This story involved male-on-male sex and incest. It is a complete work of fiction and claims no knowledge of the Carter brothers or their sexual orientation and is not endorsed by the E! Network in anyway. If you are not 18 or are offended by the stated content matter, please find something more suited to your interests.
My name is Nick Carter, and I have a secret I can't tell anyone.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing this down, creating a record of my feelings, the things I've done. Sure, there's not much risk. My laptop is password protected, and unless something happens to me, nobody is likely ever to read these words, which is a good thing.
See. I've got a problem, well, not as much a problem as a secret. A deep, dark secret that if anyone knew would destroy me, my band, my family and most importantly, the one person I care about more than anyone else in the whole world, my brother, Aaron.
As far as most people know, my life is an open book. I've lived in the public eye since I was 14. First in Europe, then here at home, then in pretty much every part of the world you can imagine, I was the poster boy for the Backstreet Boys. The innocent, blond,, fresh-faced teenage whom girls - and not just a few boys - swooned over, fell in lust with and fantasized about.
My relationships with Willa Ford and Paris Hilton - as pathetically unrealistic and adolescent at they were -- were all over the Internet, as were my arrests for interfering with police business in a Florida nightclub and later for drunk driving in LA.
Since the day I signed my first contract with that swindling pimp Lou Pearlman and his Zomba Records, I've done everything I could for my family. I gave them money, a house, cars and, not least of all, every bit of emotion and love I could spare.
Even before BSB made it big in the U.S. - our ultimate dream - my mother had pushed my little brother, then only 10 years old, into following in my footsteps.
Preteen musical acts are novelties, adored for their innocence and the amusement of seeing someone who has never even considered going on a date get up and dance on stage and sing and rap about love.
I did what I could to protect him. Protect him from the world, from the business, from his slowly growing fan base, from our parents.
I failed.
Unable to control me and my career, our mother took charge of Aaron's career, allowing him no choices, stealing his childhood and quite literally robbing him left and right.
While I didn't have an adolescence, never went to high school, prom or got to try out for the football or basketball team; Aaron was robbed of his very childhood. From the time he was 8 years old, Aaron was a commodity, a cash cow, and our mother determined his every move. She wasn't on tour protecting him, she was there exploiting him, and, in the process, I believe he lost every shred of who he was, every connection to and possibility of a normal, satisfying life.
Eventually, as he matured, Aaron realized what was being done with and to him. Our parents had already been through a traumatic divorce, which also made the tabloids, and was also all over the Internet.
The press wasn't good to Aaron. Then there were the pictures of him smoking marijuana at 16 in the National Enquirer -- an article supported and partially fabricated by our mother -- to get back at the child who'd cut off her source of income, leaving her to fend for herself for the first time in her life.
My brother tried another tour after that, playing state fairs and various House of Blues locations across the country. Venues that had been packed two years earlier were largely deserted, the teen mags like BOP having dumped Aaron for Jesse McCartney and Chad Michael Murray, neither of whom had the baggage of alleged drug use or having two-timed Hillary Duff with Lindsay Lohan - if that ever really happened, or was an invention of Disney publicists to create a rivalry between their two hottest female commodities.
Not that I'm sure Aaron ever really noticed. He'd been a star - well, more accurately a teen idol - for too long to accept that suddenly he was a becoming a has-been. After all, how could he be? He was barely 18. He still got fan mail. He still got noticed when he went out in public and never lacked for a girl on his arm or in his bed. Even a former star can get a girl pretty easily-- just ask Leif Garrett or David Cassidy or, hell, even me.
And, at least in my case, that's without having turned to illegal substance to make life more bearable.
I blame myself, of course. The pot, well, I don't think I had anything to do with that, but then again, it's a pretty standard right of passage for teens in the U.S. and probably in most first-world countries, if not everywhere.
The speed, the coke? That's different. Aaron saw what happened to me when I turned 18. I had money. I could afford good food, everybody wanted to wine and dine me, and it didn't take long until it was easy to notice. Our family's genetic inheritance obviously doesn't include a particularly decent metabolism beyond adolescence. I've been fighting my weight for the past eight or nine years or so, and mostly losing, or at least fighting a rear-guard action. My sisters are in the same boat, though Angel, Aaron's twin, has done better than the rest of us.
Aaron got the one thing I never did: To survive past being a teenager as a sex symbol, one has to be desirable to look at shirtless. I should have gotten it, after all, my album was better than Justin Timberlake's first effort ... but he had pecs, a six pack and was dating Britany Spears.
Aaron realized genetics weren't going to help him and, like everyone else in the family, he lacked the discipline to actually dedicate himself to a gym and a diet. So he took the route pretty much every high-priced model does: drugs.
I'm not saying male models don't work out, they do, it's pretty damn obvious. But the reality is, maintaining their schedules and almost nonexistent body fat is almost impossible without cocaine.
Not that it was difficult for Aaron to get his hands on drugs, of course not. He was Aaron Carter, and on the few occasions that wasn't good enough, he was my brother.
And then there was the alcohol. There, I can't claim innocence. I started drinking not too long into touring with the Backstreet Boys, the price of being out in the world with older guys your only friend. It became a crutch, a way to escape, and not a demon I've really escaped, not that I haven't at least tried to make it appear otherwise.
This, more than any other reason, was why I convinced Aaron to work with me to put together "House of Carters," a reality show on the E! Network.
