There were words that would leap into my mind at random and echo in my ears until I couldn't breathe anymore, specifically because it was your voice that I heard them in. They repeated over and over again, in a telltale rhythm, with that telltale tone of voice that reminded me of so many things that I wish never happened.

"Yes, yes, yes ..."

"Harder, harder, harder ..."

"More, more, more ..."

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop ..."

People always thought I was a good guy. Hell, I always thought I was a good guy. But good was never an option when it came to you; you and I were bad in principle, and then you just turned me completely scandalous. You would say those things over and over to me, and I would give it to you, until my body ached, until my vision had been reduced to little red dots, until my voice gave out, until the box spring gave out.

I loved it the first time, so it never occurred to me to think anything less of any other time. The years went by, and we stayed bad, got badder, scratched each other in places that no one else could see and planted our stakes in places that we couldn't see ourselves. I thought that I was in control of the situation; I thought I was in control of myself, because I was the older one. The older one is always in charge.

And then, I tried to leave.

Somewhere around the part where I realized our relationship was wrong, and far too close for comfort, I also realized that I never had control over anything. I realized this because, I couldn't leave you. You wouldn't let me. Every time I tried to avoid being with you, something warm and wet would snake its way along my earlobe, I would feel that familiar biting on my neck, and I would throw you on your back so fast that your head would spin of your sexy little shoulders.

When I tried to tell you that I was going to leave, you simply said, "No. I thought about this for long moments, tipped my head this way and that, looked at you, and looked at myself in the mirror; then your hand slid down my pants and we fucked three times and you gave me rug-burn so bad I couldn't sleep on my back for three days.

Then I decided to start seeing someone to talk to, hoping that she could help me figure out how to get you out of my pants and, more importantly, out of my head. I left out the technicalities, of course, but I told her about how you're bad for me because you make me want to see blood and you make me want to dress you up in pretty clothes just to tear them off of you. I told her about how we play with the kitchen knives when we're horny, and how you keep a riding crop under your side of the mattress. I told her that I was really pure inside, a good guy, and that I wanted to do the right thing, and get out of a relationship like this.

She told me I should move away.

So I did. I came home after my third meeting with her, at seven o'clock in the evening, and I told you that I was moving out. We fucked two times and you left scars on my inner thighs. The next morning I packed my clothes up and went to stay at our dad's until I could find a place. It ended up being about two weeks, and you were over every day, toying with me under our father's nose. We fucked in the upstairs bathroom while he was out mowing the lawn. You tore handfuls of my hair and you said, "Yes, yes, yes!" and all I could think was No, no, no.

I was getting frustrated at about this time. Ending such a meaningless relationship seemed like an easy thing to do. Nothing had ever existed between us outside of our brotherhood, aside from an over-powering lust for rough sex. Physical attraction had never been so hard for me to deny before. I realized that I was addicted to you, and your body, and your voice, and it was the most awful revelation I had ever had. I'd always known it was wrong, but it had never really occurred to me that it was wrong for ME. That it was wrong for US. We were ruining our lives because we loved to do the nasty.

Once I figured that out, I tried to explain it to you. You said, "No we aren't. We love each other." And then I melted, I think, and we had to drive to an abandoned parking lot to have sex in the bed of my truck. When we were done, you were lying with your ear to my heartbeat, running your toes over my feet, and I yelled as loud as I could. You told me that I was ruining the moment, so I shut my mouth and kissed your forehead.

The next morning, my resolve was freshly hashed and I was ready to kick you out of my life for good. No jokes, no messing around, no listening to you, no making love in the bed of my truck to prove that it's not just a mutual desire to be bad. It wasn't right, and I wasn't going to burn in eternal Hell for it.

I figured that once I got into my new place, it would be easier to avoid you and start a new type of life, that didn't involve leather fetishes and candle wax and razor blades. I didn't tell you where my new place was, I didn't give you my phone number, I didn't even say goodbye to you when I walked out our door, just to prove that I wasn't messing around. You asked me if I wanted a quickie before I left for good, and I had to break into a jog to keep from turning around.

After unpacking all of my things, I felt good. I invited Shane over and we played some cards. I hung out with someone that wasn't you, and I was feeling normal again. He left and then I made myself dinner, and sat in my own little kitchen with my own little glass of milk, all by myself. I took a shower by myself, dried my own hair, and then crawled into bed.

I remembered you dancing in a little apron, making spaghetti because it was all you knew. I remembered how the kitchen was our favorite place to have sex, how we used to break all our milk glasses because we'd push them onto the floor to clear the counter. I remembered how we never, ever took showers alone, and how you used to dry my hair for me when we were done, and how we would always crawl into bed at the same time and slide over to each other automatically.

I thought it would be easy. There was never anything there but physical attraction and an over-powering lust for rough sex.

...I thought about you, all night.

Days went by slower, I realized, when I had to focus all of my energy on pretending that you didn't exist. It also occurred to me that time always moved more slowly when you were waiting for something, but I tried to forget about that thought as quickly as it came. I couldn't be with you, I reminded myself. I couldn't be with you because it was wrong, and I couldn't be the way I was when I was with you because I was a good person. Blood made me squirm; it didn't make me want to go deeper. Leather was for bikers, not your perfect little butt. Whips were for horses, not for afternoon playtime. I had to remind myself of these things; it seemed ludicrous to say them to myself, but I realized that I had never learned the differences.

The night that I remembered slamming your fingers in our bedroom door to hear you scream out the pain, I cried myself to sleep. On the morning that followed, I realized that you were never, ever going to be out of my mind. You might as well have been sleeping in my bed with me every night, because you had been with me the whole time anyway. My memories of our pain and our passion and our endless attachment to each other were things that I would never be able to get rid of.

Something happened during all those moments of sex and play and intimate living together that made it unphysical. I didn't just want your body, and I wasn't a good guy. I never was and never would be a good guy, because at some point between eighteen years old and now, I fell in love with you. My brother that liked to bite me and throw me into walls and dress me up in pigtails and tight pants and put black and blues all over my secret body, made me fall in love with him. I would do anything you wanted, cut you anywhere you asked, fucked you as raw as you wanted, been as bad as you needed me to be, because I loved you. I wanted to tear my mind out of my head and stomp it into mush when I fed this knowledge to myself. Nothing ever made me hate myself more.

Except, that is, the moment shortly thereafter, where I called you and asked you to come over for dinner that night.