The Legend of the Ditto Twins (30 page)

“...in
the same bed."

He rubbed
his ear lobe gleefully.

"Sissy
must be having a cat."

"She
doesn't know..."

“...but
she suspects."

He held
out his hand. "Give me a cigarette."

"Should
you?"

"Don't
be impertinent. You do smoke, don't you?"

"Well,
sure, but..."

"It's
all right. You needn't concern yourselves. I limit myself to three a day."

"How
many have you had already?"

"Six.
And the sun hasn't even gone over the yardarm yet.
Give me a
fuckin'
cigarette, please!"

I grinned
and gave him one; Clark provided the light.

He
inhaled several times, as if to energize himself. "And where is that no
good fuckin' brother of mine right now?"

"We're
supposed to meet him at a place called Dressler's for supper."

"On
U
nter den
Linden?"

I checked
the card the concierge had given me and nodded.

"Figures.
It's my home away from home."

Decades
younger than when we'd first seen him half an hour earlier,
Jay pitched Clark his cane, tossed me his shopping bag,
and started up the street at a brisk clip. I may have imagined it, but I think
he was skipping.

"Where
are we going?"

"To
my place. To get cleaned up. After all, I've been waiting thirty fuckin years
for tonight."

"The
place is a mess, I'm afraid," said Jay as he unlocked the door. "For
years I've lived up on the fifth floor, but that's out of the fuckin question
these days. So when this place became available..."

We walked
into a small room, more an office than a home: a marble-top desk, chrome
chairs, a black leather couch facing a smoked glass coffee table—and on the
walls, framed photographic portraits of some of the most beautiful young men
and women we'd ever seen—many of them, well-known celebrities. Above the desk,
in the place of honor was a hand-carved wooden sign that said simply:
J
ayCee
Photography.

"Did
you do these?" I asked.

"Every
fuckin' one of them," replied Jay proudly.

"They're
wonderful." In unison.

"Well,
I've been taking pictures most of my fuckin' life. I should have learned
something by now."

"Wow.
Such..."

“...gorgeous
models."

"Why,
thank you." He acknowledged our compliment with something between a bow
and a curtsey. "I don't always get gorgeous people, but I do always try to
make them
look
gorgeous. And when they're gorgeous to begin with..."
Suddenly, he slapped his hand against his cheek and squinted at us over his
glasses, a long, hard look. It seemed forever before he spoke. "How long
are you going to be in town?"

We
shrugged. "Why do you ask?"

"Because
you're both so fuckin photogenic. I'd love to do a still session with you if
there's time before you go back to the States. Interested?"

The
question was unnecessary; the answer, a given.

"I've
never photographed twins before. Always wanted to. Always." He sat down
and began to take off his shoes.

"Will
it cost a lot?"

Jay
lowered his chin and peered up at us over the rims of his glasses as if about
to berate an idiot student. Neither of us knew what to say. We just glowed.

Jay
stood. "C'mon, I'll show you the rest of the place." Barefoot, he
strode into the next room. "This is the studio." He moved on through
a bright, airy space and pointed to a door at one side. "The dark room.
And back here are my private quarters." He opened another door, and we
moved into his living room. There was a yellow recliner in front of the TV.
"And back here is my fuckin' boudoir."

We
followed him into his bedroom and were both taken aback by what we saw. Behind the
bed was a wall-to-wall color photograph—like a mural—a larger than life blow-up
of Clay and Jay, sitting side-by-side, arms around each other's shoulders, on
the hood of the red '57 Corvette.

"Like
it?" he asked. "I took it with a time delay the morning after we'd
fucked for the first time." Suddenly, he seemed embarrassed. "It's a
nice memento..."

"It's...
phenomenal." In unison.

"Yes,
I suppose..."

He turned
away, swatted the air, and wandered back into the living room. Once there, he
pointed at two large leather-bound portfolios on the coffee table.

"If
you want to browse through my books while you're waiting for me to take my
fuckin' shower, the one on the left has the glamour layouts. The one on the
right is the porn."

