Sister Golden Hair

A dull thud rang through my ears as a sharp pain shot into my forehead. Somewhere inside me I was grateful for the soft grass below me as I fell to the ground, my senses leaving my body one by one until there was nothing but silence and darkness.

*****

"You know, you're gonna have to start paying me for my transit services if this keeps up," I heard someone say from above me.

I opened my eyes and saw my brother's face looking down at me with a mixed look of amusement and concern. I was being cradled and carried across the field back to our house, my legs dangling in front of me like a lifeless puppet.

"Holy shit!" I cried suddenly, beginning to panic.

"Oh good, you're coming to," Jet said as he watched me closely. "Are you okay?"

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god," I said over and over, my chest filled with anxiety.

"It's gonna be alright, Candy," Jet said in a soothing voice. "Dad's gone to get Mom and we're going to get you to the hospital."

"Oh fuck!" I cried out again, not at all concerned about any kind of pain, or my well being.

"You might have a slight concussion, but otherwise I think you're fine," Jet continued. "Do you remember what happened? Or what day it is? Or hell, do you remember my name?"

"Football to head," I breathed. "Friday. Teacher workday. You're Jet. My brother. Notre Dame football. Fighting Irish football. Number 4."

"Uh...yeah that's right," he said. "That's pretty good. You're definitely going to be fine."

Once at the hospital, we were all pretty surprised to learn that I didn't actually have a concussion. They told me to rest and watch out for any warning signs of head trauma, but otherwise said that I'd be fine.

I was convinced that I didn't actually pass out from the ball hitting me, although I couldn't share this information with my family. I felt that it was more to do with the fact the my brother played for the Fighting Irish and wore number 4, and it just so happened that I had been corresponding with one "fighting4irish" for months.

This, of course, did not necessarily mean what I feared it meant. Coincidences happen everyday and are just that: coincidences. This could be nothing at all, I figured.

But I had to know. Had to.

That evening, as I lay on the couch with an icepack on my forehead, Jet came in to check on me.

"No TV?" he asked, looking between me and the blank screen.

"Nah," I replied. "Not in the mood."

"Here," he said, gesturing for the icepack I was holding on my head. "Let me." He grabbed the icepack and managed to maneuver himself underneath me so that my head was in his lap.

"Bump's not too big," he said, looking down at my forehead before gently placing the icepack back on me.

"Yeah, guess not," I replied.

"You mad at me?" he asked cautiously.

"For what? You Marcia Brady-ing me?"

"Huh?"

"You know...the episode where Marcia gets nailed in the face by the football?"

"Oh right!" Jet said. "Peter throws a wild pass to Bobby and hits the unsuspecting Marcia right in the nose. Classic moment!"

I looked up at Jet with disdain.

"I mean...what a terrible episode," he amended.

"And no, I'm not mad at you," I said.

"Oh okay...good. So what the heck happened, Candy?"

"Uh...I missed the pass and got hit in the head?"

"Well yeah, but it didn't even seem like you were trying to catch it. Your arms didn't even leave your sides. It was as if you didn't see the ball at all."

"Yeah, well, I guess I just didn't see the ball then."

"But I remember you being a lot better than that when we were kids. Oww!" I delivered a hard pinch to his exposed calf that lay near my head.

"Look, can we not talk about it?" I asked. "I'd rather just put the moment behind me and get on with life. Maybe focus my efforts on healing this head bump before schools starts on Monday."

"No problem," he agreed. He shimmied himself out from underneath me and gave me back the icepack. Then, out of nowhere, he leaned forward and kissed me on my cheek. He smelled like grass and leather, and I found it strangely appealing. "I'll be around if you need anything at all," he said to me.

The feel of his lips on my cheek accompanied by the scratchy stubble on his chin lingered for a while after he left. It was a little off-putting at just how nice it felt, and I decided to put that thought aside and focus my efforts on my little Irish problem that needed to be dealt with.

*****

"Alright, so I absolutely like this version of the story better," I wrote the next day during my correspondence with Irish. "You've definitely given the characters more depth and made the plot more believable."

"But..." Irish typed back.

"But?"

"This feels like a 'but' moment where you tell me all the things you hate about it."

"Hate is such a strong word," I wrote back. "Despise maybe?"

"I feel like that's worse than hate."

"Perhaps. It's just...the language."

"How so?"

