We danced to a slow song...my arms around him...rocking back and forth...him holding me close like he was claiming me...let him put his arms around me...we danced and danced...

He said, "Have you ever seen the play No Exit?"

"Sartre?"

He grinned. "Yeah, Sartre."

I smiled. "No. But I've read No Exit and The Devil and the Good Lord."

We chatted about Sartre without really talking about Sartre, our words hot and flirtatious despite the conversation being about an atheist, a communist, a man who rejected the Nobel Prize for Literature.

We held each other, whispered things about Sartre, then whispered back and forth about Simone de Beauvoir, our conversation remaining on the Ambassador and Ambassadress of Existentialism.

My mind was on fire. Mental orgasms unseen, coming in rapid succession. My body reacting to the stimulation that was occurring inside my head. My mind being seduced one whisper at a time.

I remained exhilarated. I was wet. I was tingling.

The photographer came and interrupted our world...moved his brother out of the way...moved intellect and politics out of my way and took over...gave me lust and desire...danced with me...held me close...my head on his chest...inhaling his fragrance...his pheromones...his sex against my body...his body chemistry mixing with my hormones, creating a Molotov cocktail of desire.

We went back to the sofa, sat down with his brother, again me in the middle. Each side of the Gemini wanted its own lover. Strange how they felt like, sounded like, seemed like the same person. And at the same time I felt like two people, both in conflict, one wanting to go, one wanting to stay.

I asked, "Okay, which one of you is interested in me?"

The photographer said, "We both are."

The developer shrugged. "It's your call."

I leaned back between them. Let them surround me. It was like being between Apollo and Zeus. I looked at one. Then I looked at the other. Identical. It was the same man twice.

I said, "What if I don't want to decide? What if both of you are like...one person to me?"

The developer gave me an understanding smile. "But we're not one person."

The photographer nudged me. "It's your call."

"What if I want you both? You good at an equal distribution of what is being offered?"

"Meaning?"

"Are you good at sharing? Have you ever shared?"

They smiled slow and easy. Those smiles unreadable, magnifying my nervous ness.

I said, "Would be great to have two good-looking men please me."

The developer said, "What ever you want. What ever pleases you."

The developer's words made me smile, made nervous ness lessen as desire swelled.

I said, "Where?"

The brothers looked at each other. Then they did the funniest thing. Very comical. They did the rock-paper-scissors thing. In that moment I could see how they were as little boys. Always competing. Always trying to outdo. Always trying to get the attention. Karl threw down the symbol for paper. Mark threw down the symbol for scissors. Scissors cut paper. The photographer had lost to the developer.

Karl flipped his brother off, then went to the reservations desk. I saw him chatting with the receptionist, nodding his head, saw her typing at the computer, then he pulled out his wallet, handed her a charge card, signed papers, and she handed him a hotel key.

The center of my sexual being jumped.

I should've excused myself, slipped into the bathroom and masturbated, taken the edge off of this hormonally inspired craving, this horny headache, let some liquor wear off, come, return to my senses.

Mark asked, "You okay?"

I was nervous. "This is...I've never...this is different. For me this is different."

"Don't want you to be unsure."

"Just let me finish my drink first."

I sipped my mood enhancer. He sipped his, evaluating me, my inner thoughts revealed.

He said, "Go to the ladies' room."

"Why?"

He said, "You seem unsure."

"I'm fine."

Again he smiled. "Go to the ladies' room. Think for a moment. There's an exit down that way. I'll wait. My brother will be here. If you don't come back, it's cool. Just go to the ladies' room."

"Okay."

"And when you come back, if you come back, tell me why you want to do this."

"Are you serious?"

"This is your chance to escape. Or affirm your decision."

"You're the logical twin, huh?"

"At times."

I smiled. "The heavy reader."

"When I can."

"The deep thinker."

He winked at me. "I'd like to think so."

"And your brother, I take it he's the impulsive one."

"He does things without considering the consequences of his actions."

I looked at him, then glanced toward his identical twin. They were visual aphrodisiacs in stereo. I saw myself, at times, as the deep thinker. Other times I was the impulsive one. Two women inside one body, sometimes at conflict with myself, most of the time living in harmony. Today was not harmonious.

I asked, "What's it like being a twin?"

"If I had my choice, wouldn't be a twin."

"Really? Thought you would love it."

"Would you love it?"

