I never really had brothers. I have two biological brothers but I never really had brothers. My family is as disconnected as apple pie and hammers. I do remember some brotherly activity at first – when I was cute and young. My one brother would tease me like brothers do, I suppose. But somehow it was all the teasing and beating and none of the loving. A friend said to me last week “You should hang out with your brother more” to which I replied, “You should hang out with the mailman more” because it’s the about the same difference.

Apparently, the Universe didn’t like the fraternal void in my life, so it plopped some brothers into my lap. Last year, when I moved to the Jersey shore, I befriended three brothers at the end of my street. They took me in immediately and from that point forward, we’ve always known each other and never missed a beat. We surf together, drink and carouse together, plan and occasionally execute petty crimes, dive from high places, watch sunsets, eat burgers, wrestle, talk girls, talk boys, talk smack. Being with them is like roaming with a pack of stealthy dogs.

The brothers are very close even though they say awful things about each other privately. I wonder how that’s possible – but it is. It seems they're allowed that kind of backbiting because they live and breathe each other; and it’s a technique to dispel built-up anger. Ironically, the insults they level toward one another tend to be the same, down to the choice of obscenities. Sometimes I want to tell them that, but I don’t.

They are rag tag and pervasively boy; they wear the same clothes over and over again. They always have scratches and bruises from one thing or another. They are naturally athletic and will jump off of anything onto anything. They fart, they curse, they hit and their observations can border on ignorant or sublimely ridiculous. They laugh endlessly at things that aren’t funny. They drive any vehicle well. They like explosives and light them casually and walk away bored. They’re virile and pretty with lithe, toned bodies. They spit and drink cheap beer. They smoke cigarettes like truck drivers and sleep like rocks.

Recklessness is like breathing to them - light and easy. They’re boys, barely men, with something distinctly untamed in them. And for once in my life, I know what its like to have brothers – real, live, beautiful beasts of brothers, shaking cages and breaking down doors.

Last week, we drove to a local surf spot at the end of the island. They were being particularly boy-like, commenting on every (and I do mean EVERY) female we passed by. At first, I wrote it off. I mean, if you are lucky to inherit brothers this late in life, you take the good with the bad and the ugly. But it became increasingly annoying. I don’t like women being objectified…and perhaps I also felt out of the loop. There was no woman I felt the need to comment on, and the men we passed weren’t much to look at either, with their middle-aged paunches, sweat socks and god-awful baseball caps.

Finally, I cracked. “Listen, can you guys knock it off! Your comments are childish and annoying and ignorant. It’s offending me and I’d like it if you stopped!” The car went dead silent. I felt relieved, took a deep breath and drank in the quiet - which lasted about 15 seconds in total before one of guys saw a local “hottie” and the comments started flying again. Tenfold. Yes, I think they actually increased. Pretty soon, it was a virtual male chorus of sexual comments – “Look at her this” and “I’d like to do that.” I dropped my head to chest and just sighed, defeated.

After dropping them off like a load of dirty laundry, I reflected on the moment. I guess I could have felt insulted, unheard, disrespected. But instead, I felt a strange surge of flattery and kinship. Only brothers would feel comfortable enough to disregard your comments so openly. There was a little, silent vote that took place after my proclamation of contempt. They decided amongst themselves that:

a. They could swallow their weird urge to confirm their heterosexuality with one another every 5 seconds

or

b. They could continue to be themselves in front of me, as they’d always been, for better or for worse.

Even on the losing end of the vote, I felt like I won.

Because they love me. They tell me they love me easily; like a breeze, like a laugh. They all tell me they love me. With them, I take more chances. I scream and kick and claw with them. I am myself. They are the calm in my storm and my storm and I love them, too. I have a feeling I always will. I suppose that’s what it’s like to have family, to have brothers.

The youngest one has recently taken over a sweatshirt of mine. And I let him, even though I really like the sweatshirt. Because it feels good when he wears it. It feels good on me.