A Journey Down I-95 Filled with Intrigue and Desire

The journey to Florida was forecast to be a long one, so we timed our trip with some extra time to allow for stopping several times along the way. This helped my smoking habit as well, since I knew I wouldn't be able to last more than an hour or so without one, unless I was dead asleep. As we passed D.C. I started to crave, so I made my girl pull over at the very next rest stop, and the next, and the next. I could tell she was starting to get annoyed. But I knew she didn't get it. As smoking hot as she is, she doesn't smoke.
It came to the point where I started keeping track of our location by how the rest stops looked. After all, each state has a different cookie cutter that the buildings come from, all along I-95. If they were generally nice to look at and pass through, I knew we were in Maryland. If I felt like I needed a Tetanus shot after using one, I knew I was further south. If there were huts selling sunglasses out front (in February), I knew we were just below Jacksonville, just hours from our final destination. While I could always use sunglasses and a bite to eat at one of the nicer ones where I didn't want to get tested after visiting, I preferred the seedy ones. They were much less crowded and relaxing.
All the way down the interstate, we saw cars and trucks from all over, even a surprising number hailing tags from Canada on their asses. This was a great opportunity for a people watcher like me. I would love to look in other people's cars, see what they were up to, who they were with, and then write a whole life story in my head for some that seemed to pique my interest. There were those that I could tell were running late for wherever they were going, either shaving, or putting on make-up with the visor mirror in front of their eyes. The Activists were the ones with too many bumper stickers, ones with too many opinions. Half the time their back seats were full of junk, like they were garnering supplies for some sort of covert mission for PETA. The White Bitches were my least favorite, thinking that whomever they were driving were the most precious cargo on the highway, and needed to get them wherever they needed to go, even if that meant cutting me off and making me swerve into the guardrail. Not a good time.
Generally speaking, you tend to see a lot of the same cars when you're driving across the country on the same well-traveled route. The same people pass you, lag behind when they stop somewhere, then pass you again. The same trucks with whatever mega-brand emblazoned along the side of the trailer seem to tear down the road. The same people hang outside their cars and smoke a cig at almost every rest stop. When a new car pops up through the monotony, you tend to take notice.
My girl was sleeping one particular leg of the journey when I decided to stop at the first rest stop I could find after passing into Georgia. I didn't even bother waking her up. I made sure she was nestled comfortably, and locked her in while I went about my business. I first made my way to the bathroom. I was the only one in there, thankfully, as there were no separations between the stalls. The last thing I needed was some queer staring me down as I take a piss.
The gallon of Diet Coke I drank in the first few hours of our drive was making its way out into the porcelain pisser. I knew I'd be standing there for a while. Note to self: caffeine, though necessary for an all-nighter such as this, comes with some serious consequences, including but not limited to my dick turning into a fire hose for a couple minutes. Normally I'm a just-unzip kind of pisser, but I decided to get comfortable. I unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped and let it all hang out. I needed the air, seeing as how I had been stuck in the driver's seat of a coupe for the majority of the night. The release sent shivers down my spine. You know what I'm talking about guys. Sometimes it just feels that good.
I let my dick hang freely as it drained, and propped myself up against the tiled wall with both hands. I knew it would probably be the most comfortable position I would be in all night. So comfortable I almost fell asleep. But then I heard footsteps from outside. Fuck, I thought. I turned so that my back was toward the door, hiding my dick. The footsteps smacked on the tile as he entered the bathroom. I could sense him at the urinal at the very end, doing his business. All clear.
My paranoia fluttered away, and I propped myself up straight again. I threw my head back to look at the ceiling. Just something us guys do. My eyes were wandering, from the paint peels, to the window, to--the guy at

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