Dad left me a massive fortuhat put to paid my marine dreams and all I had to do was to set up some trusts and made sure that monies were well-ied, returns were re-ied and used to do good. Brandon grew up well. He took to me like fish to water a along mighty fine.

My stellar academic results were a stant headache but inspiration for him and he promised he’ll kick my butt by besting when his time came. Brandon never showed signs of homosexuality. Before he turned 18, he was Boris’ son, my son. I’d never lay a finger on him. And I still haven’t laid a single finger on him.

In school, he was a star athlete, a national wrestler a his 4.0 average. I had no idea which team he batted for but I made sure he had as much exposure to both sexes as he could. I treated him as a young adult since he was young. He knew he could o try anything funny on me; I read him like an open book and he reads me the same.

We were best buddies and often times, we were mistaken for brothers. When I brought him out when he was younger, people thought he was a “oops!” from my parents, given e difference. But to Brandon, I am Dad. When Brandon turned 15, I told him about Boris, his biological father.

I left Russia with not much. I smuggled Boris’ remains home on the same flight as me. After I settled down at home, I made plans to fly bae of his stuff. I brought along his boots and uniforms, as well as other memehat would remind me of him. I knew what I wao keep for myself and what I would eventually pass to Brandon for his keepsake.

August 1, 1990. That’s the day Boris took the bullet for me. I never really knew what happened but I watched him die hours later in the hospital, after an unsuccessful surgery. Brandon and I were ba the US on August 31 the same year. I missed a week of school but I was ba one piece. Boris’ murderer was shot himself by Boris’ friends. I receive odd packages now and again and I k was from them...

“Ouch!” Daydreams last too short. “Ouch! God damn it!” I roared. My balls were on fire!