My twin sister and I live together.
Before your eyes flick up to check if this is a "taboo/incest" story, let me assure you that it is not.
O.K.; yes, yes, I confess; in the forty one years, seven months and three days since our birth, we have indeed "had sex" with each other. A fumbling attempt at penile-vaginal copulation at the age of twelve, and, thirty odd years later, several instances of mutual masturbation.
But the sexual liaisons recounted here involve unrelated others. Many, many, others.
I'm an artist. MFA from the Philadelphia Academy; for the last couple of decades I have been painting portraits of the moneyed gentry in Philadelphia and the surrounding counties. Adele teaches drama at a small liberal arts college on the Main Line. What was left of the family fortune went into our educations.
She's been married twice, both disasters. A decade ago my young wife and infant son died at the hands of a drunk driver. As the older, by seven minutes, I inherited the family pile. Six acres, twenty rooms, five car garage, with servants quarters above. No servants, no money, the roof leaks. Grand Papa, the railroad heir, spent the majority on yachts and mistresses. What was left, Daddy Dear squandered on wives, schemes, and the new casinos in Atlantic City.
"Charles, darling," Adele said, one sunny afternoon in August, "I have a little plan." My sibling was sprawled on the chaise I generally use for posing my clients. Her deep tan was a stark contrast against the white shorts and sports bra she wore. Slim, fit-she teaches a class in modern dance at the college-she somehow manages to maintain a youthful figure, despite a diet that largely consists of cigarettes and scotch.
My studio occupies the conservatory. Picture the board game 'Clue'. Thirty by thirty; twelve foot ceiling, parquet floor, and good northern light. The floor had long ago heaved from water damage, and was decorated with a thick layer of paint spatters that resembled an oriental carpet on an acid trip.
"Yes, sweets; I'm sure you do." Adele's plans often involve either sex, drugs, or alcohol. Sometimes all three. I was working on the background of a portrait, wanted to get it finished by the beginning of the week, as its subject was due for her second sitting.
"Don't be a poop, Charles. You know you always enjoy yourself, once my parties get going."
Of course I do; the last event my sister had thrown, I'd had a swell time, culminating in the unadulterated joy of being handcuffed in the back seat of a police car.
I squeezed a dollop of burnt umber onto my pallet, cut it with titanium white. "I hope your party involves O.P.M., dearie. The exchequer is on life support, and the taxes on this rubbish heap are due next month."
"Don't be tiresome, Charles. Other People's Money is all very well and good for a business venture. But asking friends to pony up an admittance fee to a soiree is so declasse."
"So is worming French into a sentence. What have you got planned?"
"I've invited a select few of my students from the summer session to drop by for 'burgers and 'dogs. Maybe a beer or two."
"A beer or two. Uh huh. And when do you plan on having this party?"
Adele rose, grabbed my left wrist, twisted it, looked at my watch. "About twenty minutes. Give me a couple of bills, darling, for the burgers and booze."
Adele's 'couple of bills' was two hundred dollars. "What ever happened to our sharing expenses? The college does pay you, don't they?"
"Oh, of course they do, silly. Only, my little car was ill, and I had to take it in for a transplant. And, after the last fiasco, the garage insists on cash, up front. So, I'm temporarily a little short."
No short jokes there; Adele's a half inch shy of my five-nine. I sighed, fished a wad of twenties out of my pocket, handed them over. "Receipts," I said. "We'll figure some way to make this thing deductible."
I spent another hour, finishing up the portrait's background. The client's library; I'd taken a half dozen Polaroids, and was working from them. He was a trucking magnate, and wanted his young trophy wife immortalized in oils. To be truthful, it was himself that wanted the immortality. The nouveau riche think that they can buy an identity. Cars, clothes, wives. They create themselves through possessions. A portrait by me, I modestly say, is one of the stepping stones. I like to work large, at least three by five feet. Lets me milk them for a couple of extra thousand.
The happy tinkle of youthful laugher drifted in through the open French windows. Adele's students, a dozen or so, boys and girls, trooped around the side of the house, headed for the pool and cabana. My sister led a quartet of young men, loaded down with kegs and comestibles, toward the BBQ.
A few minutes later a Frisbee sailed toward the house, landed on the brick piazza outside my studio. It was soon retrieved by a young woman. As she bent to pick up the disc I caught a brief, but no less intriguing, glimpse of cleavage.
She saw me watching her, came through the door. "Hi. Wow, you look a lot like Ms. Wagner!"
"Not surprising; we're twins. I'm Charles. And you are?—"
"Amy."She looked around the studio. "You're a painter, huh?"
What a brilliant mind! And a ripe young body to house it. Full breasts, unfettered by brassiere, proudly announced themselves beneath her T shirt. Short skirt, long legs, with the creamy smoothness of youth. The purple hair and nostril stud were a somewhat jarring note.
She studied the canvas on my easel. "It's not done yet, huh?" No fooling this girl. I scraped my pallet, floated a dust cloth over the unfinished canvas.
"No," I said, "But I am. Finished. Why don't you go get us a couple of beers, Amy, and I'll show you something cool." I watched her pert bottom twitch as she walked across the grass. I cleaned my brushes and suspended them in a can of turps. Amy came back. Handed me a sixteen ounce plastic cup.
"Molson," she said.
I touched her cup with mine. "Here's to Canada."
"So, what's this cool thing you got?"
"Follow me," I said, leading her into the interior of the house. The main staircase, nine feet wide, spirals up and up and up. I opened a narrow door beneath it, ushered her in. Closed the door behind us. Three by three feet. Snug for two. Amy's eyes widened, fearful. "Hey! What-"
"Shh, shh," I said, touching a finger to her lips. Touching a button on the wall. A small jolt, we began to ascend. Lights blinked on the control panel. One.Two.Three.Four. I opened the door. We were at the very top of the house, a small cupola that housed the elevator cables and pulleys and motors. A door led out to a widow's walk. We leaned against the balustrade and watched the students far below.
"You're right," she said. "This is way cool!"
I took a sip of beer. Took a chance. "You know, of course, Amy, that it is customary to tip the elevator operator."
"Huh?"
"Usually, it is with a kiss." Her lips glistened with beer; I touched them with my thumb.
"Well, uh huh; O.K., I guess." She tilted her face up, pursed her lips, closed her eyes. I kissed her; her lips softened, yielded, our tongues met. Molson Golden.
I put our cups on the balustrade. Pulled her against me, wondering how far this could go. More kissing. My hands slid down to her butt. Pulled her closer, still. She whimpered. I lifted her skirt, ran my hands under the elastic of her panties, kneaded her globes. Let a finger venture between them. She was wet. Always a good sign.
I broke the kiss. "Uh, Amy, you're eighteen, right?"
"Uh huh. Why?"
"Oh, idle curiosity. Just for fun, you want to do it, up here?"
"Well, YEAH!"
"Good. So do I. Turn around, lean on the balustrade."
