Rebounding

I hadn't laid any bets. I hadn't allowed myself to think consciously about "always." But I'm a woman, and women are prone to having "always" fantasies even if we don't admit to them.

At age twenty-three, I'd had only two sex partners and only one that lasted. The latter was the one that was murdered.

I know, I know: not very LA-ish, right? This is Sin City West, where we're all supposed to be fucking all the time. Chalk it up to my parentage: two of the straitest-laced Vietnamese immigrants you're ever likely to meet...except that you won't. They almost never leave their home, they only leave it together, and they absolutely do not talk to strangers. To them there are two and only two kinds of girls: good girls, and whores. I was raised to be a good girl.

It took...until I got out on my own, anyway. Having spent my younger years--all the way through college--without any significant degree of contact with the male gender, I wanted to be a wee bit more popular with the boys than Mom and Dad's standards would permit. So I loosened up. Sexually only; most other ways I remained conservative as hell. Get those drugs away from me unless you want to spend the night in a cell.

I learned to like sex. A lot. And as a result of some well-meant advice from a rather strange friend, I didn't stop with "vanilla." After we'd been bed-friends for a few weeks, I encouraged Brian, with whom I felt myself falling in love and who the idea would probably never have occurred to, to try fucking me in the ass--and I discovered, much to my surprise, that for me it beat cunt-fucking hollow.

Unfortunately, Brian decided the same thing. What followed gave rise to a misunderstanding that parted us and probably cost him his life, indirectly at least.

For my year of no standards, I resolved on anal sex only. Always with strangers, and never with the same man twice. I figured the pattern would pall on me, that I'd be hankering for a return to normal by the time the year was up.

So every Friday and Saturday night (plus a thin scattering of weeknights) for a year, I dolled myself up--sexy blouse, short skirt, high heels, and tarty makeup--and sampled a new point on the LA nightlife circuit. I'd take my time checking out the menfolk, settle on one--if possible, and it usually was, the best looking un-paired guy in the establishment--and seduce him.

We would go to his place. Once we were both naked, I'd pull a condom and a tube of lube from my purse, look him in the eye, and say "Want to fuck me in the ass?" From a hundred or more guys over most of a year, the answer was an invariant and enthusiastic yes. I wallowed in the pleasure of it. But as soon as he had come, I would rise, dress, and beat a swift and anonymous retreat, never to see him again.

Of course I took precautions. I'm not an idiot. None of them ever got my name, address, or phone number. It kinda surprised me how few of them took precautions. I could have been a crazy woman, an axe murderer out of the pulps. There are plenty of crazies in the LA basin. You can't tell them apart from the normals until they haul out the axe.

I lived through it. And I enjoyed nearly all of it. But it was for a year only. When it was over, I gave myself a year of chastity, just to be sure I hadn't changed in any important way. I hadn't.

Then came Jason.

***

Jason and I were spectacular together. Everything worked. We were happy whether we were fucking, strolling along the Venice Beach boardwalk, playing the word games he loved, or just sitting together in front of the TV. From the night we met to the day we parted, I don't think we were apart more than a handful of evenings.

But something changed when he felt forty approaching.

There was an eleven-year age difference between us--and they were eleven really important years, the ones where a young person finishes maturing. The years where an engineer, which was both of us, either hits his limits and decides to content himself with a vanilla career, or really feels the power and decides to shoot for the moon. Jason had lived those years. I hadn't.

Jason was a top-flight engineer. More, he was a polymath. He could design mechanical and chemical systems as easily as he designed circuits. And he could program computers. A vanilla career, forty years taking direction from some drone in a suit for nothing but a salary and an occasional attaboy, was plainly not for him. There came a day when he decided that he couldn't want any longer to try for the big time.

And what do you know: at the exact right moment, a startup in Michigan that had heard about him reached out.

***

"I can't pass it up, Minh."

I nodded. "I know. It's practically got your name engraved on it."

The comfy leather sofa in his living room, where we'd whiled away a thousand quiet evenings reading, chatting, watching TV, or just holding hands, felt like a foreign country. If he were to take the offer--and he would; I knew it from the moment he first described it to me--it would become a foreign country. I'd have no reason to be there in his absence. He might decide not to keep it, even though he'd called his decision "a trial run."

