was a clear signal of gay submissive, but might still be with someone Gabe’s age. I’d put the gold bars in my nipples too. He had trapped me by knowing who I was, but I had decided to go with it. I’d been telling myself it was what I wanted to do.

The lace panties were scratchy. I hadn’t considered that would be a possibility. I wondered if Gabe told me to wear them because the scratchiness made me fully aware of being aroused by the situation and the look of him.

“You don’t remember where our paths crossed?” Gabe asked when he returned from the bar with our beers. It was obvious that he was controlling this date. He didn’t even ask me what I wanted to drink; he just went up to the bar after we’d seen each other and he’d gruffly told me to sit at the table. He could see that taking command and being gruff was what I was being submissive to. I expected him to continue doing that until he’d gotten what he wanted. If this was roleplaying here, this was what I wanted too.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“I guess you only had eyes for that black dude with the saxophone. You left with him, didn’t you?”

Ah, that was it. It was at the gay men’s chorus practice. I didn’t remember seeing him there, though. “Yes, Jamie gave me a ride home from practice,” I said, indicating that I now knew how he knew what he did about me. “So, you’re in the gay man’s chorus too.”

Ignoring that question, he honed down on his main interest. “And he fucked you good, I’ll bet.”

I didn’t answer that, which was giving him an answer.

“I see you remember now,” he continued. “I’m in the bass section. You were introduced to the choir in general. So, do you like black cock?”

“I liked his,” I said, standing my ground.

“But you’re cruising for truckers? You want real men who jockey eighteen wheelers? Muscle men with eight inches? You want to ride eight inches of trucker cock.”

“I was just shopping on that Web site,” I said. “I was just playing around.”

“But you were wondering what it would be like to be fucked by a trucker.”

“Yes.”

“Well, now that you see me, do you want to do some playing around? You gonna let me fuck you?”

This was what I’d signed up at the Web site for; this was what I’d come here for, wasn’t it? “Yes,” I answered.

“You wearing the lacy panties and bra like I told you to?”

“Yes.” I unbuttoned my shirt enough for him to see I was wearing the bra underneath it.

“Good boy. Drink your beer up and come out and get in my truck. See how a truckdriver can drive you. Ride my cock like a good little piece of ass.”

* * * *

I gave up, lying back on the bed—in my apartment, where we’d gone because Gabe admitted he was married, with a wife and kids at home. I let him take it all the way he wanted. We’d moved into it—the meeting up at the door to my apartment; his controlling kissing and fondling after we were inside the apartment and he, with a leer, had thrown the bolt; the nervous moments of offering and receiving drinks and settling on the sofa; and then the immediate ignoring of the drinks, going directly into him trapping me under him and tearing at my clothes.

I broke away, saying that maybe we should take it slower.

He shocked me by slapping me across the face and sending me, reeling, back into the sofa. “You don’t want it slower,” he said. “You want a trucker. You want a trucker’s dick inside you, taking it hard.”

I extricated myself from him, rolled off the sofa, and stood, only to be shocked when he stood as well, slapped me hard again, and put his fist into my belly, causing me to go down. He had his jacket and shirt off at that point, showing off his bulging muscularity and his tattoos. There was no question who would win in the fight—I also could tell he was holding back, manhandling me but not doing the damage he was capable of doing. The slaps and fist didn’t have the power behind them I knew he possessed.

“This is the trucker way,” he declared. “You agreed to take it by being here, and we take it. You do what you’re told. Get up. Get on the bed. Lie on your back. Spread your legs for me.”

I got up, but when I moved toward the door to the outer hallway rather than the bedroom, he hooked his foot on my ankle and I went down in a heap. Standing over me, he reared his arm back and snapped it forward, twice, slapping me again. He could have closed his fist, but he didn’t. He could easily have done more damage. He didn’t.

His eyes were flashing. I think he was pleased that I was putting up some resistance.

Standing over me, he growled, “Do you want me to dick you or not?”

The moment of reckoning. Had I let this get set up for nothing? Did I really not want to experience it rough—being under the complete control of a muscle daddy. Would I lose him if I resisted further?

“Are we going to fuck or not?” he repeated. He apparently had gone as far in this reluctance game as he was going to go.

“Yes. But be good to me,” I whined. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Good as in well fucked, a trucker’s way—my way—or something sissy? I don’t do sissy. I don’t think you want sissy. You wouldn’t have gone looking for a trucker if that’s what you wanted.”

I was confused. He’d told me to wear lacy panties. He’d seemed to have been aroused when, in messing with me on the sofa, he discovered I was wearing them.

“Any way you want it,” I whimpered.

