What Happened in That Romanian Trucker’s Cab

It was Holy Week and the city was packed with tourists. My apartment, by contrast, had been silent for two days. Mariana had gone to the coast with her mother and I had told her I needed to finish a work assignment, which was only half true. The truth is that, as soon as she closed the door, I knew I wasn’t going to touch the laptop until Monday.

The first night was quiet. The second, not so much. At half past eleven I opened the app, one of those with maps and search radiuses, and started scrolling through profiles without much intention. It was March, already into spring, and through the half-open window came that warm air that makes you want to do stupid things.

I spent a while imagining situations, scenarios, encounters. Cocks in badly lit photos, descriptions of what each one was looking for, loads announced in capitals. After three beers, I was already rock hard and shifting on the sofa when the circle on the map marked a new distance: eight hundred meters. A Romanian trucker who had just parked in the industrial estate behind the roundabout.

We started chatting. His Spanish was poor but enough. Just enough to understand each other: “alone,” “cab,” “now,” “you come.” He said he was in his forties and his name was Andrei. I could tell right away he was hotter than a winter stove. It was obvious he’d been on the road for days and needed to unload, but I still didn’t quite trust him. Leaving home at that hour, in tracksuit pants, to climb into the cab of a stranger I knew nothing about, was not exactly my idea of a safe plan.

—Photo —I wrote. That was always my condition.

He took forty seconds. When the image loaded, I put the phone face down on the sofa, stood up, went to the kitchen, drank a glass of water, came back to the sofa and looked at it again. It was still there. A huge uncircumcised cock, with a thickness you didn’t often see in the photos I usually got. Hard, straight, with a big hairy hand gripping it at the base. Behind it, you could make out the steering wheel and part of the dashboard.

—Ten minutes —I replied.

I put on jeans, a sweatshirt and an old pair of sneakers. I grabbed my keys, a wallet with just the bare essentials, and left my good watch in the drawer. I still had a bit of sense.

***

The industrial estate was a fifteen-minute walk away. I crossed the bridge over the railway line, passed the closed gas station, and turned onto the avenue that served as improvised parking for international haulage trucks. There were six or seven semis lined up against the fence, all in the dark, all with plates from half the continent. A streetlight was flickering on the corner. The rest was silence, that thick nighttime silence of industrial estates, with the hum of the motorway in the distance.

His was at the end, set apart from the others. Blue tarp, red cab, the company name in an alphabet I never quite managed to read. The cab lights were off. I walked up with my pulse racing, looking back every couple of steps in case someone appeared.

I knocked on the passenger-side window with my knuckles. The door opened before I’d even finished lowering my hand. I climbed the two steps in one leap and closed it behind me.

Andrei was sitting in the driver’s seat, legs apart, in a gray T-shirt clinging to his chest. He wasn’t one of those chunky truckers with bellies and stubble. He was athletic, broad-shouldered, with very short hair and a neatly trimmed three-day beard. He smelled of cheap cologne and stale tobacco. He looked me up and down with half-lidded eyes, like someone evaluating merchandise. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t ask how I was. He pointed at his fly and let out two words in textbook Spanish.

—Well, then?

I knelt between the two seats without thinking. I didn’t care. I’d walked that icy avenue for this and I wasn’t going to waste time on introductions. I unfastened his belt, pulled his jeans down to his thighs, and there it was, the cock from the photo, even bigger than it had promised, with a thick vein running up the back and the skin sliding back when I took it in my hand.

—Slowly —he said, in a tone that admitted no argument.

I started sucking him calmly, setting the pace, letting him heat up on his own. There was something strange and delicious about being on my knees in someone else’s cab, with the low ceiling, the rearview mirrors catching the glow of the streetlight, and that silent man resting his head against the seat back. Every so often he said something in Romanian I didn’t understand and then, in Spanish, that I was doing it well, that I should keep going, that I shouldn’t take it out.

He kept one open hand on the back of my neck. He didn’t shove me violently, but he didn’t let me pull away either. It was firm pressure, unsentimental but not cruel, the pressure of someone who knows what he wants and at what pace. And that, exactly that, drove me wild. The bastard was used to having it sucked like that, in cabs like this one, on shoulders and verges across half a continent.

—Deeper —he murmured.

I obeyed. My eyes started to water and a little saliva slipped from the corner of my mouth. He noticed, chuckled under his breath, and loosened his grip. I took the chance to catch my breath.

