The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins Read online

  I take it in and open it up—the gratis Total Gym they sent to the agency. So I set it up and try it out. After real gym equipment it seems flimsy, but it’s actually well made, with cable-system technology. Holding on to the handles attached to the cables, I lie down and start to work my chest. After a few sets I move on to other exercises: some kickbacks for my triceps and seated rows to work my back. I can work every body part and I like the position variations I can do: leg raises for my abs and bicep curls. On a chest-press machine my arms are in one position. I can replicate this movement on the Total Gym with the cables, but I do have some variance. I’ve been working out for over fifteen years, and there’s possibly too much flexibility in the Total Gym for a novice. Even with instruction, somebody like Marge or Sorenson could hurt themselves on this if their form wasn’t right. I think a more controlled machine would be more effective and safer for the likes of them. And as with all machines, although there’s some cardiovascular benefit, it won’t replace sweat work on the treadmill, elliptical, or even just walking outside. It’s the kind of machine that would suit somebody like Lena Sorenson, but only in a controlled environment.

  That is the key: Sorenson’s environment must be controlled.

  I should go to bed, but can’t settle after my workout, so without being conscious of what I’m doing, I’m showering, getting done up, and heading out into the early morning, following a familiar path.

  I’m back in the Club Uranus, looking for that chick who gave me the eye when I was stuck with Sorenson last night. It’s a dirty, edgier crowd at this time, most of them now ready to strike out at their prey. I’ve packed an eight-inch dick, not too veiny, and a pair of fur-trimmed handcuffs. I’m in a party dress and femmed up to the max. Some butch is gonna get the shock of her life when I whip this on her. I wanna make some faux hardass bitch cry like a baby.

  It doesn’t take me long to find my girl. She’s at the bar, like she’s never moved since I saw her here last night, giving it that tomboyish Hilary Swank Boys Don’t Cry mischievous fourteen-year-old urchin look, the one a lot of bet-hedging butches favor. A butch in yellow pants? Bitch’s kidding no mofo. I sidle up to her. — Hey.

  — Hey . . . she says. — Where’s your friend? The chunky chick?

  I go all pretend bashful, and even bite into my knuckle. — Oh, I guess that was a little experiment.

  — I like experiments.

  We know where this is going—straight out and down the street to the Blenheim on Collins. It takes no time to check in, the sly clerk giving us the unofficial hourly rate. He hands us the key and we climb the staircase. The waft of piss from the old carpet tickles our nostrils as we enter the room. Carpets are always gross in the tropics, but carpets in a roach motel designed for the regular spillage of every conceivable body fluid? Forget it. There’s a creaky-looking bed, two battered nightstands, an old wall clock stuck at 9:15, where a second hand tries to rise, like a spider in a bathtub, clicking pathetically as it falls back to its original position.

  The yellow walls have a golden nicotine stain, and gummy blinds which don’t shut properly. A cursory look in the bathroom reveals a deeply stained toilet bowl and sink, with a cracked mirror, and a shower tray I’d be utterly loath to step in, sheathed with a plastic curtain festooned with a rash of black-and-blue spores. But we’re not here for the fucking decor. I move against Swank Boy, and as we exchange heavy, slobbering kisses, I let her feel the bulge of my plastic against her own. A vented aluminum box under the window rumbles into life then immediately shuts itself off with a dramatic clatter. Her big green eyes widen. — You packin heat? I want—

  I reach up and pull back her hair. It’s short but there’s just enough to get purchase. — Ow . . . she goes, as my grip’s stronger, and I’m wrapping my other arm around her neck, twisting behind her as I tighten her in a lock.

  — Ow . . . this isn’t cool . . . She’s half struggling, surprised by my strength.

  I’m whispering in Swank Boy’s ear, as her writhing in my grip gets weaker, — You’re a very naughty boy and you’re gonna get spanked, I whisper, stepping back toward the bed, dragging her with me. I twist quickly, getting her locked face down on the gross comforter as I grope in my bag for the cuffs.

  — No! I don’t take it, Swank Boy protests. — I don’t do femme shit, I just give it—

  — Don’t take what?

