A Work of Art
Not a journal
Ninth Entry
I went upstairs. Toby’s door was shut. I knocked on it. He didn’t answer.
“Toby, I need to talk to you. May I come in?”
No answer.
Should I just open the door? I doubted it would be locked. We didn’t lock doors in our house. We respected each other. If he was angry at me, he’d be even angrier if I broke the trust the family shared. And it was more than a fair guess that he was angry, and it was at me.
“Please, Toby? I don’t ask much of you. Can’t I just talk to you?”
I heard the bed make a slight noise. I thought he was getting up. Then the door swung open, hard, fast, and Toby was there, still holding the knob, glaring at me. “What the fuck do you want?”
I couldn’t ever remember Toby using that tone of voice or that word with me. I took a step back. I couldn’t even remember him being angry with me and nothing like this. It shocked and upset me even more than I already was.
I had to speak to him, though. Somehow, I found the courage to answer. It was too important not to.
“What you saw. I have to talk to you about that.”
“What, to tell me you’re fucking gay? Is that it? You’re gay?”
I was hoping it wouldn’t go like this. Well, if it would, it would, but I couldn’t let that distract me. I still had to talk to him, if for no other reason than that I had to protect TJ.
I have to admit, I have a temper when I get mad. It happens very rarely, but it does happen. And his being mad at me for being gay made no sense, and his anger was fueling mine. I’d been ready to cry. That was gone and now I was ready to explode. So, I had some fire in my voice when I responded. “Yes, I’m gay. But that shouldn’t bother you any. Why would it? You have friends who I know are gay. At least one of them is. He’s out. So why all the anger about me? This is bullshit.”
If he could swear at me, I could swear, too. I didn’t see any problem with letting him know I was angry, too.
I continued before he could speak again. “Well, be angry if you want to, I’ve got to say this, and you’ve got to listen. TJ isn’t out. I’m not, either. I can’t stop you from telling people about me if that’s what you want to do. You want to throw me under the bus for some reason that I don’t see, go ahead and do it. But not TJ. He’s not done anything to you. It’s not fair to out him.”
Toby was looking at me with anger on his face, but his expression was changing. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking; I couldn’t read his face at all. Then he turned around so his back was to me. He walked to his window and looked out. He just stood there. I did, too. I couldn’t leave till I had something from him. I had to know what he was going to do, and if he wouldn’t commit to anything, if he just kicked me out, I had to decide how to deal with that.
Finally, he turned around. I still couldn’t read him. He stepped over to his bed and sat on it. Then he looked up at me.
His voice was softer, less angry when he spoke. “Why? You need to tell me why.”
“Huh? Why am I gay? How do I know? I just am. We are who we are, Toby. You know that. I was born this way.”
He was shaking his head as I spoke. “No, I know that. Why haven’t you ever told me you were gay? In fact, why haven’t you told me anything?” He was heating up again. “You haven’t truly spoken to me for four years. Why now? It’s driven me crazy, not understanding. For four years, it’s been like I’d done something and you wouldn’t tell me what it was. We used to be close. We were part of each other, part of each other’s lives. I loved that! Then you ended it. You wouldn’t talk to me. You never joined me in anything. You shunned me. I sort of get why you avoided the athletic stuff, you just weren’t into that, but the rest of it? Why? Why cut me out of your life?”
Was he serious? He was the one who’d pulled away from me. I never wanted that. He was responsible. Not me.
“That’s not true! I never broke us up, Toby. You did! I’ve missed you. A lot. But you just stopped talking to me. You do your own thing, you have your own friends and I don’t even know who they are, you don’t eat with me at school, you haven’t for years now. You date and don’t tell me anything about it other than what I hear at dinner. I’m sure that’s a sanitized version; it has to be, and you keep your life entirely private from me. Brothers always talk about stuff like that. You don’t. You don’t come in my room, either; you don’t join me for TV shows; you don’t join me in the pool. Nothing! And it hurts. It hurts bad and has for four years!
