Page 26

26

Jeremiah Blake

Ben’s eyes are bloodshot, so red and raw they look painful. His lashes are wet and stuck together, glistening with an outpouring of emotion. His shoulders still lurch at irregular intervals, but his tears have stopped falling. He’s breathing through his mouth now, catching his breath the same way the Ben on my TV screen does when he’s just come off the ice.

I feel his pain as if it’s my own. I feel it in my face, in my fingers, in my bones. In my chest. It’s unbearable, excruciating, easily the worst thing I’ve ever felt.

And still, and still , if I could take it from him and make it my own, I would. It’s a significant, damning notion. Something big that certainly requires my full attention. I’ll have to come back to it later, though, because Ben is still here, and he’s the only thing in existence.

He wipes his face with the back of his hands and then uses broad, angry swipes of fingers and palms on his cheeks and under his chin. He’s tear-stained, but he’s gone still. His chest has finally stopped heaving.

He tilts his head toward the bathroom and says, “Mind if I wash my face?”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

I watch him walk away, wondering distantly if, in the story of my life, today is the day I’ll never get over. The day I’ll never get past. The day my stupid, stupid path is set in stone.

Ben closes the door behind him with a soft, smooth click. My blood runs cold when the sound registers and takes hold. Not just cold, ice cold. Then hot. So motherfucking hot, I feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin.

I take five quick steps to the door and then spin in a small circle, screaming silently and waving my arms and hands around wildly enough to shake something loose. Not sanity though. Not rationality. And certainly not my own dignity.

The sudden spike in anxiety is so extreme my jaw clenches and my lips stretch into a grotesque shape that I don’t need a mirror to tell me looks ugly as hell.

“Please, God,” I pray. “Please, please, please , don’t let it be in there.” Fuck. It’s no good. I know it’s there. “Okay, scratch that. Please, God, please don’t let him see it. Please, Lord, I’ll do anything. Anything. I’ll stop complaining about Marcus and photography clients. I’ll become a better person. For real, this time. I’ll…I’ll stop buying books I know I won’t read. I swear it. I’m begging you, please, don’t let him see it.”

The door opens, and Ben appears in the doorway, filling the narrow space almost completely. His eyes are still red, but he looks a little better than he did. More like himself, but sadly, completely unreadable. I can’t tell by looking at him if he saw anything untoward, only that even now, at his worst, Ben is so goddamn gorgeous my cock twitches pathetically at the mere sight of him.

I don’t know what happens next. I guess we make small talk or something, and he excuses himself after a while, but I can’t be completely sure about that because my brain shuts down several times in quick succession from the supreme stress I’m undergoing.

I stand at the door and watch him leave, waiting until he’s at the gate before flying to the bathroom and yanking the door open.

Oh fuck me dead.

Kill me now.

It’s there, in plain sight.

It’s there in all its purple silicone glory. A lewd, lusty beacon, complete with a convenient suction cup. It’s not just purple either. It’s bright purple. And it’s not just mounted on any old wall. It’s mounted on a sheet of snow-white tile with nothing else around it. Nothing at all.

It’s clear at a glance that unless Ben suffered a stroke when he entered this room—one that rendered him legally blind for a short period of time—there’s no chance on Earth he didn’t see it. Not next to no chance. No chance.

Unfortunately, since Ben moved in next door, I’ve found myself feeling rather depraved and entirely unenthusiastic about hitting the apps for release. As a result, I’ve been riding my trusty purple plaything like it’s my job. Morning and night. Long and hard.

I used it this morning, washed it, and stuck it on the wall to dry with every intention of packing it away as soon as I finished getting dressed.

Guess that didn’t happen.

Not to be dramatic, but I’m positive the humiliation I feel is life-threatening. It’s a hot, toxic thing that’s currently squeezing my throat and forcing all my blood to my face. It’s horrendous and made significantly worse by the fact that Ben is straight. It’s highly unlikely he has this kind of toy knocking around at his house. He’s probably never seen anything like it. Worst case, the thought of men fucking their own assholes with silicone phalluses gives him the ick. Best case, he thinks it’s something that should happen in private and not be left on a wall for unsuspecting company to come face-to-face with.

