The problem with Amal is that she's so easy to hate. She's an autistic sweetheart with a sense of trust and coquettish naïveté that doesn't fit in a world prone to stomping misfits into submission. She's been fired from six coffee shops and was publicly canceled on Twitter last month for drawing Shadow the Hedgehog getting his bussy destroyed. She's your sister and you love her just about as much as a sister should.
So you drive her to the mall because she's late for work. You drive her to the frat party and then pick her up and let her throw up on the floor mat of your fucked up 2005 Toyota Camry. You give her your plaid button-up to wear after she passes out in her own vomit when you're stuck in traffic on I-94. You're a good older sister and this can certainly go on forever.
You go back to work. You fold clothes for Forever 21 and vividly imagine slitting your wrists in the changing room, bleeding out on the perfect floor you just cleaned. You're the kind of girl who's too socially awkward to speak with the NPCs in Pokémon but capitalism has conspired to put you to work in customer service. You smile; some of your soul detaches and rolls under a display table. Out of sight and out of your fucking mind.
Maybe you should just do sex work like Amal does. Maybe you should climb up and jump from the fourth floor of the Mall of America to splatter at the feet of consumer culture like a metaphor, like wish fulfillment, like a fantasy novel made from spite. There's no 'but' at the end of that sentence. Maybe you should.
"I'm gonna fucking die," you tell Amal on the phone on the drive home. "I'm gonna crash my car. I'm really gonna do it."
"You're not picking me up?" Amal says.
"Lyft," you say.
"Labor exploitation," Amal pouts.
"Sister exploitation," you counter.
"What else would sisters be for?" Amal says. "I exist to bother you and you love me anyway. Can you also ask Dad if he can help me with rent?"
You groan. "Did you file for unemployment?"
Amal is quiet for suspiciously long. "Can you help me file for unemployment?"
"No! Why do you suck at life?" you exclaim. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. Where am I picking you up?"
"Frat row in three hours."
"Okay, what do you see in men?" you exclaim again. "Never mind. And three hours—okay, let me just go home and relax with my time limit of two and a half fucking hours—"
"The Claires are at the thing too."
A Trump supporter merges across two lanes in front of you and exits late. You lay on the horn.
"Woah, watch the road rage, Clio," Amal teases. "Maybe you can stand up for yourself."
"Shut up. So the Claires are at the thing."
"Mhm. And we all just got canned, so this might be your last chance to... you know."
So you go to the thing. The thing is mostly for people your sister's age and you stick out like a 23-year old tgirl with attachment issues. The house looks like a plantation and the remains of a tire swing dangle menacingly from the oak tree in the front yard. Red solo cups are scattered across the lawn and your sister's hot polyamorous ex-coworkers are cuddling on an ergonomic zero-gravity chair on the porch, sipping what you'll later learn is fireball mixed with cherry kool-aid.
"You look like shit," Amal tells you.
"I work at Forever 21," you reply, conscious that you're being overheard by the Claires.
"What happened this time? More piss kink in the changing room?"
"Every day, gremlins destroy my surroundings and I put them back together like a wine mom without wine."
"We can fix that," blue Claire says. She's not even bothering with voice training—the first sign that your sister brought them all here with an agenda.
"Hey Clione!" the other Claire says.
You shrink into a corner and die. The far-fetched scenario of bringing both Claires home to your shitty studio apartment occurs in your head, and you remember you haven't bleached Amal's vomit stains out of the car carpet or fetched any of the trash out from under the seat. Avoidance is your coping mechanism and you've been coping hard.
"Hey," you whimper, like a lost dog.
"I like your collar," says blue Claire, and you die some more.
So you get tipsy. About two cups of wine in and you remember that once upon a time, you were the designated driver. Amal is having a great time batting her eyelashes at misogynistic football jocks, and you're starting to wonder what she gets out of this. She's bisexual in the sense that she fucks women for love and fucks men for power, and she revels in the chaotic arena of college. You watch her bouncing around in an unzipped letterman jacket over the crop top she got fired in, leaning over pool tables like a dyke playing with boys for sport—to some extent, you feel responsible for enabling your psychological juggernaut of a sister, but you almost blew up your relationship entirely the last time you sided with dad on whether Amal should show restraint.