"When do you have to leave?"

"My flight's tomorrow Noon."

I looked away.

"You could come with me."

I'd known that was coming.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," I said. "You're going to need to give this your full attention. Yeah, it seems tailor-made for you, but it's likely to be a hell of a lot more demanding than anything you've done so far, right?"

He nodded.

So much for the "always" fantasies.

"If I decide to commit to it," he said, "would you consider relocating?"

Give up LA for the outskirts of Flint, Michigan? Give up the most vibrant city on Earth for a tundra where the major excitement is a Bigfoot sighting? Where he'd be working twelve or fourteen hours a day, six or seven days a week, and it would be against the odds that I'd be able to land a job at all?

"I don't think so, Jason."

His face fell. I guess he'd been having "always" fantasies too.

***

I won't over-dramatize. I wasn't a complete wreck after he left, but I wasn't my usual self, either. My coworkers caught on pretty quickly that not all was well with the bouncy little geek they were used to. Still, none of them tried to probe. I'd say that was for the best.

After a couple of weeks, I decided to take my troubles to my favorite counselor.

We met at The Guilty Pleasure, a little bistro April favors. It's a nice enough place, but I think she prefers it mostly because she's unlikely to run into any of her former coworkers there. We always meet at an in-between hour, about equidistant from lunch and dinner, to reduce the chances still further.

You see, April is a former porn star. When she says it, you can feel the edge on "former." While she's said she has no regrets about her previous trade, she's also said she's glad it's well behind her. And she's done something I'd never have imagined a former porn star pulling off: she's parlayed her looks, her intelligence, her shrewd judgment of people, and her take-no-shit carriage into a position as the vice-president of a prestigious venture capital firm. She's done so well at it that she's got a bank balance eight digits wide, after only six years plying her new trade. Not bad for a gal who once made her living on her back, eh?

We hadn't seen one another much while I was with Jason. I think she sensed that I was in the middle of something that needed time and space, something that might be "always." The few times we'd talked about it, I got the sense that she envied me. April hasn't exactly given up on love, but at forty-three she knows there are possibilities she can no longer offer a man. I decided not to flaunt Jason at her, consciously or otherwise.

She acted unsurprised that it had fizzled, though a little puzzled by the reason.

"Why wouldn't you consider relocating?" she said. "LA is nice, I love the hell out of it, but it's just a mass of buildings at the edge of an ocean."

"I don't think you'd much like northeastern Michigan," I said.

"You looked into it?"

"Yeah."

"So not even for true and undying love?"

I shook my head. "Not even. That might not be a good description of me and Jason anyway. He never once mentioned marriage, you know. Besides, he didn't broach the idea of declining the offer and staying here even after he heard me say that I wouldn't go with him or consider moving there later."

"Hm." She sipped her mai tai. "Doesn't sound like true love."

"Yeah."

"So what now?"

"I don't know, April." And I didn't, really and for true. "Back to the hunt, I guess. I've still got a few good years left."

She smirked. "More than a few, girlfriend. You still look fresh out of high school."

"Thanks."

"One word of advice, though."

That sent my antennae up. "Hit me."

She locked eyes with me. "Stay out of the bars."

"Why?"

"Trust me on this." A cloud passed over her usually sunny features. "Things have changed."

***

As much as I love and respect April, I couldn't simply accept her assessment of the LA bar scene. I had to see for myself why she'd warned me away from them.

One night of bar-hopping was all it took to convince me that she'd been right.

No, I wasn't raped. I was approached coarsely, fondled crudely, treated to a lot of vulgar come-ons and, when I declined, even lower denunciations...and that was just the women. The men? Forget it. I'd rather fuck a porcupine.

So that was it for the LA bar scene. But I found it difficult to come up with anything else. Dating services had gone bust sometime the previous century. Mixers aren't an Angeleno thing. I wasn't a member of any clubs, and I just couldn't see myself trying to attract some man's interest in other public places where singles gather. There was a supermarket not far from my place that advertised a "singles hour" on Thursday evenings, but one visit to that made plain that men of a suitable age would not be copious there.

