The Legend of the Ditto Twins (57 page)

"Okay.
My lawyers tell me you can touch each other anywhere but your dicks. You can
get hard-
ons
as long as you keep em covered. You can
even kiss, long as it's 'affectionate but not carnal,' whatever the fuck that
means."

The last
thing he said as he walked us to the car was: "Off the record, are you two
really into each other?"

We
smiled. "Every chance we get."

We called
Clay the moment Kimmy left us alone.

"You
can always walk out," he assured us. "Come home."

"No,
we can't leave now. We just..."

“...wanted
to give you a heads up. Don't worry, Clay. Everything's cool so far..."

“...and
tell Jay that The Ditto Twins have only been offered drugs once since they got
here..."

“...and
no one’s tried to buy their bodies yet, even though they've been here three
hours already."

"Don't
be smart-asses. And don't get arrested. You've got your credit cards, right? If
anything goes wrong, just get on a plane."

We
showered, shaved, and played around for awhile before T.J. arrived to take us out
to this fancy Italian restaurant, where our dinner was constantly interrupted
by fans stopping at the table. We autographed a lot of menus. Next day, we
spent the afternoon sunbathing nude on the deck outside our bedroom and
watching news reports of Rev.
Flamm's
arrival in the
City of Angels. In each clip, he railed about the "scourge" of
homosexuality and condemned the "blasphemy" of The Greatest Taboo
Known to Man. In one interview, he dropped The I Word five times and even
mentioned The Ditto Twins by name. Already, we were almost famous.

At dusk,
Kimmy drove us to work. The traffic jam materialized about a block from the
club, and we heard the protestors long before we saw them. A uniformed cop
detoured us to a side street, but eventually Kimmy found his way back to the
parking lot behind Limbo. Hopping out of the Jeep, sunglasses in place, we
paused to stare at the picketers across the street, marching up and down,
jabbing posters in the air, shouting as if their salvation depended on it.
Without doing a thing but being ourselves, we'd damned near caused a riot.

Kimmy
escorted us through the darkened club, introducing The Ditto Twins to everyone.
We gave our audiotape to the sound man and headed toward the dressing room.

"Thanks.
We can..."

“...take
it from here."

She shook
her head and opened the door. (I don't recall exactly when the pronoun shifted
from male to female—probably at the Italian restaurant where everyone referred
to Kimmy as her, so we did too.)

"T.J.
says I'm to stick with you till you go on stage," she announced.

"Oh,
that's not necessary. Bryan and I don't need a babysitter."

"No,
but you need a bodyguard." She pulled herself up to her full height, and
that made her even taller than us, since she was wearing three-inch wedgies.
"Think of me as the prison matron. And no shit, please."

We
grinned. "Okay, no shit." In unison. "Come on in."

She swept
into the room. "Want me to do your make-up?"

"Oh,
we don't use make-up." In unison.

She
nearly doubled over in pain. "Not even on stage?"

We shook
our heads.

"Well,
we only have another half-hour. At least let me help you dress. Or undress.
Either. I'm very versatile."

"Thanks,
anyway, only we always do it for each other. But..."

“...you
can watch. We're not shy."

In seconds,
we were bare-ass naked except for our crucifixes and—what else is new?—at full
erection.

Kimmy’s
reaction
was real. "You really are a couple?"

We nodded
and, as proof, melted into a long kiss. She just stood there and didn't speak
until we came out of it.

"You
left your wallets in your pants."

"Where
else?" In unison. "Is something wrong?"

She
sighed extravagantly. "Don't you know anything? You can't leave your
valuables back here. And where are you gonna stash them when you're onstage? Up
your ass?"

"We
never thought..."

“...of
that. What should we do?"

"Well...
I suppose I can keep them in my purse during the show. Only count your money
first. I don't want to be charged with robbing you after I give 'em back. Never
accuse a drag queen of petty theft—it's not a pretty sight."

She
offered us our wallets; we pushed them away.

"We
trust you."

"Never
trust anyone in this business. Except me." She stuffed them in her purse.
"Now, get moving."

We opened
our gym bag, found the black silk T-bar pouches, helped each other squeeze into
them, and arranged our packages for maximum effect before checking ourselves
out in the mirror. Kimmy bent down for a closer look.

"You
know, I could sew some sequins on them if you'd like. Wouldn't take a
minute."

"Thanks
anyway, but they're fine. What we..."

“...really
need is a bigger mirror in here."

"Don't
hold your breath. What's next?"

"The
jockstraps."

She
reached in the gym bag and handed them to us.

"Thanks,"
I said, "Y'know, we've had these ever since the first day of gym class and
never washed them once in all these years."

