Michael and Gina

NOTE: The following is my first ever attempt at writing a straight erotic story, which in truth was pretty terrifying considering I am gay and all. I didn't even know if I could get through it, and if I could I didn't know if it would be any good. But I love straight porn and straight love stories, so I had to give it a try. As it turns out I really enjoyed this effort and am already at work on two more straight or bisexual stories. I hope those of you who read this story will consider leaving a comment on how well I did with this effort and what I might do in future to make it better.

Thanks,

The Author

*****

Nervously, Michael peers out of the window of his car at the big dark house and mumbles a prayer that everyone inside is fast asleep, then ever-so-quietly he steers his car into the garage at the back. He's not just late getting in from his outing with his buds, he's totally out-of-his mind late, the kind of late his dad is sure to blow a gasket over if he catches him sneaking in at this hour.

Michael burps and giggles, not really drunk from the beers he and his friends managed to wrangle out of a gullible teenaged clerk at the Seven Eleven, but not exactly sober either. So now here he is pulling in late and just a little bit blitzed. How that will go over with his dad he can't imagine, but it wouldn't be pretty. And then out of the blue he starts giggling again. What the heck is he so happy about? And then he remembers: Last night he and his teammates managed to pull off a spectacular come-from-behind win over their crosstown rivals and now are headed to the regional playoffs in two weeks. That's why his dad gave him the OK to skip the usual midnight curfew, and that's why he was out at this late hour celebrating with his teammates. Michael knows full well, of course, that that OK was conditional on him not waltzing in at 3:30 a.m., sporting a beer buzz.

Quiet as a church mouse, he unlocks the kitchen door and slips inside. He sighs with relief when he sees no one lying in wait for him and hurries down the darkened hallway on his way to his room. Halfway down he is surprised to see a light still on inside the den and hear the TV going. A quick glance inside reveals his older sister Gina curled up on the sofa asleep while an old movie blares from the neglected TV. Even from across the room he can hear her gently snoring.

"Hey, lazybones," he says, going over and nudging her awake," get up and go to bed."

"What time is it?" she asks, drowsily sitting up.

"Half passed three. You been in here all this time?"

She yawns. "Hell no. I couldn't sleep so I got up and went to the kitchen for a snack, and then wandered in here for a little late-night TV. I must have drifted off."

As she gets to her feet stifling yet another yawn, Michael can't help but snicker at the pajamas she's wearing.

"Damn, girl. You still wear those?" he grins, indicating her old-fashioned flannel nightwear, covered in a colorful assortment of Disney cartoon characters like Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse. He strokes the small black goatee growing under his chin.

"Only when I'm home. I happen to like 'em: they're comfy."

"What would your big-time college friends say if they could see you all decked out in toons like that? Didn't Grammy give you those way long time ago?"

She glares at him. "You are so retarded—as if I would be caught dead wearing these in the dorm. I can just imagine what those white girls would say if the caught sight of me in these.. Like I said, I only wear them when I'm here."

"I can see why. Kinda makes you look like a clown—or Goofy."

"You're the clown," she retorts, punching her tall, brown-skinned brother in the shoulder. "Are you just now getting in?"

Michael snorts. "OK, before you get the urge to go runnin' upstairs and ratting me out to Pop, you should know he gave me permission to stay out late tonight. For your information, nosey, we were celebrating. Believe it or not, me and my boys pulled off the biggest upset ever last night. We beat Pascal, 36-33. And I'm telling you, G, nobody in this town thought we could do that."

"Relax, silly, I wasn't gonna rat you out to Pop. I know about the game. I was there."

"You were? Really—you? Wow, sis, that's great."

"You don't have to say it like that. I go to football games sometimes, y'know."

He laughs. "You do—really? Jesus, G, I can't think of a single time you've been to a Xavier game in the last three years."

"You idiot, that's because I graduated from this damn school three years ago—remember? Before that, I went to nearly every game. For God's sake, I was a damned cheerleader here!"

"Oh yeah, that's right. Sorry, G, I completely forgot. I guess I didn't notice because back in those days, I'm the one who didn't go to football games. So when did you get back into sports?"

