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It wasn’t really rational to blame Ilya Rozanov for all of it.
Shane had been pretty convinced he was perfectly normal. He’d invested kind of a lot of mental energy into being normal about shit. And it was normal to have to focus on not looking at other guys in the shower-- definitely was normal, or there wouldn’t be so many uncomfortable jokes about it.
A lot of guys did stuff with other guys and just kept it quiet, and that was super normal too.
But Shane was starting to suspect that maybe-- well, normal is kind of a fake idea anyway. Nothing is purely normal. Everyone is an individual and has their own experiences and stuff. Normal is kind of a spectrum. And it’s normal to be more or less any particular kind of way.
So he was starting to suspect that he maybe was more into gay shit than some of his teammates. Which was expected-- some of them were really into shit that left Shane pretty cold. Some of them were obsessive about pussy, which was a gross way to be. (Shane had always prided himself on being into women as people, except the part where he sort of wasn’t that either, but it at least made a good excuse for the distaste for pussy. And anyway he just hadn’t met the right girl, obviously. Anyway. If normal could encompass that, then it could certainly encompass-- whatever this was.
Okay so he couldn’t stop thinking about Ilya’s fingers in him and his whiny little I want to fuck you and his next time and maybe Shane freaked out a little bit about it and maybe not. Maybe Shane had already been thinking about it and had managed to scrape together enough-- enough something, he didn’t know-- to buy himself a, a dildo, he could barely make himself think the word. But when it had arrived he’d hidden it in a bag in a drawer for a week before he could nerve himself up to touch it. And then he’d… done more than just touch it, and had learned some things about himself.
He hadn’t even really thought about the size of it though. He had never let himself think a lot about the size of dicks. He had a normal dick, it was-- well it was just normal. He’d seen a lot of other dicks in his life, in showers and locker rooms, mostly flaccid, sometimes kinda not, it was the kind of thing he knew not to look at very much. He’d seen his own, hard, of course, and then in porn, and he knew he was supposed to be looking at the women in porn but there wasn’t anything wrong with looking at the dicks too. It was the modern era, everyone was-- okay gay porn was still kind of a punchline but it wasn’t that weird to look at it.
Anyway he knew his dick was normal. He privately suspected his was kind of big, which-- well, given Asian stereotypes he was kind of pleased not to be living up to that. His was approximately comparable to a lot of the ones in porn, which he knew tended to be larger than average. Like, not the monster ones of course. Those were usually labeled as such, though. The other ones were just-- they were regular but he thought they were probably kind of big. And his was. Like that, whatever it was.
Rozanov’s was bigger, a little, but he hadn’t given much thought to it. It had been a really pleasing size and girth and weight, more than he could fit in his mouth, kind of a challenge. He hadn’t directly compared it to his own, hadn’t really given it much thought. The dildo he’d bought was a little smaller than his own dick was, so it had to be smaller than Rozanov. If he was going to let-- if Rozanov was going to fuck him he probably needed to practice with something bigger.
He nerved himself up to go back to the sex toy website, incognito mode and all, and spent a while trying to envision the sizes of the dildos. It was frustrating the way they didn’t use consistent objects for scale. Only the very largest ones, they’d have a soda can or something, and he knew that was too big, that wasn’t something he wanted to put in himself. But a lot of them had a hand for scale, and then he couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman’s hand, or what.
He spent some time contemplating the relative size of his own hand and dick, and then trying to extrapolate from there. But he had big hands, he knew that. He could roughly envision how big Rozanov’s dick was in relation to his own hand. Maybe he just had to buy a dildo and compare it that way. It wasn’t like he couldn’t stand to have a few around. But he didn’t want to be the kind of guy who had like eight dildos. Was he going to be the-- what was that fairy tale? Goldilocks. He was going to be Shane Goldilocks and the Eight Dildos. This one’s too small! This one’s too big! This one vibrates--
God help him.
He thought about asking Rozanov to measure his dick, and then immediately squashed that thought. He knew every one of Rozanov’s stats. Not just height and weight, waist size, all his gear sizing, his skate size, his lung capacity, his best record for vertical leap, his speed, his shot speed, his shot accuracy. All of this stuff was out there, just as it was for himself.
