He’s 5’6″ (which is about 1.70 metres) and he’s lean. He says he’s attached – a girlfriend, I think – and he has this fat 7.5″ cock which he likes showing off, especially when guys perve on him while he’s masturbating. We’ve spoken before. He says he’s my little bro. We’re into the same sort of thing; with him it’s Asian pussy. We say we’ll go and pick up a girl in a bar and bring her home and then he wants to see his big bro fuck her. He wants to go down there and open her pussy for me and watch my cock go in and out. He doesn’t mind sucking on it, and licking my balls while I’m fucking her. But what he really wants to do is jump on my back while I’m fucking her and whisper in my ear: “Fuck her, bro. Give it to her.”
I want to feel you against my back, I say. I want to feel your cock pressed against me and your hairy chest rubbing against my back. Tell me to fuck her, I say. Tell me, little bro.
And then when she’s gone, he says, you and me can hang out and watch some porn and talk about the pussy we’ve fucked. I want to do it for real, big bro.
He says he wants to sit on my lap while we’re hanging out, he says he wants to feel my arms around his lean body. He wants to feel my cock pressing against his arsehole, my cock slippery from fucking pussy, and if his big bro wants to slide his cock into him, then he’s up for that. He wants me to pick him up, to lift him up and carry him around while my cock’s inside him, while his big bro’s fucking his little bro.
I’m in London, he’s in Sydney. This is about the power of the imagination, how the mind creates the illusion of sensation – the smell, the touch, the taste, the visuals – out of desire and voice. We are creating a scene, a feeling that this is real, that we are actually together in a room, even though we don’t imagine the room, but it is small and dark and warm, a kind of stage, or womb, to contain us and allow us to do whatever we say. There is no memory and no thought of the future, the only thing that exists is what we’re imagining now as we talk, me and this man who is (in my imagination, for what else is there?) – he is what he says he is, short and lean and hairy-chested, big-cocked. He is my little bro. And even though I have a real brother, a younger brother, this fantasy that we’re creating does not feed off the real relationship. Perhaps because he is much smaller than my brother – who is 6’3″ and muscular and dark – and perhaps because I am too scared to make any connections. Incest is not one of my fantasies.
There are two brothers on X-Tube who fuck. A clip of them is here. I find it disturbing and erotic. There is something about the realness of it, the unporn-ness of it that makes it perverse and uncomfortable and sexy. Maybe it’s because they talk to the camera, because of the confessional nature of what they’re doing, their awareness of being watched. But also the love and the power-play between them, bordering on the abusive, or manipulative. or coercive.
Imagination creates reality. Fantasy can shape your life. What you imagine can become real, it’s the mind’s way of telling you what you want, it’s a thing pressing out of a cocoon, to be allowed to live or to perish. Fantasy gives us a few moments of happiness, of calm, of reassurance, of forgetting. It transports and transforms us. For those moments that we are little bro and big bro, nothing else in the world exists, nothing but him and me and our voices and our minds and our desire. All the world is this. This is our reality. Doing this over and over again – for we have done it at least a dozen times in the past few months – creates the possibility of re-enactment in the world, of acting out the fantasy, and I think (I don’t like saying this, because it sounds sex-negative, even homophobic, but I think it’s true) – I think that we as gay men have very little between what we fantasize and what we do when it comes to sex. We have been denied our love fantasies for so many centuries, that I sometimes think it is because of that that we act out our sex fantasies. That love gets distorted into S&M.
When I’m talking to my little bro I feel this huge love towards him. I want us to be together. I want that closeness. But really it’s just his voice that I need, a voice in my ear, a voice – his voice is velvety and sincere (there’s something almost inconsolable about it) – a voice that will ease me out of the day and into sleep. These fantasies are the stories we tell each other at bedtime. Stories that are real, like the princess who is saved by the prince, like the Secret Seven and the Famous Five, like Raskolnikov, like the characters in a Bolaño novel, like Hester Prynne and Saleem Sinai and Billy Budd, all the fictions we rely on to calm us and feed us and make the rest of our waking hours inhabitable.