Under Our Roof (1a/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:01:22 UTC
AN: I’m trying out some first-person and a non-linear structure. So, the POV will switch from Canada to America to England and some of the narration will jump around in time. Hopefully, this will make sense and not, um… suck. Yeah.
Matthew
What was I looking for up there?
I paused at the top of the stairs, leaned forward and stared into the blurriness of the world without my glasses. I heard something and it made me stop. I put my hand on the banister, peered down first one end of the darkened hallway, and then the other.
Toothpaste. The bathroom downstairs was all out of toothpaste and I forgot to brush my teeth earlier, so I needed to get some. That's why I was upstairs that night.
I dug my bare toes into the carpet and made myself ignore the childish fear that made me want to turn on every light and destroy every corner of darkness in the house. I took a deep breath and debated simply returning to my bed.
But, then I saw the light under Alfred's door. Then I saw Alfred's door partly open. I took a step closer, because light meant good and safe to my childish mind, and that was when I heard the sounds.
Now I know why Dad put us on different floors. I didn't want us to go to different rooms, but Alfred did. I didn't want to be on the first floor, while Dad and Alfred were on the second. They gave me a good reason. I don't remember it. They're liars.
It's hard to put the sounds into words. It was metal creaking and it was heavy breathing and it was little "mm's" and it was the slick rubbing of flesh on flesh, but it was more. It was awful and ugly. It was scarier than the dark. It was the thing in the dark.
Because I knew there was something there, I needed to assure myself that there wasn't. I walked to the door, my feet crunching on the carpet as loud as on autumn leaves or broken glass. I paused\, my toes about half a foot from the door. I didn't breathe. I listened to the sounds. I stared at the yellow blur in the crack of the door.
When I was little, I would get out of bed in the middle of the night and stand outside Dad's door. I was afraid of the dark and being in the darkened hallway made me even more afraid. But, I was more afraid to wake him up, and see his not-angry-but-not-caring eyes asking me "What do you want?" I waited outside Dad's door with silent tears trickling into my mouth, not breathing.
I went over the scenario I wanted in my head, telling myself it was real. I pushed open the door, saw Alfred bouncing up and down on his bed, headphones in his ears, clacking at the keys of his laptop, happy, ignoring his stupid worrying brother. That is what will happen, I told myself. That was what happened.
Alfred's door never creaks when you open it. I pushed the door open two inches and I pressed my eye to the crack. I saw.
Shut the door. Walk away. Stupid. Stupid.
Alfred and Dad were on the bed. They were naked. Alfred was on his back, his head on a pillow with stripes on it. He was bent up at the hips, his legs in the air. Dad was on his knees. He was in front of Alfred, and his arms were on Alfred's hips. Alfred's legs were on his shoulders. Alfred's arms were on his back. The way Alfred's bed is, I saw them from the side. Dad was in Alfred. He pushed forward and pulled back, and Alfred shook in response. He was inside Alfred.
He was fucking him you mean. Your father was fucking your brother.
Dad's eyes were shut. Alfred's eyes were open. They both made little sounds, deep and inhuman. They sounded like animals, and breathed like they were running. They moved faster. They were glossed in sweat. Alfred's hair was a mess and he wasn't wearing glasses. Dad rose up slightly and he pushed down with quicker, sharper, harder movements and he made little grunts to go along with them. That made Alfred's eyes close, and his hips rose as well, breaking union with the sheets that I had put through the laundry yesterday.
A normal person would have shouted.
I watched.
A normal person would have done something. Your father raping your brother. You have to take care of him. Were you afraid, or did you know already that the look in his eyes was joy and not pain?
Under Our Roof (1b/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:10:06 UTC
I didn't breathe. I don't think that I could. I tried to believe that I wasn't seeing what I was. I couldn't believe I was seeing what I was. I thought about what it would have been like if I hadn't seen this. I tried to make that real, instead of this. But, I was still watching.
Like the dark, I had to make it go away. I stepped away from the door without shutting it. I didn't breathe. I stumbled back to the stairs, a few steps away. There is a little hollow formed by the first step and the wall where the second floor overlooks the living room of the first. I sat down there, curling myself into something small and unnoticeable. I breathed, and it came out hard.
They were a few feet away from you. Your father, fucking your twin brother' s asshole, his big, thick body violating Alfred's young, slender one. His hips moving harder and faster as he moved towards climax. Alfred biting back whorish moans and thrusting back. Father and son. Your father, your brother.
I could still hear them, the slapping, the creaking, and the animal noises. Somewhere along the line I started crying. The tears were fat and clean and I let them roll down my cheek to my mouth unimpeded. A few rolled down my jaw and far enough to touch the top of my shirt.
Why was I crying?
There was no complete thought, just reactions. Just the horror of it, just the wrongness, just the unquestionable reality.
It wasn't happening. I stood up.
Stop them.
I walked downstairs.
Don't let it happen.
I opened the door to my room.
What will they do if they see you?
I lay down in my bed.
He's your brother.
I left the lights on. They left magenta and purple patterns on the insides of my eyelids when I closed them.
Save him! Save him!
My body was rigid, with no allowance for sleep. No sleep until thought.
My father was fucking my brother.
Too big. Too much. Tears were easier. Tears and unnamed emotion that drew a physical pain in my chest.
Why does it upset you? What is wrong?
The light didn't help. The same things were in the dark that were in the light. They appeared whenever I shut my eyes, and then they hid. They were always behind my back, at the corner of my eye.
Daddy. Al. Stop it. Don't. I'm scared. Stop, stop.
There, that was my refuge. Childhood. Fear without reason.
"No," I whined aloud in a voice that even I could barely hear. "Stop, stop, stop… I don't want you to."
Still fucking above you. Father and son. Daddy and Al. Above you.
Somehow I slept. I never remember going to sleep or waking up. I simply am awake one moment and awake the next and hours have slipped away without my noticing. But, I knew that somehow I had slept after seeing what I did. I knew I was lying on my side in my bed and there was sun behind my curtains.
There was no respite in morning haze. I remembered instantly what had happened. It was so ridiculous, it had to be a dream. But, I remembered getting up so clearly. I thought about it for a while. I knew it wasn't a dream. It happened. I saw it.
Under Our Roof (2a/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:14:04 UTC
Alfred
I chewed thoughtfully on my cereal and looked across the table at my brother. Matthew wasn't meeting my eyes. He was staring at his bagel more than he was eating it. I looked away and waited for him to be ready to talk.
His scream woke me up, huddled in the warm wall of Arthur's arms. I started so violently I almost fell out of bed. Arthur groaned, wrapped his arms around me, grumbled in my ear, "Go back to sleep."
"Matthew," I explained. "I need to go see Matthew." I disentangled myself and pulled on some pants before going downstairs.
Matthew was sitting up in bed, looking mortified.
"Dude, Matt, are you okay?" I asked, scrubbing at my crusty, stinging eyes.
"I'm fine. Nightmare." His voice was tense and fearful. The haziness around his eyes made it seem like he was still half in the nightmare.
I grinned at him. "Yeah, well, I hope you're prepared to explain that to the police if you keep hollering like that. "
"Yeah…" he said faintly. He stared indistinctly at his hands lying slim and pale on the red blankets. I stared at them too, watched them slowly curl into the blanket and pull it back from his bony legs.
“Alfred…” His voice was hazy, dreamlike.
“Yeah?”
“I-No, sorry. Forgot. Never mind. Sorry.”
I grinned again, but he wasn't looking. He had his hands to the sides of his head, pale fingers buried in his yellow hair. I didn't need to be psychic to know my brother didn't want to talk. Must have been one hell of a nightmare.
He seemed better at breakfast, but still a little out of it. Like maybe he hadn't had enough sleep. He chewed slowly and deliberately, as if he had to motivate himself to make his jaw work. Matt was usually quiet, but this was different. Like, I got the feeling he couldn't talk, even if he wanted too.
But, I didn't want to bug him. I figured he'd tell me if there was something wrong.
I shifted around on the chair, feeling that little ache, not bad enough to be genuinely painful, but just uncomfortable enough to keep me from forgetting it was there. It was kind of thrilling to think about, that secret thing that I knew, but Matt didn't.
I used to hate keeping secrets from brother. But, this thing was even better when it was just me and Arthur. It was horrible and dirty and secret and happening right under the same room that my brother slept.
It was all wrong. So great and wrong. Great because it was wrong.
Wasn't always like this. I didn't always rejoice in the wrongness. I love my daddy, and I thought that it was the same way that everyone loved their daddy, like Matt loved his daddy. Daddy was tall and strong and I got that strange feeling in my stomach when he had that expression like at first he was angry and then there was that little bit of respect, like he couldn't stay mad. He never looked at Matt like that.
I heard a tired groan and it sent a thrill up my spine. I turned and saw Arthur standing in the doorway of the kitchen, scrubbing at his eyes and scratching at his disheveled blond hair. I admit, I could have cared less about Matt at that point.
My eyes slowly scanned his body, the body that had been naked, curled around me, over me, in me only a few minutes ago. That's something new I learned about clothes since I started sleeping with Arthur. Only I knew what was under those clothes. That was my secret. All mine. Ours.
"Good morning," I chirruped. Arthur smiled raggedly. He walked inside, touched my hair, and then went to make his morning tea.
"Morning yourself," he said gruffly. I watched as he filled the kettle, flicked on the switch. I heard Matt pick up the orange juice and pour himself a glass.
Under Our Roof (2b/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:17:27 UTC
In that moment, I was faintly annoyed at Matt for being there, intruding on me and Arthur. There are times that I wish that he would go away, so that me and Arthur never had to hide what we were at home. But, I don't like to think that, because Matt is my brother.