He’d measured his own dick, once, kind of a long time ago, and had been mildly puzzled at the time-- what direction did you measure it from? Where did it actually end? It was pretty straightforward from the top, maybe, but like. Once you got into puzzling out how it attached to the body there was some ambiguity over where it ended, and so the number wasn’t as obvious as you might think. Circumference was easy, but nobody ever seemed to discuss that. Some incognito-mode searching had made him realize everyone ever was full of shit and there was no real science here, so he’d abandoned the question and hadn’t ever recorded his results. Also it seemed weird to write it down anywhere.
Anyway dick size was not one of the stats kept on hockey players, though if it was, perhaps there’d be a standard for how to measure it. And he’d know exactly how big Rozanov’s was. So he could be sure to practice--
He finally noticed that this was a really weird train of thought, and banished it from his mind. Mostly successfully. Until later when he was alone again and in that kind of prickly mood and was contemplating the sole dildo he owned, which was-- it had been sold without any kind of particular mention of its size, it was clearly just meant to be a normal size. And it was smaller than his dick, and definitely smaller than Rozanov’s.
So this was something he thought about only in specific circumstances, but thought of every time he was in those specific circumstances. He probably wouldn’t have done anything about it except that Rozanov out of nowhere-- well, in the context of their text conversation that was an intermittent weird drip of chirping, mockery, sexual innuendo, and just straight-up filth-- informed him via text that he had a nine-inch cock.
In the moment Shane was too flustered to react, and just told him to fuck off. But then when he was home he got out his dildo and measured it (five and a half inches, which sounded small, but then, obviously it was a normal size; he’d bought the one listed as a top seller, and why would everyone want to buy a weird-sized dildo?), and then lay it out on the bed with the ruler next to it, and tried to think about what a nine inch dick would really look like.
No way was Rozanov telling the truth. No way was it really-- that was enormous. No. There was no way.
But he got too into it, thinking of it, and he had to get the laptop and open an incognito window and go to the sex toy website and start looking at the larger offerings there. Nine inches-- they had one that was nine inches specifically, and it was-- it just seemed-- well, again, there was only somebody’s hand for scale. And that wasn’t-- he couldn’t even tell if it was a man’s hand or a woman’s. And women’s hands were so small sometimes. He looked at his hand and the measuring tape and the dildo and then back to the dildo on the screen. He couldn’t--
His sole dildo seemed hopelessly small. He could take more than this. He barely needed any prep to take this anymore. He could take nine inches, for sure. Rozanov wasn’t nine inches, no way. He’d had Rozanov in his mouth, he’d-- well, he hadn’t been able to fit the whole thing. But nine inches? He wasn’t--
He found himself imagining it, helplessly shoving back, greedy for more. Fuck, he could-- fuck, he had to-- he needed-- fuck--
Before he could talk himself out of it he clicked buy on the nine-inch dildo, and then spent a brief, intense, messy, breathless interlude with the little one he already had, and then had to clean up and put everything away.
He should cancel that order. He didn’t need--
He’d forgotten about it, or anyway had locked the whole thing away in the compartment in his mind where it lived, when the package arrived. He didn’t even realize what it was, brought it home and dumped it with his stuff between a couple of road trips. Wasn’t until he was back again that he got around to going through his mail. Good thing his mom wasn’t there because of course he didn’t recognize the discreet packaging and of course he opened the thing in the middle of all his other mail and then he was holding the less-discreet box which had a photo of the item printed on it, and he was surrounded by the detritus of his various in-progress errands, and he was hard as a rock and glassy-eyed just thinking about it.
He made himself put it away, but then of course that night he had to try it.
It was big. It was really fucking-- big. It was-- it took a lot of working up to. He practiced with his mouth first. It was-- plastic (well, silicone) and weird but then it warmed up and he got used to the plastic (silicone) taste and-- fuck, it was. It was hot. It really filled his mouth, it was so heavy, and he could let it press his tongue down and slide into his throat and choke him a litt-- fuck. Fuck, okay. He wasn’t going to-- it would just be sad to come from sucking a fake cock, he had to stop. He could come back to that later.
