Date: Tue, 17 May 2016 13:31:40 -0600
From: Colton <coltonaalto@gmail.com>
Subject: Spring Break Happens in Vegas - chapter 1

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* My experiences - images, events, memories, words – flavor everything I
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WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, SPRING BREAK EDITION

By Colton Aalto


FOREWORD – BREAKING NEWS REPORT, SEPTEMBER 30, 2000

Monaco, Saturday, September 30, 2000 (AP). French authorities have
confirmed the death of famous American model Ava Woods in an auto accident
Saturday in the steep hills above the French Riviera. Authorities say Woods
was alone in a vintage Porsche sports car when the car went over a cliff on
a winding road outside Monaco. She was killed instantly in the crash.

The sudden death of the world famous model was mourned by thousands of fans
across Europe and the United States. In a statement released by the
Principality of Monaco, Prince Rainier III expressed condolences and deep
regret over Woods's untimely death. Although she was born and raised in the
United States, Woods resided in Monaco during the last two years of her
life.

Woods rocketed to stardom in the late 1990s following a string of successes
on fashion runways in Milan, Paris and London. Ironically, the road on
which she was killed was often used for commercial photography and modeling
shots, and she had been photographed there only months before her death in
a fashion editorial for the French glossy Dernier Cri.

Woods was reputed to be among the highest paid models in the world and she
routinely appeared on lists of the most beautiful women. She was rumored to
have been tabbed for a starring role in a movie planned on the early life
of reclusive French actress Catherine Deneuve.

In another irony of her death, Woods was killed while driving a Porsche 550
Spyder, the same model James Dean was driving when he was killed in an auto
accident in California exactly 45 years earlier. Dean had nicknamed his car
the Little Bastard, a term Woods had also used for her vintage sports car,
acquired only two months earlier following the birth of her youngest son.

Woods was linked romantically with an array of rich and famous men, but she
never married. She is survived by her mother, American philanthropist
Amelia Woods, two brothers, and three infants, twin 18-month-old boys, and
a 6-month-old son. Family members requested that the names of the infants
not be released to protect their privacy.


SIXTEEN AND A HALF YEARS LATER...

CHAPTER ONE – A FATEFUL MEETING

I trudged up the stairs to my father's stark study, fearing the
worst. Typically a summons to his study meant I would be on the receiving
end of one of my father's wild rants, although I couldn't think of anything
wrong I had done recently that would warrant getting chewed out. Not that a
screw up on my part was a prerequisite. When my father was in the mood to
dish some fire and brimstone, he gave me hell for no good reason.

As my hand hovered in the air, ready to knock on the study door, I had a
sudden premonition. Fuck! Could my parents have stumbled onto some shred of
evidence that revealed I was gay? For years I lived in fear of that
eventuality. It wasn't like they might easily have been tipped off by
something like me having a boyfriend. I hadn't even done stuff with another
guy. To my frustration, I had a virgin asshole. My lips had never touched a
cock and my cock hadn't enjoyed a wet mouth, either.

Except my own. If I limbered up, rolled on my back, and threw my legs over
my shoulders, I could get the head of my cock completely in my mouth. I
discovered this marvelous talent three years ago, when I was 14. The first
time I tried it, I had tentatively licked my cock, tasted my pre-cum, and
felt totally depraved.

I was back at it less than a day later, gradually working up to sucking the
head of my dick, swirling my tongue into my piss slit and gasping at the
sensations caused by the wet warmth of my mouth engulfing my cockhead. It
took me a few months to progress as far as cumming on my face, but the
first rope of cum that splattered across my face propelled me to the
discovery that I loved the sensation of my face being covered with thick,
hot jizz.

Not long after that, while blasting cum ribbons across my face, I shot in
my mouth, quite by accident. Once I tasted spunk, I was hooked on it. I
rationalized that gulping down my own splooge was less messy than having to
mop a load of it from my face or my stomach; plus, I never had to explain a
crusty towel to my mom. For a good two years running, I swallowed pretty
much every thimble of jizz that I pumped from my balls. I figured there
must be a special spot in hell for cum swallowers, but since my father
assured me that all gays were headed to hell anyway merely because they
were gay, how much worse could it be?