"No, uh, I'm not, really. See, it's just that, uh . . . Michael, do you know Pop has really been on a tear talking you up since you joined the team last year? I'm not kidding. He is so obsessed that whenever I call home, I can't get him to talk about anything else. So you see, he's the one who called me and told me about this really big playoff game that you were gonna be in, and about how you were actually gonna be the starting receiver. So I thought I'd better do the sisterly thing and get my butt back home so I could cheer my little brother on. It's not everyday you get to see your own flesh and blood turned into a real-live certified football hero."

"Certified hero? What the hell, G? Oh, right, let me guess: Pop."

"Can you blame him? I swear I think the only reason he had a son was to have someone to follow in his footsteps as the big ol' football guy on campus."

"Yeah, and you know damn well that's not me. The only reason I even tried out for the team is I had that growth spurt last year and he started hounding me about going to the tryouts. And nobody was more surprised than me when I actually got on. But this thing about starting receiver: I'm tellin' you, G, it's just a fluke. The real starter is Ron Johnson who ran over a trainer last week and sprained his damned ankle, and so the only receiver left is me."

"Will you please stop putting yourself down? Who cares how you got the job? It's yours now. And I have to admit you were pretty damned terrific out there on that field last night, especially in the fourth quarter when you caught that go-ahead touchdown. When you jumped up in the air and caught that ball, I swear I thought Pop was going to explode or maybe have a heart attack. You shoulda heard him."

Michael laughs. "Yeah, I think I did hear him."

"I'm pretty sure half the town heard him," says Gina, also laughing. "But seriously, Michael, it was a hell of a catch, you with your feet off the ground, all stretched out in mid-air like that. I didn't fully realize just how tall you'd become till I saw you on the field like that, running, jumping, stretching out on those really long legs of yours. So what are you now: you must be nearly as tall as Pop."

"Yep, just the same: 6'2"."

"My God, whatever happened to that skinny little kid I used to play with?"

"Nerd central? Ha, not to worry, sis, he's still around. I haven't traded in my telescope yet. I'm still the same ol' bookworm/dork/nerd you used love to torture. I just grew a coupla inches, that's all."

"Seriously, Michael, I wish you'd quit putting yourself down. You're gonna be in college next year. You have got to start showing more confidence."

He grins. "What does confidence have to do with it? I'm not gonna be somebody different, Gina, just because I'm going off to college. I'm still gonna be into books and movies and studyin' the stars through my telescope. OK, so maybe I'll never be as puffed up as some of the real athletes on the team. But who cares? I happen to sorta like me just the way I am."

"Yeah, I guess I do too," she agrees. "And so what if it is the only game you ever get to star in? You have to admit it was a great game, and you looked really good out there."

"I'd say we all looked really good out there. No bullshit, G, that was our best game all season. It was like there was something in the air and suddenly we all caught fire at the exact same instant. I'm not kidding. It was almost like lightening hit. You have to admit we chose just the right moment to get hot."

"Yeah, I guess timing is everything."

"You said it, sis," he says, taking a step toward the wide exit. "So I think I'm gonna turn in."

"You're going to bed?"

"That's the plan."

"Do you have to—I mean, right now?"

"Nope, I don't have to. Why?"

"No reason. But we were having fun hanging out. Come on, little brother. When was the last time you and me actually took the time to just, y'kow, hang out?"

"Like, uh, never. But hey, I'm game," he says going over and plopping on the sofa. "So what's the deal? What's up?"

"Well, actually, you are."

He chuckles, again stroking his goatee. "Yeah, I guess I am still a little stoked from the game. You shoulda seen us riding around tonight, G, out on the square. We were yellin' all kind of bullshit out the windows."

"No, Michael, that's not what I mean. It's you. You're different."

"What do you mean?"

Gina sighs. "I don't exactly know how to say it. I've been sitting up half the night trying to figure it out."

Michael studies her face. "What—are you serious?"

"I am. Something about you has changed."

He giggles and shakes his head. "Oh, fuck, now I get it. It's some kind of joke—isn't it? I gotta give it to you, sis. You're good."

"I started noticing it last year, right about the time you took that growth spurt. It was like suddenly overnight, everything about you changed."

"Like what, for instance?"

"Well—don't laugh—but that damned goatee you're always scratching. What the heck is that?"

He shrugs. "It's nothin'. I'm still tryin' to grow it in, that's all."