"I think it would be great."

"You have brothers and sisters?"

"No."

"That's why you think you would love it."

He chuckled, as if his words were to be taken lightly. But jokes were used to hide truth.

I said, "Guess we always want what we don't or can't have."

"Yes. We do. We always want what we can't have."

He was right. I didn't have siblings, so I didn't understand the type of rivalry that went on between siblings. If it was as competitive as most said, I couldn't imagine what it was like between twins. It had to be magnified. Maybe that need to have your own personality fostered resentment. Nobody wanted to be a copy of anyone. When I thought about it, I didn't like to see a woman wearing the same dress I had on.

I asked, "Is being a twin different from having a regular brother?"

"Being identical is. You're half of the same egg. Harder to define yourself as an individual. People confuse you for being your brother. And they see you as bookends. People stare all the time."

"Never would have guessed you felt that way about it."

He shrugged. "It is what it is."

"Bet you and Karl are used to getting a lot of attention."

"Growing up, Karl was the one who needed all the attention. People thought we'd make the same grades, that we processed everything the same way, but I was a little smarter. More focused. He was a little better at sports. In tennis summer camp, we were like Venus and Serena, always in the finals against each other. He played offense in football, so to keep it from being a war, I played defense. I played baseball. He didn't. He ran track. I didn't. At home, we had a lot of fights."

"Sounds like an ongoing competition."

He nodded. "Who has the better house. The better car. The better job."

"You don't like your brother."

He smiled. "I love my brother."

"But do you like him?"

His smile weakened. "Karl is Karl."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

I smiled at him. "Would choosing both of you to be with to night, would that be a problem?"

"Sure you'd want to take that route? I don't want you to end up...regretting your decision."

"Maybe you and Karl can compete in a different kind of way."

"And you would benefit from the competition."

"Of course."

He smiled. "Take a stroll. Get some air. If you come back, we'll take it from there."

I nodded, sipped my martini, gathered my things and headed through the crowd, went down the hallway, left the kennel and eased inside the ladies' room, joined the clowder as they prepared to rejoin the party. I walked in on two women, one blond with Swedish features, the other dark-skinned with her hair in a perm; both had nice, full figures. They had a small bag on the counter, were dipping the edge of a platinum American Express into white powder, then sniffing the powder from the edge of the card.

The one with the perm looked down and saw her left breast had escaped, was out of her low-cut top, hanging like a watermelon would hang if watermelons grew on trees. A watermelon that had the tattoo of a scorpion forever inked in its flesh, staring at her areola, an areola that looked like the landing pad for a helicopter.

She laughed so hard it frightened me. Laughed and made her breast dance.

Her friend looked at her renegade breast and laughed just as hard.

"One of my girls trying to get out and get her party on. You wanna do the chicken noodle soup for momma?" She made her boob bounce. "That's right, baby-pop, lock, and drop it."

Her girlfriend went to her, took the breast in hand, licked it twice, laughed, and made it bounce like a toy before she tucked it back in its proper place. That let me know they were real good friends.

Heads thrown back in inebriated laughter, they sashayed out the door.

I stood in the mirror, looked at myself, and imagined the developer and the photographer.

Wondered what kind of lover Karl would be. What kind of lover Mark would be. Wondered who would be the best. Who would eat me out. Who would lick figure eights around my sweet yoni. Which tongue would go inside. Wondered if they ate yoni the way I loved my yoni eaten. Wondered if I would reciprocate the oral gratification. In between blinks I kept imagining that magical moment when an erection danced at my opening. Wondered who would get inside me first, who would penetrate me first, Mark or Karl. Imagined hardness breaking the skin, stretching my walls and filling me up. Imagined riding Karl. Then riding Mark. Imagined them taking turns riding me. Wondered who would come first. Wondered if they would do it more than once. Wondered if they would want to do it again in the morning.

Imagined so many pornographic scenarios.

My mind returned to Anais Nin. She was always with me. But those thoughts of her gave way to Henry Miller. Her married lover. He had loved his wife, June, and Anais. How did Henry Miller love two women? How did he balance his desires? Maybe desires were not balanceable. Love between two people was never equal. Love between three, that had to become an emotional catastrophe.

A scale balanced two things at once. Maybe balancing three things was impossible.

I shuddered and shook my head.

This was too much for me.

I whispered, "No more one-night stands."