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The contents of this story
are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons
is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which
may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside.
Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters
between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose
local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions,
should not read further.
Monday, June 28, 1993
Bradley P. Weston (the "P" was for "Prick") was always Perfect. Do you have any idea what it's like to be the kid brother of the Perfect Son/Grandson/Student/Athlete/Eagle Scout/Junior Church Deacon/Class President? It's Hell, that's what it is. Everybody expects you to either be exactly like him, or a total fuck-up, and when he's around, you might as well not even be there, because everybody's busy kissing his butt or sucking up to him.
I hated him.
Not that he knew or cared that I existed, mind you. I was the kid brother that came along and ruined his little party, took a lot of Mom and Dad's time away from him. I was born when he was two years old -- just. The day after his first birthday. A party was scheduled, but cancelled.
He got no birthday parties for years, because my Mom was always busy with me, I guess. He called me a shit when I was seven, and he couldn't have his party again - that time because I caught the measles, despite the vaccination. I cried for hours, knowing how much he hated me. When I was little, I worshipped him, but he cured me of that over time.
I even ruined a couple of big-time dates for him, 'cause he had to stay home and babysit me when I was little -- he swore never to forgive me.
He was too good-looking, too perfect, had too beautiful a body, swam too good (I couldn't keep close to him in butterfly, breast or backstroke, even though I blew him away in freestyle) and he did dives from the three-meter board that I hadn't mastered yet. (But I was getting there -- my diving coach said most of them were getting into "six" category, and if I kept it up, I could expect them to be university grade.)
From what I could tell from his Speedos, his dick was bigger than mine, his muscles were better defined than mine, and his hair was a nicer shade of blonde. (I suspected he used lemon juice in the summer - I never could be bothered to put it on.) He even had deep pure green eyes, almost like pictures you see of the Caribbean. Mine are just brown and yellow and green, all mixed together -- like paint splattered on the rippled tin roof of a round water cistern. There's awful yellow-green and black rings around the irises that make them stand out a lot, and a blue-green spot on the left iris that's like the Giant Red Spot on Jupiter.
He was first-string starter quarterback, had girls swooning all over him, and had had three really gorgeous girlfriends. Billy said everyone knew he'd dicked them all, as well as at least four other girls in school that were known to be opening their legs for anybody. Except me and the rest of the Sophomores. He played lousy baseball, though. My batting average was fifty points higher than his ever was, and I was starting pitcher, for chrissakes. He stopped playing when I made the varsity team in my Sophomore year, he hated me so much.
We were both on the varsity swim team. I was the best one-meter diver, and swam the 100 and 1500 meter freestyle. He had the three-meter board almost to himself (but I was pushing him) and swam 200 meter butterfly, breast and backstroke, and the 200 meter relay. He had the school record in the 200 meter Butterfly and the 100 meter Breast. Our school won the regional meets most of the time. He made most of the meets, but when there was a football game the same day, he couldn't do both, so I got extra chances. I mean, starting quarterback can't choose a swim meet over football, can he?
Naturally, I went to all the football games, even out of town, unless there was a swim meet. I had to take Dad with me, 'cause he had to drive, and there was no way I was going to go on the bus as "Brad's kid brother." I just went to support the team. Brad took his own car. Prick. Dad always made me sit in back. Said I was too skinny, would slither out from under the safety belt if we were in an accident. Brad got to sit up front all the time with Dad, even when Mom was in the car. Geez!
Once in a while he did some good things. Not very often. He came to all my baseball games, sat right behind the plate with his latest girlfriend, told the ump off when he made a bad call, and clapped and hollered every time I belted one. My batting average woulda been higher, but I tried too hard for the long ball, just to get him to stop schmoozing with his date. He even hugged me once in May when I hit a long liner just over the first baseman's reach, in the bottom of the ninth of the finals for City championship, letting Tommy Kornfeld score the winning run from second. That was the only time though, and when I started to hug him back, he dropped me like a stone and pushed away, kinda redfaced. Guys don't do that, you know?
I had an almost-no-hitter in the State semi-finals. Brad came to that game too, even though he had to miss a day of work. I only gave up two hits - one a double to a guy that must have seen my slider before, and figured out how to hammer it, the other a fluke line-drive single off the bag at third base. Different innings, so nobody scored. We won four to zip, and one of the runs was mine, too. At the end of the game I thought he was going to hug me for a minute, and I really wanted that, but he just held out his hand for a shake and grinned at me. Shit. Brad didn't come to the Final. We lost, 2-6. I got yanked after they got me for three hits and two runs in the top of the fifth, two outs and a man on first, but we were at least tied at that point. Darrell Griffin relieved me - and promptly gave the opponents two more runs on three hits and a fan, before a pop fly fell under the ultra-strong gravitational pull of Mike Fursco's mitt. Brad said we'd have done better if he'd been there to cheer, and I just about puked at his swell-headedness.
