Lucky asked, “And what do you call your top? Daddy or Sir?”
And I answered, “I call my top, baby.”
Lucky looked at me with her hazel eyes turning green as polished sea glass. She leaned closer, took my hand, and bit the side of my palm while looking into my eyes. As she bit harder, my hips lifted, and I groaned. I wanted Lucky’s teeth on my neck, my breast, my ass. There is a vulnerability to a hand’s underbelly. It is my favorite place to be bitten, so tender and so blatant—I melted. I wanted her to read my desire with her mouth, hurting me because she needed to, and me letting the sharp sensations course through my flesh, forming a loop of desire between us.
“Baby,” Lucky said, managing to draw the word out like we’d already taken our clothes off and were lying hip to hip. She didn’t huff up in toppish indignation, wasn’t quizzical or offended, but understood that “baby” was my code for hotness, tenderness, and love.
After four hours at Café Flore, Lucky murmured, “Let’s go.”
Lucky stumbled lightly over the shallow steps leading down to the sidewalk, exclaiming that her new bifocals were a bear to get accustomed to, then leaned in to kiss me on the sidewalk in front of a gaggle of Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence and next to the organic stone-fruit stand at the farmers market. “It’s Raining Men” was playing tinnily through Café Flore’s speakers. She kissed exactly correctly…and if that sounds dry, it isn’t meant to be so. Her lips were firm and pliant, and fit mine like a T-shirt on a teenager. She’d mastered the art of the tender lower-lip bite, and as I delicately licked the corners of her lips, we quickly became breathless. We pulled away a quarter of an inch to prolong the anticipation, and fell onto each other after five seconds. I pulled Lucky closer as a Sister with a violet Marie Antoinette wig wolfwhistled in our direction. Lucky slipped one muscular thigh between my legs as my cunt melted and throbbed. I moaned into her mouth as her wide palm smoothed my back under my jacket, and I whispered that I wanted her hand inside of me. Now. Lucky growled—a low nip from deep in the back of her throat. The Sister with the lime-green boa passed us a fistful of condoms. I was starry-eyed and damp as we stumbled to my apartment in nearby Hayes Valley.
It was dusk, that magical time when the day ends and night begins, when responsibilities dissipate, and mystery and longing fill our hearts. The evening air smelled of jasmine, anticipation, and piss, the violent and sweet scents circling us as we walked. The moon was rising as bright as a streetlight, and the sidewalks were full of early evening dog-walkers, with their pups tarrying by trees and potted plants while the owners peered into their palms at their phones. We barely talked. We’d talked through an entire afternoon. Words mean something, but I needed to know how Lucky tasted, how she touched, how we smelled together as we heated up. All I could think of in that fifteen-minute walk was Lucky’s hand in my cunt, her gardener’s fingers entering one by one, packing me full of her. Anything else was gravy on the cake. You know.
By the time I unlocked the door to my flat, it was dark and the full moon watched us. The streetlights had followed us home, each lighting one by one as night fell and we were closer to my apartment. I unlocked the top bolt, then struggled with the pesky bottom one, trying to make the stuck key turn. As I jiggled the lock in the dark hallway, Lucky pressed her body against mine from behind, rubbing her cock against my ass, and reached around to untuck my shirt and run her hands up toward my nipples. I moaned, humping the doorknob with my clit and almost dropping the key. Finally the brass key turned, and the door flew open under our weight. Lucky pushed me suddenly through the dim foyer, down the hallway, and into the sandalwood-scented living room, then to the floor. I wasn’t expecting the quickness, and fell to the Persian carpet, my jacket still on and my shirt half-untucked. She stood over me, unbuckled her black leather belt, threw off her sweater, unbuttoned her jeans, pulled out her dick, and started stroking it with her hips insolently cocked forward.
“On your knees. I want you to suck my cock. Now.”
I crawled over, leaned forward and opened my mouth. I loved filling my mouth with stuff, whether it was cock, chains, or fingers. My cunt was soaked, my dick was throbbing, and I wanted nothing more than to suck Lucky’s cock. I wrapped my lips around the black silicone and took it to the hilt while looking up greedily at her. Lucky thrust her hips forward, then drew away, teasing me with just the head until she roughly pushed it all the way in again, banging my throat rudely. I could smell her cunt heating up, and sucked her cock, pushing it hard against her cunt, then letting up, and then pushing it in again. I was lost in the rhythm, smells, and sounds of cocksucking, feeling my cunt muscles spasm the more turned on I became by Lucky’s moans and growls, and the feeling of my mouth being stuffed.