  — Cock . . .

  I let the cuffs drop by her side. They are superfluous. — I think that’s B.S., Yellow Pants. You’re teasing me, girlfriend!

  — No, it’s true, she squeals. — I never—

  — Bullshit! I think you want my cock inside you!

  — No. She gives a throaty croak, struggling more, as I tighten my grip.

  — Don’t fucking try and break my grip, Judy Garland, I hiss in her ear, but it’s all performance now, — I could snap your fucking skinny girl-bitch neck like a twig!

  — But I—oh my God—this is so not what I—

  Her stage-protests fall on deaf ears as I wrestle her yellow pants down, and she’s acually helping me, while still ludicrously half protesting, — I didn’t sign up for this, as my dick is out, shoving against her ass and my pubic bone. I pull her panties aside I’m pushing into her glistening pussy with it.

  Her body is as tense as live electrical cable, but that pussy is hungry, slowly eating up those inches. — Oh my God . . . I don’t doooo this!!

  — If there are two bitches in a bedroom, I’m the psycho one. Every fucking time!

  Then I thrust deep into her, forcing a gasp. — Oh . . .

  I’m pounding the bitch for all she’s worth, while chamfering the edges of my clit with the dildo base.

  — Take it easy, for fuck’s sake! You’re hurting me—

  — Shut the fuck up; no pain, no fucking gain, I taunt, thrusting, scraping the base of the dildo hard back onto my pubic bone, in long, performative, hip-whipping strokes. In what seems like no time at all, we both cum like storm troopers.

  The postcoital rest is perfunctory, and I quickly get off her and dress, as she sits in shock on the bed, knees pulled under her chin, in a dissonant state—oscillating between rape victim and somebody who’s had the best sex of her life. — Thanks, sweetie.

  — Eh . . . yeah, right. Thanks, she manages. She’ll be working through that ID crisis for years. Then she looks up and says, with a half-smile, — Dressing up and coming on like a fucking Olsen twin . . . You are one mean, twisted bitch!

  — Believe it, I acknowledge with a wink, walking out the door.

  17

  CONTACT 7

  * * *

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: You Got It, Girlfriend!

  Why, thank you!

  You’ll find that Morning Pages will be a massive help with this difficult client of yours!

  Michelle x

  * * *

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Success

  Michelle,

  I’m on it, honey! I hope the Morning Pages will help me find out where the blockage is. Then get rid of it so that all the bloated shit comes out as it should and doesn’t back up, swelling her out like Jabba the Hut!

  Superstar ’Chell! I love ya!

  Best,

  Luce x

  18

  LENA’S MORNING PAGES 2

  LUCY HAS GIVEN me these Morning Pages to write, like the ones Kim told me to try. Don’t think, she says, just write. Well, okay. But I didn’t. Now I’m in agony, my butt stinging from some kind of bug bite, and she’s coming over. So I had better write, even though it isn’t morning, it’s evening, and I can barely sit down. So what happened today?

  Times are times, and dates aren’t business appointments. But there are defined limits. When Miles asked me to go for a coffee, I hesistated. I knew he had some kind of history with Lucy, but they ce
rtainly weren’t an item. I met him in the gym, and I was feeling good about myself cause I’d worked like crazy and weighed in at 197 pounds! It was the first time for so long I’ve been under the 200 mark! I was delighted, and I told Lucy that I wouldn’t get into that state again. But she still wasn’t happy, fixing me in that supergrump gaze of hers.

  Then Miles came over and started chatting. He was a dark-haired, square-jawed, gym rat of a man, with a pearly smile. There was something sleek and strong yet functional about him, like a marble kitchen counter that could speak. (I wonder if Miami just attracts the intellectually challenged and the vacuous, or whether the baking sun and the toned flesh on show short-circuits the brain, thus inducing all this simple-mindedness?) He asked if I wanted to go for a coffee.

