I Dress as a Drag Queen and the Truckers Go Looking for Sabrina

There was a song that used to play on the radio when I was just a kid. The guy said that to be happy he only needed a truck, an endless road, and a girl to get his hands on in the cab. The fixation seemed odd to me, but the melody stuck in my head for years. What I never imagined, as a child, was that in time I’d end up putting it into practice in reverse: not as the trucker, but as that girl the trucker gets his hands on. The hand, the cock, and quite a few other things too, to be blunt.

Let me explain myself better, because this thing has some meat on it.

I’m not a woman, or at least not in the conventional sense of the word. And I don’t mean I’m some textbook transsexual either. It’s simpler. Or more complicated, depending on how you look at it. Most of the time I behave like the man I am, and I’m perfectly happy being one. But there was an episode in my youth, with some cousins who were far too curious, which I’ll tell another day, that awakened in me a fetishistic attraction to women’s underwear.

It wasn’t just that I liked seeing a woman wear it, though I did. It was that I liked putting it on myself, locking myself away alone and looking at myself in the mirror. Imagining what I’d look like if I’d been born a woman. Practicing provocative poses and wondering whether a man would get aroused seeing me, whether he’d mistake me for a real girl, whether he’d feel desire for “that woman” who in reality wasn’t one, whether he’d get hard thinking about fucking her.

Those ideas turned me on and embarrassed me at the same time, and for many years they never amounted to more than an occasional, secret, solitary pastime. I stole clothes from my mother at first, then from my girlfriends, and later from my wife, and let myself be wrapped in a sordid guilt that, far from driving me away from the fantasy, fanned it like gasoline on dying embers.

I imagined my wife catching me dressed like that and punishing me, making me suck a stranger off in front of her. I daydreamed that the lads from the crew would find me out by chance and decide to take turns fucking my mouth and ass. I fantasized about some horny neighbor who’d spied on me through the window and decided to blackmail me in exchange for shoving his cock down my throat. Stuff like that, which filled me with shame and a fascination I couldn’t shake off.

For years it was just that: a secret vice I rarely acted on. Though, I should say, I made the most of Carnival and costume parties to dress as a woman and behave, after a few drinks, like a tease who got men hard. A lot of them mistook me for a real woman until my voice, gravelly and unmistakably masculine, snapped them out of the deception in an instant. They’d be left flustered, confused, not knowing where to look, and more than one of them with a discreet bulge in his trousers that still wouldn’t go down. And I loved that reaction.

Because it’s funny how the fat, short, plain-looking man I am turns, with the right clothes, into a woman with wide hips, generous thighs, and a full chest. I’m one of those guys who, when they put on weight, grow tits. I suppose what I liked most about cross-dressing was that feeling of power: knowing they looked at me with desire, with brazenness, hungry to fuck me. I remember thinking that women must be right to put so much effort into getting themselves ready.

But I’m digressing.

***

The thing is that for many years nothing serious happened. Until the pandemic came.

My wife went off to the village to look after her mother and I was left alone in the apartment, locked in, bored, and with my hormones buzzing. I started trying on her clothes, because she’s as well-padded as I am, and to my astonishment I discovered how well everything fit me. I’d get hot looking at myself in the mirror, admiring how a lace thong accentuated my ass, how fishnet stockings with a garter belt lengthened my legs, how comfortable I felt in a short dress that barely covered my cunt.

I’d look at myself like that and get so turned on I had to touch myself. I’d start with my cock pressed against the thong fabric, rubbing it through the lace, feeling the wetness of my own spit soaking the garment. I’d take one tit out of the corset, lick my fingers, and pinch my nipple until it stood up hard as a rock. Then I’d pull the thong down to mid-thigh, spit into my hand, and jerk off slowly, staring at myself in the mirror while imagining the hand wasn’t mine.

At first I only masturbated like that, until one day it wasn’t enough. I went to the bathroom, grabbed the bottle of moisturizer, and coated my ass hole with it. My hands were shaking. I put one finger in first, carefully, and felt a sting that turned into a strange tingling, half uncomfortable and very dirty. Then two. A few minutes later I had three in me and was panting like a bitch in heat, with my cock dripping onto the hallway floor. Later I used one thing or another covered with a condom — the handle of a brush, a cucumber from the fridge, then a proper dildo I had sent to me by courier — which I braced as best I could against the edge of the bed and rode while imagining it was a man’s cock filling me from the inside.

I’d sit astride it with my legs wide open and lower myself very slowly, feeling that rubber piece open my ass centimeter by centimeter. When I had it all the way inside, I’d stay still for a second, mouth open and eyes closed, and then start moving up and down. I’d touch my fake tits, lick my lips, moan out loud the dirtiest filth I could think of: “like this, harder, tear my cunt apart, give me all your cum.” I’d cum every time without touching my cock, just with the dildo inside me and my fingers pinching my nipples, and the orgasm would come out in spurts, soaking my stomach and stockings.

When the heat went down, the shame came, and I swore I’d never do it again. Naturally, the vow lasted until it took for night to come back the next day.

