Your Friend and Her Twin Sister

An otherwise calm Friday night had turned troubling when a friend of yours, Rachel, called you out of the blue. She was more of a texter, so it had alarmed you to see her name pop up on your phone screen. You answered and tried to keep your mind from racing to any immediate disasters. Through the crying, you managed to make out the issue. She had it.

Scientists had taken to professionally calling it Seminal Substrate Dependence Syndrome, but most just referred to as Cum Addiction. Even you and your peers tended to call it that for the sake of simplicity, though never around your boss.

You, Dr. William Anders, were one of the leading researchers on the East Coast. There was a clinic in Sweden doing important work on a cure, a research station in South Africa that had begun work on isolating genes they believed could be the cause, and even a science club in the Yale School of Medicine that had demonstrated remarkable innovation towards understanding the psychology of the affliction. All that to say, you were an expert, but far from the best or the brightest.

You were also a licensed donor, a fact you attempted to keep to yourself more often than not. You had spent time at a local clinic volunteering, of course. It would have been downright irresponsible of you not to. You sat in a sterile room, put on a plastic glove, jerked off into a plastic cup, and slid it into a cubby. On the other side of the wall, a person received their dosage. It was hardly the festival of blowjobs some made it out to be.

Your thoughts were on the clinics, public and private, when you arrived at Rachel's house. She and her twin sister, Megan, rented the place. You were not as close with Megan as with Rachel, but certainly you were friendly enough. You stepped out and walked past their cars, a plain accord and an older car, something Italian that Megan had gotten years ago.

You stopped to adjust your hair in the reflection of Megan’s car. Brown hair, shorter on the sides, and a short beard. You were nothing special amongst your caucasian kin, just another guy that had decided to use white boy template #5. But you were certainly handsome enough. Your warm brown eyes balanced out the deep bags beneath them, and your beard was full enough that it covered an otherwise fine jawline. As you straightened up, you were silently thankful that you were at least six feet tall.

A moment later, you were in front of their door, knocking. Megan had painted it green and installed a fancy brass door knocker sometime after they moved in.

When the door opened, it was Rachel standing there, red hair pooling around her shoulders. She tightened her brown jacket around herself as she rushed forward to hug you, her large chest pressing firmly against yours.

“Thanks for coming, Will,” she whispered against your shirt.

Your arms instinctively came up to reciprocate her bear hug. “Of course, Rachel. You’re gonna get through this, ok? There are many pathways for…”

You trailed off as Megan stepped into the doorframe, eyes red and cheeks streaked with tears.

“Hey Will.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose with a tissue. Rachel stepped back from you and clasped her twin’s hand. They were identical with their red hair, large chests, and pale skin. Both had blue eyes as well, though the red in Megan’s tried to disguise it. They were both pale as well, though Megan had a few tattoos, including a patchwork sleeve on her right arm, that were visible under a baggy Hozier band t-shirt. Rachel had shown you her sole tattoo some time ago, a large frog that emblazoned her right thigh. Megan also had piercings to mark herself as different, prominently a brown and septum piercing, but hidden under her red hair was an industrial that served as her alternative pride and joy.

“Megan… shit, wait,” your eyes widened slightly in understanding. Megan was extremely distraught, but not just for her sister’s sake. Those were the tears not just of a woman learning her sister had caught a dangerous disease, but of a lesbian learning she was now addicted to cum.

She opened her mouth to speak, but choked back a sob instead. Uncharacteristically, she rushed forward to hug you as well. You hesitated a moment before resting your arms around her shoulders and upper back as she cried into your shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, unsure of how else to comfort the woman. What were you supposed to say to a woman, a lesbian no less, in this situation?

Rachel looked out on the dark street before turning back to you too.

“Let’s sit down inside. We can talk everything out.”

“Yeah,” you agreed to Megan as she wiped at her eyes and stepped back. “Let’s talk everything out inside.”

She wordlessly nodded, still struggling with words.

The three of you walked inside. You took off your shoes at Rachel’s insistence and made your way into their living room. The house was old, a bit of a fixer-upper, but still spacious enough. The living room was large enough to fit against one wall, an armchair against another wall next to it, and a TV set in the corner. A painted wooden scene from TJMaxx hung on the wall behind the TV, while framed pictures decorated the others.

Forcing a smile on her face and holding a pillow in her lap while she sat, Megan finally managed to croak out a word.

“Soooo…”

You gave her a smile, infused with pity, before quickly correcting it.

“Yeah, that tends to be the reaction to this sort of news.”

“Have these conversations often?” Megan’s voice was raspy from tears, but she attempted to keep her tone light and airy.

“Not as much as others,” you began, sitting down on the sectional next to Rachel. “I’m more of a researcher than anything else.”

“Ok, how is this supposed to go then?” Rachel asked by your side.

You thought for a moment, tongue pressed against your cheek. After a beat you swiped a hand through your hair and put yourself into your doctor mode.

“Right. So, both of you have been diagnosed with SSDS?”

The corner of Megan’s mouth curved upwards at the acronym.

“Yeah… both of us tested positive for… it.”

“Is that rare, by the way?” Rachel jumped in.

You drew in a breath and began to shrug with just your face.

“Maybe not. A paper out of a new research station in Switzerland shows that there might be something genetic to how SSDS is contracted. They found a person is 8% more likely to be diagnosed with it if a family member has already been diagnosed. And that number actually jumped to 13% in a similar study performed in South Africa.”