  I was kind of flattered by the attention; in fact, at first I thought, “Oh, snap.” But with Lucy being so uptight, I reckoned I should clear it with her first. I went over to her, looking back at Miles, who was sat at the juice bar, talking to Toby, who works on the desk. I told Lucy that he’d asked me out. She didn’t seem jealous or angry, quite the reverse. “You should go. He’s a harmless hunk, as dumb as a sack of rocks. It could be fun,” and she winked at me in such a lascivious manner!

  I told her it was only a stupid coffee!

  So Miles and I went outside—Lucy reminding me to stick to green tea as we left. It was lush, warm, and fragrant, a diffuse golden light bouncing off the art deco buildings. We headed to the Starbucks on Alton. Miles was friendly; charming even, in a limited kind of way. He seemed so small-town, I imagined him coming from somewhere like Potters Prairie, and was almost disappointed when he told me that he was a native of Baltimore.

  “I liked The Wire—that was a great show.”

  “Nothing like Baltimore,” he retorted, seeming irritated, and picking up the pace down the street. “Every city has its dark side, but they should also be showing the good side of a town. TV assholes are just irresponsible!”

  I was keeping up with him. “But I think any artist only has the responsiblity to be true to themselves, to tell the story that makes sense to them—”

  “Now The Sopranos—that was a show,” Miles cut in, opening the cafe door and moving toward the counter. There was no line. “What you gonna have?” Without waiting for my response he turned to the barista. “I want a skinny latte with soy.”

  I really wanted one of those blueberry muffins with the frosted sugar on top and a cappuccino. But I’d worked so hard, so I stuck to water and espresso shots. No doubt Miles would report back to Lucy, and I could feel her diet sheet (so hard to adhere to) weighing heavy in my shoulder bag.

  We talked for a long time, mainly about (his) exercise and diet regimes and work. “People kind of get a certain view of firefighters from shows like Rescue Me. We aren’t those empty, macho guys, well, not all of us,” He smiled in a kind of contrived boyish way.

  “I’m sure,” I said, a little embarrassed for this guy.

  “So where are you from?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “You guys had Little House on the Prairie and Coach, but a lot of failures after that; like Get a Life and Happy Town never really took off.”

  “Sounds like you watch a lot of TV.”

  “Only premium shows. I don’t just stay home and gape at shit.” He was almost offended. “Life’s too short, right?”

  It was Miles who suggested we got something stronger. I was doubtful as the sky had darkened and it looked like the clouds were going to rupture.

  I didn’t want to stay out, but was even less inclined to go home alone. I guess that says how my life is. It made me realize that I didn’t know what I was doing: in Starbucks, in Miami, even.

  We went a couple of blocks north to this place on 14th called the Club Deuce. We got inside just as thunder rumbled in the dense air and yellow whipcrack lightning lacerated the dark, bruised sky. Everybody in the place seemed to know Miles. We sat on stools in a corner at the back of a long, snaking island bar. I stuck to vodka and soda, Miles opted for rum and Coke. As we heard the rain drum on the sidewalks, and watched soaked drinkers jump gratefully into the bar, we carried on chatting. The drink was going down nicely, warming and soothing, and the relaxed bonhomie of the bar was a nice contrast to the wild, lashing rain outside. We got another round. The mood changed as Miles looked me in the eye, his lips creased in a smile. — You know, you are one pretty hot lady. I was watching you working out with Lucy.

  He’d turned up the heat and I didn’t like it. I tried to deflect the subject to Lucy, but I was aware of him edging closer as he told me there was nothing between them. His aftershave assailed my nostrils through the cigarette smoke. There was something on the solitary plasma behind the bar about the conjoined twins, the Wilks sisters from Arkansas. “I guess what I’m saying—” Miles dropped his voice as his eyes hooded — “is that I think it would be great to make love.”

  When I told him I wasn’t like that, he misunderstood me, his eyebrows sloping upward. “You dig chicks?”

  I told him I didn’t just sleep with people I’d barely met. He shrugged and said he guessed his problem was that he tended “to work on that side of things at South Beach speed.” He let his face crumple into a smile, then raised his hands to yank on imaginary reins. “Slow down, cowboy!”

