This is the story of my life, at least the bits I remember. Some of it is missing and some of it may be just a little off, but here it is.
This is pretty much the story of my life. It hasn't been a pleasant journey and I'm writing it as I remember it. I warn you, this is some pretty raw stuff, so Caveat Emptor.
I was supposed to be a man and grow up to be like my father, but not quite. You see, my father was a warrior, and I wasn’t allowed to be like him because of our religion. It was weird, because he taught me all the things I was supposed to know to be a good warrior, how to sneak around in the dark, how to live in the wilderness like it was my home, all of the things you needed to know if you were going to be a killer, including how to kill an armed man with your bare hands and keep him from making any noise to alert his buddies as he died and voided his bowels on you with his last breath.
My father wasn’t just any soldier, he was a SEAL, one of the second nastiest human beings on the planet behind Ghurkas(even a SEAL will tell you that, if you get him drunk enough.). Something happened to him in the jungles of Vietnam and the treachery of the intelligence game though, and even though he will not tell me about it to this day, he became a pacifist and joined a religion which forbade killing or military service of any kind. As his child, I was also bound by the dictates of his religion and even though he taught me all of the things he had been taught in his training to be a warrior, I was forbidden to ever use any of those things. I was not even allowed to defend myself if attacked in school, which led to me being the school’s whipping boy. I took beating after beating, never even thinking about defending myself, for my father did not teach me how to fight with the intention of just hurting someone. The only thing I knew was how to kill.
When I was just a little child, I did not even know the words they were using to insult me. I wondered what a faggot and a pussy meant(I had never even heard those words, and had no clue what they meant), since that was what they called me until my big sister stepped up and beat the crap out of a couple of them on the bus one day. I was amazed and grateful, but at that time in our lives, we resented the hell out of each other, so it was almost 30 years before I thanked her properly for doing that for me.
I was 8 years old when that happened and in the sixth grade. I remember that afternoon and evening very clearly because our parents didn’t get home until almost 10 o’clock that evening and a part of their thing was that they didn’t give us a house key in order to force us to do our chores before we would be allowed into the house. It was late fall in the mountains of North Carolina, and though we had been hot on the bus, the air was cold outside. When our parents arrived home, they found us asleep, shivering together under the front porch. They sent us to bed without dinner because we weren’t waiting on the porch for them.
In the morning, we had to haul water in five gallon buckets from the spring, almost ½ mile from the house. The house was bitterly cold because they refused to light a fire in the morning, saying it was a waste of wood, not to mention that leaving a fire burning in the stove was a fire hazard.
I didn’t understand at that time why they treated us so harshly and to be honest I still don’t. all I really know is that I grew up wanting so desperately to be a big strong beautiful woman like my sister. I didn’t know that she had her own issues that were tearing her apart as badly as mine were to me. In truth, if I had known, I don’t think it would have made much difference, I was so wound up n my own confusion and misery. I had my first boyfriend in those years(He was 12 and I was 8). I didn’t know until many years later that my sister and I got fucked for the first time by the same boy. I do remember how glorious it felt, that my best and only friend wanted me that way. Despite what many of you reading this may think, I have to tell you that I seduced him. I told him to pretend that I was Angel(My other best friend(she of the long and gloriously shiny blonde hair that I envied so much because my father made me get a buzz cut every 3 months) who I grew up with). He did, and I did, and it was the best feeling I had ever had in my life.
I found out a couple of years ago that Angel killed herself with an intentional heroin overdose. I never knew when we were children that her father had raped her throughout her childhood. I grew up wanting so badly to be her twin sister and I was never able to tell her what I felt. As much as I can think back over my own early life and how miserable it was, she had it so much worse than me. I wish I had known; I would have done anything to save her.
When I think back on it, my sister saved my bacon more times than I can count. She knew I was stealing her clothes and wearing them around the farm to do my chores(and yes, to masturbate in). She knew I was shoplifting panties and such from Belk’s, and she protected me as much as she could. Even when I got caught shoplifting, she would wash the swimsuits and lingerie that I had stolen for me and return them cleaned without ever saying a word to the parents. She even rescued her panties that I slept in from their hiding place in my pillowcase and put them back for me to wear the next night.
I didn’t know that at the time and to tell the truth, I resented her horribly, mainly because she got to be a beautiful adolescent girl and I was stuck with hair growing out of my legs and a body that I hated because I thought I was looking so much like a boy even though I got beat up for walking and acting like a girl.
In Junior high school I got a growth spurt and wound up looking the part I was trying to portray, even though my hips were very wide for a boy and I had very little upper body development. I could leg press more than the weight machine in the gym had available though, so even though I was only 10 years old when I entered the 8th grade, I had some measure of respect.
