Mimicking Paul’s performance of that afternoon, we had a total of four “at-bats” that night, four trips for my brother to the bathroom, four disposals of the evidence. It was almost a religious ritual by which my brother had unclothed me, and his manner was almost worshipful as he remained on his knees and slowly buried himself between my thighs, now separated slightly by me to allow his access. They’re not the same. And with that we fell to the bed. We shook together, our sweat-soaked bodies gripping each other until our mutual quaking finally ended and we fell together back into the bed, exhausted by our sexual euphoria. But not with Paul and me. To tag home plate with my brother as we’d hoped and promised for long weeks now. Not here, not now. Finally I couldn’t wait any longer and rose, pulling him up with my hand, and asked that age old question: “your place or mine?” Paul answered by continuing to hold my hand, leading me into the house, up the stairs, my anticipation