Before long I started taking pictures of myself with my phone. Close-ups of my cleavage, of my legs wrapped in red stockings, of my ass barely covered by a thinner and thinner string, of my ass hole opened and shining with lubricant. Then I moved on to videos: squeezing my chest, pinching my nipples, moaning like a shameless slut while I fucked myself with whatever I had on hand, pulling the lubricant-smeared dildo out and shoving it into my mouth to suck it while looking at the camera. And then I got the itch to know whether a man who saw all that would really get hard, whether he’d jerk off thinking about me.

I opened profiles on several hookup sites and dating apps for men. I posted my photos, offering myself for dirty conversation, image swapping, calls. I assumed it wouldn’t go very far.

I was wrong.

***

The first day fifteen men wrote to me. The second day, forty-five. By the week’s end I was overwhelmed.

Men of every age and condition wrote to me, asking for photos, proposing all kinds of things, blurting out the dirtiest, filthiest obscenities they could come up with. Muscular twenty-somethings who showed off their bodies and sent me pictures with their cocks hard against their navels, thick and veined, promising they’d shove it into me up to the hilt. University guys sending me videos of themselves jerking off while looking at my photos, cumming all over the phone screen so I could see the load come out. Married men begging me to insult and humiliate them, to tell them they were filthy faggots craving a cock. Fifty-somethings threatening me with things I won’t even repeat, with splitting my ass open until it tore and filling it with cum until it overflowed. Lonely men who, in the middle of all that tide, proposed dating and even marriage. Literally everything.

But the ones who wrote to me most, the ones who insisted the hardest, the ones who sought me out the most, were truckers.

I suppose they were sick of lonely nights on the road, of jerking off alone in the bunk of the cab while watching porn on their phones. Tired of sleeping badly and showering any old how, of carrying out their essential services while the world seemed to be falling apart. Maybe they found in me — who was also, though for different reasons, some sort of creature outside the “normal” world — a companion in the underground. And they sure needed discretion. Every single one of them demanded it. And tell me who’s going to be more discreet, for his own good, than a married man who dresses in his wife’s underwear.

With some I exchanged two messages and that was it. With others I held long, lustful conversations. With a few I did video calls in which I displayed myself in the most obscene way I could think of while they jerked off on the other side of the screen, panting, saying filthy things in rough voices. I spread my legs in front of the camera, shoved two fingers into my ass up to the knuckles, licked my own nipples, fucked myself with the dildo while I described in a low voice how I imagined their cock inside me. They showed me their dick backlit by the bedside lamp, red and swollen, and asked me to tell them how I’d suck it, how I’d take it, where I wanted them to come.

There was one in particular, a long-haul driver who always stopped around dawn at a service area near the border. He’d call me at three in the morning, with the cab dark and the engine running, and ask me to get dressed up just for him. I’d put on my stockings slowly, in front of the camera, pausing at every detail because I knew that was what drove him crazy: the waiting, the slowness, the promise of something that still hadn’t arrived. I’d show him how the seam climbed up my calf, how I fastened the garter belt at the edge of my thigh, how the thong disappeared into my ass cheeks. He’d whisper to me, in that voice hoarse from driving sixteen hours straight: “turn around, show me your ass, spread those cheeks wide, I want to see your hole.” And I’d obey, bend over, spread my ass with both hands, and show him my little opening while I listened through the speaker to the sound of him jerking his cock and panting in the dimness of the cab. He’d tell me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and, even though he knew perfectly well what I was, he never once stopped treating me like one. When he came, he’d moan very softly, “Sabrina, fuck, Sabrina,” and I’d come with him without even touching my cock.

That’s when I learned something I hadn’t expected. What those men were looking for in Sabrina wasn’t just sex. It was company without conditions, a complicit voice in the middle of the night, an impossible woman who wouldn’t ask for explanations or demand anything the next day. And I, who for years had lived out my fetish with shame, discovered that other people’s desire fed me more than anything else.

So many asked me for my woman’s name that I ended up choosing one: Sabrina.

I can barely remember any of those men’s names. In my memory their faces, their bodies, their rough panting, their cocks of every shape and size, all blend together in a confused whirl in which that old truck song plays in the background. Human mind stuff, I suppose.

***

By the time the lockdown ended, I wasn’t able to pack Sabrina away and go back to stealing one of my wife’s clothes in secret while she went shopping. For that reason and others that don’t matter here, my marriage fell apart and I started living on my own terms.

At first I spent almost all my free time dressed in the clothes of a modest wardrobe I’d been putting together little by little: cheap lingerie, stockings from anywhere, a few things I kept from the separation. I suppose I needed to feel free to do it. And, paradoxically, once I did feel free, the urgency began to fade. Shame disappeared, and with it the need to be Sabrina every day.

That’s why I said at the beginning that most of the time I’m the man I am, and I’m happy with that. Almost always.

