The Legend of the Ditto Twins (64 page)

With that
kind of energy in the air, we put on one helluva show. All the new material
worked great. We'd changed the calisthenics opener to a history of ballroom
dancing: the waltz, the Charleston, the fox trot, the
Frug
,
right up to the latest disco moves. And every time we segued into a different
dance, we removed a piece of each other's clothing. By the time we got to the
wind-up, we were bumping and grinding in just our T-bars as if we were blood
kin to Gypsy Rose Lee.

By the
time we got to our new finale, we were both glistening with sweat and so hyped
that our cockheads were visible over the top of our flesh-colored pouches. The
lights dimmed. We mouthed "Dittos" to each other; I touched Clark's
cheek; he touched mine; and we began to sing "We Kiss in the Shadow."
The song had always been a favorite of Jay's.

It
worked. You could hear a pin drop, I swear. Even in that rowdy, drunken, New
Year's Eve crowd, as we stood there all but naked, touching each other's body,
but only with our fingertips, it worked.

To
kiss in the sunlight

And
say to the sky,

"Behold
and believe what you see.

Behold
how my lover loves me."

And then
we kissed. That did it. Pandemonium.

The
reviews said we took eleven bows. We weren't counting. We were too busy
programming the moment into our memory gallery, pretty sure that in all
likelihood The Ditto Twins had just given their farewell performance.

When we
finally walked offstage, the stage manager hugged us and gave us our wallets.
Once we reached our dressing room, Clark dug in his boot for the key; I checked
the tape. It was still in place.

The
moment we closed the door behind us, Clark spoke. "I've decided how we
should spend our inheritance."

"Oh,
yeah? How?"

"On
lawyers."

At first,
I didn't get it. "Lawyers?"

"Well,
shit, the good reverend has gone to one helluva lot of trouble to catch us
making love. Let's let him."

It took
awhile to sink in. "Become the test case that Clay and Jay never had the
guts to be?"

My
brother smiled. "Jay would like that."

I nodded.
The idea was pure genius. "Scared?" I asked.

"Shitless."

"Me,
too." I slid his t-bar down.

He
removed mine. "Let's do it. On the count of three."

As one,
we fell onto the futon. We had nothing to lose: If they didn't come for us,
we'd have a dynamite evening; if they did, we were prepared—no, eager—to face
the consequences. Already dripping with sweat from the show, we slid in and out
of one another like a pair of greased pigs, our ardor fueled by the fact that
we were probably playing to a hostile audience.

Ten
minutes or so later, there was a knock at the door. It was the manager of the
club.

"Yes?"
In unison.

"Sorry,
gentlemen. The police are here. They have a search warrant. Open up!"

We didn't
have to do a thing. The door burst open. We kept on fucking. Within seconds, the
room was overrun, but we tried our damnedest to ignore everyone, as if they
weren't there, as if we were in the privacy of our bedroom. Balls deep in
Clark, I was determined we'd both reach orgasm before they separated us. And by
God, we did.

The first
place the cops looked was in the vase of roses, and when they found nothing
there, their annoyance quickly escalated into outrage. As we casually began to
dress, they attacked the room, ripping out the
Masonite
walls, tearing up the floor, slicing the futon to shreds, patting us down.
Since they weren't about to leave without something to show for their efforts,
and since they
had
caught us
in
flagrante,
as they say, they
opted to arrest us instead for incest, a Class E felony, whatever that is.

As we
were escorted from the club in handcuffs,
Flamm's
picketers cheered and launched into an off-key rendition of their theme song,
"Onward Christian Soldiers." Clark and I, though cuffed separately,
were side by side as we emerged into the cold night air to be greeted by a
burst of flashes. As the intrepid journalists hurled questions at us about our
relationship, it seemed quite natural to kiss rather than tell, so we did.

Another
round of flashes was detonated before the cops pulled us apart, but the papers
and TV cameras had gotten their photo op. (We made all the morning newscasts
and page one of both the
Daily
News
and the
New York Post. The Times
spared their readers the sight of an incestuous kiss—no
photo—but they too covered the story in depth.)

As the
not so heavenly choir across the street segued into "The Battle Hymn of
the Republic," I spotted Tanisha and Ricky near the front of the crowd.

"Call
Clay!" I shouted.

"And
the ACLU!" added Clark.

Before we
could continue the conversation, the cops hustled us into separate police cars
and drove off, sirens blaring, to the precinct house, where we were charged
(under Section 255.25 of the state penal code) with incest in the third degree.
We never did find out what the first two degrees were, but someone read us the
wording of the law under which we'd been arrested: "A person is guilty of
incest when he or she marries
or
engages in sexual intercourse or deviate sexual intercourse
with a
person
he or she knows to be related to him or her." There was
more, but
we both
stopped listening about the time we heard the word
"deviate."

They
fingerprinted us and took our mug shots. It was the first we'd ever been
photographed individually, but we knew there was no point in trying to talk our
way out of that one. Jay would understand.

