Chapter 1

I noticed the two boys as I rolled my rig into the truck stop just west of Toronto. About fourteen years old, younger than the usual runaways looking to hitch a free long distance ride with a trucker to whatever destination they were running away to; or to be more precise, putting miles far behind whatever the hell they were running away from. After fifteen years on the road, I knew their look all too well.

With warm temperatures, spring and summer seems to be the migration period. Not only giving them away are the over-stuffed backpacks, bursting at the seams with all their worldly possessions, most of which have no basic survival use, just hard to leave behind electronic gizmos; they tend to overdress in layers of clothing.

Disheveled and soiled appearances reduce the chances of good Samaritans, that in today's age are already leery of strangers, makes thumbing a ride on the side of a road next to impossible. As well, unwanted attention by police keeps most juveniles off the highways, instead, using the captive audiences of rest areas and truck stops to hitch a ride.

Scouting the busy parking lot, avoiding several cattle liners and opting for a spot downwind between two bedbug haulers, trucker's metaphor for household movers: before finally shutting down the Kenworth that when all was said and done, exulted a great sigh of relief in the form of compressed air.

Grabbing my shaving kit from the small, but practical walk-in bunk and opening the door to descend the ladder; quicker than expected, the two fresh young faces were awaiting me.

"Hi, mister, which way ya headed?" the tallest and blondish of the two fair haired youths asked in a friendly manner.

"South;" I replied, and pointed, "to that building over there to have a shower and something to eat."

Caught off guard by my cynicism, he stammered, "I -I meant on the highway, sir."

He was cuter than I noticed earlier, distracted by navigating my way into the lot. Complementing his unruly, longish sun-bleached hair tucked under a Blue Jays ball-cap worn to the side, his eyes shone a bright green above rosy red cheeks and pug nose that had obviously endured too much sun.

I guessed to be of the same age, his silent dirty blond traveling companion stood a good head shorter wearing a New York Mets cap in the same fashionable style. His dark blue eyes under gold framed lenses wandered nervously between me and the asphalt. He wasn't as attractive as the taller boy, but a kind of dumb look gave him appeal, nonetheless.

"Maybe you didn't see the sign on the door, it clearly says 'No Riders' under the name of my company." I pointed out.

Such notifications were common on trucks, as many trucking companies, for insurance reasons, had a no passenger policy. It gave company paid drivers the polite excuse to deny passage to vagabonds who were not female and pretty enough to take the chance on bending the rules for.

However, I wasn't on any company's payroll or subjected to their many strict regulations. As an independent, I owned my own rig contracting the exclusive services to haul trailers belonging to a major department store chain with locations scattered throughout Canada. Hence, I could haul around my grandmother's ass and that of her quilting club if I was so inclined. The sign was for polite let downs, as I mentioned before, unless the potential of my generosity was young men willing to make the long journey a lot less lonely!

Standing at six feet, two-hundred pounds and with only a slight gut, contrary to the reputation of the industry, at forty-two I was still rather fit and handsome. Many truck stop waitresses occupied my time in the bunk during ridiculous government regulated rest times when I wasn't fudging my log book to deceive some over-zealous weigh-station official's scrutiny.

Always having been a closeted admirer of youthful male nudity derived from high-school showers and public swimming area change rooms, it became an obsession to explore over the years. Later, in my trucking career, I discovered rest-area bathrooms and their surrounding green spaces as a source of such desires.

Middle aged and older men sufficed my appetite for male sex, until one day when I experienced a sixteen year old boy looking for a ride and willing to take me for one as ample compensation for the thousand mile journey to both our coincidental destinations. I was hooked on young cock thereafter.

Teen hitchhikers became my source of sexual fulfillment, The seduction phase went on for many miles until I blatantly came on to them, usually sharing the rear bunk. Depending on reaction, a few were abandoned in desolate locations, others ceded to my overtures.

The game was intriguing at first. The agony of defeat, or the triumph of victory, never certain of what the outcome would be. My attitude of 'put out, or get out' finally grew wearisome over time, and I developed a straight forward approach to save all concerned from the uncomfortable situation.

