Thirty Two Faces - 10. Love

I would’ve imagined our first time to be more passionate and romantic considering how completely smitten I am and how my body betrays me whenever he’s near.

But life is very different when you come closer, just like the earth, which seems round when it’s remote and distant but all flat and uneven once it’s underneath your feet. Or like printed photos: you see pixels instead of people when you look really close.

Making love is nothing like what I expected. Maybe it’s because we get distracted easily; we end up playing, fighting, or fooling around half of the time.

You live only once.

That was the last thing he said before he scooped me onto his bed; it’s what he says when people ask him why he does crazy things like sky diving, rock climbing, bareback bronco riding. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through his body: the pulsing veins, the racing heart, the wild unhinged excitement. It’s hard to tell whether he’s turned on by me or by the whole indecent thrill and moral danger of it.

Below me, the soft sheets hug my body; the bed still smells of fresh laundry. Above me, my brother on all fours – naked, kissing and sniffing my neck, experimenting to see my reactions as he plays with my body. Like a scientist, like a boy with a new toy, like a wolf playing with his prey. And he smells like one, musky as a wild animal.

The gold cross dangling down his neck, a family heirloom, caresses my skin like a finger running across it. It glimmers in the moonlight like the rows of trophies behind him. At times, his kisses are gruff and edgy, and at times they are like a curious Saint Bernard unleashed to pounce and assault with affectionate licks.

And after exchanging a few kisses, he laughs out loud.

“What?” I ask.

“You kiss like a preschooler.”

He puckers his lips like a kissing fish, making the smooching sound to tease me. Then he holds my face and takes me by the mouth. By the time he’s done, I feel like melted butter.

“That is how you kiss. Don’t tell anyone you’re my brother if you kiss like you did before.”

He smiles, looking proud that he taught me a new trick and completely satisfied with my swoon. He is really good at kissing, but he’s been practicing since he was fifteen. Apparently, you are supposed be playful and curious, taking your time to explore lips and to tease with your tongue. His lips feel feathery and nice, like how a puppy kisses.

“You’re not licking plastic. Take your time; taste me like I’m chocolate fudge,” he says.

He rests on his elbows, flicking his tongue playfully at my nose, grinning as I nod at his instructions. I pretend he tastes like chocolate, but all I taste is bitter beer. He holds up a finger and takes out a bottle of cherry brandy from his bag, a leftover from last week’s party. He takes a big sip, smacking his lips before handing me some. Afterwards, he tastes so much better.

Half of the time we’re laughing or fooling around, partly because we’re not quite sure what to do, so we do whatever feels good. When I keep rubbing against his body, he chortles and says, “I’m not a pillar, Babe.”

Making love is different from wanking, because both people should feel good. So I ask him what makes him feel good, and he guides me down below, telling me what to do.

Go on.

Watch your teeth.

Slow down, slow down.

Speed up. Yeah… that’s it.

He smiles like he’s in heaven, and I love the way his penis functions like a Wii stick. You can make him moan, watch him gasp, smile and cry out with the right buttons. He tastes like raw eggs and pubes, so I sip some cherry brandy. And then I take him entirely into my throat to taste the full flavor.

Whoa, you little bastard!

Wait-,

Fu-

He pulls my head off immediately and laughs.

“You almost made me cum.” He grabs his pulsing cock with both hands like it’s an unpinned grenade.

“Isn’t that the whole point?”

“No, that’s fucking.”

What’s the difference?

“You fuck to get quick gratification, but you delay it as long as possible when you make love.

“Making love is a way of expressing affection, like hugging, like snuggling, like goodnight kisses. But it’s also the ultimate expression, because there is no limit to what you can do. The whole point is to make each other feel loved and wanted. That’s why you want to make love for as long as possible.”

I am in awe of my brother. Making love sounds like such a wonderful thing that I wonder why we’re not allowed to do it in the first place.

“No, Babe, you don’t have to take notes. Just… get the idea.”

“But I might forget what you said.”

“Don’t worry, just follow my lead.”

But it’s just hot air. Because I soon realize, it’s the blind leading the blind.

We giggle like little boys trying to figure out how to get his huge appendage inside me.

“Down the rabbit hole…” he jokes, referring to our clueless fumbling and how tight I am below. We can’t get it in.

Both of us are lost about what to do next. We stare at each other, shrug, laugh, try to shove it in, I yelp in pain, bite him, and we end up slapping and roughhousing each other. Then we roll over and laugh and then try all over again.

Undeterred, he says, “I won’t let you die a virgin. I’ll call the plumber if I have to.”

And we spend the next few minutes laughing.

I would’ve thought my brother should be experienced. But he says it’s different with girls. Normally, they get wet below if he plays with them enough. Then he’ll slide in nice and easy. That’s where we get stuck, literally. I can’t get wet.

So I had to think of suggestions,

Shampoo? Too much foam.

Toothpaste? It’s going to sting.

Soap? Just ran out.

The brandy? You got to be kidding me.

“Looks like its spit and fuck.” He titters.

It wasn’t so funny when he finally managed to get it in. It was an awkward and clumsy entry. He had to cover my mouth to stop me from waking up the whole house.

“You okay, Babe? Did I hurt you?”

He pulls out and holds me to his chest until I calm down. He rubs my bum gently as if I’ve just been spanked.

“You sure you want to do this?”

Sex isn’t what I expect. Just like driving, other people made it look so easy, but I almost killed my instructor when a loud horn startled me. But I want to make love with my brother, lots of love. So we try again.

Being penetrated makes me feel very vulnerable, like a huge finger poking at me. If it was anyone else, this would’ve been unbearable. But once the pain and fear subside, having Samuel inside me is the most intimate experience ever. As if we’ve suddenly conjoined, like Siamese twins. It’s like his cock attaches to my gut like an umbilical cord. And once our eyes lock, neither of us can bear to look away. Severing this deep connection now would feel like chopping off a limb.

For a good five minutes, we do nothing but look at each other, with him still inside me and my legs still resting on his shoulders. Every glide hurts, so he tells me gently to take my time, kissing me now and then and asking if I’m doing okay.

He must be making love to me now, because I feel loved.

The whole scene suddenly feels absurd when he starts telling me jokes, trying to get me relaxed.

