The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins by Irvine Welsh Read Free Book Online Page B

constantly cajoling you into cooking and eating the wrong things.
    — We’re Italians . . .
    — You got to sack that mentality. You can’t be a slave to an outmoded cultural heritage. I’ve got Irish roots, but you don’t see me stuffing myself with beef stew, soda bread, and Guinness. We’re
Americans
, goddamnit!
    Marge stares back at me, hurt stinging her eyes.
    — Those sorts of dynamics have a lot to do with whether or not people change. It’s what I always say: if you want to change you have to decide to do it for
you
.
    I get the usual bleating crap about being a wife and a mother. The age-old weakness, and one which I despise: a total dependency on a husband, while raising kids as the next generation of porkers, killing them as you constantly declaim your love for them.
    Another major problem with trying to help Marge change was that I disliked her as soon as I set eyes on her. It wasn’t that wobbling meat packed into black spray-can Lycra, nor was it the ridiculous makeup. No, that Yankees cap, ludicrously perched on her head, was what sealed the deal. Yeah, I’m a transplant, and I’ve now spent over half my life here, but it’s in my Boston DNA to despise them. Particularly a bitch who has probably never set foot in the South Bronx. Thankfully, I’m way too much of a pro to show her my real feelings.
    So I put her through an hour of kettlebells, concentrating on those fat-burning quads. How she hates the sight of those bells! But she’s doing sets of step-ups, lunges, squats, leg presses, and forty-yard sprints, to keep that cardio up. I’m watching her like a vulture scans the highway for roadkill, all the time punching in her Lifemap TM numbers. When we wrap up, she’s oozing like an alcoholic snail as she staggers toward the shower.
    Then the revolving door of fat spins again and I now have another slab of blubber to try and sculpt back into human form. That Lena Sorenson chick waddles in. She’s managed to find a pair of shapeless gray yoga pants that are too big even for her. In some ways it’s a blessing; usually the problem with yoga pants is women wearing them too tight and jacked up, so you can practically see their pussy. For some reason women like Marge, with her Lycra, think squeezing themselves into a smaller size actually
makes
them that size. But Sorenson’s garments still send out warning signs: yoga pants have also become the “go to” exercise attire for women who’re uncomfortable with their bodies and, worse, not serious about exercising. The pants suck serious enough ass, but Retardville residency is advertised by her old, pinching Eurythmics tee, exhibiting her muffin bloat to its most nauseating effect.
    More to the point, it’s 10:07.
Lateness fucking noted, loser bitch
. Sorenson’s wearing that bewildered cow-in-the-slaughterhouse expression. The fearful gaze falling over the exercise machines, like they were there to physically tear the corpulent flesh from her bones. And that’s
exactly
what they are there to do. I greet her with a thin smile. You get to be an expert on how long a fat broad’s gonna last. No way this little dipshit will stick it more than a couple of weeks.
    As I get out the tape and lead her to the scale, Lena Sorenson, 5’2", 203 lbs, jabbers on nervously. — I’ve really been feeling for a while that I need to start training . . . Look, I hope you don’t mind that I allowed the TV people to use the footage from my phone. I didn’t think. I should have cleared it with you first.
    Mind? She’s made me a fucking star! — It has been rather intrusive, I tell her, not wanting to cede any power by showing gratitude. — The paparazzi were outside my door.
    — I’m so sorry—
    — Well, these things happen, let’s not dwell on it, I smile. — Are you ready?
    — As I’ll ever be, Sorenson lamely replies.
    I take her through a light session of kettlebells and stretches, which she does reasonably well, keeping decent posture on the