Despite lacking a boyfriend and lacking any sexual experiences, I was
firmly convinced that everyone suspected I was gay. Every kid in my high
school, every member of my dad's church, and every person I met in town;
each one of them could surely detect I was a fag. Deep down, they knew I
was different and it was only a matter of time until they put their finger
on why. I would hear a kid in high school shout, "Faggot," and I would
cringe, convinced the kid was talking to me. So far I hadn't been outed,
but it was only a matter of time. Maybe my time was up and my parents had
figured it out.

Fearing the worst but summoning my resolve, I knocked on the study door. I
heard my father's deep voice growl, "It's open."

"Sir?" I said, standing in the doorway and not wanting to venture
inside. My father was pouring over some religious book. He was a Baptist
preacher – Southern Baptist, not the reasonable variety of Baptist –
and spent countless hours every week striving to create the best sermon
anyone in his church had ever heard. As near as I could tell, his heavy
investment of time had never paid off.

"Jenson," he said, giving me the same halfway-disdainful look he always
gave me. He motioned me into the study, pointing to the single armchair
that sat opposite his desk.

My name wasn't technically `Jenson' but rather `Jen.' My father, however,
refused to admit that boys could be named `Jen.' `Jens' would have been
okay, but my birth mother had named me `Jen.' My father – he wasn't my
birth father but rather my adoptive father who also happened to be my uncle
– hated the name and had turned it into Jenson, which was what I had
been called throughout school. My real name was a dirty little secret. I
was petrified some bully at school would discover the name, turn it into
Jenny or worse, and use it to taunt and harass me.

Not sensing any of my father's raw anger, I relaxed a bit as I sat down. He
hasn't discovered I'm gay, I reassured myself. At least not yet. I would
live for another day.

"You're spending your spring break with your brothers in Las Vegas," my
father announced dryly, peering up from his book. "Half-brothers," he added
harshly. His references to `half-brothers' and `Las Vegas' rolled over his
tongue, signaling his disdain for both. "You leave Sunday and return the
following Monday. You'll miss a day of school. Don't blame me for it. It
was your aunt and your grandmother's idea, with your mother probably
meddling as well."

Getting into his diatribe, my father put his book down. "Your grandmother
and your mother think you should get to know your half-brothers," he said
sarcastically, adding, "I'm sure you'll have a delightful time." He glared
at me for a moment, then threw his hands in the air and said, "I had
nothing to do with it, nor will I have anything to do with it, either. This
is the last time I want to hear about it or think about it. You're on your
own. That's all, young man. Good luck."

My father looked back to his book. I got up, realizing my audience with him
had ended almost before it had begun. I knew better than to ask anything
more. Once my father dismissed a subject, you brought it up again only at
your peril.

Standing outside the study door, my heart raced. Spring break! An actual
trip on spring break! My spring breaks never involved more than spring
cleaning at my father's church. It was a job that was unpaid and, for the
most part, unappreciated. Las Vegas sounded, well, incredible. Being the
son of a preacher man, it had never occurred to me I would ever set foot in
Sin City.

And I needed something to look forward to. My best friend Malinda –
okay, basically my only friend – had moved to Chicago only two weeks
ago, leaving me depressed and unhappy. Although she and I still texted, it
wasn't the same as hanging out together and talking. I missed her terribly,
and her departure emphasized the lonely nature of my existence in southern
Illinois. I couldn't wait to get out. It didn't matter what I had to do to
support myself, as soon as I turned 18 and finished high school, I was out
of southern Illinois. Hell, Paducah, Kentucky would be an upgrade.

As great as a week in Las Vegas sounded, the prospect of spending eight
days with my two brothers was daunting. I had never met them. Well,
technically that wasn't true because I lived with them for the first six
months of my life, but how much does anyone remember about that? My
brothers were identical twins, 12 months older than me. It was taken as
gospel – apologies to my father – that we were half-brothers because
our birth mother had never married and apparently had never let a man spend
more than a handful of nights in her bed before she moved on to her next
conquest. If she had a monogamous relationship, it had never been recorded
for posterity.