Then he tried to put it in his ass and it was actually too much. He had to stop, and then he had the bright idea to go get his other dildo and try first with that, and that worked pretty well. Once he was worked-up he tried again and oh. Then he could do it. Then he did it. All nine inches, and it wasn’t easy but he did it, he took the whole thing, and then he was so worked up he couldn’t stop himself and he got a little frantic and he thought about how Rozanov would gently mock him and then would give it to him hard and God it was so deep inside his actual body, like, way in there, and--
Another fairly frantic interlude ensued, during which he maybe sort of lost his mind and probably went a bit too hard but-- fuck.
Okay well. So it turned out. Shane could not only take a nine-inch cock, but he could, in the process, come so hard he thought maybe he’d gone blind, just for a moment.
So anyway. He could do it. He had nothing to be afraid of.
It was still quite a while before the stars aligned and he had the nerve to let Rozanov come back to his place. And that went-- so fucking well, so overwhelmingly incredibly well that Shane didn’t really apply any particular analysis to what had gone on.
He could absolutely take Rozanov’s cock, like a fucking champion, and it was good, and he coasted on that for ages. Fuck, it felt good in like, infinite ways, the entire situation. And he thought about it a lot, but he didn’t really like. Think critically, at all.
Until some time later, when he was alone, had the night off, had the morning after off, had time to do this, and guiltily let himself masturbate about it. And so of course he got out the big dildo again, because jerking off wasn’t going to do it, he wanted to recapture that feeling of, of--
It wasn’t until he’d worked the thing into himself and was rocking back onto it, overwhelmed and gasping, that it struck him-- it couldn’t be, really-- and then he was so distracted he forgot. But afterward, again, when he’d come his brains out and collapsed and caught his breath and managed to get the thing back out of himself--
Well.
Eventually, he came to himself enough, standing in the bathroom and washing the thing off, and he looked at it and was struck by a realization.
Rozanov absolutely did not have a nine-inch cock. His cock was big, and it was proportioned similarly to this one, beautifully-shaped and pleasingly girthy. But Shane could compare it to his own hand, could vividly remember how his own hand had looked around Rozanov’s cock.
Rozanov’s cock wasn’t nine inches. It was smaller than this. It wasn’t small, by any means. But it was absolutely not nine inches. The way it fit in his hands-- no, he could really measure, now, against how his hands looked, both of them-- no.
Rozanov was smaller than this.
Shane finished washing the-- implement, dried it off carefully with a lint-free cloth, wrapped it back in its storage bag, put it back into the nightstand drawer, and picked up his phone. He had navigated to the Lily text thread and was staring at it before he started thinking about what he’d say. And then he considered it more deeply. If he challenged Rozanov about his dick dimensions, he’d have to explain how he knew, and why he was thinking of it right now. Did he really want to be called upon to explain himself? Did he want to talk about trying to shop for a dildo by dimension?
No. He could not discuss this. It had to remain just something he knew, but didn’t talk about.
This resolution lasted him a good long while. The subject didn’t come up. He thought of it occasionally, upon seeing Rozanov’s, mmm, endowment; he made mental notes of how much of it he could get into his mouth and throat, compared it to the dildo in his next solo session. Rozanov was only about an inch, maybe inch and a half shorter than the dildo, and commensurately smaller in girth; it was still a pretty impressive dick. (Shane was only a little smaller than that himself. Annoyingly, Rozanov could swallow him completely, while he still struggled to reciprocate that. A bit more practice with the dildo would surely pay off, especially since now he knew it was bigger than his actual target.)
He finally fucked up when Rozanov taught him about edging, got him so fuck-drunk and desperate that when he finally came, his brains poured out his dick. It was the only possible explanation. Because afterward while they were lying there both half-stupefied, Rozanov said something smug about Shane finally getting his fill of big cock, and Shane’s stupid fucking mouth opened and he said,
“It’s not nine inches though.”