"Your descriptions of these sex scenes are over-the-top! You went from super softcore in Sex By The Bell to ridiculously graphic in Sister Golden Hair."

"That kind of writing turns me on though, as it will the readers!"

"I beg to differ, Irish. I feel like more people will relate to more of a middle ground between the two styles."

"Well, what are your suggestions then?"

"Let's take the scene in the middle where Greg and Brenda are having sex in their parents' bed. You could say something like, 'Greg slid easily inside of Brenda's warm pussy'."

"I don't even remember exactly what I wrote there."

"Allow me to refresh your memory," I wrote. "You said 'Greg jammed his juicy, king-sized sausage forcefully inside of her meat locker'. I mean...what the hell, Irish?"

"I really don't see much of a difference between what you wrote and what I wrote."

"There's a huge difference! Mine was sexy. Yours will make people more hungry than it will horny."

"Seems a little harsh, but I'll accept that criticism," he replied. "What else?"

"Alright, well how about the part near the end when Greg is eating Brenda out from behind. Maybe we can think of a more gentle way to say 'shoved his whole face into her rusty bullet hole'."

"How else can that be said?"

"So many ways, Irish!"

We spent the next hour or so just like this, and by the time we were done, I had to admit the story was very hot.

"Let's review," I typed. "What are some acceptable ways to reference a lady's private parts?"

"Vagina, pussy, cunny, and...her tender sheath," he replied.

"Very nice. And what should you never ever ever refer to it as?"

"Her clam chops."

"And...?"

"Her whisker biscuit."

"AND...?"

"...her gumbo pot."

"Very good. I think this story may actually be your best yet, Irish."

"You know, I have to agree. I was so terrified when I first sent you this story. Part of me thought that you were going to cut off all ties with me because of the whole, you know, incest thing."

"I kinda almost did."

"Well, I'm glad you had a change of heart."

I hesitated for a moment, fearing the answer I would get.

"Can I ask you something?" I typed.

"Go for it."

"How close to reality is this story for you?"

"Uhh...this is DEFINITELY not based on a true story."

"Yeah, well I figured that. But like, what was your motivation for choosing this particular genre?"

"Hmm...not really sure how to answer that."

I took a deep breath. "Do you have a sister?"

"Umm...that sounds like a personal question that may lead down a rabbit hole of more personal questions."

"I'm not trying to figure out who you are or anything," I lied. "I just want to know what made you interested in brother-sister incest."

"Against my better judgment, I guess I'll answer your question," Irish replied. "Yes, I do have a sister. And no, I am not sexually attracted to her."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

"So you're saying she's unattractive then?"

"No, didn't say that."

"So she's attractive?"

"I mean...yeah, for a sister I guess. But again, she played no role in my decision to write this story. It's all fictional."

"I see."

"Satisfied?"

I thought about it for a moment. "For now," I replied.

"Cool. I'll work on those edits and get it back to you to proofread one more time. Thanks again, Toxic Sunshine."

I sat in my room and thought for a bit, trying to think of a way to confirm that Irish was, or wasn't, my brother. It was a hard thing to think about, and part of me didn't even want to know, but I knew I wouldn't be able to rest until I knew for sure.

It seemed impossible that it would be him, if I thought about it from a logical standpoint. I mean, what were the chances that on a website filled with tens of thousands of users from all over the world, two strangers would meet up and just so happen to know each other? Let alone be brother and sister.

Also, to my knowledge at least, Jet had never written anything in his life. I had always been the writer in the family. Could Jet have picked it up as a hobby? I supposed it was possible, but given how busy he claims he is all the time with football, I didn't see how it was likely.

I hopped out of my bed and left my room. "Jet?" I called out.

"Yeah?" he responded.

"Where you be?"

"I be here."

"Where's here?"

"My room, dummy! You know, the place right across the hall from where you spend the majority of your time."

"Oh." I walked across the hall and opened his door. "Sorry, it was hard to tell where your voice was coming from with your door being closed and the acoustics and...whatever. Anyway, whatcha up to?"

"Eh, nothing," he replied. He was laying on his side in bed facing me, his phone right there beside his hand.

"I can see nothing," I said. "But like, literally, what were you doing?"

He looked at me funny. "Literally?" he asked. "I was on my phone."

"Doing what exactly?"

"Uhh...playing a game?"

"Really?"