I answered the boys question, "West young man, go west!" sorta bastardizing the famous quote of pioneer days.

"How far?" he queried, somewhat shy from my nonchalant interest in his quest.

"Depends on how far you and your buddy are willing to go." I chuckled, closing and locking the bunk door.

He looked bewildered, trying to define the words."Wha -what do ya mean? ... Oh! We're going to British Columbia to pick fruit for the summer! he replied, my gist naively misconstrued.

British Columbia's Okanagan Valley is one of Canada's most treasured resources. A valley, nestled on the south-west side of the Rocky Mountains known as the 'fruit-belt" for its prime growing conditions and home to a few fine wineries. Many youth and adults alike, seek short, seasonal employment picking grapes, cherries and various other luscious fruit and vegetables.

Putting an arm around his shoulder and pulling him into my face, I reiterated, "--Read my lips! As I said, ... depends on how far you're willing to go to get to the Okanagan Valley."

Feeling his body tense up at my blatant intrusion of his personal space, he quivered, "I -I don't know what you mean?"

The other boy was oblivious, his nervousness intent on what I gathered to be police patrols, his head bobbed to and fro like one of those novelty figurines on car dashboards. He wasn't too bright, I assumed in the short time of not even slightly knowing him. The older boy was the dominant figure to be reckoned with.

"Let me make it simple for you. It's the five-hundred mile rule. After every five-hundred miles, I shut 'er down for the night. After a day of harboring and worse yet, illegally transporting runaways over provincial lines, and feeding them free of charge, I expect certain reciprocated ... favors, in return for my hospitality." planting a quick kiss to his lips for humorous emphasis.

There was no need for me to elaborate, the kid's eyes were like saucers and he pulled away from me, fully understanding the implications.

"I ain't no fag, ... so, so fuck off, man!" he scathed, looking utterly disgusted.

I shrugged uncaring and smiled at him as I made a move toward carrying on to the showers, "I never insinuated you were a fag, young man. --It's called survival concessions to achieve your safe, direct transit to where ya's are going."

Again he cursed me, "Fuck you faggot!" and strode off at a good pace with his no-brainer in hot pursuit.

I yelled to him, "Good luck finding another trucker, --if that's you're plan. You ain't female, ... and even if you were, the same terms would apply!" I laughed mockingly, " --Ya all change yer mind, I'll be here for a few hours yet."

I did feel sorry for them, watching as they cowered under a nearby semi The Provincial Police often made a tour around the huge lot before going inside the restaurant for coffee and a bite to eat, compliments of the proprietor. Nor could the kids dare wander inside to use the facilities or have a meal, lest some motherly waitresses would call the cops.

Showered and shaved, fed and watered, I wandered back to my rig to continue my familiar journey westbound on the coast to coast Trans-Canada highway until fatigue would call it a night.

Obviously hidden between my rear duallies, the kid scared the hell out of me making his sudden appearance to my right as I fumbled my pockets for the key.

"Well hello again!" I welcomed unsurprised, and without emotion, knowing the reason of his reappearance. The other boy, I assumed, was still hunkered down under my chassis to faithfully await summoning from his mentor. My unfounded opinion of him being a subservient, type 'B' personality prevailed.

Stern faced, trying to portray an air of aloofness, but failing miserably and reeking of fear, the cutie struggled for words before building the courage and uttering, "Doogie will do it, ... I mean if blow-jobs are what you really want."

The statement caused me hold back a chuckle, he had undoubtedly sold out his dumb friend, whom was even labeled with a suitably dumb Irish nick name for Doogan. The sacrificial lamb to secure passage aboard my eighteen wheeler.

Facetiously beaming in delight, I replied, "Good news! --Tell him to come aboard, ... you, my young friend, can eventually catch up with "Doogie" in the valley sometime in the fall maybe; ... it's a long walk, ya know!"

Hearing his name, Doogan peaked out from behind the left tandem looking befuddled as to whether or not he was being hailed.

Just then a cruiser paused in front of my rig, the lone officer leaned out his window and inquired, "Everything okay, mister?"