“I’ve learned to accept it, but I’ve always hated it. Now you’re trying to tell me it’s my fault! Come on. Get real. It’s all on you.”
He looked stunned. “It was you!” He was looking even angrier now. “You stopped talking when we were ten. I don’t remember exactly when, but I think it was when we were ten. But you talk to me about having your feelings hurt. How do think I felt about that!? You just stopped talking to me. You stopped coming into my room. You shut your door so I wouldn’t come into yours. You avoided me, avoided speaking to me. You started spending a lot of time in your room. You couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with me and so stayed up here alone. You rarely spoke at dinner. You didn’t talk to me at school. And this is somehow supposed to be my fault? Explain that! And tell me why! I’ve wanted an explanation since elementary school. That’s what I meant by ‘why?’ Not why you’re gay; why you broke us apart. I still want an answer!”
He’d started off sounding angry. All the way through that diatribe, his voice had been losing its edge, getting softer, and by the time he stopped, he just sounded upset, but not even as upset as sad. But he was still meeting my eyes, and in return, I was getting more and more angry. How dare he try to blame this on me!
I could answer every accusation he’d thrown at me, and I did. I did lower my voice, though. I wanted us to talk this out, and yelling at him wouldn’t help. “I never, ever, had a problem being around you. It was the other way around. You always left me. You went out to play with or be with your friends, and I was never included.”
He kept his voice calm, too. “You didn’t want to be! I always asked you to come with me at first. Always. I was always disappointed when you said no. You kept saying no, so eventually I got the message: you didn’t want to spend time with me. Being upstairs in your room alone was better than being with me.”
“That wasn’t it at all!” Okay, so much for calm. I was fuming. “I didn’t want to play football in the street or basketball in one of your friends’ driveways. I spent time in my room because I liked to read and didn’t like being bumped around doing stuff I wasn’t good at and didn’t enjoy. It wasn’t to avoid you at all. It had nothing to do with that. It isn’t true that I wanted to avoid you.
“And shutting my door? You’d come upstairs and turn on your radio, and I had a hard time reading. So, I closed my door. So what? You didn’t want to talk to me anyway!”
“Oh, no you don’t! That door was already shut when I’d come upstairs! And dinner? You stopped saying more than you had to there, too. I ended up having to do most of the talking.” He wouldn’t let any of this go. I didn’t get why he was so upset; that he was, there was no question.
The response I came up with wasn’t all that great. “Well, I didn’t have much to say since I was in my room a lot.” I realized that sounded a bit defensive, but I had to explain myself, and right then that meant defending what I’d done. Then I went back on the attack.
“You were the one with an exciting life to talk about, and I wasn’t included in that, so you did all the talking. You talked about your sports and your friends and the girls you were dating. What was I going to do, talk about the book I was reading? I didn’t have any friends to talk about. Of course I didn’t have much to talk about at dinner.”
He didn’t answer right away. He did listen to what I said, and I realized I’d been sounding more and more defensive. Well, screw that. I’d spoken the truth, and what it was was what it was.
I’ve already mentioned he was smart. Smarter than me. He didn’t respond right away, just stared at me, and I could see he was thinking. I saw his eyes change. He looked away, then back at me, and I saw some of that intelligence in his eyes. Eyes which were no longer showing any anger. Suddenly they were showing empathy. Eyes that reminded me of how he’d looked at me when we were ten. When he spoke, I didn’t hear any anger at all.
“And now you’re with TJ. Are you boyfriends? Do you mess around with him?”
“That’s my business, and anyway, you never have said why you were so mad, seeing us kissing.”
“I wasn’t mad at that. I was mad at you. Still am, but maybe I’ve figured something out. We need to talk about this some more. I just realized something. You pulled away from me when we were ten. We were just starting puberty. That, maybe . . . well, that might have been when you started feeling things, noticing things, and started to realize, to accept, that you were gay. Is that right?”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure where he was going with this.
