Truck 26102 by Billy Nakasaki.

The light blue Freightliner Classic XL is flying down Interstate 40 across the forests of North Carolina. Its twin chrome stacks shine in the afternoon sun. She is numbered Truck 26102 a brand new 1998 model with a 70 inch high roof sleeper. Her Detroit Diesel engine purrs as the Skinhead behind her wheel smoothly operates her with the precision of a surgeon. His arms bulge, and sweat lightly covers his muscular body. His hard looking face is pieced (septum and bridge), as is his ears. He has plugs on both sides and five rings on his left ear, one ring on the right ear. His left arm is sleeved, while his knuckles are tat-ed with “SKIN” on the right and “HEAD” on the left. His upper right arm is tat-ed with the words, “Blue Collar for Life”. The back of his skull is tat-ed with his CB handle, “Skin Hauler”, which his skinhead brothers gave him.

I first met Skin Hauler fifteen days earlier at Fontana, Terminal in California. He’s one hell of a trucker, skinhead, and a sexy fuckin’ bastard. At 6’2”, 246 lbs (all muscle), blond hair (eyebrows and arm pits only), deep blue eyes, and 9 inch uncut cock. I light two cigarettes and hand one to Skin Hauler. He slaps the shaved side my head hard, so I bite his arm. The rig sways a little, but Skin Hauler has it under control. We both laugh, continue to smoke, and call each other names. Fag, queer, slut, homo, white trash, nip, honky, slant eyed bastard, red neck, nig’ga, skin, punk, jock, rich kid, pig fucker, Chink, Irish potato fucker, Spic, Cowboy, Injun, whore, asshole, bastard, shit head, mother fucker, it just goes on and on, until Tyler slaps me across the head again. I slap his bald head and notice that his bleached tight Wrangler can barely contain his growing bulge…

• Truck 26102 by: Billy Nakasaki

Big Rig Punk by Billy Nakasaki.

It’s a sunny spring day in Chino, California as I put the last of my gear into my Honda Civic. I give my mom, one last hug and pull out of the driveway. My old man stayed in the house. He’s pissed that I’m heading out and thinks what I’m about to do is stupid, dangerous, and low class. I waved good-bye as I head out and turn the corner; a feeling of great sadness threatens to break away to the surface but I hold it back, cau’z hard fuckin’ core punks don’t cry. I open the window to let the fresh cool morning air in. For once it isn’t filled with smog or the smell of millions of people that call the L.A. Metroplex home.

The midnight blue Civic flies down the freeways at redline to the terminal in Fontana. It’s my first day on the road and I don’t want to be late. The guard at the gate tells me to store my gear in the drivers’ lounge and put the Rice Rocket in the 4-wheeler storage lot. After throwing my gear down, I park the racer under some trees and start to cover her under the custom car cover. I pat her gently and kiss her since I won’t see her again for at least two months.

When I get back to the main terminal I, head to Driver-Check-In and find out that my trainer hasn’t arrived, yet. So, I’m told to wait in the drivers’ lounge. By now there are several drivers (Truckers) in the lounge watching T.V., talking, or playing cards. When I open the door and walk in the room literally stops. I’m 6′3″ (actually 5″8″) with a green Mohawk, brown eyes, studded leather jacket with spikes a blue shelve and a green shelve, Oxblood GripFast Boots, green torn cammo shorts with patches of Rancid, the Business, Oxymoron, Dropkick Murphys, plaid ass flap, and a bid sneer on my face. Most of the drivers are stunned, except one short dude who’s sizing me up. I lock eyes with him and the staring contest begins. He blinks first, but gets the first word…

• Big Rig Punk by: Billy Nakasaki
   

Mohawked Depunking Spanking by Ron.

Ronny was a little punk alright. He had hair 3 4 the way down his back, blond and wavy - sometimes curling at the ends if it was humid. He wore his bangs of long hair down over his eyes to the tip of his nose as often as possible, just to aggravate all the adults and dudes who hated his long hair. He wore impossibly baggy jeans that sagged all the way down his butt most days, cinched with a belt just under the round of his boxered rearend. He loved wearing nylon or silk boxers that were shiny and slippery to accent the saggin routine. Throughout the day, he would often have to pull up his pants - of course he would only pull them up to about 1 2 way up his butt and then let the S…L…I…D…E begin again. He usually would reach down to his crotch (between his knees usually) and yank the cool pants up. He wore heavy leather boots to make himself look taller they had thick soles and heels. He wore several chains that were slung along the length of his leg, the lowest reaching his knee. His earrings and leather choker set everything else off. He strutted down the hallways at school, and ruled the roost, telling off anyone he didnt like and tormenting kids who had less self esteem - even though many of them were bigger physically than this little punk!…

• Mohawked Depunking Spanking by: Ron
   

Street Punk by Dewayne836.

Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have mouthed off in front of him. I knew better.

He was a cop, and I was a punk, and we both knew the rules. You want out, you suck cock. Trouble was, I was straight. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for a guy’s rights and all, but I just didn’t figure myself mouthing all over some ex-army braggart’s hard, and uncut cop cock.

“That’s it, Ayrn. Get your ass over here.”

Fuck. I was new bait now. If only I’d kept my mouth shut. My girlfriend was right: If I fucked as good as I bitched and groaned, I’d have a wife for life…

• Street Punk by: Dewayne836
   

Punk Dennis by frglee.

I picked him up by the side of the A12 somewhere south of Ipswich.

It was 1982 and I was returning back to London after a frustrating afternoon trying to sort out the import of my 750KZ that had just emerged from a container at Felixstowe. I’d bought the bike in the Middle East when working out there and when I left, I wanted the bike as well back home with me.

It was a cold day in November and my hire car was heading south when I got tired of the driving and pulled over into a layby where there was a tea bar and some trucks…

• Punk Dennis by: frglee
   

The Preppie and The Punk by Karla Schulz.

I’d noticed him, because even at our school a guy like that gets noticed. At least by someone like me. I’d definitely seen him before, but not like this, never up close. Always from relatively far away. A few meters at least…

• The Preppie and The Punk 1 by: Karla Schulz
   
• The Preppie and The Punk 2 by: Karla Schulz
   
• The Preppie and The Punk 3 by: Karla Schulz
   
• The Preppie and The Punk 4 by: Karla Schulz
   
• The Preppie and The Punk 5 by: Karla Schulz
   
• The Preppie and The Punk 6 by: Karla Schulz
   
• The Preppie and The Punk 7 by: Karla Schulz
   
• The Preppie and The Punk 8-11 by: Karla Schulz
   

Punk Rocker Musicians At The Motel by JB.

Its almost 4:30 in the morning of a weekend night. A minivan, several years old, towing a small aluminum-clad trailer, pulls up to the entrance of the cheapest motel in town. A slim young man gets out of the van and and enters the lobby. At the front desk he inquired as to the rate for a room for the night and when the clerk asked how many were in the party, replied four…

• Punk Rocker Musicians At The Motel by: JB