Rachel R. White

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It started on a highway in rural Kentucky. We passed an adult superstore in the middle of a cornfield, the kind with a retro name like “The Jewel Box” or “Pure Romance,” I can’t remember which.

I’ve been watching the twins hit on girls for hours. At the Soho gallery–where they were part of a group show–one of the twins cozies next to a girl eyelash extensions and a wide-brim hat. He mutters: “I have a crush on you. You’re a rich girl, aren’t you? I’m sayin’…  you’re the type of chick I’d like to impregnate.”

It always ended this way. Late afternoon and again in bed, staring at the wall. 3 pm…it could collapse you, the way the sunlight comes in, angular, moving, to only again disappear.

The red carpet at the annual AVN porn awards is in full swing, even though it looks like a stage still being set. For some reason I’d imagined such an event would take place outdoors: porno-queens gliding by in glittering dresses waving as trade journalists snap photos amidst some palm tree studded backdrop.

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