The sight that greeted me as I opened my bedroom door was the hairy butt crack and dangling scrotum of my beefy big bro, Karl. There wasn’t time for it to register as erotic as I watched him slide the entire length of his substantial cock into his girlfriend du jour before he screamed, “Get the fuck outa here!” That he’d glanced over his shoulder to see who the intruder was meant that he didn’t mind sharing. Just not with his kid pro bro.

If I hadn’t forgotten my key, of course, none of it would have happened. But I was in such a hurry to surprise my parents for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, I pretty well floored the Toyota Camry for two hundred miles from my uni campus in the capitol to Redneck Central, as I not-so-fondly called my home town.

It didn’t feel much like a home town any longer. I was particularly out of favor with the populace, as I’d become an outspoken opponent of the country’s military policy. Perhaps not a good idea in a town that supplied a rather large contingent to the Marine Corps. They were heroes. I was a traitor. They’d seen action in a war zone. I’d been on the receiving end of a police baton charge at an anti-war demo. I had a cabinet full of swimming medals. Karl had a chestful of bravery awards. It was a no brainer.

My brother and his marine buddies are all big gorillas of men. Karl is 6’4” of almost solid muscle and, I’m pleased to say, an increasing amount of fat, and weighs in at 240lbs. Cropped dark hair and an attitude so belligerent that it would feed the messianic zealotry of any medium level dictator. Naturally, he attracts chicks like horse manure attracts flies.

Me, I take after mom. She’s petite, dwarfed by my dad, with blonde hair and the friendliest disposition you’d ever care to meet. I take after her—except for the disposition. Like my brother, I get that from my dad. And, of course, like my dad, I have a dick. Besides that, I have blond hair, a slim pro swimmer’s body that weighs in at 120lbs, and a face that’s much too pretty for its own good. Got me beat up a few times. And it’s a constant source of friction between me and my bro and his buddies who call me ‘Pretty Boy’ to my face, as well as behind my back. It’s not meant as a compliment.

Our parents discourage mutual homecomings, and we’re both happy to oblige. This, however, was one occasion where there was a scheduling error.

Lights blazed in the house; the music was thumping a bass line so loud it could be heard by the deaf in Middle Earth. The laughter was raucous and the language blue enough that our fundamentalist neighbors had locked their windows, drawn their blinds and turned up the volume on their Christian cable channels to drown out the profanities.

No one would call the police. These marines were heroes to the town of ‘true believers.’ It was just the boys home on leave, blowing off a little steam. Tomorrow they would settle down and become law-abiding rednecks. Tonight? Well, what we don’t see and hear…

I cursed. Dad’s SUV was missing from the driveway. Even my parents tended to leave the nest when Karl returned in Caesar-like triumph. They’d come back and sweep out the debris of sexual, alcoholic and narcotic excess and quietly pay the girls who knew the routine and waited patiently for their due. It was my parents’ ritual, accepted as part and parcel of the sacrifice of having a decorated war hero for a son.

Now the ‘wrong’ son was crashing the party. I could have turned around and driven away to a hotel or back to the college, but I was simply too stinking tired. And too stinking poor. I banged loudly on the door and there was a whoop from inside. “The chicks are here at last!”

The door was yanked open. The smile of expectation became a snarl of recognition.

“Cool it! It’s not the girls,” Dean, one of my brother’s marine buddies, spat out. “It’s just Pretty Boy home from college.”

There was a moan from the living room, plus a tsunami of cursing.

Dean still blocked the door and made no effort to move.

“I’d like to come in,” I said as firmly as I could.

“I don’t think you’d like it in here,” Dean said. “It’s full of misinformed military muscle.” He was quoting from an editorial I’d written for the campus newspaper which had earned me a rebuke from my father, a look of pity from my mom, and the everlasting enmity of Karl and his buddies.

“Or maybe that’s what Pretty Boy really wants. Military muscle,” he said as he grabbed his crotch. He was borderline drunk.

“Leave him alone, Dean,” a kinder voice said. “And get out of the doorway and let him in. It’s his home.”

Dean sulked away to be with his buddies, who were getting hot and sweaty watching porn in the living room.

“Welcome home.” Sam smiled and shook my hand. He was one mean motherfucker. A tank of a man. And one of the nicest guys I knew. Every time I saw him, I just wanted him to sweep his huge, black arms around me and make me feel safe.