“Good answer.” He lifted me like I didn’t weigh anything at all, carried me into the bedroom, and dumped me on the bed. I was naked other than the black lace panties and the bra. He reached down, flipping me onto my back with a grip on my calves, spreading them apart, and stood hovering over me, between my legs, at the foot of the bed, leering down at me, as he slipped his pants and briefs off. He was in magnificent erection. His body was beautiful for a man his age—all muscle and tattoos.

He reached down, unhooked the bra, and pulled it off my back, looking intensely down at my body, which seemed to please him and turn him on. He ran his hands over my chest, thumbing my nipples. I moaned for him and pushed my chest up into his stroking hands, working my pecs like they were breasts.

Pulling his hands back, he continued leering as he split open the condom packet and rolled the Trojan Magnum on his cock.

There was no further preparation. Apparently, this was the trucker’s way: Get in, do it, get out, get back on the road. He grasped my ankles and put them on his shoulders. He didn’t bother stripping me of the lace panties; they had a slit up the back. He didn’t bother with opening me up with anything but his shaft. “The tightness, the need to force it in, your screams are half the fun,” he said. I writhed under him and gasped and groaned, and, yes, did a bit of loud response, as he invaded and stretched me, using just his spit as lubricant, but I gave up, settled down, arched my back, stared at the ceiling fan, and took it, as, his cock buried inside me, he grasped my ankles, spread-eagled my legs, thrust deep, setting up a rhythm, and fucked the shit out of me.

Telling me to keep my legs spread in a high, wide V, which I did with the help of my hands holding them, Gabe grasped my throat with both hands and used breath control on me in the same cadence with the thrusts of his shaft. It was certainly a new, invigorating experience for me. I came for him twice, creaming the inside of the black lacy panties, which Gabe had left on me.

Later, out in the living room, after I’d tossed the flat beer and delivered fresh ones, he said, “That the way you wanted it?”

“Yes,” I had to admit.

“What are you? Some kind of Asian mix?”

“Half Korean. My dad was an American soldier.”

“Pretty exotic. The men driving my trucks would enjoy getting into you.”

“So, it was good for you?” I asked. I hadn’t been sure about that. He’d taken it for granted and hadn’t given any sign of satisfaction or otherwise other than jerking and gasping as he came.

“Don’t you mean wasn’t it good for me too? You settled down to it. You took it like a champ.”

“Yes, was it good for you too?”

“Yes. You know what an Interstate Triad is?”

“No, I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a wild week with truckers. You set up a route that takes goods to three cities in an eighteen-wheeler, delivering to one city, picking up, delivering the new cargo to the next city, and then back to the first city with another cargo. A day traveling on the road, an overnight in a hotel, and then twice more, getting back to your base city.”

“OK, so what’s with that?”

“Didn’t you see it on the truckers’ hookup Web site?”

“No.”

“The arrangement is that a sweet young thing—like you—goes along for the ride and gets ridden by the truckers—during rest stops and at night in the motels. All expenses paid for the chicken. I arrange them from here in Savannah for the Web site. You want an adventure in trucker sex, this is a great way to get it.”

“Hmmm,” I said.

“You interested? I could set it up. A week on the road. Three or more trucker dicks in you, depending on who’s on the drive. You agreeing not only to the trucker fuck but to the dress-up as well shows you’re game for this. You certainly would be a trucker’s delight.”

“What cities would this be?” I asked.

“From here, it’s usually Savannah to New Orleans to Nashville, and back.”

Music cities, I thought. I paused, but not for long. “Sure, I’m interested,” I said.

I looked at Gabe to see that he was smiling and opening up another condom packet that had been sitting on the coffee table.

“Let’s do it right here,” he said, “Like dogs do it.”

He put me on all fours on the sofa, mounted, and penetrated me, and rode me like we were in a rodeo.

* * * *

“So, you some kind of Jap?”

His name was Lyle. He was maybe forty-five, tall, thin, wiry—almost gaunt. He might have been a looker in “the day,” but he had a lot of hard living on him now. He was wearing a flannel shirt over what might have been the top of long johns, over stained jeans and cowboy boots. He wore a baseball cap on a head of stringy gray and auburn hair that was held back in a ponytail. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he drove I-90 from Jacksonville to New Orleans. It was just after 1:00 in the afternoon and they were just clearing the western fringes of Tallahassee. But, if he had a nice erection and a good backswing . . .

“My mother was Korean. My father an American GI,” I answered. I don’t know how many times I’d had to say that in my life already.

“Guess that’s all right with me, as long as you are as good-lookin’ as you are and are hungry for cock—speaking of which . . .” He unzipped himself, whipped it out, moved his hand to the back of my head and pulled my mouth down onto his cock. He’d been looking at the road signs real close and I’d seen him zero in on signs for an approaching rest stop on the highway, so I wasn’t surprised when he pulled over into one.

