"Are you June?" I looked down into the green eyes of a bald white man, and it took me a second to realize what he had asked.
"Yes, I am. Are you the technician?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm Charlie," he said, climbing into the truck beside me. As I admired his wide, muscular arms, I was bathed in the fresh scent of his body wash. Irish Spring, maybe. Better than coffee, I thought. He was dressed in auto shop blues, faded but clean this early in the morning. His hands were also neat but darkened with oil and hard work. He asked, "What's the problem?"
"I have a check engine light on."
"Is that all?" he asked, grinning cheerfully. I smiled back, wondering if he liked black women. Blue collar boys were just my type. "Let's hook in and see what we got. Excuse me." He reached down beside my leg to attach his code reader under the dash. I didn't make any effort to move away, hoping he would brush over my thighs. I have a slim body but with wide hips and thighs. My ass would fit perfectly in his palms.
Sadly, he completed his work with only a brush by my knee. I looked over his shoulder to see what codes came up. I work in marketing, so I'm not a grease monkey by any means, but I knew how to change the oil in my Ram pickup. "Looks like a transmission switch," he said, reading the screen. "Has it had any problems driving?"
"Just some difficulty with the steering." I looked underneath the reader to his lap. I imagined myself reaching down and unzipping his pants, pulling out a big white cock and wrapping my mouth around it. This truck had seen such indiscretions with my past boyfriend.
"It's probably an easy fix. Maybe a few hours." Charlie met my eyes again, still cheerful. "Can you drive it in the shop, or should I?"
"I can do it," I said, starting up the truck. He opened the passenger door and jumped out. Already I missed his warm body. I watched him walk around to open the bay door, and then I drove in. Once I turned off the truck, he opened the door for me.
"Such a gentleman," I said as I hopped down.
"No problem, ma'am," he said, giving a slight bow. "The waiting room is over here. There's coffee, doughnuts, a newspaper."
"Thank you," I said, not sure I wanted to leave him. He was already getting to work, though. I took a moment to watch him from behind. He had a tight ass and tree trunks for legs. I could imagine him lifting me in his arms and carrying me into the waiting room. Sighing, I walked there by myself.
The coffee was bitter, the doughnuts stale, and the newspaper was old news compared to the beauty that was fixing my truck. I was a country girl, used to riding in the back of a pickup with coarse, sweaty boys. My parents' farm was next to white and black neighbors, so my early experimentation had been with all types of guys. I remembered one white boy in particular.
"My parents don't want me coming here," Johnny told me a little after my 18th birthday. "They say you're like the fruit in the garden of Eden. Once I eat of the tree, I'm going to Hell."
"That's not very nice," I said. We were sitting in my parent's barn, eating apples from the co-op. I liked watching the juice run down his chin. I wanted to follow that drop all the way down his neck. He usually shaved, but with the cooler weather starting, he was growing a beard.
"I like it!" he said. "You're forbidden fruit. You're in possession of the knowledge of good and evil." He grinned at me.
"I don't know about all that. I don't have that much knowledge." By then I'd tried a few things but never gone all the way.
"You don't? What about you and Nate?" he asked, referring to my black neighbor. Nate was like an ox, the stereotype you saw when someone made a movie about slavery. Johnny was thinner but still well developed. He would star as the rough overseer, not the clean cut master. More bites of the apple, more juice. He was a messy guy.
I scoffed. "Nate is a scaredy cat. He doesn't want to hurt me, he said."
"I guess he's afraid of crushing you!" he said. I laughed. "Well I don't have that problem. And I want to take a bite." He leaned in to kiss me. He tasted like apple.
A voice startled me away from my memory. "June? Ma'am?" I looked up to see my technician. Charlie. Sounded close to Johnny, though Charlie looked more like a yeoman, a small farmer, in my imaginary movie. "Looks like you might have another problem. You got a power steering leak."
"What?" I asked, surprised but a little pleased I might get to spend more time with him. "I haven't seen any fluid."
"It's not too bad right now, but it will probably get worse." He held open the door for me to return to my truck, now up on a lift. We went under the truck, and I looked to where he pointed.
"Shit," I said, when I saw the power steering box wet with fluid. This was going to send my repair bill sky high. On the other hand, I'd have more hours with Charlie. I glanced back at him. His eyebrows were lowered and he was almost frowning in concentration. He'd already got some oil on the side of his face. I wondered if he would mind if I wiped it away.
"It's a pretty common problem. We're going to have to replace the power steering box most likely. They have rebuild kits out there if you got any friends who can do the work. Honestly, if you get it done here, with parts and labor, you're paying at least $500." I nodded. That meant a trip back home. "I mean, I would appreciate the work, but..."
"I understand," I said. "What about the switch?"
"Oh yeah. Got that changed out, so you're done. We'll go the front, and I can ring you up." He led me back through the waiting room to the retail store. I started at his back as we walked, admiring the way his pants wrinkled over his smooth ass. His shirt was neatly tucked in under a belt--no indiscreet peeks if he happened to bend over. I almost bumped into him when he stopped and turned around.
"I'll write down the gearbox part number for you so can get it at the parts store."
"The what? Oh, right. I appreciate that." He smiled at me, and I smiled back. "You're very helpful."
"Thank you, ma'am." He turned back around, and I got my fill before he rounded the counter.
"Why do you call me ma'am? We have to be about the same age." I leaned over the counter as he typed on the computer.
"Just being polite. That's what my mom taught me."
"Are you from around here?" I asked. We were in what I called the city, but it was really a large town.
"Yeah, I grew up here. Actually, my school was mostly black."
"Really?" I asked.
