We rolled apart, panting. In the almost-complete darkness — the only window in Timothy’s makeshift bedroom faced the blank brick wall of an airshaft — I strained to make out his face, wondered what he was thinking. After a while, his heavy breathing subsided. I could smell the faint scent of our ejaculation, intermingled with perspiration. Timothy didn’t say anything, and I remained silent as well. My emotions were churning. Part of me wanted to embrace him, to fall asleep in his arms, to seek any intimate contact to fill the hole that had been left in me when our parents forced Lily and me to stop sleeping in the same bed. But I recognized the essential impossibility of that. I liked Timothy as a friend, and I was somewhat intrigued by and attracted to his body, but of course I didn’t feel anything like the almost mystical bond I had with my sister. I was surprised, though not unhappy about what had happened tonight, but I had no clue what direction it would go next. Would Timothy push me away if I put my arms around him? Would he ever want to get off with me again, or was this just a lapse, something that he regretted and would disclaim any responsibility for? I just had no idea what to think, and I fell asleep wondering what I’d say to him in the morning.
It was hot in the small bedroom, and when I awoke to gray, indeterminate day light, Timothy had pushed the comforter almost completely off himself; his half was bunched down by his calves. He lay on his back, his chest gently rising and falling. It was only a little past 5 in the morning, according to the LED clock radio on the desk. I stared at his naked body. The expression on his face was peaceful; his dark hair was tousled and a little damp. He looked soft and inviting. I looked down at his penis, soft, resting in its sparsely-haired nest atop a small, tight scrotum. I could feel my own stir, remembering how he had felt hard and rubbing up against my groin. His breasts — that wasn’t really the right word, they were really just slight swellings commensurate with his overall chubbiness, especially when he lay flat on his back like this — reminded me again of Lily’s, the way they had been about a year earlier. I remembered that that was the image that had sent me over the edge the night before, and hardened fully at the thought. I wondered if Timothy would like it if I kissed him there, if I took a nipple into my mouth and played my tongue over it. It had driven Lily wild. I had a crazy impulse to try but thought better of it. *Not while he’s sleeping, no one would want to wake up to that.* Instead I casually put my hand on his belly, as if it had landed there by accident in the night, and closed my eyes, lightly stroking his skin. I was tremendously turned on, I realized; I wanted nothing more than for Timothy to wake up and play with me. After a while I scooted a little closer and lightly pressed my erection against the side of his thigh, again feigning moving in my sleep. Timothy mumbled something indistinct and I froze. Then he said: “Hey.” It was a friendly “hey,” not too different from when we greeted each other at school. He knew I was awake. I opened my eyes and saw his face close, turned towards me, looking into my eyes. “Hey,” I responded. We fell silent. When I felt I couldn’t just lie there frozen and silent any more, I took my hand off his belly, accidentally-on-purpose brushing the tip of his penis, which was still soft. This evoked a slight giggle from Timothy. He surely could feel my hard-on, still touching his thigh; at least he hadn’t commented or moved away. As if in a dream, I returned my hand to his crotch and cupped his genitals. I could feel him stiffening under my palm. Still looking into his eyes, attentive for any sign that he was unwilling, I encircled his now half-erect shaft and began to stroke. His eyes widened a little but he seemed content with the state of affairs, and hardened fully into my grip. Slowly, as gently and deliberately as I could, I masturbated him, never breaking our mutual gaze. The look I perceived in his eyes was almost one of longing, and it instantly made me feel tender and solicitous towards him. I stroked him almost lovingly, and when he began to tense up and moan softly, I finally broke my gaze and shifted it downward, watching intently as he spurted all over my hand and his belly.
