What The Hell Just Happened?

I’m laying in bed completely naked and uncovered, my body sweaty in the late-morning sunshine pouring through the window, while my older brother sucks my wiener. He’s not bad – loving on the glans then going deep, licking up the seam of my undershaft, spilling warm rivulets of saliva to pool in my thin pubes and tickle/trickle across my scrote; whatever else, years of being raped by our stepfather taught him how to give head – but, honestly, I’m not really into it, not least because he sees blowing me as a form of apology. Of penance. Not the hottest reason to have sex with somebody, huh?

He buries his nose in my pubes, shivers his tongue along the bottom of my wiener, and comes off to take a breath. “Wanna fuck me?”

I hesitate, shake my head. “Maybe next time.”

He nods like he’s both relieved and disappointed at once and swallows me whole again. I can’t help the moan dripping through my lips, can’t stop my eyes from rolling back in my head. I’m gonna cream his throat pretty soon, there’s no doubt, but like I said I’m not into it, not deep down. Any other self-respecting gay kid my age would be all over my brother; he’s big, bulky, and sexy as hell, with a long, thick dong he damn sure knows how use – even when you don’t want him to use it. Every time he screwed me he blew bombs off in my body, he made sure. Said it was only fair to get some pleasure when you’re being forced to put out. I think he finally understands the important word in his motto wasn’t ‘pleasure’ but instead ‘forced’, and I haven’t heard him repeat the phrase once since he came home from juvie.

I push my brother out of my head so I can make myself cum in his mouth, get this over for now. As always, I settle on my go-to: the cute bagboy down to the grocery store. Maybe sixteen, with a bright metallic smile from his braces and unruly blond hair falling into his cornflower blue eyes. Whenever I go through the line (sometimes a couple times a day) he grins and winks at me and doesn’t seem to notice my fiery cheeks and trembly hands. He’s way older than me, and way out of my league even if he wasn’t, but there’s no harm in fantasy, is there? I imagine him pulling me close, tracing my lips with his finger and smiling like I’m the only boy in the world for him. I feel the first tinglings of approaching orgasm, and, noticing my tightening sack, my brother ups his suction, amplifying the chills throughout my body. The bagboy (Chris) places one of my hands on his muscular arm, settles the other on the curve of his naked hip. He leans in to kiss me, and –

And –

I shoot into my brother’s gulping mouth, groaning so hard at the intensity of my orgasm the windowpanes feed the rumble back. He swallows every drop like a champ, nursing for the last dribbles even as my wiener starts deflating. Glancing up at my face, he nips on my glans, not hard enough to hurt but enough to shock, what with the post-nut over-sensitivity, and he chuckles as I hiss and try to roll away.

“So,” he drawls, wiping his lips, “how was it, sticklet?”

I huff. “Head was alright, but please stop trying to find a replacement for your favorite insult. Here’s an idea, use people’s actual names instead of relying on crass nicknames for body parts as identifiers, otherwise you’re gonna run into some fugly issues with clarity someday.”

As usual, he ignores my sound advice and focuses firmly on my critique of his performance. “Alright?” he gripes, twisting his face into mournful despair. “Only alright? You wound me!” He pushes himself off the bed, his flaccid dong swaying between his legs, proof he didn’t find blowing me at all arousing. “When I consider all the practice I’ve put in just for –”

I blow a raspberry, amused despite myself.

He laughs, then sobers. “That was thirteen, right? So two more to go.” He’d been the one to come up with the idea of servicing me for every time he’d forced me to service him, and, tiring of his profuse apologies and feeling guilty myself for skillet-whacking him upside the head, I finally gave in and agreed to his insane reparations. He figured he’d raped me twenty times, I figured more like ten, and he settled on fifteen as a reasonable compromise. I still feel a little raped when he sucks me, to be honest, but every load he swallows seems to inflate some of the old confidence and swagger back into his shoulders and spine, so after all the darkness he’s waded through I’m willing to sacrifice as he finds his way back to the light.

“Yeah, thirteen,” I agree. “Two more to go.”

He smiles and winks at me and returns to his side of our room. Pulling on a pair of jeans, he orders, “Don’t just lay there wallowing in the afterglow. Get your ass up so we can head out.”

“Wallowing in the afterglow?” I blow another raspberry and he laughs again. Dragging my butt out of bed and rummaging for a pair of shorts, I ask, “Why are you in such a hurry? Mom’s meeting won’t be out for another half hour, and then she’ll have to drink coffee and smoke cigs with the other folks in recovery before she’s ready to leave.”

He waits until his head pops through the neckhole in his tee-shirt before he answers, and he doesn’t look me in the eye. “I just, uh, wanna make a stop on the way to the church.”

