The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

by Irvine Welsh

  I change and drive up to her house, parking around the corner. Creeping into the backyard, bending down behind the big hibiscus bushes, I look into the living room. Sorenson is stuffing her face from a bag full of cookies. I know the brand and there are 250 calories per cookie, and ten to a package. She’s about halfway through that poison and on course to self-mutilate further by finishing the fucking lot. She disgusts me; she’s worse than any pathetic junkie or alcoholic, no better, really, than those sniveling predatory pedophiles who can’t keep their cruddy hands off children. The weak fuckers; how they always wear that same stupid, hapless expression. Looking for help. Well, I’ll help you, you motherfuckers! I’ll help every last one of you fucking pricks by drowning you like kittens! Cute fucking carnage!

  I gaze through that window with hatred at the time- and energy-wasting beached whale washed up on the sofa, gaping mindlessly at her cable television. I pull my cell out my jeans pocket and hit her digits. — Lena. It’s Lucy. What are you doing?

  — Hey, Lucy. Sorenson pulls her bulk into an upright position. — I’m just watching TV.

  — Are you eating shit? DO NOT LIE TO ME, LENA! I WILL KNOW IF YOU ARE LYING TO ME!

  Sorenson shuffles a little bit, looking around, as if I’m in the room. I move back, further into shadow. Then she springs off the couch. — No . . . I’m just going to do some work . . . she cries, bustling into another room, causing me to lose visual contact. Now I can see her coming out through the back patio door, heading out toward her studio, looking nervously around again as she waddles through the falling darkness.

  — I’ll probably pop by in about twenty minutes or so.

  — Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . okay . . .

  She turns and runs back into the kitchen. I steal forward, watching her through the big window, as her cookies go straight into the garbage. I’ve just saved that fat fucking fool two hours of running on the treadmill.

  I stealthily tiptoe out the yard and down the street to the Caddy. Victory. Of sorts. I drive home and watch some of The Biggest Loser repeats and immediately fall into a fantasy about a three-way with Jillian and Bob Harper. Jillian has me on the treadmill, she’s shouting at me, but I can tell that she’s hot for the femme fake tears I’m shedding in order to lure her into my web. I’m storming along at 15 mph and Jillian ups the speed, and I spin off, into Bob’s tattooed arms and I’m sobbing into his naked chest which smells of sweaty-man talc. I feel Jillian’s hand in my hair, tearing my scalp, saying “you suck” and pushing my head south towards Bob’s crotch. I look up and catch that manic gleam in his eye as I pull his dick out of his sweat pants. I’m sucking on it, taking it to the back of my throat as Jillian lets go my hair and joins me on her knees, alongside me, and is pushing my face away to get her share of Bob’s cock. I’m ceding it to her hungry mouth but only in order to position myself behind her and get her into a ju-jitsu choke, and as her eyes bulge under his cruel thrusts, Bob starts to look a bit like Miles and I realize that Jillian is really Mona. Not Mona and Miles, Bob and Jillian, Bob and Jillian . . . My phone is on vibrate and I push it down the front of my panties. As I’m thinking about Bob and Jillian, it goes off, and I know it’s Sorenson . . . that’s it, you needy bitch, keep ringing . . .

  . . . ooohhhh . . . shout louder, Jillian . . . tell me I’m a lazy bitch . . . slap me, Jillian . . . Bob, Jillian hurt me . . . kiss it better, Bob, kiss the fucker better . . . ooohh . . .

  OOOOHHH . . . AAAAGGGHH!!

  Holy moly . . . that was a goddamn tea party . . .

  I’m fucking wet and breathless after that explosion as I pull the dripping phone out of my panties. It stops vibrating in my hand. The caller ID flashes up: LENA S. I get my breath, watching Jillian onscreen, bawling out one tub of lard, cutting to Bob shaking his head in that disappointed-but-caring parental way, the exact look Dad excelled in when I came up short in track and field or, later, in martial arts. Then I get back to Sorenson. — Lena, something came up. I’m not going to make it over.

  — Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .

  — See you mañana at the gym, bright and oily!

