Baseball offers itself with euphemisms for love, sex, and in this case sibling love.
“Ann, could you please go and tell Paul it’s time for dinner?”
“He’s at baseball practice, isn’t he, Mom?” I replied. My brother was the star second baseman on our high school team even though he was only in his junior year. Just a year behind him, in my sophomore year, it was impossible to avoid the stories of what a sports phenom my brother was. In fact, we were a baseball family; Dad had been pretty good at college, Mom played for a while for her corporate fast pitch team, and I had my own chops.
“No, that was yesterday. He’s over at the Cartwright’s house, mowing their lawn.”
“Won’t he come home when he’s hungry?” I listened for a moment and couldn’t hear a lawn mower across the street and didn’t want the distraction of an errand.
“No, he’s probably too focused on what he’s doing. Please just go and tell him it’s dinner time.”
And with that I put down the book I’d been reading and headed across the street. I couldn’t see Paul in the Cartwrights’ front yard so wandered around behind their house, noticing both cars were gone, but still no Paul. I glanced into the garage and saw the mower stored away, checked the lawn and saw that it was freshly cut. A mystery: the Case Of The Missing Brother.
Walking again around the house, this time on the other side, I suddenly noticed movement through a basement window. I crouched down and…mystery solved. There were Paul and Brittany Cartwright. Mom, as usual, was right: my brother was pretty focused on what he was doing. On the couch. Lying down. Heavily…ummm… “engaged”. I moved away from the window so as not to give myself away and watched, amused. I shouldn’t have been surprised; Paul was a good looking, very fit guy - at least that’s what all my female classmates and friends said. And Brittany was pretty in a girl next door way (even though she lived across the street) and was, well, very well developed, as they say, for her sixteen years. Curves in all the right spots and I know a couple of D-cups when I see them even though with my C-cups I wasn’t envious. At least not on that score. I was happy with my body and all, including my breasts, its accessories. Fewer curves than Brittany, for sure, but, I thought, a lot more athletic.
There was lots of kissing; I could see that was the case. And as I watched I could see Paul’s hands on the move, trying to get somewhere. But Brittany’s hands were just as active, pushing Paul’s hands back to more acceptable places. More acceptable to Brittany, obviously. But I could see from his persistence that Paul was still in the game, still swinging for the fences. I smiled to myself at the quiet scrimmage that was happening on the Cartwrights’ basement couch. But, despite having no envy of Brittany’s body, I felt just the slightest jealousy at the kisses themselves. My shameful confession: I’d never really been kissed.
I know, I know; sophomore and never been kissed? What gives? I’ve already established that physically I was, I thought, attractive. At 5’ 4” and 120 pounds I was in excellent physical shape and, I knew, was reasonably attractive. I’d been on dates, yes, but most of my social life had been in groups and our small crowd didn’t really go in for a lot of public necking. Mainly we were friends; male and female, it didn’t make a lot of difference to us. And my childhood had been spent in sports, often playing with Paul and his friends. I was a good enough baseball player that I was often chosen to play on one or another of their pickup teams. And I made our high school girls’ baseball and soccer teams with no real trouble. As a result, I surmised, I was seen as the tomboy sister of Paul, more a teammate than a potential date of love interest. So, yes, I was jealous.
Jealous? Did I say jealous? Maybe envious is a better fit. I wanted to be kissed, envious of Brittany for getting all the kisses my brother seemed to want to give. I hadn’t really thought much about it, to be honest; there was no particular boy in our school or in our particular social circle that I was hot for. My social milieu at that time almost seemed kind of gender neutral, although, naturally, some of our group occasionally paired off for dates but we all seemed by common consent not to take romantic relationships very far for fear of “spoiling the vibe.” We knew that if a relationship ended badly one or maybe both of the kids involved would have to find another social circle. A fate worst than death if you’re a high school sophomore.
I knew dinner was waiting and I knew Paul wasn’t going to get any further than he had, so I went around to the basement door and knocked on it until, face flushed and shirt askew, Paul answered. I played the innocent and didn’t let on. “Dinner’s ready and Mom’s waiting,” I said, and avoided any glances into the basement or suggestion I’d seen what he and Brittany had been up to.
