Much has been written about my brother and I, even at this late date. There is, even yet, rampant speculation regarding every aspect of our shared lives: my early sale into the "service" of the Furter family as companion to Princess Jenner; about our dissimilar upbringings; and most irritatingly, our later relations. So many theories have been put forth as to my part, that I feel the need to tell my story to the world. Most of these theories are complete nonsense, elaborate scenarios in which my brother is a sinister villain and I am brain-washed or otherwise similarly enslaved.
They are all totally false.
I was young, but I wasn't stupid. I was in love, but I was not blind. My brother can be cruel, even ruthless, but blood always came first, and our goals were the same. Why I am continually compared to the seduced and defiled innocent, I don't know, but whatever drew us together…it was mutual.
I have particularly fond memories of being at University with him, despite the constant media attention: "The Princess's companion and her family relations…" and so forth, peddling the tripe that tabloids feed on. Though, even then the press seemed bent on making our trysts into one-sided affairs. Nothing could have been further from the truth! What reporters failed to notice was that we understood each other so perfectly that our uniforms became a means to send messages to one another. In those days every student was issued two uniforms, a buttoned top with pants, and a snap-front dress with stockings. One could wear whichever type one preferred on any given day. An undone button here, an exposed stocking-top there, a rolled cuff, a red scarf…we could communicate a thousand things without ever saying a word.
Our favorite place to meet was the South cloak room on the second floor of the Engineering Dome. It has a small storage space in the back, with a few disused tables, chairs, an old ladder, and piles of left and forgotten coats. In a word: perfect.
Three times a week I would accompany Princess Jenner to her wave dynamics class. I would follow her in at a decorous distance, and he would almost always be there first, in the back of the class room, slouched against the wall, near the door. My dress, the scarf in my hair, a question. His posture, his cuff and collar buttons, an answer, a where, when and how. I would sit in class, twitching with anticipation, until the atom clock turned over and he slipped out of the room. I waited as the moments ticked by, then I followed after. The princess never bothered to look up. The other thing I remember fondly from University is that nobody questioned you if you left the classroom early.
I went to the end of the hallway, and took the emergency stairs, twisting down the dimly-lit steps, strewn with trash and graffiti, to the south wing of the second floor. I would come in through the side door, hesitate, and make my way back to the storage room, between rack after rack of dusty cloth. I could always tell he was there, I could always feel his presence in the dark. I would pause in the doorway of the store room as if waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. Then, in a rush I would be forced back against the wall, the snaps on my dress would tear open, and his wiry body, unbuttoned, insistent, would be pressed against mine. His hands, his mouth would be everywhere at once. Every kiss was like drowning, every touch burned, each sensation threatened to kill me and I loved every second. In those fevered moments, those sweaty, tangled encounters, he could have done anything to me. But it always depended upon my consent. I never felt used, and he knew that whatever he gave he would get back…in kind. I still marvel at how well we fit together, height for height, and depth for length. He would trap me, curled between the wall and his tireless body, and we would come together, again and again. It would be explosive and dizzying and wonderful and then, suddenly, he would be gone, and I would be left, spent and shaking, to recover myself.
A short while later I would return, clean and composed, to the lecture hall. I would take my seat with the princess, and he would, once again, be slouched in the back, watching the lecture. My red scarf would be in his front pocket, signaling his thanks. He would catch my eye, and the corner of his mouth would curl up. The top two buttons would be undone, our most intimate signal. I would smile and return the gesture.