Hitchhike wife

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It was another drizzling Saturday. As usual I sat alone and horny, looking out the window at the gloom. It was almost noon, but I still hadn't been able to summon the energy to dress.

Phil. Phil. I called his name to myself. Phil Manners. Mrs. Phil Manners.

That was me. Mrs. Phil Manners. Sherry Manners. God, when he'd popped the question, I'd said yes so fast that he hadn't been able to finish the sentence. I wanted that big hunk of handsome trucker all to myself. I thought all I had to do was get him to utter those wedding vows and I'd have him forever. We'd live happily ever after.

What I didn't realize at the time, of course, was that no matter how big and handsome he is, a trucker is a trucker. Nobody owns one of those guys. Including my Phil.

Don't get me wrong. Phil still loves me. And God knows how I love him. It's just that it's impassible for a trucker to stay in one place all the time. Which means he's exposed to a lot of temptation on the road. Even though I knew Phil loves me, I also know he probably fucks around some on the road. Especially over two years after our wedding. I try and tell myself that I should get used to the idea, but it still tears me up inside.

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