I think Arthur would get rid of Matt if he could. If I asked him to he would. But I won't, because Matt is my brother.
My ass was still hurting. I twisted around in my seat and made sure that Arthur could see me. That he knew I could still feel him inside me. Tonight, I decided, I was going to be inside him.
I watched him watch me for a moment, and then smiled in satisfaction and turned back to my cereal. Matt was staring at his hands flat on the table. He hadn't reacted to Arthur's entering the room.
I figured that he must have been really out of it. When I asked him about it, once Arthur had dropped us off at school, he stared at me for a moment, blinking, and then made a little smile and muttered something about a big test in his Lit class.
Then, we separated and went off to our different classes and friends. I forgot about anything to do with my brother within a few minutes. Matt has that effect on people.
There were days when everything else started to become dull and overlong, and I spent all day just looking forward to night, when I would make my way to Arthur's room and we could finally be together.
It's wrong. He's your father. You can't sleep with your father. That's why he won't open his eyes. It's your sick obsession. You made him do it. You're sick.
And you don't believe any of that, do you? You'll keep doing this until someone makes you stop.
Under Our Roof (3a/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:42:29 UTC
AN: Human names all shamelessly cribbed from other fills. Many thanks, assorted anons. Katya = Ukraine, Lukas = Netherlands, Miguel = Cuba.
Matthew
Alfred hangs out with the cool kids. I don’t. I don’t mind that. I especially didn’t mind when I couldn’t look at him without getting sick to my stomach.
Katya and Lukas were sitting at the lunch table with me. Katya and Lukas are my friends from drama class. They’re actors and I’m stage crew. Alfred is on the football team. Katya has short hair and teary eyes. Lukas has spiky hair and is too tall.
Lukas sat across from me, eating half of my sandwich. Next to me, Katya was struggling with a baby orange. She and I are both too anxious to have nails, so she had to give up and pass it to Lukas who laughed and teased us before easily peeling the skin off in one piece.
“Come on,” he complained as she tried to grab the fruit back. “No praise? That was awesome!”
“You’re amazing,” she said sarcastically, snatching the orange back. She tore it into thirds and offered one to me. I shook my head.
“What’s up with you?” Lukas said, taking the orange out of Katya’s hand.
I stared blankly. I don’t think that I could have told them if I wanted to, couldn’t vocalize the horrible thing, anymore than I could think beyond the bald, ugly picture of it, seared in my brain. Besides, I didn’t want to tell anyone. It was the sort of thing that could only exist in secret, like a horrible, poisonous thing living under an ancient rock.
I shook my head again. “Didn’t sleep well.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Katya said, maternal beyond her years. I was surprised she didn’t press the back of her hand to my forehead to take my temperature.
“Fine.”
“Don’t get us sick!” Lukas feigned horror and made a cross with his fingers. “I’m clean!” Katya laughed and I was glad that stopped her fussing.
“Alfred!”
I should have recognized that voice first, but I was too on edge. My heart pounded and burst out in a slightly louder voice than usual, “I'm Matthew!”
I turned to see Miguel blinking at me. “Oh. Stupid. Sorry.” He sat down beside Lukas, across from me. Miguel is in stage crew too. He has dark eyes and he keeps his hair in a ponytail and I can always smell smoke on his breath. He has something against my brother, something to do with Alfred being his usual innocently destructive self, I suppose.
Alfred is my twin. We look too alike for most people to tell us apart at first sight.
“Matthew’s depressed,” Lukas said obliviously tactless.
Miguel raised an eyebrow at me. “Really?”
“I’m fine.”
“Anyone have food?” Miguel said. I passed him the other half of my sandwich. I didn’t think that I could keep it down if I tried. The thought of Dad’s lips mashing onto Alfred’s made eating an impossibility.
Under Our Roof (3b/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:46:13 UTC
I think that shy, submissive people generally surround themselves with loud, dominating personalities simply as a matter of course. I know that I do and I usually like them. Today I couldn’t take it. I wanted to hide in a corner and let the horrible thought impress itself onto me.
My father was having sex with my brother. My father was having sex with my brother. My father was having sex with my brother…
“Mattie?”
“Huh?” Katya was looking at me in concern. So were Lukas and Miguel.
“You sure you’re okay?” Miguel asked.
“I’m fine.” I have physics class with Alfred. I’d have to sit in class with him. I’d have to spend an hour looking at him, knowing what he did. And then, after school, I’d see Dad again. Dad, who drove us to school, who talked with Alfred, who looked at him, as if nothing were wrong.
He’s not my father. I don’t know who he is, but he’s not my father. He’s the stranger who hurt Alfred. My father went away and this horrible man took his place. I hate him. I hate him. I hate them.
“Hey,” I said, and I was surprised that my voice still worked. “I think I’m going to sit in on rehearsals today.” I didn’t need to be there, but I couldn’t be alone with Alfred and that man.
Katya smiled. “Sure. We’re going out for lunch afterwards. You can come with us. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m driving,” Miguel said. “I can take you home.” Miguel has a car. It’s small and it also smells like smoke, rich and heavy. When I’m in that car I want to drink in the smell greedily and fill my mouth and throat and lungs with it, and I have to be careful that Miguel doesn’t notice me being weird.
“Thanks.”
I didn’t want to go back at night. What if they did the same thing? But I can’t ask to stay over at someone’s on a school night. And I couldn’t do it the night after that. My house was dark and frightening now. It was that man’s house, not mine.
They started eating and talking about the show. I made myself talk too. Anything to stop from thinking.
Thinking about Dad and Alfred. Dad touching Alfred. Alfred’s long, slender legs over Dad’s shoulders. Sweat on the muscles on Alfred’s chest. Dad’s teeth gritted, his hips moving.
From three seats back, I watched Alfred’s shoulders move. I watched him tap his pencil, smile, pass notes to his friends, just like everything was normal.
I quietly asked to be excused from class. I walked down the hall into the bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet just before I threw up.
Under Our Roof (4/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:49:11 UTC
Arthur
“Stop it, Alfred.”
“Look at me.”
I kept my eyes on my shoes, and not on Alfred, my son, standing in the middle of my room, naked.
I could still feel his eyes on me. “Please, Alfred,” I said quietly. “Put your clothes back on.”
“I found the pictures.” I knew he had. They were clutched tightly in his hands. Pictures of boys, young boys, some under fifteen, naked or near so, provocatively posed. Carefully hidden in a recess under the drawer of his desk. Either Alfred had searched for hours, or he had seen me looking at them.
“Look at me,” he repeated.
I did. He was still standing there, body pale, lean, muscled, young, blue eyes narrowed and savage.
I swallowed. “I’m looking at you. Now stop it. Dress and talk to me.”
“You were looking at this stuff.” He shook the crumpled pictures. “While you were raising me. Me and Matt. While you played with us and tucked us in at night and gave us baths.”
“Alfred, please. Whatever I’ve done I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant-”
“Do you look at me like you look at these pictures?”
I stared. “No, Alfred. Of course not. You’re my son. You’re my son.”
“You don’t think about me?” Was that hurt in his eyes? Was that a trembling in the arm the held the crumpled kiddie porn?
“I-Not like that, Alfred. Please.”
He walked forward, too close. I stepped back. My heels hit the wall. He was within two feet of me. Too close.
“I know what I’m doing,” he said seriously. I don’t think Alfred’s voice had ever been that serious.
I shook my head, looked away from him. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” He edged a bit closer. For a second, I had a flash of panic that Matthew would come through the door and find us. But, no. Matthew was away… somewhere. Matthew was taken care of. He took care of himself. He wasn’t an issue.
“Ever since I was little.”
“Stop.”
Alfred took a deep breath. “Tell me that you want me.”
“Alfred.”
“I know that you’re my father. I know that I want this. I know that I’m not going to let anyone stop me. I know that you want this too. Just…”
His fingers gently brushed my forearm, and my stomach turned to jelly. He looked at me with furious, burning eyes.
Tell him to stop. Tell him to get dressed and go think. Leave the house. Go. Don’t do this. Don’t be weak.
He kissed me. My son’s lips, soft, pink baby lips, on mine.
I used to brush his teeth when he was too little. When both of his soft, fragile hands fit comfortably in mine. When those blue eyes were oversized and guileless, and I once closed my hand in a desk, because I found myself thinking of them in a horrible way, and the pictures never filled that particular void, but there was no way that they could, because it’s so wrong.
I put my hand on his back. I let him push harder. I kissed him back.
He is my son. He is my son. He is my beautiful little boy, I promised to cherish and keep and protect from the horror of the world.
I touched him. I kissed him. I put him on the bed, and held him close, and told him that he was my favorite. That he was a wonderful, brave, pretty little boy. That he was mine. Mine.
“Yes,” Alfred said. His voice was frank and joyful at the same time. He nuzzled my neck and smiled and laughed with little tears standing out at the corners of his eyes, as if this was all that he ever wanted, being delivered to him all at once.
I just gave him what he wanted. I had to. I love my son.
Under Our Roof (5a/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:53:41 UTC
Alfred
“Open your eyes.”
I folded my hands behind my bare back, and grinned at Arthur, propped up in bed on a stack of pillows, his arms behind his head. He grinned back at me.
“I’m looking.” He was. His eyes travelled from my head to my toes, up and down again. Still smiling, I tore off my jeans and boxers and walked over to bed. Arthur held up the blankets to let me in. I settled in beside his warm body and wrap my arms around his chest. I kissed him.
“You’re pretty today,” I said.
