Page 27

27

Jeremiah Blake

My heart clatters wildly as I walk down the path. I have a coffee mug in each hand and an erratic skip in my step.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, my body is reacting as though something has happened between me and Ben. I have that feeling you get when you’ve had a crush on someone for ages, and something has finally happened, but it happened when it was dark and no words were spoken, so the next time you see each other, it’s a confusion of butterflies. A hot mess of bodily chaos. A blood-pumping organ hammering out of control. Sweaty palms. Heated cheeks. All paired with an unshakable conviction that your future happiness hinges entirely on how your next interaction with him goes.

It’s like that, except, obviously, nothing actually happened.

The man cried on you. He didn’t come on you, I tell myself for the hundredth time. For the hundredth time, it does nothing to lessen the excitement-slash-abject terror I’m experiencing.

“Hi,” I say, voice wispy and shaking with nerves at the sight of Ben.

He’s on the swing, in his usual spot, and he’s particularly beautiful this morning. He’s shaved the scruff he’s been sporting since I met him, and his smooth face is something to behold. Something that makes my knees start knocking.

His jawline is defined, angular and hard. I was ready for that. I expected it as I’ve seen a beardless Ben on my TV screen countless times. What I wasn’t expecting was the effect the cleft in his chin would have on me. It’s decisive, cutting, and so masculine that Superman would feel insecure if he saw it, so you can only imagine what it does to me.

“Hi,” Ben replies.

His voice is full-bodied and deep, sane and in touch with reality. It should give me the nudge I need to return to the real world, but it does no such thing. Instead, the rich, warm sound pools in my balls and sends errant signals shooting up my dick.

I take my seat on the swing, handing Ben his coffee and adjusting my top, tugging it so it covers my bulge.

Boy, if ever Ness was right, it was last night. She called late, right before I got ready for bed, and had a lot to say to me. I don’t think she appreciated what I said about Ben, and I didn’t even tell her about the massage or the toy or that I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. All I said was that I’m pretty sure he’s a perfect human being, and let me tell you, that set her right off. She all but insisted I get on Grindr and plan a hookup. Her only criterion was for the candidate to be a man who is sexually interested in men. She felt so strongly about it she came over to oversee the selection process. She spent most of the visit on my sofa, arms crossed tightly, as she peered down her nose at what I was typing. Now and then, she said, “Good,” though I could tell she didn’t mean it.

She only left when a plan to meet for a drink was locked in. I can see now she was right to do it. I’m all for being a bit of a fool, but there’s playing with fire, and then there’s playing with Ben Stirling.

Only one of those things is survivable.

Since I appear to be entirely unable to help myself when I’m around him, I need all the help I can get to take my mind off him.

Beside me, Ben sips his coffee and lets out a tiny sigh that sounds like sex to my addled mind. He’s sitting closer to me than usual, I think. It’s hard to tell as the space between us is electric. The problem with being the one generating the electricity is that you’re so busy buzzing and spewing energy from every pore that you can’t tell if it’s going both ways or only one. You can’t tell if it’s crossing more distance than usual or less. Or even the same amount it always does.

As I ponder that, Ben moves closer to me. He factually does. I know that because his shoulder presses against mine. It’s no accident, and it’s not a fleeting touch. It’s firm and deliberate.

It paralyzes me down one side of my body.

His face is close to mine and his smooth jaw is doing all kinds of things to me. Silver-blue eyes blink, pupils expanding and contracting from the subtle change in light.

He’s not smiling. His expression is passive. Neutral. He’s comfortable and relaxed.

“I kind of feel like I should apologize for yesterday,” he says after a while. He keeps the weight of his shoulder against mine, and maybe he nudges me slightly, but I could be wrong about that. “But I don’t want to. I’ve been struggling with…things…on my own for a while now. A long time. What happened… It was something I needed but couldn’t do on my own. I don’t know why. I think maybe I needed someone to be with me when it happened.” He nudges his shoulder against mine again, definitely and distinctly this time. This time, the gesture is steeped in easy comradery and friendship. “So, I’m not sorry…and I’m glad it was you,” he says with a smile that absolutely, categorically can’t be read as anything but sex.