When he had recovered, he reached for my hard-on, but I had a sudden impulse to try something else. I whispered “Wait. Turn on your side -” and nudged him a little to indicate that he was to face away from me. He did so without hesitation. I pulled him into my arms, positioning my erection between his butt cheeks, and my hands on his chest. I was shaking with unfamiliar excitement. With my eyes closed, caressing Timothy’s almost-breasts, with his ample butt cradling my penis, I could almost imagine I was reprising the same position I’d been in with Lily, not so long ago. I envisioned her lying in my arms, and soon I was thrusting back and forth, teetering on the edge of orgasm. I heard Timothy whisper something under his breath, but I couldn’t make it out. I put my hand down to his crotch but he was soft. It felt even smaller than it had looked when he was sleeping. His scrotum was still tightly scrunched up, and I could still feel the wetness from his earlier ejaculation under my hand. Half of me, feeling his pliant breast under my left hand, was imagining Lily; the other half, as I caressed his soft genitals, was reveling in getting so intimate so easily with a good friend. He was still saying something, so low that was almost as if he didn’t want me to hear. On impulse, not even sure I knew why I was doing it, I kissed the top of his head, tasting the sweat on his damp hair. Now I could make out what he was repeating in such a low murmur: “Rooobbb… Roobbbb…” I kissed his hair again and touched his thighs, his belly, his face, then finally his genitals again; when my hand found its way back down there I could feel that he was semi-hard again, and the knowledge that I was turning him on even so soon after he’d come, that I could make his little penis stiffen, that he was murmuring my name, that he was letting me touch him all over, all that finally did the job: I came, hard, ejaculating all over his backside.
We lay like that for a while, wordlessly, and I kept caressing his penis. After a few minutes, I was rewarded as it stiffened again, much to my surprise: I’d never been able to get hard again so soon after an orgasm. For me, coming always put me in a mental state where I longed for physical, skin-to-skin contact, but didn’t need or want sexual stimulation. Nevertheless, I was feeling an intoxicating rush now; not so much sexual arousal as excitement that Timothy was evidently putty in my hands: I sensed that he would let me do *whatever I wanted* to him, with him. That look in his eyes when I’d first reached out to masturbate him this morning… I was getting hot and sweaty pressed against his backside. I backed away a little, continuing to stroke his erect penis. With my left hand, I pulled him over onto his back again. Slowly, never taking my hand off his penis, I lifted myself up on my knees and positioned myself at his feet. Then I put my face down near his crotch, looking up at his genitals from below. His scent was intoxicating: a mix of semen, sweat, and the characteristic, sour-but-not-unpleasant genital odor I knew from the time I had examined Lily’s vulva up close. Tentatively, still stroking his penis with my hand, I took a lick at his scrotum, feeling the ridge at the bottom with the tip of my tongue. Timothy groaned loudly. I began to lick more deliberately, tasting the saltiness. Then I put my lips around the head of his penis. The salt taste was replaced with the odd, slightly soapy flavor of semen (I had tasted my own of course and knew what it was like), left over from his recent ejaculation, and perhaps a small amount of fresh precum. I teased it with my tongue, enjoying his irregular moans and the way he was now squirming around. Finally, I took his entire hard-on into my mouth – it was that small – and simply tongued, tasted, and sucked, as Timothy groaned, shook, and finally, after a few minutes — with a loud sigh — ejaculated a small amount of semen into my mouth. It tasted nice, and I swallowed it, then sat up and smiled at him. He was looking at me with a slightly embarrassed expression, so I said, earnestly, to put him at ease: “That was nice, Timothy.” He closed his eyes and didn’t reply. On impulse, I stroked his hair. He shivered, and said “Rob….” “What?” He didn’t answer. “Let’s get up,” I said. “Maybe we can get breakfast at the Ambrosia before first period.” The Ambrosia was the coffee shop near school where we often had lunch. I’d never had breakfast there but it seemed like a natural thing to do at a coffee shop.
As it turned out, we didn’t have to eat breakfast out. Timothy pulled on his underwear and went to the bathroom to take a shower. When he came back to the room, a towel wrapped around his waist, looking fresh, his hair still wet, he said: “Mom is making breakfast for us.” I left the room and was glad I had put on the previous day’s clothes to walk to the bathroom; it was down the hall and in full view of the kitchen area in the small apartment, and Timothy’s mom – *Alice*, I reminded myself – gave me a cheerful wave. I ducked into the cramped bathroom and showered quickly, wetting but not shampooing my hair to save time, then picked the least used-looking towel and dried myself off as much as I practically could before putting my clothes back on. I hesitated about what to do with the towel – it didn’t seem right to put it back on the rack – and settled on taking it back to Timothy’s room. “What should I do with this?” I asked. “Oh, just put it in the laundry bin in the bathroom,” he said. I’d missed that. I grabbed his damp towel off the bed and dropped it into the bin on the way out to the kitchen to have breakfast.