It didn’t stop the teasing though. One day, some of the boys decide that I needed to be put in my place, so they snuck into the girl’s locker room and got a used tampon out of the trash can. When I got back from being beaten half to death in gym class, I went to put my clothes on and put my foot into my shoe only to be met with a bloody mess. I was so mad that when the class bully grabbed me from behind and tried to put me in a headlock, I curled over and threw him into the lockers I was facing. The lockers were narrow enough that he got stuck upside down, just hanging there until the PE teacher came to extract him. I got suspended from school for 2 weeks for doing that but I didn’t mind. What I did mind was the fact that my father beat me until I bled with a green briar switch on my bare ass. He didn’t strip the thorns off before he did it, and I have to tell you, he really tore me up. I cried and tried to run away, but it wasn’t the first time he had done that to me, so I eventually just lay there and let him beat me, knowing that crying where he could hear me or trying to run away would only get me beaten more.
I started to run that summer, just trying to lose myself in the nature that surrounded me when I was in the zone of running. Everything inOklahoma was laid out in one mile squares, so when I ran around the square, it was four miles before I got back home. It wasn’t long before I got addicted to the peace of just running. After all, I had spent most of my life running and it made me feel good to just be out there with the sounds of my own breathing and the pounding of my feet on the gravel road for company.
I was so full of resentment and hatred then. I wanted to kill my parents. I don’t mean that in a casual way, I mean I literally wanted to kill them. I actually plotted and planned the deed. I went to the point of hiding my father’s rifle in the barn, intending to kill him with it as he arrived home from work one day(This was not the first time I had done this, I hid a .22 rifle under the chicken coop when I was 8, intending to kill him with it then.) Luckily, I was too muck of a coward to go through with it since the barrel was plugged with chicken shit and the gun would most likely have exploded in my face. This time, the gun was a .370 deer rifle with a four power scope, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Instead I took the beating for not having fed the pigs before he got home from work and was just glad he hadn’t made me take my pants down because I was wearing a pair of my sister’s panties. When I got undressed later I realized I was still in trouble because he had cut me so badly with the switch that I had bled all over them.
My sister never said anything about that to me. I realize now that that was her trying to protect her strange little brother. It couldn’t have been anything else; they were her favorite pair, the ones with the rose blossom print and the frilly lace along the edges. It was many years before I realized just how much my sister had protected me, how much she had given up for me. I resented the hell out of her then and for many years after that. Only when we had the chance to talk as adults did I know how much she had done to protect me and I felt so ashamed of my actions and the things I said to her then. In truth, I would pile up many more things to be ashamed of before we ever could talk honestly about it.
Things got so much worse that summer. I think that was pretty much when I lost my will to live. My sister was experimenting with boys and she got in so much trouble for that. She even got beatings for things that I had done. I managed to hide the fat that while my sister was experimenting with boys, I was busy being a bit of a slut. There was the cutest boy who was a junior, he was short but so muscled up he was just a kind of Adonis. He said he loved me when he fucked me and I was dumb enough to believe it. It was almost 15 years before my sister and I discovered that he was fucking both of us at the same time. I can’t complain, he was enough man for us both, and I will say that he was maybe the hottest fuck I’ve ever had.
I’ll never know what really happened to him, but the rumors said that over the summer break he had a shotgun accident that blew his cock and balls off and left him in the hospital mortally wounded. He died that summer, but we were not allowed to attend the funeral since it was held in a Baptist Church. I think he suicided and his family was so ashamed of him being gay that they wouldn’t admit it.
We moved half way through the next year and for me, things got even worse. I had been a straight A student and would have been on the honor roll if my parents had allowed it. I discovered many years later that they had not allowed the school to put me in the Gifted and Talented Enrichment program even though I was testing out at college freshman levels in the fourth grade. Of all the things I can blame my parents for, I think that is perhaps the worst. You might think that them forcing me to follow a gender role that was so obviously wrong for me was worse, but that thing is what threw me into the tailspin of self destructive behavior that has culminated in the bucket of shit my life has become.
I became so disinterested in school that I wound up really acting out, getting myself expelled. I studied the material and took the tests, aced them in fact(I was the only kid they had ever had who consistently made 100% on the tests and they accused me of cheating), but I refused to do any homework or classwork, choosing to read instead(What can I say, I was bored stiff!). I have to say I was bewildered when I got kicked out of class one day for reading an unassigned chapter in the textbook.
I had thought that I could just throw off my teenage years, but I was wrong. My parents wound up sending me to a state run school for truants and other miscreants. Most of the kids there had been sent there as a preliminary to Juvenile Hall on court order, but my parents actually had to pay to send me there since the state didn’t think I was a bad enough kid.
That place made the hell I thought a normal high school was look mild by comparison. On the very first day, I walked down to the convenience store(about a mile way from campus). On the way back, I was trailed by a large group of students who were just taunting me at first. The girls in the group started running up to me from behind and hitting me in the head. I knew better than to respond and give their boyfriends an excuse to beat me up. They stated throwing rocks at me. Several of the rocks hit me in the back and head and caused wound, so I was bleeding and just trying to walk normally and ignore them.
