I rode my motorcycle up coastal highway one. I was looking for a busy trucker bar. A loud and full joint where a little gal like me won’t be likely to be remembered. I pulled over when I came to the right place. It was packed.


I take my time to survey the bar, I am looking for a particular type. I spot a candidate sitting alone beside a frosty beer looking a little lonesome. His face is handsome enough, his clothes clean, but some of the oil stains didn’t come out in the last wash. He is a long distance trucker. I know the type. I have often drank from them.


I sit down in front of him. He looks up surprised, but pleased. I order us a round and we start to talk. I don’t ask if he’s married and he doesn’t bring it up, even though it is obvious to me that he is. About an hour later I am riding beside him in his truck going to a motel. I told him I would have been satisfied with the back of the truck, but he shook his head and patted my thigh. He is a gentleman. I won’t kill him.


It is while he begins to undress me that I bite his neck. He moans and his head falls back. I tighten reflexively. He stays in that position the entire time I feed. He doesn’t know what I’m doing, and he’s had a few drinks to make him not care either. The hot blood flooding my mouth, the heat of his desires, his heart beating so hard and wild that I barely had to suck. I flash back to drinking from a water fountain when I was a kid. It was enough of a rude awakening that I pulled back and licked the wound closed.


I drank a pint. He will sleep deep and maybe wake up with a slight headache. He won’t remember me. They seldom do.