“I could say the same thing about you.” He touched my shoulders, trailed his hands down my chest. His hands closed on my hips. I rolled over on top of him, and I wrapped my fingers around his wrists. I pushed my hips against his. I smiled at his gasp. My stomach was hot and open. I kissed him again.
“I thought about you in class today. You’re very distracting.”
“Well, I’d hate to think I was distracting you.”
“You can make it up to me.” I kissed his throat and my hand slipped down to stroke his erection, which was sharp on my stomach.
“Alfred.”
His voice made me stop. I looked at him impatiently. “Yeah?”
“Your brother was acting very strange this morning.”
What about Matt? Oh. Yeah. I forgot.
“Yeah. Matt gets kinds weird sometimes. I think he’s gotten over it by now.”
“Sometimes I worry about him finding out.”
“Don’t.” I kissed his jaw. “Don’t ever worry about that. No one’s gonna find out.” I tried to kiss his mouth, but he turned his head away.
“He lives under the same roof as us. He’s bound to suspect some time.”
I groaned in frustration. “Stop it. Matt doesn’t suspect anything. He’s too much of a goody-two shoes to even think about awful, dirty things like this.”
“But-”
“Stop talking about Matt. It’s not him you’re sleeping with.” I felt a cold flare of sadism in my chest and I leered down at Arthur. “Unless you want to bring him in. That would solve that problem, right? Have little Mattie join the fun. That way you can have both your sons at once. Can’t be worse than what we’re doing right now.”
“Alfred, stop that.”
Guilt. “I’m sorry.” I nuzzled his chest in apology.
“It’s not the same, and you know it,” he continued. He stroked and tangled my hair as he spoke. “Matthew isn’t the same as you. Nowhere near it. You’re special for me.”
“You’d never do this with Matt.” I knew he wouldn’t, but I wanted to hear him say it.
“Never.”
“Good.” I started stroking him again, hard and fast, brushing my knuckles thrillingly against my own cock.
I don’t want to talk about Matt. Matt is my brother. He has nothing to do with what I do with Arthur. They’re different worlds and it’s illogical to think they would ever intersect. This is joyfully dirty and sweaty and shameful. My brother is clean and pure and sexless.
“I want you in me,” Arthur whispered in my ear, and all thoughts of my brother fled. I might not have had a brother for all that I thought of him in that moment.
Under Our Roof (5b/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 02:56:52 UTC
“Sure.” He took the lube from the bedside drawer and passed it to me. I drew back so that I could prepare him.
He is my father. He is my father and I am the only person that he will allow to do this to him.
He was in the process of turning around and bracing himself against the headboard. I grabbed him and pulled him around, dropping him back onto the softness of the pillows. I grinned and kissed his nose, before pushing into him.
“Open your eyes.”
They were already shut. He opened them the tiniest bit, smiled and kissed me and then I didn’t care. We moved. I moved in my father. We had to stay quiet. I wished that the house were empty so we could make any noise we wanted.
Under the blankets we moved together. The day of waiting made it feel even better. The best part of it was that we had all night. Maybe, if I asked, Arthur would say I was sick and let me stay home from school.
He would. If I asked him. He acts angry and snappy at me, but he’d do anything I ask. He did this. When I asked him.
I came into the warmth of my father, and then, as I lay on top of him, my hips jerking, he released onto my stomach. We stuck together. Held by come and blood.
“I love you,” I groaned, slipping off of him and pressing my nose into the crook of his neck.
“I love you,” he answered, stroking the back of my neck calmingly.
I felt gleefully happy. My father was taking care of me, giving me what I needed, making me happier than anything else could.
That was right, wasn’t it?
Why does it feel wrong? Why do I like it when it feels wrong?
He kissed me and pulled me to his side. “You’re so good to me,” he whispered.
“I try,” I said confidently, nipping at his ear. He sighed happily.
Under Our Roof (5b/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 03:07:33 UTC
“Sure.” He took the lube from the bedside drawer and passed it to me. I drew back so that I could prepare him.
He is my father. He is my father and I am the only person that he will allow to do this to him.
He was in the process of turning around and bracing himself against the headboard. I grabbed him and pulled him around, dropping him back onto the softness of the pillows. I grinned and kissed his nose, before pushing into him.
“Open your eyes.”
They were already shut. He opened them the tiniest bit, smiled and kissed me and then I didn’t care. We moved. I moved in my father. We had to stay quiet. I wished that the house were empty so we could make any noise we wanted.
Under the blankets we moved together. The day of waiting made it feel even better. The best part of it was that we had all night. Maybe, if I asked, Arthur would say I was sick and let me stay home from school.
He would. If I asked him. He acts angry and snappy at me, but he’d do anything I ask. He did this. When I asked him.
I came into the warmth of my father, and then, as I lay on top of him, my hips jerking, he released onto my stomach. We stuck together. Held by come and blood.
“I love you,” I groaned, slipping off of him and pressing my nose into the crook of his neck.
“I love you,” he answered, stroking the back of my neck calmingly.
I felt gleefully happy. My father was taking care of me, giving me what I needed, making me happier than anything else could.
That was right, wasn’t it?
Why does it feel wrong? Why do I like it when it feels wrong?
He kissed me and pulled me to his side. “You’re so good to me,” he whispered.
“I try,” I said confidently, nipping at his ear. He sighed happily.
Under Our Roof (6a/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 03:11:36 UTC
Matthew
I had to make it stop. I had to get rid of the thoughts.
Reading didn’t work. My mind couldn’t focus on the shapes of the letters. Not when I knew what was happening upstairs. Eating didn’t work. Neither did music, nor trying to sleep.
The blankets were over my head, and my hand was in my pajama pants, and my eyes were shut.
Upstairs, my brother and my father are having sex.
At first I just imagined faceless pornographic bodies fucking. It didn’t do any good-I couldn’t keep up the image. My mind kept wandering to dangerous, sickening places. So, I replaced the bodies with my friends and me.
Pervert.
I imagined Katya, naked on my bed. Her slick, plump arms, under my fingers, the taste of her large, round breasts. But, Katya was the one who asked me how I was, and fixed my hair when it was askew. She was like a big sister. She was like a mother. She wasn’t erotic, or sexual. She was Katya, not a moaning whore.
Lukas was sexual. Lukas would moan. Lukas made lewd comments about the middle school girls. Sometimes, when they were waiting backstage, Lukas would fondle me and grope me, playfully, I suppose. Lukas likes girls with flat chests and pigtails and putting people off guard.
I imagined Lukas for a while. I imagined his mouth on me, his hands on me, his tongue between my legs. Him rolling in bed with me, laughing, hands on my wrists, pushing me back against the wall roughly.
But, Lukas wouldn’t push me. He would wait for me to push him. He wouldn’t direct me. He wouldn’t force me.
I imagined the smell of cigar smoke over my face, smothering me. Miguel would push me. His large, dark hands would circle around my skinny wrists. He would wipe away my worry and shove me into bed and pull off my clothes, and tenderly trace my throat, push me back if I tried to leave.
And I would love it.
I rose up onto my knees, the blanket still pulled over me like a shroud, and I pulled my pants and boxers down to my thighs, as I continued to jerk off, investing more and more in the fantasy.
He pushed me onto my knees, in front of him, on eye level with his large, bright red, bulging erection, already wet from rubbing against my prone body. “Come on, baby, you can do this for me,” he encouraged me, softly, stroking my jaw. “You can take it.”
I was scared and I wouldn’t open my mouth, so he pushed his fingers between my teeth and pried them open, and then sunk my mouth onto his erection. It filled my mouth, big, too big. Miguel pushed in further, until my nose was pressed into the thick, wiry tangle of his pubic hair.
He filled my throat. I choked and he stroked my hair. “Good boy. Take it. Swallow.”
He grabbed my hair, pulled out, pushed in. I gagged. He did it again. Sticky drool poured down my chin and a guttural glugging sound filled my ears. I put my hands on his thighs and tried to pull back, but he leaned forward and continued fucking my mouth.
He wrapped his hands around my throat as he pushed in and out of it. He grunted. “Good, good.”
His strong, sweaty body claiming me, filling me, the smell and taste of him dominating my senses. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed.
Under Our Roof (6b/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 03:16:28 UTC
“Thank you, thank you,” I gasped, my throat sore, stroking the long, thick shaft. “Thank you, Daddy.”
Dad knelt between Alfred’s strong, lean legs, swallowing as much as his son as he could, making him gasp and moan.
“Daddy.”
No. I don’t want to think that. I want Miguel back. I don’t want to see you. Stop it! Stop feeling that! No, it doesn’t feel good. No, it doesn’t. No, no, no, no, no…
I bit my lip to control a grunt as the wild pleasure in my stomach reached its apex. Warm and wet was on my hand, on my thighs. Quickly, I grabbed an old T-shirt from the end of my bed and cleaned myself off, the rush of self-loathing making my chest ache.
Your brother, you sick fuck. Your brother and your father. You’re as bad as them. Pervert. You got off on it. That horrible thing and you got off on it. Sick. Sick. Your brother and your father.
Miguel was the one that I liked. He was the one I always wanted. I wanted his intelligent dark eyes, and his gruff chuckle and cigar smoke. I thought I was sick because I wanted a boy, now I know I’m normal.
I am normal. I am normal.
I fell back onto the pillows, wallowing in the sticky salt smell under the blankets, furious tears prickling at my eyes. I wished that I had never opened that door. Never went upstairs that morning. Lived in ignorance.
Ignorance would have been wonderful. Let Alfred do whatever he wanted with that strange man. Just don’t involve me. Don’t make me think about it.
I fell asleep and woke up angry, hating my brother and my father. Outside it was dark. My legs were still sticky, so I ran to the shower. I put the water punishingly cold, and slumped against the tiles, my eyes shut.
