Page 24

24

Jeremiah Blake

Jesus Fucking Christ, if ever there was a man who could really, really use a book called Common Sense, Honey Bunny, Is That You right about now, it’s me.

I’ve made an error in judgment. Actually, I don’t think an error in judgment covers it. I’m going to go ahead and bump this bad boy up to a fuck up. A level-five fuck up.

Even that’s probably not strong enough.

I’ve invited Ben, that’s Ben Stirling, in case you haven’t been paying attention—my famous ex-hockey player, living legend, single dad neighbor, and confirmed hot heterosexual man—into my home with the express intention of rubbing my hands all over his naked body.

Ben Stirling, whom I happen to have a colossal crush on.

Beautiful Ben with eyes like a full moon on a cool night with no wind.

Beautiful, sad Ben, who is so sexy that I haven’t slept through the night once since I met him.

Beautiful, kind Ben, who might be the loveliest man I’ve ever met.

Yep, him.

Well, he’s in my living room, taking his white polo shirt off as I watch.

He reaches behind his head and takes hold of his collar in a careless, offhand way that makes it clear this is no big deal for him. His heart isn’t pounding. He’s not feeling lightheaded.

His entire volume of blood isn’t rushing to his cock.

He disappears briefly under his shirt, and then his abs are revealed in several distinct stages. There’s the hint of a V dipping in near his groin, a sliver of exposed skin that grows as his shirt rides up. A trail of dark hair, thick and neat, disappears into the waistband of his jeans. And a series of deep dents carve a distinct grid pattern into his torso.

Oh, this is very bad.

There’s hair on his chest too. A dark mat that grows in organized chaos around his nipples. He has a chain around his neck. A silver chain with a plain yellow gold band hanging from it. A ring. A wedding ring. When his face comes back into view, his hair is disheveled. Not a lot. Just a little.

Just enough to make me want to run my hands through it and smooth it down for him.

“I’m gay,” I squawk in a loud, squeaky voice that’s unpleasing to the ear. “I don’t think I’ve expressly mentioned it before. In fact, I haven’t. I-I know I haven’t. It’s kind of crazy that it hasn’t come up when you think about it because we’ve talked so much about everything else. It’s not that I’m hiding it. It just hasn’t come up in conversation, and sometimes, it’s hard to know when to mention things like this. B-but I am. Gay, I mean. Yeah, I’m definitely gay.”

The fact that I’m gay isn’t news to me. Of course not. I’ve known since I was five or six. The fact that I subconsciously intended to blurt it out in a dreadful word vomit the second Ben relieved himself of his shirt certainly is though.

“Anyway,” I continue, “just thought you should know. Don’t want things to be weird later. Not that they’ll be weird for me. Obviously, I’m fine. I just don’t want to, like, touch you, and for you to find out later, and for it to be weird for you. Not that I’m saying you’re like that. I don’t think you’re like that at all. I think you’re lovely, and your eyes ar—”

He cuts me off, and what a relief that is.

“I know,” he says simply.

His words land but take a while to register because his hair is in the process of settling back into its usual position, and his shirt is dangling from one hand.

And to think I thought he was beautiful before.

I knew nothing of beauty.

Nothing.

Because Ben Stirling shirtless is a whole different level. A whole different level of attractiveness. His skin is tan and a little darker than I had expected. I think it’s the hair. All the hair on his chest and belly might be playing tricks on my eyes and making his skin look darker. He looks more rugged and manly shirtless than I had expected. And believe me, my expectations were already sky-high.

“How do you want me?” he asks innocently.

Every synapse in my body fires at once, and fifteen or sixteen sexual positions flit before my eyes. Cowboy. Missionary. Doggy. Him on top of me. Behind me. Both of us standing. Me on my knees. Legs open. Back arched.

“Hee-hee,” I say. I don’t mean that I laugh out loud. I mean, I actually say it. Hee-hee. Aloud.

He looks at me strangely, so I gesture to the table and try again.

“Face in the hole.” I’m instantly assaulted by the thought of Ben’s beautiful face near a hole. My hole. Ben’s mouth. My cheeks. Ben’s tongue. My ass, pried open. “P-please."

He nods agreeably, entirely unaware of how he’s affecting me, and shucks his shoes off. He takes a seat on the table, awaiting further instructions. This is something I’m trained for. It’s part of the job. Clients need clear instructions so they know exactly what’s expected of them. Lots of people don’t have regular massages, so they aren’t sure what to do. It’s on me to set him at ease. “You can take your belt off if you like, so you’ll be more comfortable lying down.”

Ordinarily, I have clients remove their clothing down to their underwear, and I drape a towel over their bottom half to keep them warm while I work. Not today. I’m not touching that scenario with a ten-foot pole. No siree. My thoughts are already coming through at a snail’s pace, and my dick is so hard I could carve ice with it. Even the slightest of sightings of Ben’s thick thighs would be my undoing. I know myself well enough to know that for sure.

He unbuckles his belt, dropping the thick strap of leather onto the floor near his shoes. There’s a strange finality to the clatter it makes as it lands.

“Anything else?” he asks. It looks like he’s trying not to smile. Like he’s finding something about the situation, or me, amusing.

I hesitate before I say it. I’d greatly prefer not to have to mention it. I’d greatly prefer if I hadn’t spotted it, or if he wasn’t wearing it today, or if I’d said, “Oh, hell no,” when he asked for a massage. The problem is, I’m going to be working on his neck and shoulders. It will be in the way if he leaves it on.

“You can take your chain off. If you want. Um, but if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can move it and try to work around it. Might get some oil on it, but it's fi—”

He looks down at his knees, pausing before reaching up, taking the chain in both hands and raising it carefully over his head without undoing the clasp. He holds it out to me, and I offer him my open hand. He lets the chain pool in my palm, slow and controlled, the metal still warm from his body. I curl my fingers tightly around it, walk over to the bookshelf, and put it in a small wooden box I keep there.