Lucky grabbed my head, shoving me harder into her groin while letting loose with a stream of fuck noises and words. “I’m gonna fuck your mouth until I come. Suck me, my little invert.”
I was slobbering with drool running down the sides of my mouth as I made slurping and snorting noises while she pulled my hair and fucked my mouth. I desperately wanted to jack off, but even more desperately wanted to suck her dry. I wanted Lucky to come down my throat and out my asshole, her heat burrowing into my body. I wanted her to come like lightning through my cunt. I fucked her cock harder with my hot mouth, until with a tremendous series of guttural grunts Lucky came, my swollen lips wrapped around her big black cock.
Lucky’s hand loosened on my hair for a minute, then she pushed me backward on the rug. I fell awkwardly on my back, supported by my elbows and looking up at her dazedly. She kneeled over me, her pompadour sexily disheveled, her cheeks flushed, her eyes half-closed and blazing, then took my face between her calloused hands and we kissed, a long luxurious smooch, full of promise. I shrugged off my jacket as Lucky did the same. As I was unknotting my necktie, I heard the swooshing sound of her leather belt being jerked rapidly through her belt loops and looked up to see that she’d doubled it up and was grinning at me evilly.
Lucky shoved me sideways growling, “Bend over the ottoman.”
I kneeled over the high, Moroccan-leather ottoman, as she yanked my flannel trousers and my briefs down to my knees. Lucky’s hand reached between my thighs, cupping my cunt, then withdrawing slowly, her fingers separating my labia and running from my cock to my cunt to my asshole. I could feel salty sweet precome drip down my thighs. I moaned and pushed back, trying to draw her inside of me. I didn’t care where, I just needed her fingers inside of me pumping and rolling and fucking…filling my hungry holes. Instead, she stood up, hovering over me, letting the heat between us build. Suddenly she drew back and let at me with her belt against my ass. The first hit was a kiss. My cunt was slammed into the ottoman and my ass reached up for Lucky. She hit me harder the second and third times. I still wanted to jerk off, but didn’t want to come yet, so I shoved my clit into the side of the leather, forgetting about the belt and spreading my legs to expose my cunt to her touch, then closing them rapidly as I remembered what was coming and the leather flew through the air. The next hits were harder and faster, and I could feel Lucky’s grin and her hard-on behind each swoop of the belt as it thumped my ass. I was making whimpering noises, and each time her belt hit me, it drove my chest forward, pushing the air out of my lungs with a whoosh. My ass was on fire and my cunt felt hollow. Suddenly, I heard the snap of latex. Lucky dropped to her knees and started grabbing my burning ass, twisting my newly bruised, tender flesh. I moaned at the fresh pain. Then there was a cold slurp of lube and one finger circling my hole. I was frantic for her hand and bucked, trying to suck her in, but she slapped my ass with her free hand.
“Impatient, are we?”
One finger, a second finger, and finally a third slipped into me, with her thumb rubbing against the side of my engorged, stiffened clit.
“Please fuck me. Please! I need your hand inside my cunt,” I begged.
Lucky groaned but pulled out, prolonging my agony as she teased my cunt by barely dipping her
fingers inside of me. I sobbed as she finally started pushing four fingers into my cunt while biting my shoulder with her pointy teeth. By now I was inarticulate with wanting to get fucked. The world had shrunken to Lucky’s hand in my cunt and her breath on my neck. Then she was twisting her hand inside, I opened up to Lucky, pushing back, and we were fucking—her gardener’s hand in my cunt, the wettest nest, everything swollen and rippling. Lucky’s mouth. My cunt. Lucky’s cunt. My cock, my clit. Lucky’s cock. I was fucking her back and she was growling. I was making noises that said, “Fuck me fast and hard.” I could feel my orgasm start in my belly—a heavy roll undulating from my chest down to my cunt as I shot out a gush of come, my cock swelling and my cunt clenching around her fist. Lucky was shouting as I sputtered hoarsely, my salty come squirting out a second time, soaking us both.
