Bonk (ManxBoy) | sequel to Rubber

Episode 1 - Ripe for the picking

Episode 1 – Ripe for the picking

Condom.

A single word I type on Google and it pulls up a gazillion search results with a bazillion images. The amount of information one can find about the love rubber is mind-blowing. There’s just so much material about the rubbery thing that I can probably write a book about it. Oh, oh wait, someone already did. And it’s a New York Times Bestseller. Oh my.

I don’t think there’s a product out there that’s as loved and embraced by the world quite like the condom. In my opinion, condoms beat most products on the market in terms of marketability and sales.

How do I know this? Market research is part of my studies.

Every minute of every hour of every day, a packet—or a box for the really horny ones who like doing orgies—is being bought, opened, worn, gets filled with manly juices, and then gets discarded. Or in my situation—three years ago—blown into a big, fruity balloon.

Damn. Had I spent enough time researching about condoms back when I was fifteen—instead of reading about how to unlock Xbox achievements—then I would have known where the rubber goes, what it does, how it’s used, and why all the girls my brother takes home every night scream like they’re being ripped to shreds. Well, they probably were getting ripped to shreds since my brother’s really hung. How do I know this? Well, it was after midnight of my sixteenth birthday—hours after I celebrated the momentous occasion alone, with a box of deli pizza and a DVD because my parents can’t be bothered—when my brother decided to casually waltz to the kitchen in the nude, his limp organ bobbing between his legs like a pendulum. Hypnotic? Yes it was.

“Hey Calv,” I remember him saying while scratching the hair on his broad, muscle-bound chest. And for a long spacey moment my head went blank, with no coherent thought in mind other than penis, junk, penis, junk, penis, junk like a voodoo chant. I didn’t have words, much less a reply, because my eyes were busy ogling the trunk of flesh dangling between Reginald’s thighs. “Reggie. You mind keeping it down tonight?” I remember telling him after a few beats when my brain remembered to function again, “You guys get really loud,” I added, and his reply was, “As long as you keep yours down,” looking down at the way the crotch of my pajamas was lifting.

Yes. I had a hard-on. And no. I wasn’t attracted to my brother. Incest is gross. It’s just…I was mesmerized by the length of his tool, to the point that I acknowledged—with blinding clarity—the fact that I really liked hotdogs other than my own. And that I wanted to put one in my mouth, too.

He gave me a look and I gave him one of mine. And it was then that my brother knew I wasn’t playing for his baseball team, and that I’d much rather have the bat shoved inside my ass.

But my brother didn’t judge me. Nor did he lecture me about the kind of sex I want to have and who I want to do it with. All he ever said was, “Calv. Just make sure you wear a rubber with whomever you wanna do it with.” It was the advice Reggie gave me. The only piece of brotherly love he ever showed me in probably the only time we actually talked in my sixteen years of existence. I’m now eighteen and we still don’t talk. We just don’t.

In the Schmidt household, each member of our family is a soldier on his own, marching to his own beat. There’s an exorbitant amount of money to spend, so my parents take that as their license to neglect parenting duties. I don’t remember a time when we were actually gathered around the dining table having a family conversation.

My parents believe in early retirement, hence they are constantly working to bank a lot of money so that by the time I, Reginald, and Sophia can manage on our own, they can give us our share of wealth and what’s left they will use to travel the world and take it easy, not worrying about their sons’ and daughter’s stellar futures.