Like Twin Stars
Bisexual Erotic Stories
Edited by
Cecilia Tan and Kelly Clark
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
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Like Twin Stars: Bisexual Erotic Stories
Edited by Cecilia Tan and Kelly Clark
Published by Circlet Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 by Circlet Press, Inc.
Cover design by Kelly Clark
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Table of Contents
The Dancer’s War by N.K. Jemisin
Incubus, Succubus by Neil Hudson
The Travesties by Giselle Renarde
Science fiction is a genre of possibilities. Since I was a child, I’ve loved science fiction for the worlds it opened to my mind. From fantastic planets and alien machines to the dystopian futures and alternate timelines of our own human race, the best science fiction explores the far reaches of the imaginary and potential universe, all the while keeping one eye turned to the mirror, bringing to light the worlds inside ourselves at the same time. Given the exploratory nature of science fiction, it seems strange to me that bisexuality — a sexual identity that embodies the celebration of possibility — is so largely absent wthin the genre. The bisexual characters that exist seem to be mostly stock types that, like the “three-breasted whore,” evoke a stereotyped image that fails to acknowledge the complex inner lives of bisexual characters.
In Like Twin Stars, I wanted to collect science fiction stories that focus on bisexual characters as well as stories that play with ideas of sexuality and society. We attempted to collect stories that not only address bisexuality but portray it in a positive and reaffirming light. We live today in a world where bisexuality remains mostly unexplored and invisible; what if a society existed where bisexuality was normal? Science fiction offers us a chance to examine the erotic and social potential of bisexuality on a broader scale. With this anthology, we offer a window into a few of these myriad possibilities.
Kelly Clark
by
N. K. Jemisin
The Ketuyae had wronged my clan, the Weavers-of-Cloud, some eighty years before. Something about a headwoman’s daughter and someone’s Third Husband; after so much time no one truly remembered. Honor-feuds had gone on for generations in our people’s history. In the end, honor was merely an excuse.
Still, because of it I had spent my whole life training for the day when it would fall to me to defend the clan’s honor. The one love we shared with the Ketuyae was dance. As soon as I could walk my mother’s First Husband began schooling me in the Root, Stem, and Leaf patterns. By the time I was six I had also mastered Flower, Fruit, and Seed. We then progressed into the animal forms; I mastered the basic Twelve before I reached that age myself. The clan’s elders watched my performances and nodded among themselves. “Here’s a true Cloudweaver in the making,” I heard them say. “If he bests the Ketuyae, we’ll gain a worthy addition to our clan.”
So they would, I promised them, and myself.
The gathering was held only once every ten years, so we set out as soon as we’d replenished our stores from winter. We arrived at the Evergreen’s edge at summer’s height, when the great forest was a-riot in color and life. Gathering City had already been cleaned and prepared by the clan which had the honor of hosting that decade’s event. But to our great surprise, the living area to which we’d been assigned was right next to the Ketuyae’s.
Our headwoman and her First were furious; they left at once to carry a protest to the hosts. I was more pleased than upset. I had been a child at the last gathering-of-clans, too young to fully comprehend the currents of anger and pride sweeping between us and our enemies. Now I was a man, albeit an unproven one. I wanted to see the Ketuyae through adult eyes and take their measure.
But the Ketuyae were prepared, having reached the City some days before us. In addition to surrounding their individual pavilas with thick curtains, they had built screens out of hides, each half again the height of a man, and positioned these about the perimeter of their camp. It was an insult, for it meant that the Ketuyae disdained even to acknowledge our existence. There was much murmuring as our elders debated an appropriate symbolic response.
As I dismounted to begin setting up camp along with the other unproven men, I felt eyes upon me. I turned slowly toward the Ketuyae camp and saw a sliver of a person gazing out at me from between two screens.
Startled, I moved away from my horse and walked to the edge of our camp, stopping with the tips of my sandals on their camp border. I could see only a little of the one who watched me — a strip of bronze skin, odd straw-colored hair, and one glowering blue eye.
