While my brother had dated girls in high school he did so in a half-hearted way and they didn’t seem to ever do anything for him, things petered out rather than he was dumped or dumped them. The girls at school gossiped about who was going with whom, who’d done what, who was a slut, all the usual. They were careful to not say too much about him to me, but there was the feeling that he might be gay or asexual, for he never tried anything on and they knew that no-one ever lasted long enough for things to get sexual.
If I asked him about what was going on he’d look away and shake his head and look puzzled, if he said anything it was usually non-committal. He didn’t get excited about a date, it was if he was going through a process that he felt was expected of him. A bit after my 15th birthday I talked to him and told him how strongly I felt about him, how this wasn’t just some passing, misdirected, teen-girl crush, that it was something I’d struggled with for a long while. He said nothing for a long while and stared at the floor, finally saying that he felt the same way. There were tears in his eyes as he told me that he’d felt the same for so long he couldn’t remember when it began.
We sat and held hands and talked about what it meant, how dangerous it was and what it would do to our parents, there were just the two of us, no other children. There were the legal implications, incest is illegal everywhere, but hanging over everything we considered was the monumental scandal that any relationship we entered would spark at school. And there was no way that it would be confined to school. We knew that neither of us was strong enough to withstand the tsunami of gossip, innuendo, shunning and ridicule, and almost certain expulsion and prosecution, that us being outed would provoke. This was a conversation that went on for months, it wasn’t crammed into that first afternoon. It seemed insoluble and the fear of the inevitable consequences drew us even closer together. There was nowhere for us to turn.
We talked about what we wanted of each other, we talked about love and companionship, of trust, a total non-issue then and now, how we would conduct ourselves, what the future might hold, what to do about mom and daddy, if anything at all. We talked about sex. We were both virgins, neither of us had had any sexual contact with anyone. No wonder the girls’ gossip had him pegged as either gay or asexual in a time in our lives when almost everyone else was consumed by the how, when, where and with whom of sex, sex with others, sex watching porn, speculating about others, online sex, skype sex, sexual preferences, it was sex interspersed with school, study and despair about sex. And here we were, the virgin brother and sister on the extreme outer fringe of it all, looking in at this swirling maelstrom and wondering how it might possibly apply to us. It didn’t and couldn’t for we were only interested in each other. We went on like that for months, talking, staying together, comfort for each other. No-one knew what we were going through, especially not our parents, it was an accepted part of our lives that we did most things together, we studied together, went to the movies now and then together, nothing that they could have seen or sensed would have alerted them to our predicament. Then one night as we sat together doing homework I pulled him to his feet and kissed him. That was truly the beginning of who we are now. He stood there woodenly as I kissed him so I put his arms around me, my arms around him and then, for the first time, he held me while I cried for a long time. Then he kissed me back.
A completely new world had opened up for us, that first tentative kiss changed our personal landscape in ways that we couldn’t have anticipated. Talk became a flood of words, relief that we could finally talk without the self-imposed fears we struggled with before. Mom remarked how happy we both seemed, saying that she was so glad that we had come out of the dark place we had been in for so long that she had worried about us. Daddy was just daddy, he looked benignly at us and smiled, like most dads he had no idea, mom is the quiet, acute observer, of the two of them the one I was most worried about. Soon after that conversation we touched each other for the first time. We undressed and stood and looked at each other and held hands, then we embraced and kissed. We stood clinging to each other and I took his hands and put them on my front and said that I wanted him to touch me. He was hard and he flinched when I held his penis for the first time as his lover. That’s all we did then and for weeks after, looking and touching. He didn’t put his hand between my legs until I took it and put it there and opened my legs wide. It was a process of discovery and our gradual acceptance of our new reality. I’ve read many accounts of urgent grappling while parents are downstairs, of nearly getting caught, of the excitement of the illicitness of it all, of the urgency that seems better relegated to fiction than reality. It wasn’t like that for us. The first time he put his finger in my vagina my body relaxed in a way that was foreign to me, it felt so totally right, final confirmation I think. I was surprised how much better a finger other than mine felt, that was a revelation. I showed him how to touch me, what motions and pressures worked for me, he learned quickly and became a wonderful, perceptive lover. I gradually realized that David was a submissive, that it was best for him if he were shown what to do and gently guided, it was then that he was happiest.
We didn’t do oral until I was past my sixteenth birthday, that, too, was a revelation. I had no previous way of understanding the intensity of the pleasure it would give me then and now years later. I was equally unprepared for the explosion of his orgasm in my mouth or for the texture and taste and smell of his cum. Initially disgusted, I grew to love its intimacy, his surrender to my mouth. I still wonder why most accounts of male-female sex seem to invariably involve clothes being torn off, bras and panties being flung into corners, the girl being immediately wet and moaning with urgent lust, with orgasms manifested as screams of pleasure, of the boy’s cum flooding her as did her copious squirt. Boys’ penises were always rock hard, precum dripping from them. What we did was pedestrian and very quiet and always ended with us holding each other as our breathing slowed. Often I had to massage and rub David to get him hard, I think his early ambivalence and conflict kept him soft for a long while. We would talk quietly, as we do now, tell each other what had been good and, back then, talk about actually doing it all the way. David was worried about pregnancy, but I was on birth control so that wasn’t an issue for me. He wanted to use condoms, I wanted to feel him inside me for the first time with nothing between us. Until then we were happy with what we were doing together, though we had discovered how good masturbating for each other was. Seeing his cum spray almost up to his chin pushed me over the edge all the time.
Major milestones in our relationship tie closely to my birthdays and it was a week after my seventeenth birthday that we decided to do it.