The Truck Driver Who Stopped in Our Town for Three Nights

I’m telling this now, two years later, because the summer that truck driver stopped three times at Parada El Olivar, none of us who were behind the bar ever stayed the same.

I was the manager of the roadside bar. Carolina, forty-one years old, divorced, and with a half-finished project in the city that would get me out of that town in six months. In the meantime I served coffees, supervised the night shift, and tried not to sleep with the truckers who passed through, except when I felt like it, which was almost always.

I saw him walk in through the glass door one afternoon in June and I knew who he was before he ordered anything. I had seen him years earlier, when I worked for Eduardo, the cattleman from the valley. Sango Mbao, they called him. Dark skin like a sealed night, tall, built like a weightlifter. Gold ring through the bridge of his nose, two small diamonds in his ears, a bleached blond crest falling over his forehead. Hawaiian shirt open to the chest, one heavy wedding band and another shaped like a skull. Worn jeans that outlined a bulge that seemed exaggerated and, as I found out later, wasn’t.

Yésica, the little one, looked up from her tray and stared at him, mouth half open. Twenty-two years old, big tits, gothic tattoo on her forearm, badly done blond highlights, lip piercing. She came running up to the bar.

—Do you know him? —she asked me.

—By sight.

—My friend says a woman can’t die without having tried a Black man.

—Then you’ve got your excuse.

I smiled because I knew how the night was going to end. Sango sat at a table in the back to wait for closing time. I know Yésica; the looks didn’t lie. When two o’clock came, I sent the cook and the other waiter off, told Yésica to close up herself, and went upstairs to the first-floor apartment, which we shared at the time. I heard her open the back door. I heard her go up with him.

What happened that night she told me by message at 2:30 in the morning, with a half-body selfie smeared with her juices and his hand asleep beside her, next to the wrapper of an XL condom. That as soon as he shut the bedroom door he grabbed her by the hair and shoved his tongue down to her uvula while tearing off her blouse. That he pulled her tits out of her bra and bit them until they were left purple, sucking on her nipples as if he wanted to empty them. That he ripped her naked in one pull, laid her on her back, and buried his mouth in her cunt without preamble, licking it all over, thrusting his tongue deep inside and eating her with delayed hunger until he made her come twice, screaming into the pillow. That after that he pulled out his cock and she froze, not knowing where to begin, because it was a black cock, thick, curved, with heavy balls hanging from it; that it barely fit in her hand, that the tip reached her elbow and the glans shone with pre-cum. That she sucked it as best she could, choking, saliva dripping from her chin down to her tits while he held her head and fucked her mouth at his own rhythm. That when he tried to mount her he didn’t fit, that he had to ram into her pussy three times before opening her up all the way, and that with the fourth push she felt herself breaking inside. That he put her on all fours, grabbed her hips and impaled her to the balls, hammering away in hard, wet, flesh-slapping blows against her ass. That he spat on her asshole and worked his thumb in while he kept boring into her. That they had called him The Piston and now she understood why. That he came inside the condom like a bull and even so, when he pulled out, semen was leaking out the sides, white and thick, and she was left with her legs spread, unable to close them because of the burning.

I answered her laughing from bed. I wasn’t laughing out of contempt. I was laughing out of envy, although back then I still didn’t want to admit it.

***

Sango was already known in the area before that. I heard about him again because the Crows — the biker gang from the industrial estate — had taken him in months earlier, when a guy called Rubén, their leader, broke down on a secondary road and Sango stopped his truck and hauled him and the bike to the workshop. Since then they’d invited him to their lunches in that half-ruined shed they rented.

That very afternoon, before he even showed up at the stop, he had been there. He told me himself weeks later, when he no longer had anything left to hide. There was a biker woman named Mónica who had been in the group since the days of the Wolves. In her forties, tall, streaks of gray in her long hair, heavy breasts and a slow sway when she walked that, as she said, turned any man in their crowd on. Sango caught two looks from her and knew he was going to leave the shed with his fly open.

