I have a twin brother. Fortunately, in both of our estimation, we are fraternal, not identical. We don’t even look like we are part of the same family. Throw in an older brother born in the same year and it’s more a case of unrelated looking triplets anyway.

Most people who are not think being a twin would be cool. The idea of there being two of you, doubling the fun, sounds like a good thing. It’s not. Most twins, especially identical ones, are raised as half of a pair. There are not two of you. There’s one that takes two of you to complete. It often is a case of being less than more. The other thought that springs to many people’s mind when the subject of twins comes up, how cool it’d be to have sex with the pair, however, is spot on.

I don’t understand the pride parental units take in having a matched set of offspring. It’s an unplanned accident, a malfunction of the reproductive system, not a special achievement. The initial reaction of any woman who not only just found out she is pregnant, but carrying twins is, “Fuck me!” It’d be healthier for all involved if she stuck with that thought. Naming them with rhyming monikers, dressing the two in matching outfits, and basically insuring they never learn to be an independent person might sound cute, but treating your kids like they are part of a litter is not responsible parenting.

Moms, who can be a ferocious bitch when she wants to be – which is most of the time – decided early on that her twin boys would be treated as two separate people and went about turning her decision into reality. With gusto. Invitations to kiddie birthday parties addressed to both boys were promptly returned with a note explaining that two invitations were required. Teacher/parent conferences during which the teacher tried to cover both my brother an I at once were rescheduled for different days, one specifically for each child. Relatives who tried to go cheap at Christmas or for birthdays and ponied up a single gift to be shared by the twins were summarily dealt with. I guess it’s always good to have a crusade.

Giving moms credit, though as a housewife of the ’50s and ‘60s she sewed most of the family’s clothes, she never dressed my twin brother and I alike. Unless she was going for the entire family in matching apparel thingy. Which happened far too often. I guess my dad deserves some credit too. For not grabbing his shotgun and putting her out of his misery.

I never appreciated my mom’s efforts until I dated a pair of twins – cheerleaders to boot – in high school. I know, you’re thinking: Score! But I only intended on taking one of them out. Little did I know I was dealing with a matched set. In order to date one, I had to find a friend to date the other, and of course it then had to be a double date. Any date that takes that much effort should sound a warning bell, but young and inexperienced I arranged for the required wingman and off the four of us went the next Saturday night.

Needless to say, when we picked them up they were wearing matching outfits. At the restaurant they huddled together to decide what they would order, and of course it was the same meal for both. Any question directed to one was answer by both, and any thought brought up that focused on ‘you’ immediately dissolved into a ‘we’. They acted as though they were cojoined twins, and might as well as have been; even their bladders were in sync. I began to wonder if one would be able to orgasm later without the other also cuming at the exact same time. And also wondered how in the hell we were supposed to arrange that.

‘We’ did not get to find out the answer to that question though because the one who wasn’t my date decided she didn’t want to do the guy I’d matched her up with. Bitch. Hell, I would have done him. And come to think about it, the next year I did. But I digress. Anyway, my date, of course, couldn’t let her other half hang while two of the three of us went off to enjoy ourselves. Older and wiser now, I realize the answer should have been me offering to do them both (or all three). And then I’d know if identical twins share identical orgasms. Older and wiser now, I realize I shoulda tried to date a pair of twin guys instead. Or scored my wingman a year earlier.

I guess when you are forced to spend the first nine months of your life with another person crammed into a small space intended for one you either become bonded for life, or spend your life pissed off that you were singled out to be taught the wonders of sharing at such an early age. I’ll let you guess which side of that equation I fall on. But I will give you a hint: you’ll never see a picture of me and my twin brother gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.

Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, was excited over the idea of there being more than one of me when he found out I was a twin. Until the following trip when I brought a picture of my bro along to show him. Not wanting to offend, he took the diplomatic route leaving it with a singular comment, “I lucky.”