On the final approach up the long driveway onto the campus, they were still torturing me and I was still trudging along, refusing to fight back. Apparently, the frustration was too much for them. The largest of them ran up behind me, grabbed me and threw me to the ground. His friends rained blows on me as I got up and continued walking. He grbbed me and threw me down a total of three more times before I reached the gate and some sort of relative safety. I was punished for fighting, even though I had never even lifted a finger to defend myself. I learned later that a dorm counselor had watched the entire scene since I had turned onto school property, but had not intervened. His testimony did get the ringleader expelled from the school but it simply served to make the 5 months I spent there even more brutal. Unfortunately the ringleader was the most popular kid in school and they al blamed me for getting him expelled, so I was the most hated person there. Picture petty much anything short of rape and it happened to me there.
I managed to get myself expelled from that place by running away to Daytona Beach for Spring Break. I hung out my thumb on Interstate 95 and a nice guy who had been driving for way too long picked me up. I lied and told him I had a license. He turned the wheel over to me and I drove us most of the way down from there to Florida while he slept, a nice 10 hour drive. We had to stop in Georgia for gas and he bought a lottery ticket and a 12 pack of bud, which I drank while driving. He dropped me off right on the beach in Daytona.
I was in heaven and hell at the same time. There were so many ubercute college boys there and I wanted them so badly, but I knew that I was a boy and none of them would want me if I was to truly be myself. The girls there were so hot and the only thing I wanted was to be one of them. I can’t honestly say that I was torn because I knew what I wanted. I wanted more than anything to be one of the hot college girls in the barely there bikinis, being pursued by the hot college boys.
Instead, I was an awkward 15 year old boy with no money. I slept on the beach(Which is really fucking cold at night, by the way). I never got laid(I tried, but I think the bikers realized that I was underage(Spring break at that time coincided with the end of Bike Week)). So I wasn’t molested, even though I desperately wanted some big hairy biker to sweep me off my feet and make mad passionate love to me and call me his girl.
When Spring Break ended, I wound up at a homeless shelter which sent me Traveller’s Aid. They gave me some lunchmeat and a loaf of bread and put me on a bus back to my parents. I had no idea what else to do so I took what they offered and wound up back in Charleston. My parents sent me back to the school where I was sure I was going to be killed.
I cut classes, anything to get away from that hell, I hid out during lunch and tried to be invisible. They expelled me for truancy. The same night my parents came to pick me up, some of the other students firebombed my dorm room and wound up burning down the entire dorm. If I had been there I would have been killed.
It took me a month or so, but at the first opportunity, I ran way from home. I set out with a small duffel bag containing my dress pants, dress shoes, two pairs of jeans and some underwear(half panties I had stolen from my sister).I had some sort of half baked idea in my head that I would go to Oklahoma and stay with my grandfather since he had been the one to offer rescue when he became aware that my sister and I were being brutally beaten by our parents.
I will wonder for the rest of my life what would have happened if my sister and I had not given in to pressure from our parents and recanted in our claims of abuse then. Granddad was an asshole, but he offered to takes us in and put us through any college we could get into and I think he even knew about me. We were so brainwashed by our parents religion that we gave in and went back to our parents, even though DSS was willing to give Granddad custody with no questions asked based on the bruises and marks in the photos they took for evidence.
I got a ride with a trucker, but that ride took me to Oklahoma City. Granddad lived in Vinita, a little piece of nowhere about halfway between Tulsa and Joplin, right on I44, also known as the Will Rogers Parkway. I spent a day and a night underneath a freeway overpass in OKC. I got desperate and hungry enough to hang out my thumb and I was lucky. A trucker named Opie(I’m sure he had another name, but its been a long time and I don’t remember it) picked me up. I didn’t realize it then, but now I’m pretty much certain he felt sorry for me.
Opie was going to Fresno and he offered me a place to sleep in his bunk and some money(60 bucks) for loading his truck and unloading it when he got to his eventual destination. I gladly accepted. He never made a move on me(although I desperately wanted him to). When I say I got lucky, I mean it. I was an impressionable young kid who would have done almost anything for a little acceptance and a kind word from a stranger.
I rode with Opie to Fresno and loaded his truck with veggies for transport to New Mexico. He offered to take me with him because he was going to take a week off in Albuquerque, which turned out to be his destination for the load and also the place he lived.
That was a week of heaven for me. He tried his best to get me laid that night (Not exactly a hard thing since it is a college town.) We went out in his little Toyota 2000 and got lost in the desert. We picked up some college girls and went to get stoned out of our minds up on Sandia Crest. We were sitting on the edge of the cliffs, looking out over a sheer 2500 foot drop while he made out with his girl and I was just sitting there, stoned out of my mind and wishing it was me he was making out with instead of her. I wanted to hurl myself out into the air, to meet the jagged rocks at the bottom of the drop.
That night, I slept on the floor of the living room of the Mexican family he was staying with. We got very stoned and drunk and watched 200 Motels. The next morning, he said he had to go to Colorado, family business. He dropped me off at the freeway exit. I never saw him again.
