Cary and Mary Forney were not the most attractive girls in high school – if a poll had been taken I doubt either of them would have made the top twenty-five in a class of 200 – but, as the only identical twins, their rankings jumped considerably from the average “I’d have to have a few beers to consider that” to the highly coveted “I’d give my right pinky for some of that. Swear to God.”
When one stated the desire for “some of that,” it was understood that one was speaking in the plural: the Forney sisters (and how that name worked so dreadfully against them in the magically alliterative minds of adolescent boys!) were an item only as a pair. I lay awake many nights in my bed, sweating over the collision of happenstance and divine intervention necessary to sandwich me between the Forney sisters.
Thus the Horny Sisters, as they had been known since the first seventh grader learned the word and sent the definition tittering through the class, were elevated to such a desirable state simply because of their rarity. Oh, plenty of guys bagged the Dellinger sisters in high school, but they were three years apart, and it was always separately. (The Dellinger girls inherited their mother’s Playmate prettiness but also their father’s competitive streak – he was the football coach at our high school.
It was common knowledge that to sleep with one sister inevitably meant you would sleep with the other; such was their sibling rivalry, and certainly the reason our football team scored more with the coach’s daughters than they ever did against opposing teams.) However, the Forney daughters were stalked as a pair – in large part because they were rarely separated.
The Forneys were also a formidable softball force, a pitcher-catcher combo that made our school a serious contender for the length of their reign. I was not the only guy to attend games to watch their four identical double-D’s (oh, the perfection of God’s symmetry!) fight against their sport bras. Their father was – as far as I know – at every game. His expression perpetually inhabited that ambiguous area between seriously anxious and mildly angry. He couldn’t have been more than forty, but he looked closer to sixty. At the time, I chalked it up to his unfiltered Camels and job at the hosiery mill. What was it about those twins that has harbored in my memory for over half my life now? It has something to do with extremes of desire, I think. If you’re a straight guy prone to viewing the world in terms of superlatives, then it is one thing to have a three-way with two women, something else altogether if they are sisters (or Swedish, or – heaven help me! – mother and daughter), and yet something else if they are identical twins. What could be better than two similarly hot women with a dash of incestual taboo? Triplets, of course. It doesn’t take a math wizard to figure that out. Only a Greek God might possibly know the carnal majesty of triplets, but the taste of twins on this earth is, however rare, still a possibility under the right circumstances.
That this desire is real is evident all around us: the Double-Mint Twins (“Double your pleasure, double your fun . . . ” Does anyone truly believe that’s about gum?), the Coors Light twins, the Barbi Twins . . . The sexual myth of twin-ship is perhaps best illustrated by the manner in which the eighteenth birthday of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen was met with a countdown that began years before the actual event. (I live in North Carolina where such a countdown ends at the age of sixteen; our state motto is “First in Flight” – you’d never guess we were speaking in Freudian terms.) The days remaining until the Olsens’ legality were scratched off by disc jockeys and frat boys with the cheerfulness of Charles Manson coming before his parole board. At the time, I felt a little sorry for them. In retrospect, I should have felt sorry for their father.