I slid off the ottoman to the carpet, panting, my pants tangled around my calves and come dripping down to my knees. Lucky fell down to the floor and we held each other close until our breathing slowed down. We were still mostly dressed, our clothing soaked with sex and sweat. I tried to get up, and my knees creaked as I stumbled over my twisted and damp trousers. I tipped over onto the floor laughing. Lucky was in better shape, but her wrist joint ached, her shirt was wet up to the armhole with my come, and her cock was listing perilously to the left. I sat Lucky down on the olive mohair sofa, put Eartha Kitt crooning “C’est Si Bon” on the stereo, poured her a snifter of cognac, and hung up our jackets. Woozily, I staggered into my bedroom, fetched Lucky a fresh shirt from my cedar-lined wardrobe, changed into a dry pair of pants, and made my way to the kitchen to fix us a postcoital snack of a simple omelet, à la Alice B. Toklas.
In the kitchen, I turned on Marlene Dietrich dramatically singing “Black Market” and swung my well-oiled hips. I let the warmth of the afterfuck flow through me lazily as I vigorously beat the eggs, water, cheese, and a hearty sprinkle of coarsely ground black pepper with a fork, then slid them into the hot skillet. Soon the omelet was bubbly and I plopped bread into the toaster, singing along with cabaret singer Marlene’s racy wartime entreatments from A Foreign Affair.
I could hear Eartha Kitt’s husky voice as I strolled back into the living room carrying a silver tray with plates of hot omelet and crisp buttered toast. As I walked through the French doors into the living room, Lucky was humming to Eartha while rubbing her wrist. I cleared the low, Persian, engraved copper-tray coffee table of leather bound books, dime-store mysteries, a prickly tomato pincushion, and a clutch of fountain pens and put down the tray, then sat down next to Lucky, massaging her wrist and hand, pressing my thumbs into her over-fucked joints. We ate, denim knee to flannel knee, devouring the steaming eggs quietly.
Eggs and toast finished, I suddenly became nervous and insecure. Was this just a queer, kinky, senior-citizen version of the one-night stand? Did I want this invasion of heat and conversation in my midst, winding its way through my apartment and life? It was easy to know what I wanted when my legs were spread—my cunt and Lucky’s hand conversed fine. What the fuck was I doing? I must have jolted in panic, because Lucky removed my empty plate from my lap, leaned over, and snuggled me against her shoulder.
Lucky said softly, “Hey, you.”
I said, “Hey, you too,” back. And this is how it all started.
CHAPTER TWO
SOMETIMES
I don’t like romance stories and here I am, hoisted by my own petard. Does this story exist to tell the narrative of love between Lucky and Behrouz? Is that all there is? Or am I so trite that a twisted nipple will get me to follow someone anywhere, down whatever tired old lane that person chooses? Two people meet cute, fuck, fuck some more, shack up, have some minor adventures—all this a leaky raft on which love floats. Boring as fuck unless you’re the one whose heart is thumping like a cat with fleas scratching its ear, its furry leg thudding upon the floor. Is not being able to get out of bed with each other a good enough reason to shack up together? Is that all I have?
I think about the last scene in Djuna Barnes’s Nightwood, with poor Robin crawling in circles, the hapless dog nipping at her in horror. I ask, is that me? Are you the tender dog, circling in feral misery? It is not love, is it? We’re not unhappy. Me, I’m crawling at your feet, my tits dangling, sore nipples brushing the coarse carpet. Tender. Everything is tender now.
But here I am, getting ahead of myself. Of course, there were moments between Café Flore and scuttling down the darkened hallway with your tail between my legs. This is how it was—we fucked, then we ate an omelet by the cool light of the silvery moon. I asked you to leave because I was suddenly schoolgirl-shy or maybe I just needed to be alone. The truth is that I was used to being alone and did it well. There was a red-hot second of tenderness. Between us.
You said softly, “Hey, you.”
I said “Hey, you too” back. “That was great, but I need to get up early tomorrow and am no good at sleeping with people.”
You recognized a hint when you heard one. We kissed tenderly before you left, promising to meet up again soon. Maybe the next weekend even. I needed to be alone to think about the explosion of us that had just occurred in my living room. Your hand inside of me, your cock between my tender lips, balancing plates of food on our knees afterward, you in my borrowed starched shirt, the white oxford sleeves dangling past your worn knuckles, not sated yet. I could hear you whistling “Walkin’ After Midnight” as you walked home down my street.