I know now that I was so lucky. I could easily have been taken advantage of and I wouldn’t even have known it. I was lost, bereft of even my meager possessions and scared half to death. A kind trucker took pity on me and offered me a ride and some money for helping unload his truck when he got to Oregon. He smoked a joint with me there in the parking lot and I fell asleep in the passenger seat of his truck, my head bouncing on the glass as he drove down the road. I awoke when he stopped to pick up a girl who was hitchhiking by the side of the road. She was a Deadhead, a girl who followed the Grateful Dead around and sold things at the shows to make a living. The two of them had sex that evening in a rest area while I sat outside the truck and smoked some of the best cigarettes I had ever had. He was a Canadian and just an overall decent guy. He offered to take me up into Canada with him, but I had no ID so I couldn’t cross the border.
To this day, I wish I had his name and address. I would send him something, even if it was just a meaningless piece of paper with some stupid words of gratitude on it. He saved my life that day and I wonder sometimes if he realized just how important his simple acts of kindness were to me right then. I suspect he didn’t know. He paid me 40 dollars for unloading his truck and we parted ways at a truck stop somewhere in Oregon. I got kicked off the parking lot while I was trying to find a ride and wound up on the freeway entry trying to thumb a ride out of there. The cops came along after about 15 minutes of me trying to hitch a ride and told me I couldn’t hitchhike where I was. I spent most of the next day with my thumb hung out, ready to run into the bushes if I saw a cop.
I finally got a ride from a trucker who had seen me from the parking lot of the truck stop. I didn’t realize what he wanted from me and when I did finally understand, I reacted badly. He left me by the side of the road out in the middle of the desert, not too far outside Needles, right at the border of California and Arizona.
A driver who had just parked in the pullover to catch a nap allowed me use his radio to get a ride. I pretended to be a truck driver, aged 25, who had just gotten fired through no fault of my own, looking for a ride home. I’m pretty sure the guy who let me use his radio was wise to the fact that I was lying out my ass, but he never said a word. The driver who picked me up was needing someone to spell him in the driver’s seat in a bad way. He’d been on the road for almost 31 hours running on nothing but adrenaline and coffee and was due in Maine in 2 days.
I have to mention that at this point, I had never driven anything more than a tractor( a small Kubota we called tractor-san) and a pickup truck. The poor guy must have been seriously tired because he actually believed that I was as old as I claimed to be and that I held a valid CDL. I didn’t know to release the parking brakes before leaving, otherwise things would have probably gone just fine.
I gingerly slipped the rig into gear and eased up on the clutch while gunning the accelerator. Suddenly I was riding a bucking beast! The truck jumped and shuddered before the engine just quit with an awful agonizing lurch as I dumped the clutch in terror.
The driver was practically purple with rage, yelling at me and just barely restraining himself from physically assaulting me. It turns out that I twisted his driveshaft. It’s a good thing he was an owner-operator, because a trucking company would have fired him for that. As it was, I’m sure I cost him quite a lot of money. I was just glad to get another ride from there while he was screaming and cussing at me.
His name was Lewis, and I found out later that he had the most beautiful penis I had ever seen, not to mention the second largest. Right then, when he picked me up, he just said he wanted some company because he had a long drive ahead of him. He was a slightly built man, probably about 5 foot 8 inches in height. He had the cutest receding hairline(you should know at this point that I had and still have a major case of the hots for Patrick Stewart as Captain Jean-Luc Picard.).
We actually made it into Texas before I succeeded in seducing him. He let me drive his truck most of the way across New Mexico, but the throttle was on auto and he only really let me sit in the driver’s seat and steer while the truck did the real work. Apparently he wanted me as badly as I wanted him, because shortly after we crossed into Texas he told me that he was going to take a nap and started to get undressed. By the time he got down to his underwear, I was literally panting with my own lust and arousal. I hated so much to disappoint him, but I had to tell him the truth.
“Dude, if we’re going to do this, I need to take a shower first and like, get clean(I knew enough to know that neither one of us would enjoy the experience if I was dirty). He agreed and I spent almost an hour in the private shower room of the truck stop making myself ready for him. He was everything I had dreamed he would be. He was gentle and passionate and just the most marvelous and attentive lover. We went into the truck stop afterwards and he treated me to the best steak they served. I was falling in love with him and I was ready to tell him I would be his little trucker whore forever if he wanted me. I would have had his babies if I could have.
He broke it to me as we were passing through Houston after dropping the load off. “I’ve got to stop for a week and spend some time with my wife.” I couldn’t even answer him, I was so crushed. After a few minutes, I choked something out through a sob. ”Just drop me off here, please.”
He pulled the truck over to the side of the road in the emergency lane and put the blinkers on. “I’m so sorry, I thought you knew that this was temporary thing. I fuck around on the road, but I love my wife.”
With those words, he left me on the side of the road on the outskirts of Houston. I couldn’t blame him, I had demanded that he drop me off there. So there I was, standing on the edge of the freeway in a pair of tight grey dress slacks, wearing a white button down dress shirt and a pair of brown suede hush puppies with my thumb hanging out on the side of the freeway. It can’t have been more than 30 minutes, but it seemed like hours before someone finally picked me up. It was a bunch of what I guess were Mexicans in a pickup truck. I stretched out in the bed and slept all the way through the rest of Texas.
