BUTTERFLY KISSES

My little brother has always been James — not Jim, not Jimmy, not Jimmer,
not Jay — just James.

Since he was five-years-old, he preferred his full identity. He was
barely out of training pants before he was correcting the foolish adults
who dared to invent a diminutive. I guess I knew even then he was a
demanding little man in a little boy’s body.

Me? I’m Marky…four years older than him. When this story took place, I
was 15 and he was 11.

No name rules required when you talk about me. The “y” has been at the
end of my “Mark” since before I can remember. I figure the longer I keep
it, the longer it’ll be before I’m forced to grow up. So, call me Marky.
Baby-talk me. I don’t mind at all.

James was a blond boy — a striking contrast to my own dark brown hair.
Mine was lighter too at his age, but darkened as I entered puberty and my
body decided to take off in its own random directions.

I was proud of my brown hair and matching brown pubes. Nothing special.
Nothing more than any of the other guys I eyed up and down in the locker
room, lustfully and secretly. I was comfortably equal. Normal. No cause
for developmental alarm, but no cause for cocky showing-off either. I had
what they had. It worked fine for me.

James was lighter, softer — his pubic hair was wispy and straight, just
coming in — not curled and obvious like mine — but downy and nearly
invisible — his body just entering that delicious, mysterious stage
between boy and teen.

I don’t think I really harbored any lustful, deviant sexual desires toward
my younger brother. I knew he was an attractive boy — no, actually a
pretty boy — with light blue eyes and fair, soft skin. It was the kind
of skin that glows a youthful perfection, unblemished and creamy —
shining sweetly in any light. The kind I would have wanted to touch and
taste if he hadn’t been my brother.

I was well aware of my own impending homosexuality — something I viewed
with a curious mix of unfazed tingling and dooming eventuality. I wasn’t
quite sure I wanted to be gay at 15, but I knew my sailboat was headed
toward that particular shore, and unless the wind changed drastically,
there wasn’t much I could do but lay out on the deck, look at the boys in
the locker room and enjoy the waves.

“Hey Marky,” James said, smiling at me slyly. “I learned something from
this girl in school today. Wanna see it?”

I looked up from my monitor where I was working on a book report for
English. Bored out of my mind. Fuckleberry Fucking Finn.

He was standing in my doorway in shorts and a t-shirt. I think he was
already hard, but I couldn’t tell from a distance. I’d seen him jacking
off before, so I knew it was possible. I used to peek my head in his door
at night, passing in the hall on my way to the bathroom. I stole secret
glances and watched him writhing in his own self-delight, smiling at the
memories of my own, earlier, erotic discoveries.