I’d given him a blow job like this on I-95 before we’d reached Jacksonville to turn onto I-10 going west, and he’d told me then that he’d first lay me in the afternoon after we’d cleared Tallahassee. Obviously, he’d done this on this route before. He said we were hauling refrigerators to New Orleans from off a Japanese cargo ship that had docked in Savannah. This was when he told me he didn’t like anything Japanese. He’d only now been serious enough about that to find out that my connection with Asia was Korea, not Japan.

“Rest stop,” Lyle said, which was rather self-explanatory, as he was pulling into an interstate rest area as we began moving into rural country west of Tallahassee. He parked in the semitrailer area and we both went into the men’s room, being the only ones in there. We presented side by side at urinals to take a piss. I’d already seen his cock—twice—up close and personal, but he showed a great interest in how I was hung, so I left it out after urinating and he reached over and touched it until we heard someone coming into the men’s room.

“Let’s go back to the truck,” he said. “It’s more private like.”

As we approached the truck, he said, “Get in the back compartment.” The truck had one of those cabs with a sleeping section, reached by separate doors, behind the driver’s cab. I stepped up onto the high step so that I could reach the handle of that back compartment. When I had the door swung open, Lyle gave me a boost up and pitched me forward into a claustrophobic small cabin dominated by a bed built into the back wall that was deeper than a normal vehicle bench seat. When he’d closed the door behind him, we were in total darkness.

“Lay back and take it, little darling,” he said. I didn’t struggle against him.

He stripped us both in darkness, put his hands all over my body, and had me on my back on the bed. He’d somehow greased up his hand and he was working on getting his fist inside me as he held me in a captive embrace—or at least I thought he was going to take it there.

He didn’t take it as far as fully fisting me, but he certainly left the impression both that he might do that and that, if he did, there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do to prevent it. He may be wiry, but he was strong as an ox.

Panting heavily, he withdrew his bunched fingers and got his knees between my thighs. He switched on a couple of dim-lighting dome lights in the cabin so that he could see to get a condom located and rolled on his cock. He had a well-muscled body, hard as steel. I wouldn’t have won a struggle if I’d tried—but I didn’t try. I knew the deal. I lay there, my head turned toward the driving cabin, panting lightly, and then gasping and groaning, as he encircled my waist with one arm, arched my body up to him so that my pelvis was at a desirable angle, used the other hand to put his cock in position, and speared me. He fucked me in a straightforward, vigorous missionary position.

There was no “please” or “thank you, ma’am.” When he’d come, he pulled out of me, rolled the condom off, tossed it in a plastic trashcan strapped to the front wall of the cabin, and cleaned his cock off with tissues that then found themselves in the trash bin as well.

“You can take a nap back here for an hour, if you like,” he said. “A steak house OK for supper? Late, because I have to get the cargo checked in and another one loaded.”

“Sure,” I answered, cleaning myself up as best I could with tissues.

“You’ll have three or four hours before dinner—early evening—to dick around in the French Quarter, if you like.”

That was great news to hear. He dropped me off at the motel on the Interstate east of New Orleans and went off to change his load. I went into the city by taxi and managed a couple of hours roaming around jazz clubs to get a feel for what the jazz was like in the Crescent City. I even managed to get a pass by from a funeral procession being led by a trumpeter.

Lyle fucked me good—real good—on the motel room bed that night, and I was getting the experience I had signed up for in the Interstate Triad department, but, more lasting for me, was the chance I’d gotten to take in New Orleans’ distinctive flavor of rhythm and blues smooth jazz music.

* * * *

In the morning Lyle took me back to the truck staging area east of New Orleans, where he turned me over to not one, but two, drivers taking a load of coffee beans from South and Central America up through the heartland of the States. I was going with them to Nashville, Tennessee, some 600 miles north via Interstates 59 and 65. As with Lyle’s all-day haul to New Orleans from Savannah, with an overnight and multiple rides of me, in New Orleans, the truckers, Tex and the guy he was training, Anton, would take the day to drive to Nashville, handing off the driving periodically so the truck could continue to roll. We’d overnight in Nashville before I took the third, and final, leg of the Interstate Triad back to Savannah.

Tex was a gray-beard of indeterminate age, a bit paunchy, and decked out as a cowboy as befitted his nickname. He wasn’t relating that well to Anton, most likely because Anton was black, muscular, had been a semipro football player, and, although it was Tex supposedly breaking in Anton, it was Anton who had two-thirds of the brains the two could put together. Also, faithful to the legend of black bull studs, Anton had a huge cock and knew how to use it. I’m sure Tex felt a little self-conscious about that.