Q. How do you teach a blond math?

A. Subtract her clothes, divide her legs, and square root her.

Q. What is 69 plus 69?

A. Dinner for four…

Q How is sex like math?

A. 1. Half the time I get an odd result. 2. If my hands aren’t enough, I end up using my head. 3. I always wonder how the person next to me is doing on his work. 4. My average at each is pretty dismal.

I find it funny even though none of it makes sense. His mood and his face are simply infectious. But instead of easing him in, I’m castrating him because I’m all clamped up from the laughing.

“Ow, ow, ow…” He exaggerates a pained expression.

“Your ass…” he gasps as if it’s his dying breath, “…is crushing my dick.”

Then he rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue like a hanged man. I go completely hysterical. But it works, I feel completely relaxed and at ease with him. All the anxiety and shyness melted by the mirth.

As soon as we think we can finally get serious about making love, I giggle uncontrollably as he starts gliding it in and out. It feels very ticklish, like a slippery eel inside me. I bite the pillow to control myself.

“Stop giggling; you’re spoiling the mood,” he says, even though he’s sniggering as well.

In the end, he leans down to silence me with long, tender kisses. After a few passionate grinds, we get into the mood and stop fooling around.

You are supposed to focus a lot on how the other person feels when you make love. So it’s a good thing that I know what my brother is feeling. Otherwise, I might as well have rubbed against a pillar.

Making love is like a night-long intimate conversation spoken not with words, but with our bodies, our sweat and our semen.

I can hear his muted plea for fellowship through his forlorn eyes. He grinds his hips gently and languidly, hungry for kisses and hugs. Though he’s often surrounded by people, Mom says Samuel is actually very shy; he doesn’t know how to let others get close to him.

So I mustn’t cringe when he stares, even when he gets all gruff and intense. Shy people avoid gazes, but the shyest ones stare brazenly. They stare because they are starving for connection but don’t know how to properly invite others into their gaze.

Sometimes, we simply stop moving just to look at each other. My legs are wrapped around his back. He’s still inside my body, and I am locked in his gaze. We are like two mirrors facing each other, our reflections continuing indefinitely. And if I look closely, I might see infinite reflections of myself looking at him looking at me.

When he thrusts his hips like an animal, making raw and primal grunts, I know he’s terrified of being smothered. Two years away from graduation, a future of extreme domestication awaits him: being caged in a cubicle, noosed by a tie, cuffed by cufflinks. He wants to fuck all that out of his system.

With his face buried in a pillow, he pumps away with muted screams. I am pliant under his taut, sweating bulk, wanting to hold all that fear for him. And when his angst is spent, I’m playful in order to lift his spirits, clenching my rectum when he least expects it, jolting him alive.

Our skins get hot, and our bodies become electric. A moan escapes, followed by a blush, an indignant look, and then a cocky grin, “I’ll get you for this.”

Then he punishes me by messing things up; he slows down, he speeds up, just to make me cry out and watch me melt. And when my hands reach out to seek truce, he pins them down to demand submission, and he gasps, “I’m not done with you yet.”

I may stifle a cry but it would only arouse him further. I watch his face while he pumps away, and his eyes say there is no mercy for me.

He sometimes looks vulnerable when he groans or angry when he thrusts.

And just as suddenly, he smiles happily, followed by a cocky smile, an amused grin – all shifting in a matter of seconds.

But above all, he looks immensely alive. All thirty-two faces flash in a single night, cascading raw emotions, undressed petal by petal like a flower, until his heart is naked like his body.

I scramble for a moment when he’s about to cum, but he tilts my chin to face him. He gasps, “Don’t look away.”

He presses down on me to maximize skin contact between our wet bodies, drowning me with his sweat. The smell of his sweat, of damp musk, of saliva and pre-cum, of bitter beer and sweet brandy overwhelm the remaining hint of fresh sheets. The bed, soiled and sordid, creaks as he pumps faster, joining in the chorus of moans and gasps, crickets and ticking clocks. And to make sure my head doesn’t turn away, he locks my lips with his tongue. Our hips move in tandem when we come at the same time.

He was the first to come inside my world. And now, he comes inside me.

He collapses to the side, wet and exhausted. Still breathing heavily, he turns and gives me a long, gentle kiss on the forehead.

Eyes wide and jaws agape, he stares at the ceiling like he’s trying to digest everything that has happened.

“Samuel, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Babe.”

“Then why do you look sad?”

He seems surprised by my question, as if he doesn’t know. Taking a moment to reflect before he answers, “I’m not sad. It’s just that…”

Then he looks at me, long enough to prove that his answer is not frivolous or undeliberated, “No one has made love to me like that before.”

I nest my head on his shoulder. Making love is like pulling a plug out of a dam; a flood of emotions rushes out through your gut the moment his cock comes out. Because you are loved, buried sentiments feel safe to pour out. And I suddenly cry because it felt overwhelming – all those years of unfelt pain, isolation, fear and deep longing for acceptance, condensed and tasted in a concentrated dose. I cry also because my ass hurts – how vulnerable and undignified it felt to be pummeled. Then I think about all the girls who had to go through this, and I feel like hugging all of them.

“You all right?” He dries my cheeks with his hands.

“I’ve always thought giving birth is like taking a dump.”

He grins and says, “Where did that come from?”

“I mean, it must have been painful for Mom, right, to give birth?”

He looks surprised and moved, as if I’ve learned to speak for the first time.

“Babe, that’s empathy.”

Perhaps, when it’s other than him, I am not able to feel what other people feel spontaneously. I always have to break my feelings down and consciously draw emotional parallels to other people. Empathy happens when you can relate to another person’s inner world. But my world is a cell with very few visitors. And fewer have the patience to stay and show me their world.

He looks at me with a wry grin and says, “Geez, I hope I didn’t fuck your brains out.”

He might be expressing irony, but there is a hint of concern in his tone. So I ask, “It’s a good thing, right, empathy?”

“Yeah, and I think I’ve just found the answer to world peace.”

Making love.

I laugh, repeating the joke as if to confirm I got the punchline right. But he’s definitely trying to be funny.

