We didn’t have spyholes in the walls or ceilings of my bedroom, my brother didn’t watch me preen in front of a mirror trying my first bra. He didn’t splash cum into a shoe as he watched through the hole he had drilled so carefully in the wall between our bedrooms. My towel didn’t fall off as I “ran across the hall to the bathroom”. I didn’t walk in on my brother touching himself in the shower after sport. He didn’t steal my soiled undies from the washing basket and sniff them while he masturbated. I didn’t pretend to go to sleep with him on the couch in the basement so he could feel me up.
We were perfectly ordinary kids, two years apart who slowly grew more and more close. We knew what was happening, we talked about it. We stopped dating other people and even noticing other people. He took me to the high-school dances. People thought we were just odd, and that was fine by us.
We didn’t have sex until I was 17 and he was 19 and even then it just sort of happened and when it did it seemed so natural that it wasn’t all that special. It became special once we got the hang of it. We did the usual things and they got better and better as time passed. He didn’t make gallons of cum, I didn’t mess his bed with squirting. Why am I telling you this Because the reality of an incestuous relationship is far, far removed from the masturbation fantasies that people often write and pass off as personal experience.
Our parents know and their emotions have ranged from horror, through shame, to loving, if resigned, acceptance. When we come home we sleep in the same bed and they treat us like a married couple. When I was 18 we wanted to tell them and couldn’t find the right words or time, so we set it up so that mom would walk in on us doing it. When you walk into a room and facing you is your daughter’s bottom, she is astride your son, laying on his chest with her legs up beside his ribs and his penis is going in and out her vagina, there really isn’t much to doubt. It’s incontrovertible. So that was what she was confronted by that Saturday afternoon. All she said was, “How long have you been doing this” I said, “A bit more than a year.”
She sat beside us and for a long while and said nothing. Then very quietly she said, “I guess you must be very sure of what this means” We nodded. “I’m sure that we will cope with this, but be patient, daddy is going to find this hard.” We nodded.
That started the irrevocable transformation of our lives and theirs. Initially talking was minimal and rather strained. Daddy didn’t start to ask even vague questions for months, mom said she was talking to him though. When she was alone with us she would ask us questions, we didn’t mind as she was doing her best to understand what this meant and what it implied for our collective future. She asked when I knew that my brother was the person I wanted as my partner, I said when I was 15, that I had always loved him as my brother and that gradually changed into sexual love, a quite different love, that we deliberately didn’t have sex until we were both older, as we were scared of making a huge fuss and perhaps then find that it wasn’t what we wanted after all.
Daddy started to relax and talk to us about our decision about six to seven months after mom walked in on us. He explained very quietly and gently that it was hard for him to accept initially as he had nothing to guide him other than the usual loathing and hysteria of most people’s responses. I loved him so much for doing his best to understand and for not posturing and thundering like some Edwardian or Victorian paterfamilias.
I moved into my brother’s bedroom, we got a new queen double bed and put our two single beds into my old room. Mom and daddy stopped coming upstairs without calling out that they were coming up, we were careful to not display any overt physical or sexual behaviour in their presence, that changed after some months when they both said one day that they felt able to accept us behaving toward each other like ordinary people in love, like touching and hugging and kissing. We were shy of that and took many weeks to relax to a point where we could hug and say “I love you,” to each other in their presence. Over the next two years our household acquired a new shape and dynamic.
It wasn’t the conventional masturbatory fantasy of endless sex, endless cum splattering on me or in my mouth, there were no secret, exciting, dangerous trysts, but we gradually acquired the veneer of normality necessary for us to be lovers in secret, we began living the lie that people like us have to live every second of every day. It would have been much better if we could have occupied a long, hypersexual fantasy into which reality, other than “rock-hard penises” and “wetness trickling down legs” never intruded. It wasn’t and the exigencies of everyday reality, of going to the university in which we were both students, preparing for our future together, buying food, doing the domestic things that occupy so much time, made sure that what sex we did have was cautious and often less than satisfactory because of deadlines for papers and reports, long hours in the library and the tiring bus travel to and from lectures, just like the pressures and time demands ordinary couples juggle. We were lucky that we lived with our accepting if confused parents.
Our reality was one of concerted hard work, of sustained deception, of constantly being aware of the possibility of an eagle-eyed aunt or cousin seeing a gesture or a touch that was appropriate to a “couple” but which was inappropriate for a brother and sister. The only time we ever truly relaxed was when we were in bed at night laying together, often in silence, perhaps after making love. Then we could talk about all those things that ordinary couples can talk about whenever they feel like it. As soon as we left our room the protective barriers had to be in place again until the door closed behind us in our bedroom again at the end of the day. It was a lifestyle that was alien and extremely stressful, but at least one in which we had each other.
I have never regretted a single minute of our relationship. I know that we can never be like couples from different families, but we don’t care. We know that as time passes the likelihood of us getting outed increases, but we don’t care about that either.
Some of you who read this might wonder why I wrote this, it’s because it’s a relief to say the things we have to hide, it might help other couples in our situation, we can’t be the only brother and sister in a country with a population of about 300 million who love each other, and we know what they have been through.