The Legend of the Ditto Twins (7 page)

"Okay."

I reached for the pack of Marlboros
with one hand and my dick with the other. Soon our cigarettes were lit and we
were sprawled side by side against the headboard. Then I dropped my leg over
his. My brother made a strange little noise and rubbed his toes against mine.
At first I watched my own hand slide instinctually up and down my shaft, but
before long, I found myself mostly watching what Clark was doing, working away
on himself—just like me.

It wasn't long before our eyes met,
and we grinned at each other without breaking our perfectly matched rhythm.
Together, we sped up. Together, we slowed down. The more we stroked ourselves,
the bigger our dicks began to feel. God, I thought, hard-
ons
are
beautiful. After our second
cigarette, Clark suddenly let go of his erection and slapped it gleefully.

"Now, let’s measure em
again."

"Okay," I said and found
the ruler. "C'mon, hold him still." I leaned in. "Wow! Six and
one-fourth inches."

Clark gasped, then giggled. "Oh,
that's right. I think you're not supposed to measure it till it gets
hard."

I giggled too and handed him the
ruler.

After a moment he nodded. "Six
and one-fourth. I knew it! I knew it! And we're only just getting
started."

"That's pretty damned good,
isn't it?"

"Well, Mom's always saying we're
still growing boys."

We both reached for our dicks at the
same time and began to stroke again. That was one of the happiest nights of my
life, I can tell you, but after an hour or so, my dick was getting really sore.
Clark nodded knowingly.

"You can spit on it. I read that
somewhere."

I did and smeared my saliva over it.
Instantly, he followed suit.

"Better," I said.

He agreed softly and continued what
he was doing.

I put out my cigarette and looked at
him. I don't know why, but the words just came out. "Do me a favor.
Gimme
some of your spit, will
ya
?"

Clark didn't hesitate for a second;
he leaned over my dick and hocked a big wad of his saliva on it.

"You have good spit," I
told him, smearing it around.

"Bet you do, too."

I took the hint, swashed my tongue
around in my mouth, then leaned over his dick and slowly let my load of saliva
drool out. He moaned slightly as he watched it trickle down his shaft, then
began to work it around. We smoked another cigarette or two—with breaks every
now and then to spit-lubricate on each other—until I began to run out of
saliva.

"Me, too," said Clark.
"Do we have any Vaseline?"

"Maybe. In the medicine
cabinet."

I quickly found the little jar of
petroleum jelly and hurried back to
the
bed, popping its cap as I flipped back down beside my brother.

"Here...
give it to me," he said impatiently.

"No,
that's okay. I don't mind."

I scooped
out a glob of the stuff and reached for Clark's dick. Looking him straight in
the eye, I wrapped my fist around his erection and began—very slowly—to stroke
him. He gasped.
I made him gasp!
But the really interesting thing about that moment was the
look in his eyes. I can't put it into words exactly, but I knew I'd never
forget it.

I was so
busy experiencing all the sensations of what was happening that I barely
noticed his hand sneaking its way into my crotch. When he wrapped his fist
around me, it too was slimy with Vaseline, and—yeah—I gasped, too.

"Don't
stop," I managed to murmur.

"Never,"
he promised.

"You
sure are good at that."

Clark
nodded. "So are you."

Looking
back, I guess we both knew in one split second that we were natural born
jerk-off kings.

We
snickered softly but didn't stop stroking—just couldn't seem to let go of each
other. We turned, face to face, Indian style, wrapping our long legs around
each other's butt. Each of us placed his free hand on the other's shoulder and
leaned in until our foreheads touched. I have no idea how much time passed
before I began to feel warm, warmer than I'd ever felt, then hot, tense,
feverish. Some weird electric current began crackling up my spine to the back
of my skull and down to my dick all at the same time. We didn't say a
word—didn't have to. I guess we knew that any second the world as we knew it
was going to explode and never be the same again.

Our eyes
locked as we had our first simultaneous orgasm.

In the
next few hours, we charged through three more ejaculations before we collapsed,
drained and raw, onto the bed. Neither of us made the slightest attempt to
clean up the glaze of semen that caked our chins, torsos, chests, and nether
regions. We were too bushed. In fact, I bare
ly managed to slip an arm around
Clark, pull him close, and kiss him goodnight. I do remember we fell asleep
with our tongues in each other’s mouth.

I was awakened a few hours later
by a loud rap at the bedroom door. Instantly I sat up and shoved Clark to the
far side of the bed. That woke him up.