It made for a dreary couple of weeks. I'd gotten used to a regular fuck. Nightly, even. Going without was unpleasant.

So what did I do? Well, there was one outlet I hadn't yet tried. It just seemed too down-and-dirty, even for me. So I left it for when I got really desperate.

Which, eventually, I did.

Yes, it bills itself as a matchmaking service, though controlled entirely by the client. We both know it's no such thing. It's for arranging sex with strangers. At least, of the people I know who've used it, no actual dates have ever come of it...though, if I can believe what I've been told, it produces a lot of quick, no-complications fucks, neither participant ever seeing--or banging--the other ever afterward.

And as I said, I was getting desperate.

I looked at a lot of profiles...and nearly went back to the bars. How could a man who's alone and clearly desperate for some flesh praise himself the way these guys do? The self-glorifications were unbelievable. And the ones that plainly weren't alone--the ones "looking for some strange," in one writer's charming phrase--were, if anything, even worse. Anyway, I had no desire to be some married man's side action. That way lies a lot of frustration.

But I remembered April's warning, and I wasn't about to forget that evening of bar-hopping. I kept on looking at profiles and swiping left...and I encountered something I'd never have expected.

We know why you're here. We're here for the same reason. Would you like to know what it's like to date two guys at once? We're identical twins, we're unattached, we're clean and healthy, and we know how to please a woman. No money involved, we don't want anything from you. It's just the way we roll. If you're clean, healthy, attractive, and well groomed, maybe we'll like each other.

It stopped me cold. I knew there were male prostitutes who'll provide that kind of service, but, well, never mind. These two claimed not to want anything but, obviously, sex. And they were young and good-looking. Not the degree of good-looking that guarantees a mountain of ego, but trim and healthy.

I stared at their profile for quite a while. I felt myself get wet. Really wet.

Swipe right.

***

Their names were Edward and Theodore Jarnell. They were thirty-two years old, twin brothers from Pasadena, and co-owners of a surveying firm. We talked for nearly an hour.

"How am I supposed to know which of you is talking? You sound exactly alike."

"Does it matter, Minh? We're always together--"

"--we have the same tastes in clothes--"

"--food--"

"--music--"

"--movies--"

"--women, of course--"

"--we work together--"

"--we play together--"

"--we finish one another's sentences--"

"--and we always date together. And you look good to us. So all that matters now is whether you're into us."

I couldn't help laughing. "You guys are a delight. I'd never have thought a surveyor could be this interesting, and here I've got two of you. Are you going to make me think I'm seeing double?"

"Maybe--"

"--it's happened before--"

"--but she didn't complain about it--"

"--and anyway, if we treat you right, maybe you'll be seeing quadruple!"

I laughed again. "Has that happened before?"

"We have to plead the Fifth--"

"--'cause one of those was involved, too."

They had me. They were charming, attractive, funny, and despite the uniqueness of their come-on, oddly un-threatening. Besides, for sure it would be broadening. Educational, even. Something to tell my therapist, if I should ever decide to see one.

"Okay boys, we're on. I've simply got to meet the two of you, whatever follows. But I have rules. First we have dinner, talk for a while, get to know each other, maybe see a movie. You can pick the restaurant. I'm not fussy, if I can catch it, I'll eat it. Then, if we still click the way we have on the phone, I'll rent us a room at a nice hotel and we'll get it on. I just can't say no to you."

"Well, Minh--"

"--you're so pretty and smart--"

"--and such a pleasure to talk to--"

"--we couldn't say no to you either--"

"--and we surely don't want to!"

We settled on the coming Friday, a time, and a restaurant. They made reservations on the spot.

As I hung up I felt myself getting wet again.

***

I prepared for our "date" in a frame of mind a good distance from my former manhunting practices. I didn't need to seduce Ed and Ted; that part was taken care of already. (No, they didn't need to seduce me, either.) But I wanted to look good--not desperate--and I wanted them to know that I was sincerely into whatever might follow our meal.