Rozanov blinked, frowned, and said, “What?”
“Uh,” Shane said. “Nothing.”
“No, what did you say?” Rozanov asked. “What’s nine inches?”
“Uh,” Shane said. He was already so flushed it shouldn’t matter but his cheeks burned. “I uh. It’s. You said. Uh.”
“I said what?” Rozanov asked sweetly. He reached over and caught Shane’s nipple between two fingers. Shane squeaked, writhed, shoved him away, managed to free himself.
“Jesus,” Shane said. “Stop. What the fuck.” His nipples were-- going to be a problem actually, they both felt bruised. Fuck. Rozanov had done some damage tonight, and Shane had been really really into it while it was ongoing but he was going to be sore at practice and it was going to be really annoying.
“Tell me,” Rozanov said. “What are you talking about?”
He was going to be extremely annoying. Shane sighed, still braced to fend him off, and said, “You sexted me that your cock was nine inches long but it’s not.”
Rozanov looked delighted. “When did you measure it?” he asked.
“With my hand,” Shane said.
“You have ruler on your hand?” Rozanov demanded, and grabbed Shane’s hand to look. “I don’t see-- and ruler in inches? I thought Canadians used normal units!”
“Let go,” Shane said, wrestling his hand back. “No, I just-- you were the one using inches! How do you even know what an inch is?”
“I don’t,” Rozanov said. “It was random guess, Hollander, nobody really measures their dick. How do you know?”
“I-- compared,” Shane said.
“To what,” Rozanov crowed, and he was wildly amused about it, which was sort of worse than if he’d been offended.
Shane knew he should refuse to answer, and should let the conversation die, but he also knew by now that Rozanov wasn’t going to let it go. “Fuck,” he whispered.
“To what,” Rozanov said, grabbing him again, and in a moment he had Shane pretty pinned down because Shane didn’t think in time to try seriously to resist him. They were still naked. And there was no way Shane was getting hard again. But. Well. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant to have Rozanov’s entire weight on him.
He should put up more resistance, he realized, and so he did, and they wrestled a bit, and Shane got rugburn on his knee and hip but managed to get Rozanov pinned, ha. Rozanov looked wild for a fraction of a second, like he was scared or frantic or was considering doing something crazy, but then he didn’t do it, and Shane was left holding him down and wondering what he was capable of. But Rozanov just knocked the side of his knee against Shane’s hip.
“Come on,” he said. “You tell me. What have you got that’s nine inches long that you’ve measured?” He rolled his hips. “Not your dick. I don’t know how big your dick is, your pretty dick, so neat and trim. It’s big. But it’s not bigger than mine.”
“No,” Shane said. “It’s not. Never mind!”
“Tell me,” Rozanov said, grinning. “How many inches is your dick?”
“I don’t know,” Shane said. “I never measured it.”
“But you measure with your hands,” Rozanov said. “I know for fact you touch yourself.”
“I wasn’t thinking about how big mine is because I wasn’t trying to figure out if I could actually take it in my asshole,” Shane burst out, unable to keep his mouth shut even though he really needed to shut this conversation down.
“Oho,” Rozanov said, and fuck, he was fucking smart, which was part of what made playing against him suck so much. He acted on instinct, he seemed like he was a reactive dumb jock, but then he was fucking smart and he’d read you already and so his reaction wasn’t going to be the obvious thing. Fuck. “Oho ho ho. You have a nine-inch dildo. They do sell them by size, I saw this once. Ha! And you bought one, oh my God you bought it to practice.”
If only Shane had any ability to lie, but he did not. The closest he could come was his impenetrable poker face, which Rozanov could read on the ice and could read in real life. He was a fucking genius mind-reader. “No,” Shane said futilely, face burning.
“Is it really bigger than me?” Rozanov asked, delighted. “I truly did not measure, I was just guessing based on vibes. I don’t know how long a fucking inch is.”
“I don’t know where you’re supposed to measure from,” Shane admitted. “I don’t know how big mine is because I don’t know where to measure from.”
