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Shane has used a tape measure before, but it’s been maybe five years.
His dad taught him to use one when they’d built a stool together so Shane could get his woodwork merit badge. He still has the same one, tucked in the toolbox his father gave him when he bought his apartment in Montreal.
It seems—sacrilegious, almost, to look at the tape measure now, knowing what he knows. He deleted the text, of course, and he’d moved the picture—god, the fucking picture—to a thumb drive, following file storage instructions he found on Yahoo Answers. He’s looked at it a few times—ok, more than a few times—every night almost, and he’s tried to guesstimate its size, without relying on the clearly bogus number Rozanov gave him.
He’s inspected the photo up close. At a distance. He made a small ruler out of paper and tried to do the math relative to the size of his phone. He’d even gone to Google to try to find an estimate, or any clue about Rozanov—or Russian dick in general. “Ilya Rozanov skate size” had unfortunately yielded no fixed number. Fuck the Raiders for keeping that secret.
On one particularly obsessive evening, he’d spoken into his phone, eyes burning from looking at the picture for far too long:
“Hey Siri, what is the average Slavic penis length?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t understand your question.”
The tape measure is his last resort, and the one he’s been avoiding for—shit, over a year now. The tape measure is from Dad. It’s from his childhood. And when he picks it up in his hand, the metal is lovely and worn and smooth. It had belonged to his grandfather. He considers this with profound shame—and the knowledge that he could easily pop over to the store and buy a different one. But who does that? Who buys a single tape measure? Sex perverts, that’s who.
But he’s reached the point where he has to know. He’s never going to let Rozanov fuck him—he tells himself this every single day, so it has to be true—and there’s no way he can accurately estimate size by measuring the length of his jaw and adding an inch or two for his throat. Jesus, he swallowed that thing whole last time, like it was a dare on Fear Factor. Fuck, he’s getting hard.
Gulping, he pulls out the tape, stopping right at the nine-inch mark. He regards it, brow furrowed, concentrating on the memory of that singular Russian cock. It hadn’t been that big, had it?
“You’re a fucking liar, Rozanov,” he says, flinging the measuring tape back in the box.
Later, when he showers, he jerks off to the thought of nine inches, splitting him in half.
***
Shane’s dick is five and half inches. He knows this now. After drinking two ciders, he measured himself. Rozanov is coming to Montreal at the end of the month and—well, they definitely won’t fuck—but maybe they’ll do something. And he can measure his dick against Rozanov’s.
But when the day comes and Rozanov is buried inside him—Shane can’t even remember what numbers are. He forgets everything he’s ever known when Rozanov is inside him—all the way inside, Jesus. And he’s too blissed out and—weirdly sad—when Rozanov leaves that he just falls asleep without writing down a single estimate.
***
Ilya wakes to Hollander looming over him. Hollander has a determined look in his eyes, and the intent is focused squarely on Ilya’s cock. Fuck, he hasn’t even noticed Ilya is awake. Ilya grins and glances down—yes, he’s very hard, just like he always is when Hollander actually lets him stay the night. The look stays on Hollander’s face when he slides down Ilya’s body, right until Hollander’s mouth is inches from his cock. Ilya bites his lip. He knows what’s next. Yes, he’s dreamed of this time and time again, for ages—but Hollander’s mouth stays closed, his jaw set. And gently, ever so gently, Hollander places his forearm right next to Ilya’s dick. There’s a black mark, he notices, on Hollander’s arm, maybe ten inches from the base of his palm.
“I’m sorry is not as big as your arm.” He grabs Hollander’s thigh—and Hollander yelps like a little kid, ducking like he expects a puck to the face.
“What the fuck, Rozanov? What. The. Fuck.”
“Oh, yes. What you are doing is entirely normal. I am one being strange.”
“I just—”
“My cock thought you would suck it. Now it’s very disappointed.”
Hollander glares at him. “You lied.”
“What?” Ilya rubs his eyes and sits up. “About what? What is this lie?”
“You said your dick is nine inches.”
Ilya can’t help grinning. “Oh, so you remember. And what—you make—dick math on your arm?”
“Yeah, I—” Hollander blushes prettily and covers the mark on his arm. “Um. Maybe you just overestimated—”
Ilya laughs, really laughs, a huge belly laugh, and he pulls Hollander into him. Despite his grumbling, despite his scowl. Motherfucker, he likes this man. This pretty boy and his exact measurements. “Is true. I say is bigger than it is. Not a lie. Is—decoration.”
“Um. Embellishment?”
“Yes, that is right.” He glances at Hollander’s arm. “And what does your arm tell you?”
Hollander shrugs. He’s so red. “I forgot if I was measuring from my wrist or my elbow. So I don’t—”
“You were distracted. Is understandable.”
“No. That’s not—” Shane covers his stiffening dick with his hand.
“Oh, yes, it is.”
“It’s like seven inches. Seven and a half, max.” Hollander’s scowl intensifies. Ilya wants to eat him. “You lied.”
“Maybe.” He presses a kiss to Hollander’s lips and keeps kissing until the scowl goes. “Can you blame me? I wanted to impress this pretty boy.”
“Oh, my god. You’re such a fucking—”
Ilya kisses him again. “Later,” he says in Hollander’s ear, “I will let you measure, hm? But now, I do what I want.”
Hollander nods slowly, like he doesn’t want to concede—but he knows it’s futile. Ilya is bigger and stronger and—Hollander wants this, wants him. Even if he could stop him, he never would. The thought makes Ilya a little giddy.
“Fine,” Hollander says. “Fuck you.”
“No. You.” Ilya pins his arms and slides down, down, down to Shane’s waiting cock and takes it all the way inside.