Given my birth mother's prodigious sexual appetites, identifying my
brothers' and my birth fathers was presumed to be a hopeless task. As a
famous, strikingly beautiful fashion model, she didn't lack for sexual
partners. But in addition to being strikingly beautiful, she was strikingly
reckless as well. She died in a car accident on a narrow, twisty road in
the hills above the French Riviera. I was six months old, my two
half-brothers 18 months old.

My grandfather had passed away shortly before she died, and my
newly-widowed grandmother had no interest in raising three infants. But she
was determined that her grandchildren would not be raised outside the
family. She demanded that her sons – my father and my uncle – adopt
us. Whether due to a sense of obligation or my grandmother's threats of
writing them out of the will, they agreed reluctantly. But neither was
willing to take all three of us, and even if they had been willing, my
grandmother was convinced neither of her sons could handle three
infants. So my uncle became my father, and my other uncle became the father
of my two half-brothers. Complicated, huh?

My father and his brother had a major falling out a few years before my
mother's death, and so far as anyone knew, the two had not seen or talked
to one another in the 20 years since. Even though my birth brothers were
also technically my adoptive cousins, our two families never got
together. Visits to my grandmother's sprawling estate in Virginia were
timed so my family's presence never overlapped with my uncle's. And while
my grandmother would occasionally slip and say something about my uncle or
my brothers, it enraged my father such that I knew better than to ask
anything or show any curiosity about them. God forbid the subject of my
birth mother would come up. She was apparently the personification of
everything my father railed against in his weekly sermons.

My uncle and his family's persona-non-grata status in my family meant I had
never paid attention to my uncle or my brothers until a Christmas card
arrived 15 months ago. My mother and my aunt made a point of exchanging
cards over the years, their single act of defiance of their husbands'
bitter feud. The two women maintained the time would come when my brothers
and I would want some contact. I knew better than to think about that, at
least while I lived with my father. But the Christmas card was a wake-up
call: standing above my uncle and aunt for the standard-issue Christmas
photo were two blond Adonises, spitting images of Freddie Fox.

I had been in love with Freddie Fox ever since he was on cover of one of my
favorite magazines, Gay Times or GT, a British gay rag that I secretly read
online. Seeing Freddie's picture on the cover – looking sultry and
wearing an unbuttoned shirt that showed a smooth, muscular chest and
exactly one half of one nipple – sent me on a journey of discovery that
included binge watching and re-watching all of the episodes of `Banana' and
`Cucumber,' British TV series in which Freddie played a bisexual
nymphomaniac. He was a very convincing in the role as a hot, sex-crazed guy
ready to hop into bed with men and women alike. My mother, charged by my
father with supervising and censoring my internet activity, never paid
close attention to the content of the show. She was happy that I was
watching British TV, presumed to be highbrow compared to American TV, which
my father routinely condemned on Sunday mornings. If only she knew!

[Author's note: at the risk of interrupting the story, for those
interested, the infamous GT cover is (hopefully) at http://bit.ly/23Rwpqs
or
http://pdf-magazine-download.com/13463-gay-times-february-2015.html. Regrettably,
you'll need to copy one of the internet addresses and paste it into a
browser.]

I fantasized about being one of Freddie's sexual flings in `Banana' or
`Cucumber.' His body was hot, but mostly I was attracted by the hedonism
and sexual confidence his character exuded. My fascination with him
undoubtedly was a consequence of my own shortcomings: I was devoid of
sexual confidence, and sexual hedonism was a complete stranger to
me. Actually, it wasn't merely sexual confidence I was lacking, it was any
sliver of sexual experience. Fuck, I had never even kissed another guy, let
alone had sex.

I read an interview Freddie gave to The Telegraph over and over. Freddie
said, "Yes, I've had girlfriends, but I might fall in love with a
man. Because I would hope to say that I am the type of person that would
fall in love with people as opposed to sexes necessarily, although the
majority of my life to date has been as a straight man. But who knows what
will happen next?" In my fantasies, I was the man Freddie would fall in
love with. Of course, I had to get a few years older to be considered a
man, but maybe Freddie liked younger mates. Like a dweeby high school geek
from southern Illinois? Crap.