  — Oh . . . okay, I thought we could have—

  — Till tomorrow. I click off the phone, then immediately call my dad, and tell him about the gun-shy TV motherfuckers.

  — Tough shit, pickle. I guess the moral of the story is: never trust the media. It’s one big conspiracy by old WASP money—

  — Fabulous segue into “you,” Dad. What took you so long?

  — Whaddaya mean? Can’t I offer some support to my daughter—

  — I’ve read all your shit, Dad. This is the plot of the second Matt Flynn book, A State of Nature. The one where Matt befriends the TV presenter in New England who’s being sexually blackmailed by her own bosses at the corporation—

  — Wow . . . you do read the books!

  — Of course I do. I take an interest. You’re my father. And I’m you’re daughter. So reciprocate!

  — Cut me a break, picks, your old pop is still reeling after the Globe’s review of The Doomsday Scenario. And I quote: “Try as he might, Tom Brennan will never be Dennis Lehane. Which wouldn’t be a big problem if being Tom Brennan was anything to write home about. Here’s the news: it most certainly isn’t. Matt Flynn is every corny, clichéd wish-fulfillment stereotype straight from the late-middle-aged Irish American male’s fantasy list, as he hauls his wheezing bulk onto a bar stool and mops down some Guinness with his beef stew . . .” and this from my fucking hometown paper! The asshole that wrote it, Steve French, would never have the integrity to tell his dwindling band of readers that he’s been papering his shithouse with publishers’ rejection slips for fucking years! I oughta remind him that one Bostonian is a millionaire on the New York Times bestseller list, and the other is a prick clinging on to his miserable hack job—

  — Enough already! I’m sorry to hear about the review. It might not mean anything to you, but I called you for support cause my life is going to shit!

  I push the red button, then power off the cell.

  Thankfully, as I switch on the local news, the tide does seem to be turning. There’s no mention of me, for the first time in days! The most interesting feature is about the Wilks twins. About the organs they share and the ones they don’t, and whether they can or cannot be separated. But now both twins have filed lawsuits against the other. Annabel Wilks has said that her sister, Amy, is preventing her from going on a date with her boyfriend Stephen. Amy has countered, claiming that her rights are infringed if Annabel drags her somewhere she doesn’t want to go. Her lawyer is making a case for coercion. Their mother appears on the screen. — I don’t wanna see them fight. They need to be together. Maybe we ought to have considered the operation to separate them when they were babies. Joyce Wilks’s eyes grow big as she inhales on a cigarette. — But I believe it was God’s will they came out together like they did.

  I feel a little shaky and lie on the couch. My blood sugar must be low. I pick up the Sorenson book.

  12

  FUTURE HUMAN —INTRODUCTION

  “A SCIENCE-FICTION COMIC-BOOK illustrator who gate-crashed the art world” was one critic’s unflattering description of young American artist Lena Sorenson. Despite the derisive nature of that statement, it’s true to say that Sorenson’s futuristic, dystopian view of humanity greatly informs her perspective.

  Lena Sorenson’s mission, as expounded by her in her most successful exhibit of sculpture, Future Human, is to examine “what human beings, should they still be on this planet, will look like, and how they will behave, in several million years’ time.”

  Sorenson, somewhat uniquely, had huge initial success as a freshman student at Chicago’s renowned Art Institute. Her first exhibition, Void, the series of dystopian futuristic paintings, was exhibited at her own co-run Blue gallery in the city’s West Loop, before being curated by Melanie Clement at her GoToIt gallery in New York City, after several pieces were purchased by influential collectors. The exhibi
tion then went on to London, eventually touring the world to great acclaim. The major piece in the exhibit, also entitled Void, acquired by influential New York-based collector Jason Mitford, owed a debt to biblical-inspired English painter John Martin (1789–1854), whose huge canvases were set against panoramic and often apocalyptic backgrounds. Sorenson had reputedly seen Martin’s work on a visit to London’s Tate Britain. Rather than look to Martin’s biblical, creationist past, Sorenson, an avowed atheist, used the Englishman’s scale and form to produce futuristic, dystopian landscapes. The Fall of New Babylon (2006), for example, is based on Martin’s The Fall of Babylon. New Babylon is Los Angeles as viewed from Hollywood Hills.