“And you’d always been a little more timid than I was. I don’t know why I’ve had more self-confidence than you, but it’s always been true. So, you started being aware you were gay and realizing its implications, how it could affect you at school, and that could explain why you started withdrawing. You didn’t want anyone to know you were gay. What was the best way to do that? To isolate yourself! If no one knew you or could talk to you, they’d never figure out you were gay. So, you put up a shield. Even now that I can see that, though, I’m still pissed that you included me in the ones you were keeping at arm’s length, but maybe, just maybe, that was what happened and I misread the situation.
“So, okay, you pulled away from the world and from me, too. It was how you reacted to discovering who you were. But why me? We were so close. Why include me? You had to know me better than that. I’d be on your side no matter what. I don’t see how you could misread me that badly, but I guess you were only wrapped up in your own fears. I mean, realizing you were gay, coming to terms with that, yeah, that was a big deal.”
It seemed to me he was simply pouring out some thoughts he had. I didn’t want to think about that. Not right then. He still hadn’t answered the question I wanted explained. So, I asked again.
“You pulled away from me as much or more than I pulled away from you. You have to admit that. And if you say you didn’t, you were always okay with me, then why didn’t you ever just ask why I’d changed. Did you do that? No. Well, why not? And why so much anger now?”
“Now, because you’re my brother, and you never told me such an important thing: that you were gay. You hid that from me, and seeing it just made the fact you’d turned away from me hurt even more and seem more final. I’ve been kind of mad at you for a long time for abandoning me. But now this? On top of all the rest? Yeah, I got pissed. But maybe . . . tell me, you say you thought I’d pulled away from you. I thought the same in reverse. Why didn’t you jump me about it, say something? Explain that.”
I wasn’t going to let him get away with that. “Why didn’t you!?”
He almost smiled. He seemed to have forgotten he was mad at me. “Okay, me first. That’s how it always used to be with us. I’d go first, and you’d follow if it was safe. I didn’t call you out for ditching me, because I was pretty sure I’d done something to damage our relationship and didn’t know what. I thought telling you I didn’t know what it was would just make you madder. And then, you seemed happy enough without me, and I thought maybe you preferred it that way, and so asking you about it, well, I was young, not even a teen yet. I guess maybe I had a little too much pride to open myself up and find out I’d done something so bad. Kids have an excess of pride, and that was me; you learn how to swallow that a little as you grow older. I’m sorry now, but I was hurt, and that’s how it went.”
Then he just looked at me. Now it was my turn. I dropped my eyes. I didn’t have a very good reason for not confronting him. Only an embarrassing one. But we were talking, and he wanted to know, and I wanted to keep him talking. This was the first time we’d really talked in years. I didn’t want to cut that short. I’d missed him, missed our closeness badly, and now we were talking. Maybe there was a way to reclaim some of what we’d had before. So, I answered him. And did it with the truth.
“I . . . I thought you didn’t like me anymore. Maybe you even felt contemptuous of me. I wasn’t like you. I couldn’t do what you could. You’re so good at everything, and I’m not. You were having fun, a full life, and why would you want me in it to drag you down? So why ask you about it when I was already pretty sure I knew the answer, and hearing it spoken would just make the hurt worse? If I asked, and you just scoffed at me and told me to get lost, it would have been awful. I was afraid of being hurt even more.”
“Hurt, huh?” Toby looked very skeptical as he spoke. “You were hurting that we weren’t close any longer? You never showed that. Never. I had no idea. I was the one hurting. Not you.”
“I was,” I said, “and I missed you a lot. Hey! I can prove to you how much you were in my thoughts. It’ll embarrass me, but so what? It’s worth being embarrassed if it means maybe we can clear this up. You want to know what I’ve thought about you? I told you; I missed you. I missed us. I can prove it. Wait here a second.”