We did
get to make one phone call—to Clay—but there was no answer. We left a message
on the machine, but we couldn't help but wonder if he'd understand it.

Next, we
were driven downtown to the Criminal Courts Building, colloquially known as The
Tombs. There, we were marched down one cold corridor after another, through
several sets of electronically controlled doors, past the already incarcerated
men who had a field day hurling epithets at us. Eventually we were ushered into
what I guess you'd call V.I.P. cells, away from the rest of the prisoners. What
really pissed us off, though, was that we were put in
separate
cells
and couldn't even talk to each other, let alone touch.

Because
the next day was a holiday, we were not arraigned for close to forty-eight
hours. Badly in need of a shower, we were, however, finally brought before a
judge.

"Are
the defendants represented by counsel?" he asked.

Before we
could reply, we spotted Clay, Lily, Tanisha, and Ricky on the other side of the
bar, standing beside a rail-thin man with a briefcase. The guy moved forward.
He wore a clean shirt and a well pressed suit, but his shoes were badly in need
of a shine.

"Your
honor, my name is Rafael Blumenfeld, and I have been retained as counsel for
the defendants."

His
striking features included an unruly shock of black hair, deep-set eyes, skin
the color of parchment, and the long, thin fingers usually associated with
world-class concert pianists. Later, we learned that his mother had been born
in Tahiti, and his father was a lapsed Hasidic Jew.

In
response to the judge's next question, he replied, "We plead not guilty,
your honor."

We wanted
to interrupt and tell him that "Not guilty" was the wrong answer, but
things happened so fast and we hadn't even been introduced to him yet, so we
let it ride. Surely, we assumed, once we had explained to him what we were up
to, the plea could be changed.

A lengthy
argument ensued over the amount of bail to be posted, and an even longer one
over whether or not we should surrender our passports. Blumenfeld proved
surprisingly persuasive, and the judge ultimately let us keep our
passports—with the stipulation that we were not to leave the state of New York.
That seemed a fair trade. In no time, we walked out the door, damned near dog
happy.

Outside
the courthouse, Clay formally introduced us to Blumenfeld, and we soon learned
that he was from the American Civil Liberties Union.

"A
fraternity brother," explained Ricky.

"And
a triple Leo," added Tanisha.

Blumenfeld
didn't say much, just stared at us, but that was okay—until he abruptly nodded
to himself and started to walk away.

"Are
we going back to the hotel?" we asked.

Silently,
he shook his head and continued to walk briskly into the chill late afternoon
air. We kept pace; Clay and the others brought up the rear. Within a few
blocks, our counsel stopped, glanced about, and nodded.

"This
will do," he announced.

"Where
are we?" In unison.

"City
Hall Park. No electronic devices."

"Bugs?"
In unison, incredulously.

"If
they wired your dressing room, they've probably wired your hotel room, too.
Sit. By the fountain."

As dusk
began to settle in, Clay and our retinue found a park bench, but Blumenfeld
motioned Clark and me to stand before him. Seemingly impervious to the cold, he
unbuttoned his parka and jabbed his hands in his corduroy pants pockets.

"Let
me make it perfectly clear up front, the ACLU has not yet agreed to take this
case." His voice revealed his Brooklyn roots. "Start at the beginning."

Clark and
I rattled off everything we could remember about Rev. Abel Flamm, from the day
we'd first heard of him at the
reststop
bust, through
our skirmish in Denver, to the moment we'd started fucking on the dressing room
futon.

"Stop
right there!" ordered Blumenfeld. "Are you telling me you purposely
chose to have anal intercourse, knowing that you were being recorded on
videotape?"

We nodded
proudly. "Oh, yes." Nonplussed, he finally asked why. "To give
em
grounds..."

“...for a
test case."

"A
test case?"

We nodded
again. "For Incest Rights."

"We
figure it'll go all the way..."

“...to
the Supreme Court. What do you think?"

He
swallowed before he answered. "Not a chance."

That was
not the answer we were expecting.

"Well...
It seemed like a good idea..."

“...at
the time. You have to start..."

“...somewhere.
I mean, isn't that how Black Power..."

“...women's
rights, Gay Pride got going?"

Blumenfeld
ran his hand through his unruly back hair. "More noble idiots. What do you
want to do, save the world?"

"No,
we just want to be treated like everyone else. Of course..."

“...if we
save the world, too, that'd be okay."

Blumenfeld
finally sat down. "Hear me. Incest is not only illegal, it is also taboo.
Everywhere."

"Well,
it shouldn't be. Certainly not for people like us. We're..."

“...not
gonna produce two-headed babies."

Blumenfeld
took a deep breath and tried again. "I am familiar with that argument. But
get real. The incest taboo has been around as long as societies have
existed."

"Well,
there have been historical exceptions. At one time or another, Peru, ancient
Egypt, even Hawaii." Clark had done his homework. I was so proud of him.
"And what about France?" he asked smugly.

"What
about France?"

"I
read on the internet that incest is legal in France."