Litkicks Message Board Archive

repost of incestant-for you gothicpunk

Posted to Poetry

Under a universal roof, we shared a room, convienintly.
There would be no sneaking. No need for that.
When the lights went black and the moon was up,
when the glow of the X-Box went dim, or when the pc
was clicked to shut-down mode, my night would begin
again as so many that preceeded.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't have a problem with
the situation at all. The only thing that did bug me
was his seeming need to play this stupid game
of creeping over to me after I'd lay down and
the room was dark. He'd lay down in his bed, and
then after a few minutes of silence, or of listening
to me breathe, he'd slip out from under his sheet
and creep over to my bed. It was virtually the
same ritual every night. Like he was pretending that
I didn't know this was gonna happen. Like this was
something that hadn't already happened scores of
times before. He'd creep on over, and lift my blanket.
After a nudge (which wasn't necessary, I knew enough
to scoot over), he'd crawl in bed next to me and we'd
begin our secret- nightly- linear love.
I may be confusing that last word with something else.
But that's what it was to me. I don't know his
line of thought as the nightly events came to pass,
but I knew mine. Maybe as he kissed me there in the
dark warmth of my bed he was thinking of a girl
he saw at the pool. Maybe as I kissed him back
he was thinking of his ex-girlfriend, who gave him
her virginity before dumping him for a varsity
football jerk. Maybe, as he pushed the top of my
head, gently guiding me downwards under the
covers, he was seeing a streaming 45 second
vid clip from an adult website. Maybe as he felt
me take him in my warm mouth he was thinking
"Wow, Sondra never felt like this!" or maybe
"Damnit, I'm a sick fuck, but I can't keep away
from you! Please forgive me."
Hopefully it was never the latter of the two.
Hopefully, as I'd turn my back to him, and
rub against his hardness , inviting him in,
he knew that I wasn't having a problem
with the situation. Night after night, the
near-same events would occor. Night after
night, I still loved it. Why couldn't he talk to
me about it? I mean, after all, we couldn't
have been more intimant, you'd think he
could say anything to me. I dunno. Maybe
it was just too much for him to speak of, even
though he kept on doing it. Maybe as long as
he didn't verbalize it, it wasn't really real to
him. Maybe fucking his brother was challenging
his masculinity a bit too much.