  I wanted to tell the Mileses and Lucys of this world that I don’t do casual sex, not because I’m a prude, but because I simply have to like or at least be excited by somebody before I sleep with them. And I certainly won’t do it a second time unless I’m fond of them. “It’s just the way I’m made,” I told him. “Casual sex always seems to me like glorified masturbation with a narcissist who needs an audience.”

  I was hoping that would put him in his place, but it didn’t even seem to register. “You know, I respect that, but, and I gotta be honest here, I think you’re a hot girl and I really want to get to know you better.”

  A pulse banged in my temples; one of those migraines I’m prone to; it came on like a flash flood. The pain is often so intense it produces burning, excruciating images behind my retinas. I really needed to be lying on my couch in the darkness, or distracting myself; on the Internet looking at cute animals, doing my emails, or even mixing resin in my workshop. I didn’t want to be in the raucous bar with this guy anymore.

  As the jukebox got louder, I could feel myself growing less present. Miles’s eyes seemed to sink back into the shadow of his deep, dark sockets. I could barely see them, but I could still hear his voice, soft yet insistent, “. . . and I don’t play messed-up games,” his baleful face telegraphing the painfully sincere response I was supposed to give him.

  “Right . . .”

  Then he said, “. . . because honesty is the coolest currency you can bring into any relationship.”

  That was exactly the sort of thing that Jerry would say. I almost felt like laughing, anything to forget this banging pain in my jawbone, which spiked through the depression I was sliding into. Too much alcohol. As Miles shouted up another round, I kept thinking of Jerry, the way he’d encourage me to drink, then get me to take all my clothes off and stand still, by the entry to our bathroom. Then turn round. And again. And Lucy. Making me go through the same damn thing.

  I should have spoken out. And I did, when I felt Miles’s tongue in my ear.

  “No,” I shouted, causing a few people to turn around. I pushed him away, sprung to my feet, and rushed outside, heading onto Collins and hailing a cab. I don’t know if he came after me and shouted my name: LENA, WAIT, or if it was just something I imagined through all the tumbling chaos inside my head.

  The cab driver, Latino, a cross dangling from his mirror and statuettes of Jesus and the Virgin Mary on either side of his dash, smiled at me in something resembling pity. I remained silent as the cab sliced through the flooded streets.

  When I got back home I couldn’t stop thinking about Jerry. The good times; when he and I were untouchable. I started crying. I emailed Mom and then
stayed online to order a chorizo thin-crust pizza and a whole Key lime pie. The migraine pressure abated as I looked at Cute Overload and the food was delivered about forty minutes later. I settled on the couch, put the TV on: a film where Al Pacino was a Hollywood movie director, concealing from the world that the leading starlet, whom he discovered, is really a computer-generated program. I looked at the pizza, its oils staining the cardboard box, those red slices of chorizo vividly clashing with the molten cheese they sat embedded in. Then I focused on the pie in the plastic container, anticipating that wonderful rush of blade-sharp citrus tang in every bite. But first the pizza. One slice of each, then into the refrigerator with the rest. A treat that would last all week.

  Pacino’s character was using the computer-generated starlet to get back with his ex-wife, who is played by that lovely actress Catherine Keener. She who has never, ever been, and never, ever will be, a single pound overweight in her life.

  Then the end credits came up, tearing me out of my trance. I looked at the empty packaging on the floor in front of me. All the food was gone. The burning clench of fear inside my chest, as tears ran down my face. I calculated the calories and wailed in my pain.

  My initial impulse was to go to the bathroom and force myself to puke it all up. Instead I headed to my studio to try and work through it, like Lucy suggested. I was outside fiddling frantically with the key in the lock, desperately trying to take myself into another place where I could forget about what I’d just done, when there was a horrible stinging pain in my buttock, like some kind of bug had bitten me!

  I hobbled back inside in agony, and lay face down on the couch, deluged in my tears of despair. My cell started to vibrate: it was Lucy. I told her what had happened (the bite, not the food) and she said she would come right over. I forced myself up and hid the empty boxes under my bed as I knew she’d go through every cupboard. I had to do those Morning Pages, which actually made me feel better. Then I switched on the treadmill I’d set up in the living room, and even though my backside was still stinging, I started to walk.