A Cuddler On My Six - A Traveler's Commentary

Written by SamIAm

Monday, 23 September 2019

image for A Cuddler On My Six - A Traveler's Commentary
Aw! Someone wants to cuddle!

Simon Trevoc travels the country meeting new people, then tells us all about it. Join him in his new adventure.


A sultry July night. I'm driving west on I-80 at ninety-one miles per hour. Headlights in my rearview draw closer and closer. Through the glare, I can see a lone driver. A woman - long, black hair, pale face like Morticia Addams.

She tails me dangerously, nearly bumper to bumper. Closer. Closer. She stays on me for forty-eight miles. I am grim-faced and nervous at first - even angry. Another damn cuddler. Then I smile.

I pull into the Little America Truck Stop and park. Damn, I need a drink! I'm still sitting there when she pulls in beside me. I see her car in full. A black '68 GTO. She glances my way momentarily, but looks through me with her Morticia eyes, as if I were transparent. Under my breath I say, "Hm. Love 'em and leave 'em, I guess."

She climbs out, her dress as black as her car. She strolls suggestively toward the doors, hips swaying like a pendulum blade. She looks back over her shoulder, sees me staring.

I light a cigarette and roll down my window. I do not break her gaze. To look away would be like looking away from a wild animal. It would mean weakness. I suck in a lungful of smoke and exhale it like a hungry demon. In a rough, weary voice that slices into my raw windpipe like paper cuts, I ask her, "Was it good for you too, sweet cheeks?"

She turns completely back around to face me squarely. My gut clinches. Uh-oh. She rests her slight weight on her hip, hands and arms flat to her sides - again, like Morticia. "Listen, sweet cheeks, she says in a voice like poisoned honey, "God knows what you have encrusted on your mud flaps, your chassis looks a little weak." She points at my car, "And I just don't think there's enough power in that little Prius of yours to thrill me." Then, she simply turned and disappeared through the doors.

Suddenly, I didn't want a drink anymore. I sat back in my seat and thought about what she'd said. I wasn't driving a Prius. I was in a blood-red, '68 Shelby Fastback, so I have no idea wha--

I laugh suddenly and start the car. Backing out I say, "Damn. She just called my dick a Prius. That's harsh."

Still laughing, I drive west into the black.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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