Echoes—the fuck is wrong with you, Clio? Just because you're the closest thing I've ever had to a mom doesn't mean you get to act like one—whatever. Some wounds can close without ever being spoken about, and hopefully that's one of them.
So never mind. Push dad's hoarded station wagon and hoarded house out of mind. You're adults now, and you've got strangers to fumble.
"You even got the little doggy tag engraved!" says blue Claire. A pause. A smile. "I know what you are."
You're a blushing mess, honestly, and it's humiliating. Your sister had the gall to invite her hot coworkers to frat row just to play wingwoman in her natural habitat for her failgirl big sis, and you're sitting here like a still life enjoying the scenery. You could probably flirt by infodumping about gastropods or Final Fantasy XIII lore but you've never quite been a person and probably couldn't start now.
"How tall are you?" asks the other Claire—the Claire with regular brown hair and a regular mousy appearance.
"Six five. Probably shrank on E."
You can't flirt. You fumble and fuck spectacularly but never flirt. Flirting with you is like a game of mouse and mouse.
What is it people do at these things, anyway? How do people get rooms together, or initiate strip poker, or fucking do anything? This isn't why you dropped out of college but it would have helped you along if hookups were something you tried back then.
That's the problem with inviting you places. Amal is naïve and sweet and thinks getting you hitched is as easy as finding pretty girls to set you down next to, not recognizing that you're locked up like a safe and probably actually also socially repulsive.
You drink more wine out of the red plastic cup you're stimming with. You make awkward small talk with the women you've accidentally fallen in crush with and have never really spoken to. Yes, Forever 21 sucks. Yes, Amazon is worse and true class liberation can never be accomplished through only the tools the state has decided are legal. Oh, thank fuck none of us are Zionists. What's your favorite Pokémon? Wow, Phione really is just the failgirl version of Manaphy. Is water the most fuckable Pokémon type? And yes, someone really did squirt in the changing room at Forever 21 and you had to clean it up on the clock. Yes, you're a very good girl—wait, what?
"Hey," Amal says. "Are you dykes just gonna sit out there getting stung by mosquitoes, or are you gonna come back here and play spin the bottle?"
You blink.
The Claires make a decision, and you follow like a stray.
"Look," says regular Claire, pulling out a Nintendo DS from the pocket of her oversized fluffy sherpa jacket. "All you need to do is change your DNS server to this, and then change the date on your system to September 29th, 2007, and pull mystery gifts until you get it, and it'll be your own perfectly legal Toys 'R Us Manaphy!"
You play with your hair transsexually. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. The point of being trans is to undo all the shit we went through as kids, right?" Regular Claire flashes a snaggle-toothed grin. "Fuck your dad for pulling you out of the event line. We've got your back though, however many years late :3"
It's a verbal conversation, but you swear there's a colon-three emoticon at the end of that sentence.
Some frat bro you don't care about spins a bottle you don't care about and it points at another bro. They make out totally heterosexually and your sister fujoshis the fuck out.
You're not sure what you're doing, to be honest. You aren't sure why you need the excuse of party games to ask one or more Claires to make out, or why you've allowed yourself to be roped into a game that's strictly oriented towards monogamous outcomes. Maybe the point is to be fun and flirty, or to avoid direct romantic confrontation because rejection is scary—maybe the thrill is the chase, but you've never been much of a chaser.
Amal spins, and you get to be on your phone for a bit while your sister tongues a straight girl.
Inconsequential. You'll have to spin eventually, and you can probably stomach kissing a guy in a party game with so many dykes watching. It's not like the stakes are super high. Regular Claire cracks another White Claw; you've got your Discord open to the QR code and still haven't passed it to her.
So maybe you're complicated. Maybe it's been a year and a half and you still think about Emma all the time. Maybe you've learned that you're only safe when you're quiet in public or alone with your sister, and maybe (on some level) you appreciate Amal for trying to crack you out of your shell even when she doesn't need to. Because she cares, or something.
