Benz and I had the entire third floor of 439 Hart Street to ourselves during Covid-19, although we rarely saw each other. He minded his business and I minded mine. The only time we made eye contact was when the USPS person made an appearance to drop off an eBay or Amazon package for me; usually it was a book for me since I liked to read; a hardback mystery/thriller by Robin Cook, J.D. Robb, or James Patterson. Benz always popped his head out (and only his head) of his apartment to see what was going on and ...

Damn, how his blue-blue eyes always caught and hypnotized me. They literally could have pulled my five-eleven frame across the twenty-two feet of oak boards that separated us and caused my lips to touch his, sharing a rock-the-building kiss. That didn't happen, though. Never.

But once during our first few days of captivity during a mail delivery and the USPS person left, he said, "You get a lot of packages, Dwayne. What are in all those manila, puffy envelopes?"

"Books."

"So you like to read?"

"I love to read."

"Who do you like to read?"

And we stood for about three minutes or so on opposite sides of the floor and I rambled about mysteries and how I had been reading since I was twelve. I mentioned Agatha Christie, Robert B. Parker, Nagio Marsh, and other authors.

What I enjoyed most about our conversation wasn't the book/author talk, because he didn't say much at all. It was Benz's bare chest and snug jeans. He stepped out into the hallway, no longer hidden by his door, and -- Pow! -- the stay-at-home stud stood in tight Levis, showing off the bulging package between his legs that just about knocked the wind out of me. Plus, I had an incredible, tongue-wagging view of his chest: thick shoulders, big pecs with dark nipples, four abs, taut navel, and a blond treasure trail that fell into his jeans. Did I lick my lips? I think so. For shame.

"I read insurance bullshit," he said, serious as Co-19 itself.

"Sounds like a blast." I smirked. What else was I supposed to do?

"Entertain me, Dwayne. Show me the mystery you got in the mail?"

Truth said, I needed to spray the package down with alcohol and water first, then wash my hands, being cautious of catching Co-19 from the mailperson. But whatever. Staring at Benz's hulking and bare chest seemed almost worth catching the virus by opening the package, and spending a few more minutes with him. So I rushed, excited by his handsomeness, ripped the puffy envelope open, quickly pulled out the book, and showed him the cover and ...

"Tempted," he read the title. "Shit, those two dudes are kissing on that cover. They're practically naked and getting it on." He chuckled, smirking on his side of the floor.

I blushed, felt my face heat up, and my legs wobble. My heart started to thud in my chest. How could I have been so stupid to show him a copy of a gay, erotic/romance novel when I thought it was a mystery that arrived in the mail?

Shit!

Fuck!

I turned the book around and looked at the cover. Benz was right. Tempted starred at me. Two of the hottest guys in Speedos on a Caribbean beach with palm trees were making out. One had a dark and hairy chest. The other was blond and hairless and chiseled like Benz. Feeling aghast and floored, I saw that their bikini-covered nuts were touching and their arms were wrapped around each other.

I quickly pressed the cover of the novel to my chest and nervously gawked at Benz. What spilled out of my mouth sounded like baby talk, "Bi ... sa ... te."

He chuckled again, waved a cordial goodbye at me. "Enjoy your gay book, man. I have work to do." He turned and went back into quarantine.

I felt my nuts fall to the floor because I was embarrassed. My stomach felt as if it were cut in four parts at a chainsaw massacre.