Unless you’re sane, of course.

While I frantically attempt to sort through that, plus what Ben just said, plus the fact that Ben’s shoulder is still touching mine, I hear myself say, “So, how’d you know I was gay?”

Ugh. Fuck.

I don’t love the question. It’s not my best work, but in the grand scheme of everything I could have said, it’s not the worst, so I suppose I should be grateful.

When he doesn’t answer fast enough for my liking, I jump in and attempt to answer for him.

“It’s ’cause my house looks like a tube of glitter with a fairy light shoved up its ass, isn’t it?”

“Actually, I think it was rainbow-shitting unicorn T-shirt that gave you away,” he replies without skipping a beat.

“Ah, yeah, I forgot about that.”

Ben chuckles and adjusts his position. When he first moves, I think he’s doing it to get a little space from me, or so he can turn and face me, but instead, he leans in a little harder. A solid wall of muscle and bone digs into my arm. In addition to the right side of my body, which is still paralyzed from earlier, I’ve lost the use of both legs now.

“Nah,” he says lightly. “I’m kidding. It wasn’t that. I knew you were gay when I met you.”

I look at him quizzically. He looks awfully pleased with himself. And playful.

Playful Ben is the last thing I need because Playful Me is flirty as fuck.

“Well, well, congratulations, Mr. Stirling,” I say. “Looks like you’re the lucky owner of a highly functional gaydar. Not everyone can tell that about me.”

He harrumphs and cocks his head toward mine. I take a careful sip of coffee.

“So, what’s it like?” he asks.

He’s so close to me that I’m momentarily unable to remember what we were talking about. “What’s what like?”

“Being gay. What’s it like? I’ve always wondered.”

“It’s… Well, it’s hard to say because it’s all I’ve ever known. I’ve known I was gay forever. I can’t remember the day or specific instance that made me realize or anything like that. I’ve just always known. I’m lucky, I guess. I don’t have a lot of internalized homophobia, and I have people in my life like Lissa, who make me feel good about who I am, so I like being gay. I’ve never wished I was made any other way.”

He harrumphs again and says, “I read an article once that said gay guys have been winning at sex forever.”

The sound I make is high-pitched and tinny and sounds nothing like my usual laugh. I’m unable to tamp it down, and instead, it takes off at an ungraceful canter.

“Yes, well, there are lots of reasons for that thinking,” I say. I’m aware he hasn’t asked for any, but I can tell from how fast my thoughts are coming at me that I’m about to outline them with or without my consent. “There’s the variation, you know, the option of switching roles and taking turns to top and bottom. It gives us a lot of options in regard to the acts we can perform on each other. Versatility, as we call it.”

I manage to stop just short of educating Ben on the perils of the shortage of good tops in the US—and what a fucking relief that is. As I celebrate that small victory, I lose focus and forget I’m trying to stop talking. “There’s also the whole two men thing, which, as you can imagine, is kind of a key feature of gay sex.”

“Two men, huh?” he says, chewing his cheek to hide his amusement.

“Yes, but no, I mean, yes, obviously there are two men involved in gay sex. Sometimes more, actually.”

Do not start educating Ben Stirling about the intricacies of group sex, I tell myself sternly. For the love of all that is holy. Do. Not. Do. That . I note that I’ve adopted an educational tone, which fills me with dismay. I can’t stand it when I get like this.

“My point is that everyone participating in gay sex is a dude, and you know what dudes are like.” When he doesn’t answer immediately, I seamlessly fill in the blank for him. “Dudes are horny, that’s what dudes are. So, when you take a bunch of gay men and throw them together, you get a good time. That’s what you get. You get a lot of people casually saying yes, and you get a lot of sex in gay sex. A lot, a lot. There are far fewer nos, you know? For example”— good God, when the hell did providing examples become so fucking important to me, and how do I stop it? —“I’ve been thinking I need to get laid, so I met a random guy on an app last night, and we’re going out for a drink tonight. The rules are clear. Both he and I understand innately that if we like the look of each other, we’re going to bone. It’s as simple as that.”