Doogan's head disappeared again and the other boy gasped in panic. I thought sure that he would bolt any second had I not placed my arm firmly around his neck and laughing. Just as he tried to wiggle free, he stopped dead hearing my reply to the officer.

"Yes, Sir. All is okay. My young nephew here has glamorous aspirations of becoming a trucker!" I laughed aloud, "I'm trying to sway his misguided notions by giving him a summer long taste of the drudgery and boredom of it all!"

The cop laughed, obviously aware of the occupational hazards, and said, "Looks like it's working, good luck!" Focusing his gaze upon the boy, he advised, "Stay in school, young man. --Learn to design those bloody beasts of boredom for the likes of your uncle, ... not drive them!" he bade a good afternoon and rolled away.

Opening the bunk door and staring the kid down without a word or a gesture, he climbed inside. I called for Doogan and ushered him up the ladder, following close behind. The tension inside the small confines was even greater than the musty odor emitting from the boys.

"So, favorite nephew," I peered at the tall kid, "what the fuck's your name, anyway?"

"Branden." he replied sheepishly, gazing down to scrape something invisible off his runner with the toe of his other foot. "What's yers?"

"Just like the sign on the door reads, Mike Miller Trucking, ... and my last name isn't Trucking, by the way." I joked, hoping to break the ice while offering them a Coke from the small bar fridge that they both guzzled down and belched repeatedly. Most probably hungry as the were thirsty, I surmised.

"There's a McDonald's up the highway, if yer interested." A foolish question to ask any teen boy, their eyes lit up in anticipation. Assuming my position behind the wheel, the monster machine named Annabelle, woke and roared to life, blowing smoke from her stacks before sighing again, begrudgingly knowing that she was expected to perform her duties for yet another leg of the endless journeys. She was overdue for a day at the spa, being pampered by mechanics and let me know it every chance she got!

Finding a safe place to park on the shoulder of the busy highway, I gave the boys twenty dollars with strict instructions to bring me back a vanilla milkshake along with their take out. For all intents and purposes, it was a test of faith. If they came back, fine; if not, so be it! Fifteen minutes later, in my right mirror, I saw them jogging back with bags held to their chests.

The smell of fast food saturated the air as Branden and Doogan wasted no time devouring their meal, sitting nestled side by side upon the passenger seat even before I pulled away into the flow of traffic. Smug in the satisfaction that the two-thousand miles ahead would be like none other!

Experience told me not to inquire into their plight, it was none of my business and I really didn't give a shit. Funny, but not really in that sense of the word. after transporting them to their final destination of choice, the realism of the error in their ways sets in. Offering a return trip home with no questions asked, many take me up on the offer. Bonus round-trips for me.

The smell of their clothes soon resumed, and after a strong suggestion to strip out of them was ignored, a more serious recommendation had them on their feet and scrambling to the bunk area. After only having to drop a few gears while pulling over to the shoulder, they got the message.

Looking back occasionally, I saw the several layers of t-shirts, two pairs of jeans and an unknown quantity of socks that they pulled off in one quick mass. Two pairs of underwear were soon discarded before down to wearing only a single t-shirt and boxer shorts that I considered having them shuck for good measure, but settled on just the t-shirts being removed before they re-entered the cab and sat clad only in their shorts.

"So, Branden, ya ever had a blow-job?" I asked out of the blue to break the monotony of silence that ensued and have a little fun with him.

He swung his head in my direction, even through my peripheral vision the shock factor was seen, responding in a hushed tone, "Noooo!"

"Sorry, thought maybe Doogan was doin' ya already. I mean, ... like the way you offered him to me and all, thought you were being nice and sharing him with me."

"I'm not a fag, I told you that already!" he retorted sharply.

"Ya don't have to be a fag to enjoy getting yer cock sucked. And please quit using the word "fag," --you're insulting me."

"Sorry." Branden apologized without a hint of meaning it, staring straight ahead at the windshield. His attitude pissed me off and he had to be brought down a few notches.

"Doogan my man!" I called out.

He looked past Branden's chest, "Y -y -yes, sir?" he stuttered, the first words I'd heard him speak.

"You know what a blow-job is, don't you?"