“Where?” I demand crossly. He’s not supposed to be drinking or smoking or hanging out with ‘undesirables’ according to the terms of his –

“Chill out, wicklet,” he teases, snickering while I shake my head and glare, “where I need to go ain’t no den of iniquity, I promise. I, uh, I need to apologize to somebody.”

“Who?”

“Somebody I hurt as badly as I hurt you, if not worse,” he replies. “C’mon, let’s go.”

He’s quiet as we set off up the street, hands shoved in his pockets, scowling face a mixture of determination and trepidation. Although he’s not in AA or any support group like Mom, his therapist says confronting and making amends with people he’s hurt in the past can help him come to terms with his own trauma – hence the blowjobs and offers to let me to fuck him. Which, no. I wonder how he plans to compensate this latest victim.

Around the halfway mark to the church he veers into a neighborhood dang near as dilapidated as our own, his step faltering to a halt in front of a two-story clapboard house set well back from the curb. No cars in the gravel drive, but indistinct voices drift from the open windows.

“Well, someone’s home anyway,” I comment, giving my brother a light tap on the shoulder. “Go on.”

He draws a deep breath and starts up the walk. As we climb the porch-steps the voices become clear. Both male, and obviously in the throes of . . . something.

“Please, twerp, please!”

“No, bro. No. I warned you this would happen, didn’t I? You disobey me, you suffer the consequences.”

Strong, hard words and tones, but playful somehow, from both participants.

“I didn’t mean to disobey you, twerp, I promise I didn’t, it just happened!”

“Just happened, huh? And you couldn’t warn me you were getting close, couldn’t gasp out how your peanut was gonna spew? I might’ve allowed you, had you asked.”

“Well, hell,” my brother chuckles, “maybe I was wrong about the den of iniquity.”

“Your cock, your big thick cock was hitting my sweet spot, twerp, I tried to hold back like you ordered but I couldn’t help blowing!”

“You’re still not understanding me, bro. You didn’t ask, is my point.”

“But I’m asking now, twerp, I’m asking now, please please please, I need your cock in my mouth, in my butt, anywhere and anyway you’re willing to give me!”

My wiener stirs in my pants despite the explosive orgasm not even half an hour ago, and I hiss to my grinning brother, “Will you just knock on the door so you can do whatever you have to do and we can leave?”

“Nah, let ‘em finish,” he replies, his grin smearing into a leer. “Wouldn’t be polite to bust in now.”

“Please let me suck your cock, twerp, please!”

“Nuh-uh. I’m gonna jerk off right here in front of you –”

A strangled moan.

“– and you’re gonna watch, not touching me or even yourself.”

Another strangled moan.

“If you’re a good boy for me, if you take what I give or do not give you, then later on tonight I’ll fuck your brains out and squeeze your peanut so good you’ll be shooting peanut butter.”

I snort. Lame.

“Getting close, bro. C’mere, lean back, yeah, like that. I’m gonna cum all over your hairy chest –”

A third strangled moan.

“– and you’re gonna wear it all afternoon.”

“Please, twerp, shoot it all over me, I don’t care, I wanna smell like you all day long!”

“Getting . . . here it . . . urng! Urng! Urng!”

“Yeah, twerp, yeah, all over me!”

“Rub it in, just like . . . urng!”

The grunts and groans die away into silence.

“Finally,” I mutter.

“I don’t know, I think it was kinda hot, chicklet.” My brother repeats the stupid word. “Chicklet. Yeah, I like.”

“I don’t,” I complain through gritted teeth. “Will you please knock on the door? If we’re not there when Mom’s meeting lets out she’ll be worried.”

“There’s plenty of time, chicklet,” he emphasizes, but raises his hand to knock. Hesitates.

A voice presumably belonging to “the twerp” drifts through the window, calmer this time, less breathless. “Look, bro, we need to talk. Me and this girl from school have been hanging out some lately, and –”

My brother’s knock on the door cuts into whatever the twerp had been about to say, and silence reigns for a good thirty seconds. My brother knocks again.

“Who the hell could that be?”

“Get dressed, bro, I’ll go find out. Don’t clean your chest.”

“Okay, twerp.”

Agonizing aeons pass before the door swings open to reveal a kid maybe a year older than me, with curly brown hair and a wide mouth built for smiling. Looks like a twerp, but in a good way, if you know what I mean, like he could be a lot of fun if he were so inclined. Not as cute as Chris, my bagboy crush, but not ugly either. His gaze swings back and forth between us. “Can I help you?” No indication of his recent lustful activities, only a polite wariness.

“This is his circus,” I say, indicating my tongue-tied big brother. Laying my hand on his shoulder, I encourage, “Go on.”

My big brother finally finds his voice, sounding unsure at first but gradually strengthening. “I, uh, is your brother around? I mean, can I see him? Please?”

