Authors: Benjamin Weissman
People, not just guys, have sex fantasies about my sister and I because we’re twins and we model lingerie. That would make a certain amount of sense. Since we were created in the same package and we’re always photographed together, guys believe they’re entitled to the double set. They start out with one, and then they beg for two. We say, Uh uh, sorry, no good, not moral, bad, because we believe in
you know who
above our apartment, clouds, planet, and, we think, the entire solar system basically; and somewhere in the Bible, we’re not really sure what page, it says two girls, especially two sexually active twin sisters, should never lay down with the same guy no matter how much we love each other and no matter how many treats the guy promises us and that includes trips to Bali. We never use God’s name in vain, and we’re not going to do it now. It can get pretty confusing. We sometimes call him HIM—the inspiration for everything that’s ever been done, from the reading of a hymnal on Sunday morning to a climb on the Himalayas.
Guy-swaggering is a cover-up for the yawning need for giant spoonfuls of reassurance, Mommy stuff, and little rubby-rubs on the head. We strip and the boy-bull stops scraping the ground with his hooves, he stops breathing. They get all intimidated because we’re professionals, we do special things with our eyes, and sometimes we don’t smile because that’s sexier, but it’s also scary. For sure it’s complicated, like science. What is inside us exactly beside cells, organs, and gunk? Since we were born with perfect exteriors and we’re professional models, guys want to get inside us and rummage around, explore our little caves (mouth, vagina, and anus,
ouch
), not very echoey. Our Jeeps each have a bumper sticker that says,
I (heart) MY VAGINA,
because it’s true, we do love them. We shave them into the most petite little stingers so our laby lips are bare like a newborn’s cherina (that’s one of our nicknames for it).
Just because we model bustiers and teddies, everyone thinks we are sex experts, like porn stars. Shatter that myth. We’re sexual fumblers. A guy will say harder or faster and we do it too hard or too fast or not hard or fast enough, and when he says suck or jerk we always lick too softly or hold it wrong or stab the urethra with our nails. When referring to more than one urethra you say ure
thrae.
When guys say, Flip over girls (okay, so we do fuck the same guys, oh shit, we’re going to hell), we usually kick them in the head with our high heels because they always insist that we keep our shoes on so that we look exactly like our pictures. So the guy is holding his face and moaning
ouwee
and we’re apologizing, saying sorry sorry how embarrassing, but there’s no recovery. It’s like, who brought in the bad comedians? Their head hurts, they want to go home.
Our favorite movie is
Shoah.
A gentleman of the Jewish persuasion took us to it. Eight hours long, one movie, the tickets were $20 each, took us two days to watch. We got a terrible feeling looking at the popcorn machine—very morbid—cooking, confinement, bursting kernels. We bought a large, but out of respect for the dead and our date, whose name will remain a secret, we didn’t eat a single morsel. Maybe we had a few bites in the lobby, but five minutes into the movie our date wouldn’t stop crying. Popcorn used to be our favorite food. Now we throw up when we see a forested landscape. When we see beauty we want to know what’s hidden. When the war ended the clergy removed portraits of Hitler and put up the almighty HIM, but the walls had discolored, the frames were smaller, and no one could forget the previous face. Women can be Nazis too, but it’s men who cut off heads, gloat, and experiment on flesh. A woman’s offensive is economic, nonviolent. We isolate the enemy, boycott businesses, and distribute literature. We fight with our minds. It’s strange what you have to do to a penis, the same thing all the time. Suck and jerk. We want something less abrupt, less pistonlike. Something seamless and unbroken. Maybe we’re lesbians. Maybe we’re not. Our favorite sexual position is 69ing each other while the guy is loving us doggie; that way we can see the guy’s balls going clang-clang like hairy tea bags. And if his iguana comes out we can kiss it before escorting it back in.
The lumberjack with the leaf-green eyes, cherry-red lips, heavy-duty Master padlock earrings, and two-day stubble bristling on his rosy cheeks like a blooming cactus, strode up to the counter bowlegged, unstrapped his huge, ultrasharp axe, gently slammed it to the floor, and said, “I’ll have the usual,” in a voice softer than feathers.
The expression on my face worried me: eyes several inches bugged out of their sockets, ears burning well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, stomach knotting, drool pooling. I looked down and drew a little question mark on the order pad, and then a whole row of them. Everything in me was stirring. If he saw my pencil moving maybe he’d think I was writing down a specific meal.
“My apologies for ordering the
usual.
