Brotherly Love, No Relation

Sleeping with a guy people mistake for your brother might sound like a perfect porn. But for me, it led to confusion, crisis, and a cross-country leap into the unknown.

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Illustration by Stephanie You

“Are you two brothers?” our cashier asked, between the Bud and Bud Light.

Zack and I looked at each other, each clocking our beards, glasses, and rounded tummies, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Well, two things. First, if we should do our private joke, say, “Yes, we are. Don’t tell Mom,” and start making out right there. And second? 

That this was becoming absurd.

We’d been back in each other’s orbits for a few months, and they were shaping up, despite all my initial resistance, to be some of the best I ever had. Zack and I squeezed for days on end in his tiny NYC studio, yet still cuddled close. He learned what all my weird noises meant; I learned his pressure points. I was even getting used to killing all his spiders for him. So, naturally, it was disturbing that wherever we went, people had a slightly different impression.

“Brothers?” busboys intruded, as we played footsie under the table. “Brothers?” his doormen posed, while we were still sweaty from sex. Intellectually, I knew that it didn’t mean anything. They were all just assumptions based on biases that were their issue, not ours. Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds, the brand new it-couple at the time, looked practically like womb-mates, but no one said a peep about them. Still, even though the comments shouldn’t have bothered me, it reminded me of my big problem with Zack, the one I had from the beginning and was now being thrown in my face every single day: that I never wanted a brother. 

I wanted a daddy.

“So, what celebrities you like?” my brusque, Israeli father asked upon me coming out to him at 14. I didn’t expect this to be the hardest part.

While for years I had Britney Spears and Katie Holmes on my walls and prayed to wake up desiring them, I’d noticed I looked at the Backstreet Boys and other ’90s heartthrobs with the same disinterest. Instead of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, I found myself focusing on his TV dad, Tim Allen. NSYNC always lost out to Garth Brooks. Even the older men of Friends paled in comparison to George Costanza, who I knew, despite all his faults, could take perfect care of me.

“Justin Timberlake,” I told my dad, earning his understanding nod.

I always thought there was something wrong with me until I grew up and finally saw how prevalent daddy/boy relationships were in the gay community. But I stepped cautiously into the fantasy. I lost my virginity at 20 to a medical resident only five years older, then quickly coupled with Harvey, a CIA-trained barfly, who was completely over life at 30, yet always took charge. It wasn’t until he and I broke up that the dam of forty and fifty-something flings in my life broke open, too. Forty-four was my “lucky number” for a streak, but eventually I graduated to men in their mid-fifties, including an Australian TV personality who I could not shut up about.

Now, though, I found myself entangled with Zack, who, sure, was showing dominance in some areas—in the bedroom, with money—but was ultimately a soft, sensitive, aspiring screenwriter in his twenties, seeking approval himself. Like me, he dealt with a macho father and high-strung mother ruling his psyche. Like me, he’d been a precocious child who promised too much and delivered back too little. And because of all this and more, he truly did feel more like a brother—even down to our early rivalry.

“Please don’t stay over, please don’t stay over,” I heard him whispering from outside the door. I was in Zack’s bathroom after our first OKCupid date-turned-hook-up.

The words hurt but weren’t a surprise. I first met up with him at a restaurant bar. When he asked, “Isn’t this cute?” I let him know it actually wasn’t. Later, I saw he had a Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead poster, and what started as innocent pillow talk about the film became a heated argument over what constitutes “good taste.” This fresh off seeing the new Todd Solondz movie, and sparring over whether it was indeed chronological, set us on a path of discord that felt too close for comfort.

So, I came out of hiding and proclaimed I was leaving. I made the midnight ferry trek from his Manhattan apartment to my mom’s house in Staten Island, and that was the end—or would’ve been—until five years later when fate (and our libidos) intervened.

“You look familiar,” I said. “Are you…?” he said, as we happened to cross in front of an East Village gay bar, immediately pulling at each other like lost halves.

We returned to the scene of the crime. This time, though, there were no controversial posters, or hints of conflict, in sight. Instead, we made breakfast, talked like people. We even discovered we were both in grad school now, not to mention lighter, happier, and properly medicated. And so just like with my real sibling, a bullying sister who returned from college with a newfound maturity, we got a do-over.

After a year of fuck-buddying confusion, though, I could now tell he wanted more. I had to break down and finally consider, what would it be like to actually commit to someone so similar? So… expected? After all, even more prevalent in the gay community than daddy/boy couples were “boyfriend-twins,” all populating the bars like Noah’s Ark, men pairing up with their convenient double to survive. Could I also, biblically, fall in line?

Immediately, the idea put me off (and not just the Bible part). I mean, even forgetting about age and the absence of sexy wrinkles, I couldn’t fathom, why would I want someone like me? I brushed once a day, I wore the same plaid shirts and ripped jeans since high school, and I didn’t know how to take anything seriously, ever. Sure, Zack knew how to start a fire and rent a car, but it just didn’t seem like enough merit badges to make up for all that I knew, deep down, I lacked.

So I maintained my distance, put up walls. I told him that I only “bang” when he asked us to “make love,” and continued scrolling through my dating apps, keeping an eye out for anyone older, anyone experienced and mature, who could challenge me and take me, a confused Millennial from the forgotten borough… somewhere. Plus, I was going to hit 30 soon—nearing early “daddy” territory myself. I had no time to waste.

But maybe Zack didn’t either, because near his 29th birthday, I got a text.

“I think we should only ‘bang’ each other,” he wrote.

I was shocked (and OK, more than a little turned on). He was being so direct. But I was also confused. “You want to be monogamous fuckbuddies?”

He explained that it was for safety, but I knew the real answer, and started to freak out. This felt make or break. I mean, I didn’t want to lead him on, but I didn’t want to give him up. Was I secretly like one of those straight male douchebags? Ugh, I thought, this was why I needed a daddy in the first place!