Lying beside me, his hand clasps mine. I look at him. Something seems to have changed. The smile on his face somehow seems candid and open. It reminds me of how he looked when he was younger, when he got into trouble beating up some kids at the playground for calling me names. He smiled even when he got spanked. And it wasn’t a mask of bravado; it was an honest, open smile.

He extends his hand to help me up. We need to shower to wash off the sweat and cum.

“You okay, Babe?”

I don’t get him. Why should I not be okay?

“You walk like a duck.”

Then he imitates how I walk, flapping his arms about.

Quack, quack, quack.

That makes me laugh. My ass feels sore and raw, but I don’t mind, because he looks so happy.

 

# # # # #

 

He sleeps soundly, smiling like a new-born baby having his first dream. Birds chirp away as the room warms with the lyric cast of morning sun. I creep away softly, gentle to avoid the squeak of our wooden floors and the click of closing doors.

Not heading to my usual morning routine but back to my room, where I lie belly down to write about my first night. Holding the pen like a leaking jug, I scribble down whatever emotions and sensations that bleed from my mind, not to let a single drop of bliss goes wasted. And I chip away at the raw emotions, like a gem cutter, remembering words spoken and unspoken, until they yield their insights.

I must have spent hours writing, because by the time I feel his hands on my shoulders, I can feel the heat of the midday blazing outside. He bends over my shoulders and chastises me softly, “You’re supposed to cuddle after making love.”

I nod in acquiescence. Just like you’re supposed to stay after dinner till the adults finish their conversations. We’re supposed to continue the love-making in our dreams.

People used to think kids like me don’t dream. But my dreams are often vivid and real as if to compensate for my fractured imagination. I always know when I’m dreaming. But right now, our intimacy feels surreal – warm breath down my neck, stubble against my cheeks, rough hands on my bare shoulders; it feels so exquisite that I fear this is just another lucid dream.

“Can I read it?” he asks, and I surrender my iPad to him.

His eyes savor the words like he’s viewing our honeymoon photos. His face shifts like a kaleidoscope: amused, touched and intrigued at different times. At the end, he appears pensive when he asks, “Is that how you feel?”

It isn’t really a question, because the answer is obvious.

“The world would fall in love with you,” he lifts up the iPad and continues, “if your face is as poetic as this.”

“I can’t help it.”

My fractured imagination is partly responsible for my blank expression, because people express a lot through their eyes. You can tell they’re remembering something if they’re looking down. Or when they’re imagining, their eyes will tend to look up. And if they’re verbalizing in their head, their eyes will shift right, but if they’re visualizing, they will shift left. Because of how my brains works, my eyes rarely shift – or by very little. Some people say I look blank like a robot or like I’m daydreaming, or they may find my eye movements weird. Sometimes, it makes it hard for people to understand me.

I wonder how to look at him in the way that he’ll feel my love.

“It’s okay, Babe.” He cups my face with both hands and kisses me. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

We spend a lot of time together after that – behind locked doors or far out away from prying eyes. But after that night, we don’t have sex even though we sleep together every night. Funny thing is that it doesn’t feel necessary. He still smells nice; it still feels good to sleep in his arms, but I feel as if a point has been made. It’s like you’re dying to hug someone to show them how much you love them. Once they get the message loud and clear, you don’t feel the urge to make the same point over and over again. But what I truly relish is that the boundaries between us are totally gone.

 

# # # # #

 

A few days later, he drives me to the shopping mall to stock up on groceries for the house. We head inside the supermarket and take a shopping cart to look for items on the list. It is a weekday afternoon, so there aren’t many people around. Being there still unnerves me, because shopping malls are zombie death traps. I know zombies aren’t real, but fears aren’t always rational. Just like why people are so scared of us holding hands.

I am ill-prepared for my first love, even though it is my brother whom I’ve known forever. Bombarding him with a million questions is just going to make me look like a three-year-old. So, I try to read up from the internet on any love advice for brothers in love. There is none.

The first thing he heads for is the beer section, then the frozen-food area.

“Emergency food supplies,” he explains, careful not to insult my cooking.

I want to hold his hands but am unsure if it is appropriate. Normally, he takes my hand when he wants to. There are times he feels comfortable doing it publicly, but at times he doesn’t. But I notice from the distance we stand and the way he leans in to talk that we seem similar to other couples doing their grocery shopping. It is confusing to know when it’s socially appropriate for us to hold hands, so I dare myself to touch his hands and test his reaction.

“Not here, Babe,” he shrinks his hands away and whispers.

I wonder if his reaction is due to the fact that I’m his brother or because I’m a boy. I look around; it’s just strangers.

According to one website, boys who are used to having sex with girls may experience a ‘gay panic’ if they are doing it for the first time with boys. But the only post-coitus panic I’ve seen in Samuel is that he ran out of beer and frozen pizzas.

It also baffles me because, among the two taboos, incest should rank higher than homophobia, but I don’t see any articles about incest panic. Instead, there are is lot of advice on surviving incest, like it’s a car accident or cancer.

There is hardly a line at the cashier when we’re ready to pay up. He stops me and hands me his debit card. He says, “Let me get my beer, and then you can learn?”

I take his card and hesitate for a moment. I look at him, and he urges me on with his chin.

“Don’t be scared. I’ll be here if you freak out.”

I must have looked very nervous because the cashier looks at me really funny. She keeps looking for mall security when I throw all the things onto the checkout belt, eager to get it over and done with. She catches the bottle of tabasco as it rolls off the counter. I look around, but Samuel is nowhere in sight.

“That will be $81.24, please,” she says, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

I hand her the card and punch the pin number Samuel told me to. Then I pack the groceries into plastic bags as soon as I can and walk off.

“Hey, kid! You forgot your card!” she shouts.

I snatch the card from her like a robber and run away. Samuel sits on a bench inside the shopping mall near the supermarket entrance. He takes out a can of soda pop and smiles as I approach.

“That wasn’t too bad right?” he asks.

I sit really close to him and put down all the bags. He rubs my shoulders a little and gives me a pat on the back. He seems conscious of the few people looking at us as they walk by. I wonder if I make him uncomfortable sitting so close to him in public.

Out of concern, I ask him if he needs to talk about gay panic or surviving incest. He cracks up laughing and spills beer through his nose. He looks around to see if anyone heard me, before he says, “The only panic I have right now is that I’ve screwed you bad.”