More echoes—you, Amal had said, pointing a dramatic finger the same dramatic way those gay lawyers she writes fanfic about do, you are trans. You. Are. My. Big. Stupid. Sister! You suck so fucking bad at being a guy and I can't fucking watch anymore!
"Okay," says blue Claire, snapping you out of your dissociative transgender haze. "We need to up the ante. Next spin—seven minutes in heaven. Everyone in?"
Claire glances at you when she says that. It's obvious what her intentions are—incredibly obvious, at that—and it's starting to become annoying how long this game of cat-and-mouse-and-mouse has transpired under the keen eye of your sister, but you persevere. You've seen each other at your worst, and sometimes even at your best, and Amal witnessing you getting your hopes up to fuck her ex-coworkers would hardly be the most mortifying sister experience you've survived. You grew up together, for God's sake.
"Fine. Seven minutes," you say. You nervously tic and realize that you accidentally winked at Claire. It's awful, but you might as well own it and act like it was intentional.
"No backsies?" Claire says, handing you the bottle. "No matter what?"
You're just about wine-drunk enough to agree. You take the bottle and spin it.
It points at your sister.
"Fuck!" you say, as Amal rolls her eyes. "Backsies?"
"You just agreed to no backsies," Amal says.
"That's my sister."
"Yeah, and you played spin the bottle with your sister!" Amal retorts. "And said you'd help me file for unemployment!"
The circle laughs; the peer pressure increases.
"That's heaven for you?" you exclaim, "Jesus fuck, I'll—" both Claires give a sympathetic, eerily playful glance "—look, whatever, I'll be back."
So it begins.
1
Heaven is a closet under the stairs, and you make sure to slam the door. Alcohol is heavy on your breath and you fumble with your phone. The closet is big enough for one person with the door open; you're six-foot-five and your microscopic little sister is five-nine in heels, and the fit is atrocious.
"Tough luck, big sis," Amal says. You feel her breath on your chin, feel her body heat in weird ways that remind you of building forts out of sofa cushions, back when the house was cleaner and you were kids with no awareness of the adult complications of touch.
So maybe you're touch starved.
"You and your fucking net negative rizz, Jesus Christ, girl," Amal bullies you. "What do you want me to do, give the Claires your number?"
"Shut up! I'm trying!"
"You suck at trying!" Amal hisses. "Even if I did give them your number you'd probably just never text them back for mystery Clione reasons, and—"
"This is supposed to be heaven!" you exclaim.
"Then do my fucking paperwork, bitch!"
"I'm not doing your unemployment now. I'll get autistic about the shitty government web design and it'll be all I can think about the rest of the night. Please move your foot."
"So you want me to be all you think about for the rest of the night?"
You blink.
2
"What?" you exclaim. "Jesus fuck, no, I mean those—" your voices might be audible by the rest of the party, and you switch to a whisper "—look, your coworkers are really, really hot, and—where the fuck did that even come from?"
"You're doing seven minutes in heaven with your little sister, you freak," Amal whispers.
"I'll kill you," you say. "Sorry. I'm not going to kill you but I'm also not a freak."
"You just wear a collar to work."
"To prove a point about the objectification of the working class? Yeah! I do!"
Amal sniffs. "And not any other reason?"
"You know I'm a puppygirl. Stop making fun of me. I'll cry."
"But you're not a freak."
"Jesus fuck, Amal, I'm not a freak. I just have childhood trauma—you already know fucking everything about me, so—"
"Yeah?" Amal says. "Why are you subscribed to my OnlyFans?"
Your heart dies.
You've bantered your way into hell.
3
Excuses—you're protective. You're looking out for her. You'll do anything. You just want to make sure she's ok. You're—a freak.
"How did you know it was me?" you ask.
"Oh shit, I didn't!" Amal crows. "Jesus fuck, girl, I had my suspicions, but—"
"Fuck, shit, ass, bitch, fuck, shit!" you exclaim. "That's it. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna off myself. I'm driving my car into the river—"
"Are you really subscribed to my OnlyFans?" Amal delights. She jabs you in the chest. "Freak! You fucking freakazoid!"
"Shut up! Someone's gonna overhear!"