“Ummm, ok, tell Mom I’ll be right there.” I had to work hard to avoid giving a smirk and simply turned on my heel and headed home. Paul wasn’t long behind, arriving for dinner with shirt rearranged and blush gone. As we sat down to our meal I could just barely see from the corner of my eye Paul glancing my way, wondering what I’d seen. I was careful to give nothing away but smiled to myself. Paul and I were so close in age, despite our being in two different grades, born less than a year apart, that we often occupied the same family or social niches; we had friends in common and as children had progressed through stages almost together, sharing or fighting over toys, games, or in more recent years, the TV control. As a consequence one or the other of us was always looking for something, anything, that could give advantage. And as I ate my dinner I realized I held the high ground for once. But how to use that rare high ground advantage? My mind began to form the vague outlines of a plan. Parents heading out for the evening…alone with my brother who is, duh, a guy…a guy who might still be feeling a little, well, frisky after his across-the-street adventure…and finally, a girl who really, really wanted to know what it felt like to kiss and be kissed.
It was a Friday evening so that Paul and I were relieved of our normal homework requirements. Mom and Dad reminded us that they were off for the evening to friends for drinks. I didn’t need reminding; I had remembered that during dinner as my plan began to form. Parents gone, for once Paul and I didn’t argue over the TV. Some families celebrate their religion Sunday morning in church. Our family’s religion was baseball, and our church was any televised game, so my brother and I were both ready to watch the weekly Friday night baseball game. Baseball is rife with traditions and routines, and our routine included chips, popcorn, and soda all at the ready as we settled on the couch in the den for the evening. As the game began we maintained a fairly steady quiet chatter, commenting on the plays, individual players, the managers’ strategies and game decisions and all in all were thoroughly enjoying ourselves. For all the small frictions that arise between siblings, my brother and I never faulted or doubted the other’s baseball knowledge.
Around the fourth inning, as one player hit a single, I decided it was time to put my plan into action. I was a bit nervous when I began with “speaking of first base, how far did you get with Brittany?” I watched his face carefully, as his reaction would be key to whether or not my plan might progress, and the instant shock on Paul’s face almost made me laugh, but I knew I had to keep my composure.
“Whaaa?” was the best he could do.
“Come on, bro; I noticed what you and she were up to. That couch got a pretty good workout, I could see.”
“That’s…that’s none of your business.”
“Did you get to second base? No? Only hitting singles, where you? Kind of pulled a Pete Rose?” Both of us knew that three quarters of Charlie Hustle’s hits had been singles. And now I couldn’t help but smile at my brother’s discomfort as his eyes darted to the TV, to me, and back to the TV and as his body shifted uneasily on the couch. But I wasn’t out for gratuitous teasing or embarrassment; I had a goal and purpose in mind. Keeping the baseball motif alive, I asked “what if our manager - Mom - heard what one of her star players was up to? Think she’d bench that player?”
Now he began to almost sputter; “I…I…what are you talking about?” as fear crept into his eyes.
“I know you got to first base, but did you get to second? Or were you picked off trying to steal?” and now I couldn’t repress my broad smile, as I knew the answer, even if Paul didn’t know I knew. He blushed. “So…picked off, eh? Didn’t get past first base? Wonder what our manager would think about your base running?”
More sputtering, more embarrassment - for my brother, not for me - as I sat, smiling. “You’re not going to tell, are you? Come on, Annie, why would you tell Mom? There’s nothing in that for you.”
“Maybe there is.”
“What?”
Now it was time for me to blush as I came to the point and played my trump card. “You seemed to know what you were doing, bro. You seemed to know your way around Brittany as well as you know your way around second base. I want you to show me…the way around. I want what Brittany got.”
I could see the confusion on his face, that the penny hadn’t dropped. “But…but…you’re already a great baseball play…” and then the penny dropped. “You mean…”
It wasn’t easy for me to admit what I wanted my brother to do, but there was only one way forward for me. “Yup. Look, Paul, let’s be blunt; you’re right; I know a lot about baseball, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’ve never really been kissed and certainly have never necked with a guy. I need to learn and practice. I want you to, well, at least show me how…what I need to do.” I hoped that maybe, just maybe somewhere deep in his memory Paul would remember how he’d taught his sister - me - how to throw and catch a baseball, now not to “throw like a girl”. I hope that maybe he’d agree to teach me a few other things.
There was an uneasy silence, the game ignored as Paul looked first at me and then, unseeing, at the TV screen. “And if I do this, if I do what you want, you won’t tell Mom?”
“Absolutely, scout’s honor.” I tried to cover my nervousness with a sip of soda, waiting…waiting…waiting, hoping that only one of us knew that I was running a bluff, a major bluff.
“Ok. Ok. I can…man, this will be weird; you’re my sister. You can’t tell anyone, right? No one, absolutely no one. Pinky promise, right?” invoking our time honored, inviolable agreement used only for very serious promises as I linked my pinky finger with his.