After clearing Birmingham, Alabama, where the eighteen-wheeler changed from I-59 to I-65, headed due north, we stopped at Logan’s Roadhouse in Fultondale for lunch. After that was when my service for them started. Tex had Anton drive for a while and he took me into the sleeper van behind the driver’s cab and worked me over surprisingly well for an older man. He liked to take it doggy style. He wasn’t big, but he did it with vigor and was long lasting. At a rest stop, they switched. Anton did it doggy style too, but, whereas he was taxingly thick, he couldn’t hold himself in check. He fucked me twice, but it didn’t take much more than a half hour for him to fire off that twice. He had a great, chocolate bod, but as it was nearly pitch black in the sleeper cabin, there wasn’t much opportunity to enjoy that aspect of him.

We were booked into the Holiday Inn Express on Broadway, which was in the heart of Nashville, and, as with Lyle in New Orleans, they had to check the cargo in when we hit the town after 6:00 p.m., so I was told I was free until 9:00, when I’d meet them at a steak house before we returned to the hotel for fun and games. I covered a lot of territory and music venues in the time I had, getting a flavor of country music done Nashville style, incorporating a surprising variety of instruments, including, to my delight, the saxophone. After an unabashed country music concert at the Bridgestone Arena, I found a more intimate jazz club, the Cave, where I was surprised to find that the country music tones filtered through even in this club in Nashville. That’s probably what gave me the solidifying idea for what I wanted to do during my Savannah sabbatical.

The night, in Tex’s room at the Holiday Inn, I learned something else new as well. Anton was on his back on Tex’s bed, and I was straddling him, riding his thick cock in a facing cowboy position, with Tex off to the side, drinking beer out of a can and pulling on his shaft. Then, without notice, Tex was climbing up on the bed behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist, and positioning his cock at my hole with his other hand. Anton already was in that hole, though. That didn’t stop Tex. I’d gotten the idea earlier in the day that Tex didn’t much like the idea of socializing with black Anton, thirty years his junior and much more finely muscled, much. But it turned out he didn’t mind sharing a guy’s hole with Anton.

I’d never been doubled before. That night, in the Holiday Inn Express in Nashville, Tex and Anton doubled me in just about every position they could get me sandwiched between me. Anton was firing off constantly, but he was young and virile and could recharge quickly. Tex only managed a couple of releases, but he could keep it hard and pumping for hours.

I managed, and it was something to think “wow” about afterward, but for a couple of hours there I was their slave and they were working me together like they’d been trained to do it together.

It was almost a relief the next morning when I found that it was Gabe Johnson himself, the trucking company owner from Savannah and the man who had set this Interstate Triad experience himself, who had come to Nashville to drive a lumber truck back to Savannah—and to drive me at a couple of rest stops on the one-day run between the cities on I-75 and I-16. As he had done before, he gave me a good sexual workout. I let him have it the way he wanted it in the sleeper cab behind the driver’s compartment at two rest stops, but all the time he was on top of me and fucking me in a deep, throat-choking missionary, I had musical notes and how they went together and how they sounded with the tenor saxophone in the lead ringing in my head.

* * * *

Five Months Later

I was sitting in a prominent seat in the orchestra section of Savannah State University’s Kennedy Fine Arts auditorium, as was right, since it was my composition being performed on stage this evening, when Gabe Johnson came into the section and sat next to me. That was his right, as well, since he’d put up much of the money as a sponsor to get this concert on stage. The lights in the auditorium began to dim as he sat down, gave me a smile, squeezed my knee with his hand, and left the hand there. He had every right to do that, as well, and not just because he was underwriting the concert. He’d had me sexually frequently in the months since he’d introduced me to the Interstate Triad game.

He probably thought he’d have me again tonight after the concert, but he was wrong. Still, we shared an amusing secret. We both knew where the name of the work about to be performed on stage had come from—and, indeed, what had inspired the work that resulted from my six-month sabbatical in Savannah. I’d named the composition, “Interstate Triad Concerto.”

Only three of us could fully appreciate the concerto I’d composed for a small orchestra, with prominent tenor saxophone solos. Gabe, who had an appreciation for music as a singer despite his rough exterior as the owner of a trucking company, and I were fully able to follow the intricacies of the three-movement piece, which showcased the direct moods that could be evoked by a saxophone, in this case the regional flavors of Savannah, New Orleans, and Nashville, each given its own movement and flavor and each exhibiting rises and falls in the music corresponding with the sex sessions in the sleeper cabs while on the road and on hotel beds in the intervening nights during my first Interstate Triad experience.

The third person who fully understood the flow of the music was Jamie, the saxophonist performing the featured instrumental solo work in this premier of the “Interstate Triad Concerto.” Jamie had worked closely with me in the composition phase, reliving with me the high points of the sexual encounters being captured in the music.

And it was Jamie I’d be withdrawing with this evening to my apartment in Savannah, where we’d put a recording of the “Interstate Triad Concerto” on and fuck to the music—one last time before I left the next day to return to my world of Winchester, Virginia, and the Shenandoah Conservatory, imbued with the experience and pleasure of six months of satisfying and enlightening exposure to the Savannah lifestyle.