Alice, I was realizing, was a marvelous cook. Dinner had been simple but delicious, some sort of Mediterranean-seeming vegetable stew with what Alice called pilaf, a word I’d never heard. I’d refrained from joking around with Timothy about “pee-laugh” (something we probably would have cracked up about if we were alone), because it didn’t fit the atmosphere around the dinner table; Alice had been conversing with us as if we were adults, asking our opinion of various things, and — what was even more amazing — actually listening to our thoughts and responding to them. In fact we’d gotten so deeply into conversation that I forgot to praise her culinary skills. This morning she had made an eggy, oniony, green peppery, cheesy thing that she said was a “frittata,” and it was easily the best thing I’d ever eaten for breakfast, instantly replacing my favorite up until then (bacon and egg sandwiches from the deli around the corner from our apartment, which I would sometimes grab if I had time on the way to school). “Alice,” I said, remembering to call her by her first name and feeling both a little awkward and also very grown-up doing so, “this is… this is amazing.” Alice beamed. “I mean it. This is the best thing ever.” She gave me another slice. “When does your first class start?” “Same as Timothy,” I said, “eight.” We had different classes first period, but often hung out before they started. “You both’d better hurry, then.” Timothy and his mom lived on the lower East Side, in a somewhat rundown-looking walk-up building. He was only about a 20-minute walk from school — we’d walked home the previous afternoon – and it was a little after 7, so we weren’t running late, and I was enjoying this odd, intimate, self-contained little family unit so much I was loath to get up and leave, but I thought perhaps Alice wanted us out so she could get ready for work, so I reluctantly stood up. I started to turn away, but then it occurred to me that I ought to at least wash my plate – I’d noticed last night that Timothy had done so towards the end of dinner, but by the time I’d thought to follow his example Alice had already cleared the table and was good-naturedly doing the dishes in the sink. They didn’t have a dishwasher. I turned back around brought my plate and fork to the sink, squirted some detergent on and scrubbed with a sponge, then rinsed it and put it in the drying rack. Timothy and Alice had brought their tableware and was waiting behind me, but since I already had the water running, I motioned for them to hand me theirs. Alice looked surprised, and approving, and did so; I quickly washed it all up the same way. Alice had gone back for the dish she had baked the frittata in – we had eaten it clean up – and said “Don’t worry about the serving dish, Rob. I have to soak it before I wash it. Go on, you two should get to school.” She gave both of us warm hugs before we walked out the door – something else I wasn’t used to; my mom wasn’t much of a hugger, and she had stopped kissing me goodbye when I was still in elementary school.
As we walked to school – it was a beautiful, sunny morning and the Lower East Side streets were full of activity – neither of us found anything to say right away. I’m sure Timothy was pondering the events of the previous night and this morning, as I was. Finally, I broke the silence:”Your mom is really cool.” I meant it; in point of fact, I was almost as glad to have gotten to know her as I was Timothy. He grimaced. “She’s a bit of a pain sometimes, but.. yeah, she’s pretty cool, I guess.” We lapsed back into silence. By the time we got to school, I was worrying that Timothy regretted what we had done that night. He seemed to be in a funk. For my part, I couldn’t make up my mind how I felt: way too much had happened in way too short of a time for me to be able to process it. Questions were chasing each other in my mind. I’d felt unusually close to Timothy pretty much since I’d met him, but before last night we’d simply been friends who hung out between periods, at lunch, or after school and talked about unimportant, nerdy stuff. I’d been attracted to his obvious intellectual depth and, yes, a bit to his body, which had always seemed kind of soft and ambiguous to me. But I had no idea how our friendship, which I valued, would weather this sudden, unexpected sexual encounter. Did he wish it hadn’t happened? Did he think it was shameful, an aberration? I felt confident that I wasn’t gay – I was, generally speaking, more attracted to girls than boys, and the thought of being sexual with a particularly masculine man was a turn-off to me. I briefly remembered that, with Timothy, I’d come thinking of Lily’s body. But I *was* physically attracted to him – perhaps precisely because of his slight androgyny. Was I partially gay, then? Bi? It didn’t seem like anything to be too worried about. If I liked someone a lot and found him or her attractive, why would I mind doing physical things with that person? I thought I felt happy, on the whole, about what had happened last night. Did Timothy feel the same way, or was this causing him mental anguish? Was this going to happen again, maybe on a regular basis? Nothing would ever replace the closeness I had with Lily — my heart ached as I thought of her, and I forced myself not to let my thoughts stray in that direction. But I knew I wanted to see, and touch, Timothy again.
