He's Glad He Inherited That Gene

Tonight after his twenty-five minute shower (during which he did God knows what with that detachable shower head he likes to rave about), my brother pranced into the living room wearing only a pair of plaid pajama pants. He was shirtless and slick from his shower. His skinny chest was puffed out. He stopped in front of us and started to massage his nipples.

"Gross," my mother said.

"Disgusting," I said.

"Look at this," he said. He plucked at some straggly hairs around his nipples. "Look!" He tugged and tugged and the nipple elongated, warped, shrunk back down to size. "I can make it dance." He started humming a little tune, and his nipple jigged to the tune.

"I'm going to vomit," I said.

"You know," my brother said, finally abandoning his nipple dance and collapsing next to me on the couch, "I got that from Dad. The hairy nipple gene. Hairy tits. I'm pretty happy I inherited that."

Right at that moment my mother's boyfriend's possibly-gay-black-belt-son, the eleven year old who shares a room and a bunk bed with my brother, arrived on the scene. He, too, skittered into the living room in his sleepwear--a shortie robe that revealed his knobby knees. He wanted to say goodnight to me. He did. Then he turned to my brother and said, "Good night, Adam. See you in bed."

Oh, I couldn't help it. I couldn't help laughing at the ridiculousness of it all--the shortie robe, the vaguely sexual goodnight, my brother scantily clad and picking at his nipple hair.

"Oooooh," I hissed as the possibly-gay-black-belt-son retreated to the bedroom. "It's going to be a special night."

"Oh come on now," my brother said, feigning innocence. "It's only our first date. What do I look like?"

"Hmmm," my mother said.

"A kiss," my brother said. "Maybe a kiss. It's a first date. That's all I'm giving up."

Later, I would find my brother in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror and preening. He was picking at his hair, smoothing a hand over his stubble.

"Have fuuun," I sang. I backed out of the bathroom before he could retaliate in some awful way--by rubbing his naked chest and errant hairs on me, by flicking my arm fat, by calling me Square Head (this because my brother swears that my head is a scientific anomaly--a perfectly square head--and he has done numerous tests to prove this point to me, my parents, and my friends). I backed away, thinking I'd escaped.

I hadn't. My brother called my name, and I, like a fool, turned around, turned to see what he wanted.

"Look at this," he said.

That's when he stepped out into a swatch of light falling from the bathroom lamps and raised his arm in one smooth, elegant motion. And there it was: a quasi-pelt of man hair. And as if that wasn't bad enough, my brother reached over and dragged his comb--the same comb he'd been running through his shower-damp hair moments before--through his awkward tangle of underarm hair. I made a face, but it was too late. My brother was already lowering his arm, happy with his grooming, and stepping back into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.