Page 18

18

Jeremiah Blake

The buzz of an incoming text wakes me, vibrating near me and rattling the contents of my skull. I feel around on my bedside table, eyes screwed shut against the evil otherwise known as daylight. When I accept defeat, I open them a crack and eventually find my phone in bed with me, along with a crumpled lined page with dots and arrows drawn in blue and red markers.

I sit up and smooth the page out. It has things like offside and onside written in large, untidy handwriting. Ben’s large, untidy handwriting. I smile at it for a while, then fold it in half and put it in my top drawer.

I remember I have a message waiting, so I plug my phone in to charge, and open my WhatsApp. My heart leaps when I see Ben’s name on my screen.

I feel rough

Oh! It’s the first message I’ve ever gotten from him, and I can hardly believe how adorable it is. He feels rough? He feels rough, and he’s messaging me about it. I’m so happy right now.

I take a screenshot to send to Ness and then remember things like privacy and discretion and decide against it. I’m sure Ben wouldn’t want me sharing our personal correspondence with others.

I feel rough too

Too many words and maybe a bit Pick Me . No. Delete.

Same.

No. Too few words.

Me too.

Perfect. I read what I’ve written back twice to check for typos and inappropriateness and hit send when I find none. He replies right away.

Worth it though.

I had a good time.

I manage not to squeal, but not by a lot.

Me too

Nope. Said that already. Delete.

Same.

Okay, that’s me done with being restrained. The man knows me. He’ll think it’s weird if I keep being appropriate.

FYI, I’m putting an extra shot in your coffee this morning

Thanks. I need it.

I fire off another message to the owner of the yoga studio. I’m calling in sick today. There’s no way I can teach yoga in this state. If I attempt downward dog right now, there’s no telling what could happen. And yes, I’m aware that what I’m doing is the exact opposite of the phasing-out plan I made a few days ago, but so what. A man can change his mind, and this isn’t even a real change of mind. It’s more like a little detour. A little blip. I’ll be back on the sensible wagon tomorrow.

Though I’m sorely tempted to make Ben’s coffee immediately and dash next door in my shorts, I opt for a nice shower and a change of clothes instead. I think it’s an encouraging sign that the sensible wagon isn’t completely out of reach for me.

After seven quick changes of T-shirt, I head out wearing a pair of jeans that hug my ass in a way I know affects gay men positively and a plain white T-shirt that has never been known to offend straight men. It’s called balance.

I pair it with oversized sunglasses.

When I get next door, I find Ben on the porch, on the swing, waiting for me. Either that, or he’s simply inhabiting the property he legally owns.

“Jeremiah,” he croaks, dragging my name out. He holds out his hand toward me and grasps at nothing until I place his mug in his hand. “Thank you.”

Gratitude rolls through his voice. It has the same effect on me as it did last night when he thanked me for coming over. It coats my skin, warming it and slithering all over me until it finds the tiny cracks and crevices that lead straight to my bloodstream. My entire body warms.

“The tequila was a mistake,” says Ben.

“Oh, yes,” I agree heartily. “A big mistake.” A mistake I’d make over again in a heartbeat because of how Ben looked when he poured it. Mischievous. Younger than his years, not older. Silver-blue alight and sparkling with the promise of fun.

“Where’s Luca?” I ask.

“Amy called this morning to check on me, and when she heard the state I was in, she offered to swing by and take Luca for the morning. He was amped.”

“She sounds like a saint.”

“She is. She really is.”

We sit on the swing, sipping our coffee in comfortable silence. A silence that’s broken now and again when one of us groans weakly. When we’ve drained our mugs, we put our heads back on the backrest of the swing and close our eyes. Ben uses his heels and the balls of his feet to rock us gently back and forth.

The earth and the sky and I spin around Ben.

Eventually, he says, “Is this making it better or worse?”

“Much worse,” I reply.

The swing comes to a gradual stop, and we start to cackle but think better of it when our heads pound from the force of the sound leaving our bodies. He gazes at me curiously, tilting his head back and to the side ever so slightly, then reaches out and uses a forefinger to slide my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose. Nerve endings sizzle as our eyes meet. Synapses spark and fire. Fine lines of concern appear around Ben’s mouth when he sees how bloodshot my eyes are. He winces and says, “Ouch.”

He looks at me, into me, for a few seconds. A couple of hours. A few years. I can’t tell which.

Then he pushes my glasses back up again.

I had no idea something like this could be arousing. But it can be. It really can. I’m so turned on I can’t move or talk or breathe, but I am able to smile. In fact, I can’t seem to stop.

“Knock, knock,” says a chipper male voice that snatches me from wherever I just was and plops me back into reality with a hard landing.

There are two men at Ben’s gate. An attractive blond one with what looks like a homemade apple pie in his hands and an obscenely big dark-haired one that looks prone to bad moods.

“As I live and breathe,” says Ben, getting to his feet. “Decker? McGuire? What the hell are you doing here?”

