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Tami in the nighttime trucker world

Our Unintentional Nudist, trying to get home, without being found by the police.

I’d be terrified if I had to cling onto the top of a truck like this. Wouldn’t you be? I’d have the urge to let go and die. I had the same feeling about Lt. Towelewska hanging onto the helicopter rope with the Mediterranean Sea thousands of feet below. Then again, if I was actually in that situation . . .

I first met this nighttime world years ago when trying to hitchhike eastward from California, talking to truckers at the diner I was trying to get a ride from.

The bit about truckers not caring about what’s on top of the truck bodies was prompted by a TV news report I saw some time afterward, about sheets of ice/snow falling off the top and endangering motorists driving behind. They interviewed truckers who expressed no interest in inspecting what’s up there. It must be hard to reach anyway.

Also: Tami, in a tropical paradise. Her first experience in wading into warm water was inspired by my first experience in the Gulf of Mexico, driving down to Pensacola in 1980, and then walking onto the beach. It was a surprise.

She looked carefully at the dim shadow on the top of the truck body below, the shadow of her crouched form thrown by the little streetlight some distance behind her. It would be a jump of about eight feet, easy to make. Nobody would hear her; the sound of the idling engines was too deafening. This was a big truck stop, filled with snoozing truckers and idling trucks at roughly (she guessed) about three o’clock in the morning. She had her eye on the flatbed over there, the one with the big upright concrete cylinders, that would probably would end up as a water main.

The naked girl jumped, landing expertly and softly with hands and feet thumping at the same time onto the dirty metal. Not that loud a thump. She looked back up at the overpass, part of the ramp from the interstate. She had done this so many times, a naked ghost lurking and hopping through this nighttime shadow world of truckstops. Now she looked over at the truck with the cylinders, and began planning how to get from here to there.

What! The truck lurched under her. She fell forward, stopping herself by putting her hand down. It turned out this trucker wasn’t asleep like the others. She frantically looked around but there was no safe place to hop off. As the truck shifted with a jolt out of crawling gear and huffed under the overpass she ducked, even though there was plenty of clearance.

In a minute Tami was riding naked on top of the truck trailer, booming down the interstate at 65 mph. To keep from getting knocked off by the stiff blowby she had no choice but to fall flat on her tummy on the cold dirty metal, hands grabbing over the front lip. What made it even worse was she was going the wrong way. The concrete cylinder truck had come from the south and would be going north. But this truck was heading south. From South Carolina!

She closed her eyes as the wind caused tears to run down and immediately evaporate before they could make it halfway down her cheeks. She felt the wind whistling over her butt cheeks, around her breasts, past her heels and toes. It was cold, there was a terrific wind chill even though the temperature was not low. Her hair flew back wildly. She looked ahead whenever she could, making things out through her teary eyes. She prayed, her big fear being that her head would slam against a low-clearance bridge. Fortunately there seemed little danger of that, as she realized that there were trucks going by with higher bodies. Truckers must know this highway well and would not travel on it if the bridges were too low.

Also it was fortunate that no one could see her. She remembered once again that the police were on the lookout for her, or so she had to assume. Now that she knew Sarah Wickland could be trusted, she wished she had sounded her out about that instead of staying mum.

And now the flash of lightning and it began to rain. It was an icy shower of needle-like bullets that stung her from her arms down to her calves, making the truck metal feel warm by comparison. “P - please God . . .” She felt in real danger now, from hypothermia. And there was no escape. She felt the slickness under her crushed breasts and her shivering thighs and her hands clamped onto the front lip with an iron grip. To slip or let go would mean certain death. She had to pee and just let it go, no doubt it mixed with the rain and simply washed off the back of the truck.

She turned her head to see the sunrise. The clouds were passing and had let the sun through. Soon the rain stopped. She wondered who could see her now. Who ever looked up on top of truck bodies? Probably never even the truckers themselves. Probably only people walking on overpasses, an unlikely prospect in this wilderness. She saw pines and now palm trees here and there.

She must be getting close to the coast, but it had been south all the way. She absolutely had to get off this truck and backtrack somehow. At this rate she would never get home, let alone back to college in time for the fall semester, which began the day after Labor Day.

It was mid-morning when the truck finally slowed and came to a stop. She lay there with weary eyes, feeling the hot sun on her back, her body slimy against the wet, dirty metal that was getting warm also. After a few minutes she tentatively brought her legs up under her and raised her head to look around. The trucker had stopped at a diner on an outer road. The naked girl looked to the other side. No one there, just palm trees and bushes. Knowing by now that hesitation could be fatal, she steadied herself, then jumped all the way down, her bare feet plopping ankle-deep into the muddy unpaved ground. And now she ran, kicking the mud up behind her. No one was there to see her.

