I loved my husband. Oh how I loved him, let me count the ways. He was my first lover, and if I might have a say in that he would be my last. He was so handsome to me, a tall Korean-American drink, with thick pecs and broad shoulders that carried his height making him look even taller than he was, abs of steel and a lovely, perfectly adequate cock that could spring to a respectable seven inches that had always satisfied me and had brought me to countless orgasms throughout the years we were together. But my favorite part of his would have to be his balls, medium-sized orbs of loveliness that had always managed to churn out surprisingly bountiful amount of semen that always come out in splashing geysers in nights (and mornings, if I had my way) of ecstasy.
We met in college, he was a premed going into dentistry, while I was studying for my journalism degree. I know, it was so cliché I laughed just remembering it. We met at a bar party, a mixer really, and being the two gays he and I clicked, in that way you would eerily know this was the one man you would spend the rest of your life with. Yes, even at that first meeting, when I fell deep into his warm brown eyes that seemed to flicker with amusement and life in the lights of the bar. He asked me out the next time, and we made love the first time then, and went steady thereafter. He proposed the year he was accepted into his school of choice, and we live together the whole year he was in graduate school, me supporting our lives with my writing for the local newspaper. Then he graduated, and we married in a simple ceremony - my parents had passed on, and his were too frail to make the journey to our city - attended by my younger brother and our friends.
We were happy. In short, we were, deeply gloriously happy. He made partner of a practice with his friends downtown, I became an editor-at-large, we wanted for nothing. Except maybe children of our own, he had been restless about hearing the tiny pitter-patter of feet in our hallways, but I reminded him we were both working, and I would rather at least one of the parents be present for the children. He reluctantly agreed, and the matter was settled.
Then my younger brother went into troubled times. He began failing his course - he was studying pharmacy - and skipped classes. When I asked him he was standoffish, and cited that he needed more money to pay for college, so he had been juggling part-time jobs and his classes. It was going to be temporary he said, just until he could pay for his tuition and a roof over his head. I thought of the matter and offered my home for his accommodation. His school was a city away, and he drove to school; a ready, furnished home with meals would have been a huge burden off his shoulders. "I'll pay for this year's tuition, but you will have to stay with us the whole year at least," I remarked, signing the cheque. He agreed gratefully, and sent in his 24-hour notice at one of his part-time jobs.
I hadn't realized it then but that generosity was to be my downfall.
I had hoped him staying at our apartment would be beneficial for him, having two successful guys as examples to live up to, and close to the amenities. We gave him the reins of the spare room, but more often than not I found him sleeping on the couch in the living room, tired from his part-time job. He was dressed as minimal as the weather would allow, like wearing only the tiniest of boxers or bikini briefs, or even just towels with clearly nothing under, as he went around our kitchen rummaging in our fridge. He was also a very active night owl, coming in as late as two in the morning and going for his classes the day after like no problem. Maybe it was the years between us - we were ten years apart - but even looking at him made me feel tired.
There were other issues. With him in the house I was a tad embarrassed to be... as amorous to my husband as before. Gone were the kisses and the pecks on the mouth, they turned to small, even polite pecks on the cheek. My husband was a highly functioning male with huge sexual desires, so he was at first downturned to be err, friend-zoned. Then my brother would come sauntering out of his room in his damned bikini briefs and my husband would just give me a look before sighing and going for his job, before I berate my brother once again for dressing inappropriately as he munched on his breakfast. I swore it was like a Lucille Ball sitcom came to live.
But the way things progressed later was no sitcom. My husband noticed one of his boxers missing, the black one with the grey pouch that make his bulge look even more massive. I shrugged that time, saying it probably missed laundry day. But when I went in my brother's room to collect the laundry, I found the boxers in question under a pile of pillows, crusted with massive glops of old semen. I held up the garment: there was a fresh spot of cum on the pouch, still fresh, warm and sticky to the touch. I imagined my brother beating off his cock, spraying his cum over my husband's underwear, probably moaning his name as he came. I shuddered.
One warm night I opened my eyes to find my husband was gone from the bed. I didn't know why but I tiptoed and peeked out of the open door into the hallway. I found him with his pants halfway down his thighs, his hands clutching at his thick erection, his eyes glued to my brother's ass that must had been exposed in his sleep because he was hot. My husband quietly groaned as he reached his climax, the perpetual geyser he had always produced that I could almost hear the semen hitting the floor. I turned and fell back to the bed. My husband followed soon after, the smell of recent cum masked by the smell of hand sanitizer. As he went back to sleep I cried silently lying there beside him, picturing his sperm, my husband's babies, being smothered by the chemical and the alcohol.
Suddenly out of the blue my husband announced that he was going for a conference halfway across the country. As partner he had to attend these conferences, but it was the first time it was held far away. Then my brother announced he was staying near campus for a practical exam for the entirety of next week. My two men, leaving me alone in the house to simmer, to think, to imagine. I watched forlornly as my husband held up the black boxers - "There, you found it!" - and packed them into his suitcase. He noticed I was not myself. "There, there honey, I'd be home before you know it."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