I got some really gnarl T-shirts from Brad when he got tired of them - but he never gave them to me clean. Always stank of his sweat. I wouldn't wash them, anyway, just to piss him off - until Mom put up a fuss about them turning black around the collar. His pits were nicer smelling than mine, somehow.
It was the same for his jeans. He didn't that much grow out of them, it's just his legs got too long too fast. His waist never grew through them. Mom always bought them loose, like we like them, and every year I got at least one pair he'd forgotten to wear through the butt completely before the cuffs reached his knees, or that wouldn't look cool enough as cutoffs. I got them after he'd worn them for a week, so they were a little high, but only on the outside. I never smelled any farts in them, never found any pee stains, just a faint yeasty kind of smell. They didn't get washed until Mom threatened to burn them before they started walking on their own.
Bastard probably never had a tire track in his underpants his whole life.
Brothers can come in handy once in a while, don't get me wrong. He showed me how to do a few things when I was little, like how to fight after I got beat up by Terry Targill, the class bully in the third grade. The next time Terry picked on me, HE was the one that got the black eye and cried. Turned out he was just as scared as everybody else, and we became good friends after that, until his Dad got transferred to Washington a couple of years later.
He let me ride shotgun once when he finished restoring his '68 Camaro Rally Sport ragtop. Never told Mom, either. He taught me Algebra when I got in trouble my freshman year, then made me pay for it double by making me wash his car every week for a month. Made sure I really did it right -- even had to take the mats out and sweep under them. He got dates. I got an A, so I guess it was an even trade. It was him that taught me how to swim up at the cabin, in the still bend of the creek, when I was too shy to let anybody know I couldn't swim at the Lake. I was already like eight or nine, I guess, and still hadn't learned - I didn't want to look like a nerd when my brother swam so good. We were more like friends, from when I was learning to swim until I was twevle, when Brad went to High school, leaving me in Middle School. He got all popular and handsome and Perfect. I got left out.
Bastard -- even when I got into High School, we never got back to that old closeness we had. He lived in the rarified air of the Junior and Senior classes, while I languished as a mere Freshman and Sophomore. None of his dates had braces, and he drove on his dates. I had to have a chauffeur -- my Dad. Do you have any idea how awful it is to go on a date to a movie and have your Dad pick you and your date up afterwards? Babytime, that's what it is.
Oh, yeah. The other pet peeve. I had nothing but teachers that had had Brad in their classes. I got picked on all the time, and if I ever made a mistake, it was always because "your brother had that same problem." When I aced my tests, it was "you probably had help from Brad," and if I got anything but a perfect score, it was "your brother got that one right, how come you missed?" I tried extra hard to keep from getting that last, ultimate insult. My grade point average was just as good as Brad, except I got A+ in English Lit., and he only got an "A." Fair enough, I only got an "A" in History, and he had an "A+," but History isn't as interesting as English, is it?
Brad was now a graduate, and in September would leave to go to University. I would at last be the king of the roost - after Dad, naturally. But Mom really ran things, of course. You know how I mean. I savored the thought of being number one son.
The last two summers, Brad and his friend Bud were painting houses, so I saw less of him than ever. He'd leave at seven-thirty, paint all day until it got too hot, swim or something until late afternoon, then paint until almost dark. Every day except Saturday, when he'd knock off in time to come home and shower for his date of the moment, and not get back until I was asleep. Sunday, he'd have breakfast and pass the plate at the 9 0'clock service, then go to church with us at eleven, but he always split after and went off with Bud or somebody, bowling or whatever. Baby brothers not admitted.
The family always went up to Reston, the family Cabin up north of Fall Creek for the four weeks of July that started on the Fourth. This year, as the year before, Brad was going to stay in Sacramento -- alone the first two weeks, when Dad took his vacation at the Cabin, and then batching it with Dad the second two weeks. Mom and Dad would never let me stay in the house overnight alone, much less for two whole weeks. See how life can be really unfair for kid brothers?
Then catastrophe hit. I got the news at breakfast, the Monday before the Fourth.
"Morning, Tim!" said Dad as I rounded the corner to the kitchen at top speed. Billy and I were going to run through my paper route that morning before I went to the pool and Billy went to retard school, and I'd slept ten minutes too long.
"Hi, Dad! Mornin' Mom!" I gave Mom a quick kiss on the cheek as she looked up from her section of the paper.
"Hi, Dear," she smiled back at me. "Push 'snooze' too many times this morning?" She knows me too well.
"Yeah. Billy and me are running the route in ten minutes"
"Jogging?" asked Dad, not looking up from his paper. "Going to be a scorcher today, better get it over before eight."