Because every now and then I feel like being Sabrina for a while. And when that happens, I put on the wig, some garter stockings, a thong and a corset, and I fall in love with my own image in the mirror. I touch up my lips slowly, tilt my face, look for the angle in which that woman in the glass seems real. And then I go onto the apps you can already imagine, and I get brutal compliments and propositions no man would ever receive.

And yes, sometimes I meet up in person. Guys who enjoy Sabrina’s charms, who pamper her at first and treat her like a queen, and who end up leaving her sprawled on the bed with the wig crooked, the lingerie in tatters, lipstick smeared all over her face, her ass open and dripping semen, and a smile of exhaustion that doesn’t leave her for hours.

Some of them, her favorites, are truckers. Big, silent men who park the trailer in some lot on the outskirts, who smell of road and fatigue, and who, when they see Sabrina appear, transform as if twenty years have been taken off them. They lift her in their arms, carry her up to the cab, whisper in her ear that they’ve spent weeks thinking about her, her mouth, her ass, how they’re going to fuck her. And Sabrina lets them do it, because that’s why she’s come.

I remember one of those nights with a clarity that surprises me. I’d arranged to meet one of them in a gravel parking lot, far from the lights of the industrial estate. I arrived in a tight dress, lips painted red and legs trembling, not from fear but from sheer anticipation, with my thong already soaked before I’d even arrived. He got down from the cab, looked me up and down in silence, and without saying a word pressed me against the cold metal side of the trailer. His huge hands ran over my hips through the fabric, climbed up to seize my tits with a brutality that made me moan, and then went down to slip under the dress. He ripped the thong off me in one pull, no gentleness whatsoever, and tucked it into his jeans pocket. “I’m keeping this,” he whispered in my ear, and I felt his cock hard as iron pressing against my stomach through my clothes.

He spun me around at once, planted my palms against the trailer’s metal side, and hauled my dress up to my waist. With his foot he spread my legs, and I heard him spit into his hand before feeling him smear my little hole with his saliva. He pulled out his cock — enormous, thick, curving upward, the head swollen and purple — and rubbed it along the crease of my ass with a calm that drove me insane. “Is this what you wanted, Sabrina? For me to wreck you right here, against the truck?” I nodded, mouth open against the cold metal, and begged him to put it in me already.

The first time he pushed in, he did it slowly, pressing the tip against my hole until I gave way, and I felt myself split open. A hoarse cry escaped me that echoed through the empty parking lot. He stayed still for a moment, half his cock inside, and then shoved the rest of himself in with a dry thrust that lifted me onto my toes. He started fucking me like that, against the metal side, grabbing the wig by the hair with one hand and holding my hip with the other, driving into me with a slow, deep rhythm that tore gasps out of me with every stroke. The trailer wall bounced my tits with each shove, and I could feel his cock reaching into my guts.

Then he lifted me up and carried me into the cab, panting. Inside it was hot and smelled of tobacco and worn leather. He sat me on his lap, brushed the hair of the wig away from my face with a tenderness unfit for such a big man, and whispered that he’d spent the whole route thinking about that moment. I believed him. I wanted to believe him. I unbuttoned his jeans all the way, pulled out his cock slick with my own juices, and shoved it into my mouth without thinking. I licked all the way down its length, took it so far in that the tip bumped my throat and made my makeup run, and he gripped my head with both hands to fuck my mouth at his own pace. When he pulled it out, strings of saliva hung from my lips and mascara had run down to my cheeks.

Then he made me ride him. I straddled him in the driver’s seat, facing away, and speared myself slowly onto his dick, feeling it work its way back into my ass until the weight of my own body buried it completely. I started riding him while looking at ourselves in the rearview mirror — him with his mouth open and his eyes fixed on my ass swallowing his cock, me with my tits bouncing and the wig tilted — and I touched my cock for the first time all night while I went up and down on him. I fondled my nipples with one hand, jerked myself with the other, and fucked myself on his cock with a fury I didn’t even know I had. He growled beneath me, dug his fingers into my hips, bit the back of my neck.

When he felt he was about to come, he pulled his cock out and laid me face down across the bench seat. He climbed on top of me, drove in again with one thrust and fucked me hard, fast, brutally, crushing me against the leather while he covered my mouth with his huge hand so the screams wouldn’t leave the cab. He came inside me with a roar that thundered through my back, pushing all the way in, emptying himself into my ass with spasms I could feel pulsing one by one. I came a second later, without stopping touching myself, soaking the whole seat with cum and moaning into his palm.

And for the time it lasted, I was, without any doubt and without any guilt, the woman I had always imagined myself to be in the mirror.

In the end he left me by my building in the early hours, with my clothes in disarray, lipstick everywhere, my ass stinging with every step, and a warm thread of semen sliding down the inside of my thigh to my stocking, and that strange feeling, a mix of fullness and emptiness, that only people who have lived a double life understand. I lit a cigarette, watched the trailer disappear down the street, and for a moment I heard again, inside my head, that song from when I was a kid.

Because Sabrina, who is me, doesn’t need a truck to be happy, like the guy in the song said. She needs much less. She only needs, even if just for a while, a trucker.

Or several.