I went into my room and grabbed my laptop and a picture. Brought them back. Gave them to him. “You never come into my room, so you haven’t seen that picture. Mom only made this one copy, and I grabbed it. It’s of us. It was taken just before we broke apart. We were in the pool and Mom called us out to take a picture of us. You were looking straight at her with the stoic expression you always used for pictures. You always said smiling at the camera made you look dorky. And me? I was doing what I did so often back then. I was leaning against you, staying close. I like the picture because it shows how close we were and how I felt about you. What I felt about us and . . . well, I love this picture.”
I had to stop for a moment to collect myself. Then I continued.
“I’ve had it by my bed ever since I got it. I see it every day. It shows how we were, how close we were.”
I hesitated, then finished. “If I hadn’t been missing you so much, that picture never would have sat where I’d see it first thing every morning and last thing every night. Ever since we were ten. I loved you then, Toby; I still love you. And miss you so, so much.”
He looked at the picture. Stared at it, and I saw his face soften. He looked at it for a long time. Then he set it aside and motioned at the laptop. “What’s this for?”
“I’ve been writing something, sort of a blog, but sort of not one—just something I’ve been writing. I’m still trying to categorize it. I haven’t decided what it is or whether I’ll ever show it to anyone. I never meant for you to see it. But you’re in it. A lot. Read it and you’ll see that I’ve been disappointed we weren’t the same now as we had been. I don’t know how to prove what I’ve been feeling all along any better.”
He stared at me again for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll read it.”
-- -- -- --
I can’t believe it. Things with Toby are back where they were when we were young, and in fact, we’re probably even closer now! I’m watching him like a hawk, however. He really likes TJ. They’ve gotten very close. I don’t have to worry, really, because Toby is not the slightest bit gay. He doesn’t care at all that I am, and that I am gives us something more to talk about. Man, are we ever talking! But TJ might be a little fickle, and Toby’s built a lot better than I am. So, I’m watching.
Toby talks to me about all the girls he wants to, uh, that he wants, and I tell him about all the cute boys I ogle. And how being with TJ makes me feel, too.
Toby doesn’t have any experience, much less than I do. But there’s a reason for that. I’ll get into that in a bit. We’re spending time together now, and he’s even suggested we move back into the same bedroom. I’d think I’d go along with that except TJ isn’t eager for an observer when he spends the night here, while we’re frolicking. I love having him spend the night. I’ve never had anyone do that before.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I’ve decided Toby was right. I should have figured it out myself, but being smarter, he had an advantage on me. He nailed it. I pulled away from everything, him included, because I realized I was gay and initially was ashamed and frightened, and I never really got past that. I’ve now read a bit about boys realizing they’re gay and how they handle that. Some are able to accept the fact they’re gay without much of a problem. Others often pull away from people and become very reserved. Not all gay boys do, but that’s how some react. That’s how I reacted.
Now that I’m not so worried about being gay—a cute boyfriend has that effect—I’m getting more involved in social things and spend a whole lot less time alone in my room. I’m spending more in Toby’s, too.
Oh, and this’ll be my last entry here. Yeah, sorry about that, though as no one will ever see this, there’s really no reason for an apology. I started it because I wanted to know if I had any talent as a writer and to see if I would enjoy it. I don’t know about the talent aspect yet—though Toby says I have it up the wazoo; I think that’s supposed to be a compliment.
He’s the only one who’s read what I’ve written, but that makes me one for one from reviewers, which is something. But I do know I’ve enjoyed doing this and will continue. But not with this sorta, kinda semi-blog. I want to write something that can be seen, and there’s way too much salty stuff in this for me to go public with it. I may write a blog, but if so, it’ll be about school life and the kids there, and maybe I’ll print out copies or post it online so people can see it and comment on it.
But before I end this, to complete it, there’s one more thing to clear up. Anyone who’s somehow found this whatchamacallit, whatever it is, you actually should probably stop reading now. I’m just writing this last part for Toby. He said he wanted a copy of this printed out for him, he’s going to keep it, and he wants me to finish it in the same vein the rest of it is in. So, for the rest of you, goodbye, and thanks for reading this far.
For Toby only, here goes.