"Yeah. It only takes forty-five minutes, and Billy'll be here on his bike in a minute or two."
"Now, have some breakfast first, Timmy," Mom slipped. "Tim."
I glowered, but not convincingly. She only slipped up once in a while now, after I told her last year that I didn't want to be a 'Timmy' but a 'Tim' from then on.
"Just milk, Mom, and maybe a few pieces of toast," I said, plonking my butt into the chair that had the milk, orange juice, and vitamin pill at the ready in front of it. I grabbed at a few slices while I was guzzling the OJ to wash down Mom's cure-all Vitamin with Minerals.
"Brad gone?" His plate was full of crumbs, his OJ almost gone, coffee still in his cup, the milk glass empty. I was going to drink all the OJ, but decided to leave as much in my glass as Brad, just to make my point, and stopped drinking just in time. I put the glass down carefully - yep, exactly the same level. That'll show 'em. I didn't rate coffee except on Sundays -- Mom said I had enough energy as it was.
"Left a few minutes ago," muttered Dad. "Had to check out the schedule, now that the Branston Place burned down."
"Burned down?" I splattered out a few crumbs of toast as I spoke, and got a quick cluck-cluck from Mom.
"Burnt to the ground last night," said Dad, picking up the front section of the Bee to show me the picture of this big fire. You couldn't see much but the flames. It was like somebody had a flamethrower inside of every window, aimed out. The roof had already part fallen in, and the firemen were aiming streams of water at the hole in the roof. The headline said something about "historic," but I couldn't read the words in the article.
The big Victorian house Brad and Bud had lined up to paint -- the Branston Place! Burned to the ground the week before they were to start! It was a big job, would have taken four weeks, at least, for three of the five guys Brad and Bud used. Well, three besides themselves. That was not the catastrophe, though - just the cause.
"But Brad's painting it next week!" I said, brain not quite engaged. It was still early, after all.
"Not likely," said Dad, then more seriously: "He and Bud will have a tough time lining up another job, too."
That was for sure. That wasn't the best year for people spending money. Brad and Bud had had a hard time getting houses lined up for the summer - even though they had great references from the year before. The year before, they'd had a full book, and had to take on four guys to do the grunge painting so' they could do the detail work. Unemployment was high, I think - even Dad had had to leave a couple of positions open until things picked up.
"So what's he gonna do?" I said, scarfing down another piece of toast with butter and cinnamon sugar.
"Well, it's not like he'll need the money, now that he's got the Merit," Dad said with that booming pride-in-Brad bit that made me want to barf. Brad had got a full National Merit Scholarship. Just found out about it after the summer thing with Bud had been set up. Full ride. See why I hated him? Car, Princeton, Football scholarship and a full ride National Merit. Too perfect to be real. Scunge.
"He's coming to Reston, I think," said Mom at the same time. "It'll be so nice to have him there again."
Crash! The sun went out, the birds all went belly up. My milk went down the wrong way. My summer was ruined! That was the catastrophe! No more leisurely jackoff sessions in my big bed, the sounds of the woods singing my soul to explode through my dick. No more self-contests to see how few strokes it took to push me over the edge, whether at the stream, in the little clearing at the top of the hill, under the redwoods in the little cleft of the hill. My record last summer was twenty-seven strokes, and I wanted to see if it was possible to get down under twenty outdoors.
My indoor record was sixteen, but that was after Billy and I looked at a porno magazine all afternoon, and at each other's hardons as well. He wanted to try pulling each other off, but I didn't think it was a good idea. I mean, what if I liked it? I don't want to be no queer, always hanging around public toilets at bus and railway stations. Anyway, I made it in sixteen, he couldn't get it off in less than thirty, even though I'd cum before him, which should have pressed the pedal to the metal. He got a lot more sauce to shoot out than me, though. His spunge is a lot whiter than mine, somehow, and flows instead of shoots, at least after the first shot. I shoot five or six times before I start flowing, and my stuff is creamier, slicker, more "whipped" looking. And my first shot is usually up to my chest, even as far as the Adam's apple once, while the others at least go past the belly button. Billy's best shot is usually just above his belly button, but then he fills up the belly-button hollow with his cream. I've wondered if it tasted like mine, but I'd never ask him to let me touch it, much less taste it.
"You mean I gotta share my room with him?" I said as indignantly as you can when you're trying to get milk out of your windpipe.
"Cut it, Tim," my Dad scowled. "That room's plenty big for the two of you, and it's not like you haven't shared it every year except last year when he couldn't make it."
"Aw, but Dad!" was all I could think of.
"Now, Tim, Brad will be gone for a long time," said my Mom softly. I think she was getting misty-eyed a little. "This may be your last summer together." She was - there was a welling of a tear there.