“I think you just measure the top,” Rozanov said, disarmingly frank. “I wonder this too but I think that’s how you do. But it seemed like too trying hard to get a real, you know, thingy, measure stick thingy, so I never did. But I know my hand like this is like, maybe twenty centimeters, twenty-two?” He held his hand, spread wide, and indicated the implied hypotenuse of the triangle partly formed by his middle finger and his thumb.
“Yeah,” Shane said, looking at his own hand. Rozanov reached up, took him by the wrist, laid their palms together and compared their hands. Their hands were almost exactly the same size, fingers about the same length. Shane’s fingers had squarer tips, Rozanov’s tapered a bit more, but they weren’t actually any longer. They could get deeper inside Shane than his own purely because of the angle, Shane realized; he’d been assuming they were longer, but he couldn’t-- when he did, er, things to himself, he couldn’t quite ever get it the same way Rozanov did but of course it was just the angle.
He was still pinning Rozanov down but he wasn’t holding him anymore, he was just sitting there. If they hadn’t just finished getting each other off five minutes beforehand this would probably have devolved into sex, but as it was, both of them sated, it was just closeness. It was maybe as close as they ever got to like. Cuddling, Shane guessed, which wasn’t a thing he’d ever-- girls he’d been with had wanted to do it, or had felt like they were supposed to, but he’d never really clicked with any of them enough to want to, and none of them had really seemed to want him to-- well, this wasn’t cuddling anyway, it was a wrestling match they’d given up on. That Shane had won, of course. Because Rozanov had given up, probably because in order for either of them to decisively win somebody would have had to be willing to risk injuring the other, and neither of them actually really wanted that.
“So you bought a nine-inch dildo to practice,” Rozanov said. “And it’s bigger than me. So we know you can take a cock bigger than mine.”
“I mean,” Shane said. “I just. I didn’t.” He didn’t know how to explain himself. The thought that he might not be able to take the whole thing after all the lead-up had distressed him so much he hadn’t been able to think around it.
“No no,” Rozanov assured him. “I understand. You have to be the best. You had to be prepared. I expect no less.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said, sensing that he was being made fun of. Rozanov had kept their hands pressed together, but it meant he was kind of holding Shane’s hand now, which wasn’t really like. A thing they did. But it didn’t feel intentional, it felt more absent-minded.
Rozanov gazed up at him, and Shane was avoiding eye contact so he couldn’t really tell whether the apparent earnestness in Rozanov’s gaze was sincere or mocking. “I never doubted you,” Rozanov said, and he sounded sincere, but that was the kind of thing Shane could never really tell. “I knew from the moment I saw you--” He broke off, tilting his head, probably trying to meet Shane’s gaze, which was not going to happen. “Okay maybe not then. But when you immediately tried to swallow the whole thing I knew, I knew you could do it.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said again, and climbed off Rozanov’s hips, not taking any particular care about it. They were in Shane’s condo, which now had a finished kitchen too, besides just the bedroom.
“I mean it,” Rozanov said, sitting up. Normally Shane had trouble looking away from Rozanov’s naked body, which was weird because he saw naked dudes all the time and didn’t give a fuck, and it was inexplicable that he cared so much about looking at Rozanov’s. He saw incredibly fit naked dudes every day of his life, and while, sure, Rozanov was a particularly aesthetically pleasing specimen-- he’d filled in a little this season, his improbable shoulders even broader in relation to his still ridiculously narrow waist, like a cartoon person-- Shane ought to be pretty well inured to that sort of thing by now, and he just wasn’t. But at the moment Shane was so busy avoiding eye contact that he was managing not to stare at Rozanov at all.
“Whatever,” Shane said, finding his underwear where it had been chucked off the bed, and wriggling back into it.
That ended that discussion, but of course Rozanov wasn’t going to let it go. He would ask after the dildo sometimes, slyly. “How is Nine doing?”
It took Shane a bit to catch on to what or who he meant, and he always told him to fuck off, but he would always ask. Almost never during sex, but in the lead-up, and sometimes after. “I’m so glad Nine has been keeping you warm for me,” Rozanov sighed, caressing Shane’s buttock/hip proprietarily.
