It was the summer of 1984 and the whole house smelled like motor oil and the cheap incense Mom burned to cover it up. Scott worked the garage with Dad six days a week. Marco came over almost every afternoon after his shift at the warehouse. I stayed in my room with the radio low, Duran Duran, Madonna, Human League, dreaming about New York and the kind of stages where boys who looked like me could disappear into the lights.
I was eighteen. Blond. Soft in the face. No beard. Scott used to call me “ballerina boy” when he was feeling mean. Marco just laughed and ruffled my hair like I was still twelve. They were both twenty. Scott was the tall one — freckled, red hair cut short, the kind of athletic body that came from lifting engines and tires everyday. Marco was shorter, darker, thick through the chest and arms from stacking boxes all day. Italian blood, black hair, the beginnings of a mustache he kept trying to grow. Neither of them had real beards yet. They still looked like the boys who’d stolen beer from the fridge three summers ago, only now they were working men and the house felt smaller when they were both in it. They were loud and their energy was totally different from mine.
They never closed Scott’s door all the way.
I learned that in June.
I’d be walking past with a glass of water or a towel from the bathroom and the door would be cracked just enough. Playboy and Hustler magazines spread across the bed — Marco’s dad’s, the ones with the glossy centerfolds and the girls who looked like they belonged on album covers. Scott and Marco would be side by side, jeans open, fists moving in the same slow rhythm. Sometimes they talked. Low. Honest in the way only two straight boys get when they think no one is listening.
“I’d give anything for a real blowjob,” Marco said one afternoon. The fan was going. The air was thick. “Girls around here won’t do it. Or they do it like they’re scared of the thing.”
Scott laughed, that short rough sound he made when he agreed but didn’t want to say so.
“Same. Had two different ones last month. Both just licked the tip and acted like they’d done me a favor. I want someone who actually sucks it. Takes it. You know?”
I stood in the hallway with my heart in my throat and the glass sweating in my hand. I went back to my room and turned the Soft Cell “Tainted Love” I was super addicted up louder so I wouldn’t hear the wet sounds that came after.
That night I took a big carrot from the fridge.
I’d seen it done in a magazine once — some underground thing a kid at school passed around. Practice. I locked my door, put “Rio” on low, and learned how to open my throat. It hurt at first. My eyes watered. I gagged and had to stop. But I kept going. Night after night. Until I could take most of it without choking. Until the idea of doing it for real sat in my stomach like something warm and secret.
I waited three more days.
They were at it again on a Thursday. Door cracked. Playboy open to some blonde on a motorcycle.
“Her boobs are huge, I would love to rub my cock..” Said Marco.
“I bet she loves to suck cock, man.”
“Bet on it.”
Scott’s red hair was damp at the temples. Marco’s shirt was off, the little dark hair on his chest shiny under the desk lamp. Both of them hard, fists moving, the air in the room thick with the smell of skin and the cheap supermarket cologne Marco always wore.
I pushed the door open the rest of the way.
They both froze.
Scott’s green eyes went wide. Marco’s hand stopped mid-stroke. The carrot was in my right hand, still cool from the fridge. I held it up so they could see the size of it.
“I heard what you said,” I told them. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “About nobody doing it right. I’ve been practicing with this big carrot.”
Scott sat up fast. “Gene. What the fuck? Get the fuck out. You should knock!”
“I can do it.” I stepped closer. The floorboards creaked. “I want to. Let me.”
Marco looked at Scott. Scott looked at the carrot. Then at my mouth. The heat in the room had nothing to do with July anymore.
“You’re serious,” Scott said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
Marco let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Your little brother’s a queer, man.”
“Shut up,” Scott said, but he didn’t tell me to leave.
I dropped to my knees between the bed and the desk. The carpet was rough. I could smell them both — sweat, the leftover garage on Scott, the warehouse sweaty air on Marco. I set the carrot down and reached for Scott first because he was my brother and because
I’d been watching him longer.
He didn’t stop me.
I pulled his jeans lower. His cock was already thick, the head flushed dark, a bead of wet at the slit. Freckles across his hips. I wrapped my hand around the base and leaned in. The first taste was sweaty skin and salt. I took the head into my mouth and sucked the way I’d practiced, slow, letting my tongue work underneath. Scott’s hand landed on the back of my head like he didn’t trust himself not to push.
“Dear God…” he muttered.