And then, quite aside from all that, I realized that I’d had more fun than I’d had in years just sitting around the dining table, talking about *real stuff* with Timothy and his mother. Alice had made a tremendous impression on me. She was one of the first adults I’d ever met who *listened*, who treated what I (and her son) had to say as worthy of attention, who had intriguing ideas and suggestions and shared them as such rather than as rules and orders. She seemed like someone one could confide in; I let myself have a brief fantasy of telling her about me and Lily and the emptiness I felt now that we had been forced apart, but quickly returned to reality: that was absurd. I knew very well I could let no one know about that, even someone as apparently sympathetic as Alice. And of course I couldn’t tell Timothy either. *Shit* – I thought – *what am I going to tell* Lily? She and I had no secrets. Well, of course, that wasn’t true at all. We shared a great deal, our thoughts, our bodies — *had* shared our bodies, I corrected myself — but I had never told her, for example, about my sexual fantasies concerning other girls (yes, and boys) at school. It had never come up. And of course, once we’d started masturbating each other each night, I hadn’t had much in the way of concrete fantasies anyway; being with Lily was satisfying enough that I rarely masturbated. It was really only now that I could no longer bed with Lily that I’d found myself seriously physically interested in Timothy. I realized, with a bit of sadness, that I didn’t think I could tell Lily about him. At least not the physical part. I just didn’t know if she would understand, couldn’t risk that she wouldn’t.
We arrived at school, without speaking another word, about 15 minutes early. Timothy suggested we go sit in the auditorium, which is where students typically congregated before class started (at least if they weren’t the sort to hang around outside the school entrance smoking, a fairly large contingent in those days). We sat in an empty area, in adjacent seats, and our uncharacteristic silence persisted. Ordinarily, sitting together here, we would have been in animated conversation about any number of interesting topics. Today, I thought, there could be only one topic to talk about, and neither of us was up to it. Finally, Timothy said, hesitantly, “Rob…” I looked at him expectantly. He looked straight into my eyes as if searching for something there. “Hey, man,” I said. “I’m glad about.. about, you know. I liked it.” He looked relieved, but also as if he hadn’t found exactly what he was looking for in my reply, or my eyes. “I mean it,” I continued. “I hope we can see each other again soon.” Timothy turned his head up almost, I realized, as if were expecting a kiss, which shocked me. What did he think, that I was going to kiss him here in the auditorium, in front of hundreds of people? But I saved the moment by clasping one of his hands in mine. He looked happy, put his other hand over mine. We sat there for the remaining time, holding hands, out of view of the crowd. Even the slight physical contact felt good. I moved my arm so that our forearms were touching, remembering the many times before that I’d felt a little excited by that slight, accidental contact, and even contrived to make it happen more often. *Well, that sure panned out,* I thought. Finally, I said, “Well… better get to class.” We let go, gathered up our backpacks, and trudged up to the stairs to our classes on the third floor.
At lunch, hanging out with the usual crowd at the Ambrosia, Timothy was quiet and leaned up against me the whole time in the booth. I had the impression he wanted me to put my arm around him, but I couldn’t imagine doing that in front of all of our friends. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of being affectionate with Timothy, I reasoned. It’s just… the others wouldn’t understand, that’s all. In our social group couples frequently made out in public, and I’d even seen two boys, although not in our circle, who were “out of the closet” as gay, kissing in the auditorium. We were all sophisticated 80s New York City teens on the Lower East Side — we knew what being gay was, we knew gay people, it wasn’t a big deal, even if we joked about it sometimes we would never hold it against anyone. And yet, and yet. I wasn’t *gay*, this was different, even if I was attracted to Timothy, even if I liked him a great deal, even if we had given each other orgasms just a few hours ago… I tried to rationalize why I felt uncomfortable even with Timothy leaning against me here as we drank our Cokes. It was a private thing, that was all. It was none of the others’ business. And yet, as we walked the two blocks back to school, lagging a little behind the rest of the group, Timothy’s hand brushed mine repeatedly. I knew he wanted to hold hands and in the end, just before we got there, out of sight of the rest of our friends who had just turned the corner, I thought *what the hell* and clasped his hand. It gave me a weird and slightly excited feeling, as if I were being very transgressive with this insignificant little act. I could feel myself getting aroused. Nevertheless, I let his hand go to catch the door as we arrived at the building, and didn’t take it again when we were inside.