Seeing the Christmas card and the amazing resemblance my brothers bore to
Freddie Fox, I went searching for information about them. I almost wished I
hadn't bothered. What I found made me think they hit the lottery when they
were adopted by my uncle, while I had gotten the short end of the stick.

My uncle was incredibly wealthy – he was barely out of business school
when he used money from his wife's wealthy parents to start a private
equity fund, and over the course of the years he hit one investing home run
after another. His current fund had billions of dollars and he had turned
away investors that read like a who's who of the rich and famous. News
articles constantly referred to his `magic touch.' He bought companies at
the right time and sold them at the right time. He bought real estate at
the right time. He sold foreign currency at the right time. He bought
commodities at the right time. He shorted mortgage backed securities at the
right time. You name it, he had bought it low and sold it high.

My brothers were famous in their own right. Apparently following in the
steps of our birth mother, they modeled and I found plenty of pictures of
them online. They were only 18, young as male models went, but had
attracted rave reviews – and more than one comment from writers that,
like me, saw them as young Freddie Foxes. The legendary status of my birth
mother, honed by her bad girl image and her early and tragic death, didn't
hurt my brothers' careers, either.

To my eyes, my brothers were mysterious and sultry. It wouldn't have taken
much to intimidate a kid like me from rural southern Illinois, but the
thought of meeting my brothers – let alone spending eight days with them
– left me feeling overwhelmed. And excited, very excited.

My uncle sent a private plane to pick me up at the tiny airport close to
our home. I'm sure my father thought that his estranged brother did it only
to humiliate him, but it saved my mom a long drive to St. Louis. Even with
the trip to the airport reduced to 10 minutes, my father refused to take
me, claiming he was too busy at church. Granted it was Sunday afternoon,
but church had been out for almost two hours. The real reason he opted out
was that he didn't want to confront the reality of seeing my uncle's plane
and watching me disappear into it. Whatever. I was too excited to care.

My first surprise was meeting my uncle's pilot. I pictured pilots as middle
aged guys with graying hair, but this pilot was a young, wildly handsome
guy in his 20s. He wore sunglasses and a simple uniform consisting of blue
pants and a short-sleeved white shirt with military epaulets on the
shoulders. I couldn't keep from staring at the dude's muscular forearms and
biceps, straining against his sleeves. His big chest pressed against the
buttons on his shirt. He was friendly and went out of his way to make me
feel welcome. The guy was smooth enough to even win over my
usually-suspicious mother. I was thrilled by my spring break adventure even
before taking off.

I was the only passenger on the plane, and the luxury inside brought my
first taste of what I assumed was going to be the glamor of Las Vegas and
my brothers' lifestyle. Las Vegas looked amazing as we dipped past the
skyscrapers and neon lights of the Strip and landed. I'm sure I looked like
a country hick as I wandered, wide-eyed, into the private plane terminal.

I was looking for two Freddie Foxes, and I spotted them immediately. In
person, my brothers looked more like Freddie than I could have
imagined. They had Freddie's sultry, sexual look that drove me crazy when I
saw pictures of him online. Pale skin with an unruly mass of wavy, blond
hair above high cheekbones and full, ridiculously red lips. Somehow, on my
brothers the red lips looked good. I had always thought the version of the
red lips I inherited from our mother looked painfully garish, like I was a
girl.

"Yo, bro," one of my brothers said, hugging me. The other twin gave me a
warm hug, too. I had no idea which twin was Jan and which was Jon. Their
names explained our birth mother's odd choice of my name. She apparently
was so enamored with three letter names that started with "J" and ended
with "N" that she gave me a girl's name so she could stay with the style
after she named Jan and Jon. Or maybe she was hoping I would be a girl and
had already settled on the name before I showed up. I guess I was lucky she
didn't go for `Jin' or "Jyn" or "Jun." Or, worse yet, something
unpronounceable like `Jkn,' which kids in high school would have reduced to
`Jacking,' as in `jacking off.' On second thought, any of those probably
would have been better than Jen, even `Jkn.'

