@gabe Thank you so much for your kind words! It was definitely therapeutic to write it all out. I hope it helps someone else along the way, someday. If I can make it through to where I am today, anyone can do it! Again, thank you, and keep in touch!
The Shep Years: 1
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I heard the truck coming down the trail before I saw it. Shep’s work truck was a monstrous black ‘88 GMC 3500 crew cab that never seemed to fit anywhere. It was always the truck that had to be moved out of someone’s way. It was the vehicle whose dual back tires were way too wide for the driveway and spun huge, deep, muddy twin ruts into the flower beds or grass, no matter where he went. Street parking in the city was out of the question because of its size. Forget about parking garages: the body was too wide. And in all our time together, not once did I ever see that truck without a fresh coat of mud covering layers upon layers of dried mud. All 6 tires were completely caked over in mud: some fresh and still wet, some forever plastered on from past adventures.
It had been a harsh winter and it was finally spring. Mud season had come late that year and I was happy we were in the beginning stages of it. I had flown up from Boston to meet Shep in Maine for a long weekend together.
I spotted Shep as he drove into the airport’s area designated for arrivals/pickups. He drove straight to where I was standing and parked. There was a series of loud thuds as he jammed the column shift lever up through the gears and into park. I felt a thrill as I opened the passenger door and clumps of dried mud (and some wet) broke off and fell to the road. I climbed up into the truck, tossed my backpack into the backseat and greeted Shep. Five years since graduation and he still made my heart skip a beat whenever he drew me to him for a hug. He winked at me and flicked his tongue against his upper lip.
His reddish brown mullet was tied into a long ponytail and his beard and mustache had been trimmed. He was wearing his black leather jacket, black t-shirt and blue Levi’s jeans tucked into his signature black Chippewa Super Logger boots. I noticed he had fresh mud on his boots and jeans, up to his knees in places. He also had an obvious erection, which he unashamedly reached down and adjusted before he shifted back into drive (with more thudding sounds) and drove out of the terminal.
“I wanna take the long way home,” he said. Then he cast a quick glance in my direction. “It’s much more enjoyable that way and there’s lots we can stop and do,” he said, flicking his lip again. I felt the beginnings of a pre-cum flow starting in my jeans.
He reached over and gently placed his hand on my bulge.
“We might have to get these stuck in the mud too, ya know, to cool em off,” he said, giving my dick a light caress and indicating his hardness by thrusting his hips up off the seat, to accentuate the tenting I could already plainly see in his jeans.
“Fuck,” I said. That’s gunna be a new one for us!”
“Yea,” he said. I watched his logger boots work the pedals. He had a habit of slamming his feet down on his pedals and I watched as a clump of dried black mud broke away from his right boot and landed on the mat. The huge heel on his logger boot would crush the dried mud more and more each time he moved a sexy size 13 from the gas to the brake, back to the gas, over and over.
“There’ll be a lot of new ones for us this weekend,” he said, taking my hand in his. “How did I never see before that we have the same fetish?”