The twerp tenses. “Who are you? I’ve never seen you before. What do you want with my brother?”

“I, uh, I just need to talk to him for a minute.”

“Who is it, twerp?” A tall, muscular older teen with feathered hair and what can only be described as a pretty face appears in the doorway. He’s wearing saggy blue jean shorts and a long baggy wifebeater, but they do little to hide the dark droplets of moisture on his hairy chest or the short but prominent protrusion at his crotch. He turns to face us. “Can I –” His voice drains off, along with the color in his cheeks. He and my brother stare at each for a long moment, neither of them speaking, before the pretty boy whispers, “You’re him. You’re the mean dude from juvie.”

“What the fuck?” the twerp snarls. Stepping in front of his flummoxed older brother, he spits, “My brother told me all about what you did to him, asshole –”

“Hey!” I protest, but the twerp rolls over me.

“– and I don’t know what you’re thinking, showing up out of the blue like this, but if you don’t leave right fucking now I’ll call the cops and they’ll make –”

“Wait,” my brother pleads. “I’m not here to cause trouble, I swear.”

The twerp glares but before he can start spitting threats again the pretty boy asks, “How did you find me?”

“I, uh,” my brother glances at the ground, then squares his shoulders and looks up again, right into the pretty boy’s eyes. “I’ve seen the two of you walking home a couple times and I, uh, I followed you.” The twerp draws another breath and my brother hurries on. “Not in a stalker-ish way, I swear . . . well, I was being kind of a stalker, but not because I want to hurt you or, or cause trouble or anything like that.”

Their gazes are beyond dubious.

“My brother’s telling the truth,” I say to them, and their dubious gazes transfer to me, but only for a split second. “He wants to make amends for his mistakes.”

“Ssh, chicklet, let me do this, it’s my mess.” Another deep breath. “I came here today to apologize to you.”

“Wait, what?”

“For what I did to you in juvie. I could blame the Sarge for everything, and the first time really was only because he threatened me and made me go along, but the truth of the matter of is I did what I did because I wanted to do it. I own my actions. They were never about sex, not really. They were about power.”

“Power,” the pretty boy repeats. “How?”

“Because my own power was stripped from me, first by my stepfather and then by evil ol’ Sarge, I hurt others to regain it. To save face from myself, prove I wasn’t a victim.”

“That’s no excuse for rape,” the twerp snarls, raising his chin as if to proclaim yeah, I said the word, you gonna deny?

“You’re right,” my brother agrees. “There is no excuse for what I did to your brother and, well,” cutting his gaze to me, “to others, some in juvie, some not. There’s only an explanation, sad and wanting as it is, and . . . and . . .” His words trail off, then my cocky big brother lowers himself to his knees on the front porch, startling everyone; the pretty boy even draws in a breath and widens his eyes. “And apologies, sad and wanting as they may be too. I’m sorry for taking advantage of your body, no matter who threatened me, and for assaulting you and trying to replace my stolen power with yours. For raping you in more ways than simply the physical.”

Pretty boy just stares at him, mouth opening and closing in a soundless gape, like a big ol’ trout.

“I’ve been working hard on myself, on my anger and self-hatred and internalized homophobia,” my big brother continues from his place at our feet, still staring earnestly into pretty boy’s eyes, still making himself emotionally naked for the sake of . . . not absolution, maybe, but justice. “I turned in my stepfather for raping me, and I helped bring Sarge down. The cops let me out of juvie on the condition I stay clean, continue in therapy, and make an effort to turn my life around, to manage my trauma and ensure it doesn’t overtake me again in the future. None of these things mean shit to you, I know, but part of my effort to grow out of my past involves apologizing to you and hoping you’ll accept, so both of us can move on from my abuse. So, I'm sorry.  More sorry than I can ever express."

The twerp opens his mouth but, after a glance at his big brother, shuts it again, crosses his arms over his chest. Nobody says anything for a long moment, waiting for the pretty boy to speak, but when he does his words surprise everybody, not least himself.

“You didn’t apologize for calling me pretty boy. It, uh, you hurt my feelings.”

“See, I told you,” I side-whisper. “Call people by their names.”

“I, uh,” another glance to the ground, another determined look up. “I can’t apologize for that, because I meant the words. I am sorry if it hurt your feelings, but . . . but . . . I wasn’t being sarcastic. You are the prettiest boy . . . person I’ve ever seen in my life. Especially when you submit.” He bites his lip, as if chastising himself, but doesn’t take the phrase back.

Stunned does not begin to cover pretty boy’s expression. Eyes wide, mouth dropped open, cheeks pink. “Oh.”

“My attraction to you was no excuse for what I put you through, I realize that now, and I know I have no right to ask, but do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”

“I . . . I . . .” Pretty boy fumbles for a minute. “I . . . I’ll try?” The words tentative, as if he can’t believe he’s saying them.