The
moment we heard the shower running, we reached for the one on the right.
Without a word, we began to turn the pages—lingering over each as if we'd never
seen a naked human being before. When my dick began to stir, I glanced over at
Clark, and he spread his legs to reveal that I was not alone. I nodded, kissed
him, and turned the next page. Over the shower, we could hear Jay singing in a
clear tenor voice. The song was "
Blowin
’ in the
Wind."

As we
made our way deeper into the book, the photos became more and more explicit,
and it wasn't long before we were fondling each other as we faced one enticing
erection after another, many in close-up. Halfway through the book, we paused
to wrap ourselves around each other and make out for a while before Clark
gently pushed me off and pointed down to the portfolio.

The last
third of the book was devoted to full-color stills from pornographic films, a
couple of which we recognized from Clay's collection. Neither of us had ever
gone out of his way to buy magazines or photo sets. Movies were our thing. But
these stills were unlike any we'd ever seen—almost as arousing as the action of
the films themselves. Jay certainly had a gift for capturing the sexual heat of
the moment and immortalizing it forever.

We'd both
just unzipped our flies when we heard the shower stop. Frustrated that we could
not take care of business then and there, we adjusted our packages as best we
could, zipped up, and I turned another page. The photo on it practically jumped
out of the book at us. It was a shot from that first porn film I ever watched,
the blond guy and the marine in the men's room—the selfsame film my brother and
I were watching the night we discovered oral sex. I've no idea how long we
stared down at it, reeling with memories.

"You
like that one?" asked Jay.

We looked
up, cringing with embarrassment. Wrapped in a fluffy terrycloth robe, he was
standing in the doorway drying his hair. Hastily, we tried to cross our legs.

"Uh...
It's just that we've seen that film..."

“...several
times. It’s kind of special..."

“...to
us. You actually were there when it was made?"

"Snapping
away." He aimed an imaginary camera at us and made a series of clicks with
his tongue. "Toughest fuckin' shoot I've ever been on. The marine thought
he was straight, and it took forever to get his money shot. But the blond is a
doll. You've heard of him, haven't you? Kurt Jupiter. Want to meet him? His
real name is Helmut."

"'Helmut'?
But I thought... Wasn't that film..."

“...made
in Hollywood?"

Jay
snapped the towel at us. "Fooled
ya
!"

"But
the convertible..."

“...it
had California plates on it."

"Anything
can be acquired in Berlin."

"But
the blond... I thought he was..."

“...American.
Does he speak English?"

"More
than you speak German." He giggled. "The
theatah
is the art of illusion.
So's
smut." He moved to
the phone. "Before I forget." And then into it. "
Jorg
? Hallo,
Babycakes
, it's
Jay...Oh, much better, considering I was in a fuckin' coma for months, but I've
got my dancing shoes back on
...
Ja
,
ja
.
A table for four, and charge it to my account. Under no
circumstance is anyone else to get the bill.
D
anke.
Ciao
Schätzchen
.
Bussi
Bussi
."
He hung
up, faced us defiantly, and shrugged "I shouldn't be getting so fuckin'
excited, should I? For
Chrissake
, I'm acting like
Gidget."

"Who's
Gidget?" I asked.

"Write
it down, Patrick!"

"No,
my name's Mark. Who's Patrick?"

A
withering glance. "What kind of queer are you?"

I didn't
know what to say.

"Sorry.
No more Gidget. No more
Mame
. Tonight I really must butch
it up. Jeans, I think, and cowboy boots."

The
restaurant was crowded, but the moment Jay walked in the door, he was greeted by
the maître d' as if he were Christ on Earth, and we were at once ushered
through the wood-paneled bar and led to the best table in the dining room. As
we sat, Clay walked in the door.

Jay
stood.

Clay
froze.

Jay
strode halfway across the tiled floor to his brother and stopped. Clay
straightened his shoulders and covered the other half of the room. Like two
gunslingers at high noon, they eyed each other warily. Neither spoke, each
waiting for the other to make the first move. I'd guess the better part of a
minute passed before Jay spoke.

"You
son of a bitch."

"Right."

"You're
late."

"Right."

"But
you're here?"

"If
you want."