So: first a hot bath and careful razor attention to my stubble. Wildflower-scented moisturizer from head to toe. For clothing, a peach silk blouse, not too low cut as I don't have a lot in the tit department; a black leather miniskirt that came down to mid-thigh; a black garter belt and sheer stockings. Black calf-leather pumps with five inch stiletto heels, because when you're my height you always wear heels, the highest you can tolerate. A little blush, a little eye liner and shadow, and a little lip gloss, not too much of anything. Brush the hair till it's nice and shiny, put in the amber combs, and check the mirror.

I looked good.

The restaurant they'd chosen was an American-style bistro on Sepulveda, a block and a half from a perfectly decent hotel. I found them waiting for me. They rose as I approached our table.

I clasped hands with each of them in turn, looking them over as I did so. Their looks matched what they'd posted in their profile. Middle height, trim builds, good posture, pleasant expressions, good grooming. Nice hands, well manicured. They were identically dressed, in the closest an Angeleno male ever comes to "conservative:" pale blue button-down dress shirts open at the collar, pressed tan slacks, and properly polished wing-tips, with navy blue blazers to finish off. Their ensembles suited them perfectly. I hoped I looked as good to them.

I can't honestly say I saw desire in them. They appeared relaxed, confident, not eager or anxious in any sense. As for what they saw in me, I forbade myself to guess. We sat, ordered food and drink, and began the acquaintance phase of the mating dance.

It was fun.

There's a lot of awkwardness in most first-date conversations. Each of you is thinking what can I afford to show this guy? throughout the exchange. The answer is seldom easy to come by, whether you decide to get deeper than mere acquaintanceship or to keep your distance and walk away clean.

I didn't have that problem with Ed and Ted. They talked easily, seemingly holding nothing back. I reciprocated. And it was good--better, really, than any first-date conversation I'd had before.

The one difference between us was that I didn't have anyone to finish my sentences for me. Not that I felt a lack. I was a lot more at ease than I'd expected to be, even with the possibility of two-on-one sex in the immediate future. I liked them, not just as potential sex partners but as people, despite their weird twin-talk and the impending strangeness of a three-person tryst.

They were something new to me: brothers who loved and leaned on one another too much ever to be apart, even when it came to sex. They weren't movers and shakers, but they were intelligent, competent, and independent of anything except one another. If there was a blemish on them anywhere, I couldn't find it. Maybe once their clothes were off.

I had to ask. Once our entrees were over with and we were into the coffee and thin mints, I did.

"Guys, what about marriage and families?"

They shrugged in unison.

Ed--Ted?-- said "It's a tough nut to crack, Minh. At first we stuck together by choice. At this point, it's by necessity. I can't imagine being apart from this fool--"

"--and I can't either," the other said. "We're a unit, now and to the end. What woman would bond to that, long term?"

I grimaced. "Twins like you two?"

They shook their heads. "We tried that--"

"--and it was a total disaster. The pretty ones had nothing between their ears--"

"--and the smart ones couldn't hack the idea of the two of them having two husbands, everything in common forever."

"No pretty, smart twins who were willing to consider a ménage a quatre?" I said.

"Nope, and anyway, we decided it's not for us--"

"--we're best at pleasing one woman."

That hauled me up short.

"So you want one girl. Just one for the two of you."

They nodded.

"Maybe not just for a night? Maybe for keeps?"

They hesitated, then nodded again.

I chanted silently to myself that you're on the rebound, on the rebound, on the rebound...

"Would it bother you if she were to...mix you up? With one another, I mean."

"Not at all," Ted--Ed?--said. "We're used to it--"

"--and we're more like one person than two anyway."

I looked from one twin to the other and back again. They weren't kidding.

Something was stirring in me. I couldn't put a name to it. It was jazzing me up, pulling me up onto my toes as if I were getting ready to run a race. The whole length of my body was turning tight as a drumhead. But it wasn't unpleasant. I liked it. I wanted more of it.

"Guys," I said, "unless there's a movie you really want to see--"

"We talked about it--"

"--and there are a couple that look good--"

"--especially Passengers--"

"--but we can wait."

"Well then," I said, "I'm going to book us a room."

***

I asked Ed and Ted to wait for my call, as there were a couple of preparations I wanted to make before our festivities commenced. They gave me their cellphone number--what, after all this you're surprised they had only the one between them?--and I sallied forth.