I know the guys in the truck were saying things about me but I didn’t understand them. I herd the word “puta”, but I didn’t know what it meant. Even now that I know they were calling me a whore, I can’t say they were wrong. I was a whore for the next 2 and ½ years. I was a whore who was faithful to the man who paid her way, but I was no less a whore for all of that.
I don’t remember the name of the first guy anymore. I know he picked me up in Texas while I was trying not to cry after being dumped on the side of the road by Lewis. He took me up to Newcastle, Delaware with him and we had a wonderful weekend together cruising around the country side together in his Fiero and he made love to me in the most delightful, out of the way places. I fell in love all over again. I remember he had these insulated mugs from Snap-On, the tool company, that had these incredibly beautiful women in scanty clothes on them. I wanted so badly to be one of those women.
I spent just under 3 weeks with him before he basically told me to get the fuck out. I was devastated. I have no idea really where I went for about the next 3 months. It was a blur of truck stop to truck stop. I know I whored myself out for a meal many times, but to be honest, I have blocked those memories, so I can’t tell you about those experiences. I’m sure they were humiliating and demeaning, but I can’t share them with you because I don’t remember them.
I do remember one time that I got stuck in a truck stop outside of Little Rock for several days. I had been stuck there for almost 3 days and I was getting desperate. I sucked some guy’s dick back behind his truck after he bought me a plate of biscuits and gravy. It tasted so nasty and slimy that I puked up the food after I was done. I puked on the guy’s shoes and he hit me for it.
Then I met Doug. I didn’t have to seduce Doug, he did all the work He knew just how to turn me on and he sent my world spinning. He owned and drove a 1976 longnosed Peterbilt with a modified V8 cat engine under the hood. When after a few months on the road we went to his home on the Flathead reservation about 90 miles northwest of Missoula, I was enormously grateful to have his grandmother accept me almost like I was her stupid daughter. His mother and his grandmother never treated me like anything other than their exceptionally retarded girl-child.
I was in love with Doug. In truth I was more than in love with him. I lived with Doug for almost a year. I won’t say that it was the greatest year of my life because I shared many bad habits with him. It was in a truck stop just outside of Oklahoma city that I first injected cocaine(a bit too much, as it turned out) and Doug held me while I puked out the door of the sleeper compartment. We did a lot of coke together, although we never ever shared needles.(To be honest, I wonder if that really mattered since we never used condoms and I was his little fucktoy).
We were both madly strung out on crank(Crystal Meth, for those of you who don’t know what it is)We’d picked up a load of heavy machinery in Michigan, Hydroelectric generator parts bound for a dam in Idaho. Neither of us had slept for around 70 hours when the electrical systems on the truck began to fail. The headlights got dimmer and dimmer and the CB radio faded to the point where there was no reception. It was snowing so heavily that we could not see much beyond the hood of the truck. We were headed down out of the mountains around Flagstaff at the time. Luckily the systems in his truck were old enough to where we could switch the engine over to manual ignition and continue, using just our headlights with all the other electrical systems on the truck blacked out.
Doug didn’t trust me to drive, so we pulled over and spent a very cold night huddled up together while the snow came down so heavily you couldn’t see the end of the truck’s hood. The blower for the heaters ran on electricity so we couldn’t have any heat that night(I think the outside temperature was like 10 degrees Fahrenheit. Minus 15 Centrigrade, I think)). Anyway, it was really fucking cold. We kept warm by injecting the last of our supply of crank. I have to tell you, injecting ice cold crank into your veins is not an experience you would want to have.
The water we used to dissolve the drugs was right on the edge of freezing so when we injected it, it was like jumping out into the snow and rolling around, except it was inside your body. The only good thing was that it made us both horny and we warmed up by fucking.
I’d look in the mirror and say “Dude, there’s a cop back there!”
Doug would check and tell me there wasn’t and I would insist that there was. It seemed like it took forever to cross that stretch of nothing but it couldn’t have been very long because Doug kept the hammer down and I know we were doing at least 100 MPH all the way. I know now that I was hallucinating the cops the whole time, but then it seemed so real and I was scared out of my mind.
We finally arrived in LA and went somewhere( I have no idea where) to get a new alternator. I remember sitting in the sleeper while the mechanics installed the part, squirting water into empty baggies with a little dust in them and injecting it to try and get high again. All I got was a headache from injecting water into my veins.
I guess Doug must have been tweaking as bad as I was, because we didn’t even make it out of town that night. We wound up taking a motel room in another part of town that night and he spent some time finding drugs for us. I didn’t know until many years later that the part of town we wound up staying in was considered one of the worst areas of LA.
We spent the night in Compton, in some dive of a motel. Doug bought us 2 8-balls of truly excellent coke(enough to last us nearly a week)and some very nice weed. The guy he bought from had his own 8-ball, but where we were injecting it, he was freebasing it. We sat there and watched while he blew his entire ball in just a little under 2 hours. Doug and I did our shots and then he sent me down to the corner store about a block away to get some sodas and nabs.