Megan blinked in surprise.

“Oh, wow. So does that mean we should talk to family and let them know?”

You spread your arms and grimaced.

“Maybe. Ultimately, there is still so much we don’t know. It seems there is a genetic component in who is at elevated risk but we haven’t found what gene, as of now, that might be responsible.”

Megan nodded silently and drew in a deep, steadying breath. It was Rachel that spoke up again.

“SSDS, we have to drink cum or we die… right?”

“That is the long and short of it, yeah. Of course, death is preceded by headaches, dizziness, and mood swings. Eventually, you can get to seizures and even temporary comas. However, so long as you are able to call emergency aid, most people have been shown to recover after reaching even the dangerous end of withdrawal. That being said, not everyone has. And, some research suggests that the more you experience withdrawal symptoms, the more your body will develop a need from semen.”

“Meaning, if we stay on top of it…” Megan leaned forward and locked her blue eyes on yours.

“It is less likely to get any worse,” you finished, staring into her thoughtful gaze.

“And for treatments, there are clinics, right? All anonymized?” Rachel asked, looking between Megan and you.

You nodded excitedly, eager to get to the better news.

“Yes, absolutely. There are public and private clinics for this. The private ones accept insurance, though I have heard of people having trouble getting coverage. Until the federal government declares SSDS something more serious than an addiction, insurance companies are doing their best to weasel out of paying. The public ones are free, but you need to jump through some hoops to prove you are diagnosed and that your household is below a certain income level.”

Megan pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

“My company’s health insurance is United, who just announced they are refusing to cover any procedures related to… SSDS.”

Her tone sounded defeated as she continued.

“And with both of us working, we are far above any income threshold for one of those public clinics.”

“Jesus,” you muttered. “I fucking hate health insurance.”

“Are there other options?” Megan’s voice was coming dangerously close to pleading. “How expensive can it really be to go to a clinic without coverage?”

You grimaced and adjusted yourself in your seat.

“Per visit? It’s about 300 dollars without coverage. And, depending on how far you are along, you might need as many treatments as three a day.”

By your side, Rachel sighed heavily and flopped back against the couch. Megan nodded and swiped once more at her red eyes, but did not cry. She swallowed heavily in despair, but seemed beyond further tears.

“Are there other treatment options?” Rachel asked, knowing the answer.

“Listen. At the end of the day, it’s cum. If you can find someone with a penis who is willing, you can get treated.” You looked at Megan who sat there impassively staring at the floor. “I’ve heard that some people are using Tinder, Hinge, but that the culture there has gotten a whole lot worse on there as a result of SSDS. Furthermore, treatments with random people obviously carry risks.”

“Like STIs?” Rachel asked.

“That. But also that not all semen is the same. People that spend time in the clinics are tested regularly, and people with licenses to provide dosages are tested at least at the time of receiving their license. Licensed providers also have their semen graded on their license.”

You looked at the floor as you tried to describe the system bluntly, yet appropriately.

“It is a certain glucosite compound found in semen that SSDS really relies on. Some people have more and some people have less. In order to be licensed, you need to have at least 40 milligrams per deciliter of that compound in your semen. That receives a C rating on a providers license.”

“You’re licensed… aren’t you?” Megan asked dully, eyes raising to meet yours.

You hesitated, but nodded.

“Yes. I am. I volunteer at the public clinics. The private one-”

“What’s your rating on your license?” she continued.

You were silent for a moment as you drew in a breath. A part of you knew what was coming and felt a mote of grim excitement at the thought of one or both of these women swallowing your cum. But, in your time, you had also heard far too many horror stories of relationships destroyed or people abusing the power they held over the addicted.

“I have an A+.”

Megan’s eyes widened slightly and flicked to your crotch.

“I was told,” she said, her eyes still on your groin. “That my addiction is advanced.”

“When did you first start feeling it?” you asked, suddenly nervous at her focus.

She flicked a lock of red hair out of her face as a flush crept across her neck.

“A month and a half ago.”

“And you’ve gone that long without any doses?!” you asked incredulously.

“Doctors reacted the same way.”

Suddenly, her emotional state made so much more sense. It made sense for her to feel some fort of despair, but the Megan you knew would never have fallen apart so much. But this… this was a Megan in a terrible place not just mentally, but also physically.

“Rachel,” you asked quietly. “How about you?”

“Um… only a few days. But I was seeing a guy for a bit, so I don’t know if…”

“I understand.” You looked over at Megan again whose breath was coming faster and more shallow now.

“Hey, you should leave, I think,” you said to her, but she was already shaking her head.

“No, we talked about this. She wants me here to take care of her.”

You looked at her in alarm.

“Rachel. This is going to be a different person, ok? Not Megan. I’ve seen SSDS at this stage and the things it makes a person do or say… this isn’t something you can unsee.”

“I know.” She looked down and scooted closer to you. Her fingers found your hand and squeezed. “But she wanted me here. I’m her sister…”

She looked like she wanted to say something more, but shook her head. When she looked back at you, it was with a sad, but grateful smile.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

“I am if you are.”

“It’s not the worst thing in the world for you, is it?”

You chuckled grimly and nodded.

“It could be wo-”

“I need it,” was all Megan said as she launched herself forward onto her knees.