I ascend the spiraling stairs to the rooftop pool in my robe, naked otherwise, for a morning swim. Mom and dad are in France for the duration of spring break. Robby and I are alone.
I round the final corner on the stairs and see he's beaten me to it.
"Good morning!"
It's his worst fake British accent yet. He's sitting on the end of the diving board in a pair of purple Ray Ban sunglasses, completely naked.
"Robby, I needed that image like teeth in my asshole."
"That much?" He laughs, strikes a silly Greek god pose. His bony, toothpick build, outlined by the majestic New York sun cresting over the 'scrapers makes for an odd caricature.
"That's adorable."
He laughs, letting his legs dangle off the end of the board, leaning back on his elbows. "What do you want to do today?"
I shrug my robe off and lower myself into the water. It wraps around me like a warm, familiar embrace. "Virgin Music Store. I need some new Bowie."
"Ooh, I like that plan."
"Then... H&M, maybe? I've got a paycheck to spend, and I didn't think you'd be opposed."
"I am never opposed to spending money on fashionable things, Michael."
"I didn't think you were. Now get in here and swim with me, you bastard."
I'm a twin. My brother, Robby, is my counterpart in every way. With the same long haircut, the same androgynous, metrosexual fashion sense, the same height and toothpick build, we might as well be the same person. Identical to the last freckle, we often share clothing and are always mistaken for one another. We walk down the street, and the sidewalk becomes a fucking runway. Women fall at our feet, and we are shamelessly charming little whores about it.
Adopted at age six by an old, wealthy couple (he's a Wall Street stockbroker, she's a curator for the Met) we have never wanted for anything. Our New York penthouse is lavishly furnished, we grew up around fine art and music. But mom and dad raised us well. Never in our lives, not for one single moment, did we behave like spoiled brats. We were taught that we had all we did as a result of hard work, years of education, and a drive to succeed. At age 19, both Robby and I are majoring in music performance at Juliard, on the piano and violin respectively.
Despite the wealth of our adopted parents, Robby and I maintain a sense of humility. We're quite well-liked. Robby's very silly sense of humor could make an oil painting crack, and he's very outgoing and extraverted. I'm a bit quieter, more caustic and biting in my humor, but still social and outgoing.
Most of our friends know nothing of our parent's socioeconomic status, and we have never brought a single person back to our home. In a way, we're ashamed of the opulence in which we've grown up. It doesn't serve as a reflection on us, personally, and more than anything we don't want people to think we're snobbish.
And, like many twins, Robby and I spend much of our time operating on the same frequency. Ever since we were kids, it's been that he starts a sentence, and I finish it. I get hurt, he cries. Unlike many twins, however, our relationship is a little... Closer.
We wander down from the roof after thirty or forty minutes basking in the morning sun. "I'm going to take a shower," I say, turning for the bathroom.
"I'm gonna join you." He follows me.
"Fine."
This is normal for us. Most twin brothers, I realize, don't do this. But for us, it's nothing out of the ordinary. We spent the first six years of our lives in an inner-city orphanage together, with only each other for comfort. Every terrifying, lonely night was spent in the same bed. Every self-conscious bath taken together. Robby and Mikey. I don't think either would have survived those hard years without the other.
***
I think we were about fifteen when we decided it was time for us to kiss girls. I was involved with a girl named Sky and Robby was with a girl named Chloe, and we both wanted to make sure we knew what we were doing. I think it was Robby who suggested that we practice on each other.
It started off as a joke, late one night in our shared room. We were talking lightheartedly, fooling around, a dare was set, and without warning he grabbed me around the waist and swung me into a romantic dip, kissing me hard.
Something broke within me that night. Some Freudian barrier, separating Id from Ego. When I slipped my tongue into his mouth and tasted my reflection for the first time, it was as if an eternity of tension was relieved, just like that. A bird of paradise, bursting from bud to bloom in the blink of an eye.
We spent the rest of the night in one bed, something we hadn't done in almost six years, kissing, touching, sharing secrets under the covers. Like little boys again.
"We're narcissists," I whispered to the darkness.
His hand came to rest on my cheek. "So?" he breathed in my ear, "We're damn good kissers. What else matters?"
I didn't know whether to hug him or sock him in the jaw.
***
We throw down our towels and step into the steaming water. He bathes me, I bathe him. It's a system. Halfway through our shower, he spontaneously throws his arms around me and buries his face into my shoulder.
"What's gotten into you, all of a sudden?"
"I don't know." He kisses me on the cheek, runs his hands down my slick chest. Warmth floods through me, steaming water cascades over our bodies. I take his face in my hands and rest our foreheads together. It's like leaning against a mirror.
"You're a romantic fool."
"I know." We kiss. His mouth is soft and warm, rough lips pushing against mine as if to drink from my mouth, his tongue exploring me like I'm the last thing he'll ever taste.
Robby is a romantic fool. He's always been more affectionate, more silly, always flirting and teasing. He initiates, I dominate. It's how it's always been.
***
"Michael," he pants, throwing himself onto my bed, "Michael, my prince!"
Our shower complete, the perpetual hard-on that is my brother wants me to fuck him. He opens his arms and arches his back, tossing hair from his face and beckoning to me. The way he's behaving, I might as well be fucking him already. We laugh in unison. I lay down on top of him and kiss his smooth chest, my tongue flitting across the creamy expanse of skin. "Do it yourself, you narcissist. I'm practically your other hand."
"But I want you!" he exclaims, animatedly. He flips us over, traces a line of kisses down my stomach, "I'm hard for my prince--" A soft, warm wetness engulfs my length. I'm immediately hard.
"Robby, you naughty, naughty boy."
His tongue probes, traces, teases, eliciting soft moans. My fingers comb though his hair, pulling him close to me. Teeth graze my shaft and then disappear again. I feel the pressure building at the base of my spine.
"Okay, okay, get off," I shove him back beneath me and push two slick fingers inside his tight opening. I love fucking Robby. Call me a pervert, call me a narcissist, I don't care. I love it.
"Ooh, Michael--" he shudders as I add a third finger.