They went for a walk through some scrub behind the vacant lot. Mónica got straight to it, as women who no longer have time to waste often do.

—Black men are bigger —she told him, lighting a cigarette.

—That’s undeniable. And I’m sure you’ve already checked.

—Show it to me.

Sango opened his fly and pulled it out right there, against the wall. Mónica dropped her cigarette, got down on her knees in the dirt, and took it in her mouth without saying a word. She licked his balls one by one, spat on the glans and swallowed him down her throat while Sango grabbed the back of her neck and shoved her face against his belly. The biker chick was drooling, gagging, pulling his shiny cock out to breathe and then putting it back in. When the Crows heard them, they went one after another to piss against the bushes at the side so they could watch. Sango didn’t just not stop them; he turned toward them before he took her, like a gladiator before the thrust. He lifted Mónica’s skirt, tore off her panties with one yank, and saw her pussy wet, swollen, open with desire. He put her on all fours in the dirt, spat on his hand, rubbed it over his cock, and drove it into her to the balls with one single thrust. Mónica let out a howl that could be heard across the whole vacant lot. No condom, just as she had asked with her eyes. He fucked her brutally, grabbing her hair like a bridle, slamming into her so hard her tits bounced out of the vest and her thighs trembled from the effort of holding her weight. He put two fingers in her mouth so she’d suck them, then pulled them out and bit them on the back. The Crows were applauding in silence, pissing without aiming, some of them already with their cocks in hand. When Sango got close, he yanked Mónica’s head back and growled in her ear that he was coming inside. She said yes, almost praying, and he emptied everything he had into the back of her cunt, thrust after thrust, without pulling out, down to the last drop. When he withdrew, semen was running down Mónica’s thighs to her boots. After that he went off to piss a meter away from her, while she spread her cunt with two fingers so whatever could drain out would drain, and he climbed back into the truck whistling.

That was the reputation he brought to Parada El Olivar two nights later. The same one that handled Yésica as if it were paperwork and the one that, without his knowing it yet, was going to lead him to Andresito.

***

Andresito was twenty-two and the waiter on the afternoon shift. Small, smooth-skinned, sweet-faced, with a ponytail and a way of walking he couldn’t control, which in the town had earned him more than one nickname. He was a good person, a serious worker, and I defended him every time some customer crossed the line.

Sango came back three days later, freshly showered, in a tight black T-shirt and cheap cologne he’d bought at a gas station. He walked past Yésica without even looking at her. He sat at one of the tables Andresito served.

—You’ve got a really cool truck —the boy said as he cleared the plates.

—Volvo FH16, six hundred horsepower. Do you like trucks?

—A lot.

—I wouldn’t have expected that from a pretty little faggot like you —Sango replied, and got up, making his bulge pass close to the boy’s face.

Andresito was left speechless. He didn’t run. He didn’t say anything either. He went to the bathroom. I saw him go in and I saw Sango go in after him. What happened inside he told me himself weeks later, in the bar kitchen, between sobs and with his eyes fixed on the sink. Sango locked the bolt, shoved him against the washbasin, and pulled down his uniform pants without asking. He took out his cock and checked, with half a smile, that it had been hard from the very first second. He opened his fly and put it in front of his face. Andresito, on his knees on the wet tiles, opened his mouth and let himself be drowned. Sango shoved the whole cock down to the back of his throat, held his head, and fucked his mouth slowly, looking at himself in the mirror while the boy drooled and teared up. When he came back to the bar, Andresito was looking down and his neck was red. An hour later, when he was off duty, Andresito climbed into the truck with him “so he could take him to Villasanta del Río.”