Then I remembered, I still had access to one.  

“Trial period,” Harvey, my CIA ex suggested. “With a renegotiation in two months.”

I was dubious. It felt cold and almost too transparent of my needs. But with nothing left to lose, I texted Zack back with my terms, and he agreed. I reluctantly deleted my apps knowing all my favorited daddies—mature designers, tenured professors, some actual fathers—would be saved, and I even accepted the invite to Zack’s mom’s house for the holidays in LA, knowing it’s just the city of appearances.

We arrived and put our bags down in his childhood bedroom. At first, I was excited to leave NYC, the site of all my turmoil. But here, my inner conflict only amplified. His room was just like mine at home. There was the thick, white furniture common to most kids’ rooms, sure, but then the unmistakably queer pops of color, the academic, wannabe-overachiever trophies, those clear yet subtle nods to boy and girl.

“Sorry we have to share a wall with my mom,” Zack said. “Probably means I shouldn’t take advantage of you.”

Well, that makes one of us, I thought, guilt-ridden—that I took my indecision this far, that his family was meeting me, when I felt more like we were bunking bros than ever.

I locked myself in his bathroom to rub my head, sort through my thoughts. But as the hours went on, and as we huddled together in an even smaller bed than on the other coast, hiding from his holiday-stressed mother, I decided I had no choice for now. I just had to lean in.

First, we threw the blanket over our heads and told secrets in the dark. Then I asked him to show me his yearbook, embarrassing photos, and explain the stories behind the trophies. We performed tricks for each other with his old magic kit, even traced our common Jewish ancestries online, finding out my tribe was his tribe’s right-hand men. And soon, I discovered something else. Zack was always sweet and polite, but could also be restrained, stiff, a little snobby, and harsh on the things he deemed mediocre. But now, with the security of monogamy finally in place, it seemed to unlock brand new levels to his sweetness; in turn, unlocking mine.

The light in his eyes grew bright as he called me Pookie.

It grew even brighter when I said, “Not Pookie. Tookie!” 

I showed him a card trick, one not from his kit, and revealed how I did it. He squealed about how no boy ever showed him a new trick before. Then I showed him another.

“Tookie, do you want some more pill-pows?” he asked me, when he saw me squashing my bedding at night.

“Aw, no, Tookie, but I will take some wah-wah,” I replied.

That’s right, we introduced baby talk, and I didn’t even mind we were both the baby. I enjoyed it, actually, and slept soundly like one each night.

At least, until New Year’s Day.

“Time to go!” a voice shouted, jolting me awake.

It was his mother outside our door. Things had been getting increasingly stressful with her, but she wanted to make up for it and bought tickets online for us all to go see a movie. Because of a miscommunication, though, I had no idea what was going on, not to mention the hangover. Zack quickly got to work dashing between our bedrooms, delivering updates and info back and forth between us. But when being a good host and being a good son overwhelmed him, and when his mom finally pushed too hard for the exact time that I’d be ready, it escalated into him cursing her out—badly—and saying we weren’t going.

“I’ve never done that before,” he said, running back to me with a frightened whine I haven’t heard since scraped knees. “I’ve never, ever done that!”

“Cursed your mother out?”

“No—flaked on her!”

It sounded like a joke, but he was dead serious. I cringed inside and couldn’t help but think, Playtime is over. This was what I was most afraid of—seeing behavior too weak, too kiddie-like that I just couldn’t look past.

“Um, it’s fine,” I said, detaching from him with each word. “It happens. By tomorrow everything will be forgotten.”

“No, it won’t,” he insisted.

“Yes, it will,” I said, back into our rivalry.

“No, you’re wrong!” he cried out. “You’re wrong, you’ll never get it, and you don’t UNDERSTAND!”

And that’s when I could’ve cringed further, but instead something jolted me again—in his tone, in his word choice—and time stopped, and I envisioned us from a distance.

I saw both our bodies cowering from bad behavior in his room, two little boys—one with a chance to comfort and protect the other, the way we never were in our lonely, gay childhoods.

I saw that I could be the one there for him, not because of some set role, or my age, but because he needed it, because I could see how deep the fear was running—of wrongness. Of not being OK. Of feeling like you’re just a faggot with no power.

I saw that he was wrong. Because of course I understood. I always, too perfectly, did.

I sat him down, rubbed his back, and told him to breathe. I repeated that he’s a strong, good person, so supportive, loving, and kind. That he’s incredible. I felt bad that I couldn’t think of more adjectives, but it was baby steps: trying to be comfortable hearing a more compassionate sound out of my mouth than usual, taking the lead instead of following, providing the approval instead of seeking it.

Then I gave him a kiss, deeper, more present and passionate than ever before. He quickly pulled away. Was it too late? Did he sense my awkwardness?

His big, reflective eyes locked with mine. “You’re my right-hand boy,” he said, smiling, then got up and knocked on his mom’s door.

As they talked it out, I sat with myself and, with my walls lowered, was finally able to feel the strength that could come from a sibling-like sentiment, one of being open to each other’s vulnerabilities and choosing not to flinch. I saw then that Zack and I could be really there for each other, maybe not in a way for strangers to wrap their heads around immediately, or even myself, with my preconceived notions of who I wanted, but in a way that’s more meaningful and special because of that. Besides, even if Zack and I were like brothers, even if we were exactly alike, I could finally see—proud of him, proud of us both—it just meant we had good taste.

I looked at my phone. Tomorrow was January 2nd, the end of the trial period, time to renegotiate our terms. I considered messaging my ex for more advice. But Zack and I would soon be too busy. Too busy cuddling, too busy performing magic, and too busy making love.

Illustration by Stephanie You