"I have to cum, I have to cum, I have to cum." Those were the identical words that Christopher Lord had uttered ever since that first amazing night when he had lost his virginity with the nubile sixteen year old Lauren King. With those words whispered into his wife's ear, his balls, his Commanding Officers, began to send battalion after battalion of sperm cells into her vagina. There were six spurts in all, each preceded by a grunt, each spurt smaller than the previous one, until just a few little swimmers remained to be pissed out of his cock. With his thrusting and spurting completed, he leaned down and kissed her, whispering once again that he loved her. As well he should have, for she was the only woman he had ever known carnally.

By the time he kissed her, those sperm cells were instinctively, blindly, swimming upstream in search of that Holy Grail, that Brass Ring, the fertile egg produced monthly by Lauren's body. Like the quest for the World Cup, the Super Bowl, the Stanley Cup, the cap and gown of the Valedictorian, the party's Nomination, the right to give an Inaugural Address, even the consensual destruction of a maidenhead, many would seek but only one (person or group) would succeed. The others would all die, figuratively, along the way. Except with the sperm, when often all of them would die, literally, and usually none would succeed.

But at least Christopher's sperm were dying the right way, dying while trying. They did not suffer the fate of a majority of their breed who never had a chance to impregnate a woman, to try to make a baby. Many died by poison in the form of a spermicidal. Others crashed their heads into the latex walls of a condom which prevented them from even reaching the vagina, the outside world. Some died in a mouth, a hand or a tissue. Some perhaps perished after being splashed on the glossy pages of some 'adult' magazine. Others expired in a toilet or a sink. A few even died in someone's – ugh – rectum. They all died, billions and billions around the world every hour, having given incredible pleasure to man or boy, but usually less so (or often none) to woman or girl.

Two hours earlier, twenty-five year old Christopher had awakened in Seat 23F as light began to filter into his window aboard the Red-eye from LAX to ATL. He saw the Georgia suburbs far below and then they disappeared from his view as the starboard wing lifted into the clouds, signaling the final left turn toward his home airport. He rubbed the sleep from his blue eyes and ran his fingers through his premature gray hair. Under his blanket he had an erection, the standard wake-up hard-on of every adult male, his balls sated with seven days of accumulated sperm. The seat belt light was already on; he couldn't even get up to run to the lavatory for his morning piss.

It had been a long week in Los Angeles, that city crawling with bimbos, starlets and lovely, nubile pieces of ass (i.e. clericals too young to be executives) in the home office, as well as the plethora of singles and divorcees frequenting the bar in the fancy hotel used for out-of-town management employees. Many of the women had demurely implied or even boldly suggested that the handsome young executive might find comfort with her in one or the other's bed. Christopher had of course lied when he had told his Priest that he had never had sexual relations with his wife-to-be Lauren, yet he had told the truth when he had promised her that he would be faithful.

In that City of Angels, as well as in that one day round trip to Las Vegas, he had often 'lusted in his heart' but he had never fallen prey to either temptation or outright blandishments as he had walked the Strip. Nor had he even masturbated during that week, for he and his wife were then already attempting to make their first baby, hopefully the first of many. Be Fruitful and Multiply, the Good Book says, and he believed in that commandment. For that purpose, he was deliberately saving up his little swimmers until he could deliver them where they would count, into the warmth of the womb of his beloved. Yes, he would be home just in time for one of her fertile days.

Horny as a sailor just off the ship after a long voyage, he ran to the Men's Room, aaah, then raced from the gate to the tram, squirmed as it seemed to take forever to get to the main terminal, nearly screamed as he waited on line for a cab to their home in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. The ride seemed interminable, and he cursed himself for not having hopped immediately into a limousine at the airport. After all, he could have just added the cost to his expense account.

His erection nearly tore his slacks as the taxi turned into his street, just off W. Paces Ferry, mere blocks from the Governor's Mansion. Christopher and Lauren lived in a mini-mansion, courtesy of rich parents. Their home had five bedrooms, necessary for the large family that they envisioned, and a large back yard for their swings and toys.

Lauren had called in sick to her accounting job that morning and was waiting in bed with soaking loins, naked under a sheer negligee. She had already given herself two orgasms that morning but unlike Christopher and all other men, not that she had personal experience, she as a woman had no need to rest between orgasms. So she was ready! It took all of his self control to kiss her, to ask how her week had gone, to inquire of her health, in other words to be a perfect gentleman, before he threw off his clothing and took her, gently. She gave of herself willingly, eschewing the usual foreplay, welcoming him inside her, and screaming her own orgasm as his sperm flooded her.

He hoped, nay, prayed that one of his sperm cells would find an egg, shatter its defenses and attach with it to Lauren's body, to begin a brand new cycle of life. They hoped for a girl to begin with but would settle, as with most parents-to-be, for anything healthy. And it worked. But little did they know, until the doctor told them, that a second egg had also been captured. Well, actually, they didn't yet know whether there had been a second egg impregnated or that a single one had split, but it didn't matter.

