There’s always going to be a weird power dynamic when you start fucking someone you first saw onstage.
I’d been following this ridiculous, tongue-in-cheek rock band around Boston for years. They were great, they had a big local following, and after enough sold-out shows and late nights hanging around afterward, I’d gotten to know all of them pretty well. They were basically my peers – early thirties, funny, messy, rock-and-roll people.
Then they got a new guitarist.
He was younger than me. Tall, lean, rangy, guitar practically hanging around his knees. And he had these eyebrows.
The eyebrows were insane. Naturally arched. Very sexual eyebrows. I spent his first show shooting him fuck-me looks from the audience. Afterward, we got talking, and he started using those eyebrows to return them.
Having recently explored dating younger guys with positive results, I decided to take him home.
The pleasant surprise, evident from the moment we started talking, was that Kevin wasn’t just some hot young guitarist. He was smart, funny, gregarious, and ridiculously fun to be around.
I had tattoos, piercings all over my ears, a pierced nose and tongue; he was this lanky rock-and-roll dude with a guitar around his knees. So, visually, we sort of made sense. We looked like a pair you might see leaning against a wall outside a club at two in the morning sharing a cigarette.
And then we had really good sex.
His body was exactly what I’d imagined from watching him onstage: long, lean, all angles. His dick was just as large as I’d hoped.
And here’s the annoying part: I actually liked him.
Maybe because I’d first encountered him onstage with people cheering for him, some small, embarrassing part of me remained low-key starstruck. But mostly I just liked being around him. So it began to drive me crazy that our hookups were so sporadic. I wanted more Kevin than Kevin wanted to give me.
All out of ideas to reel him in, I bared my soul.
“I think I’d like more of you,” I told him.
There was a prolonged silence.
“Well, funnily enough,” he said eventually, “there sorta is more of me.”
This deflection was how I learned that Kevin had an identical twin brother.
His name was Paul. He was a grad student at a nearby university and extremely easy to find online. Soon I was liking Paul’s pictures, and Paul was liking mine. He knew full well that I was fucking his wombmate.
Before long, we were flirting.
One of us floated the idea that I should drive over to his apartment, with the obvious but unspoken understanding that if the stars aligned, we might just fuck.
I’d love to pretend my motives were pure. They were not.
I wasn’t getting nearly enough attention from Kevin, and it occurred to me that fucking his identical twin brother might be the fix. Maybe?
So I climbed into my 1997 champagne-gold Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, which I’d bought from a friend of a friend for a dollar, and pointed it in his direction.
When Paul opened the door, I just burst out laughing.
I’d had sex with Kevin maybe a week earlier, and here, welcoming me into his home, was this perfect copy of him.
It was uncanny. Like, I knew intellectually what an identical twin meant, but apparently I hadn’t fully absorbed it until that moment. Same face. Same eyebrows. Same height. Same lean body. If Paul had opened the door and told me he was Kevin, I would have believed him.
And then he started talking. That was when the differences appeared.
Paul was softer-spoken, more sensual, more touchy-feely. His intelligence was more overt, focused, and evident in his life. He’d accomplished all this impressive shit. He was a grad student at a very prestigious university. Oh, and he spoke fluent Korean.
That last one blew me away.
I’m Korean-American, and Korean was the language I’d spoken with my family growing up. But mine was basically home Korean – the vocabulary of a little girl talking to her parents. Paul could speak it at a level that was completely beyond me.
It was weird. On the outside, Kevin and I looked like we belonged together. On the inside, Paul and I might actually have been more alike.
And that carried over into bed.
Paul was slower. More intentional. There was more eye contact. More touching. There was a kind of emotional attentiveness to the way he had sex that Kevin didn’t have. Kevin fucked like the guitarist I’d watched swaggering around onstage. Paul fucked like the thoughtful academic he was.
Genetically, however, there were some remarkable consistencies.
My friends had already been teasing me: You have to see if they have the same dick!
They had exactly the same dick.
As far as I could tell, their bodies were essentially identical. The strange thing was how differently those identical bodies felt when inhabited by two completely different people.
Oh and they smelled different. They both smelled good to me, but Kevin smelled like a rock-and-roll guitarist. Paul smelled like the well-scrubbed, nerdy academic he was.
After this first, long, really fun session, Paul picked up my phone with a shit-eating grin.
“Text him this.”
I was too distracted by the situation to remember exactly what Paul dictated, but it was apparently some kind of one-word shorthand that Kevin would immediately understand as: Hey, guess who I just fucked?
If this whole thing had begun as an attention-getting maneuver – and it absolutely had – mission accomplished. Kevin responded with a string of expletives. He seemed more shocked than anything. I figured he wouldn’t be mad. He was seeing me too casually, too infrequently to be upset.
As I’d hoped, there was suddenly a noticeable uptick in both the frequency and intensity of my time with Kevin. Naturally, I continued seeing Paul too.
Then one of them dropped another interesting piece of family history. Not only had Paul and Kevin slept with the same women separately, but they had also, on at least one occasion, slept with the same woman together. It turned out I even knew who she was.
This was significant because every friend I’d told that I was sleeping with identical twins had immediately asked the same question:
“Are you going to fuck them together?”
Until then, I hadn’t seriously considered it.
Now I became hell-bent on making it happen.
For the experience. For the story. I mean, how many people get that opportunity? Twins are relatively rare. Attractive twins are rarer. Attractive identical twins you’re already sleeping with separately who have an established history of tag-teaming women seemed like a statistical anomaly I would be crazy not to investigate.
Unfortunately, the twins themselves were way less excited about this than I was.
They were perfectly happy to sleep with me individually, sporadically, whenever their own busy schedules permitted. But as a team? No. Apparently they were well past the wow of it.
I, meanwhile, had not even approached the wow.
The one time all three of us were in the same room, I could barely concentrate. Seeing them side by side somehow made the whole thing uncanny again. Same faces. Same bodies. Same little mannerisms. Subtle, meaningful differences.
I was fascinated. They were over it. That really got under my skin.
I wasn’t going to force the issue, obviously, but I did attempt to sweeten what they’d both agreed was a fairly sweet little pot. With the Oldsmobile.
“If you guys fuck me together,” I told them, “I’ll give you my car.”
For reasons that made perfect sense to me at the time, I thought the prospect of joint ownership of a mechanically disastrous 13-year-old car would push negotiations over the finish line.
It did not.
They got a kick out of the offer, but they remained resolute in their reluctance to cross swords yet again.
And once the Great Twin Threesome was officially off the table, somehow sleeping with them separately began to lose some of its magic. Weeks started passing between encounters. Then more weeks.
Eventually, the twins drifted out of my life, and my grand experiment in fucking identical twin brothers came to an unexpectedly mundane conclusion.
I never did get them into bed together.
Looking back, though, that seems fitting.
This whole thing had started because I told Kevin I wanted more of him. Technically, he delivered. One evasive, smart-ass remark led me directly to another entire Kevin: same face, same body, same dick, but a different approach, different smell, a completely different man.
And somehow, because I am apparently impossible to satisfy, twice as much Kevin still wasn’t enough.