-- -- -- --
The two of us were talking about the nudity we’d all experienced at school. We are friends again, close again, twin brothers again, and that means we can tease each other. He was teasing me about being as large as I am. He said he wasn’t jealous, but I wasn’t too sure about that. Then I remembered how he hadn’t answered the question Missy had asked about jerking off. He and only one other boy, Tony, hadn’t answered that. I thought it odd at the time. Now I could find out why.
“What was all that all about, not telling Missy about jerking off? Tony was reluctant, but maybe that was because he was going first and didn’t know how or whether the rest of us would answer. But you wouldn’t either. Why?”
He blushes. For Toby to blush, well, that is something to marvel at. Toby doesn’t embarrass easily. He almost never blushes.
“I guess I can tell you. Actually, I want to tell you. I’ve been thinking about it. I wasn’t sure I had the courage to ask, not yet, not today, but when I got brave enough. But now that you’ve asked, okay, I can do this.
“I didn’t answer because I don’t do that. And there was no way I was going to say that in front of everyone. Afterward, I knew I should have lied and just said anything at all, like daily, or three times a week, or whatever. But I was so put off by the question, I just sort of froze. Didn’t even think of lying. Tony had got away with it, so I just did what he did.”
“You don’t do it? I . . . I don’t get it. Everyone does it. Why don’t you?”
“Okay, you’ll think I’m a retard, but I’ll tell you. I tried it when I was 12, or maybe almost 12. You know me, Artie. I’ve always been impatient and just rush through things. Games, homework, everything I can so I can get to the next thing. Whatever I’m doing, I’m already thinking of what’s next. When I first tried jacking off, I started rubbing myself and if felt good, and the longer I did it the better it felt and so—like I need to explain this to you—I was impatient, me being me. I wrapped my fingers around it really tight and stroked it really hard, and I guess it was too hard because, in my excitement, I hurt the skin around the tip. It got really red and sore. I stopped. Never finished. It scared me, and I almost told Mom but couldn’t bring myself to do that. Not Dad, either. He’s always liked you better than me, and I just couldn’t. Anyway, it only took a few days, and it healed up and got better.”
He keeps right on talking before I can deny that about Dad. “So, a few days after that, I thought I’d try it again. It wasn’t still sore by then, and so . . . But the same thing happened. I didn’t know any better, and I was too rough again, and this time it got really sore. There was even a spot of blood, and it took even longer to heal. After that, well, the whole thing didn’t seem worth the pain. Other guys talked about it and how good it was, and I just went along with it, but I stopped trying. I thought maybe there was something wrong with me, with my dick, but who could I ask? At that age, it was too embarrassing. How was I supposed to tell anyone I was having trouble jacking off?
“What I really wanted to do was talk to you about it, but I didn’t know if you were doing it or not and thought maybe you weren’t, and that maybe you’d think I was weird, talking about that, and we already weren’t speaking, so I never did ask you about it.”
He’s looking down into his lap. Probably afraid to see my reaction.
What my reaction is, I get off my chair, walk over and sit next to him on the bed. I put my arm around his shoulders. Sorta like that picture where his arm is around me. And I say very softly, “I can show you how, and it won’t hurt a bit.”
He looks up then. I can see his eyes start to light up. He likes the idea. His liking it gets me a little excited, too.
“When?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I just go into my room, came back, and start undressing. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. No hard-ons sticking out of zippers or underwear. We’re going to do it the way it’s supposed to be done: naked.
He sees me undressing and begins doing the same after shutting the door. When we only have underwear on, I push mine down and off. I’m already hard. Two seconds later, he’s just as naked and just as hard.
I’m larger, but we’d both known that would be the case, and neither of us comments on it. It doesn’t matter at all. My plan was to demonstrate, jacking myself slowly and seductively and asking him to copy me. He has other plans.
“Artie, will you do me? I’m afraid. I have this complex built up, I guess. I think the best way to lose that fear is for someone other than myself to do it and show me how it’s supposed to work, how it’s supposed to feel.”