The English language has many inconsistencies. For instance, an assemblage of men or boys may be called a Fraternity, the female equivalent being a Sorority. These could be traced to the French words for brother (frère) or sister (soeur). Why then should it be that when there are two girls in the womb together that they are called Fraternal twins and not some feminine appellation?

Anyway, that's what we are, fraternal twins. I'm Christine and my baby sister (just minutes later) is Angelina. We differ by two inches in height (me), one letter in cup size (Angel), five points in IQ tests (they never told us who was higher). My hair is black, Angel's is brown. Once we learned where babies came from, we used to joke that Mom must have been fucking two different men at the same time. Though of course we never heard either of our parents use that word. The down side of all this was that we were unable to fool boys by switching around on our teen-age dates. The upside was that we never had to dress alike. Alas, we somehow fucked up Mom's insides so we were the only two children they had.

Growing up was normal, or as normal as it can be for twins. We went to different colleges, both in Atlanta. After graduation, I married and stayed in Atlanta. Angel married and moved to Los Angeles, that same city where Dad had stored up the sperm that had made us in the first place. As fate would have it, both of us are now divorced. In each case it was a blessing. We spoke often, saw each other occasionally. Angel told me that she dated pretty regularly, got laid often enough. That was not surprising; she was always slightly more popular than me. Not enough for me to be jealous, but noticeable. Much of my own post-divorce sex life was either finger or battery powered.

And then both parents were killed in an automobile accident.

Picking her up at the airport, I noticed that, despite her sadness, Angel still had a glow about her. An Angelic glow, if you will. We hugged, kissed, cried and hugged some more. We threw her carry-on into the trunk of my Benz. On the way home up I-75/I-85, we of course started talking about life in general, sex in particular. In our single days, we had never much discussed sex, but as divorcees, it was almost de rigueur.

"Getting much lately, Chris?" she asked.

"Not enough," I replied. "How about you, Angel?"

"Never enough," she said with a smile. I knew that her almost identical answer meant something very different than my own. Clearly, my baby sister was getting plenty while I was mostly taking care of myself. I glanced over at her healthy rack as I drove and realized that maybe I was jealous a little bit.

After the funeral, we went back to my condo in the fancy building above that very expensive steak place. We talked, we cried, we drank too much wine. Then we drank some more. When it finally came to be beddy-bye time, we crawled into my king-sized bed, just the way we had done so many years earlier. Why king size, you ask, for a single woman? Well, once in a while I actually do have company for a night!

'To sleep, perchance to dream, ' saith the Bard. Perchance to dream, for instance, that someone has a hand kneading my right breast; perchance to dream that someone is kissing the back of my neck. I woke, lay silently as I felt the hand leave my breast and begin to caress my hip. What the fuck? Was this really happening? Or was it just a dream, a dream fueled with too much of the devil grape but still a dream? And then, without turning over – yet – I spoke.

"Angel, you never told me that you were into that."

"Have you never tried it, Chris?" she whispered from behind, her voice ricocheting off the back of my neck before reaching my ear. Her words confirmed that I had not been mistaken, that it had not been an inadvertent touch.

I rolled over to face her in the darkness. I hesitated, and as each second passed, she knew the answer. Certainly not the number, but definitely the yes or no.

"In college," I said. "I didn't want to tell you because ... I don't know, I just didn't ... I don't know."

"I don't know why I didn't tell you either? Maybe I was afraid you'd tell the folks and they would go crazy."

Then she added "Your roommate?"

"Nearly every night," I admitted. In the dark I was blushing about this intimate secret I had just let out, but deep down I was smiling at the sweet memories of my roomie's tight body and unbridled libido.

"Me too," she said.

Simultaneously we burst into laughter, the bed shaking beneath us, our breasts and nipples rubbing accidentally. And then equally simultaneously, we stopped laughing. The room was quiet, so quiet that you could cut the silence with a knife. Outside noises, my Grandfather's clock ticking, the refrigerator compressor humming, valets slamming car doors may have existed but they never registered. Nor did either of us move, except for the rise and fall of our breasts as we took in and expelled air from our lungs.

Angel had made the first move, caressing me, kissing me. I had not responded, and so it was my turn to do so. With my eyes dilating in the darkness, I slowly saw her shape form in front of me. I leaned toward where her lips should be. My kiss was gentle. It might have been called sisterly, or even thought to be so, except for one thing. OK, two things. My hands were around her naked back, pulling her toward me, and I never withdrew my lips from hers. Ten seconds, twenty, maybe thirty seconds. Likely not that long, yet an indelible moment in history, that instant when decades of filial kisses suddenly turned romantic, no, make that sexual.