Irvine Welsh - The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

— But. .

— That’s all you need to know. We won’t mention this, or his name, ever again. You got that?

— But—

— I asked you if you got that.

— Yes, of course! But God, Lena. . I. . I really owe you—

— Big fucking time, she snaps, reaching into the bag, pulling out a carton full of warm, early-morning bakery goods and dropping them in my lap. — Now eat!

To: lenadiannesorenson@thebluegallery.com

From: mollyrennesorenson@gmail.com

Subject: Things I Need To Say

Lena honey,

We never told you just how proud you made us when you got into the Art Institute, then had your first exhibition while you were still an undergrad. Your father more than anyone. He tells everybody at the hardware store, and church, about how famous and talented his daughter is. As do I. I know he still keeps that article from the Star Tribune as I see him take it out his wallet and glance at it from time to time.

Why are we always so quiet and guilty in our pride?

Why can we tell other people those things, but not each other?

You’re so right, Lena, all those things you said were harsh, even cruel, but they needed to be said. All we really have in this life is each other, and we really should give those close to us our appreciation and support.

So I’m trying to follow your plan, although the fruit and vegetables thing is harder than you think — this is Minnesota, not Florida! Most of all is the news that I’ve stopped baking! I’ve been reading online about flour, and how it has bad qualities.

I’ve always wanted to learn a language and I thought, it’s never too late, so I’ve started beginner’s Spanish at the community college. So when I come visit you in Miami, I’ll be hablo española!

Whatever we go through, you are our wonder girl and we love you.

Much love,

Mom xxxx

I FEEL TIREDNESS in every nerve and bone. But there’s a wave of exhilaration, pulling me up. My work, which is my destiny: it’s all going so well. This is what I was put here to do. I walk into the apartment and go straight to the bedroom. I can hear Lucy’s cries coming from the living room. — Lena! Why are you doing this?! It makes no sense!

I’ve stopped talking to her as it disquiets me. I don’t like to hear the gloating Hollywood villain coming out in my voice. Who can have such power over another person and not descend into showboating arrogance? As for her: after what we’ve been through, I wonder why she even bothers to try and work on me!

This bedroom she would sneak into at night; the inflatable mattress, the thin comforter. Her books; mostly sports science and obnoxious performance-management stuff. The few personal items: purse, makeup, clothes. Yes, she really was almost as much a prisoner here as me. The most amazing thing, apart from that horrible mess she left me to clean up back at my home, was the string of emails from “me” to my mother. The mail I always wanted to send, but never could. And they have changed my relationship with the woman, possibly forever.

As I’m putting on my new purchases, I realize that I’m wearing a matching bra and panties for the first time in, months, many months. What a sin for a single woman! My major item from my shopping trip feels strange. I start to walk; it’s so awkward and uncomfortable at first, then I relax, and I move down the hallway and push open the door.

Lucy stands there, yanking helplessly at the chain. — Why? she softly asks, those huge, manipulative eyes, almost batting. — Why are you doing this?

I move toward her. She seems not to notice my uncomfortable gait. I look at her. — Well, the question is why the fuck did you care about me, to the extent of wanting to do this shit to me? To the extent of ending up killing my fucking ex-boyfriend?

Lucy starts to blink rapidly, like she’s got a shiver in her eye. — I do care! And now you’re trying to punish me! Look at you! She points at my torso with her cuffed hand. — I gave you that!

— So now I want you to tell me why. I’m assuming that kidnapping your clients and keeping them captive is not the way you habitually deal with them, so why me? Either that explanation, or two hundred pounds. The choice is yours, I tell her. — Either path to freedom will do.

— I’ll go to two hundred, she sneers, — and be ripped again at 125 in two months!

I move closer to her. — Just tell me: what was in the kidnapping for you?

She actually steps back, but her blazing eyes are locked into mine. — What are you going to do to me?

I reach out and push her hair back from her face. She looks curiously at me, like she’s affronted, but she doesn’t stop me. So I step in closer to her and wrap my arms around her. — Something I wanted to do for a long, long time, I whisper in her ear, — but I didn’t feel worthy, and then my mouth is on hers and as I feel her respond, a slow yawning tremble spreads through my body.

— I wanna touch you, I tell her.

— Yeah, she rasps, like a drunk.

So I’m undoing the knotted cord on Lucy’s sweat pants, then tugging them over her hips, letting them slide down her thighs to her ankles. She’s breathing heavily as I fall down onto my knees, getting between her legs. She doesn’t ask to be uncuffed, as I slip her panties down and spread her outer lips, entranced by those soft, brown pubic curls, resplendent above her clit, glistening with her juices and sweat. I pull on her hips, guiding her to a recumbent position on the floor. Then I move onto her, darting my tongue into her entry, licking north like a Chicago snowplow from her soaking cunt to her clit. Lucy’s body involuntarily jerks and a moan explodes from her. I can’t believe how wet she is as my finger glides inside her and I start to softly lick the hard knot of her clitoris. I slide my finger in and out of her, increasing the velocity of both clit-licking and finger-fucking until she emits a sound like a long squeak. I feel her hand resting on top of my head, gently but firmly securing me to my task. Her cunt tastes so sweet, and I really want to tease that hateful bitch, to make her beg, but that option is unavailable as her grip tightens on my hair and she comes in the spasms of a heaving epilepsy victim, spraying my face with her juices.

For a few seconds I think that I’ve made a terrible mistake, that I’m hers again, as her grip is so strong and that sinewy, muscular arm radiates power, but then her hips buck in a startling reprise, as another moan bursts from her lungs and her legs kick out and twitch like somebody dying, before she slumps into peace and her fingers open to the relief of my burning scalp. I rest my head on her rippled abdomen (she could never be described as having a belly), as she strokes my hair, and I almost absent-mindedly push two fingers back deep inside her, a couple of light strokes forcing another orgasm to rip through her. — Oh, Lena, baby. .

AND AFTER A stunned, prostrate few minutes I’m calling out to Lena Sorenson to finger-fuck me again, to make me come, telling her how good it feels, and she says, — You’ve been such a bad girl, and she pulls back and I see her heat: that dildo she’s wearing that I hadn’t even noticed. — I’m going to stick my cock into your cunt and fuck you hard. Would you like that?

— Yes, I nod, thrusting my hips forward in anticipation. I could put her in a boa-constrictor hold with my legs now, choke her into unconsciousness with my free hand. Just the thought of it is exciting me, but I won’t do it, cause this, a good fucking, is what I crave more than anything.