The Muse's Undoing

Sex with a guy might be the only way to distract myself from wanting to dry hump my brother. Because Jesus Christ, tonight on the couch at the club I could have easily pulled him closer, and no one would have cared if we’d ground against each other until we were both spent.

This is the kind of thought I need to get fucked out of me, and Valentine’s too much of a lady to do it. I need a man.

Fischer may want to feel me up when he’s drunk or concussed, but he does not want to have sex with me. He’d have a hundred and one reasons why it’s a terrible and impossible idea if I ever brought it up. Number one being—we share parents who already think we’re weird. Number two—our friendship is too important to us both. And he’d be right.

I don’t make friends easily. I’m a lot to take, and you kind of have to know me to love me. On top of that, being a twin is tricky because nothing is ever really yours. I’ve been part of a couple from the moment I took my first breath. I share birthdays, toys, graduations. I can’t even imagine how much worse that would be if I were part of an identical pair—sharing my face would be awful.

But then I did graduate, and I was on my own, and I had no idea what to do with myself. Maggie’s a way better functioning twin than I am. Once I didn’t have her to hide behind anymore, it was like having to invent an entirely new version of myself. At eighteen, sex was the closest thing to hiding in a person I could find. It’s hard to explain. Hard to understand even for me.

Basically, it’s in my nature to attach. Since no one’s obligated to spend time with me or attach back, they usually don’t, and then I get antsy. On top of that, I’m different, and I have a dizzying fear of rejection. After being widely rejected by my peers in school for being gangly and obnoxious, I made a reputation for myself after deflowering one of the popular girls who had a thing for me.

Sex and control are how I’ve coped with feeling like half a person. My muses have helped me through some of the rougher times. They offer sex with passion, which feeds my obsessive tendencies, but it’s all in the name of my art, which is an extension of me, but not me. Maggie calls me a serial monogamist. But the truth is, my heart’s not available. It picked its person a long time ago.

And it doesn’t matter to me that Fischer and I can never be together like I am with the women I fuck. What he and I are is enough.

My hourly alarm goes off, and I roll over to shake Fischer awake again. He startles. “Tell me your name.”

He swats at my hand on his shoulder. “Fuck off, Matty. I’m fine.”

“Tell me the name of the building, then.”

“Suck my dick.” He shoves back at me again, and I grunt.

“Don’t fucking tempt me,” I say.

“You should have asked before I came to bed.”

My eyes roll back in my head as my cock swells in my shorts. I slap his shoulder with the back of my hand. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Just saying…you kinda had me going there for a minute.”

“You had yourself going,” I throw back, not even sure what I’m talking about. “Go back to sleep.”

“Seriously? You scared the shit out of me. Now I have to take a piss.”

I sigh, rolling onto my back to stare down at my erection tenting the sheet as he hobbles the few feet into the bathroom. He doesn’t even close the door, which—why would he? I’ve washed his ass crack.

I throw an arm over my eyes because I do not need to be thinking about that right now either.

Why does that memory make me want to kiss him even more? What the fuck is wrong with me? I move onto my side, facing away from the bathroom.

Fischer returns, snuggling deep under the covers, and his hand brushes down my spine. I shut my eyes and try to keep my thoughts platonic.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

“I’m trying,” I tell him.

“I really am okay. I don’t think I have a concussion.”

“Good.”

“Can I help?” he asks.

“What?”

“Get you to sleep?”

“Just rub my back,” I say instead of what might actually help me.