Gorilla drove a truck. He couldn't remember why people first started calling him Gorilla. He wasn't especially hairy, though he had broad shoulders and could lug big weights. He carried a big stomach, but this was the product of way too many hours spent sitting in the cab driving the overnight interstate eating crap food. He had a tattoo sleeve on his right arm which extended across the top of his chest, and a smattering of tatts on his left arm and leg. He also had some amateur ink on the topside of his cock. He was so fucking drunk the night he got his dick tattooed. His cock was meaty. It was quite thick and had a good weight to it; not too small but also not overly large. The circumcised head of his dick was absolutely beautiful, especially when his cock was hard and oozing precum.
Gorilla was always on the lookout for hot, sweaty sex with men. Driving interstate rigs made sex easy to find. He used the apps, and hookups were close to anonymous. Cock was everywhere.
Tonight, Gorilla found himself driving into Atlanta. He'd been at the wheel for a long 13 hours since leaving Oklahoma City, driving through Memphis and Birmingham. A ridiculously long drive, almost inhumane. The sun had set, and his trucker cap no longer needed to keep the setting sun out of his eyes, so he turned it around and wore it backwards. It'd been a long haul, but he was paid well for it.
He was looking forward to a big meal and few hours of sleep before de-palleting at the warehouse tomorrow at dawn. He'd driven to Atlanta many times before, and by this stage in the drive, and despite the steady supply of no-doze pills he'd been chewing, he was almost on autopilot. He guided his wheels to a 24/7 gas station and parked the rig near the diesel pumps. This would be home for the night. His air-brakes sounded. His full balls hung low inside his denim jeans.
He smeared some cheap deodorant under his armpits to make himself slightly more presentable, but he knew it was like putting lipstick on a pig. He was a mess, and he knew it, but he was hungry as fuck. He climbed down out of the rig and walked into the roadhouse next door. He'd been here before, and he barely needed to bother with the menu. He knew what it said. He wanted red meat. He ordered steak. Well done, thanks ma'am. Side of potatoes and greenbeans, please. And a beer. His 42 wheels would be parked until sunrise.
Gorilla was thirsty. The beer arrived quickly and half of it disappeared in a few quick gulps. His meal, as usual at this roadhouse, was excellent. He had another beer while he was eating.
At the end of the meal, he paid his check and left a tip for the waitress. He exited the roadhouse and started to head back to the bunk in his rig for some well-earned shuteye. But first, he needed to take care of business -- he needed to use the bathroom.
The bathroom was a stand-alone block halfway between the roadhouse and where he'd parked. It was small, and somewhat stinky. The air felt stale and fetid. There was only one cubicle.
Gorilla entered the bathroom and noticed that the cubicle door had been ripped off its hinges since he was last in Atlanta. Fuck. He really needed to take a dump.
He pulled his jeans down and they collected around his ankles. Nature took its course.
*
Carlos was a sexy Mexican dude who sang lead vocals and played guitar in a heavy metal band in Atlanta. He had the desired look down to perfection: long, wavy brown hair, black t-shirt, denim jacket, dark Latin eyes and a skinny build. White socks inside black skater shoes. Slightly feminine, but not too much.
Carlos was a showman. He loved nothing more than being on stage, covered in sweat under the bright stagelights, knowing that every pair of eyes in the room were fixated on him. He was sexy as fuck, and he knew it, but none of the women in the room could ever have him. He wasn't interested in them. He was only interested in men. Often, during his band's set, he'd try to pick out a sexy denim-clad dude in the front row and hold his gaze for just long enough to suggest what might be possible later that night, if only. He knew he had a sexy pout and a long tongue, both of which helped to get his bait on the line when catching his front row prey.
He'd been at band rehearsal earlier tonight. After they'd finished, he went out drinking with his bandmates, and the beers had gone down well. He was walking home with his earbuds in, Slayer shredding his eardrums. He passed by a roadhouse, playing air-guitar as he walked, and realised he desperately needed a piss. He saw the bathroom and went in.
*
Gorilla heard the bathroom door open, and the footsteps that followed. He heard someone approach the urinal. He heard someone unzip, and he listened as a thick stream of beery piss cascaded down. Gorilla remained motionless and silent inside the doorless cubicle. He wondered if sex might be in the air. Gorilla's trucker cap was firmly in place, backwards.
Carlos had no idea he had company. He shook his smallish cock, packed it back into his boxer shorts, zipped up, and walked over to the basin to wash his hands. He was ignoring everything else. Slayer was still assaulting his ears, and he wasn't home yet. Looking into the cracked, stained mirror above the washbasin, he saw Gorilla in the cubicle, sitting on the bowl. He wondered why someone would be taking a shit with the door open, and he was surprised to note that there *was* no door on the cubicle.
Carlos saw Gorilla's fat cock resting heavily on the front of the toilet seat. Gorilla's hand reached down and touched his thick semi-erect dick. He lifted it up and let it slap back down onto the seat with a thud. He leered at Carlos, as if to say 'hey, stranger, do you want it?'
The air thickened.
*
Carlos was attracted to men, and here was a man, a real working man, in all his glory. Even from this distance, Gorilla smelled ripe -- the result of a long day at the wheel, combined with the stink of a public restroom.
Carlos was accustomed to being the centre of attention. He was a fucking rockstar, even if only in Atlanta. Until now, he always picked who he wanted to fuck. But the tables were turned. He was potential prey.
He was standing in front of a man who was sitting on a toilet bowl, pants around his ankles, fat dick on full display.
Carlos took his earbuds out and Slayer was silenced. He felt a ringing in his ears. Could've been tinnitus, could've been the sudden ambient silence in a room filled with thick air; but most probably it was the blood rushing violently through his brain at the scent of sex.
Carlos didn't take any backward steps, but at the same time, he didn't want to seem too eager. He took a single step forward towards the cubicle. They'd recognised each other's presence and Gorilla was first to speak.
"Hey, boy. Nice to meet you. How's your evening?"
Carlos wasn't sure how to respond. "Hey, man. Just had a few beers with my bandmates, and needed a piss on the way home. What about you?"
"Oh, so you're in a band?" asked Gorilla. "Nice. What do you play?"
"Axe and lead vocals."
"Cool." Gorilla really couldn't give a shit. "I've had a long fuckin' day at the wheel, son. Bein' paid to cart some crap from Walmart A to Walmart B. Just had a big feed. Right now, I'm just takin' a dump." Gorilla noticed the long-haired stud glanced down at his crotch. "So what you looking at, boy?" Gorilla lifted his tattooed dick up again, and he let it fall against the toilet seat with a thud. "You like my dick, don't you?"
Carlos's mouth was dry with anxiety. He wanted that cock. He nothing more than to sink to his knees, but in this unusual moment, nervousness won out. He found himself apologising. "Sir, I seem to have caught you at a bad moment, and..."
