Our Nonna still called us i ragazzi like we were little kids running around her kitchen in Brooklyn, even though Luca was twenty-two and I had just turned eighteen. We were the American grandsons—parents born here, English first, Italian only when the old people demanded it—but the blood showed. Dark hair, olive skin that tanned easy, the same stubborn jaw. Luca got the height and the green eyes. I got the rest and decided to bleach my hair blond because I wanted to study fashion and look like I belonged on a mood board instead of in our neighborhood.
Luca could have been a Dolce & Gabbana model if he’d given a single shit. Six-two, athletic from the academy prep, faded cut sharp on the sides, that big Roman nose that somehow made his face better, a couple of black-and-gray tattoos climbing his right arm. He was studying to get into the police force like our uncle. Straight as the day is long. Thought modeling was “for the gays.” Said it to my face once, laughing, not knowing I was one of them.
He brought girls home whenever our parents went to the Jersey house for the weekend. Always the same routine. Door slammed. Low voices. The wet slap of skin. A girl moaning his name like it was the only word she remembered. Then silence, the shower running, and the soft sound of a condom hitting the little trash can under his desk.
I started noticing the trash can in March.
The first time I waited until he left for the gym, walked into his room that still smelled like her perfume and his sweat, and looked inside. One used condom, tied off, heavy with him. I don’t know what made me pick it up. Curiosity. The crush I’d been carrying since I was fifteen and he walked out of the bathroom in a towel. I held it over my palm, felt the weight, and before I could talk myself out of it I untied the knot and let the thick, still-warm load drip onto my tongue.
It tasted like skin and salt and something bitter that was straight from my brother’s straight cock.
I swallowed, heart slamming, and put the empty rubber back like nothing had happened.
That was the beginning.
By April I had a system. Parents sometimes were gone Friday to Sunday. Luca would text some girl from a club or the gym. I’d stay in my room with headphones on, pretending to sketch, while he fucked her on the other side of the wall. I’d listen to the bedframe, the filthy encouragement he gave them in that low voice, the way he came with a short, punched-out groan. After she left and the shower started, I’d slip into his room, take the condom from the trash, and carry it back to mine like contraband.
I never just swallowed it right away.
I liked to sit on my bed, hold the condom up to the light, and watch his cum slide around inside the latex. Then I’d open it carefully and pour it across my tongue, slow, letting the taste coat my mouth. Sometimes I imagined it was still inside one of the girls—some dark-haired Italian chick from the neighborhood or a blonde from his gym—and that I was on my knees between her legs after he’d finished, licking her messy shaved cunt clean of everything he’d left in her. I’m gay but I’d die to lick a wet cummy pussy after my brother nutted inside. The fantasy made me harder than the real thing.
I’d jerk off with his load still on my tongue, coming into my own fist while I pictured my older brother’s cum dripping out of a used pussy and onto my chin.
I did it for months.
Every weekend they were away. Sometimes twice if he brought two different girls. I learned the exact weight of a full condom. I learned that when he was really worked up it came out thicker, almost pearly. I learned the smell of him mixed with whatever cheap body spray the girl had worn. I never got caught. Luca was careful about locking his door while they were in there, but he never thought to hide the trash after. Why would he? His little brother was the fashion kid who bleached his hair and talked about silhouettes and Alta moda. Not the kind of guy who’d dig through used rubbers for a taste of family cum. That’s too fucked up, right?
Until the Saturday in July.
Parents were at the shore until Monday. Luca had a girl over by three in the afternoon—short, loud, the type who wore too much highlighter. I stayed in my room with the door cracked and listened. He fucked her hard and fast, the way he always did when he had somewhere to be later. She came twice. He came once, loud, and I heard the snap of the condom coming off. Shower. Hair dryer. Her voice saying she’d text him. Front door.
I waited four full minutes, then walked into his room.
The condom was right where it always was, tied, heavy, sitting on top of a tissue in the little black can. Still warm. I took it, closed his door quietly, and went back to mine. My hands were already shaking with the usual mix of shame and hunger. I sat on the edge of the bed, untied the knot, and lifted the open condom to my mouth. The first thick drop hit my tongue. I tilted it higher, letting the rest of his load slide out in a slow, heavy stream, filling my mouth the way I’d done a dozen times before.
I was still playing with the condom and his load when my bedroom door opened.
Luca stood there in a black button-down, sleeves rolled up over the tattoos, faded hair still damp from the shower, green eyes wide. He was holding a silver bracelet in one hand, the clasp open.
“Yo, Davi, help me with this thing, I can’t—”
He stopped.
The empty condom was still in my fingers. A thick string of his cum connected the latex to my lower lip. My mouth was full of him. I froze, throat working on the last of it, eyes locked on my older brother’s face as the realization landed on him in real time. I swallowed, hard…
Luca’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
The bracelet dangled from his fingers, forgotten.
He just stared at his little brother sitting on the bed with a used condom in one hand and the taste of his own cum still fresh on his tongue, and for the first time in my life I saw Luca—the future cop, the girls, the straight Italian-American poster boy—completely, utterly speechless.
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