Villasanta never happened. Sango took a detour toward a pine grove outside town and they stopped there. Andresito told me himself weeks later, in the bar kitchen, crying softly. He got into the bunk in the cab, saw the photos of Sango’s wife and four children stuck to the plywood, and still he took his clothes off. Sango undressed too, and his cock hung half-mast, thick and veined, pointing at the boy like an accusation. He made him suck it first, until it was fully hard, until Andresito was gagging from how deep he was taking it. Then he laid him on his back, lifted his legs over his shoulders, and soaked his ass with Vaseline. He put in one finger, then two, then three, until he heard him moan. He told him to get on top, to open himself up, and Andresito did, trembling, gripping the huge cock with both hands and lowering himself slowly, his face twisted with pain. At the first thrust only the head went in, a ring of black flesh sliding past the sphincter. At the second, half of it. At the third, Sango grabbed his hips and pulled him down, letting him sink all the way in. Andresito screamed when he felt it all inside him for the first time, a muffled scream that bounced around inside the cab. He didn’t ask him to stop. Sango started fucking him from below, pumping his hips, each thrust slamming wetly against his ass. He grabbed the boy’s cock and worked it in rhythm with the thrusting, until Andresito came over his own belly in thick spurts, writhing on the spike. When Sango finished inside him, with a low roar that came from his chest, Andresito was crying without moving, his hands gripping the cab ceiling and the trucker’s seed running down the insides of his thighs.

—Nice place —was all he could think to say when he dropped him off two streets past the town.

Andresito walked home clenching his thighs. I knew it without asking, from the face he made when he showed up the next day.

***

Sango’s second return, a week later, was when everything went wrong for him. He came in with his animal way of walking, used to winning, and sat at a table where I was the one who had to serve. I took his order without smiling at him. He said he knew me, from before, with more glamour. He was right. Five years earlier I had worked in Eduardo the cattleman’s office, and Sango had seen him come into my office more than once. He knew perfectly well who I was.

—Andresito isn’t here today —he said with a half-smile when I brought him his plate—. Maybe he’s pregnant.

—I don’t know, you’d know better than anyone —I answered him—. You already gave birth.

I said it with a calm that surprised even me. Sango shut his mouth and his jaw at the same time. For a second he looked smaller.

—If I remember correctly —I added—, it was Eduardo who got you on your knees. And that’s why you disappeared from the valley for two years.

He got up without finishing his coffee. Before going out into the street he told me:

—We’ll talk tonight.

—There’s a party in the village. If you want to find me, come to the square.

***

He showed up around eleven. Hawaiian shirt open, the Volvo’s headlights on in the back street, cheap cologne. He walked as if the whole square belonged to him, and in fact the few neighbors who were there kept staring. He found me at the improvised bar next to the stage.

—Looks like we’ve got something in common with you —I told him.

—Eduardo —he replied.

—He cost me my office. He cost you two years out of the country. The two of us paid for it with something more.

We talked for a while. I told him about my project in the city, and he told me he was going back to Lutanga in fifteen days and didn’t know when he’d return. Andresito passed by in the distance, walking awkwardly, and Sango shouted something at him he shouldn’t have shouted. He told him, right in front of me, that if his period didn’t come he should call him, that he accepted the consequences. Andresito blushed all the way up to his ponytail and walked off.

—You’re an asshole —I told him.

—I am what I am.

—And still I’m your best option tonight.

—I know.

We went upstairs to my apartment. The music from the square came in waves through the open window. It started with an old bolero, the kind they play at every village dance because the grandmothers still dance. Sango kissed me against the door before closing it, pulled my dress straps down, and took my breasts out. His hands were hot and his mouth patient, which I hadn’t expected from him. He sucked my nipples one by one, giving little bites that made me squeeze my thighs together, while he hiked my dress up my hips and slid his hand inside my panties. He found I was soaked and smiled against my neck.

—You’ve been wet for hours.

—Since I saw you come into the bar the first time.