"Why are you asking me this?"

I shrugged. "No reason. Just curious." I had to watch myself, I thought. No matter how bad I wanted to know the truth, I had to be careful not to make myself seem suspicious, and this line of questioning was clearly not the right path to take. "Wanna hang out?" I asked.

"Sure," he replied. "You wanna throw the football around a little?" I glared at him and growled. "Too soon?" he asked playfully.

"Why don't we just go chill in the living room, asshole?" I said, turning to leave.

"Sure thing, sis."

"Sis?" I replied, stopping to look back at him.

"Huh?"

"You called me 'sis'. I don't think I've ever heard you call me that before."

"Oh. Well, first time for everything I guess. Want me to stop?"

"Do you like calling me 'sis'?"

"Do I like it?"

"Yeah. Does it make you...I don't know, happy or anything?"

"The fuck you talking about, Candy?"

Another dead end. "Nevermind. C'mon, let's just go in the living room."

We turned on an episode of Full House and fell, as we often did, into a comfortable silence.

"You got your phone on you by chance?" I asked at some point.

"Uhh, no," Jet replied, feeling around in his pockets. "Why?"

"No reason. Just wanted to know the time."

"Why don't you just look at the clock? You know, that thing right beside you with bright colored numbers on it?"

"No need to get so snarky with me," I said. "Forgot it was there." I waited a few more minutes before carrying out the next part of my plan. "Gotta pee, be right back," I said as I stood up.

"Want me to pause it for you?" he asked.

"I've seen this episode a billion times, just let it go," I replied.

I went down the hall, walked right past the bathroom, and went straight into Jet's room. His phone was still laying right there on his bed. I picked it up and swiped it, but to my dismay, it was password protected.

"What are you doing, Candy?" Jet asked me from the hallway. I jumped and dropped his phone, thankfully on the soft mattress.

"Sorry!" I replied hastily. "I heard a beeping noise coming from back here somewhere and was trying to find the source." I picked his phone up and tossed it to him.

"My phone doesn't really make a beeping noise," he replied, looking at his screen. "It'll make more like a chiming noise when I get notifications and stuff."

"Hmm, strange," I said. "Maybe it was just my imagination."

Fortunately, Jet didn't seemed phased or put off by what I felt was clearly strange behavior on my part. I left his room, peed, and then rushed across the hall to grab my phone before returning to the living room.

When I got back to the living room, I tried to position myself on the couch in a way that would make it easy and convenient for me to watch Jet without him knowing, and equally inconvenient for him to notice anything that I was doing. Thankfully him sitting in the chair, which was positioned a little closer to the television, made that fairly easy.

I discreetly put my phone beside me and returned to the hot-smut website. I made sure the volume on my phone was turned to mute for all incoming notifications and messages, and then opened the message thread that I had with Irish.

"Hey man, you there?" I typed. A few seconds after I hit send, I heard Jet's phone make a weird chiming noise. I kept my eyes focused on the television and watched out of my peripheral vision as Jet first glanced my way, then took his phone in his lap and began messing with it.

Seconds later, a message quietly came in on my phone. "Yep. Sup?"

Oh my god oh my god, I thought to myself in a panic.

I hadn't actually planned on what I would say if he responded, so I had to think fast.

"Had an idea that might make the story hotter," I said, trying to think of what the hell my idea might be.

"Okay...go on," he wrote back. Jet's phone didn't make a noise this time, telling me that he must have turned his volume down, too.

Still being very careful not to make it obvious that I was even on my phone at all, I constructed my response. "What if we make Greg a lumberjack?" I wrote. "You know, instead of a photographer?"

I watched carefully from the safety of my spot on the couch as Jet's eyes scanned his phone screen. His face scrunched up in a weird way and immediately his fingers began moving. "Then I'd have to change the whole plot of the story though, wouldn't I?" he responded. "Given that it's about a guy taking pictures of his sister."

"Yeah, stupid idea," I typed quickly, my sweaty hands causing my fingers to smear my phone screen.

"Is that all?" he replied.

"Guess so." I hesitated, then typed more. "So what are you up to right now? Getting off on brother-sister porn or something?"

I watched Jet's face as he looked at his phone and smiled. "You wish," he typed back. "Just watching TV. Nothing too exciting."

Now, for the ultimate confirmation. "What are you watching?" I asked as my heartbeat picked up to an almost scary pace.

