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Jeremiah Blake

I’ve never felt an emotional high like it. I’ve never had sex like that either, but that’s stating the obvious. I don’t think I’ve ever been truly fucked before. Not like that. Not until there was nothing left of me. Not until everything I have and everything I am was laid out on display for another person. Not until I have no idea how to scrape myself up and put myself back together.

It’s been hours since it happened. I’ve been home for a while. I’m on my sofa, and I can’t remember the last time I moved. The entire scene from this morning is playing over and over in my mind, and the weird thing is I’m not even sure I’m horny right now.

I think I came so hard my DNA has been rewritten.

My dick twitches in my pants, and I realize I am hard. My body still wants Ben, but my brain is in a strange, sated place it’s never been in before.

Every time I think about what happened, the memory loop gets shorter. I’m unable to play the whole scene over from the beginning and run all the way through the events as they happened. The kiss fades first, then the walk upstairs, then being naked and sick with desire as Ben undressed so fucking slowly, he probably broke something in my mind, and that’s why I’m like this now.

The memory fades and fades until, eventually, all I’m left with is the end. The desperate, punishing surge as he filled me, the quick shift of my organs moving to accommodate him, the air being forced in and out of my lungs on the back of his thrusts. The indescribable pleasure. The excruciating agony of bliss that was bigger than me.

But most of all, most of all, the thing I can’t stop thinking about is the end. When Ben made me roll over and fucked me with his fingers as he sucked me. I was out of my skin. I was as far from myself as I’ve ever been, and there was only one single, solitary thought in my head.

Don’t.

Don’t say it.

Don’t say I love you.

It scared the shit out of me.

I had no idea I was there, in love, or that it was even something I had to worry about accidentally saying.

Now that the dust has settled, I’m not sure why it’s come as such a massive shock. It’s obvious I’ve had the world’s most colossal crush on Ben pretty much since the day I met him. Even now, in a sober state of mind, I truly believe he’s an exceptional human being and the most perfect man in the entire world. I honestly do believe he’s the best-looking person on the planet, despite Marcus and Ness assuring me separately and together that he’s only “normal good-looking.”

So, all the signs of being stupidly in love were there. They’ve been there for a while. I’ve just been ignoring them.

Marcus got here a while ago, and I’m sitting on the sofa with him, legs crossed at the knee, tapping my foot uncontrollably as I fight the urge to pace around the living room. Or run to Ben’s house, scale the wall, and break into his bedroom because the only thing I can think of that will make me feel less crazy is seeing Ben’s beautiful face and hearing his voice, which, by the way, I think is also perfect.

Marcus glances at his wrist and says, “Twenty-two minutes. Wow. It’s official. That’s the longest you’ve gone without talking since I met you. What gives, Jer?”

“Sorry! I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

It’s a lie but a necessary one.

I wish I could tell him what’s happening with Ben. I’m not even a hundred percent sure why I haven’t. Nothing Ben’s done has given me the impression he thinks we’re some kind of secret. He put his arm around me at the rink in front of everyone and said, “Fuck ’em,” so I really don’t think he’s bothered. At the same time, men put their arms around each other sometimes. Especially when sports are involved. It’s a normal thing for friends to do, so maybe he wasn’t overly worried people would think we’re together.

We’ve both made an effort not to do anything obvious around Luca. I think that’s normal though. I don’t think anyone puts on displays of affection around their kids when a relationship is new and completely undefined. At least, I don’t think they should. Things could change at any time, and then the poor kid could be invested and unsettled and all that.

No, it would be a nightmare and a minefield to navigate. I think any responsible parent would want to be sure of a relationship before they tell their kid about it.

Panic attacks with a passion.

Oh God.

What if Ben’s not sure about me? What if he’s unsure about being with a guy? What if he’s just trying it out to see if he likes it? What if he’s just having fun? What if I’m a rebound?

What if he’s experimenting and, like a fucking idiot, I’ve gone and fallen madly in love with him?