"How
romantic," she said, handing us our cut-offs. "I don't know whether
to cry or throw up."

We
laughed. "Fuck you! It works for us."

"Puts
a whole new spin on the word brotherhood, huh?" she giggled and handed us
our chambray shirts.

We pulled
on our cowboy boots and followed her into the wings.

"Give
'em hell," she whispered as our music started.

I groped
Clark; he groped me. For luck.

"Ditto."

"Ditto."

I knelt,
and he climbed onto my shoulders. We felt ten feet tall as The Ditto Twins
bounded onto the tiny platform stage. There were no seats; everyone stood,
squeezed as close to the stage as possible, and the room exploded with a roar
that even drowned out the protestors outside.

In
rehearsal, we had discovered we were better gymnasts than dancers, so we opened
our act with him doing a flip off my shoulders into a tender embrace that
damned near stopped the show before it even got started. Our opening number was
nothing more than a bunch of calisthenics that we tried to make as sexy as
possible, caressing and fondling each other—everywhere but our dicks. The place
went crazy.

Then we
introduced ourselves.

"Hi!
I'm Ryan..."

“...and
I'm Bryan. Or..."

“...maybe
it's the other way around. Sometimes,
we..."

“...can't
even tell us apart."

The
audience loved that. It got a big laugh.

Then we
launched into our first vocal number, "Life Upon the Wicked Stage." Jay
was right. There were a lot of musical comedy queens in the crowd who still
welcomed melody in The Age of Rap. Plus, we could carry a tune. By the time
we'd finished the first chorus, we each had several bills stuffed in our
waistbands, and we hadn't even started to strip yet.

The rest
of the act built perfectly: more show tunes, more prick-teasing, until we
headed into our final number, "The Way You Look Tonight." A love song
from an old Ginger Rogers-Fred Astaire movie was not what the audience was expecting.
To a slow, pulsating arrangement, we began to sing softly and to ease each
other out of our shirts, and in time, our cut-offs and our jockstraps.

"With
your smile so warm

And
your cheek so soft

There
is nothing for me

But
to love you

Just
the way you look tonight."

We got
down to our bulging T-bars just as the song ended. And that's when we kissed.
As always, we lost track of time or anything else except each other, and in
spite of T.J.'s warning, the kiss was every bit as carnal as it was
affectionate. But no one complained. The place went wild.

The Meet
and Greet afterward was a lot more difficult. Weird, actually. Surreal.
Chatting with the fans as they stuffed money in our T-bar pouches, their hands
lingering in the process to fondle our dicks, took a bit of getting used to. In
a way, though, it was kind of flattering to know that most of these guys would
spend the rest of their lives dining out on tales of the night they actually
touched The Ditto Twins' dicks.

Five
minutes into The Meet and Greet, Clark and I coincidentally noticed a tense,
no-doubt-closeted man in a shadowy corner. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled
low and oversized aviator sunglasses that obscured his face. A splash of light
from a mirror-ball danced briefly across his body, and we could see that in
each hand he was holding a hundred-dollar bill. The Ditto Twins moved forward.

"Hi.
Did you..."

“...like
the show?"

He nodded
but did not speak or make any effort to put the bills in our pouches. Turning
to a big burly giant standing next to him, he murmured a word or two into the
man's ear. The giant took the two bills from him and handed them to us. Didn't
go near our packages. Just handed them over.

"Uh...
thank you..."

“...very
much. It's..."

“...very
generous."

A sudden
swirl of bodies in the ever-shifting crowd caught us off guard and swept us
away from our benefactor before the conversation could continue. When we
finally escaped from the many hands trying to get a touch of us, the Big
Spender was gone. It wasn't long before the pouch grabbers had run out of ready
cash, too, so I turned to Clark.

"Cigarette?"

He
nodded, and we headed backstage. Kimmy was waiting.

"No
smoking back here, darlings. Ordinarily, no one gives a shit, but the fire
marshal's here tonight."

We all
headed for the parking lot, and she pulled a pack of Marlboros out of her
purse. Several attendants were racing about, bringing cars around for customers
who were leaving, and we moved to one side, each bumming a cigarette from her.
Before she found her lighter, a flame appeared under my nose. I looked up into
the eyes of the burly giant.

"Oh,
hello again. Thanks. Didn't see you."

"Could
I have a word with you? The two of you."

"My
friend liked your show very much," he began. "Care to join us for a drink?"
He gestured toward a Mercedes S 500 that had just been brought up. Standing
beside it, still in sunglasses and baseball cap, was Big Spender.

I looked
at Clark.