"Time to get up!" It
was my
fathers
voice.

"Okay, okay," I
muttered in the sleepiest voice I could fake. "Just a sec."

"May I come in?" He'd
never asked before.

In panic, we glanced around to
determine if further sanitizing of the room was necessary. Clark grabbed our
sneaker-ashtray from the foot of the bed and shoved it under the covers; I
snagged the near-empty pack of Marlboros and buried it down between my thighs.
Then, in tandem, we pulled the bedspread up to our noses and lay back.

I tried to sound casual.
"Sure. C'mon in."

The door opened, and my father
stood there staring at us even longer than he had yesterday.

"What the hell's going
on?"

"What
d'you
mean?"

"We were sleeping."

"Sleeping?" Dad
repeated.

He ambled over to the bed, leaned
down, and before we knew it, he'd tossed the open jar of Vaseline—what was left
of it—onto the bed. He started to speak, changed his mind, and squirmed out of
the room.

By the time we'd cleaned up, we
had concocted what we hoped would be a semi-plausible explanation for the jar
of Vaseline. (Something about chapped lips, as I recall.) And we started
downstairs. Mom was on the
phone, red-eyed,
quivering, and speaking in funereal monosyllables. I couldn't remember the last
time I'd seen her crying. She motioned us to hand her the box of Kleenex from
the buffet, but once she'd blown her nose, she waved us on into the kitchen.
Dad was sitting at the breakfast table, trying to coax a bite of scrambled eggs
onto his fork without much success.

"Who's
she talking to?" I asked.

"Don't
know. Uncle Clay? Or his daughter, maybe."

"Is
something wrong?"

"Sounds
like it." He closed his eyes for a second. "And it isn't even seven
o'clock."

"Must
be serious if they're calling this early."

Dad shook
his head. "Gonna be one of those days, I can just smell it. Mark, would
you take a look at the Ford's carburetor? It's acting kind of sluggish."

I nodded.
Dad managed to get a forkful of eggs into his mouth and sat there munching away
but never seeming to swallow, much like one of his prize cows chewing her cud.
No one said anything further until Mom
came
into the room.

"That
was Lily. Clay's had a heart attack—a massive coronary. They don't think he's
gonna make it." She slumped down opposite Dad at the table, doing her best
to stifle her sobs. "I have to go. Will you drive me, honey? Or should I
call Greyhound?"

"You're
going? Why?" I asked.

Clark
added, "I thought you hated him."

"You
haven't seen him in years."

"Not
since Grandma's funeral."

"And
you barely spoke to him then."

Mom spun
around, eyes flashing. "You watch your mouths! He's my brother. My own
flesh and blood. Of course I have to go." She stood, now back in control
of her emotions, and turned to my father. "Well?"

"I'll
drive you. Cheaper that way."

"Good.
I'll go pack." She pivoted toward us. "Now—you two. I'd like to t
hink we can trust you while we're gone. No funny business.
You'll have to run things till your father gets back tonight or tomorrow."

I know it
was terrible of me, but my next thought was that Clark and I'd been handed a
reprieve. Saturday was no longer the end of the world. Uncle Clay’s heart
attack had taken precedence over Mom's concern about her sons' new nocturnal
exploits. I tried to stifle a smile, looked over at Clark, and realized he too
was doing his best to swallow his joy.

We
retrieved the Vaseline and were bare-ass naked before Dad's old pick-up truck
pulled out of the yard.

Five
orgasms later, one in every room of the house except the kitchen—including one on
Mom and Dad’s bed—we fell asleep, as always, in our room, in our bed, in each
other's arms. This time, we'd had the foresight to clean up after ourselves and
hide the Marlboros, empty the sneaker, and put the Vaseline back in the
medicine cabinet. Just as well, too, cause we were awakened early the next
morning by the sound of the old pick-up pulling up. Dad honked the horn a
couple of times—to warn us he was back, I suspected—and we ran to the open
window and leaned out.

"How's
Uncle Clay?" I called down.

"Still
alive. Least he was when I left."

"How
long's Mom gonna stay?" Clark asked.

Dad
climbed out of the car and lifted his hands in an indefinite gesture.
"Till he gets better or dies."

I could
feel Clark rubbing his palm over my dick below the window sill. I giggled and
squeezed his hand. "Give us a minute, Dad. We'll be right down."

"
Bet
we could get in another one 'fore he misses us."

"C'mon,"
I said. "We're good, but not that good,"

"
Betcha
a dollar we could."

P.S. He
won.