“Of course I won’t tell anyone; do you think I’m going to rave about learning how to kiss from my brother? That he’s the first guy that kiss me? That I kissed? No way. And it doesn’t really have to be weird if we kind of, you know, just maybe use our imaginations? You can pretend I’m Brittany and I can pretend you’re someone other than my brother.”
“Who? Who will you imagine that I am?” as Paul seemed to be getting into it beginning to savour the thought, the idea of being a surrogate hunk for me.
“I have no idea.” I thought, but didn’t have to think for long: “Brad Pitt, ok?” as we both began laughing. And that really helped, really relieved the tension in the air.
“Ok, come over here,” he said, patting the couch beside him. I quickly slid over, suddenly realizing how nervous I really was. My logic told me there was nothing to be nervous about; no parents anywhere about, no one watching, no one who would ever know. Why was I apprehensive? What did I have to fear? Was I having second thoughts? There was a long pause as I wondered: is he having second thoughts? Is he going to back out? He didn’t know it, but if he did back out there was no way I was going to inform on him to our mother. I had bluffed my way into this game, into persuading my brother to give me a lesson in the art of kissing. But I wasn’t ready to tell him that yet. I sat next to him and as the pause lengthened I got even more nervous, my hands twisting together, my body becoming stiff, the game on TV long since forgotten. I began to feel like a department store manikin.
Finally Paul turned from the TV and, in one fluid movement (time after time I’ve wondered at my brother’s athletic grace, even in small things), leaned over and placed his lips on mine, a soft, perfunctory kiss, if it was even fair to call it a kiss, as the lips simply brushed mine. But I knew I wasn’t helping as I kept my lips pressed together. Paul had moved so easily, so smoothly, that he’d caught me by surprised. I know, a ridiculous fact given that I had started this, given that I had been waiting. Maybe I thought a kiss would be announced by a trumpet fanfare or something, but the natural and easy way he kissed me left me, again, surprised and sitting rigidly. He leaned back, studied my blank face for a second, and leaned in again, this time pressing his lips harder against mine until my lips finally relaxed and softened against his. He drew back again and smiled as he said “well, for someone who wants to be kissed you’re not making it easy.” I couldn’t argue with him on the point. What was I doing wrong? Well, that was pretty obvious, but how could we fix it?
I could tell from his tone that he meant well and that it was actually an affectionate comment. I was beginning to despair, to feel like a slow learner, a poor student as I replied “well, what do you want me to do?”
“Just relax. Relax and just let it happen, ok?” as one hand lightly glided up and down my forearm. Why did such an innocent, brotherly touch raise goosebumps on that arm? For the very first time something warned me; maybe there was more to this than simply learning how to kiss?
“Ok, I’ll try,” and with that I let my shoulders drop and stopped fidgeting with my hands and tried to relax as my brother leaned in for his third try. This time it seemed to come more easily. This time I leaned into his kiss and for the first time let myself feel and savor the softness of his lips. The kiss went on for much longer than the first two.
When we finally broke the kiss he asked, one eyebrow raised, “Well? How was that?”
“That was nice,” I replied, surprised that it came out almost as a whisper. “Really nice.” And with that I could seen the pride wash across his face as I felt my body’s relaxation begin.
“You still need to relax more,” he said. He sat back for a second and then said “maybe this will help” and reached over and pulled me gently into an embrace, burying his face in my hair as my lips were pressed against his neck. Definitely not brotherly, but it did help; the warmth of his body against mine instantly relaxed me. It would be a cliche to claim that I ‘melted into his arms’ but it truly was something like that. I simply relaxed against him, our bodies closing the few gaps that separated us. Who knew that any part of my body other than my lips would be involved in, or affected by, a kiss? After a few seconds, after both of us registered my relaxed state, I felt his head lifting and, lifting my own face, his lips quickly found mine and we kissed again, the softness of his lips returning, his embrace holding me to him. As we ended the kiss and he returned to my hair, breathing deeply and I to his chest this time, he muttered almost to himself “better.”
“Yes, much better,” I agreed. I lay my head against his chest, feeling his warmth, feeling his heartbeat. We rested for a few moments, neither of us feeling we were in a hurry. As we rested I found my hands moving of their own accord, it seemed, stroking his back lightly, feeling his ribs, his muscles for the very first time. I felt Paul move slightly, shifting a bit away from me and my instant thought was that I had gone too far, crossed a line, that our practise would end right there, but that isn’t what happened. Paul drew back only far enough to be able to look down at me, to search my eyes with his own gaze, and then he leaned down for our next kiss, welcomed eagerly by me. But I was in for a surprise as I felt his lips parting slightly. I guess he’d assessed our lesson, had judged my progress, and concluded I was ready for the next level. Reflexively I understood where he was going and parted my lips ever so slightly, ever so tentatively and was thrilled when I felt the first cautious touch of his tongue, as if it were shyly asking for permission.