I’ll spell out my
usual
so there’s no confusion,” he said. “Steak and eggs, steak well, eggs over hard, six of them, please, with the yokes a tad runny if possible, which I understand might be medium, but medium often translates into a generally softer type of
easy
egg which I don’t want any part of.” His hair was black, eyes electric, follow-me-to-the-promised-land blue. “Sorry to be so fussy, a small stack of buttermilk pancakes, home fries, also grilled well, tomatoes, bacon, sausage, apple sauce, four slices of sourdough toast, nearly burnt, buttered like a dairy truck crashed into them, if you know what I mean.”
I did know. At that moment I pictured a Carnation step van on Curly Ridge, careening out of control, up and over the guardrails, plunging down into the gorge 1000 feet below, slamming through the roof of Genoa Bakery. “Buttered beyond reason,” I said. I wanted him to like me.
He nodded and his padlock earrings jiggled in unison. “I actually like it drippy,” he said. “I need to bulk up. I’m losing weight from all the tree chopping.” He poked at his ribs.
We shook hands and I instantly felt like a toddler. Big Poppa, take me home.
“My name’s Zeus Lily. What’s yours?”
I pointed to the name tag on my shirt, not quite ready to talk.
His eyes did a double take. “Well, you’re my first Skeeter.”
I walked back into the kitchen and stared at the ticket. First I wrote
well,
then I wrote
drippy,
then I drew a caricature of Zeus tickling a bunny rabbit, and then I threw a 32 oz. porterhouse on the grill, cracked six eggs two by two, and stared at the potatoes, bacon, and sausage, which were already made, and thought about giant crackling redwoods thumping to the ground and Mr. Lily’s order and what it meant to me.
“That’s a mile of man,” I said. I was talking to myself. It couldn’t be helped. “Do I drop to my knees and pray? What’s the procedure for encountering wonders of the world?”
I ladled out pancake batter, put four pieces of sourdough in the toaster, grabbed a knife, and said, “Calm down, no more talking.”
What if he finds out I’m not really Skeeter? I thought fretfully, no longer talking to myself.
“Just cook a perfect meal,” I said loudly, unable to keep my trap shut for more than three seconds.
Shut up, I thought, you keep this bottom talk to yourself. Press your lips together now, pleasure the ultimate slab of man meat, nothing more. He will cut, gnash, tear, and swallow, then rise off his stool, tummy full, and digest in the forest like a sleepy bear. If I can only parlay this Epicurean highlight into a real-life dark-forest tryst starring me as pulverized entity in mattress of mud and thistle, and he the love gargantuan with anvil earrings, life would exceed previous expectations.
And then I wondered about our mutual loneliness. Maybe the lumberjack wants company. Zeus Lily has his trees and the forest and all the chipmunks and bullfrogs and eagles that trust him like a brother, father, super uncle, best friend. Maybe I’m loved, too, though I don’t know by whom, and I just need a little convincing, someone to compile a list of wonderful things and show it to me every time they add five more cheerful items to prove how special my life has become. Observe the fry cook in the midst of a carnal seizure. I see myself underneath a mile of Zeus Lily foreskin, shaded from the bright, early-morning sun. Where am I? It is so dark at dawn. As soon as I began to peel back his heavy velvet curtain in my inter-cranial porno, the toaster dinged and sent me off the ground in surprise.
I buttered the lumberjack’s bread, it’s me who does it now, I thought, butters him up, slathers, greases, lubes. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to make breakfast for a thing that was actually two large men poured into one monolith. I caught a peek of him through the serving window. All politeness and manners: straight military posture, napkin tucked into the neck of his Carhartt jacket, hands in lap, eyes closed, lashes fluttering as if deep in meditation. What finishing school did he attend? Delicate Ox Academy? His hands were triple the size of mine and his shoes seemed to be imported from the island of Tonga. “Penis,” I said out loud, like someone injected with truth serum, and then caught myself and moved back into safe silent thinking,
penis, penis, penis.
My brain was flashing a love monster so big I nearly choked on my own thought.
I flipped the porterhouse, the eggs, and hotcakes.
O, how I live to butter his ass, his thick loggy legs, and giant veiny feet; and with utensils known as tongue, toes, and tip of nose, I sang silently to myself,
la la la, I shall butter his balls,
which I picture crushing my eyelids like two full-tocapacity duffel bags.