I’ve never seen him so worried and amused at the same time. He wipes off the soda pop foam and says, “Please tell me you’re not crazy?”

So I explain to him about what I read. He says he doesn’t have an issue with me being a boy. It’s not a big deal; if he likes it, he likes it. Why should he freak out? As for sleeping with his brother, he’s not emotionally scarred. Not unless Mom and Dad find out and stop paying for his college.

“So you’re okay?”

“No, I’m traumatized. I’ll make you wear a dress next time we bang.” He chuckles.

I’m not sure if he’s serious, because I’m not going to wear anything with buttons on it. It sounds like a joke but he does appear excited by the idea.

“I’m more worried about you. You sure you’re okay – I mean everywhere?” he asks.

He means everywhere apart from my ass. I tell him I’m fine, though I feel like a pervert because I don’t mind the pain. In fact, it got quite enjoyable after a while. I wonder if that means I’m masochistic.

“Is that normal?” I ask.

He grins and takes a sip, “Nothing about you is normal, Babe. Boning me is just icing on the cake.”

He doesn’t say it to disparage me, but I still feel bad. I don’t really deserve him.

“Hey, don’t look so glum. We’re both sick bastards, all right? That’s why we’re a team.” He puts his hands around me and continues, “And I’m sicker than you; I feel like a pedophile.”

I’m surprised he isn’t more upset about me being a boy or his brother. Besides, I’m only three years younger than he is. Not unless he sees me as a kid. Or worse, a sexless kid.

That’s what big brothers do. They protect you when you’re bullied, piggyback you when you’re tired, and they have sex with you when no one else will. I remember Samuel has a word for the sex; he calls them ‘pity fucks’ – having sex with people he feels sorry for. It takes me a while to get the sting of the meaning of those words.

“Hey, Babe, I didn’t say it wasn’t hot...” He leans really close and pecks me on the cheek. “It just feels like I’m corrupting you.”

One of our neighbors, Mrs. Jenkins, walks by and sees us. She smiles and nods her head, but she keeps staring. Samuel shifts back immediately to a respectable distance, which makes me panic. His reaction means that he’s scared that she might have suspected something.

We leave for his car as soon as he finishes his drink. Along the way, I ask if we’ll get into trouble.

“Don’t worry, Babe. Who cares a fuck what she thinks?” he asks, even though his body seems tense and his face doesn’t look very convinced. Sensing that I’m not assured, he continues, “Besides, we’re making love, not fucking. So it’s not incest.”

Maybe he’s trying to make me feel better, but I consider his rationale from different angles. He did tell me before that making love and fucking are very different. Technically, what he said may be true, because intent does differentiate between sexual and non-sexual acts. For example,

One:

Giving birth is not considered incest even when I had full contact with Mom’s vagina.

Two:

Child rearing would be incestuous by nature, because Mom and Dad took turns to wipe our pees and poos and bathed us when we were younger.

Three:

Sharing bodily fluids among family members is common; blood transfusions, sharing drinks, towels. Not to mention Mom doing our cum-stained laundry, curtains, shelves, pillow cases etc.

Four:

Incest was made taboo because of the biological risk of inbreeding. Since both of us can’t breed, and we are doing it to express our love, the aversion would be irrational, just like racism or homophobia.

 

Therefore, if we make love, it shouldn’t count as incest, since we are not using each other for gratification. It’s just a more extreme form of displaying affection, just like Mom’s nagging when Samuel does extreme sports. Are you trying to kill yourself

He’s not planning on suicide but rather to feel alive. Just like why he makes love with me.

“I like the way you think, Babe.” He chuckles. “But we’ll still get arrested, so tone down your PDA.”

Public displays of affection. That means no holding hands, hugs and kisses unless we’re alone.

After dumping the shopping bags into the car, he doesn’t get inside. Instead, he heads back to the shopping mall.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“What’s a date without a movie?”

 

# # # # #

 

Something changes in us in the coming weeks. And it doesn’t go unnoticed. It is something innocuous, like I’ve learned to smile when I see Dad kiss Mom before he leaves for work. Dad doesn’t think it is anything unusual, but Mom is astounded.

“Jack, did you see that? Babe just smiled at us.”

“What’s wrong? He smiles when he’s happy.”

“No, it’s not that.” Mom beams and asks me, “Why are you smiling, Babe?”

“The way Dad kissed you. It was sweet.”

And Mom and Dad look as if I started speaking French. It is just empathy.

Knowing love is like learning the alphabet and the letter ‘A’ for the first time. None of the books, poetry and songs will make sense without that vowel.

So many of our choices are motivated by love and by the intense desire to feel alive. Without experiencing how compelling love feels, many things seems irrational. Why do people go to war, kill and die for each other? Where do they find such strength and tenacity? I’m starting to relate to some of the stories I’ve read.

Even Newton, Einstein, Pythagoras – all their discoveries, theorems and formulas are only a coy, life-long plea that says, please love me. Love is why kids in school are constantly glued to their phones, on Facebook, on Instagram, on Twitter, waiting for the next ‘like’ to appear. And it hits me like a comet that in this love-starved world, the real economy isn’t circulated by notes and plastic cards. It’s not even gold.

It is love.

That’s what Samuel has been feeding me with his gaze, his tongue and his touch. I can’t get enough.

I’ve learned to recognize how people look when they are in love. That brings the total number I can consistently read in people’s faces to four!!! And that fourth face makes the world of a difference.

It makes me feel completely at ease with Peter and Rachel. Boys and girls who have their hearts filled with love will not be able to find the malice to hurt me. I know it because I feel the same way as they do.

Samuel calls it empathy, and that’s how people really communicate. Not through words, or metaphors or equations.

 

# # # # #

 

I invite Peter and Rachel to our house, which is an unprecedented initiative. I don’t even give a second thought about how to approach them or how they will reply. I simply message them and don’t give a shit. Just like a normal kid would do.

And they come.

Rachel sits on the lawn at our home under the hot afternoon sun watching Peter attempt a backflip on the trampoline. Our tee shirts are lying on the grass, occasionally picked up to wipe off the sweat. I demonstrate a backflip, a hands-free backflip and a triple backflip, which earn me applause from both of them. I smile because I feel loved.