"No, Michael, it's not nothing. You're shaving now. I can see hair growing all over your face . . . and all over the rest of your body too."

"And that bothers you? Goddammit, Gina, you can really get under my skin sometimes. So yeah, I'm gettin' hairier, like Dad. So what? It happens. You really need to grow up, girl."

"It's not just that you look different. You act different."

"Yeah, I suppose I do. So, princess, when are you gonna tell me why this bothers you so much?"

"You're not making this any easier, Michael."

He smiles ruefully. "Maybe I don't have to. Maybe I've already figured out what's goin' on, Gina. I'm growing up. I'm not the little punk-ass kid you can push around any more. You come home one day and find the little dork-face ain't here anymore, and you get all twisted out of shape."

She laughs. "Well, you're half-right. The little dork-face is gone, and I miss him. Oh come on, Michael, look at it from my point of view. I go away for three lousy months and then come home for Thanksgiving, and—presto chango!—there's a big strapping new brotha running around here."

"Look, how many times do I have to tell you I'm not new. I mean, yeah, sure, maybe a little bit on the outside, but like I said, inside, I'm the same. What do I have to do to convince you of that?"

"You can't, because you're not the same. You're a jerk now."

His eyes widen and he jumps up from the sofa. "Oh, that's fucked! That is so fucked. I've been tellin' you all the ways I haven't changed and you haven't heard a thing. What gives, Gina?"

"Why'd you have to grow up, Michael? Why'd you stop being that sweet little guy I could relate to? I don't even know you now. When I look at you now, all I see is a jock."

"Pretend jock, pretend jock—remember? It's not real. OK, so maybe I do hang out with them some, and on occasion I do go partyin' with them, like we did tonight. But that stuff ain't me. The truth is I'm doing it all for Pop."

"Then where's that whiny little kid? Where's that infuriating little sneak-face dork who used to follow me around and who would do anything I told him to? Face it, Michael. You're not him. You've become just some other . . . guy."

He sighs deeply. "Jeez, maybe so. I hadn't thought about it that way, and it's not like I could help it. But you don't have to sound so fuckin' disgusted when you say it. Don't you want me to grow up?"

"Well, of course I do, silly—why wouldn't I? Maybe I'm just in a mood to miss the good ol' days, like when we were kids. It was great back then—wasn't it? You and me, we had lots of fun."

"You had lots of fun—like the time you said we were gonna play house, and you wound up sticking me in a diaper and calling my your baby cakes. Oh, I get it. Here we have Pop's sweet little brown princess who always gotten her way and always gotten all of the attention. And now that it's my turn to get a little attention, you can't stand it. It's burnin' you up."

She sneers. "Well, somebody certainly thinks a lot of himself. Careful, Michael, or that big head of yours isn't gonna fit inside your helmet. OK, so maybe you do have a point about Pop giving me more attention and more stuff than you, like when he got me a car for my 16^th birthday and made you wait a whole year longer."

"Yeah, and it wasn't even as nice as yours. And now he even makes me pay the damn insurance on it! And how about how he was always givin' you money for clothes and stuff, and how you got to flaunt the damn curfew all the fuckin' time? He watches the clock like he's a damn hawk."

"That's because you're in training, little brother. And now that you're the big football dude, you could probably get a whole lot more things out of him too, if you tried."

Michael grins and shakes his head. "Maybe, but I sorta doubt it. See, I don't happen to have a perfect little butt that looks good squeezed into a pair of skinny jeans, and I don't parade around here in skimpy little cheerleader outfits shaking my pom-poms all day."

She exults and wags her finger in his face. "Yes! I knew it!"

"What?"

"Pop wasn't the only one ogling my pom-poms, little brother. You think I didn't notice how you and your little dorky friends were always hanging around when I got in from cheerleader practice?"

Michael chuckles. "OK, fine, guilty—but it was more them than me."

"Bullshit, you lousy little liar. Even when they weren't around, you were always lurking out in the hallway when I got out of the shower, trying to catch a peek."

"Seems to me all that proves is I was normal fourteen-year-old boy. But if it bugged you so much, how come you never said anything?"

"Michael, don't you see? It was all part of the game. Sometimes when I'd get in from practice, instead of going straight to my room and changing my clothes, I would hang around you guys a bit and shoot the breeze, just to give you little pervs a peep show before I headed up to shower. Did you really think I couldn't see all your eyes bugging out, and I'm not ashamed to say I thoroughly enjoyed myself."

