Hunter’s Hidden Camera

Chapter 1

BDE

My brother has Big Dick Energy. He walks tall, as if he’s purposefully stretching out his body, a real-life Mr. Fantastic, his head held high but kind of cocked to the side, like he’s sizing up the world and impressed with what he sees.

His arms swing almost carelessly, taking up more space around him than he needs.

He’s got very visible swagger, his right foot landing on the ground a bit wider than his left one, landing a little crooked, as a way to make room for the almost always noticeable bulge in his pants.

But despite all this, despite the way he carries himself, he doesn’t come across as arrogant.

His confidence is quiet. You can see it when you catch a glimpse of him alone, like when he’s cooking salmon and vegetables for himself for lunch or when he’s shooting baskets in the backyard.

You can also see it in the way he interacts with others: the ease with which he talks to people, familiar and strange, and the friendliness he brings to almost every encounter.

I mean, I guess if you have a dick that big, life is all sunshine and blue skies and you want to be friendly to everybody. God, I hate him.

It’s not that I have a micro-penis or anything.

I think I’m proportional, or at least average, or at least almost average, but it’s hard to tell because most of the dicks I see are in porn and that’s not the real world.

I’m eighteen, my brother’s twenty-one, and I have now resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never catch up.

I’m thinking all this while digging in one of my brother’s dresser drawers, the one with all his underwear in it.

He rotates between boxer briefs, trunks, and briefs, all different colors, some with patterns.

He’s got designer brands like Calvin Klein and Diesel, but he’s also got some targeted at the youth market, from stores like Abercrombie & Fitch and Hollister.

There are also a few very basic Fruit of the Loom and Hanes thrown in there, probably left over from his high school days.

Sometimes I wonder if his underwear works the same way a costume works for a superhero.

Peter Parker is just Peter Parker, but when he puts on his Spider-Man outfit he is a man transformed.

He is more confident, feels more powerful.

Same goes for Iron Man, Ant-Man, most of them.

Is my brother just a normal person, brimming with insecurities and worries, whose BDE only turns on when tighty-whities are wrapped around him?

My brother (his name is Nash) is away at college, currently a senior majoring in business, and my parents are on vacation in Las Vegas, so I have the house to myself this morning.

I grab one of Nash’s white Calvin Klein trunks. I’m jealous that he can rock these like a model. He wouldn’t look out of place next to Noah Centineo and Shawn Mendes, who broke the internet when their hot underwear ads were released.

Again, it’s not that I’m out of shape or some kind of freak of nature. I’m actually pretty fit, pretty athletic, and pretty much the best track athlete at my school. It’s just that compared to Nash I feel like nothing.

I wonder if most younger siblings feel this way, particularly the ones with brothers and sisters who are superstars.

I mean, dick and underwear envy aside, he’s also quite popular among his peers, fun to be around, “the kind of person that every girl wants to date and every guy wants to be.” He is also smart, and has always done well in school, always turning out to be every teacher’s favorite.

(Some of the teachers I have still ask about him: “How’s Nash doing?

” and “What’s new with your brother?” and so on.)

On top of that, he has the perfect relationship with Alessandra, his sexy longtime girlfriend (five years and counting), who he’s been dating since high school. (She’s also a college senior now, same school, majoring in art history.)

Me? I have my fair share of friends and people seem to like me, but I’ll never be prom king or anything.

I’m a good student, but I’ll never charm teachers the way my brother does.

And although I’ve had a girlfriend since junior year of high school (I’m a senior now), we’re far from perfect for each other.

The fact is, I am as queer as a rainbow flag, but nobody knows. People would be surprised that I like guys and only guys. They may even be shocked, because I’ve kept this secret very well-hidden, lying to people’s faces my entire life.

I’ve tried to “pray the gay away,” forced myself to look at naked women and try to like it, started dating girls in the hope that it would change me. None of it has worked, not even a little bit.

Honestly, if I were to come out as gay, I don’t think my parents would disown me.

(Okay, well, maybe at first.) And I don’t believe my friends would hate me.

(Okay, well, maybe a little.) And Emma, my girlfriend, is such a kind and understanding person that I think, after some initial disappointment, she would be supportive of me and we could probably end up being good friends.

(Okay, well, maybe not.) Best case scenario with everybody in my life: lots of initial awkwardness giving way to a new normal.

Not bad, considering how bad it could get.

But no matter how optimistic I spin the outcome, I can’t bring myself to come out. Somehow, I still equate being gay as being “less than,” as not “normal.”

I mean, the city that I live in, Point Liberty, a small suburb of Los Angeles, is pretty conservative.

Effeminate guys and butch girls walking down the street get judgmental side glances from most of the population here, and bullying at school is a common thing, no matter how many “RESPECT EACH OTHER” signs the administration puts up around campus.

But even more insidious than the lack of tolerance in this town, I’m part of a big Irish Catholic family, where milestones in life are marked by things like traditional weddings and births.

So, from a very young age, I’ve always felt out of place.

I think there are several gay people in my extended family, but nobody ever talks about them.

For example, my uncle Martin always shows up to weddings alone and has dance moves that make me wonder.

And my cousin Patricia comes to funerals with her “roommate” Jo, whose hair is cropped a bit too short for comfort.

And there are a few aunts we never see who are whispered about in private conversations.

Will I turn out like one of them one day? Will I sway all by myself on dance floors at wedding receptions? Will I introduce people to a “roommate” with a wink and a nudge? Or will I mostly be forgotten, reduced to a mysterious anecdote or cautionary tale for kids who are still growing up?

If I ever develop the courage to come out, it probably has to be far away from this city, far away from my family. But that’s not something I’m going to worry about right now.

My thoughts wander back to the present. I feel the fabric of Nash’s underwear with my fingers. Soft, smooth. I lift his briefs up to my nose and inhale. The smell of laundry detergent is strong, but I can still catch a whiff of my brother. He has a pleasant natural scent about him, musky and manly.

I would feel like a pervert, being here, doing this, but I’ve done this so often, exploring my brother’s clothes, burying my face in them, that it’s second nature, just something I do.

I’m not going to feel bad about it because I’ve never been caught.

If I ever am, it might be a whole different story, my feelings.

If a tree falls in a forest and nobody’s around to hear it, does it make a sound? If a queer boy sniffs his brother’s underwear and he doesn’t get caught, does he feel shame?

I take off my pajama pants and slide off my American Eagle boxer briefs.

I put on my brother’s Calvins. In terms of our physical build, we’re about the same size, so the underwear fits properly, but for me there seems to be some extra room in the crotch area, as if it’s been stretched out by my brother, as if his package demanded more space and pushed the fabric outward.

I take the underwear off, as well as my tank top, and lie on my back on my brother’s bed, naked. I place his underwear between my teeth and close my eyes. I move my hand down, down, down.

I’m not going to tell you what I think about as I stroke it. All you need to know is that I’m probably going to hell.