My big brother gives a waning ghost of a smile. “Fair enough.”

“It’ll take more than a well-crafted apology for me to forgive you,” the twerp says fiercely. “You hurt my brother. Terrorized him.”

“Hey!” I interrupt. “He’s admitting he his mistakes, so give him a chance to –”

“Chicklet, I can fight my own battles.”

“And stop calling me chicklet!”

“I can fight my own battles too,” the pretty boys suddenly injects, adding with a small glimmer of amusement, “twerp.”

Both us younger brothers exchange exasperated glances. Twerp and chicklet forever, apparently.

“So I’ll quit harping on my regrets now,” my big brother says, pulling himself to his feet, “let you make up your own mind. But there’s something else we need to discuss. Somebody else.”

“The sarge,” pretty boy whispers, slumping his shoulders while the twerp again tenses his own, ready to jump in at any moment.

“The sarge,” my brother confirms. “So you heard about what happened to him.”

“Who didn’t?” the twerp snaps. “The story was only all over the news for months after.”

“I helped set him up,” my big brother repeats. “Let the cops use me as bait, and it worked. Luckily before the party got started. When they raided his house they found –”

“His father dead in the bed with photographs of naked boys scattered all over the corpse,” the twerp interjects. “Hundreds of photographs, they claimed on the news. Was my brother –”

“Hey, twerp, I said I can fight my own battles,” the pretty boy interjects, gently, before turning his attention back to my brother. “Were any of the pictures of me?”

“Probably, yeah.”

The pretty boy sags. “Great.”

“But . . . has anyone contacted you or your parents, police or lawyers or anybody?”

“No.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry,” my big brother reassures. “From what I understand, he used an ancient and worn-out miniature spy cam for all but the last time, and the pictures were too grainy and blurry to identify the majority of victims.”

The pretty boy takes a breath of at least partial relief. “Well, there’s some welcome news, anyway.”

“Did your parents ask if anything happened to you during your incarceration?”

“They asked,” pretty boy admits. “I lied, told ‘em I never saw anything like what they were claiming on the news. I . . . I couldn’t bear for them to know.”

“I still don’t think they believed you,” the twerp says. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“Yeah, me either.” The other brothers share a melancholy moment. “But I’m not going to bring the subject up again if they don’t.”

“I’m not trying to stir the shit to pass the time of day,” my big brother says, “or to offer empty reassurances that, frankly, aren’t credible in light of how I treated you. I’m not sure I would believe me either. My point here is there’s a class-action lawsuit against the city and juvenile corrections, plus a fund set aside to provide therapy for the victims. If you want to talk to your parents and opt in . . . well,” he reaches into his pocket, “here’s a number you can call, they’ll be happy to help.”

Pretty boy takes the slip of paper, stares as if not quite comprehending the digits scrawled thereupon. “I’ll, uh . . . I’ll think about it.” He pauses. “Th-thanks.”

“Sure. Thank you for listening.” My big brother pauses. “Look, pretty . . . I mean, look, we’ve got to head out. We’re meeting our mother, and she, uh, she’ll be worried if we’re late.” He glances to the ground again, not in shame this time but, to my amazement, shyness. “I, uh, I was wondering if you would, uh, if you’d like to walk part of the way with us, maybe give me a chance to show you I really have changed?” Peering up from beneath his lashes at the pretty boy. Oh my god, he’s flirting!

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Thank you for, for your information, but my brother –”

“Ssh, twerp,” pretty boy interjects, again gently. “I can fight my own battles, remember? I should’ve been fighting them myself all along instead of using you.” His cheeks heat, and I recall the sounds coming out the window as we walked up. “Besides, weren’t you saying you had a girlfriend now?” Pretty boy looks back to my brother, somehow from under his own lashes despite being taller than anyone else here, and twirls a strand of feathered hair on his finger. Gag! “Sure, I’ll walk with you. For a minute.”

“Excellent,” my big brother says, smiling wider than I’ve seen him smile since . . . well, ever. Since before our father died and the old man wrecked us, for sure. A spark of mischief burns in his gaze as he leans in and says, oh-so-softly, “By the way, pretty boy, I love the way you smell today.” He draws in a deep and appreciative breath. “Especially your hairy chest. The aroma suits you.”

Pretty boy’s mouth drops open yet again, and his cheeks heat to flaming. For a minute I’m sure he’s about to explode all over my brother, about to finally and absolutely state his opposition to being treated as a sexual object, especially after everything said today, but instead he suddenly giggles. Fucking giggles. “Thanks. I think.” He brushes past to join my brother, and the two of them walk off down the path, heads bent together, leaving us, their younger brothers, to gape after them. The twerp and I share incredulous glances, both of us demanding at the same time:

“What the hell just happened?”