“We live here,” says the dark one. “Well, not here, but across the street. We’ve been meaning to come over and say hi, but we’ve been traveling for a few weeks, and there was this whole pie thing… So we weren’t able to get here before.”

“Geez, good to see you, man,” says Ben, extending a hand and politely ignoring that much of what the man said made no sense. “Been a while since I skated rings around you.”

The dark one looks ridiculously pleased, like Ben’s just given him a big compliment.

Ben turns to the blond one, hand outstretched. “Ben Stirling. Don’t think we’ve met off the ice. That was some season you just had, McGuire.”

The blond one shuffles the pie he’s holding, balancing it precariously on the palm of one hand so he can greet Ben, and says, “I’m a f-fan.”

The dark one looks at him, head dipping in sympathy, and slings an arm loosely around his shoulder. The blond one accepts the embrace and leans into it.

“This is my neighbor, Jeremiah Blake,” says Ben. He indicates to the blond one. “This is Robbie McGuire, and that’s Ant Decker. Vipers left and right wing respectively.”

“I know who they are,” I say to Ben out of the corner of my mouth. It’s true. I’ve seen both of them play against Ben in reruns of games. I turn to Robbie and Ant in turn. “Big fan. Love your work.”

It’s not flirtatious this time. It’s simply what you say when you meet famous hockey players.

“So, we tried to make you a pie,” says Robbie to Ben, “but we can’t bake for shit. It’s a hard no for us. What we bake really isn’t safe for people to eat.”

“Gee, thanks,” says Ben, voice trailing off as Robbie hands him the pie.

“No, no,” says Ant. “This pie is fine. Robbie’s dad came over and tried to teach us baking, and when that didn’t work out, he went ahead and made it himself. His food is fine. I eat it all the time, and I’ve never had a problem.”

“Yeah, we weren’t sure what you’d like best. It was between cherry and apple. I thought apple was more of a neutral, everyday kind of pie, but if you prefer cherry, we can get my dad back and…”

The conversation isn’t going particularly well. It’s a bit cringey. It’s clear both our guests are starstruck by Ben, and who can blame them for that. I feel for them, poor things. To save them from themselves, I say, “Great choice on the pie. Apple is undoubtedly the superior pie between the two. It’s easy eating, not too sweet…and plus, cooked cherries give me the runs.”

There.

I saved them.

They’re no longer uncomfortable. I am.

Ben and I stand on the porch and watch as they leave. When they’re out of earshot, he says, “How does apple pie and ice cream for breakfast sound?”

“Sounds like the exact thing that’s been missing from my life.”

As I follow him down the hall, he looks back, eyes glinting like they did last night when he poured the tequila. “What was all that about you being a fan of Mr. and Mr. Poetry On Ice back there?” One cheek creases and his mouth dips preemptively, announcing he’s about to say something he thinks is funny. “I’m offended. I thought you were my fan.”

“Oh, Ben.” As I speak, my spine contracts from the sickly saccharine sound oozing from my larynx. “When it comes to you, I’m not just a fan… I’m your biggest fan.”

Oh fucking fuck. That was horrible. It was terrible. And the worst of it is, I can’t stop. I can’t stop flirting with this man, and I’ve lost all semblance of control over my face. I know it. I can feel it. I may as well have pulsing heart eyes drawn on me as I sit across from him at the kitchen island and watch him eat.

Ben’s lips part, bottom jaw dropping just enough to offer me a glimpse of his tongue. He spoons the pie into his mouth, and when it hits his tastebuds, he emits a low, rumbling sound. A sound, incidentally, that my dick registers precisely the same way it registers the soundtrack of approximately ninety percent of the porn I consume.

The entire time we eat, I struggle to regain control of my face. When I’m not doing that, I think deeply inappropriate things about Ben.

I think about licking his spoon when he’s not looking. Reaching over the marble countertop, grabbing it, and dragging my tongue all over it so I can taste something he’s touched. I’d put it back before he realizes anything is amiss. I think about it so much and with such intensity, I start thinking that doing it and getting away with it is not only possible, it’s probable.

He doesn’t put the spoon down, which is fortunate because it scuppers my plan. Instead, I shift my focus, studying the way he handles this basic piece of cutlery like it’s my job. He handles it like a pro. Like a pro-fucking-fessional athlete. Like a man with overdeveloped spatial awareness and exceptional fine-motor coordination. A man who knows things.

A man who knows how to make people moan.

A man who’s soft and hard at the same time.

A gentleman.

A leader.

A gentle man.

A soft Dom.

I’ve googled it at length now, and I know exactly what a soft Dom is. I wasn’t sure when Ness first said it, but I liked how it sounded. Now that I know more about it, I know that even more than freshly baked apple pie and ice cream for breakfast, a soft Dom named Ben is what’s been missing from my life.

Ben cradles the spoon gently, resting the handle on the fleshy cushion between his thumb and pointer. I think about licking his fingers instead of the spoon. Scraping my bottom teeth against the pads and following that with a flick of my tongue.

His fingers are long and thick. They look heavy.

Meaty.

I want them.

His thumb. His pointer.

