Page 70 of Puck the Coach's Son
My hand goes to the button before my brain has finished reading the words. I take my jeans off. Fold them, for some reason, and set them on the chair like I'm being watched. Maybe I am. Maybe that's the whole point.
shirt
I take my shirt off. Drop it on the jeans. Stand there in my boxers in the middle of my father's guest room with the door locked behind me and my skin going up in temperature by the second.
lie back
I lie back on the comforter and my skin goes hot in a line from my sternum to my hip. The ceiling has a water stain shaped like a comma. I've never noticed it before. I notice it now because I can't look at the phone in my hand without my face burning.
hand in your shorts.
I put my hand in my shorts.
My phone buzzes again before I can close my fingers around myself.
wait. stop.
I stop. I hover. I'm so hard it hurts and my whole body is on the edge of a pulse I'm trying to keep quiet.
i want you to film it.
My stomach flips. And I text back,all of it?
your hand on your dick. your face when you come. send it to me.
I stare at the screen. I stare at it until the phone dims itself once. The idea of my face in a video on his phone, in his hand, in his bed at night, my mouth, the noise I make at the end, is a thing I can barely look at directly. It's too bright.
i can't
you can.
my dad is downstairs
then be quiet.
I put the phone down. I put my hands over my eyes. I lie there in my boxers with my dick hard against my stomach and I try to talk myself out of it. I try. I try for maybe forty seconds. Then I pick up the phone and I open the camera and I turn it to the front-facing lens and see my own face, flushed, mouth half-open, hair still damp from the shower where he washed me, and I press record.
I tilt the phone down my body.
I push my boxers down.
I wrap my hand around myself.
My breath goes ragged on the first stroke and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep quiet. I think about his hand instead of mine. I think about his voice in the shower sayingwhose is this.I think about the fingers that were in my mouth. My hand speeds up. My hips come off the bed.
I don't last long.
When I come, I bite down on my own lip and the sound I make is small and ruined. The phone catches all of it, my face twisting, the white on my stomach, my chest heaving, and I lie there shaking and I think,I'll never send this. I'll delete it. I'll delete it right now.
I send it.
I watch the bar fill on the send. I watch the littledeliveredappear.
I drop the phone on the bed and put my arm over my eyes.
That's when the door handle turns.
The lock catches. The handle stops. On the other side of the door my father's voice says, “Theo.”