Why is it that Alfred is so happy? Alfred is sleeping with his father and he is happy, but I am crying alone in the shower. Why am I guilty and he isn’t? What’s wrong with him?
Under Our Roof (7/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 03:20:22 UTC
Arthur
Alfred was seventeen, young and vigorous, and full of fantastic energy. He would leave me cheerful and exhausted in the mornings.
After our night together, I sat propped up on the pillows, watching him dress up in his clean clothes for school tomorrow. My golden boy, angel-faced, debauched in a way that only I knew.
He grinned at me. “Man, that was great. I can’t wait till school is over. You think you can get Matt to go somewhere for the day? I’m up for it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Again in one day? You’ll be the death of me, boy.”
He pouted. “Please?”
“What will we do with you when you go away to college, eh?”
“I’ll go to state school nearby and come back to see you all the time.” He smiled slyly. “Unless you’re eager to get rid of me.”
“Don’t you dare entertain the thought.” He pulled on that old leather jacket of his, gave it a cheeky shake. I never knew where he got that jacket. It dated back to that period from when he turned thirteen to when we began sleeping together when he was sixteen. That period when he seemed to always be angry with me, for reasons I could never understand at the time.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. He smiled.
I remember when Alfred was around fifteen. I was out drinking. I did that a lot, then. I was with my old friend Francis. Francis twirled his drink, Francis with his sly smiles and his cartoon French accent. I think he might be the boys’ godfather, but I don’t remember.
“You need to find someone, Arthur, dear,” he opined without my solicitation. “It’s been long enough for you to get over her.”
I tensed. Her. My wife. My ex-wife. I don’t talk about her. I don’t think about her. She’s gone. In mind, at least, she is long dead.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Arthur-”
“What I need is to be drunk.” I emptied my glass to emphasize the point. “I have two children to look after. I can’t go gallivanting away with my pick of jailbait like you can.”
He was right though. I did need someone. Just, it was the one person I could never have. But, now I do have him, even though I shouldn’t. As guilty as I feel, and I felt so guilty sometimes I thought I would die of it, I still want him. It still makes me feel good.
Sometimes I think that I’m making myself feel guilty. If I let myself, I wouldn’t mind it at all. I would be like Alfred, who seems not to feel a jot of guilt. He is happier than I have seen him in years.
He needed me too. He isn’t desperate, like me. He is handsome and popular and funny. He could have anyone he wanted his own age, any pretty girl or strong boy. And he chose me. And he chose his father.
So, you’re both insane. This whole family is. We’re just waiting for the day when Matthew chooses his own particular brand of perversion.
“C’mon,” Alfred whined. “Get out bed. Unless you don’t want to take me to school. I’m cool with that.”
“Oh?” I said playfully, sitting up in bed. “Are you sick?”
He nodded. “Yup. As a dog. You’ll need to give me my medicine.” He bounded into bed again.
“Do I now?” I ruffled his hair. “And how will Matthew get to school, then?”
He shrugged. “I think one of his friends has a car. That Cuban guy who has some, like, grudge on me for some reason.”
“And why would that be?”
He shrugged again. “I guess it’s my fault. I dunno.”
I sighed. “Sure.” I lifted myself out of the bed with a groan. “I’ll get dressed and tell Matthew.”
Under Our Roof (8/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 04:34:52 UTC
Matthew
I was still in my anger phase, and I found that more comforting than wallowing in angst. They couldn’t bother to take me to school, now. How did I not notice that before? Maybe I was so used to being ignored that I couldn’t differentiate between people ignoring me as a matter of course and people ignoring me so they can run off and fuck.
Huh. Almost doesn’t bother me anymore. Just a dull twinge deep inside my brain. Almost.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, twisting my hands, and not looking up at Miguel, as we rumbled along the road to school.
“Huh?”
“Thank you,” I repeated, slightly louder.
Miguel grinned. “No problem. It’s cool hanging out with you.” I smiled at him. I thought about my fantasy last night. I breathed in cigar smoke and felt strangely comforted. I should have felt embarrassed, but somehow I could separate the real Miguel and the fantasy Miguel in my mind. This crush was a wonderful thing in something this horrific time.
He frowned at me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look tired.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Is it ‘cause the show’s in a week, or something?”
I’d forgotten about that. Bigger things, I suppose. I smiled anyway. “Yeah. I think I’m absorbing some of Katya’s excess worrying.”
“No fair,” he laughed. “You’ve got enough of your own without helping her out.”
I laughed as well. It was good to laugh with Miguel, instead of thinking about Dad and Alfred.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you want to come over to my house after school today?”
A grin jumped to my face, joy tinged with surprise. “Oh, sure. Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re probably my best friend and we don’t spend enough time together.”
My stomach swelled. He didn’t ignore me. I was his best friend. He cared about me and where I was and what I was doing. He wouldn’t forget that I lived under the same roof as him.
And every second away from that house was a second I didn’t have to deal with the problem.
I took a deep, rich, smoke-filled breath. “You too. Thanks.”
He smiled. “Cool.”
I smiled back, and briefly an insane thought entered my mind. I could trust him. I could tell him. I could get his help. I didn’t have to deal with this chaos all by myself. And, Miguel would understand. He would help me. He could…
But this was my problem. It was a nightmare, and Miguel didn’t deserve to be involved in the insanity. I couldn’t stop it, I knew I was too weak for that, but I could contain it. I could keep it inside me, and inside that horrible house and it would only taint us three, me and Alfred and Dad.
And, here was Miguel offering to rescue me, unknowingly. Let Alfred and Dad have their sickness. I didn’t need to let it twist me too.
I swallowed as much of the smoke-smell as my lungs would take and tried to pretend that all of that was true.
He gasped, mouth open and gulping for air. He grunted and pushed back onto me.
My pretty baby. My own flesh and blood.
I leaned in closer. My tongue traced his forehead.
“Yes, God, yes!” he exclaimed. “Keep going!”
“Hush.”
“It’s so good, Daddy.”
I make myself stop, hips quivering with the effort. “Arthur,” I muttered hoarsely.
He stared at me. “Arthur,” he repeated.
That doesn’t make it any better. I couldn’t-I can’t-lie to myself that the boy gasping and writhing beneath me was my son. It was my son’s virginity that I was taking, with sickly selfishness, my eyes shut, buried in the pillow, grunting, pushing further and further in, knowing that with every thrust I was losing a part of myself, a part of myself that still had some sense of morality or civilized society.
He bit down on my shoulder to stifle a cry as he reached his finish on my stomach. I sobbed and hated myself.
I groaned, clutched his arm in a bruising grip at my climax.
No turning back now, I thought with a calm, existential finality. I rested heavily on top of him, breathing as if I was dying. Alfred’s fingers trailed my shoulder blade.
“Thank you,” he whispered roughly into my ear. “Thank you, Arthur.”
My emotions swirled. A powerful, painful guilt that made my stomach ache warred with a decadent pleasure in the fundamentally wrong and indecent.
He is my son. Curled against my chest, slim and sweaty and sated. A remnant of myself inside him, made of the same stuff as the blood that we share.
I nuzzled my mouth on his hair, and I shut my eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t be,” he whispered back, and then kissed me. Part of me wasn’t sorry, the part that wanted to pretend this wasn’t a problem, that, as wrong as it was, we could make it right. But, part of me was guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. I am the adult. I should know better. I shouldn’t let him do this to me.
I tell myself this every time. Whenever I am in him, or he is in me, or we are touching each other, or feeling each other with tongues and teeth, I tell myself to stop. And I keep doing it anyway.
Because, Alfred always smiles at me. He murmurs, “thank you,” or “keep going,” or “please.”
And so I keep going. And so I’m going to keep going. And only when the authorities come knocking on the door can I see myself stopping. Sometimes I think that I’m hoping for them to. Then, Alfred laughs and kisses my shoulder and I know that I’m lying to myself.
Under Our Roof (10/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 04:37:29 UTC
Alfred
Arthur never thought that I was, but I was always aware of the danger. Whenever I went to school, or went out with my friends, it was in the back of my mind that I had a horrible secret hiding inside of me. Sometimes, when I was dressing for football practice, I would notice someone’s eyes catching on an oddly placed bruise and I would feel a rush of panic.
Sometimes, it would occur to me in the middle of sex with Arthur that Matt could walk in on us at any point. Sometimes, the morning after, I would realize that the door had been unlocked or slightly open and I would feel briefly sick with horror.
At breakfast, I looked into my brother’s eyes and I wondered.
That’s why I like to be in the house alone with him. No lying. No hiding. When Matt goes to college, I’ll finally get to be alone with just him. Just him and me.
I love him. I really do. Even if it’s wrong, even if he’s my father. I really, really love him, in every way possible. He’s not taking advantage of me. I seduced him. I made the first move, because I wanted him. I wanted it.
Matt was getting closer to his friends and farther from his family. Sometimes I hardly talked to him once in a day. I missed my brother, I missed the funny little conversations that we had, where I only realized halfway through that Matt was making fun of me with his quiet little interjections, and then I had to jokingly hit him over the head, while he laughed wildly.
But, I got to spend more time with Arthur.
It wasn’t always sex, anymore. It was a lot less, and somehow I didn’t mind. We sat at the kitchen table, talking and laughing. I ate a cheeseburger, while he had French fries. He said that if I kept eating that many cheeseburgers, I wouldn’t be on the football team anymore. I pulled a face at him.
We watched TV-soccer-and curled up on the sofa. I rested my head on his chest, and he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead.
I like this. These slow and comfortable days of openness and freedom. Arthur hardly seems guilty about what we do. It’s like we’re normal.