"Come on, Hon," said my Dad. He always had the right words to get Mom out of a funk. "This'll be the first time in years you'll be able to get fed up with his antics and threaten to send him home with me!"
Mom smiled a little, but the tear was still there, I could tell.
"As for you, Timothy," started Dad. Oh hell, here goes the twelve-gauge, I was thinking. "Timothy" is reserved for Public Humiliation and Pontifical Posturing.
"Your Great Grandfather built Reston for families to be together in, not apart," he wound up. "We took out those old bunkbeds for eight people and put in the big beds and there's still enough room for four cots and a pup tent. It's not like you'll be sleeping on top of each other."
Mom started moving some stuff to the sink. I thought fleetingly about what it would be like to have Mr. Perfect on top of me in a bed, but my brain went into overload repulsion and burnt out.
Now for the pitch. "You and Brad can be together in that room just one more time this summer; you'll never get the chance again, I figure. Probably get too busy with school, and jobs, and getting married and raising families of your own, and all. You'll regret it if you let the chance slip away."
Strike three. I felt like a little shithead. Dad could do that - never had to think twice, just spat out the truth and deflated me completely.
There was a sniffle from the sink, and Dad jumped up and went to Mom, and wrapped her up in his arms, and let her shudder into his shoulder.
"Now Chérie, don't get all upset, " he crooned. "It's not like we're losing him, Honey. He'll be back"
Mom just cried, and I slunk from the breakfast nook, ashamed that I was the one who made her cry, even if it was Mr. Perfect that was going away. They loved him more than me, of course. Always happens with the first child. Billy has the same trouble, but worse. He has an older sister, Miss Perfect. Junior Class President, 4.15 Average, Homecoming Queen, dated a really cool college guy from Davis. Butter wouldn't melt up her butt, I swear. Billy kept hoping she'd get pregnant and ruin her reputation for all time, but I figure she was a virgin. All Perfect women are, of course. Perfect men don't have to be. It's not a sexist thing -- guys are just natural sluts, and girls are supposed to save their cookies for Santa, aren't they?
I had to take a dump before we went running, so I went into the bathroom I shared with Brad - but never at the same time, ever since I saw him once a couple of years ago pounding pud at the sink. I never mentioned it again, of course - he'd think I was a perve.
I sat on the toilet just in time to let loose, and wiped myself absently. It feels kind of tingly down there when I need to jerk off, and it was tingly. Very tingly. So, I flushed and went to the sink and washed my hands, thinking for some reason of the time I caught Brad . . . I was eleven or twelve, then . . .
I didn't know at the time that's what he was doing, honest. I just opened the door quietly and slowly, and looked to see if the toilet was free, and saw him standing in front of the mirror, his shoulder moving back and forth, like he was shaking something in his hand. I could see in the mirror that he was twisting his tittie with his left hand, but couldn't tell what he was doing with the right one. His eyes were half closed. . .
I dropped my running shorts again, to let my dick get a little air. I took some of the soap and started to wash it slowly, thinking of what I had seen, closing my eyes, moving my left hand to twirl my left tit . . .
I must have opened the door at just the right moment. A shudder went through his whole body, and he was suddenly doing a little spastic moving around, a slight moan coming from him, his hips bucking back and forth. There was the splat of something on the mirror behind the sink, and it looked like he'd sneezed and some snot had come out, but it was too runny for that, he didn't have a cold, and I said "Brad, are you all right?" I'd never seen white spunk before. I dribbled some clear stuff, then, but nothing like snot.
He whirled around without thinking, and just then another glob went winging into the space between us from this big thing between his legs in his hand and I watched it float in slow motion to the tile, getting half way to me. Brad opened his mouth to start to say something and I turned and shut the door and ran because I knew I'd done wrong somehow, but he called me softly . . .
My knees started to tremble, my stomach muscles tightened, my butthole got really tingly, and I burst. My wad shot out of me all of a sudden, and the first shot hit the mirror, like always. "Ohhhh," I said imagining Brad cumming that time, hitting the mirror just at the same spot, then his hand moved to . . .
The doorbell rang, so I quick squeezed the rest of my juice out, wiped the mirror, rinsed the sink out and washed my hands and dried them, then went out to meet Billy for our run. My knees were still a little shaky.
Funny, that wasn't the way it happened at all. When I shut the door after he shot a wad at me, he'd yelled out something like "you little creep, you leave me the Hell alone! Don't you never come in here when I'm in the bathroom, or I'll cut your bloody ears off and kick your ass to the moon a foot at a time!"
Lucky my Mom and Dad weren't home. He never cussed when they were around. If they knew he knew and used words like that, he'd lose his whole image. Scared the piss out of me, though, I'll tell you. I always knocked after that.