—I want you to fuck me —I told him, looking up at him.

He didn’t answer. He sat up, hauled me to my feet by my sweatshirt, and turned me around with two sharp gestures. Between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat there was a gap leading to the bed at the back of the cab, that narrow bunk where truckers sleep on route. He pushed me back by the chest until my torso was on the mattress and my feet were still touching the cab floor. He pulled my jeans down to mid-thigh without much ceremony.

I heard the wrapper of the condom. That at least reassured me. Then I felt the cold squirt of lubricant, thick fingers forcing their way in, a first half-hearted push to check it would go, and then the real thrust.

***

The son of a bitch was desperate to empty those swollen balls and it showed. Without further preamble he shoved himself all the way in and started pounding my ass with his hips like he hadn’t fucked in a year. Every thrust made the cab’s suspension creak beneath us. I tried to keep up by clutching the edge of the mattress, but the bed was short and by the third thrust I’d already cracked my head against the back panel.

It hurt. I braced my hands against the wall and pushed back to soften the impact, but he didn’t care. He kept hammering me without mercy, his breathing getting heavier and heavier, blurting something in Romanian that sounded like a curse or a promise, hard to tell.

—Slower —I asked.

—Hold on —he answered.

And I held on. I held on because, under the anger at being treated like a sack, there was a dark arousal I’d never felt before. I was being fucked by a stranger I would never see again, in the cab of a parked trailer in an industrial estate, in the middle of Holy Week, while two hundred meters away some car was still passing on the motorway, none the wiser.

When he came, he did it with a low, almost animal growl, and dug his nails into my hip. I felt the warmth of his semen against my skin through the latex, a strange and pleasant sensation all at once. He stayed still for a few seconds, still inside, panting against my nape, and then pulled out abruptly.

—Good —he said.

That was all.

***

We sat down, each in a seat. He took off the condom, tied it off with the indifference of someone who does it five times a week, and tossed it into a bag he kept by the gearshift. He lit a cigarette and offered me one. I told him no. He lowered the window a couple of inches so the smoke could get out and stared out into the night.

We talked for a while. In his few-words Spanish, he told me he had a wife in Constanța and two daughters. That he loved them. That this wasn’t cheating, it was something else, because with a man everything was different. A man, he said, knows how to suck it like no woman, because he knows where the pleasure is. And a tight male ass, he said, is something no pussy can match. He said it without malice, almost as a technical observation, like someone talking about the difference between two engines.

I listened to him leaning against the door, still with my jeans twisted, and thought that deep down it was a pretty miserable way of explaining it to himself, but I didn’t tell him that. Everyone saves themselves the calculations they need to.

I was just about to suggest he finish what he’d started with me, because I was still hard and hadn’t come, when he glanced at the dashboard clock and clicked his tongue.

—Early tomorrow, route —he said—. You, out.

He said it like that, just like that. “You, out.” And he pointed at the door.

It took me a second to react. I pulled up my jeans, straightened my sweatshirt, and got out of the cab without answering. The door closed behind me before I’d even put my foot on the asphalt. I heard him lock it from inside.

***

I walked back along the industrial estate avenue with my hands in my pockets and the idiot face you end up wearing in these situations. Are you fucking selfish?, I thought as I dodged a puddle. Are you a bastard?

And yet I wasn’t entirely angry. I was more disappointed, which is something else. Sex, I think, should be a generous transaction. There’s nothing more arousing than seeing the other person enjoy themselves and want it all, whatever it is: a kiss, a bite, a pinch, a slow blowjob, a spit in exactly the right moment. Whatever, as long as it goes both ways.

Andrei didn’t understand that language. Andrei understood his own, the language of a quick discharge on the road, of taking whoever needed to be taken to get to Constanța with empty balls and a clear conscience. It’s not my model, but it exists, and I’m not going to pretend he didn’t fuck me well.

I crossed the bridge over the railway line with a calmer step. At home I poured myself a short whisky and finished off what he’d started, by myself, still thinking about that huge cock and that hand gripping my neck without asking permission.

If you ever come across someone like that, some Andrei in some random industrial estate, my advice is this: don’t repeat the fuck. But don’t pass up your luck the first time. The cock was spectacular, the fucking too, and although it didn’t end the way I expected, even today, when I drive past the roundabout in the industrial estate and see the trailers lined up against the fence, I ease off the accelerator a little and look.

You never know.