And permission was quickly given as my lips parted more, my tongue rushed to meet his. As the tips of our tongues made their first ever contact it was as if each was an explorer, discovering for the very first time a new land. We touched lightly, gingerly, carefully, as if the other might dissolve with our touch. But nothing dissolved as our tongues grew bolder, our kiss more and more passionate, longer and deeper than our earlier kisses.
Finally, out of breath and shocked by the experience, we broke the kiss and fell again into our embrace. “Wow” was the only word or reaction I could muster.
“Wow for sure,” was my brother’s quiet reply as he shifted his hips, seeming almost made uncomfortable by that kiss. Glancing downward, I saw the reason for his discomfort as a bulge in his shorts made itself known. A frisson shot through my entire body at the sight.
“I said I wanted what Brittany got, Paul, so…” and with that I gently tugged my brother down on the couch. I didn’t have to pull hard; in fact we pretty much fell back together, quickly lying together and just as quickly shifting to make ourselves comfortable and to face each other. “That’s better, isn’t it?” I smiled. Paul’s responding smile was his only answer as he wrapped his arms around me and resumed our kisses.
Virtually every kiss now was a long, deep, tongue-dancing kiss. Except for the new ones that my brother began to show as his lips drifted up, kissing my ear, my cheek, drifting down and kissing my jawline lightly, then burying his face beneath my chin, kissing greedily at my neck and down to the collar of my t-shirt. I even lay quietly, my hands drifting up and down his back, his sides, as one of his hands pulled lightly at the collar so that his lips could reach my breastbone and plant kisses there. Breathing harder now, feeling a tingling between my legs for the first time with a boy, I whispered jokingly in his ear “Am I still Brittany?”
He raised his head to look at me, all smiles gone, and paused for a second, our eyes locked. He was taking the question a lot more seriously than I had intended. As his hands drifted along my sides, caressing my lesser curves, finding and gently squeezing my hips, he said “No, sis. You’re not Brittany. No way. And I’m glad of that.” And with that he resumed his kisses while my overloaded brain tried to process what my brother had just told me. The meaning of his reply sinking in, I began kissing Paul as passionately has he had been kissing me, planting kisses almost indiscriminately in his hair, on his forehead, his neck and, of course, as much and as many as possible on his lips. The discomfort that I noticed while we’d been sitting seemed now to have vanished, although I could see that its cause remained. After several minutes, smiling, he turned the question back on me: “am I Brad Pitt?”
I didn’t have to hesitate. “No, you’re not. You’re better. You’re my brother Paul,” I said quietly, “and I’m glad you are.” I said I had felt a tingling. Now I felt a moistness as I began to get wet. I felt the heat growing but that’s not all that I felt. As Paul shifted his body he cast one leg over mine and pressed against me and for the first time, the first time ever, the first time in our lives together, I felt my brother’s hardness. More shock, more overloaded brain, more feverish thinking as I suddenly realized that I had made my brother hard. That my body, one that I’d always thought of as tomboyish, one that couldn’t be sexy, one that couldn’t interest or attract boys…had made a young man hard. Had made his cock stiff. Had made him want me. Suddenly my plan, simple and direct as I’d thought it was, exploded in my head. And that’s not all that exploded as lights seem to flash when his thigh pressed up against my vagina. He had his erogenous zone and I had mine. And perhaps without my brother even realizing it he’d certainly found mine. I wondered if he felt my body trembling slightly as I pressed myself back against his thigh.
Soon, very soon, other lights began to flash; red lights that said “STOP!” and “DANGER AHEAD!” “YOU’RE WITH YOUR BROTHER!” but I was quickly distracted by my brother’s hands; as one left off caressing my hip and side and moved cautiously toward my breast. I wasn’t surprised, of course, having watched my brother’s play on the field of Brittany. At least it had the effect of waking me up, bringing me back to reality, distracting me from the warmth and pressure of his thigh as I raised my hand to meet his and gently restrained it, whispering in his ear as I did “Trying to steal second base, are we? Picked off, bro,” and, laughing, I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it. Paul smiled at first and then, blushing slightly at being ‘picked off’ joined in the laughter as his hand reoriented itself to stroke my cheek and touch my hair.