“You know,” Arthur breathed into my hair. “Matthew has been back home for about five hours each night for the last week or so.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s too cool for us now. I think he might have a crush.”
Arthur laughed. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Maybe that girl from his drama class. The one with the big knockers.” I laughed again. “Don’t get jealous, now.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” He still gently whacked the back of my head.
“Hey!” I yawned. “Or, well, I’m not gonna make assumptions. Maybe that loud kid with the gelled hair. Or that guy who always drives him everywhere. It’s kinda cute.” I turned slightly to look at him. “And we get to spend more time together.”
“That is good,” he agreed.
I kissed him. My neck hurt twisting at that awkward angle, so I shifted onto my stomach on top of him. His hands twisted in my hair. The soccer game was still playing in the background.
Matthew
What was I looking for up there?
I paused at the top of the stairs, leaned forward and stared into the blurriness of the world without my glasses. I heard something and it made me stop. I put my hand on the banister, peered down first one end of the darkened hallway, and then the other.
Toothpaste. The bathroom downstairs was all out of toothpaste and I forgot to brush my teeth earlier, so I needed to get some. That's why I was upstairs that night.
I dug my bare toes into the carpet and made myself ignore the childish fear that made me want to turn on every light and destroy every corner of darkness in the house. I took a deep breath and debated simply returning to my bed.
But, then I saw the light under Alfred's door. Then I saw Alfred's door partly open. I took a step closer, because light meant good and safe to my childish mind, and that was when I heard the sounds.
Now I know why Dad put us on different floors. I didn't want us to go to different rooms, but Alfred did. I didn't want to be on the first floor, while Dad and Alfred were on the second. They gave me a good reason. I don't remember it. They're liars.
It's hard to put the sounds into words. It was metal creaking and it was heavy breathing and it was little "mm's" and it was the slick rubbing of flesh on flesh, but it was more. It was awful and ugly. It was scarier than the dark. It was the thing in the dark.
Because I knew there was something there, I needed to assure myself that there wasn't. I walked to the door, my feet crunching on the carpet as loud as on autumn leaves or broken glass. I paused\, my toes about half a foot from the door. I didn't breathe. I listened to the sounds. I stared at the yellow blur in the crack of the door.
When I was little, I would get out of bed in the middle of the night and stand outside Dad's door. I was afraid of the dark and being in the darkened hallway made me even more afraid. But, I was more afraid to wake him up, and see his not-angry-but-not-caring eyes asking me "What do you want?" I waited outside Dad's door with silent tears trickling into my mouth, not breathing.
I went over the scenario I wanted in my head, telling myself it was real. I pushed open the door, saw Alfred bouncing up and down on his bed, headphones in his ears, clacking at the keys of his laptop, happy, ignoring his stupid worrying brother. That is what will happen, I told myself. That was what happened.
Alfred's door never creaks when you open it. I pushed the door open two inches and I pressed my eye to the crack. I saw.
Shut the door. Walk away. Stupid. Stupid.
Alfred and Dad were on the bed. They were naked. Alfred was on his back, his head on a pillow with stripes on it. He was bent up at the hips, his legs in the air. Dad was on his knees. He was in front of Alfred, and his arms were on Alfred's hips. Alfred's legs were on his shoulders. Alfred's arms were on his back. The way Alfred's bed is, I saw them from the side. Dad was in Alfred. He pushed forward and pulled back, and Alfred shook in response. He was inside Alfred.
He was fucking him you mean. Your father was fucking your brother.
Dad's eyes were shut. Alfred's eyes were open. They both made little sounds, deep and inhuman. They sounded like animals, and breathed like they were running. They moved faster. They were glossed in sweat. Alfred's hair was a mess and he wasn't wearing glasses. Dad rose up slightly and he pushed down with quicker, sharper, harder movements and he made little grunts to go along with them. That made Alfred's eyes close, and his hips rose as well, breaking union with the sheets that I had put through the laundry yesterday.
A normal person would have shouted.
I watched.
A normal person would have done something. Your father raping your brother. You have to take care of him. Were you afraid, or did you know already that the look in his eyes was joy and not pain?
Reply
Like the dark, I had to make it go away. I stepped away from the door without shutting it. I didn't breathe. I stumbled back to the stairs, a few steps away. There is a little hollow formed by the first step and the wall where the second floor overlooks the living room of the first. I sat down there, curling myself into something small and unnoticeable. I breathed, and it came out hard.
They were a few feet away from you. Your father, fucking your twin brother' s asshole, his big, thick body violating Alfred's young, slender one. His hips moving harder and faster as he moved towards climax. Alfred biting back whorish moans and thrusting back. Father and son. Your father, your brother.
I could still hear them, the slapping, the creaking, and the animal noises. Somewhere along the line I started crying. The tears were fat and clean and I let them roll down my cheek to my mouth unimpeded. A few rolled down my jaw and far enough to touch the top of my shirt.
Why was I crying?
There was no complete thought, just reactions. Just the horror of it, just the wrongness, just the unquestionable reality.
It wasn't happening. I stood up.
Stop them.
I walked downstairs.
Don't let it happen.
I opened the door to my room.
What will they do if they see you?
I lay down in my bed.
He's your brother.
I left the lights on. They left magenta and purple patterns on the insides of my eyelids when I closed them.
Save him! Save him!
My body was rigid, with no allowance for sleep. No sleep until thought.
My father was fucking my brother.
Too big. Too much. Tears were easier. Tears and unnamed emotion that drew a physical pain in my chest.
Why does it upset you? What is wrong?
The light didn't help. The same things were in the dark that were in the light. They appeared whenever I shut my eyes, and then they hid. They were always behind my back, at the corner of my eye.
Daddy. Al. Stop it. Don't. I'm scared. Stop, stop.
There, that was my refuge. Childhood. Fear without reason.
"No," I whined aloud in a voice that even I could barely hear. "Stop, stop, stop… I don't want you to."
Still fucking above you. Father and son. Daddy and Al. Above you.
Somehow I slept. I never remember going to sleep or waking up. I simply am awake one moment and awake the next and hours have slipped away without my noticing. But, I knew that somehow I had slept after seeing what I did. I knew I was lying on my side in my bed and there was sun behind my curtains.
There was no respite in morning haze. I remembered instantly what had happened. It was so ridiculous, it had to be a dream. But, I remembered getting up so clearly. I thought about it for a while. I knew it wasn't a dream. It happened. I saw it.
And then I screamed.
Reply
I chewed thoughtfully on my cereal and looked across the table at my brother. Matthew wasn't meeting my eyes. He was staring at his bagel more than he was eating it. I looked away and waited for him to be ready to talk.
His scream woke me up, huddled in the warm wall of Arthur's arms. I started so violently I almost fell out of bed. Arthur groaned, wrapped his arms around me, grumbled in my ear, "Go back to sleep."
"Matthew," I explained. "I need to go see Matthew." I disentangled myself and pulled on some pants before going downstairs.
Matthew was sitting up in bed, looking mortified.
"Dude, Matt, are you okay?" I asked, scrubbing at my crusty, stinging eyes.
"I'm fine. Nightmare." His voice was tense and fearful. The haziness around his eyes made it seem like he was still half in the nightmare.
I grinned at him. "Yeah, well, I hope you're prepared to explain that to the police if you keep hollering like that. "
"Yeah…" he said faintly. He stared indistinctly at his hands lying slim and pale on the red blankets. I stared at them too, watched them slowly curl into the blanket and pull it back from his bony legs.
“Alfred…” His voice was hazy, dreamlike.
“Yeah?”
“I-No, sorry. Forgot. Never mind. Sorry.”
I grinned again, but he wasn't looking. He had his hands to the sides of his head, pale fingers buried in his yellow hair. I didn't need to be psychic to know my brother didn't want to talk. Must have been one hell of a nightmare.
He seemed better at breakfast, but still a little out of it. Like maybe he hadn't had enough sleep. He chewed slowly and deliberately, as if he had to motivate himself to make his jaw work. Matt was usually quiet, but this was different. Like, I got the feeling he couldn't talk, even if he wanted too.
But, I didn't want to bug him. I figured he'd tell me if there was something wrong.
I shifted around on the chair, feeling that little ache, not bad enough to be genuinely painful, but just uncomfortable enough to keep me from forgetting it was there. It was kind of thrilling to think about, that secret thing that I knew, but Matt didn't.
I used to hate keeping secrets from brother. But, this thing was even better when it was just me and Arthur. It was horrible and dirty and secret and happening right under the same room that my brother slept.
It was all wrong. So great and wrong. Great because it was wrong.
Wasn't always like this. I didn't always rejoice in the wrongness. I love my daddy, and I thought that it was the same way that everyone loved their daddy, like Matt loved his daddy. Daddy was tall and strong and I got that strange feeling in my stomach when he had that expression like at first he was angry and then there was that little bit of respect, like he couldn't stay mad. He never looked at Matt like that.
I heard a tired groan and it sent a thrill up my spine. I turned and saw Arthur standing in the doorway of the kitchen, scrubbing at his eyes and scratching at his disheveled blond hair. I admit, I could have cared less about Matt at that point.
My eyes slowly scanned his body, the body that had been naked, curled around me, over me, in me only a few minutes ago. That's something new I learned about clothes since I started sleeping with Arthur. Only I knew what was under those clothes. That was my secret. All mine. Ours.
"Good morning," I chirruped. Arthur smiled raggedly. He walked inside, touched my hair, and then went to make his morning tea.
"Morning yourself," he said gruffly. I watched as he filled the kettle, flicked on the switch. I heard Matt pick up the orange juice and pour himself a glass.