"And what, you'll be publicly humiliated in front of your crushes?" Amal bats her eyelashes. "Oops."
"I'm so fucking sorry, Amal, I'm—"
"I don't give a fuck, it's my money now." Amal shrugs. "Just—why'd you sub?"
"Because it's—"
"Uh huh," Amal interrupts.
"—I have like, fucked up—"
"—uh huh—"
"—look—fuck. I'll go. I should go."
Amal blocks the door with her shoulder. "Where? We've still got a few minutes left."
You blink at her.
"Do you actually want to go?" Amal whispers.
4
This is hell. This is hell. This is hell. This is—
Okay, so maybe you took a pair of your sister's panties out of the wash when you were fifteen and jerked off with them. That was an awkward, horrible boundary crossing that happened because of repression, because you were a girl and wanted to have the most intimate girl things without making things awkward at Target by stealing (or God forbid, buying) women's underwear of your own. You fucking talked about this. It was never to be spoken of again, but you did speak of it.
You have to kill yourself. There's no other way out of this. You have to die.
"You're so dramatic, Clione," Amal says. "You think I'm not a weirdo? I mean—you've seen what goes in my pussy."
"Shut up," you hiss.
"Shut up, or else what? The incestuous fantasies will come back?"
"You can't consent! You are drunk! I mean—fuck! Fuck, goddammit, fuck, fuck, shit—"
"Oh no, your little sister just coincidentally porn parodied the little sister from Final Fantasy 13—surely it has nothing to do with you, Claire Leone."
"I didn't watch that because I was afraid—fuck! This isn't fair and I hate you! Actually no I don't, sorry—"
"I think you hate how much you want to fuck me," Amal says.
"Kill yourself," you spit. "Sorry. Don't. Just—I do. I hate myself. I don't know what to—"
Amal grins. "Don't worry about it. This is heaven, right?"
Nothing like the Bible's heaven. A heaven of guilt and sin and lies and indulgence beyond your wildest dreams of—
"Jesus fuck," you whimper.
Amal nods slowly, grinning. She mouths the word 'freak' without saying it and it makes you want to—try one last time to repress everything you should have.
It was a mistake. Curiosity killed the cat and fucked up your relationship with your sister forever. Maybe you can blame Reddit for getting you into siscon. Call it childhood trauma and blame your father—but no. Take responsibility. Take responsibility for your fucking actions—god damn it, what are you going to do?
"Jesus fuck," you whimper again.
Amal nods again and takes off her shirt.
5
It's fine. You're both women and it's fine. You've seen each other naked in changing rooms and each other's apartments and nudity is never inherently sexual. It's okay that your sister never wears a bra and it's fine that you made yourself pointedly ignore, for most of today, the way fabric shifted over her pierced nipples and how close she came to accidentally flashing when she bent forward. It's just—women have bodies, and you need to not be weird about it.
You breathe out. It's so hopelessly warm in this closet and everything aches so badly.
You should be normal. You should be crushing on your sister's coworkers, not her. Fuck the gamble and the dare that led to this happening, fuck the seven minutes, fuck everything, and most of all, fuck you. Fuck you for all of this, and fuck you for being into it.
"What is heaven to you, anyway?" Amal asks.
Sometimes you have dreams. Your wild subconscious roils to life and you can never look at the same person the same way again. Intellectually you could be a slut, but in practice you can barely say a word. Pathetic.
Maybe heaven is the lack of consequence that follows your wet dreams. The deletion of the fact that things can never go back to the way they were.
"Look at me," Amal says.
So you do. It's dark, but you can tell her bare chest is flushed red, hear the intensity of her breaths, and fuck, you're so turned on you can feel it in your teeth.
"You know me, Clione. Alcohol just makes me honest."
So you start shaking. It begins in your chest and vibrates out to your arms, your legs, your hands and spreads into your mouth, making your teeth chatter if you don't focus on holding still.
Amal leans in close. "Do you wanna fuck your little sister?"
You can't hold still. Squeezing your eyes shut, you nod yes.