She crouched in the bushes and wondered where she was. She heard the sound of ocean behind her. A sign on the road said, “Mariposa 8 miles”. Now she wandered wearily through the low brush, leaning against palm tree after palm tree, and heard the surf get closer. A few more steps and she found herself on a beautiful deserted beach. To her surprise she found a banana tree next to her, the bananas all yellow and ripe, and gratefully ate one. Then she gathered some more to her breasts and plopped her butt down onto the sand, eating bananas and looking at the endless ocean in front of her and wondering what to do. The Atlantic, she guessed. Or maybe it was the Gulf of Mexico. A paradise, she wished Rod was here to share it with her. But of course she had to get going.

She finished the last of the bananas and buried the peels in the sand. Well, there would be nothing like a nice bracing swim. The naked girl ran up to the surf and prepared to jump in.


She had known only the cold waters of the North Atlantic, out on Cranston Beach, in Rhode Island, and then of the Pacific, that one time when she had that dream about the Mexican girl and the C-string. But now there was warm water swirling around her toes. It was a wonderful surprise.

“Ooooohhh . . .” She couldn’t help smiling as she went further and further in, the frothy bubbly water caressing her like a warm whirlpool bath as it went up her legs, past her pussy, and then finally over her breasts. It was so relaxing. She ducked underwater and slithered like an eel, once again enjoying the currents against every curve and crevice of her body, this time warm and comforting like swimming around in a great big womb. This was a gift from God, and about time too, after the rough times she had recently been through! After a few minutes she wandered back out of the water like a rather pooped Venus reborn, then dropped down in the shade of a palm tree and began a long, long, pleasant sleep.

. . . .

Thus began Tami’s life at what she quickly christened “Honeymoon Beach”. It was a paradise. First there was the solitude. There was no sign of civilization anywhere, except for the big ships she occasionally saw way out on the ocean. Then there was the food. Bananas everywhere, and mangoes, and even some wild pineapples. And coconuts. She had gravitated toward a little shady spot surrounded by big rocks, in the center of which was just clear sand, a nice soft bed. To one side was a stand of coconut trees, slanting out toward the ocean. The coconuts were not right over her, there was no danger of being hit. But she was intrigued. The bark scraped roughly on her breasts and thighs, but she shimmied up all the way to the top, foot by foot, and finally pried a couple of coconuts loose. When she hopped softly down onto the sand she hit them against rocks until they split. The milk inside was delicious, like water but with a gentle nutty taste. The pulp she scraped out with one of the many shells she found.

And a hundred yards from her bed, in from the beach, was a little stream that that fell into a pond before running into the ocean. Fresh water, and cool and delicious. She drank in it, played in it, it was so good and life was so good for a naked girl who had all she needed and had no need of clothes. If only Rod were here! A perfect place for Adam and Eve.

The days went by slowly and she enjoyed the time passing. She remembered a book she had read in high school, “Island of the Blue Dolphins”, about a teenage girl who lived by herself on an island, off California maybe, and she remembered thinking how incredibly boring it must have been to do that. But this was not boring at all. Figuring out how to climb the coconut tree, watching the ships slowly cross the horizon, carefully making meals for herself from the vegetation -- she spent hours doing these things, being interested every minute. What brought this home to her was her method of keeping time. Every morning she would put another rock in front of her bed. She was surprised to see one morning that there were five rocks -- and it seemed like she had just gotten there! If it weren’t for her need for human companionship, she could see how she could spend the rest of her life here and spend it happily.

She thought of Rod often. And the warm, easy life brought the desire back into her veins. She was always using bananas as something other than food. She would lay under the little waterfall at the pond with the spout of water centered right over her clit, lying there in the soft mud very comfortably, and look at the blue sky as she drifted from orgasm to orgasm. Thank you, God . . .ohhh . . .thank you . . . OHH! She could really indulge her boundless sexual capacity now. She would stay there all morning, for hours. Maybe, just maybe, she broke her own record. But she was too lazy to count!

By anchoring her feet and stretching her legs, she did her old trick of opening up her pussy as the warm fresh water poured inside. Now she flipped around and opened her butthole to fill her rectum. Giggling, she decided to imitate a whale. With crimped steps she ran to the ocean and dove in. Slithering underwater, she emerged and stuck her butt up. A stream of water blew explosively out of her butt, straight up. This was a neat trick, and real perverted too. She laughed at herself but kept on practicing until she became an expert at it.

The wide beach became a big blackboard. With sticks and triangle-shaped rocks she went through the proofs of the Pythagorean theorem. Then she thought of ways to express other mathematical rules, using only sticks and rocks and lines. Maybe she was discovering something. Probably not, though. The ancient Greeks had the experience of hundreds of years of writing on beaches like she was doing.

And, sitting on the sand, watching the tides go in and out, she got to thinking about the great curse of her life and how to undo it. The motions of tides, of the earth and the sun, gave her perspective. The way to get out of it, she decided, was by the truth.

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