If I bark or yelp when hit by a typhoon of semen I hope he doesn’t mind, I thought, as I raised the spatula to eye level and stared at a tear drop of grease. I do my best to purr. I am damp, perspiring, in the grip of slaughterhouse giddiness. Lily’s thumbs appear swollen, gorilla-like. I could be happy just sucking on one of those, I thought, my brain swelling to capacity. That would be fine for a first date. He was scarred up in the temples and neck like worn rodeo leather, and squeaked ever so slightly as if a tiny hinge inside him needed oiling. I flopped the steak onto a three-foot serving tray, the eggs, cakes, spuds, tomatoes, toast, condiments, parsley, orange slices, and everything else, and brought it over to him on the far stool away from the cash register. Just as he nodded thanks, one of his earrings hit the sugar dispenser and shattered a zillion pieces everywhere. We looked at each other, both of us startled. Zeus Lily opened his mouth to a perfect O shape.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I’m like an oil barge slamming into a butterfly house.”
“No you’re not. I mean, yes you are. I mean, let me fetch a broom.” I ran for one in the corner and started sweeping. Sugar looks pretty interesting on the floor, especially mixed in with broken glass that kind of resembles diamonds if you want it to. Zeus Lily slid his breakfast to the right and moved one stool over. He watched me sweep.
“Skeeter, how much do you weigh?”
“140, maybe.”
“Would that be soaking wet?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He put a huge square of steak in his mouth and started to chew, the fork in his hand looked like a Barbie utensil from her miniature tea party set. “You know, Skeeter, most of the lumberjacks I chop trees with are homosexuals, myself included.”
I dropped the broom.
“That’s the spirit. Now why don’t you throw down that apron and join us? We sleep in the forest together. We’re happy.”
“What do you mean, happy?”
“I mean, we’re not depressed.” He took a bite of egg and potato. “We’re big men. We’re doing work we love. We’re out in nature. And we have sex with each other most nights and no one gets overly jealous.”
“That sounds like a pretty good situation,” I said, sweeping the last bits into a dustpan.
“What do you think, Skeeter, care to walk out of here arm in arm and become one of the lumberjacks?”
“I do.”
“We’re not getting married, you know, we’re just going to chop trees and live as one.”
“I understand,” I said, and untied my apron and looped it over a hook on the wall. “Do I have to wear a plaid shirt?”
“Yes,” he said. “First we’ll go shopping, then we’ll go into the forest.” He stood up and reached for my hand. “That was a lovely meal you made me, little buddy. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
1.
Ja, hello, good American. My English is better when I speak. Writing is hard, so bear with me (do not hesitate to hand me the Blue Ribbon when my skillful pun steals the show). Ha ha, anyway, I am the big blond German guy. That’s what I emanate as a presence to people when they inquire as to what they are to look for when they go hunting for my countenance when I have a date blind or something and anyhow this is very new for me, to scribble down what I have done as a sexual person, but I will do my best, because as Freud would say, Cock spiel das gut for die Herz und Gemut, or at least as a story at the table of tomorrow which belongs to your Schneeflocke kultur. I paraphrase the good Doktor because he liked sex and was the first to make talking dirty a science. Contrary to popular belief some Germans are shy and I am one of those type of fellows. One thing that makes me withdraw slightly is my size. I am two meters tall. I can barely fit through a doorway because my shoulders are quite wide. Apparently the ladies like that. They also like strong young arm I have between mein tree-truck legs. Und so, one afternoon I was riding up the Gondola and at the midway station three American Fraus with blond hair stormed into my tight little quarters. They are wearing lots of makeup, you see. Suddenly we were 100 meters off the ground, and the Gondola stopped. I joked, I have one final request und that is to … and oh boy, they were naked quickly and not a moment went by when there was not a shaved pussy, a round milk maid boobie, or belly ring in my face, or a wiggling tongue in my mouth, on my cock, or in my rectum and Stromschnelle, to be precise—and as my favorite American band Pavement would sing, “Hi-ho sil-ver ride.” What I did with my Deutchcock was routine; I was only following orders memorized from Grandpa Heiner’s porno-cinemas I watched as a frolicking youth-boy. In und out like madness, destroying city after city, screams and shouts, bombs und fire. Schnell, I commanded, as explosions and girls cried and sang and they laugh wicked like private parade with giant artificial keys presented by the mayor which was me and then the girls acting out the communist revolution in reverse with their tight behinds which I swallowed and squashed like a pirate—oh man, sometimes I feel like a dragon, especially after they gulped what seemed like six pints of my man sea und hairy kelp and wanting more, groaning yes, yes. I whispered, lick my goddamn balls, as the courteous uniformed employee handed over the skis to the female guests who were suddenly back to normal (Gondola repaired)—mein snowboard is unstrapped from the rack which in the summertime holds the mountain bicycles. I am a board-head (that is slang for snowboarder), I am postmodern guy. Snowboard is today and now and I don’t believe in my grandparent’s past. Okay? I say, So long girls. I wave goodbye.