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TOTALLY NUDE TRUCK WASH BABES
When was it ever a treat to take I-10 East out of Houston? Maybe, if you were off for a dirty weekend in New Orleans, some fine spring day? But then the smart money would fly, rather than spend five hours looking at nothing, not to mention Beaumont, Port Arthur and Baton Rouge.
So anyway, we're driving out that way -- me and four colleagues in Dexter's lumbery old Lincoln, to visit the Exxon Chemical plant at Baytown.
Such good company, those boys. Such nice food too, if you like greasy BBQ lunches on paper plates, washed down with Dr. Pepper. Hey, you never go home constipated.
It's a 'refining consultancy to go' in the Linc. A car full of guys who know heat transfer and reaction kinetics, net positive suction head, downcomer design and reflux ratios. White shirts, highly focused small brains. Consultants, fit to advise and go home. Yeah, I'm one too, for now.
I do the systems integration, the UNIX, the computer stuff. I'm an outsider, they call me the 'how-the-fuck?' guy, because in the main, they don't get it.
It's a thrillingly cerebral conversation I'm listening to, today.
"Ah see Oscar's fahnally retahrin' at Coastal . . . Forty years, shit."
"Yeah. That asshole. We never did any bidness with them, y'know.
Musta pitched 'em fifty times. Too cheap."
"See this here Lyondell sale? Not a bad deal for Arco, huh, when you consider they couldn't run it themselves to save their lives?"
"Hey, safety boy!" A dig at another of my esteemed colleagues.
"See that story 'bout the gasoline barge in BR, didya? Coulda been here . . . lucky no shitferbrains cajun came by with a Marlboro, or it'd a been kerflooie louie, jambalaya and crawfish pie, hey!?"
Oh, I'm so bored by this . . .
Then, I see a sign.
Not a St. Paul on the road to Damascus sign, no.
A big red-lettered, handpainted sign saying: "Totally Nude Girl Truck Wash, $8."
"Whoa! Did anyone else see that?" I yell, surprising myself, too.
"See what, modem boy?"
"Nah. Couldn't have been. Still bab-tist country here, boy. Don't do that stuff."
"Yeah, I dunno," another seer says. "Eastside a town, remember?
Could be. Dirt poor, all kinds of weird folks. Yeah, rednecks too."
"But what . . .?" I attempt.
Some ribald speculation begins: "Helluvanidea, if it did say that, huh? Get some of those big cabs through, have nekkid babes crawling all over 'em with their tits and asses showin'?"
"Brushless, or what? Ha ha."
"Bumpin' fenders with 'em . . ."
"What do the Brits call whores? Scrubbers? Ha ha."
On the way back later, I'm looking out for it. But it's hard to spot things in the dark. I take a good look, believe me.
The next day is Saturday, and I decide to take a casual swing out that way mid-morning, in my F-150. Just in case . . .? Only a few miles from downtown, really. Just as I'm about to give up, there it is. The sign.
I didn't have dyslexia. It's there, just the way I read it!
I turn and double back under at the next exit, and follow the feeder. Coming from this way, it's less obvious. But here we are: it's signposted as a turn up a narrow, shaded side street. This is a sleazy part of town, fly-blown, ratty, behind the endless vistas of appliance repair stores and second hand car lots. I'm becoming sure it's a con, a practical joke. What could be here, really? Could it be dangerous? I doubt it. I drive into what must have been a subdivision once, over potholed roads.
Christ, this is like Baja California back here. There's not a car from later than 1985 in sight. I decide it's time to give up, look for a driveway to turn round in that doesn't have a car sitting up on blocks.
But no. On a leaning phone pole, covered in climbing ivy and moss.
Another handlettered sign: "TNGTW." I follow red arrows, and swing into a high wooden fenced yard, by an old warehouse. And, ah, this must be it . . .
An old car wash machine, pre-brushless era. My truck won't fit in that, for sure. Oh well. But separately, in a patch of bright sunlight there's a concrete pad, with hoses, soap squirter bottles, squeegees, chamois leathers, buckets and brushes laid out on long folding tables on either side. And standing right in the center of the driveway, beckoning me on, a naked woman. I slam on the brakes. I mean, she's totally naked, but for a pair of flipflops sandals and an Amoco baseball cap. A thirtyish blonde with an all-over tan. The exotic dancer type, but not exaggerated. I think her tits are the ones she was genetically endowed with, not some Dow Corning revamp/expansion job. The blonde hair, that's natural too, I see.
I wind down the window, and she nods a greeting, tells me with a smile: "We charge $10 for these bigwilly cityslicker trucks, mister."
"Uh, well, that's still cheap!" I splutter, peeling off a bill and handing it over.
She gives me that 'Oh, A Yankee,' look.
"Well, what do you expect? For that price, we wash cars and trucks.
And that's all, hon."
"But, uh, nude?"
"Why not? Saves getting your clothes wet. It's nice and cool . . .
and guys like it, for some reason."