Reply
I think Arthur would get rid of Matt if he could. If I asked him to he would. But I won't, because Matt is my brother.
My ass was still hurting. I twisted around in my seat and made sure that Arthur could see me. That he knew I could still feel him inside me. Tonight, I decided, I was going to be inside him.
I watched him watch me for a moment, and then smiled in satisfaction and turned back to my cereal. Matt was staring at his hands flat on the table. He hadn't reacted to Arthur's entering the room.
I figured that he must have been really out of it. When I asked him about it, once Arthur had dropped us off at school, he stared at me for a moment, blinking, and then made a little smile and muttered something about a big test in his Lit class.
Then, we separated and went off to our different classes and friends. I forgot about anything to do with my brother within a few minutes. Matt has that effect on people.
There were days when everything else started to become dull and overlong, and I spent all day just looking forward to night, when I would make my way to Arthur's room and we could finally be together.
It's wrong. He's your father. You can't sleep with your father. That's why he won't open his eyes. It's your sick obsession. You made him do it. You're sick.
And you don't believe any of that, do you? You'll keep doing this until someone makes you stop.
And it won't bother you at all.
Reply
Matthew
Alfred hangs out with the cool kids. I don’t. I don’t mind that. I especially didn’t mind when I couldn’t look at him without getting sick to my stomach.
Katya and Lukas were sitting at the lunch table with me. Katya and Lukas are my friends from drama class. They’re actors and I’m stage crew. Alfred is on the football team. Katya has short hair and teary eyes. Lukas has spiky hair and is too tall.
Lukas sat across from me, eating half of my sandwich. Next to me, Katya was struggling with a baby orange. She and I are both too anxious to have nails, so she had to give up and pass it to Lukas who laughed and teased us before easily peeling the skin off in one piece.
“Come on,” he complained as she tried to grab the fruit back. “No praise? That was awesome!”
“You’re amazing,” she said sarcastically, snatching the orange back. She tore it into thirds and offered one to me. I shook my head.
“What’s up with you?” Lukas said, taking the orange out of Katya’s hand.
I stared blankly. I don’t think that I could have told them if I wanted to, couldn’t vocalize the horrible thing, anymore than I could think beyond the bald, ugly picture of it, seared in my brain. Besides, I didn’t want to tell anyone. It was the sort of thing that could only exist in secret, like a horrible, poisonous thing living under an ancient rock.
I shook my head again. “Didn’t sleep well.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Katya said, maternal beyond her years. I was surprised she didn’t press the back of her hand to my forehead to take my temperature.
“Fine.”
“Don’t get us sick!” Lukas feigned horror and made a cross with his fingers. “I’m clean!” Katya laughed and I was glad that stopped her fussing.
“Alfred!”
I should have recognized that voice first, but I was too on edge. My heart pounded and burst out in a slightly louder voice than usual, “I'm Matthew!”
I turned to see Miguel blinking at me. “Oh. Stupid. Sorry.” He sat down beside Lukas, across from me. Miguel is in stage crew too. He has dark eyes and he keeps his hair in a ponytail and I can always smell smoke on his breath. He has something against my brother, something to do with Alfred being his usual innocently destructive self, I suppose.
Alfred is my twin. We look too alike for most people to tell us apart at first sight.
“Matthew’s depressed,” Lukas said obliviously tactless.
Miguel raised an eyebrow at me. “Really?”
“I’m fine.”
“Anyone have food?” Miguel said. I passed him the other half of my sandwich. I didn’t think that I could keep it down if I tried. The thought of Dad’s lips mashing onto Alfred’s made eating an impossibility.
The eyebrow rose again. “Don’t you want it?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“See,” Lukas pointed out. “On death’s door.”
Reply
My father was having sex with my brother. My father was having sex with my brother. My father was having sex with my brother…
“Mattie?”
“Huh?” Katya was looking at me in concern. So were Lukas and Miguel.
“You sure you’re okay?” Miguel asked.
“I’m fine.” I have physics class with Alfred. I’d have to sit in class with him. I’d have to spend an hour looking at him, knowing what he did. And then, after school, I’d see Dad again. Dad, who drove us to school, who talked with Alfred, who looked at him, as if nothing were wrong.
He’s not my father. I don’t know who he is, but he’s not my father. He’s the stranger who hurt Alfred. My father went away and this horrible man took his place. I hate him. I hate him. I hate them.
“Hey,” I said, and I was surprised that my voice still worked. “I think I’m going to sit in on rehearsals today.” I didn’t need to be there, but I couldn’t be alone with Alfred and that man.
Katya smiled. “Sure. We’re going out for lunch afterwards. You can come with us. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m driving,” Miguel said. “I can take you home.” Miguel has a car. It’s small and it also smells like smoke, rich and heavy. When I’m in that car I want to drink in the smell greedily and fill my mouth and throat and lungs with it, and I have to be careful that Miguel doesn’t notice me being weird.
“Thanks.”
I didn’t want to go back at night. What if they did the same thing? But I can’t ask to stay over at someone’s on a school night. And I couldn’t do it the night after that. My house was dark and frightening now. It was that man’s house, not mine.
They started eating and talking about the show. I made myself talk too. Anything to stop from thinking.
Thinking about Dad and Alfred. Dad touching Alfred. Alfred’s long, slender legs over Dad’s shoulders. Sweat on the muscles on Alfred’s chest. Dad’s teeth gritted, his hips moving.
From three seats back, I watched Alfred’s shoulders move. I watched him tap his pencil, smile, pass notes to his friends, just like everything was normal.
I quietly asked to be excused from class. I walked down the hall into the bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet just before I threw up.
Reply
“Stop it, Alfred.”
“Look at me.”
I kept my eyes on my shoes, and not on Alfred, my son, standing in the middle of my room, naked.
I could still feel his eyes on me. “Please, Alfred,” I said quietly. “Put your clothes back on.”
“I found the pictures.” I knew he had. They were clutched tightly in his hands. Pictures of boys, young boys, some under fifteen, naked or near so, provocatively posed. Carefully hidden in a recess under the drawer of his desk. Either Alfred had searched for hours, or he had seen me looking at them.
“Look at me,” he repeated.
I did. He was still standing there, body pale, lean, muscled, young, blue eyes narrowed and savage.
I swallowed. “I’m looking at you. Now stop it. Dress and talk to me.”
“You were looking at this stuff.” He shook the crumpled pictures. “While you were raising me. Me and Matt. While you played with us and tucked us in at night and gave us baths.”
“Alfred, please. Whatever I’ve done I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant-”
“Do you look at me like you look at these pictures?”
I stared. “No, Alfred. Of course not. You’re my son. You’re my son.”
“You don’t think about me?” Was that hurt in his eyes? Was that a trembling in the arm the held the crumpled kiddie porn?
“I-Not like that, Alfred. Please.”
He walked forward, too close. I stepped back. My heels hit the wall. He was within two feet of me. Too close.
“I know what I’m doing,” he said seriously. I don’t think Alfred’s voice had ever been that serious.
I shook my head, looked away from him. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” He edged a bit closer. For a second, I had a flash of panic that Matthew would come through the door and find us. But, no. Matthew was away… somewhere. Matthew was taken care of. He took care of himself. He wasn’t an issue.
“Ever since I was little.”
“Stop.”
Alfred took a deep breath. “Tell me that you want me.”
“Alfred.”
“I know that you’re my father. I know that I want this. I know that I’m not going to let anyone stop me. I know that you want this too. Just…”
His fingers gently brushed my forearm, and my stomach turned to jelly. He looked at me with furious, burning eyes.
Tell him to stop. Tell him to get dressed and go think. Leave the house. Go. Don’t do this. Don’t be weak.
He kissed me. My son’s lips, soft, pink baby lips, on mine.
I used to brush his teeth when he was too little. When both of his soft, fragile hands fit comfortably in mine. When those blue eyes were oversized and guileless, and I once closed my hand in a desk, because I found myself thinking of them in a horrible way, and the pictures never filled that particular void, but there was no way that they could, because it’s so wrong.
I put my hand on his back. I let him push harder. I kissed him back.
He is my son. He is my son. He is my beautiful little boy, I promised to cherish and keep and protect from the horror of the world.
I touched him. I kissed him. I put him on the bed, and held him close, and told him that he was my favorite. That he was a wonderful, brave, pretty little boy. That he was mine. Mine.
“Yes,” Alfred said. His voice was frank and joyful at the same time. He nuzzled my neck and smiled and laughed with little tears standing out at the corners of his eyes, as if this was all that he ever wanted, being delivered to him all at once.
I just gave him what he wanted. I had to. I love my son.
And it’s wrong. It’s so wrong.
Reply
“Open your eyes.”
I folded my hands behind my bare back, and grinned at Arthur, propped up in bed on a stack of pillows, his arms behind his head. He grinned back at me.
“I’m looking.” He was. His eyes travelled from my head to my toes, up and down again. Still smiling, I tore off my jeans and boxers and walked over to bed. Arthur held up the blankets to let me in. I settled in beside his warm body and wrap my arms around his chest. I kissed him.
“You’re pretty today,” I said.
“I could say the same thing about you.” He touched my shoulders, trailed his hands down my chest. His hands closed on my hips. I rolled over on top of him, and I wrapped my fingers around his wrists. I pushed my hips against his. I smiled at his gasp. My stomach was hot and open. I kissed him again.
“I thought about you in class today. You’re very distracting.”
“Well, I’d hate to think I was distracting you.”
“You can make it up to me.” I kissed his throat and my hand slipped down to stroke his erection, which was sharp on my stomach.
“Alfred.”
His voice made me stop. I looked at him impatiently. “Yeah?”