I hate this conversation with the fire of a thousand suns. I hate that I can’t stop talking, and I hate that I can’t tell if talking about sex with Ben is turning me on or if the adrenaline is pumping into my bloodstream this excessively because I know I’m currently at risk of causing my own death by disgrace. I do know that I urgently need to put a stop to it. At the very least, I need to divert attention from the fact that I just used the word “bone” on Ben’s front porch. Before ten in the morning.

“And there’s no risk of pregnancy when two cis men are involved,” I continue, deeply dismayed by myself but undeterred. “And f-fewer of us have kids. We aren’t subject to heteronormative relationship rules and regulations unless we choose to be. So, basically, what I’m saying is that when there are two guys involved, you have a lot of reasons to have sex and not a lot of reasons not to. And that’s something you don’t always get when there’s a man and a woman. When there’s a woman involved, statistically, there’s a greater chance of someone being sensible.”

“Statistically, huh?”

I plow straight on, not slowing my roll despite the fact that I’m talking complete and utter shit. “Yes, statistically. In straight sex, there’s a better chance of someone saying no. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’ve never had straight sex, so I’m far from an expert on the matter, but from what I’ve been able to glean from the way society treats women, it’s far less celebrated for them to be hoes.”

Oh fuck. Now I’ve said “hoes” too.

Jesus Christ, I need a muzzle and a powerful sedative.

“So, in summary,” I say, adjusting my posture to one that’s more upright. More scholarly, though it’s also not lost on me that since he didn’t ask for any of this information in the first place, it can be safely assumed that he’d be perfectly fine without a summary of it, “women aren’t as feral, depraved, horny, or hoe-like as men are.”

Oh God. I wish I was at home right now. I could be curled up, reading the dragon book. Even if it’s the worst book I’ve ever read, it would be so, so much better than this.

“Hmm,” he says, thoughtfully mulling over the mess I’ve made. “I’ve got to say, Jeremiah, that hasn’t been my experience with women. At all.”

My brain function has been severely compromised by all the ways I’ve embarrassed myself, so it takes me a second to organize my reaction into something coherent.

“Um, excuse me,” I say when I’m able. “Did you just casually drop the greatest humble brag that’s ever been humble bragged into the conversation.”

“Dunno.” He shrugs, biting back a smile as he lifts his mug to his lips. “I’m just telling it the way it is.”

“Oh my God.” I shake my head, amused, faux scandalized, and abjectly relieved by the change in topic. “You just did it again. But, ugh, you know what? It kind of makes sense. It stands to reason you haven’t had the typical straight male experience with women.”

“How’d you figure?”

“Well, you know. It’s ’cause you have all this”—my spine contracts in warning as I wave in a small circle around his face and then broaden it to include the rest of him—“Ben Stirling-ness going on.”

His chuckle is low and easy, pouring out of him in a soft ripple. I have no idea how he’s doing it, but he’s managing not to look absolutely aghast at what a blithering idiot I am.

He truly is a marvel.

I eye the picket fence in front of me longingly. It’s probably only fifteen or twenty yards from where I am. If I ran really fast, I could probably jump it like a hurdle. All I’d need to do from there is rush home, pack my belongings, rent a U-Haul, and drive north. Vancouver is only a hundred and forty miles from here. I could change my name and start a new life. It’s totally doable. People have done more for less.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” asks Ben. He’s trying to save me from myself, bless him. He can see I’m suffering, and he’s trying to help. He’s a good, kind man, and I feel for him for having to deal with me when I’m like this. I really do. “Do you ever, like, flirt with me?”

And there it is.

The most terrifying, horrifying, worst question I’ve ever been asked. When I hear it, I almost recognize it. It’s like I’ve been expecting it on some level, the way animals often have a sixth sense about their own death drawing near.

“Yes,” I say in a hurry as shame and shock intercept my ability to lie.