“I’m a million miles away, Moop,” I say when I remember I’m the one who was talking. “You deserve better. Sorry. I’ll try to do better. How’ve you been? What’s happening at work? Tell me everything.”

“You’ve been a million miles away for a while now,” he says mildly. “About nine weeks, by my calculation.”

It’s uncanny how Marcus is able to link everything back to Ben. Almost like a hidden talent. I wouldn’t mind as much if he had a different way of doing it. Ness and I talk about Ben all the time, and yes, I feel gently scolded by her every time it happens but not judged. Never judged. The way Marcus does it is dark-eyed and deep-voiced. Disappointed in me. Disappointed that I’m an idiot and disappointed that I’m out of touch with reality despite his best efforts to enlighten me—he actually said that. He said it several times. I mean, he didn’t say that I’m an idiot. That was implied. He said I’m out of touch with reality.

I’m desperate to talk to someone about what’s been happening with Ben. I’d love to tell Ness all about it and get her take on things, but I don’t want to tell her first because I don’t want to share a secret this big with her and not with Marcus.

I’ve tried to tell him. I have. I know I’m going to have to tell him sometime. It’s just that every time I try to form the words, they dry up on the back of my tongue.

“Ten weeks,” I correct when I’m unable to think of anything better to say. “And two days.”

He doesn’t need to say I’m an idiot. The look he gives it says it all, and then some.

He whistles softly under his breath. “Ten weeks and two days, huh? Less than three months. That’s all it’s taken.”

If I was in a better, more stable frame of mind, I’d let it go because I know this is what Marcus is like. He’s one of those friends that’s a little possessive. He’s been like this since we met. It’s not ideal, and it annoys me sometimes, but when it comes to friends who are like family, you have to take the good with the bad. You just have to suck it up and put up with a few less-than-ideal characteristics because like it or not, no one’s perfect.

I’m not in a better, more stable frame of mind though. Far from it, and I feel attacked, so I snap, “It’s almost a year and a half in dog years.”

There’s a ridiculous, tinny desperation in my voice that clanks against the ceiling beams until it’s absorbed by my books. I hear it and instantly regret saying it.

Now, he really does have reason to think I’m an idiot.

“It’s an inside joke Luca made the other day… It’s silly. Forget I said anything.”

Marcus is one of those people who looks like he has hard eyes. He doesn’t, but he looks like he does a lot of the time. Now and again, they soften. Usually, not all the way, but considerably. It’s always seemed random what makes it happen. It must be because now, for no discernible reason, they soften completely.

“Nah, I get it,” he says. “It’s a unit of measurement that speaks to the fourth dimension of reality. Of things that exist outside of our concept of time. Things that are unchanging, static, or timeless, and thus can’t be measured in a linear way.”

“Yes. That’s what I meant.”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes at me. The big, unspoken thing in the room swells and expands. Most of the time it’s distant, so far away I can’t quite make out its name. The dread I always feel when it draws near extends its claws, digging them into me in a painful warning.

“You love him pretty hard, huh?” For once, there’s no edge in Marcus’s voice. There isn’t even disappointment, just acceptance. Dread gives way and slowly releases its grip on me. “I always knew you’d be one of those people who fell hard when you finally fell. I’ve been expecting it…waiting for it…for a long time. So, are you guys, what, together now, or something?”

“How did you know?”

He’s facing the TV, light from the screen flickering in his eyes and making his expression hard to read. “You’ve been different for two or three weeks. Kinda floaty, even for you. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t. I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I know you think I’m being stupid, and maybe I am. I did try to phase him out, but I just…I couldn’t. It was too late from the start. And, and I’m sorry, Moop. I’m so sorry if I disappoint you.”

His eyes are still soft, and he throws an arm around my shoulder. “You? Disappoint me?” I lean against him and close my eyes as he wraps his very specific brand of unyielding comfort around me. “Never.”

Whatever is on TV isn’t hockey, and that’s a surprise to me because I don’t remember changing the channel. Maybe Marcus changed it without me noticing. I try to get into it, but it’s a complicated tech thriller-type thing, and I don’t have the wherewithal to follow.