“Your brother was acting very strange this morning.”
What about Matt? Oh. Yeah. I forgot.
“Yeah. Matt gets kinds weird sometimes. I think he’s gotten over it by now.”
“Sometimes I worry about him finding out.”
“Don’t.” I kissed his jaw. “Don’t ever worry about that. No one’s gonna find out.” I tried to kiss his mouth, but he turned his head away.
“He lives under the same roof as us. He’s bound to suspect some time.”
I groaned in frustration. “Stop it. Matt doesn’t suspect anything. He’s too much of a goody-two shoes to even think about awful, dirty things like this.”
“But-”
“Stop talking about Matt. It’s not him you’re sleeping with.” I felt a cold flare of sadism in my chest and I leered down at Arthur. “Unless you want to bring him in. That would solve that problem, right? Have little Mattie join the fun. That way you can have both your sons at once. Can’t be worse than what we’re doing right now.”
“Alfred, stop that.”
Guilt. “I’m sorry.” I nuzzled his chest in apology.
“It’s not the same, and you know it,” he continued. He stroked and tangled my hair as he spoke. “Matthew isn’t the same as you. Nowhere near it. You’re special for me.”
“You’d never do this with Matt.” I knew he wouldn’t, but I wanted to hear him say it.
“Never.”
“Good.” I started stroking him again, hard and fast, brushing my knuckles thrillingly against my own cock.
I don’t want to talk about Matt. Matt is my brother. He has nothing to do with what I do with Arthur. They’re different worlds and it’s illogical to think they would ever intersect. This is joyfully dirty and sweaty and shameful. My brother is clean and pure and sexless.
“I want you in me,” Arthur whispered in my ear, and all thoughts of my brother fled. I might not have had a brother for all that I thought of him in that moment.
Reply
He is my father. He is my father and I am the only person that he will allow to do this to him.
He was in the process of turning around and bracing himself against the headboard. I grabbed him and pulled him around, dropping him back onto the softness of the pillows. I grinned and kissed his nose, before pushing into him.
“Open your eyes.”
They were already shut. He opened them the tiniest bit, smiled and kissed me and then I didn’t care. We moved. I moved in my father. We had to stay quiet. I wished that the house were empty so we could make any noise we wanted.
Under the blankets we moved together. The day of waiting made it feel even better. The best part of it was that we had all night. Maybe, if I asked, Arthur would say I was sick and let me stay home from school.
He would. If I asked him. He acts angry and snappy at me, but he’d do anything I ask. He did this. When I asked him.
I came into the warmth of my father, and then, as I lay on top of him, my hips jerking, he released onto my stomach. We stuck together. Held by come and blood.
“I love you,” I groaned, slipping off of him and pressing my nose into the crook of his neck.
“I love you,” he answered, stroking the back of my neck calmingly.
I felt gleefully happy. My father was taking care of me, giving me what I needed, making me happier than anything else could.
That was right, wasn’t it?
Why does it feel wrong? Why do I like it when it feels wrong?
He kissed me and pulled me to his side. “You’re so good to me,” he whispered.
“I try,” I said confidently, nipping at his ear. He sighed happily.
Reply
He is my father. He is my father and I am the only person that he will allow to do this to him.
He was in the process of turning around and bracing himself against the headboard. I grabbed him and pulled him around, dropping him back onto the softness of the pillows. I grinned and kissed his nose, before pushing into him.
“Open your eyes.”
They were already shut. He opened them the tiniest bit, smiled and kissed me and then I didn’t care. We moved. I moved in my father. We had to stay quiet. I wished that the house were empty so we could make any noise we wanted.
Under the blankets we moved together. The day of waiting made it feel even better. The best part of it was that we had all night. Maybe, if I asked, Arthur would say I was sick and let me stay home from school.
He would. If I asked him. He acts angry and snappy at me, but he’d do anything I ask. He did this. When I asked him.
I came into the warmth of my father, and then, as I lay on top of him, my hips jerking, he released onto my stomach. We stuck together. Held by come and blood.
“I love you,” I groaned, slipping off of him and pressing my nose into the crook of his neck.
“I love you,” he answered, stroking the back of my neck calmingly.
I felt gleefully happy. My father was taking care of me, giving me what I needed, making me happier than anything else could.
That was right, wasn’t it?
Why does it feel wrong? Why do I like it when it feels wrong?
He kissed me and pulled me to his side. “You’re so good to me,” he whispered.
“I try,” I said confidently, nipping at his ear. He sighed happily.
Reply
I had to make it stop. I had to get rid of the thoughts.
Reading didn’t work. My mind couldn’t focus on the shapes of the letters. Not when I knew what was happening upstairs. Eating didn’t work. Neither did music, nor trying to sleep.
The blankets were over my head, and my hand was in my pajama pants, and my eyes were shut.
Upstairs, my brother and my father are having sex.
At first I just imagined faceless pornographic bodies fucking. It didn’t do any good-I couldn’t keep up the image. My mind kept wandering to dangerous, sickening places. So, I replaced the bodies with my friends and me.
Pervert.
I imagined Katya, naked on my bed. Her slick, plump arms, under my fingers, the taste of her large, round breasts. But, Katya was the one who asked me how I was, and fixed my hair when it was askew. She was like a big sister. She was like a mother. She wasn’t erotic, or sexual. She was Katya, not a moaning whore.
Lukas was sexual. Lukas would moan. Lukas made lewd comments about the middle school girls. Sometimes, when they were waiting backstage, Lukas would fondle me and grope me, playfully, I suppose. Lukas likes girls with flat chests and pigtails and putting people off guard.
I imagined Lukas for a while. I imagined his mouth on me, his hands on me, his tongue between my legs. Him rolling in bed with me, laughing, hands on my wrists, pushing me back against the wall roughly.
But, Lukas wouldn’t push me. He would wait for me to push him. He wouldn’t direct me. He wouldn’t force me.
I imagined the smell of cigar smoke over my face, smothering me. Miguel would push me. His large, dark hands would circle around my skinny wrists. He would wipe away my worry and shove me into bed and pull off my clothes, and tenderly trace my throat, push me back if I tried to leave.
And I would love it.
I rose up onto my knees, the blanket still pulled over me like a shroud, and I pulled my pants and boxers down to my thighs, as I continued to jerk off, investing more and more in the fantasy.
He pushed me onto my knees, in front of him, on eye level with his large, bright red, bulging erection, already wet from rubbing against my prone body. “Come on, baby, you can do this for me,” he encouraged me, softly, stroking my jaw. “You can take it.”
I was scared and I wouldn’t open my mouth, so he pushed his fingers between my teeth and pried them open, and then sunk my mouth onto his erection. It filled my mouth, big, too big. Miguel pushed in further, until my nose was pressed into the thick, wiry tangle of his pubic hair.
He filled my throat. I choked and he stroked my hair. “Good boy. Take it. Swallow.”
He grabbed my hair, pulled out, pushed in. I gagged. He did it again. Sticky drool poured down my chin and a guttural glugging sound filled my ears. I put my hands on his thighs and tried to pull back, but he leaned forward and continued fucking my mouth.
He wrapped his hands around my throat as he pushed in and out of it. He grunted. “Good, good.”
His strong, sweaty body claiming me, filling me, the smell and taste of him dominating my senses. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed.
Reply
Dad knelt between Alfred’s strong, lean legs, swallowing as much as his son as he could, making him gasp and moan.
“Daddy.”
No. I don’t want to think that. I want Miguel back. I don’t want to see you. Stop it! Stop feeling that! No, it doesn’t feel good. No, it doesn’t. No, no, no, no, no…
I bit my lip to control a grunt as the wild pleasure in my stomach reached its apex. Warm and wet was on my hand, on my thighs. Quickly, I grabbed an old T-shirt from the end of my bed and cleaned myself off, the rush of self-loathing making my chest ache.
Your brother, you sick fuck. Your brother and your father. You’re as bad as them. Pervert. You got off on it. That horrible thing and you got off on it. Sick. Sick. Your brother and your father.
Miguel was the one that I liked. He was the one I always wanted. I wanted his intelligent dark eyes, and his gruff chuckle and cigar smoke. I thought I was sick because I wanted a boy, now I know I’m normal.
I am normal. I am normal.
I fell back onto the pillows, wallowing in the sticky salt smell under the blankets, furious tears prickling at my eyes. I wished that I had never opened that door. Never went upstairs that morning. Lived in ignorance.
Ignorance would have been wonderful. Let Alfred do whatever he wanted with that strange man. Just don’t involve me. Don’t make me think about it.
I fell asleep and woke up angry, hating my brother and my father. Outside it was dark. My legs were still sticky, so I ran to the shower. I put the water punishingly cold, and slumped against the tiles, my eyes shut.
Why is it that Alfred is so happy? Alfred is sleeping with his father and he is happy, but I am crying alone in the shower. Why am I guilty and he isn’t? What’s wrong with him?
What’s wrong with me?
Reply
Alfred was seventeen, young and vigorous, and full of fantastic energy. He would leave me cheerful and exhausted in the mornings.
After our night together, I sat propped up on the pillows, watching him dress up in his clean clothes for school tomorrow. My golden boy, angel-faced, debauched in a way that only I knew.
He grinned at me. “Man, that was great. I can’t wait till school is over. You think you can get Matt to go somewhere for the day? I’m up for it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Again in one day? You’ll be the death of me, boy.”
He pouted. “Please?”
“What will we do with you when you go away to college, eh?”
“I’ll go to state school nearby and come back to see you all the time.” He smiled slyly. “Unless you’re eager to get rid of me.”