Marco shifted closer on the bed, still stroking, watching with dark eyes. “He’s actually doing it.”
I took Scott deeper. The practice paid off. My throat opened and the thick length slid back until my nose pressed against the red hair at his base. I held it there, breathing through my nose, eyes watering, until Scott’s hips twitched. When I pulled off, a string of spit connected my lip to the head.
Marco didn’t wait for an invitation. He shoved his own jeans down and tapped the side of my face with his cock — shorter than Scott’s but thicker, darker, the head already wet, anxious for attention.
“My turn, blondie. Show me what the carrot taught you.”
I turned and took him in. The angle was different. The smell of him was stronger — pure heat and the faint trace of the warehouse. I went down until the thick head pushed into my throat and Marco let out a low, surprised sound that made my stomach flip. His hand fisted in my blond hair and held me there for a second longer than I expected.
“Fuck. He’s good. Scott, your little brother, he’s actually good.”
They started trading me after that.
Scott would pull me back by the hair and feed his cock into my mouth while Marco stroked himself and watched. Then Marco would take over, using both hands to keep my head still while he thrust up from the bed. The competition was quiet at first. Then it got verbal.
“He takes more of mine,” Scott said, voice rough. “Look at that, he prefers his big brother’s carrot.”
“Bullshit. Watch this.” Marco pushed deeper and held me down until I gagged around him. Spit ran down my chin and onto his balls. “That’s deeper.”
I let them use me. That was the whole point. I wanted to be the mouth they couldn’t get from the girls in town. I wanted the taste of both of them mixed on my tongue. The radio in my room was still playing faintly through the wall — some line from a Blondie song— and it felt like the whole summer had been building to this sticky, overheated Thursday afternoon with my brother’s cock in my throat and his best friend’s hand in my hair.
They got coordinated without talking about it.
Scott pulled me off Marco and onto himself, fucking my mouth in short, deep strokes. Marco knelt up on the bed so his cock was level with my face. Whenever Scott pulled back, Marco pushed in. They found a rhythm — one filling my throat while the other slapped against my cheek, wet and heavy.
Spit everywhere. The wet sounds filled the room. My jaw ached, these were real cocks, not lifeless carrots. My knees hurt. I was harder than I’d ever been in my life and neither of them touched me once. They were only into my mouth.
“Gonna come,” Scott warned, voice tight.
“Same,” Marco said. “Let’s cum at the same time, man. I wanna see it.”
They pulled out at almost the same time. Scott stroked fast, the head of his thick Italian cock dark and shiny. Marco did the same, shorter strokes, breathing hard through his mouth. I stayed on my knees, mouth open, tongue out, looking up at both of them the way I’d practiced in the mirror with the carrot.
Scott came first — thick ropes across my cheek and into my open mouth. Marco followed two seconds later, aiming for my tongue and my other cheek, the two loads mixing warm and bitter on my face. I kept my mouth open until they were both finished, then closed it and swallowed what had landed on my tongue. The rest ran down my chin in slow lines.
Nobody spoke for a long minute, like we were in total disbelief.
Scott was the one who finally moved. He reached over, grabbed a dirty t-shirt from the floor, and wiped my face with surprising care. His ears were red. Marco sat back on his heels, still breathing hard, looking at me like he was trying to decide what I was now.
“You tell anyone,” Scott said quietly, “and I’ll..”
“I’m not gonna tell.” I promised.
Marco laughed, short and disbelieving. “Your brother’s a cocksucker. An actual cocksucker.”
“Shut up, Marco. Fuck off.”
I stayed on my knees until they both tucked themselves away and the Playboy was closed. The carrot was still on the floor where I’d dropped it. Scott kicked it under the bed with one foot and didn’t look at me when he said,
“Go clean up, Gene. Mom’s gonna be home in an hour.”
I stood on shaky legs. My throat felt used. My lips were swollen. The taste of both of them was still thick on my tongue.
I walked back to my room and locked the door. The radio was playing “Save a Prayer.” I sat on the edge of the bed and touched my mouth with two fingers, feeling the ghost of them there.
I already knew I’d do it again. For all the boys I would meet in New York. The pleasure of sucking cock was almost the same pleasure I felt while dancing to my favorite songs.
The next time the door was cracked and the magazines were open, I wouldn’t need the carrot.
I’d just walk in and get on my knees.
And they would let me, I was easy.
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