I give Peter instructions as I stand by his side, telling him he should start with the normal backflip. Samuel offers Rachel a glass of lemonade as he sits down beside her. Her eyes widen when she takes the icy drink from him,

“Thanks, that’s very thoughtful, Mr. Neanderthal.” Her tone is high and screechy like a stretched violin. I think she sounds surprised. I also think there’s a barb smuggled somewhere in her gratitude, because Samuel flashes his cocky I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think grin.

After pulling off a successful backflip, Rachel rewards Peter with a big kiss. I look at Samuel and smile hungrily; he gives me a don’t-you-dare look. After that, the four of us go swimming in our pool.

Everyone is impressed again when I last the longest holding my breath underwater.

Rachel squeals, “Jesus, are you a fish or something?”

“He’s had practice. And trust me, he can hold it much longer than that.” Samuel winks at me and flashes a sardonic smile.

I immediately hide my face under the surface.

While Samuel and Peter lie on the sundeck, Rachel swims to me and asks, “What’s wrong with your brother?”

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask. Her breasts heave when she leans close. I look away because I’m in love now. Then she cups a hand and whispers, “He looks happy, and he’s acting all sensitive. THAT’s not normal. Who is he banging now? Tell me.”

I didn’t answer her. Instead, I submerge myself again.

Later in the evening, when both of them join our family for dinner, Samuel surprises everyone by telling us jokes about his college professor.

“And Prof Bond told Meg that she had drawn her eyebrows too high. She looked surprised.”

Only Samuel and I laugh. Everyone else’s jaws drops an inch.

“What’s wrong? No one thinks it’s funny?” My brother chuckles.

“Dude, this is the first time I’ve heard you talk so much about yourself,” Peter says.

An awkward silence falls on the dinner table. Mom spoons the sauce over her salmon fillet, her face all crumpled up. She asks, “Babe, you actually understand the joke?”

“Yeah, high eyebrows are associated with surprise 63% of the time, depending on the angle of the arch and other accompanied movements in the mouth.”

And then Mom and Dad look at each other. What they didn’t know is that I understood the humor before I analyzed what it meant. It hit me in the gut before I knew why.

“It’s nice to meet the both of you. Samuel has never brought friends home for dinner before,” Dad says to Peter and Rachel.

“Pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Meier. Actually it’s Keith who invited us,” Peter says.

Then Dad looks at Mom again, eyebrows raised and eyes widened.

After dinner, Mom and Dad excuse themselves while I serve dessert for the rest: chocolate fudge cake with marshmallows. While I slice the cake, Samuel’s phone rings, and he excuses himself.

Oh, hey, Beth.

Yeah, I’m fine.

How are you doing?

I miss you, too.

Then he disappears down the stairs towards his room.

“Dude! Watch your fingers!” Peter says.

I stop the knife in time. Handing cake to Peter and Rachel; I set a slice aside for Samuel. He might want to eat it later.

“Don’t bother, Keith. He’s probably having phone sex now.” Rachel licks her fingers while Peter squishes his eyebrows, saying, “Princess… that’s so crude.”

“Sarah and Mindy haven’t heard from him for weeks. So either A) he’s back with his girlfriend, or he’s seeing someone else,” she says.

Before anyone speaks, Samuel returns and pulls up a chair.

“That was quick,” Rachel says.

Then she looks at Peter, nodding away and silently mouths, ‘B’. When my brother asks her what’s wrong, she wiggles her finger at the spare chocolate cake, asking if he still wants it.

 

# # # # #

 

I begin to notice that Mom looks at us a lot lately. It’s like there’s something wrong with our faces.

A few days later, my brother and I are chasing each other around the house when we’re supposed to be doing housework. The house echoes with us: our laughter, our thundering feet, a slammed door, a loud thud when we fall, and the scratching of the sofa against the parquet floor when we knock against it. At first, we’re just chasing each other, screaming at the top of our lungs. Then Samuel piggybacks me while I hold out the mop like a lance, charging around like a mounted knight. We don’t realize how long Mom has been looking. She’s standing at the side of the stairs. We only realize she’s there when the mop is almost in her face.

We apologize for making a din and waking her up. And we think we’ll be let off with a solemn promise that we’ll quiet down. But she’s staring again. I hope her surgery didn’t make her become face-blind like me. It will even be harder to communicate.

“What’s going on? Both of you have been acting like ten-year-olds.”

Her face is half smiling and half annoyed. I’m sure what that means, but her tone sounds suspicious. And my face displays guilt like a public announcement.

“Babe….” She zeroes in on me like a Spanish inquisitor.

“It’s a surprise.” My brother speaks. A broad grin flashes on his face.

Vague, but literally true, and I nod in earnest. I don’t know why he looks so happy. Is Mom secretly okay with us having sex? It seems unlikely. Not sure what tricks he’s up to, but I’m bracing for the worst scolding of our lives.

Somehow, Mom interprets it differently, but Samuel doesn’t seem surprised. Instead, she smiles and says, “Oh, you boys are so sweet.”

Once we get to his room, Samuel’s broad grin turns into cold sweat. That was close, he says. And I’ll need a Halloween mask if I don’t learn how to put on a poker face. He tells me we’d be dead if he hadn’t pulled a ‘fast one’ on Mom. Because of that, we need to come up with something to really surprise Mom, something other than us banging each other. Lying on our bed, we knock our heads like we’re on a quest.

“A chocolate cake with marshmallows?”

“For you or for Mom?” He grins.

Then he says, “Why don’t we cook something she likes?”

But I shrug. “Haven’t we done that every meal?”

He scratches his chin, pondering for a long time. Suddenly he jumps up saying, “I know! We’ll perform a song for her. I’ll play the guitar and sing. You’ll do the dancing.”

I love dancing, and so does she. I nod.

Samuel decides on Kanye West’s Hey, Mama, a catchy tune with lyrics to express our appreciation. I don’t have a habit of listening to music when he isn’t around, so I go with his choice. Anyway he’s the boss when it comes to making decisions. The only problem is that I don’t know the proper way to dance for that song.

“Are you going to teach me the steps?”