  Zero (2007) derives from Martin’s The Destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum (1821); Sorenson depicts a crumbling New York City. It’s Ground Zero 9/11 reconstructed as the whole of mid and lower Manhattan Island. She confessed that as a teenager in Potters Prairie, MN, she was haunted by television images of the World Trade Center collapsing. The End Trinity (2007) is strongly based on Martin’s Last Judgment triptych, with the end of the Earth and resurrection forecast.

  Her smooth painted surfaces also recall the accomplished hyperrealistic offerings of illustrators, whose works are almost never seen in major galleries, and the likes of Dali, who himself was often denigrated as repetitive and populist by critics.

  Yet if the critics dismissed Sorenson as a one-trick pony, this view had to be revised when she produced a satirical painting that garnered much political controversy. In You’re Lost Little Boy (2008), a predatory Abe Lincoln cradles a clearly sexually aroused Minnie Mouse in his lap, as a tearful Mickey, head poking out from the side of Abe’s chair, looks helplessly on. Sorenson’s Lincoln appears to have slightly oriental features, and some have speculated that the piece could be a reference to America’s changing (and increasingly subordinate) relationship with China, particularly with America’s capitalist class’s continuing investment there at the expense of developing the domestic economy. Sorenson steadfastly refuses to comment on this, trotting out the standard line, which artists love but makes the rest of us want to tear our hair out: “When an artist explains their art, it’s no longer art. I am not a critic.”

  Some saw Sorenson’s work as derivative of the earlier Young British Artists (YBAs), and coterminous with the type of shock tactics deployed in the UK by this group. Although she personally declared herself to be “unmoved” by the YBAs’ work and processes, this seems somewhat disingenuous, as she was collected and championed by Manhattan socialite Mitford, in much the same way the YBAs had enjoyed the patronage of Charles Saatchi a decade earlier.

  Though Sorenson’s paintings would enthrall collectors, critics remained unimpressed, and the artist herself declared that she herself was dissatisfied with results, expressing a wish to move into sculpture. Future Human (2009) was the result. The sculptures of the evolved humans, adapting to the environment of a toxic Earth by scuttling like rats or feeding like flies on garbage mounds, moved collectors even more than the paintings. Sorenson’s figures have been influenced by the bronze sculptures of Germaine Richier, particularly Man of the Night, the batlike Alien/Predator precursor of her effigies. This sculpture is on exhibit in Sorenson’s alma mater, the Art Institute of Chicago. Like many of Sorenson’s sculptures and paintings, the Man also has a prominent phallus. Her male figures are always strongly endowed to suggest a sexual potency and perhaps even high reproductive fertility, yet, paradoxically, there are many illustrations of dead babies. Thus we assume that Sorenson’s humans are like rabbits; they must breed prolifically in order to ensure the future of the species. It is like medieval times, and the opposite of where we are at now, in that it is accepted that we are breeding and consuming toward our own extinction.

  The critical establishment remains largely hostile, and in their exasperated, often ungracious and even vitriolic comments, one senses a genuine incomprehension of exactly why Sorenson has achieved such prominence. The phantom frustration in the words of Max Steinbloom is never far from the surface of their reactions: “Lena Sorenson should be in Hollywood making models for the big studios in their next productions of Aliens or Predators. Whatever else she is, she clearly is not an artist. She uses the gimmick of animal bones. That’s all it is.”

  While Sorenson’s work has often been decried by art critics (“speculative, of its nature fantastical, and thus bearing no relation to the human experience of today, other than serving as a rather trite warning about the stock ecological threats to the planet”), her series of sculptures of futuristic man, using the bones of small mammals and reptiles fused together in molds and resins, have nonetheless proved popular collectors’ items. One of the pieces, Plaything (2009), where a mother cradles a dead or dying infant, while a male figure, presumably the father, looks on in bemused concern, garnered almost unprecedented attention and was purchased by a private collector for a reputed $14 million.