He took me to bed without stopping kissing me. He finished undressing me and knelt between my legs. He opened my cunt with his thumbs and ate me slowly, sucking my clit, pushing his whole tongue inside, spearing me with two fingers until he found the spot that made my back arch off the mattress. He ate my pussy like he was getting paid for it, with old-school patience, until I came in his mouth, gripping his blond crest with both hands. When he lifted his face it was shining with me. In the bunk no one had asked him for patience and he hadn’t offered any. With me, that first half hour, he was almost another man.

After that he wasn’t.

He stood naked beside the bed and for the first time I saw his cock in full light. It was exactly as I’d been told, and even more. Black, thick as my wrist, curved upward, with prominent veins and heavy balls hanging between his thighs. I knelt at the edge of the mattress and grabbed it with both hands, barely covering it. I sucked it hungrily, tasting it, letting it slide over my tongue, swallowing it as far as I could and jerking the rest of it with my hand. Sango held my head and set the pace, fucking my mouth slowly at first and then faster, until I choked with tears in my eyes. When he pulled away, a thread of saliva hung from my chin to the tip of his cock.

—Get on your knees —he told me.

He made me kneel at the edge of the mattress, spat on the glans, opened me with both hands, and entered in one thrust to the hilt. I screamed into the sheets. I didn’t ask for a condom. I knew what I was doing and I knew I’d had an IUD for years. Sango pushed like he hadn’t come in five years, gripping my hips with his fingers dug in, pulling almost all the way out and ramming back in at once, over and over, so deep I could feel the tip hitting someplace no one had ever touched. The bed kept slamming against the wall in time with the fireworks in the square. He pulled my hair back, arching my spine, and whispered every filthy thing he could think of into my ear: that I was a fine bitch dressed up as a manager, that he’d wanted to eat me since I served him that coffee, that he was going to leave my cunt wrecked for the next one, that I should tell him. I said yes to everything, moaning, coming already on the third thrust, pushing my ass back to take him deeper. He flipped me onto my back, spread my legs over his shoulders, and drove into me again without a pause, fucking me now while looking me in the face, his blond crest falling over his eyes and a rabid-dog smile on his mouth. He grabbed my tits, pinched my nipples, gave me a soft slap on the cheek that made my whole body tremble. When I came a second time, a scream slipped out of me that must have been heard across half the square over the fireworks. He held out a little longer, changing me to a riding position on top of him, impaling me from below while my tits bounced in his face. At the end he laid me face down, spread my ass cheeks with his hands, and drove into me again from behind, his balls almost touching my cunt with each thrust. He came at the last second, pulled back, yanked out, and unloaded onto my lower back in thick, hot spurts that reached the back of my neck, roaring like a wounded bull. He collapsed beside me, gasping, his cock still hard and shining with both our fluids.

Fifteen minutes later he was walking out of the doorway, buttoning his shirt with one hand. People were already whispering in the square. I heard them from the window. “The manager, yeah. The one people were talking about. Now with the Black guy in the truck.” Sango stopped at a gift stall and bought a pair of plastic dolls for his daughters.

He went back to the Volvo whistling. He turned on the headlights, honked, and merged onto the highway.

***

I never saw him again. A week later I left the bar and moved to the city. Yésica stayed a little longer, but she was no longer the same girl of caps and selfies. In September she moved to her mother’s village. Andresito took a long leave and never quite came back. Mónica, the biker woman, according to the Crows, got pregnant and dealt with it without telling anyone.

I don’t complain. I didn’t go looking for Sango, but I didn’t turn him away either. That night I knew I was sleeping with a man who slept with anything that crossed his path, and even so I took him upstairs. I’m telling it now because two years later, when someone at my new job mentions those eastern villages, I end up smiling in a way I’d rather not explain.

We hate men like Sango for how easily we cross paths with them. But I find it hard not to admit that that summer, before he went back to Lutanga with his four children, his huge wife, and his dead phone signal, he made me feel more alive than I had felt in five years behind that roadside bar.

And that, I suppose, is the confession.