"Looking good, dude," my second brother said, mussing my hair. I had the
same unruly, wavy hair that my brothers shared, although mine was a light,
reddish brown rather than blond. I had their pale skin and red lips, too,
which I guess made us look like brothers. "Ready for some fun, Vegas
style?"

"Sure," I replied. I didn't quite believe I was in Las Vegas, had been on
my first private plane flight – okay, my first flight on any plane –
and was surrounded by two brothers I had never met.

We headed outside to an expensive looking black SUV. After the damp, chilly
weather of southern Illinois in March, the dry heat of the desert was like
nothing I had experienced. We piled into the SUV and pulled out of the
parking lot, headed for the Strip.

"Oh, crap," I said. "I didn't get my bag out of the plane." I was an idiot,
so wide eyed at meeting my brothers that I couldn't be trusted to do basic
tasks.

My brothers exchanged a smile and whichever one was driving said, "Not to
worry. We'll have it delivered. You're close to our size, so you can borrow
some clothes from us if you need to. We've got you covered."

"Or uncovered," my other brother snickered, prompting a laugh from both
guys.

I puzzled over what that might mean, but I nodded, feeling insecure without
my bag. Silly, because there was nothing in it that I cared about. I could
already tell the clothes I might borrow from my brothers would be better
than anything I owned.

We chatted about my flight and what we might do during the week, although
half the conversation was between my two brothers as they exchanged
comments about Las Vegas things that only they knew about. It occurred to
me I would be in for more of that. After all, my brothers had spent every
day of their lives with each other, and probably half of what they would
talk about had a private significance.

"So, dude," my driving brother said, glancing at me in the rear view
mirror. "Lemme give you the one golden rule for having fun in Vegas. This
is all you need to know. Follow this rule and I guarantee you'll have an
incredible eight days here. Whenever a little voice in your head says, `I
shouldn't do this,' then you absolutely have to do it. Simple as that."

My other brother giggled and added, "Do it, and do it twice." Both guys
snickered. Not the advice my father would have given me, but I kinda liked
where this was headed. Freed from the restraints of my puritanical father,
I couldn't help but have more fun in Las Vegas than I would have in
southern Illinois.

There was a lull in the conversation, and I asked, "So, uh, how do I tell
you apart?"

"You can't," my brother in the passenger seat answered matter-of-factly. He
turned around and gave me a grin, adding, "Unless we have our clothes off."
The thought of seeing my brothers naked sent a chill through me.

"Nobody can tell us apart, and we like it that way," my other brother
added. "But, since you're our brother, we'll tell you a secret nobody else
knows." I felt a little buzz of warmth, happy that I was apparently being
let into their inner circle. "We each wear a different color
earring. Everyone thinks it's random, but it's not. I'm red, and Jon is
baby blue. Since he's the baby. Except on weekends, when we flip flop."

"And we flip flop the earrings, too," my brother in the passenger seat
snickered, causing both guys to starting laughing. I was confused by their
talk, but happy to be included. Both of my brothers had studs in their left
ears, one graced by a dark red stone and one a baby blue stone. It was
Sunday, so that meant the colors were flipped, and the guy driving, whose
earring was light blue, had to be Jan, which meant Jon, with the red
earring, was in the passenger seat. Tomorrow they would switch
colors. "Cool," I said.

"We'll show you another way to tell us apart later," Jon said. That
apparently meant I was going to see my brothers without their clothes, the
thought of which threatened to produce an embarrassing boner eruption from
my unruly and under-serviced cock.

TO BE CONTINUED...


I hope you liked this chapter. Sorry it merely introduces the three main
characters and sets up coming attractions, but doesn't contain any sex
scenes; that will be quickly remedied in the next chapter. Bonus points if
you guess the first coupling.


I would love to hear your reactions. Coltonaalto@gmail.com

© Copyright Colton Aalto 2016