I work my gaze up Ben’s chest, pausing at the hollow at the base of his throat and treating myself to a long, gluttonous look at his Adam’s apple. I know I shouldn’t do it. It’s not good for me, but I do it anyway, in case this is the last time I’m this close to him. His Adam’s apple is like the rest of him. Heartbreakingly beautiful. Masculine and strong with a barely there trace of vulnerability. I lose my footing when our eyes meet, stumbling and falling, tumbling headfirst into twin moonlit pools.

It’s warm where I am. Safe and still, though it’s clear I can’t breathe here. I’m underwater. Drowning. I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t make myself leave because I’m with Ben. My ability to lie has yet to be restored, so I tell the truth. “I do. B-but only because I can’t help it.”

Luca comes barreling out onto the porch as the words leave my mouth. I’ve never been more relieved to see someone in all my life. He’s saved me from myself, and he’s saved poor Ben from me too.

“Luca!” I gasp, hugging him as tightly as I can. “Hi, buddy, how are you? Where have you been?”

Before he can reply, Ben asks, “Did you eat your breakfast?”

Luca has a hand on his hip and a tilt to his head that gives me the impression a battle of wills has occurred on the property this morning. “Yes, but I still don’t think it’s fair that I can’t have pancakes. It feels like Saturday today.”

“I understand that,” says Ben. Luca’s mouth moves as though he has more to say. Ben quietens him with a quick flick of his eyes. “I’m proud of you for eating your eggs, and I’d like us both to move on now. We’ve talked about pancakes as much as I’m willing to talk about them for one day.”

His tone is kind but steady and absolute. So deep and authoritative that my entire spinal cord goes lax and starts to vibrate. I swear to God, I don’t know how Luca is still standing upright. If Ben ever spoke to me like that, I wouldn’t argue. I wouldn’t dare. I’d dissolve into a puddle of goo and do whatever he told me to do.

I’d do whatever he told me.

What ever he told me.

Ben wraps a big hand around Luca’s shoulder and Luca smiles despite himself. “Now, don’t you have some news for Jeremiah?”

“It’s not some news, Daddy. It’s the biggest news ever!” All thoughts of breakfast food skirmishes dissipate, and Luca’s eyes sparkle so intensely that, for a second, I worry Ben’s planning to move them both back to Tampa. That’s the only news I think would be big enough to warrant this level of enthusiasm.

Thankfully, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be six.

Luca peels his lips back as hard as he can and says, “Look!” through a broad, square grimace.

I’m faced with two rows of tiny white teeth. Neat little lines that look like Tic Tacs that have been cut in half and squished together. I’m aware a strong reaction is required of me, but I have no idea what I’m reacting to, which makes it hard to know if this is a celebration or a commiseration.

Ben understands my quandary and saves me from it. He cups Luca’s face gently and uses a single giant finger to point out a tooth that’s slightly out of alignment. Ben moves his finger gently and the tooth moves microscopically with it.

“No. Way!” I cry. The topic of wiggly teeth has come up more than once during our conversations through the fence. Luca has gone so far as to tell me the names of all his friends in Tampa who have already lost teeth, and he’s provided me with a helpful count of how many teeth his older cousin, Cam, has lost so far. Seven, in case you’re wondering. According to Luca, Cam’s case is very interesting, as the first tooth he lost was a top tooth. The rest of Luca’s friends lost their bottom teeth first. I crank my enthusiasm up to what I hope is an appropriate level. “ A wiggly tooth!? You have a wiggly tooth? Wow, I can’t believe it.”

“It’s my first one,” he says proudly. “I only noticed it last night at bedtime, but look, I can already do this.” He uses the tip of his tongue to attempt to push the tooth forward. It barely budges.

Ben and I both slump back in pretend amazement.

Despite the horrors of our earlier conversation, as I sit there on the swing with Ben, listening to Luca chatter about teeth and tooth fairies and turning seven and the merits of starting school with a gappy smile, it occurs to me that I’m happier than I can ever remember being.

What makes it worse is that I’m not just happy.

I’m home.