When I return to the table, he’s lying on it, facedown. The full extent of the situation I find myself in hits me immediately.

I can look.

I can touch.

I can look at Ben. Really look. Without looking away or being worried I’ve already looked for too long. I can look at him without blinking. I can drink him in, his skin and his muscles. I can look, and look, and look as much as I want.

I can touch him too. I can’t touch him the way I want, with my lips and my mouth and my tongue, but I can put my hands on him. I can feel his skin on my palms. I can find the root of his tension and knead it out of him. I can be close to him and make him feel better.

I keep an eye on him as I reach down surreptitiously to rearrange myself. I’m as hard as I’ve ever been and the zipper of my jeans digs into me uncomfortably.

With that addressed, I push my caddy of oils and towels over to the table and pour a healthy amount of sweet almond oil into my palm, rubbing my hands together to warm it.

“Is medium pressure okay for you?” I ask.

I’m pleased with myself for remembering to ask. It’s a standard question I ask every client, so it’s probably muscle memory or reflex more than anything else, but still. It bodes well for me that at least a tiny part of my brain is still working.

I settle myself with a quick breath in and out and place both hands, palms down, on Ben’s back. His skin is warm. Almost impossibly warm. Almost feverishly warm. And it’s smooth. Deliciously smooth.

I experience a brief brain fart where I’m unable to remember what to do next, but fortunately, I manage to shake it off quickly.

Massage.

I’m here to give Ben a professional massage. He is suffering from what might well be an aura migraine, and I’m here to treat him for that.

I start with basic effleurage, a combination of light and deep stroking that’s known to help clients relax. I let my fingers roam his back, focusing on his neck and shoulders, charting out a map of the tension I find there. His sternocleidomastoid and levator scapulae are tight and both upper trapezius are knotted, though it’s worse on the right.

When his breathing deepens, I switch to petrissage, kneading hard as I begin to release his tension in earnest.

I’m impressed with myself. I truly am a better man than I gave myself credit for. I’m doing so well. If I focus on my hands and try not to think a single thing, this could actually be fine.

I lengthen my passes down his traps, leaning into the meaty tissue as I dig the heels of my palms into what’s causing him pain.

The first sound he makes is soft, little more than a gust of air leaving his lungs. It’s fine. It’s a completely typical response to the stimuli he’s receiving. The next one is louder and lower.

Oh Jesus.

Please, God, don’t let Ben Stirling be the kind of man who makes sex noises when he gets a massage.

Please.

Oh fuck. Kill me now.

He is.

My dick throbs at the sounds he makes. My mind wanders, drifting, dipping in and out of consciousness and coming to land in a vacant, distant place where nothing exists but Ben and me.

His body, my hands.

His skin glistens from the oil, flecks of gold glitter dancing over the mounds and valleys of rock-solid muscle. He reacts to my touch, clenching and arching his spine when I find a sensitive spot.

He groans softly as I rub it out.

The sound travels up my spine and makes me aware of each bone in my vertebrae.

I move around the table robotically, back bent a little more than usual to keep my wayward boner from jutting into any part of him because, believe me, the situation I’ve got going on in my pants can’t possibly be confused as anything other than what it is.

Arousal.

Excitement.

Desire.

Want.

My palms tingle and my entire body heats as I work.

Ben is so beautiful it’s impossible to ignore. It’s impossible to touch him and only see him for what he is: a friend, a neighbor who has come to me for massage therapy. Instead, I see every curve, every hard angle. Every line that makes him the hottest man I’ve ever seen.

I keep rubbing.

Kneading.

Massaging.

At a certain point, I realize I forgot to put music on for Ben’s treatment and start to panic about that. I consider saying something about it, but what? I don’t think you could get a word of sense out of me right now if you questioned me under torture. I dive headfirst into a free fall, spiraling awfully because of the silence. Spinning with anxiety about the fact that it’s so quiet, I can hear my own breathing. It’s fucking loud and raspy and completely out of keeping with the level of physical exertion at play, and I can’t stop it.

Can he tell it’s horny breathing?

If so, what do I do? What do I do?

Maybe I should just put some music on now, even though the treatment started ages ago. Maybe he won’t notice. Better late than never, right?

Shit, my hands are covered in oil, and if I attempt to convince Siri to do me a solid using a voice command, obviously, I’ll have to use my voice, and we’ve already established that that’s a no-go.

As I roll my thumbs in big, slow circles down the small of Ben’s back, it occurs to me that I also forgot to set a timer for the treatment. Dammit. His skin pleats as I strengthen my motion. Fine lines appear when I apply pressure and disappear when I release it. I do it again. And again.

I’m mesmerized. Not just by how it looks to see my hands touch Ben’s body but by how it feels to be touching him. Like the rightest of right things I’ve ever done.

I use my thumbs, the heels of my hands, and the undersides of my forearms and team it with my body weight.

I look where I’m touching him only. My hands. His back. I do it for as long as I can. I swear to God, I do.

Then I don’t.

I can’t because Ben’s jeans are low-slung. They’re a little loose around his waist. He told me once that he lost weight when Liz died, and he’s struggled to put it back on. There’s a band of pale skin showing above his waistband. Paler than the rest of him. And the slightest, slightest hint of two mounds with a cleft between.

My mouth pools with saliva.

My dick drools in my pants.

I massage him.

And massage him.

I don’t know when or how to stop.

I’m an experienced masseuse, so usually, if I forget the timer, my hands will tell me when the treatment is nearly done. Not this time. This time my hands don’t know a damn thing except that they don’t want this to end.