I got stopped by the cops right across the street from the store. Looking back, I guess I did look a little suspicious. I was dressed in a pair a shit kicker cowboy boots, jeans, a plaid flannel shirt and a Stetson. I was high as hell, but I somehow managed to hold it together and feed the cops a story, that I was from Oklahoma, in town to visit my uncle and another uncle had given me a ride, that we were staying in the motel down the street. I had the presence of mind to give them the wrong room number while they were making me take my boots off and searching me for drugs(fortunately, I didn’t have any on me). At the time, I thought they bought my story, but now I think they just couldn’t find any reason to hold me. They even bothered telling some cock and bull story about how some store near there had been robbed and I fit the description of the robber.
Anyway, I got back to the motel room with the goodies and immediately got s high as I could manage to get without overdosing. I swear I was vibrating I was so terrified, and when the other dude left after running out of his coke Doug and I clung to each other and fucked until the sun came up in a desperate frenzy.
We left as soon as we could manage and within the next day, we found ourselves in Idaho, a place in the middle of nowhere called Magic Dam. They were supposed to have equipment ready to offload our cargo, but they didn’t. Somehow, in the course of all the electrical issues, the blowers in the heating system had failed, so we wound up waiting almost 7 hours until they could get the equipment in place to offload our cargo. With no blowers, there was effectively no heat in the cab, so we were getting seriously hypothermic by the time they were finished and dusk was setting in. At that point, the temperature outside was around 20 degrees below zero(Fahrenheit) and the wind chill was approaching 70 below. We were both bundled up in insulated coveralls and still shivering violently. We were focused on getting back to the nearest small town and into a comparatively warm motel room for the night.
Fortune was not going to favor us quite so well, not that night anyway. We were making good time down the service road, doing maybe 50 MPH, when the headlights illuminated the T intersection we had negotiated on our way in, This time, we were on the stem of the T and there was no road in front of us. Doug hit the brakes and I swear we went faster!
The result of this was that we wound up bouncing across a ditch and a fence and into whatever lay beyond. The truck was intact and still running even though we had both gotten thrown around a good bit and I’m pretty sure I hit my head really hard on the roof of the cab. Lucky for us we were able to raise the dam crew on the radio and they sent a couple of pieces of heavy equipment to drag us back out onto the road.
We were happy with this outcome until Doug looked under the truck and realized that the crossover lines between the fuel tanks had been ripped out when they dragged us back across the fence. I should explain a little something at this point about older trucks. The fuel intake came from one tank and excess fuel was returned to the other thank. The crossover lines returned fuel from one tank to the other, keeping them equal. The upshot was, all the fuel was draining into the ground from both tanks.
No prizes for guessing who got to climb under the truck and hold a finger in each hole to keep the fuel from draining out until they were able to whittle wooden plugs to act as stoppers for the holes. I know it couldn’t have been any more than 10 minutes, but for that time, I got to lie there in a pool of slowly gelling diesel fuel in temperatures approaching 20 below zero with wind chill something under 80 below. Looking back on it, I’m amazed I didn’t die of hypothermia.
When that was done, we were left with a 40 mile trip to the nearest town and with no way to return fuel into the system, we had just barely enough to make it. I vaguely remember the trip and the feeling of dread, worrying that the motel office wouldn’t be open when we got there. I was so cold I wasn’t even shivering anymore and I just remember being grateful when Doug came back from the office with a room key.
He put me into the tub and ran the water as hot as I could stand it and I started shivering again, this time so violently I couldn’t control myself. Every time I started to feel like the water wasn’t burning me, he would add more hot to the tub. He injected me with more coke at least twice during that time and I gradually began to feel like I was going to live even though I was still shivering violently. This went on for several hours and finally I felt drowsy, even though I was still shivering. He picked me up out of the tub and dried me off, after which we got under the covers with the heat turned all the way up and he held me until I fell asleep. I was still shaking and my teeth were chattering, but his bulk and his warmth soothed me enough to allow me to drift into a short oblivion.
When I awoke I heard the noise of the shower and I pulled the covers up over my head, desperate to get more sleep. It had been a mere four hours since we had gone to bed and I was still feeling like a popsicle. I was so glad when he told me he was going to deal with the repair shop and I begged him for another shot. He gave it to me and that gave me enough energy to get into the shower. I was still under the hot needle spray when he came back, sitting in the tub, just luxuriating in the feeling of being warm.
There was a diner next door to the motel and he almost dragged me out of the shower and into some clothes, then there was the frigid run across the lot into the diner. I managed to force down a plate of sausage gravy and biscuits (I didn’t really feel like eating). I remember Doug always told me that I had to eat even though I wasn’t hungry or I’d crash. The joint we smoked before we went was probably the only thing that gave me any kind of appetite at all.
Even while we were eating, I’d still get the occasional fit of the shivers, so bad I could barely hold my fork. I don’t know how much of that was residual hypothermia and how much was the side effects of being strung out so badly. I do know I felt truly awful and I remember it was more than a month before I got the smell of diesel fuel out of my hair.
