Page 54 of Diamond Ring
He takes out his phone. Types a ShakespearianYou up?into his chat with Mike.
Silence. No “Mike is typing” notification. They aren’t anything to each other. Two usernames and tentative, breakable plans. Jake almost closes the app and resigns himself to a bad night’s sleep when Mike responds.
Mike: Had to work late. Just got home
Jake should let him go. Most people don’t keep ballplayer hours. Not fair for Jake to think Mike should be there when he demands it. Still, Jake’s practically radiating out of his skin. Mike has made it clear he’s not into hookups. But text is easier. Pictures are sometimes easier. If Jake’s body will actually let him get hard for once, another resentment in a whole list of them.
Ben: If you’re tired...
Mike: Not that kind of tired. Got home and thought I could just go to bed. Don’t think I’ll be able to
An opening. An offer of stress relief. Jake’s hand drops to the waistband of his sweats. He imagines Mike from his photos, an image with a distinctlyAlextinge that’s for Jake to worry about tomorrow. Mike has big hands, thick fingers. Mike, who might have other guys he’s talking with, but Jake can imagine solely focused on him, making him forget the last eighteen hours of his life. To escape his current emotional state that’s occupying the shaded overlap between agitated and horny.
Ben: I’m in kind of a weird mood.
I know you said no hookups.
I thought maybe we could
Though there’s no real casual way to say,Distract me from my first big-league pitching start in nearly ten years not going as well as I hoped, and my fear of reinjuring my arm, and also having to deal with my teammate who is also my ex-best friend who I had feelings for that I haven’t gotten over.
Ben: trade pics or something.
A pause, like Jake’s crossed a boundary. He should have just found something in his go-to porn bookmarks, very few of which have guys with close-cropped black hair and broad shoulders, jerked it or attempted to, and fallen asleep.
Mike: Sure. You in bed?
Jake goes into his bedroom, peels off his shirt, and tosses it at the hamper. Now he won’t even be a liar.
Ben: Yep.
A picture comes through a minute later, Mike, pants off but underwear still on, clinging boxer-briefs that remind Jake of sliding shorts. He’s thick all over, at his waist, meaty at the hips, visibly hard. His hand rests casually at his waistband, thumbnail bearing a deep purple bruise.
Back when Jake thought he was going to be a star, he worried about these kinds of texts leaking on the internet. Now he just feels awkward and ballplayer inarticulate.
Ben: If we ever fuck put your fingers in my mouth.
Mike: Goddamn
I want to see you
For a second, Jake considers sending his address, pacing by the door. Imagines his own flash of disappointment when Mike’s not as Jake’s pictured him, and the possible answering one from Mike when Jake’s cock takes only moderate interest in the proceedings, even if he feels like his skin’s on too tight.
Mike’s request radiates from his phone. There’s no way Jake’s going to be hard on anything like a reasonable timeframe. He could send an old picture that he took as a backup but something about that feels dishonest. His bed is made, tight. He lies on it for a second to make it look more slept in, then leans back against the propped-up pillows, phone extended, contemplating. They might meet up later, but Mike hasn’t offered his face. That seems like an escalation, even if he did send a picture of his cock.
Jake extends the arm holding the phone. Takes a breath. Another. Then moves slowly, trying not to lose his nerve, not listening to anything but the throb of a thought that implants itself in his mind. It takes a little positioning, some adjustment of the bedside lamp that throws him into sharper relief, some coordinating not to get his elbow in it. Then atap-tap-tapof his thumb; a burst of pictures. A minimalism to it: his arm, his chest, the tilted-up point of his chin. His hand grasped around his throat, index finger extending off camera slightly, tip worked into his mouth.
Not sexy, really, except he can’t stop looking at it, the cabling of the tendons in his neck, the grip of his hand like it belongs to someone else.
He sends it, a condensed thumbnail image that shows asdeliveredthenread. A roil of embarrassment followed by a greater one of want, an urgency he can’t quite put words to, just a hot squeezing pulse of arousal.
No reply comes.
A minute goes by. Another. Jake watches the digital clock on his phone. He should have just sent an old picture. Something staged, normal. With it, a dredged-up memory, Alex in his bedroom, telling him that he was weirder than most people think. A shining compliment that tarnished as years went by.
Finally his phone hums a notification. Jake peels his hand back, not wanting to look. If it’s Mike leaving the chat or worse, just sending an emoji and anI should probably go to sleep.
Mike: Fuck you’re perfect
