Based on a true story...

Foreword:

Twin brides. This is an innocent title of an amazing story. What does it mean? It can mean a lot of things. It can mean that there are two sisters who decide to get married on the same day. The question is: who are they marrying? Two happy grooms? Or -- gasp! -- each other?

It seems that weddings can elicit the strangest reactions: the groom faints, the bride laughs as if she were mad, the guests sweat like there is no tomorrow, the bride slips and falls because someone stepped on her wedding gown. And moreover, it can trigger incestuous reactions... Mariana Boch writes:

"On my wedding day I wore a beautiful white lace custom-made corset with six garter straps on each side, and cups that while capable of being called "push up", also were designed to be let down so the breasts could hang. The designer of the corset was a gifted Argentine seamstress who learned her trade in Italy, and eventually became an instructor at New York City's famed Parson's School of Design. The corset she made for me was flawless, and since we worked closely together to come up with a final product, she made sure that it fit me very comfortably. She was open-minded too, and she knew that the corset apart from being used as a foundation for the wedding gown, would be also used either during the wedding night consummation, or during the sexual marathons of the honeymoon. Suffice to say, although the corset hugged and squeezed my body with all the boning and structural elements, Manuela, made it so I could move around in it. I looked absolutely ravishing in it, and I wish I'd snapped a picture of it when I was dressing at home. The scene in itself was erotic as my two half dressed sisters (one was six months pregnant and glowing), one totally nude bride's maid, a eighteen-year-old aspiring model cousin just in her panties, and my beaming mom, wearing a black bustier, also in a state of undress because she was pantyless, had not put on her stockings yet, and only managed to wear her heels as they all congregated around me - fussing to get the dammed but beautiful lingerie on me. Getting the wedding dress on was easier, but it wasn't as much fun as fitting into the corset. It was a sensuous experience that bordered on the incestuous - well, almost. Actually it was kind of spiritual also, because it opened up to an all-female bonding that has since left our prudish society a long time ago. When was the last time a bunch of women gathered around in nakedness and semi-dress and prepared a loved one for a ceremony of love, followed by a celebration of more affection with family, and lastly sealed with a sexual act both lustful and amorous?

"I felt like an erotic princess at that moment, and if by some freak of nature they all decided to orally go down on me, I would've gladly let them. I know, that statement is way over the top, but that was the degree of my sexual arousal at the moment!"

My dear friend Oosh wrote a story about another incestuous reaction between the bride and her sister. The story "Why the bride was late" is based on a true story submitted to a female masturbation site. She won two Clitorides Awards with this story, and so deservedly.

This story is also based on a true event related by Elizabeth Freeman, the author of "The Wedding Complex." In an interview she was asked what was the best wedding story she had ever heard, and her reply was the basis for this story.

"You cannot marry your sister, Brenda."

"Why?" I was defiant, furious with my mother.

"Because sisters don't marry their sisters."

"And why not?"

My mother's stern face was losing its patient expression. I was her 10-year-old daughter, dressed in white taffeta, the flower girl in my much older cousin Louise's wedding.

My grandmother Rose came in my rescue. She looked at me with a mellow, ingratiating look. "Oh, let them be, Grace. They're so cute together."

I smiled at Granny, so absolutely happy that she had confirmed that I could marry my twin sister, Sylvia.

Sounds naive, doesn't it? But when you're 10 a lot of things make sense in your head, even if they defy what is socially acceptable. And because you're 10 everything can be seen as innocent play. Since I was a child I've known to whom I wanted to get married. It was not to a man, a groom... It was Sylvia.

However, as Sylvia and I got older and entered our teenage years I realized how foolish I had been. To marry Sylvia, my own twin sister, was an absolutely ridiculous thought. Sylvia was interested in boys, when I wasn't. In a way I envied the easiness she accepted the flirtations of boys, whereas I was cast away in my dream world, alone, musing about things that could not be.

My infatuation for Sylvia was platonic. I didn't want her sexually... I just knew that I liked her company, embraces and kisses on my tickling cheek. I could get jealous of other people being with her. It was childish, I know, but I was a child and children are supposed to be childish if not arrogant and selfish. It is part of their development, when they attain the sense of their true self.