We went back to our room and I got massively stoned and coked while he dealt with getting the crossover lines repaired. I remember sitting in a tub of scalding water and injecting myself with coke, waiting anxiously for the twenty minutes to elapse before I could do the next dose while I puffed frantically on a cigarette. I can’t blame Doug for my drug habit, I was a more than willing participant at that time. The truth is, if he hadn’t been there to supply some moderation and some advice in how not to kill myself, I probably would not have survived that time of my life.
That night, we went back south to California. I don’t remember exactly where it was, but I can tell you it was the Fruehauf factory. We were going to trade his old steel trailer in for a brand new aluminum trailer and in the bargain, transport 3 other trailers up to the dealership(It might have been Washington, I honestly don’t remember). Anyway, with the mechanical problems fixed, it was an uneventful trip and several days later, we arrived at his home in Montana, in a little town called Arlee about 90 miles north of Missoula.
We spent almost a month there, living in a little apartment underneath his mother’s home(I think his grandmother lived there too). I’m sure they knew I was his lover and even though I was too drugged up for it to register at the time, I remember feeling amazed and gratified when they treated me like his girlfriend. Looking back on it now, I think they knew who and what I was and maybe even felt sorry for me, but they were so nice to me. Between us(The two older women, Doug and his cousin(Who was also a trucker)), we formed an intensely competitive Contract Rummy game that just wouldn’t quit. I didn’t get it at the time, but I think that his mom wanted me to settle down with him.
We had loads of fun and for Doug and I it was almost like a honeymoon, but that good thing came to an end and we were back on the road. It was barely a month later that I called my parents and they told me that I was in trouble with the IRS for taxes on a job I had worked as a gopher when I was 15. I was terrified of going to jail, so I bade Doug farewell somewhere on Interstate 40 and set off hitchhiking back to Charleston. I think it broke his heart and I know it broke mine, but I was so terrified of going to prison that I felt I had to go. I tearfully promised him that I would be back with him as soon as I could, but I never saw or heard from him again.
To this day, I wonder if he is ok, if he ever found love again. I’ll never know. That is it’s own heartbreak.
I found myself living with my parents again, only this time they wanted me to pay 300 dollars a month worth of rent and they still expected me to live by their rules. My sister had managed to move out and she lived in a ramshackle trailer that smelled something awful. It was a mixture of mildew and sulfur(from the water). She did her best to fix it up and make it look decent and the truth is, I was jealous of her.
She was blessed with an artistic talent which I completely lacked and I wanted the painting of a kitten she had on her floor. I was stunned when she gave it to me. The only thing I could give her in return was a hug. I was so envious of her, being all free and such, but I never realized the price she had to pay for that rusty, smelly piece of shit. I never knew that she had to sleep with the pot bellied alcoholic painter who owned the thing. I probably would have been less jealous of her had I known that at the time.
It was less than a month later that I fell in love. I had a friend who was, to be honest, a bit retarded. His parents paid for him to live in a trailer park and have a few luxuries which he could pay for with his disability check. We never had sex, but he was nice to me and was always welcoming, especially if I came over with some beer or weed to share with him. He didn’t care that I wore panties, in fact we would sit together and watch movies while drinking and smoking, me in my panties and him in his Fruit of the Loom undies. I think he was in love with John Wayne and I was cool with watching his films, especially The Quiet Man. I fantasized about being Katherine Hepburn, dragged off into a life of married bliss by such a strong man.
We were sitting there one night watching a movie when his phone rang. He had written his phone number down in a restroom stall and some man had called him to take him up on the promise of a free fuck. I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but I found myself on the phone with that strange man, blushing when he asked me if I wanted to be fucked. I told him I did and he told me he would be right there in 20 minutes.
It was only about fifteen minutes later when he banged on the door and introduced himself. I tried to hide it, but I was so hot I could barely contain myself. He took the other guy into the bedroom and stuck his thumb up his ass while he beat off. For me, it was a different story.
He made love to me, gently and then roughly, ramming his rampant hardness into me as I lay there pleading for him to go deeper. We both came and were panting out our passion with him folding his arm around me while I lay there under his bulk, my passion sated for the moment. That feeling of peace and satisfaction was replaced with terror when I heard my father banging on the front door of the trailer. I quickly cleaned myself up and sprayed some perfume on me to pretend I had been having sex with a woman while he hid in the bathroom.
I didn’t know it until later, but that man was the one I was going to marry. I didn’t realize it until much later and to be honest, I was scared to death of the very notion. I fell in love with him that night even though I couldn’t admit to myself that he was almost exactly what I wanted. He was strong and masterful and made me almost cum in my panties with wanting him.
I called him the next day and we made a date. We went to his apartment and had more wild and wonderful sex, but that was just a side dish. I was lost in the fantasy that a man would love me as his woman, that he would and could make me feel that way. One night when I wanted so badly to be with him, he refused to come get me because it was storming badly and he was afraid to cross the bridge. I spent the afternoon and evening trying to figure out a way to get across so he would come and get me.
I was desperate for his love and his lovemaking, it was an ache deep in my soul that I had never yet known. I had merely thought I was in love before, but this time, I was sure. It didn’t happen that night, but I had an epiphany as I lay in bed crying myself to sleep.
