The Family Christmas

The Family Christmas

I.

I just fucked my little brother.

Twice.

And I want to do it again.

Ok, I’m not as perverted as I sound. Really. He’s not little. Seriously, he’s six feet two, and I’m only five feet eleven. And his cock is bigger than mine, which is depressing. Just looking at him tends to make me feel depressed; it always has. So I haven’t looked at him, really looked at him, for years. And given that my family isn’t one of those super into each other families, it was easy not to.

I’m the oldest boy. There’s five of us. The oldest is Gwen, who is hard to love. She makes more money than any of the rest of us, has won more awards, and can do anything easily. It’s disgusting. You go to her huge home, and she’s made the furniture, woven the rug, thrown the pot, cooked a god damn gourmet meal—well, I don’t have to go on. Then there’s me. I’m the geek. I have glasses. And I still have a pimple or too on occasion, and I’m in grad school. It’s not fucking fair. And I’m gay, as you figured out. Then the “twins.” My younger sisters aren’t twins really. I’m 28, and they are 26 and 24. But they look alike, dress alike, and attack together. I don’t go upstairs in our house—ever. And then there’s my little brother. He’s 22. And he’s always been the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.

He was born cute. From the day he was born, my sisters have babied him, pampered him, worshipped him. So of course, I couldn’t. He was golden. He was just like that stupid song that my sisters would sing to him, “On the day that you were born, the angels got together and decided to make a dream come true, so they sprinkled stardust in you hair . . .”

Fuck, I feel like vomiting every time I hear that song. But it is appropriate. He has blonde hair, blue-green eyes, no, green-blue eyes, big ones, pretty ones, with long pretty lashes and 20/20 vision. I, on the other, hand, have brown eyes, brown hair, and can’t see a damn thing without serious magnification power.

It’s retarded, but I’m a walking cliché, a stereotype—scruffy, nerdy, geeky, incoherent, socially inept, scowling, and unable to say what I feel. Fortunately for me there are a lot of gay guys with computers, with computers that need the help of a geek like me. And I have excellent gaydar. And some guys dig the geek that is a raging ball of sexual repression just waiting to fuck like mad. My dick may not be the longest or fattest, but it gets up, sprays, and gets back up. It’s got a nickname from some of the guys that I do, the Energizer bunny. My bunny is the reason I have fuck buddies, pretty little twinks that when their hearts are torn (or they’re bored, or they just aren’t getting enough) call me. I go over, and I fuck them hard and fast over their desks, against the wall, on the floor. I let them ride me and pull off my glasses and kiss my face. They pretend I’m cruel and using them, that I never call, won’t commit, as they use me like I’m a stud service and toss me out when their idiot boyfriend figures out that he made a big fucking mistake. I don’t date; I don’t do parties. I fix computers and fuck.

My brother, the golden boy, of course is different. Not that he’s had it easy: the life of a gay boy, no matter how pretty isn’t easy. A lot of times it isn’t pretty. But he seems to do ok. And he took karate—mom insisted. Hell, she made me do it too. And all of our sisters. Of course, Gwen is a black belt with a ridiculous number of trophies. At any rate, the twins look out for him. And being just as blonde and cute as he is, they did a damn good job of making his life easier. Gwen and the twins are not alike. I didn’t get tolerated by straight guys looking to lay my older sister. Gwen is, well, Gwen. There is a reason I went to college and grad school clear on the opposite side of the US of A. Family is easier to love from far away.

But there are only so many family Christmas’s that you can miss. Gwen kidnapped me. Seriously, I’m not kidding. She came out on a business trip, bribed one of my twinks, packed my shit, and had me at the airport when I thought we were going out for lunch. She had me. To struggle would have just made it more painful. When we finally pulled into the driveway of the old family home, I raced to my old room, seeking refuge. It’s now the guest room, but it still has the same double bed and most of the same furniture. It’s the only bedroom downstairs. I grew up using the shower in the downstairs bathroom—the one with the two doors, one that goes out back to the pool, and one into the rec room. I don’t think I took a bath between the age of 10 and 22, until I moved into an apartment at college with a bathtub.

Ok, so that was why I was home, home in the same house with Mom, Dad, Gwen, her lapdog of a husband, and the twins. He wasn’t home yet. I took a shower, grubby from the long plane ride and then discovered just how evil Gwen was. The clothes in the suitcase were not my clothes. They were new. They were expensive, stylish, and sophisticated. People would look at someone in those clothes. I groaned. This was payback for missing two Christmas’s in a row. Jesus god, silk and cashmere! I felt like my sister’s boytoy. And my clothing that had been left in a lump on the floor was gone of course. Dammit! I had refused to get on the plane until I had been through my computer case and checked the bag with my meds and shampoo and all that. I had been played.

Fucking silk underwear. Linen pants. Wool pants. Silk pants? Where were the cargo pants? And jeans are supposed to be denim colored, you know, like denims. But then there was the shirt—suede, suede the color of his eyes. Soft. I couldn’t stop petting it. I put it on and decided that I wouldn’t put my sister’s online business out of commission during the holidays. She loved me. I’d wear the shirt, and she’d know what I couldn’t say. The green-blue suede shirt, the tan linen pants, and a tan pair of those silk boxer-briefs, and I was ready to emerge. I’d forgot how nice warm winters were, how wonderful it was to just walk around barefoot all year—maybe I was an idiot for going to school in upstate New York when I could be here in California.

Then, well, everyone in the family noticed me. In ten minutes I was praying for him to come home soon. Once he got here, I could escape. When my little brother is in the room, you have to be blind not to look at him.

That’s why I usually take my glasses off the minute he comes in the room.

And then, as they say, my prayers came true. I looked up from the couch in the living room where I was pinned between mom and Jennie, the older twin. Karen was on the arm of the sofa next to Jennie of course, Gwen sitting in one of the big clubs chair like it was her throne with her husband on the ottoman, ready to fetch and serve her highness. Dad was on the other one, silent as always. He winked at me periodically, giving me the courage to hang on and endure. The photo album or well, scrapbook, was on my lap, and I was getting updated on the whole three years I missed. And a running commentary on how I looked and how wonderful and clever Gwen was, how lucky I had such a sister. And Jennie and Karen were also telling me about how fabulous their new boyfriends were, and how I wasn’t allowed to seduce them or flirt with them, but how I was going to have to change my pants cause they were so, so delicious I would pitch a tent the minute I saw them. And then as I was trying to focus on my mother’s photo commentary and suppress the horror of my younger sisters discussing me getting a hard on, came the twin squeal. I looked up, and my little rabbit sat up too. For a few seconds, happy seconds, I thought it was one of the twins’ boys. He was looking back down the hallway for some reason. Long blonde hair and an ass to die for. But then he turned, and big green blue eyes looked right at me.

Little brother was home.