Jet's fingers moved briefly on his phone, and in no time at all I got the message that I already knew would be incoming before it even got to my phone.

"Full House," it said. "Classic '90s entertainment."

Oh my god oh my god oh my god, I thought over and over in my head.

I wanted to leave the room so badly, but was paralyzed in my seat. My hands shook and my breathing intensified.

"What are you doing?" Irish/Jet asked me in return.

Clearly I had to lie. Even saying something as simple as watching television sent me into a paranoid thought process that he would somehow deduce that Toxic Sunshine was sitting on the couch in the same room as him.

"Hunting," I wrote back stupidly, immediately regretting my decision.

"Okay..." he responded. "That's...something. You're just out somewhere hunting? And you decided to take a break and check on your favorite erotica author?"

"Yep," I wrote back simply

"So, uh...what the hell are you hunting for?"

"Big game," I said, feeling dumber by the second.

"Seems pretty generic."

"Yeah, well, I like to keep my options open. Antelope, bison, reindeer, alligators...you name it, I hunt it."

"...Where the fuck do you live!?" he replied.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god, I thought once more. "Shh!" I replied quickly. "Gotta go, just saw a wild boar. Later!"

"Uh...bye?" he wrote back. I looked over and saw Jet smiling and shaking his head back and forth.

"What?" I asked him. I seemed to take him off guard, as if he snapped out of some trance where he was in a completely different world.

"Oh, just..." he began, gesturing towards the television. "That Joey with his impressions, you know?" he said.

"Yeah, pretty lame, right?" I agreed.

We didn't say much to each other the rest of the day. The television was on and I was looking in its direction, but I wasn't aware of what was happening on it. Every now and then I'd glance over at Jet and see him typing away on his phone. I wondered if he was working on his story some more, but didn't dare ask anything that would clue me in to that. I had all the information I needed for the time being. More specifically, I had all the information that my brain could handle for the time being.

*****

I detached myself just a bit from Jet over the next couple of days. Fortunately I had school to keep me somewhat away from him, but even when I was home, I hung out a lot in my room by myself.

I just couldn't get over it. My brother was Irish. Jet was Irish, and Irish was Jet. I had been corresponding for months with my brother about sex stories. I had read, and often fingered myself to, words my brother had written. At times we had even flirted with each other. Or at least, I had taken it as flirting.

I didn't reach out to Irish at all for a while, either. It was weird that I still thought of them as two separate, unrelated entities when I knew better, but doing that seemed to help me maintain a certain level of sanity.

One afternoon I heard a soft knock on my door.

"Come in," I called out. As expected, there stood Jet in my doorway.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked as he entered my room and sat at the end of my bed.

"Oh, nothing...just working on this project I have that's due soon." That was actually true, which made me feel better that I wasn't lying to him.

"Gotcha. Just hadn't seen much of you lately."

"Yeah, been a busy week." I was laying on my bed, my feet near where Jet sat. I was suddenly aware that a good portion of my legs were exposed due to the shortness of my shorts, so I grabbed my blanket and casually threw it over myself. I hated feeling vulnerable and didn't necessarily think I had anything to worry about, but I still hadn't fully figured out my brother's motives on his latest story.

"Well Mom, Dad, and I are about to go out to eat. I'm guessing you don't wanna join?"

"I really would, but like I said, I've got to do some serious work on this project."

"Okay," he said simply. Jet looked at little hurt, and I felt bad for distancing myself, but I just needed some more time to figure this whole thing out. "I'll bring you back a plate of chicken parm. Sound good?"

"Oh, well you don't have to do that," I replied. "I can just have a sandwich or something."

"You sure?"

My mouth watered at the idea of chicken parm. "Well...go ahead and get me the food, I guess."

"Sounds good," he said.

"Extra cheese," I requested.

"Got it."

"If they put any bread out, bring me back some of that too."

"Will do."

"And maybe a slice of cheesecake."

Jet smiled. "That all?"

I thought about it briefly. "Jalapeno poppers?" I asked hopefully.

"Of course," he replied.

As he turned to leave, I stopped him. "Hey Jet?"

"Yeah?" he asked, turning back to me.

"This has been nice, you know? Having you back. It's like having a brother again."

"Yeah," he agreed. "We'll have to think of some way to keep in touch once the next football season starts up again. Some really easy way to communicate."