And honestly, he’s not wrong there.

I stomp into the shower, fully intending to rip the stupid fucking dildo off the wall and hurl it in the trash, but wires get crossed en route, and as soon as I’m in the cubicle, all I can think about is how unspeakably hot Ben looked with his shirt off and how unspeakably hard my dick has been for God knows how long.

I unbuckle and push my shorts and underwear down to mid-thigh with a resigned sigh and turn around. I grab the lube from the shower caddy and flush all over again when I realize I left that in plain sight too.

I lube the toy up angrily.

“You little bitch,” I say aloud to the toy. “I hope you’re happy with yourself. You’ve just ruined my entire life.”

Naturally, the toy doesn’t reply. It just bobs on the wall judgmentally as I apply a little lube to my asshole. I turn and guide the toy in, sinking back slowly, letting the blunt, rounded head stretch me. It’s a modest-sized toy, and I have more than a little practice taking it, so it slides in easily, which angers me further.

I could really use the dull burn of a thick, throbbing cock right now.

I do my best to remember all the things Ness told me when we were in line to pay for our books the other day. She said something about being careful. She said I had to try to control my mind and not let it run rampant. Not let it create a fantasy that has no bearing in reality. She said to start dating again. And something about not telling Marcus.

I push back steadily and my hole opens as the cool, unyielding toy slides deeper.

Vanessa said some other things too, though the rest of what she said is coming through a little less clearly. Despite her good advice, and despite the fact that the toy is too cold, too small, too artificial, and not nearly Ben enough, by the time my ass cheeks make contact with frigid wall tile, the feeling of fullness has numbed me to most other things.

I thrust back and forth slowly, impaling myself as deeply as possible. I think mean thoughts about sex toys and the people who leave them out for others to see as I gallantly attempt to hold back the tide of new imagery I now have at my disposal.

I find my rhythm and quicken my speed, thrusting my hips back and forth with no-nonsense resolve. Deep jolts of pleasure rush up my rectum. I fuck myself hard and fast, wrapping my hand around my cock and stroking when I find myself craving more sensation.

Vanessa’s words grow quiet and distant and then disappear altogether. In their place, I see Ben as he was earlier. In my house, reaching back, head dipped and turned to the side as he curled a big hand around the collar of his shirt.

I see his belly.

His chest hair.

His abs. Dear God, his abs.

His muscular arms, his back, his skin.

His skin.

His skin.

Fuck, there was so much skin. So much beautiful skin.

I see myself too.

In the fantasy, I’m not an idiot. I’m not the kind of person who embarrasses myself or falls for straight men. I’m a shirtless sex god too, and damn, I look good. I’m wearing white linen pants that pool slightly at my feet and my boner is clearly visible through them. Ben can see it, and he doesn’t mind it. He likes it.

I start stroking faster, amplifying the warm, tingling sensation in my dick till I can’t hold back a groan.

In the fantasy, I have my hands on Ben, just like I had them on him in reality. In the fantasy, his head is turned to the side on my table, so one side of his face is visible. His lips turn up when I touch him, and he smiles sweetly as he emits the sexiest little sounds I’ve ever heard.

My dick is no longer warm and it’s no longer tingling. It’s a hot rod that’s almost too sensitive to touch, and yet I can’t stop. Pleasure boils inside me. Swelling and leaking.

Close.

I’m so close.

I close my eyes to see Ben again. He’s still smiling, but not sweetly. He’s smiling like he knows what he’s doing to me. Like he knows and likes it. Like he means it and wants me to feel like this.

In the fantasy, I lean down. I inhale the air around him, breathing him in, and do the thing it took every ounce of my strength, restraint, and moral fiber not to do in reality.

In the fantasy, I taste him. I rub my face all over his back. His shoulders. His neck. I navigate my route over his body with my lips first, feeling my way with my eyes closed, and when I’ve had my fill of that, I open my mouth and run my tongue up his spine.

I come so hard my knees give out and the only thing holding me up is the fucking toy that caused this mess in the first place.