I had my own friends as well, mostly girls who were into heavy stuff like punk rock, piercings, vampires, Goth paraphernalia -- like metal-studded bracelets and belts as well as black-tinted makeup and baggy clothing. There were a few boys in my gang, but I would usually hate them because they would lust after Sylvia, who was a kind of a living doll, always pretty, always with makeup on. We could be identical twins physically but we could not be more different from each other in our tastes. Despite our differences we got along, especially when we were by ourselves. She liked to tickle me, because she knew how sensitive I was on my ribs and under my arms. Tickling was a game that made us relax and be intimate without crossing the barriers of the unacceptable. Did I want more? It's hard to say. All I knew was that I enjoyed her touch, her knowing fingers looking for the right spot, attacking me with no mercy. I loved her winning smile the most. She was gorgeous, with her long blonde hair and her shimmering blue eyes. She was a happy person, and her joy was contagious, the perfect remedy to bring me out of my morose nature and my periods of self-imposed isolation and loneliness. We completed each other. More than friends, more than sisters, we were soul mates. Soon we would become lovers, too.

It happened when we were 15, and we were supposed to be in a party. My sister didn't want to go without me. She wanted to see Chad, her most horrible boyfriend who had hit her more than once, out of jealousy, out of drunkenness. I had argued with her so many times about him. I could not understand why she had still feelings for that creep. She deserved better, I told her. But she wouldn't listen to me.

"C'mon, Brenda... Come with me, please."

"No way, Syl."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I hate those parties... I hate sissy boys... and most of all I hate creeps who hit their girlfriends."

"He's not a sissy boy. And..."

"And?"

"He hasn't hit me since..."

"You lucky girl."

She was displeased with my irony, but she kept begging.

"Why do you want me to go with you? Call your stupid friends and go with them."

"They are at the party already. I don't want to go there alone."

"You won't be alone. All your friends are already there. You said so yourself."

"I know," she said, lowering her voice as she sat in my bed right next to me. She held my hand, her soft hands caressing my studded bracelet and wristbands. "But I want you to come with me. I feel safe when you're around."

I was surprised by her confession of vulnerability and her willingness to accept my protection. I had learned a few things with the boys... I had learned how to fight and hit a guy's most sensitive place -- the balls. It was street knowledge a girl should know, and the tomboy I was soaked it up willingly. Apparently my streetwise reputation had reached her ears.

And then she looked into my eyes and smiled at me with a slightly dreamy face. "And... if you come with me, I'll promise..."

"What?"

She giggled as if embarrassed, her face approaching mine, her hands grabbing hold of mine. "I promise I will say yes."

"To what?" I really didn't know what she was talking about. So much for that myth that a twin knows everything the other twin is thinking of.

"Remember you wanted us to get married when you were little?"

I must have grimaced, even winced, because she laughed easily at my own expression.

"I know we were little," she went on, "but I think that would be fun. I don't know why I remembered that. It's just... nice... to know... you're my sister."

And she had said it. It was lovely; she was lovely. My gorgeous twin sister had reminded us of my early obsession, long forgotten by common sense and acquired knowledge of what society expects from us. And I went with her, as if I were her boyfriend, the perfect escort of a frightened young girl, my own sister. She wanted me to come in with her and -- despite my protests -- I tagged along.

Sylvia had this magnetic personality: she was hounded by so many boys, and even some girls, who wanted to be friends with her. Still, in a way, she was insecure about herself, as if that open adulation was only a façade, something she could not really trust. Sylvia was also a terribly jealous girl as far as her love interests were concerned. The first time Chad had hit her was during a nasty scene of jealousy between those two zany hotheads. I didn't know why she wanted to see him again, but perhaps my sister didn't know it either. I saw her blue eyes scanning the rooms for Chad, but Sylvia's boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

I saw her disappointment grow on her pretty face, the preoccupation of getting rid of the boys and girls who wanted to talk to her, dragging her with them by the arms. I followed her in that maelstrom of loud music, soft lights and half-drunk youngsters.

"And who is this?" asked a guy who looked like 17 or older.

"My sister Brenda." Sylvia didn't have time to explain it further, as she was pulled away by two pairs of hands, a boy and a girl who kept talking to my sister as if it was the end of the world.

I faced him and saw his appraising stare, looking me over as if I was a piece of meat to be sold in the market first thing in the morning. I am probably being unfair, but it felt that way.

"Wanna dance?"

I shook my head, avoiding his leering smile.

"C'mon." He grabbed my arm and pulled me to the center of the room where we stood.

"Let go of me," I cried, twisting my hand free from his grip.

He turned around, grinning, as if satisfied by my reticence. "What? The punk girl doesn't want to dance? The music's not good enough?"