I lied. The next day was Sunday and I didn’t have to work. I had no plans other than a lazy outing to Arizmendi Bakery for a sticky pecan roll and a stroll to Golden Gate Park’s Arboretum to write, feed the squirrels, nap in the meadow, and take pictures of plants and flowers. And now I could add, to brood about possibilities and bravery. I hadn’t expected anything to come of this date. Masculine-masculine pairings were not common, particularly in my age bracket. Our sexual, emotional, intellectual, and kink chemistry took me by surprise. Over the past few years, I’d gone on a spectacular number of fun three-hour dates that had not led to anything except new friends. Which isn’t bad, but doesn’t keep you warm at night.
I woke up alone, luxuriously stretching across my full-sized bed. Stretching from corner to corner, rolling my sore body on the soft saffron-colored sheets and reveling in the pain of fresh bruises, I got up, slipped into my brown corduroy dressing gown, made a pot of smoky sweet tea and a plate of Plugra buttered rye toast, took my turmeric and niacin supplements, then retired to the living room with the curtains open, the brilliant morning sun streaming through the wavy glass in the bay windows, and Francy sprawled on her back inside a pale oval of sunlight on the Tabrizi carpet, with her green eyes half-closed and bunny paws up. The room still reeked of come and sweat, with a light dusting of sandalwood. I put on Eartha Kitt again, remembering how Lucky had said, “Suck me, my little invert.” I’d liked that. A lot. It was the invert part that made my cock stand up. Anyone who could use that popular Jazz Age, Radclyffe Hall-esque term while cock-sucking had my complete respect and attention. I sighed, finished my tea, licked my greasy fingers clean of salty butter, and hopped into the shower, letting the hot water steam my doubts and aches away. I got dressed in overalls, an orange-plaid Pendleton flannel shirt, and brown Frye lace-up ankle boots, grabbed my rucksack with my latest scarf-knitting project, my black-and-white composition notebook and fountain pen, and headed out for MUNI. It was a breezy, cool sixty-two degrees outside with swirls of fog icing the tops of buildings, perfect for a morning’s deliberations in the park.
I texted Lucky from the N-Judah, Good morning my little invert. I hope to see you again soon. I loved fucking last night!
I heard back right away, Me too! Gotta go. My mom is in town and I’m squiring her about. Meet up maybe next Friday night? Invertly yrs.
Yes! Have a delightful time with your mom. Later.
After getting off with all the other Sunday park-goers at 9th and Irving in the Inner Sunset, I walked two blocks to the bakery, boug
ht a sticky pecan roll and a ginger shortbread, ducked into Green Apple Books and picked up a copy of Cha-Ching! by Ali Liebegott, then set out for the three-block stroll to the Arboretum. I walked through the seven-foot-high, navy-metal-gated park entrance, showed the guards my San Francisco ID for free admittance, and made a beeline past picnickers, nappers, slow-walking strollers, and wobbly toddlers for my favorite bench in the Fragrance Garden under a gnarled magnolia tree. Birdsong was in the air.
Settling in, I opened my bag of sweetness and my book, staring at the rosemary bush opposite me, and promptly forgot to read. This was a fine conundrum! I had found the potential for heartbreak on an OKCupid date. It wasn’t exactly irony, but it sure wasn’t what I’d expected. I sighed, put down Cha-Ching!, got out my notebook and pen, and wrote a poem.
This kettle of fish,
is not fine,
as much as dubious.
I will hold OKCupid
fully responsible
for my future heartbreak.
I delicately ate my sticky pecan roll, picking up loose pecans as they fell off onto my lap and popping them into my mouth. I could worry myself into a stupor if I had the time, and I had the time right now. I restlessly got out my phone and texted my daughter in Ohio: Hey kiddo! How are things? We texted back and forth for a while. I was starting to unwind a little. It was hard to be clearheaded about Lucky. As I’d aged, I’d developed the ability to be more present and openhearted in life, and that included the difficult parts along with the pleasant parts. Breaking up was so painful, and the older I’d gotten the more painful it had become. Was I willing to invite potential heartbreak into my life in the form of a smooth-talking, olive-skinned, filthy-minded gardener with talented hands? “Where is my sense of adventure?” battled with “Where is my sense of self-preservation?” What the fuck was my problem, with all this dillydallying, willy-nilly indecision? I was a waffling Libra, but I needed to get a grip. Now.
Behrouz Gets Lucky Page 2