I was worried. I didn't think I could save or really help my sisters that much, I just didn't understand them. Like my parents, they were, for the most part, parasites who had lived off my money and made very little effort to have realistic careers. Leslie wants to sing, but she has neither the training nor the natural talent. Angel wants to model, but although she's pretty, she's not the stick figure one has to be on a runway, and B.J.... don't get me started about that poor, aimless, drunken girl.
But Aaron? Aaron had worked and worked hard. He'd had a career that had made him millions of dollars, if only based on his cute face and innocence that had long since faded. But he, of all of them, was really willing to work, and yet he, of all of them, had the most unrealistic expectations of who he was and how marketable his talents were.
All I wanted to do was help him, the way I always have. To help him find his own voice, yet in a way that was marketable. White, 18-year-old rappers who've been teen idols don't have a future in music. Worst of all, he didn't realize how little he knew or how much training and guidance he really needed.
If only I realized how much I didn't know, either ...
It happened one of our first nights at the house in the Hollywood Hills where we were shooting "House of Carters" ... but wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.
When Aaron showed up that first day, I realize how very much I'd missed him. No longer a boy, but not yet a man, he sported a scraggly attempt at chin hair, unkempt, bleached blond hair and was gaunt as all fuck. Yet despite that, there was a life, a vitality there. His rich, brown eyes were alive, and there was both love and an independent defiance as we greeted each other.
That independence struck only minutes later when we went to explore the balcony overlooking the pool. Aaron stripped off his shirt and jumped up on the rail, threatening to jump. I felt obliged to forbid it, to coax him down, while at the same time wishing I still had that fire, that reckless abandon that had once made me the terror and feared uncontrollable prankster amongst my bandmates.
It was only minutes later, when the barely real crisis had been averted, that I had a chance to evaluate what I had really felt.
The sight of Aaron shirtless, his thin, mildly toned body marred by ink that I could only blame myself for, had affected me in a way I hadn't really expected. I loved Aaron, I always had, and I'd long been aware that I found other guys attractive. I'd never acted on those impulses. The danger of being discovered and destroying what remained, not only of my career but of Brian's, Howie's, A.J's and Kevin's - if he ever wanted to come back - had been enough to confine my interest in other guys to anonymous Internet porn.
But there was no denying how seeing Aaron in just shorts, his small, purple nipples crowning discernable pecs, that smooth, flat stomach, chin hair, leg hair and arm pit hair telling me this was no boy, but a young, virile. legally adult man, made porn stars like Brent Corrigan and Jeremy Jordan -- both insatiably willing bottoms I'd wanked over endlessly -- pale in comparison,
Later that day, as we lost the basketball we'd been fooling around with, we were searching through the surrounding brush - I was getting too, errrr. big and Aaron, well, he's never been that athletic, at least not in the traditional sports sense - and we sat down and had a chat. Aaron said he was here because he loved and respected me. His hand on my thigh said something even more. That soft, thin, delicate, teenage hand resting on my bare skin, burning into me as Aaron told me he loved me and would do anything I said. I couldn't help noticing how easy it was to see the naked curve of his pale thighs though the droopy openings of in the legs of his shorts ....
I could have, I would have, kissed him then and there, but there were cameras, and the whole point was proving how normal and loving I was ... making a move on my kid brother, while it might have gotten pretty good ratings, would have killed both of our careers.
Instead, I made him promise to listen to me. We hugged, his lithe, beautiful teenage frame pressed against the soft, imperfect man I'd become. And then we went our separate ways,
Later that night, BJ got drunk and disturbed the entire house. I tried to smooth things over, but eventually, I gave up and sough the sane solace of Aaron's room when her boyfriend, Wes, showed up.
Aaron was wearing only a pair of royal-blue sweat pants and a concerned and frustrated expression on his face. I had on an extra-large grey t-shirt and a pair of baggy navy shorts and an equally exasperated expression, rubbing my eyes in an effort not to cry.
"I never was so happy to see that guy ... in my life," I told Aaron, referring to Wes, fighting back the tears of concern and frustration over a sister I feared I could do nothing for.
"I'm telling you," Aaron said, rubbing his own eyes, whether out of sleepiness or sadness, I couldn't tell. "I'm telling you, he's a savior." And we both started laughing out of tiredness and hopelessness.
"We really need to address B.J." I told my brother while tugging at my ear, my thoughts split between a sister I'd all but given up on and the boy next to me whom I suddenly wished was anybody other than my brother.
"So what do we do?" he asked with a wan smile, barely understandable.
"If this keeps going on, we have to do something about her, and I can't live like that," was my non-ingenuous reply. Not that I'd have had a good answer under the best of circumstances, but at the moment, BJ was a reason to be here in this ridiculously expensive room with my scantly clad brother, rather than a real concern.
We hugged, and I could feel myself starting to harden and found myself glad I was wearing a pair of black CK briefs and not my usual boxers, as there was a camera crew in the room filming us. So, I said goodnight and headed back to my room, but I couldn't fall asleep. All I could do was imagine Aaron's tight, thin body and what it would be like to have him in my arms.
An hour or so and a couple of wanks later, I was still awake, unable to get the image of a sleeping, shirtless Aaron out of my mind. Not hearing anybody around, I quietly stole out of my room and made my way to Aaron's as quickly as possible. I knocked softly, making sure the sound wouldn't carry far, and there was no answer. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in and closed the door behind me.
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