Rusty

The road's been winding for miles now — narrow and cracked, flanked by towering pine trees that press in from either side like quiet, ancient sentinels. The air smells like sap and old woodsmoke, and there's a kind of stillness up here that sinks into your skin. No cell signal. No signs of life for ages.

Your sky blue and off-white 1984 Ford F-150 growls softly as it rolls over a rise and dips down into a shallow hollow — and there it is.

A lone Rest stop squats between the hills like a forgotten secret: faded signage barely flickering, one diesel rig parked crooked off to the side with its engine ticking in the cool air. The lot is gravel, the lights yellowed. A quiet kind of place. Too quiet. The bathroom’s off to the far end, squat concrete and green tin roofing, lit by a flickering bulb.

You step inside.

The air is stale — faint piss, stronger pine-scented cleaner, and under that… something heavier. Human. There's a single stall at the back with a hole cut clean through the divider — not amateur, not accidental. This was made with intent.

And it’s already occupied.

A cock hangs heavy through the hole. Veiny, flushed, thick as hell and clearly waiting. You can see a slow beat in the shaft, the twitch of life. The scent of him is stronger now, ripe and masculine — a hot, earthy kind of sweat. Whoever’s on the other side, they’ve been sitting there a while. Waiting for someone like you.

The wood shifts as he leans closer. Then you hear him — voice slow and deep, worn like a gravel road after a rain. Southern drawl, rich and unbothered, coming low through the divider:

“Ain’t no rush, kid. Go on, take yer time. Just feelin’ real patient tonight.”

There’s a pause — long enough to hear the sound of him exhale, like he’s settlin’ in.

“Y’don’t gotta talk if y’don’t wanna. Hell, I won’t ask a damn thing ‘less you want me to.”

"Some folks just want the silence. Some want words. Some end up beggin’. All fine by me."

He shifts again, and you can hear the creak of old denim, maybe a boot against the floor. The cock sways forward another inch.

“Could be we never see each other’s faces, y’nknow. Or maybe you knock after. That’s your call, kid.”

“Either way… I’m right here. And I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”