“Fuck off,” Shane said into the pillow, as he was lying face-down too wrung-out to move.
“I need you to tell me what color he is,” Rozanov said, almost pouting, and pinched at Shane’s buttcheek. His breath was hot in Shane’s ear, over his shoulder; his body was warm and damp against Shane’s side. “You never tell me anything.”
“I never tell you anything because you’re obnoxious about it,” Shane grumbled.
“I would not abuse this knowledge,” Rozanov said, and his hand roamed across Shane’s ass, to his lower back, to his other hip. Shane had about thirty seconds before he was all done being touched. He’d never been a big proponent of cuddling in any scenario, and he’d learned that Rozanov got twitchy if handled too affectionately after sex, but that sort of slotted in nicely with his own disinclination for being manhandled outside of the specific insanity that seemed to possess him when it was time for sex. When he was horny he’d let Rozanov do just about anything to him, and in the immediate aftermath of orgasm there was a grace period. But that hand was going to get slapped away in fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…
The hand kneaded pleasantly at his skin, and then the countdown expired and Shane sat up. “Sorry man,” he said, “that’s need-to-know only, and you don’t need to know it.”
Rozanov did eventually meet Nine, but it wasn’t until he'd become Ilya to Shane. Because it wasn’t until then that Shane could really have faith that if Ilya was mocking him, it was to rile him up for both of their benefit, not to tear him down. And so it was that in his apartment in Montreal as Ilya was edging him again, he brought up Nine again. It was in the context of fantasies, and Ilya had managed, with teeth and tongue and fingers, to coax an admission from Shane that he otherwise would have taken to his grave: yes, he’d always guiltily enjoyed jock porn with locker room gangbangs, and he’d never want such a thing in real life, but oh. With props and generous imaginations-- well.
So the small stable of dildos he now owned were brought out, with Shane in a mindset so thoroughly aroused that there was absolutely no room for shame even though he owned four of them by now, and Ilya lovingly arrayed them on the weight bench and then proceeded to completely destroy Shane’s hole with them, in size order.
He dutifully took his own place second-to-last, keeping Nine warm the whole time in Shane’s mouth (he could take the whole thing but not while breathing, so it nudged frustratingly at his soft palate and kept slipping out), and afterward Shane was so wrecked he tearfully offered to throw Nine away.
“No,” Ilya said lovingly, depositing it in the tasteful little plastic basket he’d transported them down here in, which Shane was absolutely putting through the dishwasher after this. “We are allies, Nine and I. I have only gratitude for him.”
“I like you best,” Shane said.
“I know you do,” Ilya said, and kissed him.
“Even if you don’t know what an inch is,” Shane said.
“I’ve never needed to know,” Ilya said smugly.
Shane considered that. He sat up, finally, rubber-legged. Oh, he was a mess.“I can’t believe we did this in the gym.”
“Where else are we going to do this?” Ilya laughed. “Come on, beloved, let’s get everybody cleaned up.”
The window of touchability post-orgasm had definitely closed, but he didn’t mind Ilya’s hands on him now. Shame materialized briefly, a little later, post-shower.
“God I was so weird about-- this,” Shane said, standing over the sink washing the various dildos, Nine clutched in his soapy hand.
Ilya paused behind him and kissed the back of his neck. “Weird?”
“I was so fucking-- weird,” Shane confessed. “I was so nervous that I wouldn’t be ready for your dick. Like that’s a competition you can lose.”
Ilya took Shane’s face between his fingers, holding his chin, and gazing down into his face. He wasn’t taller, but he managed to gaze down anyway. “My beautiful little freak,” he said, shaking Shane’s face very slightly in his grip, and he smiled. “A normal person could never have enchanted me as you do.”
“Normal’s fake anyway,” Shane said, letting out a sigh.
“Normal is fake,” Ilya said. He released Shane’s face, and kissed him instead. “You’re perfect instead.”
“Even when I’m a freak,” Shane said.
“Especially when you are a freak,” Ilya told him, and picked up the special lint-free microfiber towel to start drying the dildo collection.