Fuck, I don’t care which finger. Any of his fingers will do, but ideally, I’d like at least two. I’d like to circle them with my hand and shove them into my mouth so deep that I gag.

Jesus.

I need help. I’m out of control. I’ve taken leave of my senses. I need to get out of here and get myself into therapy. Stat.

I’m on a call to Vanessa the second my feet make contact with the cobbled path that leads to my house. I talk in the quiet, hissing tones often used by people experiencing a sharp decline in their mental health. The conversation is short and to the point. It mainly consists of me saying, “I need therapy,” repeatedly.

“Ah, I understand,” says Vanessa, using her work voice to disguise the fact that she’s taking a personal call in an open-plan office. “I can be there in an hour. Will that work for you?”

I’m in no state to drive, so I take an Uber. Vanessa is waiting for me by the time I get there. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and her hair down, and as always, seeing Work Vanessa takes me a minute to get used to. I’m better friends with Sweats-and-Messy-Bun Vanessa.

She approaches at speed and hugs me tightly. I let out a breath that sounds like a sob. She eyes the door of our favorite independent bookstore and says, “Are you sure we should be here? Is it wise, Jer?”

“Of course it’s wise.”

“Aren’t you on a serious book ban?”

“I am on a book ban, but it’s fiiine . I’m not going to buy anything. I’m just going to hold a few books and run my fingers over some embossed titles. You know, for medicinal purposes.”

Vanessa nods sagely and leads the way into the store. She understands where I’m coming from. She should. She’s the one who introduced me to the therapeutic value of stroking brand-new, never-opened books.

As always, we start in the psychology section but quickly move on. The covers are crap in the psychology section. Way too serious. Nary an embossed title to be found. From there, we head to self-help, where I search aimlessly for something along the lines of How To Stop Making An Ass Of Yourself By Flirting With Straight Men . When I’m unsuccessful there, I try for Self-Control, Honey Bunny, Is That You?

I come up empty. There’s nothing close to those available in the entire store. I feel a flare of annoyance. You can’t tell me there isn’t a market for either of those titles. Bitch, please. I can’t be the only one suffering from this affliction.

Ness stalks up and down the aisle, looking at me with concern when she thinks I’m not paying attention. The second time I catch her at it, she pulls out an absolute asshole of a book titled Unavailable Men: How To Avoid Them and pretends to be riveted by the blurb.

It does less than nothing to improve my mood.

The problem isn’t that she’s wrong. The problem is that I’m so delusional that despite all evidence to the contrary, I don’t think of Ben as an unavailable man.

The thing is, when I’m with him, I feel like something is happening between us. I feel like it’s the beginning of something major. Something life-changing. I feel like I’m in the early days of something brand-new. Days when knees and voices shake and uncertainty is the only thing that’s certain. When nothing is known or set in stone, but every breath matters because there’s something in the air. Something magical.

An energy. A chemistry. A chain reaction.

It’s so stupid I can’t bear to hear myself say it aloud, not even to Ness, and that’s saying something.

We move to the fantasy section even though neither of us reads fantasy and we both know it’s just a delay tactic, a pit stop before we end up in contemporary and queer romance, where we belong.

I pick up a book with a dragon on the cover and turn it this way and that. The covers are lit in fantasy. The detail is incredible. The illustration is unreal. Every scale has been hand-drawn. It’s a swirling triumph of blue, green, purple, and gold. It’s so beautiful that just holding it makes my lips quiver.

“I like him so much,” I say so quietly that if I was with anyone but Ness, they probably wouldn’t have heard me.

She’s completely in tune with me, as always, so she doesn’t miss it. Her face falls and palpable empathy softens her features. She throws her arms around me and hugs me like someone who loves me even though my grip on reality is slipping.

“Oh, babes, I’m so sorry. I hate this for you.” When she pulls away, she says, “I’m sorry he’s so nice. And good-looking. And I’m sorry I said he was a soft Dom. I shouldn’t have said that aloud, and…you know, there’s always a chance I was wrong.”

“When have you ever been wrong about anything? Seriously, Ness, name one time you’ve been wrong about something like that.”

“Well, I can’t think of a time offhand, but it must have happened once or twice. It must have. It’s statistically improbable for someone to never, ever be wrong.” I smile weakly, and she picks up a copy of the same book I’m holding and peruses the text on the back. She pauses to look up at me twice as she reads, and when she’s done, she takes pity on me and proves once and for all why she’s the best friend any human being could ever have. “You know, we could get through our Tbr at some point. I mean, it’s not im possible. Stranger things have happened.”

“It could happen,” I agree, though I know the statement to be factually false. For both of us, our To Be Read lists already far exceed what an average person could read in a lifetime. For us, the idea of getting through our Tbrs is way more fantastical than the book in our hands has any hope of being, even if the author’s imagination proves to be totally unhinged.

Vanessa’s eyes glint and she disappears for a few seconds, returning with a shopping basket in each hand. She hands me one solemnly. As I take it, a tremor of excitement runs through me.

I know this feeling, and I know what it means: therapy is about to deliver a major breakthrough.