“Do you want to tell me about him, or what?” Marcus asks after a while.

“Is it, like, okay if I do? I don’t have to if you don’t want to hear it.”

“If it’s important to you, of course I want to hear about it, Jer. Friends first, remember?” It’s the closest we’ve ever come to naming the thing with no name or even acknowledging it. I’m uncomfortable and terrified of saying the wrong thing, but I’m also so fucking grateful for the way Marcus is taking this. “We’re friends before and above everything else. You can talk to me about whatever it is that’s making you sit here all frozen like that.”

I don’t know where to start because, on the one hand, I’m euphoric. When I’m with Ben, I’m so happy I can’t feel my feet, and the rest of the time, I’m petrified and concerned that I’ve taken a big break from reality.

“I’m scared all the time,” I say eventually. “If I’m not with him, I’m scared because I really am fucked, Moop. You were right. About everything. I am being a huge dumbass, and I’m definitely going to get hurt. If it doesn’t work out with Ben, I won’t be okay. I thought I would be, but I won’t. I’m not being overdramatic or anything. I mean it. I won’t be okay. I’ll never be the same again if he leaves me. Ever.”

I lean my head against Marcus’s shoulder. It’s solid and unshakable, and I’m unspeakably thankful he’s here.

“It’s not even just Ben I love. I love his kid too. Luca’s the best. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. I don’t want people to be mean to him. He’s starting at a new school in August, and I don’t want him to have to go through that. He’s only six. I wish I could do it for him, and you know how much I hated school. I don’t want him to have the experience of not knowing where to sit or stand. I don’t want him to be unsure or afraid. I don’t want him to be hungry, ever. I hate the weather now because I don’t want him to be too hot, and I definitely don’t want him to be too cold. I’m fucking dreading winter. I’m worried his tooth will fall out at school, and he’ll lose it. He’ll be so upset because he’s been looking forward to it falling out forever.”

I’m rambling badly, so I take a deep breath and check to ensure Marcus is still with me. By some miracle, he is, so I continue, “I’m super worried the school he’s going to will have a nativity play at Christmas, and they’ll cast him as a shepherd because he’s one of those kids that just gives off massive shepherd vibes, you know? And if that happens, I know there’s less than no chance of him not turning his shepherd’s crook upside down and using it as a hockey stick. There’s literally no chance of it not happening. Did I tell you he’s a hockey prodigy?”

“You mentioned it once or twice.”

“Well, he is, so if he does take it upon himself to use his staff as a stick, he’s going to yeet whatever he decides to hit clean off the stage and into the audience, and it’s going to be carnage. I don’t even know what kind of trouble you get into for that kind of thing these days, but I do know I don’t want Luca getting into it.”

Marcus laughs softly, not at me, but at what I’ve said. “He’s a cool kid, Jer, he’ll be okay. His cousins are going to the same school. They’ll look out for him, and his dad is Ben Stirling. No one’s going to mess with him.”

“Do you think?”

“I do.”

“And what about me? Do you think I’ll survive if Ben doesn’t love me back?”

The unspoken thing is close, but its claws are retracted. It’s big, but for once, it’s not scary. It’s gentle, and its voice is that of an old friend. A friend that’s family. “He’ll love you back, Jeremiah.”

“How do you know?”

I’m about to start rattling off a long list of reasons he might not, but Marcus cuts me off, “You know how I know?” He doesn’t give me time to answer. He simply pulls me tightly against his side. “Because Ben knows you, and there’s no way anyone could know you and not love you.”

I feel better, though mildly bruised, by the time Marcus leaves. It’s the closest we’ve ever come to talking about the thing we don’t talk about, and I feel guilty and relieved and sad and grateful and so much better now that I’ve told him about Ben.

I make my chamomile tea and stare off into the middle distance in the kitchen as I drink it. I consider calling Ness, but I don’t because “Black” by Pearl Jam is playing in the background, and we all know it’s not music. It’s poetry. It’s a poem about sex. About how sex feels. How it sounds. How it makes you move. On the inside and the outside too.

