Confession

I know this looks bad, Kyle, but really, it's not as bad as it looks.

... Well, yeah, actually, it's exactly as bad as it looks. ... A confession? What, do you want me to tell you the sob story of an ten year old in love with his brother's best friend? About said friend destroying his fragile morals for the love of your gorgeous little brother?

... You do? Well, sit down, be careful not to wake him.

I guess it really started sometime around a year ago. You guys, Stan and you and Eric, you fell asleep, passed out, cuddling like kittens on the couch. Ike and me laid down, facing each other like lovers almost, on the other couch, all scrunched together, and we talked for four hours straight. About everything. Love, life, happiness, grief, pain, sex, politics, morals, you, music, school, anything and everything. And he fell asleep right there in my arms and he was so damn beautiful in the moonlight, and I watched him sleep, watched his chest move with each breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Perfect.

It became a habit. We stayed up hours after everyone else fell asleep and talked. Sometimes, when you didn't invite me over, I snuck in through his window. We told each other everything. Did you know that that little goth kid in his class is his best friend? Do you know much of anything about him? I do. I know everything about beautiful, perfect Ike Broflovski.

It was only natural, of course, when, late one night, as we sat across from each other, holding hands, and it struck me how beautiful his eyes are-such a gorgeous deep chocolate-and he told me he was in love with me. I told him hesitantly that I was much too old for him, and maybe he should try for a pretty little fourth grade girl, and he crawled into my lap, his fragile arms curled around my neck, and begged, "But I want you."

You know the face he makes. It's irresistible. Even Eric can't deny him anything. I figured it was okay; I loved him back, after all. I kissed him. Just a quick, chaste kiss, but it was enough.

Oh, the guilt, Kyle, you'll never know. You would look at me, so worried, and ask if I was having trouble sleeping. It was always on the tip of my tongue, "Well, last night, I snuck in your baby brother's window, comforted him about his trouble making friends and a couple bullies, had a debate about Obama's health care plan, followed by a conversation about infinity, and then I dry humped him and he came so hard he passed out." Jeez, I was keeping him up well into the morning hours on school nights. I'm such a terrible influence.

I told him, one night, that it was wrong. He pressed his nose against mine, the skin of his back feeling so soft and smooth under my calloused finger tips, and he whispered, "It's South Park, Kenneth."

I love it when he calls me Kenneth.

So, yeah, this is exactly what it looks like. For your perfect baby brother's eleventh birthday, I fucked him. And god, he was so amazing. Hot and tight, moaning and making the most orgasmic sounds, begging me to go harder, faster, deeper. I didn't, of course. I was so gentle with that angel, passed out here on his bed, that he will probably walk without a limp today. He wasn't nearly so gentle; I bet some of the scratches on my back will scar. I kinda hope they do. He called my name as he came, Kyle, and I don't think I've ever been happier than the moment he whispered into my ear as he fell asleep, "I love you, Kenneth."

God, I love it when he calls me Kenneth. I love everything about him. His smile, his eyes, his brilliance, his unique personality... I love him, Kyle. I love him more than anything.

Don't make me give him up, Kyle. I can't live without him, and I can't kill myself either. I'll just come back... Again and again and again...

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