We rested together for a few minutes, content in each other’s warm embrace, soaking in the affection that seemed to fill the room now that I had established at least one limit to our erotic lesson. And then there was one of those moments that, looking back, you realize was a totally, inarguably, a moment that changed your life. Without really thinking about it, after a few minutes of quiet affection I drew my head back and said “you’re playing tomorrow, right? Against Jefferson High?”
“Yup. Two o’clock.”
I returned to my teasing mode that had begun this lesson. “Well, what if…what if…you were to, say, hit a double? What if it was an RBI? You’d get to second base, wouldn’t you?” And this time I allowed myself a smirk, the smirk to end all smirks, a smirk that conveyed my unmistakable meaning to my brother. His eyes widened as understanding dawned and more hungrily than he had all night, he began his kisses again. I was happy to join in, happy to feel his wet tongue meeting mine time and again, happy to feel his hands drifting along my side, my spine, happy to feel his warm breath in my hair, on my cheek, my neck, and my breastbone.
“You think I can hit on order?” he smiled.
“I know that good hitters can often hit to their manager’s direction. A hit and run, for example? And you’re a damned good hitter, bro, so yes, I think if you really want to…I think you can hit a double.” His eyes widened again. I snuggled against him and said quietly “and of course, you always have to take the bases in order. You’ve made first base so if you expect to…” and I took a deep breath, still thinking I was in that teasing mode, “get to home plate you have to take the bases in order. Next up, a double, right?”
He was speechless. I think maybe he understood my message even before I’d understood what I was really saying, what without real thought perhaps and certainly without real talk between us, I was suggesting.
His response was so hoarse I almost couldn’t understand it as he quietly replied “a double. A double. Ok, a double.” I laughed at the repetition that helped him absorb what was now on offer with his sister.
It was getting late and we knew our parents would be home soon so, with mutual reluctance, we stirred ourselves and sat up on the couch. I hoped that my wetness hadn’t soaked my jeans; I was so hot that I thought it possible. My brother couldn’t do anything to hide his erection so didn’t really try. As I glanced down at it, blushing, I screwed up my courage and raised my eyes to his. He wasn’t laughing, smiling, or smirking. The time for jokes seemed, for the moment, passed. As each of us searched the other’s eyes he repeated “You’re not Brittany. You’re sure not Brittany,” and then, more quietly, “and I’m really glad of that.” I felt a sudden rush of a brand new emotion as I felt my eyes tearing up; I leaned over, gave my brother a quick and gentle kiss, and left the room.
We went to our respective bedrooms. I changed into my long-suffering oversized t-shirt that sufficed as my makeshift nightie but, a change from my usual habit, I removed my panties and tossed them into my laundry hamper, hesitated, and then reached behind and unclipped my bra, tossing it into the hamper as well. Then I fell into bed, my mind replaying like a video clip my long session with my brother. I played the tape slowly, stopping it, savoring each stage, each step, each new move my brother made. My mind remembered those signs flashing and now that I was alone I had time - and enough calm - to think about them. What was I, what were we doing? We’re sister and brother, I told myself. Maybe this isn’t a joke, maybe we’ve already gone too far? Had we done things, might we do things that we would regret? That we couldn’t take back? My body shivered slightly at the thought, the possibility of the relationship my brother and I had always had, of familial affection and love changing. Could we control that change? Could we even anticipate it? I knew that if this went much further Paul and I needed to talk. As I lay there it occurred to me that these were pretty deep thoughts for a high school sophomore. And then, following on those thoughts, came the almost feral realization that I had made a man hard, that my body, my sexuality, had turned a man on. Yes, it was my brother and that thought conflicted me, but I luxuriated in the realization for the very first time in my life that I had been sexually attractive, that I had tapped into a reserve of female power that I hadn’t even known I had. Inexperienced as I was, I knew that learning to channel and direct that power might be a lifetime’s work.
But then my mind rebounded to that tape and resumed its playback. Almost unconsciously my right hand reached down, my fingers touching the fur covering my mons, pressing further, and cupping my mound, squeezing and caressing while all the while my other hand found my breasts, cupping and fondling one and then the other. Within minutes, the tape still running in my mind, my body was trembling, then shaking, and finally convulsing, shaking my bed as I came to the most powerful orgasm I had, in my young life, experienced. And was that a gentle, rhythmic thumping I could hear in my brother’s room on the other side of the wall? Were those moans that I could hear in the silence of our house? And did they seem to grow louder until with one long, deep groan the thumping and moans seemed to stop? The last thought I had was my brother’s words “You’re not Brittany. No way. And I’m glad of that.” I smiled as I drifted off to sleep.
Sole BrotherReport