“No, do your preschooler thing. And dance with your old teddy bear. She’ll love it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

And he flashes the sneakiest grin ever.

That evening, after a dinner of avocado salad and roasted pumpkin, Samuel lays out the dining room like a performance stage. Using clothesline and bed sheets to create a backdrop, he sits on a chair with the mop held upright like a standing mike. He sings and plays the guitar, and I prance around with the frayed teddy bear, swirling around until I get dizzy.

Mom bends over and laughs so hard until she tears up. At first I think she is sad because you only tear up when you’re upset or peeling onions. I don’t recall seeing anyone laugh and cry before, so I’m not sure.

But somehow, it feels good to see her like that. I smile. And when I feel my eyes wet, I begin to understand that people also tear up when they love someone very much. They can look happy and sad at the same time.

After our performance, we have to sit through the usual chat. That’s what Samuel calls Dad’s monologue about the Massachusetts program: how great it is and how excited Professor Hoffman will be to see me there. The three of them sit across from me at the dining table after I serve fruit from the kitchen.

While he talks, my brother and I are busy playing footsy, feeling bored. At first, we try to intertwine our toes like they’re fingers. Then he rubs his feet slowly up and down my ankles while wearing his poker face.

“Babe, is something wrong?” Dad says I look sheepish. Samuel sniggers.

At times, we try to step on each other’s foot or kick each other. When we get carried away and shake the dining table, he pretends to cough and accidentally knock against it.

“Why are you smiling like that, Babe? You’re scaring me,” Mom says. I say I’m feeling happy, which is true.

Blah, blah, blah.

I snigger when Samuel imitates Dad’s face while telling Mom about the success rate for Professor Hoffman’s new program.

The enrollment rate is very high in Massachusetts.

Blah, blah, blah.

We’re so lucky to get a spot for Keith.

Blah, blah, blah.

Are you sure we can afford another loan?

Samuel’s trying to make me laugh, so I cover my mouth with both hands before Mom and Dad hear me and I get into trouble. In the end, I’m saved by Mom’s phone.

Oh, hi, Mrs. Jenkins! Yeah I’m fine.

The boys are fine, too. Why?

By then, both of us have sneaked off to clear the dishes.

 

# # # # #

 

Every night when the lights are off, I sneak into his room through our shared bathroom as if it’s a secret tunnel. My room door is left unlocked, but I lock the bathroom door from the inside, leaving the lights on. Samuel says if they come by, they’ll think I’m there. I don’t understand the secrecy, since we share beds occasionally, especially after we watch late-night movies.

That night, he surprises me with a makeshift blanket fortress. He uses the clotheslines from earlier to create a canopy tent around the bed. It’s an old game we used to play in Portland when he was in elementary school. He locks his door and switches off the lights. It is dark except for the backlight on his phone.

He lifts the blanket and lets me crawl in. It is exactly how we used to play, with the pillows propped at the sides like sandbags, flashlights as cannons, snacks and candies lying about. But instead of comics and computer games, there’s an iPad, Vaseline and tissues.

“For our new hobbies.” He grins.

And I blush. Pretending I didn’t hear that, I pick up the iPad and ask, “What are we watching?”

“X-Men.”

It’s another one of those shows which you don’t need to look at the actors’ faces to know what’s going on. Most of the time, they are in suits and masks, shooting lasers from their eyes or their hands. The thing I like about the show is that it revolves around a group of people who are in a special school. Sounds like what’s going to happen to me.

We spend two hours watching and popping M&Ms. Mom would be so mad if she knew I’m eating sweets at night, though Samuel thinks its inconsequential considering the rest of our crimes. If you are going to be sentenced for life, you might as well be naughty all the way.

At the end of the movie, a gust of wind blows in with a few rustling dried leaves.

Autumn is approaching.

It reminds us of our remaining days together. Soon, I will be in an institute for special students, like the X-Men.

“That’s where you’ll be. Just like them,” he says softly, with a pensive smile.

“Yeah, but without the superpowers,” I say.

“Oh, but you do have superpowers.”

He wiggles his eyebrow and smiles wryly when his hand moves down over my bum.

I laugh when he swoops down to bite my ear like a flesh-eating zombie. He loves teasing me, watching my ears turn red before I run somewhere to hide. But he traps me under him. Between his rippling arms and legs, snared by his thick, virile scent, caught by his gaze, there is no escape.

It’s been a while since we made love, and his smile is pure lust.

So I reach out my hands to touch him, to feel his neck and his broad shoulders, down his hairy chest, along his taut waist, until I slip a hand under his shorts, to feel the long appendage between his legs that makes us brothers.

His eyes are curious, and his cock is hard. He smiles and looks at me. Suddenly, he asks, “How is it like to be… you know?” He looks earnest but sensitive. It’s like he’s afraid I will feel offended.

“To be fucked?” I ask.

Boys in school are very defensive about such things; appearing submissive to other boys is highly offensive to them. They are like a pack of animals trying to dominate each other. Jokes about that can turn easily into fights. But I don’t know why it is such a big deal, so I tell Samuel as a matter of fact, “It’s nice and awful at the same time, like letting someone read your journal. It feels very intimate but unsettling.”

“Do you ever find other boys attractive?”

“Why do you ask?”

He shrugs and says, “Just wondering. I don’t recall you interested in anyone before.”

“Boys are disgusting. Most of them stink, and they’re mean.” I say, except for him and Peter.

He looks puzzled, he said. “Erm… but I’m a boy.”

“No, you’re Samuel.”

I don’t know why he finds it so hard to understand. I ask him, “Am I supposed to find other boys attractive?”

People can be weird at times. How do you find someone attractive without knowing them? Before he can answer, Mom knocks on his door.

Samuel? Is Babe in your room?

“Hold on a second, Mom!” he shouts. Then he whispers to me, asking me to hide in the bathroom until my woody is gone.

I shoot up and do what he says. Behind the closed door, I can hear their muffled voices.

I think he’s in the bathroom, Mom.

Why did he lock it?

Jerking off I guess, who knows. Want me to check on him?

No, it’s okay.

Good night, Mom.

Whatever mood he was in is gone by the time I come out. He collapses on to the bed, making a thud as he sits down. His face is ashen when he blows out air through his mouth.