  Lena Sorenson has now relocated to Miami, where she stated her appreciation of the work of Hong Kong-born Englishman Mark Handforth, who was the first Miami-based artist to exhibit at MOCA in 1996. It was his work that was said to have encouraged Sorenson to make her models and sculptures on a larger scale. “Small models lend a work no human perspective. The power of art like Mark Handforth’s comes as much from scale as from concept. That was a valuable lesson for me.” This indicates her desire to work on those larger, life-sized future humans.

  13

  CONTACT 5

  * * *

  To: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com

  From: michelleparish@parishoner.com

  Subject: My program is not about “whipping self-indulgent lardasses into shape”!

  Lucy,

  I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here, because I really appreciate your zeal in the battle against obesity. But I think you must have a little more empathy with your clients!

  These are people who have somehow lost their way in life, and have grown depressed and demotivated and then sought refuge in comfort food in order to give them a short-term spike.

  They didn’t get that way overnight, and it is often a long and painful road back to health for them. Yes, you need to be firm, but you need to look at the history, the needs and big life events for each client, including this artist lady. Remember, respect and love are the cornerstones of success!

  I appreciate that programs have to be tailored toward individual needs, but I really do strongly recommend that you adopt the device of Morning Pages for this client. If you can get her to write 750 words every morning, then these might be able to form the basis of a discussion—though I stress that this has to come from her, as they are her property. This woman is hurting psychologically. If you get to the source of that pain, then you’re pushing at an open door. Morning Pages can be an invaluable tool in helping you do that. Try it! Nothing ventured, nothing gained!

  I’m sorry to hear that you’ve been having problems. The media can be both fickle and cruel.

  Best,

  Michelle

  14

  LUMMUS PARK

  IT’S “UNSEASONABLY HOT” today, as those assholes on the weather channel keep trumpeting. It said 92 on my cellphone weather app, and I believe it. Thankfully, there’s a cool breeze coming off the ocean. I’m running backward slowly down the track in Lummus Park, barking encouragement at the waddling Sorenson, who pants, groans, and sweats. — Go on, Lena! No room for quitters!

  — Yes . . .

  I burst into an impromptu chant. — Sack that bullshit, we ain’t gon-na fucking quit! C’mon, Lena!

  — Sack . . . that . . . bull . . . shhh . . . Sorenson pathetically gasps, her dull, unfocused cow eyes indicating a soul vacationing in limbo.

  What’s the story, Morning Pages?

  I start to get that song, the one about Nelson Mandela, into my head. For ten years a prisoner of obese-i-tee . . . it make her so blind that she cannot see . . . — Free-ee-hee-hee Len-na Saw-ren-son . . . sing it in yo
ur heart, baby, I roar at the side of her head, — I know why the caged bird sings!

  Sorenson just trudges along in confusion. I’m trotting alongside her, almost in reverse; by God she’s fucking slow, but at least she’s doing it. — We ain’t gon-na . . . darn well . . . quit . . .

  It’s the food. Eating. That’s her main problem. We’re just wasting our fucking time unless I can get her brain rewired to stop swallowing goddamn excrement. But there is hope. It’s about educating their taste buds, weaning them off that constant diet of sugar, salt, corn syrup, and chemicals they’ve been subjected to since childhood, usually by their lazy, tightwad, dumbassed mothers.

  We finish up and the bitch is gushing like a Southie hydrant in a heatwave. Once she recovers I take her for a salad at my favorite spot on Washington. Juice & Java is a small, brightly lit cafe, with cream walls and a pink-tiled floor. We sit in the high chairs in the large windows, as the light streams in. The clientele are generally, with the exception of Sorenson, in magnificent shape. It’s very rare to come in here and see somebody who isn’t fuckable. Sorenson’s pores discharge bullets of sweat due to the air conditioning. Gross.

  I peruse the menu: these salads are so flavorful and filling, the traditional lardass rabbit-food defense can’t hold up. — This is the shit you should be eating, and I start taking pictures of the menu on my iPhone, instantly emailing them to her. — Those food groups. No excuses!