6
Breathing stops. Your heart is going to explode and Amal takes your hands and guides them to her flat chest. You hear her smile and feel her heartbeat under your too-hesitant fingertips. The problem with dreams coming true is that you never feel like you deserve it. Always yourself. Always thinking of the consequences—right?
You can't hold still. You try to run a thumb over your sister's nipple and you miss. Can't breathe. Tension chokes your throat tighter than your dog collar, even when Amal slides a finger into the ring on your collar and pulls. You kiss on the lips. The inside of her mouth tastes like yours.
"Fuck," you breathe, trembling. You can't stop trembling. You can't stop any of this, and you don't want to. It feels too good.
"Freak," your sister whispers.
"Then what are you," you manage to say. No fight. It's all gone. It's all over.
Instead of answering, Amal pushes your hand into her shorts and pushes you back against the wall. Something falls. You also make a sound.
You briefly wonder—how are you going to justify this? How are you both going to walk out of this closet and face the horde of drunk strangers you were just spinning bottles with? What about Claire and Claire and the nascent opportunity of a polycule with two complicated, unrelated women—fuck, this is never how you thought this night would go—
She's so wet. Your sister is so fucking wet for you, nothing between her cunt and her shorts but your imprecise fingers. Her hips roll in lazy circles and all you can do is touch her.
You've seen her like this before. Curiosity killed you, took away any mystery the moment you subscribed to your sister's OnlyFans in a ketamine fueled haze so deep that you didn't even regret cumming to her fucking herself, and fuck. The faces she was making, and the sounds, and the way her body gave out as she came; the puddle of fake cum on bedsheets you recognize, the way she squirted for real when the dildo slipped out—
You're insane. You're insane, and it's probably not okay, but at least you and your sister are insane in a way that matches.
Amal unzips your shorts. It's too much. You press your free hand over your mouth and come in your panties the moment she touches you.
7
"Really?" Amal asks. Still a whisper, still a cry of delight. She can't believe she did this to you and it's disgusting. "Really?"
You can't speak. Can't stop shaking. The hand over your mouth is the last thing between you and your city finding out how much of a sicko you really are. The rumors would never end and have probably already begun. You'll never live this down, never explain this to dad, never tell another soul, never be able to make yourself come as hard as your sister just did with nothing—
"Really?" Amal keeps asking. You're crying, sobbing quietly from overstimulation when you feel your sister kneel and take your cock into her mouth. Her tongue flicks under the ridge and you're so overwhelmed you bang your head on the wall. One day you'll be able to use your voice. One day—fuck, you could take her home tonight. You could—
Amal's tongue swirls. You want to see her riding you—fuck, you want to be inside her so badly. You want to see her and hear her and touch her all at the same time. For now, you cover your mouth and realize you can taste your sister on your fingers.
You're the perfect size for her mouth, and it's cruel. She's good. She's so good with her tongue, so attentive, and you're so deadly sensitive that you could scream, and you need to, and you can't, and it's too much and it's too much and she's going to make you come again because you really are that easy, so easy, such a precious girl, such a good puppy, such a wonderful sister—
It ends with a kiss. Amal spits your cum into your mouth and you share it. It's passionate. You hate how passionate it is because you have to crash back down to Earth so soon. You hate this frat party and hate the closet your sister just blew you in. Maybe you hate your whole life.
Amal puts her shirt back on. Zips up your shorts. Your cute little striped panties are soaked through but otherwise it's like this never happened.
Maybe it didn't happen.
Maybe you hate that it didn't.
The problem with Amal is that she's so easy to hate. Maybe it's your own fault for the situation you've found yourself in. You take another shot of fireball kool-aid to wash the taste of your cum out of your mouth, lest you end up kissing someone else and having to explain the taste on your lips. What are you even supposed to do?
It's awkward. You mingle and think and talk for what ends up being a couple more hours. None of it is real, but the drunkenness would be a good cover for your dissociation if it were.
For now, you push your phone silently across the floor, open to your Discord profile. That's how you get Claire's number and Claire's number. Maybe you'll play Pokémon sometime. Maybe you'll have a first kiss when your sister isn't driving you insane.
For now, you promised you'd drive Amal home.
You can't think about anything else.