Between Brothers

Chapter 1-3

After dinner Timothy sits at one end of the couch and I stretch out alongside him, my legs bare and flickering in the glow of the television. I’m still in those silk boxers, though I’ve taken off the dress shirt somewhere and just have on the tank top I wore underneath. We look like two old bachelors on a day off, barely dressed, lounging around as if there aren’t dishes in the sink waiting to be done. With gentle motions, Timothy runs his fingers through my thick hair, combing the gel out of the waves to find the cool, unstyled depths. His fingers strum over my scalp, a soothing touch. I lay with my eyes shut, not even bothering to watch the television anymore, as I let his touch rub through me. The front of my boxers tents beneath another erection, one I don’t try to hide.

On a commercial break, Timothy fists his hand in my hair and tugs lightly like a stylist trying to stimulate the follicles. “What’s on your mind?” he wants to know.

The sound of his voice spoils the daydream I’m having of my brother and I on the beach as teenagers, me buried in sand up to my neck and him combing my wild hair into some crazy pompadour full of salt water and seaweed that makes him giggle. The image washes away like a sandcastle at high tide and I shake my head free from Timothy’s hand. “Nothing.”

He tries to touch my head again but I sit up and turn towards him, so intense he shrinks back. “Hey, Timmy,” I say, touching his arm to relax him, the way I would a skittish animal. He gives me a distrustful look as I run a hand through my hair to push it from my face. I don’t know how to ask this, don’t even really know why I want to know, but I’m suddenly curious if I’m the only one…“What do you think of during s*x?”

With a laugh, he catches my wrist and pulls me into his lap. “You, silly,” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. Then something in my expression dries up that laughter. “What about you? What do you think of?”

The answer he hopes for shines bright in his dark eyes. Me, it says, I read it clearly enough. That’s not the truth but I could lie. I could say him. I open my mouth and the words are on the end of my tongue, waiting to be released, when I hear myself answer, “Nothing, really. I try not to think much when I’m doing the deed.”

Wrong lie. Timothy looks as if I’ve slapped him, hurt welling up like tears in those bright eyes. “What gets you off then?” he asks in a small voice.

I shrug. “Just, you know. The motion I guess.”

His gaze drifts from my face down to the bulge in my boxers and those eyes harden. “What about this?” he asks with a poke at the front of my shorts. My hard c**k sways at his touch like a drunk sailor reeling for another drink. “Don’t tell me you got this just from watching Home Improvement.”

Too late, I realize he’s mad at me. Hoping to lighten the mood, I give him a nudge. “That Al guy is kind of cute. He sort of looks like you.”

At another time, Timothy might’ve laughed—he has that same beard, though his is laced with gray, and he also favors flannel shirts and blue jeans when he’s not in skivvies or his work uniform. But at the moment he’s pissed, and whatever feel-good afterglow once enveloped us is gone. When he stands, I make a half-hearted grab for his hand but he pulls away. Without another word he storms out of the living room and down the hall. Two seconds later, I hear the bedroom door slam shut.

Fuck. I don’t feel like placating him, not tonight, so I slip into his spot on the couch and the warmth he left behind, my long legs curled up in front of me. The silk boxers feel heavenly on my damn erection, so soft yet so confining. I reposition myself so the length of my shaft lies along my inner thigh, the head of my c**k peeking from the bottom hem of the shorts. Without thinking of anything in particular, I let my fingers play with the swollen tip, rimming it, rubbing it, picking at it as I watch the rest of the show. Soon my hand is damp and musky with pre-come and I want to jerk off right here, get it over with, find some relief. But I remember the phone call this morning and click off the television as I stand with a slow stretch. My muscles loosened, I head for the phone in the hallway, one hand down the front of my boxers to finger my balls like I’m twelve again and can’t stop touching myself.

There are no numbers written on the pad by the phone. Not surprised, I head down the hall to the closed door that separates Timothy from me. With a faint knock, I lean against the door. “Timmy? Where’s my brother’s number?”

The hand in my shorts squeezes and I thrust into my fist a few times, waiting for Timothy to answer. When he doesn’t, I kick at the door and raise my voice. “Where’s his goddamn number?”

A sniffle—he wants me to feel sorry for him, rush in there and smooth over the wounds, assure him everything’s all right, I was lying, I think of him when I get off, I do, I do. But there’s a mean streak in me and I’m not up for playing the hero tonight. Just as I’m about to kick the door a second time, he seems to realize this, because his voice is muffled but distinct when he tells me, “On the fridge.”

My d**k leads the way. In the kitchen I find a scrap of paper with the word Joey? written on it and beneath that, a number in New Jersey. I recognize the area code. Is that our parents’ number? I’m not sure, I haven’t called it in so long, but as I stand there staring at the piece of paper, I stroke myself absently. My boxers are open now, hanging precariously on my thin hips, my c**k warm and hard beneath the hand that works along its length.

Leaning back against the sink, I jerk off vigorously, my mind a whirl of emotions as my d**k jumps in my hand with each thrust of my hips. At the last moment I stand over the trash can as an orgasm rips through me, stronger than the one I had earlier with my c**k in Timothy’s ass. I f**k into my encircled fingers, small uh uh uh sounds escaping my open mouth, my other hand fondling my balls as if squeezing the juices out of me. A rush of spunk splashes the side of the trash can, leaving behind a pungent s*x smell that overpowers the small kitchen. Using the same hand towel Timothy did earlier, I wipe c*m off my hand, then toss the towel into the trash to cover the rest of the evidence. A can of Lysol masks the scent.

Plucking Joey’s phone number off the fridge, I duck into the hallway to place the call.