Ben plays this kind of music at his house, so it’s impossible to listen to the song and not think about him. All the parts of my brain I thought were still sated from the sex we had earlier are lighting up.

When the song ends, I get ready for bed. Sleep doesn’t seem likely, as the events of the day are still swirling, but I strip down to my briefs nonetheless, tossing my clothes into the laundry basket in the corner of my room.

My phone pings. It’s Ben.

How many times do I have to tell you I can see into your house?

Draw your curtains.

The rush of excitement I feel seeing his name on my screen is downright embarrassing. I reply immediately, without taking the time to read my reply back or decide if it’s stupid or not.

Are you spying on me?

Before I have time to add, “' Cause if you want to see me naked, that can be arranged ,” he sends another message.

A little bit

A little bit?

A lot, okay?

I watch you a lot. I can’t stop. I’ve tried.

Oh fuck, I love this conversation.

I love it.

It might be the best conversation I’ve ever had.

I can see what you’re doing too.

It’s obviously untrue, but I’m so happy right now I don’t want this chat to end. I don’t care if I have to resort to bullshit to keep it going.

No, you can’t

Yes, I can

Fine. What am I doing?

He walked right into that one, didn’t he?

You’re watching me undress with your hand in your pants, you perv.

No, I’m not.

Prove it.

I look up, studying the curtains in his room with an eagle eye, eager to find any sign of life. Fabric twitches. A set of drapes is roughly opened and the broad-shouldered facade of Ben Stirling appears in the center of a window frame, slightly obscured by glass and backlit by a soft, golden light. He has his phone in one hand and the other raised above his head as he leans against the window frame and looks down where I stand.

Oof.

Umm, just a quick FYI, Ben. Us bookish folk kind of have a thing for the old door/window-frame lean.

You should really use it sparingly.

Is that right?

His head dips and he smiles, face slightly illuminated by the light of his screen, and fuck, he’s so hot I can’t take it.

Curiosity gets the better of me.

Can I ask you a question?

Of course.

How did you know how to do that thing with your fingers?

Ben smiles again.

Did you like that thing?

I came so hard all ten of my toes cracked at once.

Only your toes?

I’m sorry, baby. I’m still learning, but I’ll get better. I promise.

You’ll see. Next time, I’ll make your toes and your fingers crack.

And the time after that, it’ll be your toes, your fingers, and every bone in your spine.

That’s some powerful imagery right there, that’s what that is. It leaves me so off-balance that I’m forced to put my hand out and steady myself on one of my bookshelves.

You didn’t answer my question.

I googled it, okay.

What?

I can’t fucking believe it.

Are you seriously asking me to believe you were able to find the prostate on the internet when you couldn’t use google to find a custom drape company?

Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I guess I was highly motivated or something.

I grin at my screen like a fool, and when that’s not enough, I clasp my phone in both hands and press it to my heart. I expect Ben to laugh at me. If I were him, I would. This shit is pathetic.

He doesn’t. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Instead, he places a hand on the pane of glass in front of him, lightly dusting his fingertips across it. At first I think he’s waving, but he isn’t. He’s touching the glass where I am, marking the spot where I’m standing.

He’s touching the version of me he sees in his window.

I sway and hold on to the bookshelf a little tighter. I can’t look away, and I also can’t send another message because I don’t know how to type or think anymore.

After a few minutes, he sends another message.

Are you tired? It was a big day.

The second I see the word, I realize that, yes, God yes, I’m tired. I’m completely exhausted. I’m tired down to my bones. I’m tired of waiting and hoping something would happen with Ben, and I’m tired from being so crazy about him my heart has spent months beating double time, and I’m tired of being scared he doesn’t feel the same way.

I’m so tired, and I wish to fuck I could turn off my brain for a few hours and get a decent night’s sleep.

Yeah, I’m beat.

Why don’t you get in bed, baby?

If you leave your drapes open, I’ll watch over you until you fall asleep.