I approach him, but he holds out a hand to listen to the noise outside his room. It’s just leaves rustling. Not footsteps.

“I think it’s better that you sleep in your room tonight. Just in case.”

I am disappointed. I ask if it’s okay if we just sleep with each other, no poking dicks or anything. But he says it’s better to play safe.

Before I leave, he strokes my hair gently and says, “We can’t do this forever, you know. The whole world will hate us.”

He looks scared, but I’m not. I don’t care about how the world thinks, except for Mom and Dad, of course.

“Who cares a fuck what they think?” And I surprise him with his own line.

The world will always find something to hate. They used to jail couples in interracial marriages, and they used to jail two boys having sex with each other. They still do in some countries. Jails will run out of business if they stop.

People just need a punching bag, and there will always be one every generation. So long it doesn’t affect anyone they know or want to know, nobody should care.

“Don’t look so sad. It breaks my heart,” he holds my cheeks and says softly.

I feel sad thinking about our impending parting. But I feel nothing but gratitude for him.

He’s taught me so many things that I would’ve never learned on my own, not in my lifetime. I would’ve taken a million calculations and still not begin to comprehend. But falling in love is to live and experience the incomprehensible.

Without knowing love, I wouldn’t have understood many things: like why my father, rational as he may be and a scientist in his own right, gets irrational when it comes to Mom’s likely demise. My detachment must seem cold and callous to Dad.

Love chains you to another person, gut to gut. It’s like your arteries are no longer connected to your body but to the heart of the person you love. And you, also, rely on their blood for your heart to function.

Maybe that’s why when love is severed, our heart breaks as a result.

Before I leave his room, Samuel calls out to me,

“Babe, let’s go back to Eden. No one will watch us there.”

The air feels heavy when I leave his room. I don’t understand all this secrecy, since we aren’t doing very different things than before. We occasionally sleep in each other’s bed, or hold hands, or peck cheeks. He’s never seemed to care.

Samuel isn’t usually afraid of what others think. He never hides and ducks; he’s always the one who tells me to stand up to others. Unless, he thinks what we did is disgusting. That’s why he’s so afraid of people finding out.

Unable to sleep, I surf the internet to read about incest. Samuel says we’re criminals, which I think is a figure of speech. I know public wanking can get you jailed because it upsets people. And Samuel does behave like we’re criminals. So I searched the Wyoming state-legislation website.

Twenty-five years imprisonment for sexual relations between family members in the State of Wyoming, United States of America.

I snap the laptop shut when I see it. No wonder he gets so scared. It doesn’t matter to me as long as they put me in a solitary cell. But it will crush Samuel utterly. He is terrified of being trapped.

Will Mom and Dad call the police if they find out about us?

Will they find out from our towels? Or can they take samples from me to test? I’ve read somewhere that such forensic tools are available. Maybe it’s not such a good idea to have sex at home anymore.

I go to sleep thinking about my brother sleeping beyond the wall. Are we going to be separated by fear even before we part? I can’t wait for tomorrow to come, so that we can be alone in Eden.

 

# # # # #

 

A sanctuary is a place where you feel safe. Just like Eden. I have the strangest feeling, as we pack our food into our bags and as I smile at him when he steals sandwich fixings from the refrigerator, that we’re heading home.

Our home.

He bites his lower lip and grins when he flashes a bottle of Vaseline at me. Dad walks in and sees us. His eyes look at the bottle.

“Where are you boys going?” he asks.

“Um, we’re going out with Peter and gang to swim at the lake,” my brother lies. Dad nods his head and points to the Vaseline,

“You might want to use sunblock instead. Aloe vera is good.”

“Right. We’ll get it along the way. Got to go, Dad,” Samuel says. He hurries me along even though we haven’t got everything packed. He casts me a look and mouths that we’ll buy Vaseline along the way. Before we leave the kitchen, Dad says to us, “Samuel, look for me when you’re back. I want to talk to you.”

For some reason, Samuel drives his RX8 instead of taking the bike. His face is a steely mask while he drives. I ask him what he’s thinking. He says how he is going to make me the happiest kid on earth. What he doesn’t say is that it’s already August, and our days are numbered. And what I don’t say is that I’d be happiest if only time could stop.

But I don’t think that’s the only thing on his mind. I don’t press because I want him to be the happiest guy on earth, too. Neither of us wants to let anything else spoil the remaining time we have.

He looks at me with a smile, happy and sad. There are no cars ahead, just a long lonesome road flanked by deciduous trees, leaves turning red and yellow, ready to shed at the approaching autumn. His eyes seem to say,

Let’s flood our memories with nothing but love.

Our legs dip into the rushing river while we lie on the rocks sunbathing in the warm morning au naturel. Birds soar above us across the cloudless blue skies. The air smells of water, rocks and moss. The fragrances of late-summer flowers, morning dew, morning woods and bigtooth maples are mixed in the scent.

We relish the occasional wind on our skin; our privates rarely get fresh air and sun like this. The wet rock cools off some of the searing heat, but we occasionally sit up to splash water on ourselves.

The sound of gurgling water, whistling birds and whizzing bees sings to us. The teeming woods and their branches nod away with the breeze, sweeping up the rustling leaves like a waltz.

Our bags, our clothes, our phones and all other man-made contraptions are laid safely aside in this luscious green enclosure. Far ahead, above on the railway bridge, a train passes by. I tense up. We could’ve been seen.

“Do you think they will arrest us?” I say.

Samuel opens his eyes and smiles at me. He picks up a maple leaf plastered on the wet rock and places it strategically over my groin.

“There you go.”

“I don’t mean for being naked. I mean us.”

He folds his arms behind his head and grins, “Are you scared?”

Actually, if we’re jailed, we won’t have to worry about the world hating us anymore. There’s nothing else they can do.

“No. I was just wondering if they can put us in the same cell.”

He bursts out laughing, shaking his head like I’ve told him a joke.

“What’s so funny?”

He pulls my head in to kiss my forehead, “God, I’m so going to miss you.”

He is smiling, but he sounds sad.

Twelve days before our summer ends, and I can’t help but count the remaining 17,280 minutes. He asks what I’d like to do together – kind of like a bucket list for us.

