Chapter 2
Bang
Moments after I’ve wiped my stomach clean with my brother’s Calvin Klein briefs, I hear the front door downstairs burst open, letting in the laughter of a male and a female, the kind of playful and flirty noises that a couple in heat makes.
The guy sounds like my brother. What the hell is he doing here? His school, Pomona College, is about thirty minutes east of here, and he lives on campus. Yes, he usually comes home on weekends to do laundry and raid the refrigerator, but never on a Friday morning.
The girl sounds like his girlfriend, Alessandra. She usually only comes back to Point Liberty on holidays (she and her parents aren’t close), so it’s strange that she’s here now.
When I hear footsteps bounding up the stairs, I panic.
I grab my brother’s now-stained underwear, along with my pajama bottoms, tank top, and boxer briefs, and hurry to the door.
But before I can make it out into the hallway and into my own bedroom, Nash and Alessandra are already at the top of the steps. I’m too late.
I turn around and slide underneath my brother’s bed, stubbing my toe on one of his fifty-pound dumbbells. I push aside some dirty clothes and a pair of sneakers and make it all the way in, as they walk into the room. Since I’m naked, I picked up some rug burns along the way. My balls now sting.
“It smells weird in here,” says Alessandra.
“Really?” my brother says. “Maybe I left some food when I was here last weekend.”
“No. It’s like detergent or bleach or something.”
“Maybe my mom cleaned my room.”
“Or maybe,” I think to myself, “your little brother jerked off to completion in here.”
“Are you sure your parents are gone?” Alessandra asks.
My mom and dad are very old school: absolutely no sex before marriage.
So they would be furious if they knew Nash and Alessandra have been banging since high school.
And their heads would explode if they knew what kind of freaky stuff my brother and his girlfriend are into.
But since Nash and Alessandra have never gotten caught, my brother remains the perfect son in my parents’ eyes.
“Yeah,” Nash says, “I told you. They left for Vegas yesterday. And my brother’s probably still sleeping or out running. And if he isn’t . . .”
Nash connects his phone via Bluetooth to the speakers in his room and blasts a rapper named G-Eazy, who he puts on shuffle. Are we really still listening to G-Eazy in 2018? I guess. (By the way, almost all my brother listens to is white rappers for some reason.)
He then slams the bedroom door shut, which startles me and almost forces a gasp out of my mouth—but I block it with the palm of my hand. This is probably unnecessary because the music is so loud, meant to drown out the sex they’re about to have.
Heavy autumn clothing comes off, piece by piece, and cascades onto the floor. Nash and Alessandra fall onto the bed.
This is not how I’d choose to spend my Friday morning. I have to go on my morning run, shower, and go to school. There are tests today, and I like to be at school early on test days. But here I am. All I can do is wait and listen.
How does someone with Big Dick Energy bang?
Well, first of all, it’s noisy. Even with the music on, I can hear the sex loud and clear. It’s aggressive, sloppy, squishy.
Secondly, by the sounds of it, the sex starts with my brother going down on Alessandra for an interminable length of time and saying things like “you taste so good” and “you like that, baby?” whenever he comes up for air.
After that, the banging commences. The thrusting is rhythmic, but he varies the speed. Sometimes he goes fast, pounding high-pitched screams from Alessandra. Sometimes he goes slow, as if to tease her, her moans sounding like desperate pleas for more. For her, it sounds like both pleasure and pain.
For him, he breathes and grunts. It’s animalistic, though he throws out the occasional “yeah” and “baby.”
Once in a while, the rhythm of the banging seems to coincide with the tempo of whatever song happens to be on. It’s almost like choreography.
I manage to put on my clothes during all this, so I’m more comfortable than I was. But I still pray for this to end soon.
It’s not that I don’t find this hot. I do. (Please, Lord, forgive me. Somebody forgive me.) It’s just that I really don’t want to get caught. If I do, how will I explain myself?
He’s caught me with my hand in his underwear drawer before, so his suspicions about me have been activated.
It won’t take much more for him to figure out: 1) my gay secret and out me and 2) my unusual interest in his underwear, in him, my flesh-and-blood brother.
How would I ever look him in the eye again for the rest of my life?
I mean, I do fantasize about celebrities and hot guys at school, presumably like a normal person. For example, I sometimes fap it to underwear ads and gay porn. And I think about dudes like Andrew, a cute guy at my school. I think he’s half Asian, half white. He’s gay and out.
But my thoughts inevitably return to my brother. I can’t help it. I mean, how many people can actually control their thoughts and force themselves to not think about something? I’ve tried. I’ll keep on trying. I’ve prayed. I’ll keep on praying.
My brother screams in triumph. The bed frame stops rattling. A used condom falls onto the floor, right in front of my face.
Their sex today was relatively normal, pretty “vanilla.” I guess you have to go back to basics every once in a while.
Nash and Alessandra start getting dressed.
“Pancakes?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says. “IHOP.”
When they’re both fully clothed, they stand facing each other, kissing. Nash places a couple of fingers in between her thighs. She releases a sudden breath and throws her head back like she’s on a rocket to the moon.
Nash starts laughing. Alessandra giggles. They leave the room, go down the stairs, and walk out the front door. I hear it slam shut.
I’m staring at my brother’s used condom. Anybody else would be horrified, maybe even traumatized. But I? I’m not. And I absolutely hate myself for it.