I was 20 and dating a South American twin on “exchange” in the United States. I like to call this the “lost in translation” era; a time in which I could sort of do whatever I wanted under the guise of “I’m sorry, is that not normal in your country?”
“Oh. NOT in the face? Sorry.”
“Put the rubber on?”
“We don’t use the term girlfriend in the United States. We’re progressive, so we just tell people we’re friends, not gender specific.”
“You don’t let your exes sleep over?”
The list goes on. I was exploiting this feigned language barrier just beautifully. But like all good things, it came to a screeching halt.
My first non Anglo-Saxon slam had warned me of an impending visit from her busty doppelgänger, a “gift” from what I imagined to be a linen-clad Pablo Escobar character railing lines and teenage girls. Essentially Brazil’s Jordan Belfort.
Anyway, like any red-blooded American male showcasing a level of maturity comparable to early seasons Hank Moody, the transitive property of genitalia meant that the twin of the girl who’s fucking me must obviously want to fuck me too, right? Aren’t they the same?
Not exactly. I had this plan, knowing it was a football weekend and hotel rooms would be impossible to come by. I would be the knight in shining armor opening my home to her family member in need and hoping the visitor would reciprocate by opening herself.
She arrived, and, to my delight, she had an amazing ass underneath the weight of those silicon cantaloupes. I realized this would be a tough sell, but, as the waves of drunken perspective suitors were halted faster than David Bowie’s heart, I started to wonder: Is this because we’re all going to fuck? Or, you know, maybe she just had a boyfriend? But hey, I was 20 and even more obnoxiously arrogant than I am today, so that sort of shit never crossed my mind.
We ended up back at my place, hammering shots under the guise of a “nightcap” and I’m two thirds chubbed in the kitchen praying what happens on PornHub is biographical — at least for me.
We were all Memorial Day Weekend Boosh-level inebriated when my girl went to the bathroom, though they’re so identical I have to openly scan their cup sizes to see who the fuck is who. So I ended up alone in the kitchen cutting a lime for a supposed tequila shot with her sister.
I handed her the shot, we cheersed and took it together, both of us recoiling like freshmen during a welcome week Burnett’s bender, when she sort of fell into my arms. I saw nothing but green lights.
I turned her around and went in immediately, tongue so aggressive I think I caught a tonsil.
She shoved me.
*LANGUAGE I DON’T UNDERSTAND VERY VERY LOUD*
She berated me, smacked me in the face, and headed for the other room. Through the walls I could hear both of these chili peppers’ temperatures rising from mild to fire.
Like the captain of my own Titanic, I stoically made my way with the Patron bottle, my laptop, and a good clump of tissues to the couch, resigned to my fate.
Perhaps customary wherever it was they were from, the replicas actually stayed, with the door locked of course, in my own bedroom, leaving me only after a thorough berating and indecipherable humiliation.
There I sat, defeated but proud of my attempt. Down the PornHub rabbit hole I went, typing into the search bar: Twins..
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