Page 9 of Poetry On Ice
Wait. What?
No!
I cup my hands under the water and let them fill. I splash my face in an attempt to recover.
Once.
Twice.
It does nothing to help.
I look down.
Oh fuck no! This cannot behappening.
I grab the faucet and turn it thirty degrees to cool the water temperature significantly.
The water was too hot. That’s what’s happened. It made me lightheaded. It’s been a long day. A long week. You know what? It’s been a long month. I’ve moved cities and states, not to mention teams. Most of my stuff is still boxed up, and even if you take Ant Decker out of the equation, it’s been a lot. I’m not myself. I’ve overheated and need to cool down.
That’s all.
Okay.
Okay, so it’s not working.
The water must still be too hot.
I turn the faucet all the way down, fighting the urge to squeal when icy water hits me right in the sternum. It’s a gut punch that reminds me to take a breath. I take three for good measure and pour a healthy dollop of soap onto my sponge, scrubbing myself as hard and fast as possible. I rinse off, steadfastly not turning to face Decker, choosing instead to perform an ungraceful, step-on-the-spot dance that ultimately leads to my body being soap-free.
My dick, admittedly an appendage known to have a mind of its own—but never, ever in a situation like this—is still half-hard. Pure panic courses through myveins every time I look down. I’m left with no choice but to adjust the angle of the shower nozzle and blast my balls with a shot of cold water.
That does it. I’m seeing tiny white spots in the periphery of my field of vision, but my dick, while still a little thicker and heavier than normal, has the decency to point down. Not wanting to invite any further disaster, I shut off the water and get the fuck out of there. No man has ever wrapped a towel around his waist faster. Or tighter. I suck my belly in hard as I tuck it in. It’s uncomfortable, but I think it’s wise. No sense in taking chances about this kind of thing.
“Hey, Princess,” says Decker. His voice is deep and scratchy, so low and gruff, my eardrums register each individual vibration, “you forgot your shit.”
I keep my gaze averted, head turned a little more than the situation warrants, and hotfoot it back to my spout and throw my toiletries into my bag without bothering to dry the shampoo bottle or wring out my sponge.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“You’re welcome.”
I’m not sure if it’s the normalcy of this part of the interaction or the fact that I can tell without looking that he’s smiling, but either way, something about howhe says it makes me forget I’m trying not to make eye contact.
I’m right. Decker is smiling. His head is cocked, his chin raised as if to get a better vantage of me. A glittering black gaze takes me in and swallows me whole.
I’m frozen. Fire. Rooted to the spot, blinking and trying to remember how to swallow.
By the time I get to my car and slam my door shut, my hands are shaking so hard it takes me two attempts to start the ignition.
It’s not the ink that got to me. Not the roses or thorns. Not the swallow, the moon, the stars, or even the shocking realism of the serpent coiled up his spine that’s affected me like this. It’s the fact that, against my better judgment, before I left the shower, I looked down.
And Ant Decker was rock-hard.
4
Robbie McGuire
Here’s the thing aboutdicks: they’re not all that bright. It’s just one of those things. Everyone knows it. At least, everyone who owns one or comes into regular contact with one knows it. Sometimes, they get hard for no reason. It happens. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. Sometimes, they get hard when you don’t want them to—through absolutely no fault of your own—and sometimes, they don’t get hard when you do want them to. Obviously, that’s never happened to me, but I have it on good authority that it happens to other guys.