That afternoon we met after school, on Timothy’s suggestion, to hang out a little. I called my parents from a payphone to say I’d be home later than usual; they were a bit miffed that I hadn’t called before staying over the night before, but didn’t object. (When I look back with today’s eyes it seems surprising that our parents were so casual about my not calling for so long, but that was what it was like in the 80s. They’d known I was with a friend the previous night; that was apparently enough for them not to worry, although they would have preferred that I call.) Timothy and I walked over to the Village. At some point he reached for my hand and I allowed him to take it. The streets seemed anonymous enough, and besides there was nothing strange in that neighborhood about seeing two people of any combination of sexes holding hands. It felt a bit like when Lily and I had come down here to shop and, afterwards, walked around hand-in-hand like a couple: then, too, it’d seemed somehow safe, because it was unlikely we’d be seen by anyone who knew us as brother and sister. Of course, the chances that someone would recognize Timothy and me here downtown, not far from school, were much higher, but, mentally, I shrugged: *que sera, sera,* as my mom would say. Timothy looked happy and I was enjoying the little bit of contact too. It was nothing like walking with Lily, but I *liked* Timothy, liked walking hand-in-hand with him, liked that it evidently made him happy too.
As we walked down Broadway, passing Canal Jeans, I thought about that recent excursion and the disaster that, indirectly, it had precipitated. It had been several weeks since the “catastrophe,” as I’d started to think of it, and I’d spent much of that time feeling hollowed out. Of course Lily and I had stayed as close as we could; we’d sit side by side on the living room couch after school, pressing our bodies together as much as we dared, talking in a low voice, and flinching guiltily away from each other if we heard footsteps. At night, before we went to our rooms, we’d hug each other tight in the hallway, and sometimes we’d dare to risk an open-mouthed kiss for a few seconds if our parents were in the kitchen or living room, far enough that we’d hear them coming. And once Lily, fresh out of her bath and wearing a long bathrobe, let it fall open in front of me, and I looked at her naked body for what seemed like an eternity frozen in time, then quickly kissed her breasts and hugged her, my arms around her waist under the robe; as we embraced, I lifted my t-shirt up so as at least to feel a few brief moments of close contact. But it didn’t help. Years of sleeping in each other’s arms every night had made it the central fact of my life. Sure, giving each other orgasms had been wonderful, but I’d been able to bear losing that, had returned to masturbation (and assumed Lily had done the same). Now I had even found an outlet with Timothy. (I realized I’d been getting hard, thinking about Lily naked, holding Timothy’s hand.)
No, orgasms were replaceable. What I despaired of ever feeling again was the deep happiness that I’d derived from simply being close to Lily every night. We’d been sleeping, skin-to-skin, entangled in each other, since that sweltering night we’d shed our pajamas. Lily had been eight, I had been twelve. And that had already been after several years of bedding together as young children; the serendipitous discovery that it was so much nicer if we were barely wearing anything had not then changed the fundamentally innocent nature of our routine. It was only once Lily herself had begun to feel the stirrings of puberty that we had progressed to exploring each others bodies in a sexual manner, and while it had certainly added a marvelous new dimension to our relationship, it was just icing on the cake, so to speak; the *essence* was still the embrace afterwards, the drifting off to sleep holding each other, the waking up never having let go. Now Lily was twelve, and I was nearly sixteen, and our parents had suddenly decided we were too old to bed together — and I would have given up all of our sexual discoveries to go back to just cuddling and rocking ourselves to sleep each night, and waking each morning in each other’s arms. It was no use. *Fuck Canal Jeans,* I thought. Rationally, I knew that the day could have come even if hadn’t been for the trivial argument that prompted Mom to enter Lily’s room uninvited as we cuddled, asleep, in a “compromising position.” Our parents, sooner or later, would probably have discovered one way or another, for example, that we were sleeping naked. Or they might, even without knowing anything about what we were doing, have just decided arbitrarily at some point that we were too old to be sharing a bed. But I still deeply regretted the day I had taken Lily shopping, the day that ended with my life being shattered.
