Roadside ASSistance

An evening out with friends turns into an extraordinary evening of wild, muddy sex when Chris Saturday's truck breaks down on the way home. Rain, mud, and two libidos in overdrive.

Five, four, three, two, one…game! State wins,” I shouted; the bar erupted in cheers. State beat Lane by a field goal, which meant we were headed to the championship game for a three-peat, baby.

The bar was crowded with State fans, and a few Lane buttholes were scattered about. I can’t say I understand football that well, but I support my team. After moving to the South, football became a part of my life. Anywhere you went in Alabama, you were asked, State or Lane? You had to pick an allegiance.

So, why the South? My dad got this once-in-a-lifetime job that uprooted the entire family from Vermont. Leaving all my friends behind was hard. I even contemplated living with my Gran until I finished high school. But moving to Great Plains, Alabama in my sophomore year wasn’t so bad after all. Rounds were purchased, and the celebration had just begun. “Chris!” someone shouted from across the room. I turned, trying to make out who it could be.

“Chris Saturday,” the voice yelled out again. With my beer in hand, I turned and caught a hand waving frantically in the air. It could only be one person, Justin. Justin was my old roomie from freshman year. He’d decided that college wasn’t for him and became a private entertainment dancer, a stripper. After a year of stripping, he opened his own club. Two more followed.

Justin was from here, so he had a thick accent — not the counterfeit Paula Deen kind, but the type of true southern drawl that would make a guy like me have a raging hard-on.

“Long time no see.”

“You exaggerate too much. We saw each other last week at Kellie’s party,” I said, giving him a playful jab to the stomach.

“I know, but it seemed like longer. I’ve been so gosh darn busy. I think I’m getting that disease that’s been going around.”

I looked at Justin in amazement. The things that came out of his mouth were unbelievable. I sat back down on the stool to brace myself. “What?” I said, trying to contain my laughter.

“Ah, that celebrity exhaustion disease. You know Kenny James, who won that singing competition on TV?” he asked. I hunched my shoulders. I didn’t watch that crap.

“Chris, the fresh voice from Nashville? Anyway, he came down with a case and had to cancel three shows,” Justin said with a puppy dog face.

Justin wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he meant well. His folks were smart enough to hire a business manager for his business to take care of the important stuff.

“You better take it easy, buddy. I hear there isn’t a cure,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. Justin furrowed his brow and nodded in agreement. “I know, right?”

Before I came to State, I was a pure virgin. I thought of myself as being asexual. I didn’t have any desire to be with anyone, male or female. I was focused on graduating at the top of my class, scoring higher on the SATs, and getting a full scholarship. It never crossed my mind that I might be gay, or maybe I was just in denial. Luckily, I had Justin to introduce me to a new world, a world full of sexy men. After a few more drinks and laughs than I could count, it was time to hit the road.

Though the irresponsible Chris would have loved to stay and whipped a few asses in shuffleboard, I had to work in about 8 hours, and I needed my beauty rest. My granny always said the night air ages you quicker; that stuck with me, so I always tried to make it in at a responsible hour.

The drive home from the city was a long one. On a beautiful late fall night, you could hear the cicadas singing and all the night sounds you couldn’t hear in a busy, congested city. Though the commute is a bitch, it’s damn peaceful. Every so often you’d pass a car, maybe two. If you ever ran out of gas, you were shit-out-of-luck because the nearest gas station was 15 miles away.

The roads were another story. They’re shit—potholes, high grass on both sides, and disappearing yellow. If one weren’t used to driving these roads daily, it’d be a deadly commute. A popping noise came from the rear. I pulled over to the shoulder to see what had happened. Just my luck — of all nights, I had a blow-out. The rear driver’s side tire committed suicide with just eight miles to my apartment.

This was a new truck, and I had no idea where the spare tire was, and I’d never changed a tire in my life. Come to think of it, I’d never had a flat tire in all my 21 years on this earth. How hard could it be to change a tire? I’d seen it done many times on TV, but this was real life. I ran back up to the front and grabbed my phone to call roadside assistance.

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Forty minutes had passed, and still no sign of the tow truck. I didn’t like the idea of owning a gun. My dad insisted I carry some kind of equalizer, as he called it. It’s made of a shortened 4x4, wrapped in heavy chains, and topped off with copious amounts of barbed wire. I was ready to handle anyone or anything that decided they wanted to pop off.

Bright lights blinked ahead; that was the signal I was told to look for by the dispatcher. Just in case, I had my hand firmly wrapped around my equalizer, ready to pounce if need be.

The truck made a U-turn and pulled up behind my Tahoe.

“Mr. Saturday? I’m Anthony Ashley with Ashley Towing,” he said with a deep, velvet voice. His southern accent was a complete turn-on. I couldn’t help but check out his package through my window. Those jeans fitted him well, snug in all the right places.

“Can I see your ID, Mr. Ashley?” As he reached for his wallet, I noticed his bulge. His shirt was ruffled up in the front, giving me a sneak peek of his undies—he was a briefs man. “Thanks. I just wanted to make sure. You can’t be too cautious these days,” I said, handing his ID back.

“Totally understand, no worries. Tonight’s my night off from murdering and robbing,” he said jokingly.

“Okay, a little awkward.”

“Of course, I’m kidding. It’s my horrible attempt at trying to be funny. My momma always told me to stick to fixing stuff and leave the jokes to someone else,” he said as the color in his cheeks turned.

“You’d be wise to take her advice.”

He made his way to the rear of the car to check to see what exactly had happened; it gave me a perfect view of his ass as I spied through the side window. I could feel my jeans tighten as he surveyed the damage, bending, stooping, and lying on the ground getting dirty.

He shot a look in my direction; I diverted my eyes to the front, hoping he didn’t spot me checking out his assets. I glanced up in the rearview mirror for a second helping. He dusted himself off and quickly sprinted to the driver’s side. Folding his arm on the door, he tipped his fitted cap up, showing off his beautiful gray-hazel eyes.

“I’m going to have to jack ya,” he said with a smirk.