I say I want him to take me on a road trip, show me somewhere new.

I want to visit Uncle Rob’s ranch. I want him to win the rodeo belt for me at the fair.

Go on a wild adventure. Scare the shit out of me so I can cling to him for dear life. Camping? It doesn’t matter, as long as we are together.

“You’re greedy.” He grins and kisses me, “Anything else?”

“Yeah, I want you packed inside my luggage to Massachusetts.”

He laughs. And he kisses me again, longer, deeper and more tender this time.

His eyes are brooding when I look. But he closes them as if he doesn’t want me to see what’s inside. When our tongues and lips part, I ask him, “Do you think Dad will change his mind?”

He looks at me, measuring for a moment before he says, “I doubt it, Babe. But I’ll try.”

“What happens if we fail?” I ask.

He draws in a breath and mutters, “Then we end things here.”

I didn’t really expect it to be more than a summer fling; I know my brother very well. But it still stabs me.

“What we’re doing is wrong,” he says with pained eyes. As if I need an explanation for us to end someday. I close my eyes, unable to see his face, when he says, “But to see you grow up without experiencing love, that would be even more wrong.”

He puts a hand over mine; the other hand gently wipes off my tears. He continues, “It’s easier not to care. No one will throw a stone at me for that. But I can’t. You are precious to me, Babe.”

I sniffle, opening my eyes to look at him.

He looks at the raging river, and continues, “And I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life if you never had anyone at all.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Dad warned me not to encourage your dependence, but I do it anyway.” He looks away, taking a deep breath and says, “I’m selfish. I need you to worship me so that I can believe in myself.”

“You don’t have to do that. I would worship you anyway.”

I am perturbed; it’s like he’s doing it out of pity and guilt. “Do you like what we’re doing?”

He looks at me, measuring my eyes to see how he should respond. He takes his time to answer, but at least he’s not wearing his poker face when he says, “It feels different but nice in a way. It also feels very wrong, but somehow that makes it thrilling.”

Then almost looking embarrassed, he says, “And very intimate, too.”

One who’s accustomed to strawberries may find the occasional chocolates refreshing. But he won’t eat chocolates forever. Eventually, when the novelty and the indecency wear off, he’ll lose interest and find it awkward.

But for now, I believe him.

“Come, let’s head back to the enclosure. It’s more private there.” He takes my hand as we get up from the rock. It’s good to feel his fingers again under the broad daylight. Good to be naked with him under the clouds, within the woods, with butterflies and dragonflies as our only witnesses. Good to lie beside him among the flowers, our limbs entwined and our cocks pointing anywhere we want.

I belong here and not among people. And for the first time, I truly understood how Samuel feels about being caged by the world.

I thank him for showing me so much. I won’t forget this summer.

Knowing love is finding that single equation that makes all other mathematical conundrums solvable.

I will pay dearly for the lesson. But no regrets.

Because I am grateful that the butterfly decides to rest on me at all. Even for the briefest moment.

“It’s Samuel again.” My brother sits up and looks at a fluttering butterfly landing on my chest. We immediately recognize its bright red wings. The same butterfly which we named after him.

“He likes you.” He smiles.

“Samuel likes me,” I respond, looking at the beautiful patterns on its wings. My brother moves slowly, close to my ears, careful not to startle it. Eyeing the butterfly, he says softly, “Samuel loves you.”

I wish time would have stopped that very instant.

He gets up and casts a conspiring glance when he plucks a fern. It is an old game that we used to play here, pretending to be Shamans and Indians. It is almost a forgotten game, a juvenile fantasy. But somehow, after sharing copious amount of bodily fluids, looking childish in front of each other seems dumb.

“Come on it’ll be fun,” he says.

Then he plucks more ferns, weaves some kind of tribal headdress, taking the mud from the river bank and smearing my body like some kind of war paint. He is right; it is fun.

After hours of gearing up, we start a fire as dusk approaches. He takes a small packet of herbs from the bag, rolls it up in a paper and lights it. It smells really funny, not like his usual cigarette.

“I think it is illegal.” I remember cops warning us during school talks.

“So? You got no balls?” He flashes a cocky grin and shakes his hips around, dangling his balls on purpose to make the point.

I laugh.

After a while, he gets even crazier. He prances around the fire, holding long branches as if they are spears. Our bodies are naked except for our headdress and war paint. He makes funny sounds that are supposed to be battle cries. He howls at the moon, laughing like a lunatic, his resonant voice echoes in the woods. And I join him.

He is utterly electric that night.

Like a swirl of raw energy, a force of nature: brute, wild and jubilant. All his limbs, even his dangling dick, are flying about as he fights against imaginary foes. He imitates Bruce Lee to make me laugh, punching the air and kicking leaves. Then he points a broken branch at me like a sword, face serious like an insulted warrior, demanding to know why I’m laughing at him,

“You sound like a dog in heat.”

Immediately, I regret peeving him because he charges at me, crying out for blood. I scream as he chases me around the enclosure. He’ll make me pay dearly for my insolence. I laugh and I cry.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry!

Too late! I’m getting your ASS!

And once I’m exhausted, he pins me down to the bed of soft earth and tender grass. I beg for mercy, but I expect none. But he loves my pleas. He gives me an evil grin and says, “You can do better than that.”

So I kiss him gently and then put my hands around his waist, telling him how much I love him: how I love his protectiveness and bossiness when he’s gruff and when he’s gentle; how I love his crazy antics and crazier philosophies of life (they make sense of the world); how I love his broad glistening shoulder, his taut waist, his rippling body, fur everywhere.

He smiles and leans down on me, whispering while he rains kisses on my cheeks. “I love you, too. I love your soft cherubic face,”

And he nibbles my earlobes gently and says, “…your sweet, baby smell.” Fondling my head, and kissing my neck, “your silky hair…” Then he turns me around, presses tightly against my hips, flicking his tongue into my ear and whispering, “…and how you milk me dry.”

He chortles when my face turns hot and red. The harder I blush, the more savage his kisses get. I’ll have love bruises everywhere by the time he’s done, but I don’t care.

I’ll have them as souvenirs to remember this night.

Because we’re making love by the river, under the moon and stars, next to the fire, serenaded by cicadas and crickets.