The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins (19 page)

A cool-looking skinny bitch dressed in a black blouse, Medusa-like hair extensions coming out from under a black hat with a big feathery trim, is checking out Lena. She leaves her lisping flock of culture vultures, and comes across to engage her. — It’s you . . . isn’t it?

— Andrea, Lena smiles. — So good to see you!

— I scarcely recognised you.

— I’ve put on a little weight, Lena concedes.

— It suits you, darling, the bitch says, flashing the hangman’s smile. — You working on anything?

— Well, trying.

— Very good. Anyway, she grimaces at me and I mirror the expression, — look, this has been so gooood, but I really must fly. Dinner reservations. Call me!

I track her fake ass to its company, and watch them pushing off into the throngs outside. — Who the fuck was that asshole?

— Oh, an old friend. I always thought that she and Jerry . . .

Jesus, she needs to learn to pick her friends. Any fucking friends. Never known a bitch so isolated. The encounter has certainly left Sorenson deflated, and as she drops me off at my place, she can’t even be enticed to come in for a protein shake. In her absence I try and settle on the couch in front of the TV, then there’s a knock on the door. It’s the DJ kid from downstairs, and he’s holding up a big FedEx package almost as tall as him. — This came for you, he says.

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.

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

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 certainly 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.