It was a steamy mid-August night outside of Bismarck, North Dakota. My cherry-red 1987 Yugo got a flat on Route 94 and I had to hoof it through the darkness to a truckstop. It was the kind of place that was stuck in time, like your Uncle's wood-paneled fishing cabin in Minnesota. After a quick meal of a lifeless burger on a soggy bun and even soggier fries, I made my way to the parking lot to see if I could hitch a ride to a local garage. While wandering the rows of trucks that sat beneath the parking lot lights like mighty sentinels at rest, I stumbled upon a bearded trucker listening to Hank Williams on his CB radio. Our eyes met, and he waved me over to his rig. Sitting high above me like a hairy demi-god behind his chrome steering wheel, his eyes just barely peeping out from beneath his Pennzoil baseball cap, he pointed to the back of his cab. Without exchanging a single word, we engaged in hours upon hours of amorous congress, our bodies slick with the moisture from the summer dew outside. When the sky began to brighten and the fireworks of our worlds colliding finally ceased, we nodded our heads, kissing deeply one last time. His breath was tinged with the hoppy aroma of Budweiser and his 5 o'clock shadow gently scraped my cheek as our lips parted. The ending of our brief, but memorable time together hit me like a ton of bricks. As I walked away into the dawn of a new day, I looked back, pumped my arm, and was greeted with a loud honk from his strong, hard semi-truck horn, startling me in a gentle manner, and forever bestowing upon me the gift of connecting that marvelous truck horn with one of the most wonderful, tawdry, and gloriously filthy nights of my life. Happy Pride, everyone.

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