I suddenly felt angry. They didn’t understand what they had destroyed, how they had cheapened what Lily and I had with their “it’s just not *done*” — by insinuating that there was something improper about what we’d been doing. What we had was almost sacred. We had been two complementary halves of a whole, separated each day, reunited each night, nourishing and replenishing each other. Now I felt permanently unmoored, wild, *hungry.* *Fine,* I thought childishly, *if they thought* that *wasn’t proper, they should see me now.* I squeezed Timothy’s hand and he looked up at me, a question in his eyes. Without even thinking about it, right there on Broadway, I bent over and kissed the top of his head. He looked surprised, and immensely pleased, but didn’t say anything. I had an erection, wanted to have Timothy naked, pliable, next to me; to do whatever I felt like with him, knowing I could reduce him to a moaning mass of ecstasy, knowing he’d let me, knowing I could satisfy, at least for a little while, the hunger I felt. I steered him towards Washington Square Park and we sat close, on a bench, amidst the faint wafts of pot smoke, watching the scene with the NYU students and the punks and the old hippies and the homeless and the rest. I had my arm around his shoulders and he leaned against my chest, and after a while I put my other hand on his crotch, and my backpack on top. He was hard; it still felt small under his clothing. No one was paying us any mind, or nearby enough to notice anything; we were just a random pair of high school kids, making out on a park bench, in probably the one place in the world where it was least surprising that we were both male. Hell, Timothy could almost have passed for a chubby, short-haired girl. In full sight of the world, I slowly began to massage him, over his jeans, as he breathed hard against my chest. When he put his hand on my crotch, I gently pushed it away; I didn’t want that, right now, and it would have been too hard to conceal. I squeezed his little bulge in a rhythmic gripping motion. Soon he began to squirm around and I pulled him tighter to me to hold him still, my other hand resting on his breast. When he began to groan, I bent down and kissed him on the lips. The look in his eyes was of shock and delight. I used my tongue to coax his lips open and, as we began to kiss in earnest, redoubled my pace. Soon Timothy broke the kiss, gasped, moaned “Rob…” and came under my hand. I could feel the wet spot spreading on his jeans, kept my hand there for a while, and waited for him to calm down. “Rob…,” he repeated. I looked him in the eyes, said nothing. After a while he began to giggle, a little nervously, and I smiled broadly at him. We sat there wordlessly a little longer, then, finally, he broke the silence. “Can you stay over again tonight?” I thought about it, realized I couldn’t. I had to get home, especially after not warning my parents the previous night that I wouldn’t be home. I needed to change my clothes. I needed a long, hot shower in our own bathtub. *I needed to see Lily.* “Sorry,” I answered. “My parents weren’t too happy that I didn’t tell them I was staying over last night, plus I don’t have a change of clothes. Maybe tomorrow?” Timothy looked happy. “We’d better get back home; my parents are going to throw a fit. And your mom” — *Alice,* I thought — “is probably wondering where you are, too.” He nodded.
When he stood up, the dark spot on the front of his jeans was visible. It looked almost cute, as if he’d wet himself like a little kid. I joked that he’d better hold his backpack in front of him on the walk home and his ears turned a little red; I suddenly felt kind of bad. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean…” Timothy said, “It’s OK. It was worth it! I’ll change when I get home, no big deal.” “OK. Next time I guess…” I left the sentence unfinished. We walked over to Broadway and parted at the subway station; he was within walking distance of home, whereas I had at least a half-hour subway ride uptown. He looked up at me like he wanted to kiss at the subway, but I felt suddenly embarrassed to do that next to the steady stream of people going up and down the stairs and settled for lightly punching his shoulder. “See you tomorrow, man. We can hang out again after school, and if you think your mom won’t mind, I’ll bring a change of clothes so I can stay over.” He grinned widely. “Bye Rob!”