Oh, really? No shit!
"But, why? Uh, I mean, well how come, I suppose?"
"Most of us are geologists' wives, and we have to feed the family somehow."
"But, that exploration sector depression's over, isn't it?"
"Yeah? Could have fooled me. Suppose . . . If you want to go drill in Azerbaijan or somewhere. Anyway. We all like the money."
That, I get.
The suds team is gathering, four or five of them are now in sight.
They sport different oil company caps, one has bare feet. But they're all deliciously naked. Mostly thirtyish like the first woman, Anglos most of them. Not real crowd pleasers, but look, what do you expect for $10, with a truckwash thrown in too? I even spot a couple who might be teenage daughters hovering by the little shack at the back of the yard, keeping their distance. Perhaps they only do compact cars?
"What about detailing?" I ask as they gather round, all grinning and bubbly. I'm getting a huge erection. These women are tastier than I thought.
One of the newcomers, a tall brunette, says to the acting receptionist: "Cute. They all say it a different way, don't they? Guys, I mean."
"You mean what, exactly?" I'm asked by the first one.
"Well, like, interior work," I mumble.
"Oh, you want a naked babe in the truck with you, *polishing*
something, huh, big boy?" another giggles.
"Well, not exactly polishing, more like hoovering . . ." I rejoinder, smiling in my best Don Juan style.
"Ah, got you. Another $50."
"You mean, you do?!" I'd only been kidding, really.
"You know exactly what you mean, and I know what I mean." She raises her eyebrows, purses her lips, subtly. "Cash in advance, though."
So I pay her, and there's a quick huddled discussion. A little blonde in a Shell baseball cap -- a sweetheart in her twenties with curly shoulderlength hair and firm round breasts -- climbs in, gives me a huge toothpaste smile, and asks perkily: "Are you the guy who wants a blow job?"
I nod furiously. She grins: "Lost your voice, darlin'?"
She slides across the bench seat, snuggles up close, expertly unzips me, and goes to work with both hands and her tongue, like she skipped breakfast. I normally watch what goes on in car washes carefully, but you know something? I didn't pay as much attention as I might have done here, with this gorgeous babe sucking hungrily on my prong.
Before I know it, she's brought me to the point of coming, and with a quick series of spurts, I'm done. That was ultrafast, for me. She looks up into my eyes, murmurs: "tasty!". Then she turns her head, and looks back at her friends, sponging, buffing, hosing away, tits and asses jiggling nicely. There are dribbles of spunk on her chin.
She points: "What about this muck on the windscreen?" Eeugh. It's on her tongue as well.
"It's bird shit, I think . . ."
"Stuck on, too. Want it washed off?"
"Is that extra?"
"Depends on how it's done . . . Aha! I think you'd like to see it scrubbed off the fun way, huh? With the old pubic squeegee, rubadub, rubadub, up-and-down, up-and-down?"
I nod enthusiastically. "Yes, well, that'd be . . . interesting."
"Then Warren'll buff it."
What did she say, exactly? Maybe that was Lauren?
She waves to a Hispanic woman, who's already climbing up onto the hood. Miss B.J. taps on the window glass, makes a vigorous circular rubbing motion.
"Just tip her properly, okay . . .We'll put on some disco music and she'll have it scrubbed off in a minute or two," I'm told with a flutter of eyelashes.
The dark-haired woman -- authentic, again -- squirts soap all over the goop on the screen, puts another handful on her pubes, and starts humping the screen. Watch out for the wipers, ouch!
The bubbly blonde watches this action too, and strokes herself in time to the music. She sniffs her fingers, and smiles. I stare hungrily at her parted thighs, wishing. She sees this, and poses coquettishly, putting one foot up on the seat so her labia open and reveal the pinkness of her slit. She meets my stare, then looks down to let me know she has seen that my cock is stirring again. And without any prompting, she is back at work, hunched over my lap, tweaking and tugging. A good squeeze, and I'm stiffening rapidly. She gives a satisfied sigh and bends to swallow my cock again.
"I, uh, look, I mean . . ." I say intelligently, wondering if they take credit cards.
She looks up, dewy-eyed, takes my penis out of her mouth for a moment, and says with a polite little grin: "Take it easy, hon. We don't charge for refills here. Besides, I'm hungry. Now, relax." And before I can reply, she's licking and sucking again, the soul of southern hospitality.
By the time she's through -- there's nothing about fellatio she doesn't know -- my truck is clean and shining, and her colleagues are peering in the windows, chatting among themselves, lighting up cigarettes, fixing their hair, checking their make-up.
Now it's a week later, and I admit I'm finding it hard to go more than a day without a stop. Exxon's my biggest customer, on the timesheets anyway, and my truck is the cleanest on Westheimer. But I've still not taken my consulting buddies there. These backstreet women are becoming like family to me, and I don't think I want them bouncing around nude in front of my colleagues, let alone showing them all these excellent stress management techniques . . . or letting them hear about the 'full service'