The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins: A Novel
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The famed—some would say notorious—author of Trainspotting and many other brilliant offenses against common literary decency comes at last to America, with a dark and twisted tale of personal training and abject codependency in the fading glitter of Miami's South Beach, with a novel that asks the provocative question: Why would you want to be "the Biggest Loser" anyway?
When Lucy Brennan, a Miami Beach personal-fitness trainer, disarms an apparently crazed gunman chasing two frightened homeless men along a deserted causeway at night, the police and the breaking-news cameras are not far behind. Within hours, Lucy becomes a hero. Her celebrity is short-lived, though: the "crazed gunman," turns out to be a victim of child sexual abuse and the two men are serial pedophiles.
The solitary eye-witness, the depressed and overweight Lena Sorenson, thrilled by Lucy's heroism and decisiveness, becomes obsessed with the trainer and enrolls as a client at her Bodysculpt gym. It quickly becomes clear that Lena is more interested in Lucy's body than her own. Then, when one of the pedophiles she allowed to escape carries out a heinous sex attack, Lucy's transition from hero to villain is complete. When Lucy imprisons Lena, and can't stop thinking about the sex lives of Siamese twins, the real problems start. In Lucy and Lena, Irvine Welsh has created two of his most memorable female protagonists, and one of the most bizarre, sadomasochistic folie à deux in contemporary fiction. The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins taps into two great obsessions of our time—how we look and where we live—and tells a story so subversive and dark it blacks out the Florida sun.
and order a bottle of red wine. Mona preens and fusses, finally opting for linguine with scallops, shrimps, and clams. Dad, surprisingly, bypasses the steak; he goes instead for some sea bass. —Too much goddamn red meat on this tour, he says, in response to my arched brow. —You see, I do listen to you! I decide to take the tendered peace offering. I tersely clear my throat. —So how is the Biltmore? Dad hesitantly turns a weather-beaten smile my way. —The absolute last word in luxury, pickle. I
if you respect yourself and realize that YOU are worth the effort, then other people will respect you more too. 45 FLA VERSUS NYC When you suffer from depression, you just have to hang in there. I read every darn self-help book on the subject. Unbelievably, following the advice of one, I even wrote stupid letters to and from my ten-year-old self. “Lena, you are such a brave and beautiful person …” All silly, hollow, useless stuff from snake-oil salesmen, profiteering from the misery of the
“neoloft” style was designed to appeal to northern transplants. I’m sure it seemed a good idea at the time, and the architect and developer had a lot of fun when they did all that coke together, but down here in the tropics, it feels like an incongruous mess. There will be no rush to buy or rent these places. Mom fusses, rubbing Canute-style, at some mark on the window with her sleeve. I’m looking out across to Miami Beach and civilization. That’s where I’ll have my new crib when the money from
fairground games. Fearful of spillage, she concedes defeat and lowers crinkled parchment lips to the rim of the glass, sucking on it like it was pussy. A chick wearing sweat pants, a white tank top, expensive jewelry, and an orange fake tan struts in. The Liposuction Fuck—we’ve never been properly back on speaking terms since a confused encounter on a boat party last year—gives me an “I know” glance. We make strange alliances, but this is Miami Beach and Eurotrash need to be kept in their place.
out and down the street to the Blenheim on Collins. It takes no time to check in, the sly clerk giving us the unofficial hourly rate. He hands us the key and we climb the staircase. The waft of piss from the old carpet tickles our nostrils as we enter the room. Carpets are always gross in the tropics, but carpets in a roach motel designed for the regular spillage of every conceivable body fluid? Forget it. There’s a creaky-looking bed, two battered nightstands, an old wall clock stuck at 9:15,