Dinner was nearly ready by the time I got back. I wanted, desperately, to sit next to Lily on the living room couch, to feel her next to me, calming me down, recentering me, but I told Mom that I felt gross after wearing the same clothes a second day in a row and that I was going to take a shower and change before dinner. Standing under the hot water, which pounded my back much harder than the somewhat anemic flow in Timothy’s shower, I felt almost like I was outside myself, observing myself in the third person. *He relaxes under the shower. He looks pretty good, tallish, blond hair, blond curly pubes. He is still aroused, his penis is standing straight up, reaching for his belly button. He is touching himself…* I sighed, began to relieve myself, confused visions of Timothy and Lily swirling in my head. It couldn’t have taken longer than 30 seconds before I felt the familiar pressure building; I forced myself to concentrate on one image, of Lily letting her bathrobe fall open in front of me. I groaned quietly and spurted semen all over the shower wall, then diverted the shower spray to wash it off. When I got out, I felt calmer, almost light-headed. I changed into a fresh pair of jeans and T-shirt and went to the dining room, where the table was already set for dinner. Lily was helping Mom carry the food in and I joined, bringing the big platter with the pork chops. “How was your sleepover?” Mom asked, in the kitchen. “Oh, we had fun. Played around with Timothy’s home computer, stuff like that,” I said, vaguely. Lily whispered to me as we walked into the dining room together: “I missed you!” I suddenly felt terrible. I forced myself to look in her eyes, praying that I wouldn’t start crying. “I missed you too, Lily.” She smiled, and as always when she did, I felt warmth suffusing me.
After dinner we sat for a long time on the living room couch, the lights dimmed, my arm around her shoulder. Mom and Dad apparently were giving us our privacy, or at least had something else to do; after a while, I took Lily’s hand and began to stroke it. We didn’t say much; we didn’t have to. I could feel all my anxiety subliming away, as I held my little sister’s small warmth next to me. She smelled nice, and I nuzzled her hair a little. Finally she sighed, and whispered: “Touch me, Robbie!” I put my hand on her tummy, under her blouse, and stroked it in widening circles. The side of my hand was bumping up against the bottom of her bra. I cautiously put my fingers underneath and pulled the stretchy material away and up, freeing her small breasts. She looked up and I bent my head down to kiss her. As we played our tongues against each other, I cupped one breast, then the other, toyed with the stiff nipples, made circles around them with my fingers. Lily put her hand on my crotch, but once again, as I had with Timothy, I gently moved it away. I was aroused, but didn’t really want the direct stimulation right now. For a moment she was at a loss, then began to stroke my shoulder and arm. It felt wonderful. I kept touching her breasts, keeping one ear out for footsteps. Mom and Dad had gone into their bedroom; I figured we’d have time to disengage if I heard them coming. Lily had begun to clench her thighs rhythmically. I could sense the slight, musky odor rising from there, even through her jeans. After what seemed like an eternity – I was getting nervous that we were sure to be interrupted any minute now – her breathing got shallow and fast, and then she breathed in sharply and, trembling, had her orgasm. I held the kiss with her throughout, let up when, finally, she relaxed. “Oh, Robbie. That was nice.” My heart was pounding. I’d missed her saying that, so much. I looked at her slightly disheveled form in the dim light. Even as tall as she had gotten recently, she seemed small, vulnerable, not so different from the little girl who had first crawled into my bed half a lifetime ago. I felt no sexual arousal now, just a desperate need just to hold her in my arms all night again, feel her body against mine, drift off to sleep entangled with her and wake up, renewed, the same way. And the knowledge that this was the one thing we could not do was agonizing. I started to speak, realized I didn’t know what I was going to say, closed my mouth again. Gently I pulled her bra back down and removed my hand from under her blouse. “Lily, …” There was nothing, really, I could say. Finally, I just responded to what she had just said. “I’m glad.” She rested against my chest and I sat there, arm around her shoulder, stroking her hair with my other hand. Presently, I realized she had fallen asleep. I was near drifting off myself, but eventually woke her up, whispered “Lily… we should go to bed.” Sleepily, she got up, and we walked down the long, long hallway, to our separate rooms.