Sicksicksick.
001.
My brother; my flesh, my blood.
It's so sick.
I'm so sick.
Sick, sick, sick.
How could I? I'm his older brother, for Christ's sake.
I'm supposed to be protecting him from school bullies and pyschopathic ex girlfriends. I'm not supposed to be thinking about him like this. He should be the furthest thing from my mind in the middle of the night, while I'm lying in my bed, with a tent pitched.
I shouldn't be taking my pajamas and wristwatch off ready for a cold shower, wondering why the hell the mental image of old men in Speedos wasn't helping. If I was any normal person, with a normal object of affection, I'd be doing something about it.
Sick, sick, sick.
I can't exactly jack off over my little brother, can I? I'm so frustrated.
I should be jacking off right now, imagining it was the hand of some gorgeous blonde with big tits and a nice arse, or my [imaginary] girlfriend's slender fingers, not my own sweaty palm. I definitely shouldn't be imagining my little brother slowly dropping himself on his knees, licking, biting my skin all the way down, leaving marks, signatures, reminding me that he would be back, claiming me, handling me roughly, before half swallowing me...
Oh, shit.
What a disturbed eighteen year old I am.
Sick, sick, sick.
Only, I can't taste the putrid flavour of my half digested last meal, I can't feel the burning in the back of my throat from the traces of stomach acid. Why am I not repulsed by thinking of my brother like that?
I tell you why.
Because I'm perverted. Sick.
I want to feel him, to touch him. To have him scream in my ear. To just have him.
Just to have him like me.
He hasn't liked me since I started pot, five years ago. He hasn't looked at me in the same, "let's be kids" way he used to. He now looks at me as if he pities me, as if he wants to kick me into shape. He was at the age where the schools all hire stage companies in to put on plays about the horror of drug abuse. He hates me, I can tell. For the record, the drug abuse is more of a heaven than a hell.
Actually, I bet it's all the substances that have made me this sick in the head. I'll blame them, since I have no other excuse. I'll say it's brought on a different kind of sickness, not the alleged allergic reation to such as small amount of Ecstasy, like in one of the plays.
I want to scream at those stage companies, they helped turn him against me. He would still think of me as an older brother if he had not seen half of those. He wouldn't consider me as the shell of a human that he is unfortunate enough to be brother to.
Oh God, I bet he's figured something out! I bet he's worked out my sickness, and he hates me for that too. I bet he knows.
Just one night of drugging him into something won't hurt, will it? Of course not. I won't do anything he'll have evidence of in the morning, I won't leave him any clues. If there was traces of activity in the morning, he'd pass it off as a wet dream, wouldn't he? One pill of ecstacy will make him forget what happened. One line of coke wouldn't get him addicted if he didn't know he'd done it. One joint wouldn't screw up his lungs. Surely not.
But I'd never forget. I'd never forgive myself. I'd be taking advantage of him, while he was in his fucked up state. I'd be the equivilent to a one night stand for him. Plus, I'd steal away with his innocence. Heck, he's not even gay!
It doesn't matter to him, how I'm here, in my room alone, thinking of him. I bet he knows, and he's ignoring me, just to wind me up.
It doesn't matter, though, does it? Because I'm just a teenager, and it's just a teenage crush. Just something I'll get over in time. Not love, because I'm a teenager, and teenagers never fall in real love. Not the Romeo and Juliet sort of love. Only in books.
It's so sick.
I'm so sick.
Sick, sick, sick.
How could I? I'm his older brother, for Christ's sake.
I'm supposed to be protecting him from school bullies and pyschopathic ex girlfriends. I'm not supposed to be thinking about him like this. He should be the furthest thing from my mind in the middle of the night, while I'm lying in my bed, with a tent pitched.
I shouldn't be taking my pajamas and wristwatch off ready for a cold shower, wondering why the hell the mental image of old men in Speedos wasn't helping. If I was any normal person, with a normal object of affection, I'd be doing something about it.
Sick, sick, sick.
I can't exactly jack off over my little brother, can I? I'm so frustrated.
I should be jacking off right now, imagining it was the hand of some gorgeous blonde with big tits and a nice arse, or my [imaginary] girlfriend's slender fingers, not my own sweaty palm. I definitely shouldn't be imagining my little brother slowly dropping himself on his knees, licking, biting my skin all the way down, leaving marks, signatures, reminding me that he would be back, claiming me, handling me roughly, before half swallowing me...
Oh, shit.
What a disturbed eighteen year old I am.
Sick, sick, sick.
Only, I can't taste the putrid flavour of my half digested last meal, I can't feel the burning in the back of my throat from the traces of stomach acid. Why am I not repulsed by thinking of my brother like that?
I tell you why.
Because I'm perverted. Sick.
I want to feel him, to touch him. To have him scream in my ear. To just have him.
Just to have him like me.
He hasn't liked me since I started pot, five years ago. He hasn't looked at me in the same, "let's be kids" way he used to. He now looks at me as if he pities me, as if he wants to kick me into shape. He was at the age where the schools all hire stage companies in to put on plays about the horror of drug abuse. He hates me, I can tell. For the record, the drug abuse is more of a heaven than a hell.
Actually, I bet it's all the substances that have made me this sick in the head. I'll blame them, since I have no other excuse. I'll say it's brought on a different kind of sickness, not the alleged allergic reation to such as small amount of Ecstasy, like in one of the plays.
I want to scream at those stage companies, they helped turn him against me. He would still think of me as an older brother if he had not seen half of those. He wouldn't consider me as the shell of a human that he is unfortunate enough to be brother to.
Oh God, I bet he's figured something out! I bet he's worked out my sickness, and he hates me for that too. I bet he knows.
Just one night of drugging him into something won't hurt, will it? Of course not. I won't do anything he'll have evidence of in the morning, I won't leave him any clues. If there was traces of activity in the morning, he'd pass it off as a wet dream, wouldn't he? One pill of ecstacy will make him forget what happened. One line of coke wouldn't get him addicted if he didn't know he'd done it. One joint wouldn't screw up his lungs. Surely not.
But I'd never forget. I'd never forgive myself. I'd be taking advantage of him, while he was in his fucked up state. I'd be the equivilent to a one night stand for him. Plus, I'd steal away with his innocence. Heck, he's not even gay!
It doesn't matter to him, how I'm here, in my room alone, thinking of him. I bet he knows, and he's ignoring me, just to wind me up.
It doesn't matter, though, does it? Because I'm just a teenager, and it's just a teenage crush. Just something I'll get over in time. Not love, because I'm a teenager, and teenagers never fall in real love. Not the Romeo and Juliet sort of love. Only in books.