I grasped Tavis’s hand and touched Sean on the shoulder. He pressed against me and surprised me with a kiss. I let his tongue enter my mouth; pleasure surged through my body. I wrapped both arms around Sean’s back and pulled him to me. His deep thrusts crushed my already sensitive parts. A feeling, similar to my earlier hand-generated orgasms, grew deep within my belly. A place only barely reached by my fingers was under assault by Sean’s cock. I arched my hips and rocked with his motion. The feeling grew and washed over my entire body as I came. Sean soon followed with a series of grunts and moans.

Sean lifted his face from where he had buried it in my shoulder, smiled beautifully, and kissed me again.

We spent the semesters sharing one another’s bodies and discovering the many things we were capable of.

Our junior-level finals came and went. Tavis and I convinced our parents to let Sean spend the summer with us. We ran free on the house grounds and at the lake as Mother and Father traveled around the countryside in their new Ford Thunderbird convertible. The house was ours, and we lived as we pleased.

It was not until the beginning of July that I became nauseous every day. The boys comforted me with ginger ale and forced me to sit in the shade by the lake. When my monthly didn’t arrive, I knew Sean had fathered my child.

Telling Mother and Father was terrifying, but they were oddly calm. They suggested that Sean and I marry and live in the big house with them. Tavis and Sean would go back to finish school, and I would stay with my parents to grow through my term.

Christmas 1964. Tavis and Sean were driving home for the holiday and to see my expanding belly. Tavis’s Mustang hit a deer, and the car careened into a tree. My Tavis was crushed by the thick trunk of the oak. The police brought Sean and his armful of presents, all rescued from the smashed car, home to us.

Like my parents, Sean and I were blessed with both a boy and a girl in one messy arrival. Sean cradled our daughter and cooed her name. I laid my son, Tavis, out on the bed to examine his ten tiny fingers and toes and to be sure he arrived with all of the requisite equipment. We promised our infants a childhood of loving innocence.

ROWAN ELIZABETH

on “Halves”

“Halves” was such fun to write. My inspiration came from a relationship with a fellow writer. “John,” like myself, is bisexual, and we shared stories of experiences and fantasies as we worked on our writing together. We began thinking of ourselves as twins separated at birth. The concept of the bond between twins, and how that relates to a developing sexuality, intrigued me. From there, I began writing, and the rest formed itself.