“Don’t you dare entertain the thought.” He pulled on that old leather jacket of his, gave it a cheeky shake. I never knew where he got that jacket. It dated back to that period from when he turned thirteen to when we began sleeping together when he was sixteen. That period when he seemed to always be angry with me, for reasons I could never understand at the time.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. He smiled.
I remember when Alfred was around fifteen. I was out drinking. I did that a lot, then. I was with my old friend Francis. Francis twirled his drink, Francis with his sly smiles and his cartoon French accent. I think he might be the boys’ godfather, but I don’t remember.
“You need to find someone, Arthur, dear,” he opined without my solicitation. “It’s been long enough for you to get over her.”
I tensed. Her. My wife. My ex-wife. I don’t talk about her. I don’t think about her. She’s gone. In mind, at least, she is long dead.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Arthur-”
“What I need is to be drunk.” I emptied my glass to emphasize the point. “I have two children to look after. I can’t go gallivanting away with my pick of jailbait like you can.”
He was right though. I did need someone. Just, it was the one person I could never have. But, now I do have him, even though I shouldn’t. As guilty as I feel, and I felt so guilty sometimes I thought I would die of it, I still want him. It still makes me feel good.
Sometimes I think that I’m making myself feel guilty. If I let myself, I wouldn’t mind it at all. I would be like Alfred, who seems not to feel a jot of guilt. He is happier than I have seen him in years.
He needed me too. He isn’t desperate, like me. He is handsome and popular and funny. He could have anyone he wanted his own age, any pretty girl or strong boy. And he chose me. And he chose his father.
So, you’re both insane. This whole family is. We’re just waiting for the day when Matthew chooses his own particular brand of perversion.
“C’mon,” Alfred whined. “Get out bed. Unless you don’t want to take me to school. I’m cool with that.”
“Oh?” I said playfully, sitting up in bed. “Are you sick?”
He nodded. “Yup. As a dog. You’ll need to give me my medicine.” He bounded into bed again.
“Do I now?” I ruffled his hair. “And how will Matthew get to school, then?”
He shrugged. “I think one of his friends has a car. That Cuban guy who has some, like, grudge on me for some reason.”
“And why would that be?”
He shrugged again. “I guess it’s my fault. I dunno.”
I sighed. “Sure.” I lifted myself out of the bed with a groan. “I’ll get dressed and tell Matthew.”
He stretched out his legs. “Hurry back.”
Reply
I was still in my anger phase, and I found that more comforting than wallowing in angst. They couldn’t bother to take me to school, now. How did I not notice that before? Maybe I was so used to being ignored that I couldn’t differentiate between people ignoring me as a matter of course and people ignoring me so they can run off and fuck.
Huh. Almost doesn’t bother me anymore. Just a dull twinge deep inside my brain. Almost.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, twisting my hands, and not looking up at Miguel, as we rumbled along the road to school.
“Huh?”
“Thank you,” I repeated, slightly louder.
Miguel grinned. “No problem. It’s cool hanging out with you.” I smiled at him. I thought about my fantasy last night. I breathed in cigar smoke and felt strangely comforted. I should have felt embarrassed, but somehow I could separate the real Miguel and the fantasy Miguel in my mind. This crush was a wonderful thing in something this horrific time.
He frowned at me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look tired.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Is it ‘cause the show’s in a week, or something?”
I’d forgotten about that. Bigger things, I suppose. I smiled anyway. “Yeah. I think I’m absorbing some of Katya’s excess worrying.”
“No fair,” he laughed. “You’ve got enough of your own without helping her out.”
I laughed as well. It was good to laugh with Miguel, instead of thinking about Dad and Alfred.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you want to come over to my house after school today?”
A grin jumped to my face, joy tinged with surprise. “Oh, sure. Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re probably my best friend and we don’t spend enough time together.”
My stomach swelled. He didn’t ignore me. I was his best friend. He cared about me and where I was and what I was doing. He wouldn’t forget that I lived under the same roof as him.
And every second away from that house was a second I didn’t have to deal with the problem.
I took a deep, rich, smoke-filled breath. “You too. Thanks.”
He smiled. “Cool.”
I smiled back, and briefly an insane thought entered my mind. I could trust him. I could tell him. I could get his help. I didn’t have to deal with this chaos all by myself. And, Miguel would understand. He would help me. He could…
But this was my problem. It was a nightmare, and Miguel didn’t deserve to be involved in the insanity. I couldn’t stop it, I knew I was too weak for that, but I could contain it. I could keep it inside me, and inside that horrible house and it would only taint us three, me and Alfred and Dad.
And, here was Miguel offering to rescue me, unknowingly. Let Alfred and Dad have their sickness. I didn’t need to let it twist me too.
I swallowed as much of the smoke-smell as my lungs would take and tried to pretend that all of that was true.
Reply
He’s my son.
I stroked his leg gently, the other hand braced on his side. Out of my mouth came a stream of meaningless comforting words.
“Okay, okay. That’s good. Good job, baby. Keep going. Keep moving. Shh. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
He gasped, mouth open and gulping for air. He grunted and pushed back onto me.
My pretty baby. My own flesh and blood.
I leaned in closer. My tongue traced his forehead.
“Yes, God, yes!” he exclaimed. “Keep going!”
“Hush.”
“It’s so good, Daddy.”
I make myself stop, hips quivering with the effort. “Arthur,” I muttered hoarsely.
He stared at me. “Arthur,” he repeated.
That doesn’t make it any better. I couldn’t-I can’t-lie to myself that the boy gasping and writhing beneath me was my son. It was my son’s virginity that I was taking, with sickly selfishness, my eyes shut, buried in the pillow, grunting, pushing further and further in, knowing that with every thrust I was losing a part of myself, a part of myself that still had some sense of morality or civilized society.
He bit down on my shoulder to stifle a cry as he reached his finish on my stomach. I sobbed and hated myself.
I groaned, clutched his arm in a bruising grip at my climax.
No turning back now, I thought with a calm, existential finality. I rested heavily on top of him, breathing as if I was dying. Alfred’s fingers trailed my shoulder blade.
“Thank you,” he whispered roughly into my ear. “Thank you, Arthur.”
My emotions swirled. A powerful, painful guilt that made my stomach ache warred with a decadent pleasure in the fundamentally wrong and indecent.
He is my son. Curled against my chest, slim and sweaty and sated. A remnant of myself inside him, made of the same stuff as the blood that we share.
I nuzzled my mouth on his hair, and I shut my eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t be,” he whispered back, and then kissed me. Part of me wasn’t sorry, the part that wanted to pretend this wasn’t a problem, that, as wrong as it was, we could make it right. But, part of me was guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. I am the adult. I should know better. I shouldn’t let him do this to me.
I tell myself this every time. Whenever I am in him, or he is in me, or we are touching each other, or feeling each other with tongues and teeth, I tell myself to stop. And I keep doing it anyway.
Because, Alfred always smiles at me. He murmurs, “thank you,” or “keep going,” or “please.”
And so I keep going. And so I’m going to keep going. And only when the authorities come knocking on the door can I see myself stopping. Sometimes I think that I’m hoping for them to. Then, Alfred laughs and kisses my shoulder and I know that I’m lying to myself.
Reply
Arthur never thought that I was, but I was always aware of the danger. Whenever I went to school, or went out with my friends, it was in the back of my mind that I had a horrible secret hiding inside of me. Sometimes, when I was dressing for football practice, I would notice someone’s eyes catching on an oddly placed bruise and I would feel a rush of panic.
Sometimes, it would occur to me in the middle of sex with Arthur that Matt could walk in on us at any point. Sometimes, the morning after, I would realize that the door had been unlocked or slightly open and I would feel briefly sick with horror.
At breakfast, I looked into my brother’s eyes and I wondered.
That’s why I like to be in the house alone with him. No lying. No hiding. When Matt goes to college, I’ll finally get to be alone with just him. Just him and me.
I love him. I really do. Even if it’s wrong, even if he’s my father. I really, really love him, in every way possible. He’s not taking advantage of me. I seduced him. I made the first move, because I wanted him. I wanted it.
Matt was getting closer to his friends and farther from his family. Sometimes I hardly talked to him once in a day. I missed my brother, I missed the funny little conversations that we had, where I only realized halfway through that Matt was making fun of me with his quiet little interjections, and then I had to jokingly hit him over the head, while he laughed wildly.
But, I got to spend more time with Arthur.
It wasn’t always sex, anymore. It was a lot less, and somehow I didn’t mind. We sat at the kitchen table, talking and laughing. I ate a cheeseburger, while he had French fries. He said that if I kept eating that many cheeseburgers, I wouldn’t be on the football team anymore. I pulled a face at him.
We watched TV-soccer-and curled up on the sofa. I rested my head on his chest, and he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead.
I like this. These slow and comfortable days of openness and freedom. Arthur hardly seems guilty about what we do. It’s like we’re normal.
“You know,” Arthur breathed into my hair. “Matthew has been back home for about five hours each night for the last week or so.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s too cool for us now. I think he might have a crush.”
Arthur laughed. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Maybe that girl from his drama class. The one with the big knockers.” I laughed again. “Don’t get jealous, now.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” He still gently whacked the back of my head.
“Hey!” I yawned. “Or, well, I’m not gonna make assumptions. Maybe that loud kid with the gelled hair. Or that guy who always drives him everywhere. It’s kinda cute.” I turned slightly to look at him. “And we get to spend more time together.”
“That is good,” he agreed.
I kissed him. My neck hurt twisting at that awkward angle, so I shifted onto my stomach on top of him. His hands twisted in my hair. The soccer game was still playing in the background.
I love days like this.
Reply
Leave a comment