I smiled, without humor and with everything of challenge, for I guessed at once who this might be: the Ketuyae’s dance-champion. As I smiled, the glowering look changed to one of surprise, then corresponding recognition. I could see only a bit of his mouth but I saw that he smiled as well. How could we not feel delight in such a moment? It can be the fulfillment of a lifetime to meet a worthy opponent, no matter the outcome.
But was this one worthy? I had to know.
So I turned and began pacing along the border, heading for the far corner of the Ketuyae encampment where there was a gap between the screens. My counterpart turned and walked with me, vanishing behind screens only to reappear in tantalizing flashes. I kept my pace measured even though my heart was pounding. Then we reached the gap, and I faced my nemesis for the first time.
The Ketuyae were plainsfolk; I had learned that much of their kind from our elders. Their clan had left the Evergreen many centuries before and mingled with strange folk from the cold lands to the north. It was one of the reasons why we had never gotten along with them, for we Cloudweavers kept to the oldest traditions and our lines were pure. We still lived among the dappled shadows of the Evergreen, and other clans said the forest was in our blood — for we all had dark hair, pale skin, and eyes as green as leaves or brown as bark. We were slim-bodied so that we could run silently through the brush, and we wore close-fitting tunics and limb-wrappings so that we could climb swiftly through the trees.
I had seen already that his coloring was strange, but I did not fully comprehend the difference between our clans until I saw him in that moment. He was huge. Had he been a Cloudweaver, he would have been half useless, for no tree-branch could have borne his weight. He towered over me by a full head, and his shoulders — half again as broad as my own — were partially hidden beneath the mass of curling gold hair which tumbled over them. He had taken no trouble to bind or sculpt it. Or perhaps that was simply not his people’s way, for there were no bindings on his arms, legs, or feet either; he wore only leather slippers and breeches. His torso was bare down to where the ripples of his lower abdomen flowed beneath the flap of his breechclout. No, not quite bare. Each shoulder and pectoral had been marked with stark black tattoos in bold swirls and chevrons whose meaning was known only to the Ketuyae.
He was so utterly alien that for several moments I simply stared. It was clear that I was just as strange to his eyes. I was gratified to see him frown slightly, puzzling over the layered cut and braiding of my hair and the bead-patterns of my short tunic. Then he spied my legs — bare but for calf-and-foot wrappings — and his eyes widened. His expression seemed almost scandalized for some reason. I could not help chuckling at such a foolish-looking stare.
This seemed to remind him of the matter at hand. He pulled his eyes back to my own and smiled again, this time derisively. “I’ve heard the Weavers-of-Cloud called Weavers-of-Grass by the elders of my clan,” he said in a voice as deep as a bear’s, “but I had no idea the men of your kind came this small. Are you a child?”
“Are you a termite mound?” I retorted. “How will you dance with such a lumbering body? Unless you mean to prove yourself by hurling rocks or some other barbarian craft.”
“I dance well enough,” he said. “You will have your challenge, never fear.” Then he stepped closer so that he, too, stood with his toes on the border-line. This put his chest only a few inches from my nose. I was near enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin.
I craned my neck upwards to glare at his chin. “You try to intimidate me like a beast — all size and superficiality. Perhaps you think your shaggy mane helps too.”
“Perhaps you think your beauty makes you a woman,” he said softly.
I frowned at this, for at first I was not certain it was an insult. I had been named beautiful by others, though none would presume to call it womanlike; that would have been like comparing a pile of mud to finished sculpture. For him to imply that I thought so highly of myself... “Weavers-of-Cloud revere the old ways,” I snapped, “unlike you grass-hopping Ketuyae. I don’t claim to be the equal of a woman, but I’m more than equal to you.”
He nodded, his smile widening as if I’d pleased him in some way. “We shall see on the proving field,” he said then, and — another insult — walked away without so much as a bow.
I stood glaring after him, my fists tight at my sides. I was flushed, breathing hard as if I’d already danced a full Twelve. I wanted to run after him and attack him with my fists like an uncultured child. I wanted to run back to my pavila and laugh into my furs. I felt giddier than if I’d eaten honey-sweets.