He’s almost pleading. This is my twin, and he wants my help. Is it wrong to do that? Is it incestuous?
At that point, I don’t care, don’t even think about it. I’m helping my twin brother. I go for it.
I tell him sure, no problem, and reach down and take his erection in my hand. I’m quite experienced with this, having had lots of practice. According to TJ, I’m a great hand at it. (Okay, sorry. I’ll move on.)
I stroke him very gently, my hand closed around him but using very little pressure or friction. He immediately gasps. No surprise there. I doubt he’ll last more than a minute or two. Fourteen and never had an orgasm? Yeah. Quick.
So, I stroke very slowly and only brush up against the lip of the head. I want him to enjoy this as much as possible. I gently stroke him for about a half a minute, and he’s already breathing hard. Wiggling around uncontrollably. So, I stop.
“Hey!” he says and is so upset with that and eager to get back into it that I almost laugh. But I know laughter is exactly the wrong thing at that moment. I only stop for one reason.
“You’re going to love this,” I say, and squeeze some of the K-Y jelly I’d brought from my room into my hand. Then I grip his boner just a bit more firmly, just a very little bit, and stroke all the way up over the crown and back down. He wriggles and fists his bedspread, and I do it again and once more, and he explodes like Old Faithful. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but that’s what it looks like. I didn’t know the stuff could shoot that far.
I keep stroking gently, not hitting the head at all for another 15, 20 seconds. Till he stops pulsing. At that point, I probably should say something, but I have much more urgent business that needs my attention.
He watches as I take myself in hand to get rid of the sexual urgency that has been building in me since we began this adventure together. Doesn’t take me any longer than it did him, either.
-- -- -- --
I’m happy to report that he’s now on a regular schedule, like probably all the 14-year-old boys in the world. And that we’re really close again. Neither of us could be any happier.
There was one more thing, though. You’d think Toby, after that first time, would have just been okay with whacking off alone and gotten to it. Not a chance. He’d had years of fear, and it was pretty much like a phobia by now. He very much liked the idea and the act itself, but that fear still lingered, and it was off-putting for him. He still wanted support and help, and he was my brother. So, every time, which was often more than once a day—needing to make up for lost time was how he put it—I was asked to provide that. It was moral support, but tactile, too. He did ask with bright eyes and a wonderful grin, and who was I to refuse? Not after our relationship had returned to what I’d dreamed of for so long. And, as I said, we were maybe even closer now.
I told TJ about it, of course, and he wasn’t happy, but he negotiated a settlement with me. Toby and I were to put a time limit on this, and then, never again! I saw his point. As we were boyfriends, that sort of stuff should be limited to the two of us and no one else, twin or not.
So, we did that, and after two weeks, I began weaning Toby. By the end of the month, he didn’t need me anymore. But he never stopped being thankful.
There was another strange thing that happened. Being with him, talking to him seductively while the weaning was in progress, getting him excited enough to venture forth with his own hand, encouraging him with my voice—it was good for me, too. I’d been way too tightly bound, socially and vocally, for way too long, and because of that, I needed to exercise my vocal skills and be able to think of things to say, and this gave me that opportunity: I talked him into his orgasms. What fun!
So, we helped each other. It brought us closer, this very private thing we engaged in so often. We progressed back to the way we’d been at birth and so many years afterward. We had found ourselves again, and at home and in school we’d catch glances at each other and we’d smile a special smile. Just like when we were six. Rather like my smile in that picture that still sits by my bed. We were there for each other again, and we both knew it.
But that’s what’s bringing this to a close. I don’t need to write my daily experiences and thoughts anymore because I’m no longer so bottled up inside myself. But I won’t stop writing. I love doing that. Writing this was partly responsible for winning Toby back, and I won’t stop. I might write a blog for the kids at school. And I have this neat idea for a story featuring Isaac and this kid he falls for who loves making out with him but is terrified of being outed. I think I could make that into something interesting.
The End