I was in love! I had fallen so deeply for this man that nothing else mattered. So what if he was 20 years older than me! The thing that mattered was that he had called me his girl and had made love to me. I was an impressionable 17 year old and I had found a man to love who would love me back.
He said he wanted me to come over the next night, but he couldn’t pick me up because he was working. I took it upon myself to take the bus out toward his apartment complex but when I got of the bus, I was completely lost. I called and told him the name of the road I was on but it wasn’t one he knew. Neither of us realized it right then, but I was less than a mile from his home. Luckily, my street smarts led me to his complex, and even though to this day I think he was trying to mislead me, I arrived at his door, dirty and disheveled.
He took me out to dinner at a little Chinese buffet hole in the wall and afterward we came back to his place and made love and it was everything I had been dreaming about. His touch made me shiver, his caress made me moan, and I’m pretty sure we woke up the neighbors. He tried to make me be quiet, and that is something that has held to this day. I might feel like screaming and moaning, but I bit my teeth and keep quiet, so the neighbors won’t hear.
It was only about a month later that my parents kicked me out again because I couldn’t pay them what they wanted for rent and I wouldn’t obey their rules(which included going to that horrible church).
We talked about me moving in, and he told me that he didn’t love me, but he was willing to try, so we would give it a trial period. At the end of the three months, neither one of us could imagine life without the together, so we made a pact to give it another six months. I still had not told him of my true desires.
When I did, about 4 months into it, he recoiled. He told me flat out that he was gay and never wanted a woman and if that was what I had to be, he didn’t want me. I cried for about a month, then realized that I wanted love even more than I needed to be myself, so I agreed that I would live with him as his male lover.
I managed to surpress myself in his presence for the next 8 years. I had quite a few semi-suicidal episodes during that time, but my point of ultimate crisis came when I could no longer accept that and I began to self medicate behind his back. I had a lung infection and went to one of those private clinics where I discovered that the drawers in the exam room were filled with estrogen supplements. I stole every single packet of them. I stole bras and panties from the laundry room at the apartment complex. I dressed as fully as I could whenever he was out of the house.
I was thrilled when people started calling me maam on the phone and at drive-throughs. Then the pills ran out, and I had no money to get more. About a year after that, he had a heart attack and I thought my world had ended. I thought he was going to die and I was once again going to be left alone. I was so overcome with my own grief that I almost missed the signs that something else was wrong. I was trying to feed him and he was falling out and almost choking on the food. He would chew a couple of times and then fall out with the food still unchewed and in danger of choking him.
He knew something was wrong and asked what meds they had him on. I had taken a medical terminology class at that point and was able to tell him that they had him on Morphine. I knew that it was a common treatment for heart attack patients but he told me that he was hypersensitive to it and that was in his medical records. I knew that his medical records also contained the fact that he was gay.
At that point I put 2 and 2 together and got 4. I shut off his IV, went directly to the nurses station in the ICU and started to raise hell. The nurses were nice and apologetic and told me that the doctor was a “Very Christian man”. I ordered them not to treat him any further until I had a chance to speak with the doctor. He met me in the waiting room and I started in on him.
The bastard actually had the gall to mention the fact that hubby was gay and said that he had just followed the standard course of treatment. At that point, I completely lost it. I didn’t break any bones, but I certainly threw him around a bit and destroyed the waiting room. I wanted to kill him so badly. What I did instead, although it took a couple of years, was ruin him professionally.
The nurses had to have known what was going on because they never even called security on me. I know they heard the whole thing because the waiting room was only separated from the nurses’ station by a couple of pieces of sheetrock and I know full well I threw him through at least one of them. Within 10 minutes, there was another cardiologist there, one I knew and trusted, who had treated his father when he had heart trouble. I told him what was going on and he was pretty much beside himself in his own anger.
The medical treatment end of things immediately got better and the first doctor was banned from ICU. He was later ejected from the practice that both doctors had been a part of because they found out he had been preaching to people and telling them that the only way they would live was if they accepted Jesus as their lord and savior. One of the people he had done this to was an elderly Jewish woman. She raised all sorts of unholy hell. That and my own very loud and strident complaints convinced the other doctors that they could not afford to be associated with him any longer.
The truth is that if I were to meet the man on the street at this point, I would attack him. I didn’t know the whole story until much later, but now I am convinced that he was trying to kill my husband because of his own religious beliefs. I have no idea how many people he has killed or let die in the name of his beliefs, but the anger that causes is something beyond simply furious. It is more along the lines of a cold killing rage. I know for a fact that if I ever meet Dr. Miller again, only one of us will come out of that meeting alive.
Even writing this, 12 years later, I am literally shaking with rage. That man is probably a part of why I did not pursue one of my dreams, to become a doctor.
Anyway, I did get a birthday present that year. Hubby had his heart attack on February 27th, 1997. My gift, the most precious I will ever have, is that he was alive on March 1st, the day I turned 25. I thank Dr. Grayson and the dedicated nursing staff in the ICU for that.
There is more, and more detail, but right now I have to stop and cry for a bit.