"Devil woman!" Michael rolls back on the sofa, laughing. "Skanky little 'ho. You got a hell of a lot of nerve callin' us the pervs."

"But that was part of the game. We all had fun, didn't we?"

"Yeah, maybe—but I still say it ain't fair. You girls get to parade around in your skimpy little outfits displaying all your physical assets and basically getting everything you want from a bunch of horny guys, while us guys have basically got to just stand there and take it. No-way that's a fair deal."

"You have a lot to learn, Michael. I'll let you in on a secret: Girls spend just as much time watching guys as you do watching us, and we get just as horny. We're just a hell of a lot better at hiding it."

"You don't say. Wow, cool."

"So, um, I was just wondering about something. Are you seeing anybody?"

"Nobody in particular—why?"

"It just seems to me that, um, with your new physical assets, you could probably get almost anybody you wanted."

He snorts. "Don't I wish! Listen, G, being a jock really doesn't get you all that much, especially when it comes to girls. So maybe I can get all the 'hos I want, but they don't really interest me. In fact, when it comes to most high school girls, it just seems to me they're way too silly and full of themselves. Half the time even when you get 'em, you don't want 'em. Lately, though, what I've been noticin' are older girls—y'know, college girls. Now if you wanted to do your little bro a solid, you could set me up with some of your hot college friends."

She grimaces. "Jerk!"

"Jeez, you're touchy. Fine, just forget I even brought it up."

"Michael, do you want me to come home next week and watch you play in the next round?"

"Absolutely. You'll be my lucky charm."

"Listen, I have a confession to make. Pop wasn't the real reason I came home to watch you play."

"No? What then?"

She hesitates, avoiding his gaze, then starts backing toward the door.

"No way I can tell you that. I think I'd better go to bed."

"Oh, no you don't!" Michael says, springing up from the sofa and intercepting her at the door. He pulls her back into the room.

"Listen, G, I've been tryin' to be understanding and all, but you've been actin' strange all night. So spill it. What's up with you?"

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Michael, I think I may have a crush on you."

He lets out a loud guffaw, then giggles and laughs again.

"Shit, G. Come on, be serious."

"I am serious, Michael."

He gapes at her. "Uh, look, I know this is some kind of sick joke, but just for the record, when you say 'crush,' you mean . . ."

She stares at him. "I mean exactly what you think I mean."

He frowns. "Damn you, Gina. You're always tryin' to put one over on me. And this is the worst yet, because I know you could not possibly mean what I'm thinking . . ."

"Yes, Michael, that."

He shoves her. "Get out! I mean, get the fuck out!"

"It's true."

"But how . . . when . . . I mean, really?"

"Yes, Michael. I can even remember when it happened. Last year when I came home for Thanksgiving—and you want to know the sick part? I even had a boyfriend at the time. Well, that took care of that."

"But what does Thanksgiving have to do with it?" he says, still stunned.

"Well, I walked in the door and the first thing I saw was you—running around like you always do, but this time in a tank top and a pair of cutoff sweats—looking like, well, a jock. And it all kind of rolled over me at once: while I was gone, this strange new man-boy had moved into my house. And he was tall, and lean, and . . . Anyway, it was pretty overpowering. Are you shocked?"

"So are you saying you were checkin' me out?"

"Oh, my God, Michael, can you be more immature? I don't know why I ever tell you anything."

"G, come on, this is huge. I mean, really huge. It's not everyday a guy hears somethin' like this from his sister. So, if I was to ask, just how much did you like what you saw?"

"Careful, Michael. That head of yours is getting bigger by the minute."

He smirks. "Is it? But then I guess you probably like it that way—huh?"

"That's it. I'm out of here."

He catches her before she reaches the door and pulls her back. "No, Gina, please don't go. I'll be good, I promise, but you gotta grant me some space here. This is like the totally most freakin' thing I've heard—like ever. And I'm really tryin' to understand, but you gotta help me out here."

"Help how?"

"Well, what I think I've gotta do is try to see it through your eyes. That makes sense—doesn't it?"

"I suppose, but how do you do that?"

"OK, so why don't we start by you touching me . . . like this."