Still, the die was set, his infatuation with the idea of twins cast, and Noom being Noom decided since we’d both stuck out on the original pairing it was his job to right the wrong. I have a new twin brother. And I’d guess we too are fraternal because it’s difficult to pull off the identical twin look when one of you is Thai and the other Caucasian. Never mind the difference in age.

I thought it was cute when we first met and he admired the cammies I was wearing, wanting a pair like them for himself. Sharing interests is always a good thing, so when Noom wanted a camera so he too could take pictures of everything he saw when roaming around Bangkok I bought him one (though fortunately for my wallet he was content with a digital point and click). If I bought a new pair of sandals and Noom wanted a new pair too, well that made sense. And at least he had the good sense to not want the exact same pair. But when he decided he needed to get glasses, I started to become a bit suspicious.

I have a friend who paints T-shirts. I’ve brought a few for Noom over the years. On one trip I happened to bring along one of the same I’d given him but in a different color. I slipped mine on to wear out one night and then Noom changed into his matching T to wear too. With a smile and a nod at the world being right, he looked at me grinning, quite pleased with himself. Right. Friends, lovers, fuck buddies, or even just running partners do not wear matching shirts. Not unless you are on a bowling team. Because then it’s obvious you have no pride anyway. Married couples sometimes mistakenly dress alike. But that’s because one of the couple is pussy whipped. Since there is no pussy in a relationship between two guys, there’s no excuse to be doing the matching attire thingy.

I wasn’t sure if he’d been emulating me or trying to become my doppelgänger in the past. Or of it had just been a covetous desire to have whatever I had. The matching T-shirt debacle settled that question.

“No dude, we are not going out wearing the same shirt.”

“We Twin!”

“Yeah I see that thanks. But I already have a twin.”

“It ok. He not here.”

“We can’t be twins, my dick is bigger. You wanna change or should I?”

Noom neither appreciated my sense of humor or refusal to go out in public dressed alike. I changed into a different shirt. He changed into a different mood and pouted the rest of the night. Payback came during a later trip when, stupidly, I’d packed the same shirt again. It wasn’t until, the second time we’d passed someone who said, “How cute!” that I realized Noom had snuck out dressed in the same shirt I had on. His satisfied smile at having gotten one over on me and in getting his way only widened when his friends and bar mates commented on our attire. Which he made sure to translate for me. At least he didn’t ask for our picture to be taken.

They say opposites attract and that’s one cliche that I think they got right. I’ve always been attracted to guys with brawn, they’ve often been attracted to their opposite: brains. (The other cliche that is true is that looks can be deceiving.) Physically, the difference in a couple is a good thing. Personality-wise, not so much. I don’t think a shy wallflower is gonna be happy with a boisterous, gregarious person. Someone who likes to stay at home and nest is not a good match for someone who wants to be out socializing every night. As vastly different as Noom and I are due to culture, our basic outlook on life is quite similar. Our relationship works because in personality we are twins. Not identical because that would be too boring, but fraternal, just enough difference to keep things interesting but similar enough to not drive each other crazy.

But that doesn’t mean I want to start dating someone who looks like me. Not matter how incredibly handsome that means he would be. I don’t think that’s where Noom is going with his efforts at being a mini-me anyway. I’ve noticed he’s never met a mirror he didn’t like. Noom is too much in love with Noom to ever want to be someone else. And I’m good with that.

Noom is almost always in a good mood. He’s just a happy fellow. Throw in a night of being noticed and he become giddy. That night when we got back to our hotel room, as usual, he’d stripped down to his underwear by the time he crossed the room. And as usual, the only reason to cross the room was to turn on the television. Rather than be subjected to a Thai sitcom, I took a shower. Coming out, he’d stretched himself out across the bed and was absorbed with the flickering images. I dropped my towel, straddled him, and pulled his underwear off.

“Good, now we’re twins.”

Noom rolled over with a smile and laughed.

“Can not. My dick bigger.”

And I’ll be damned but momentarily it was.

Another cliche that rings true is ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

I didn’t.

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