“And against the base of the bronze Spanish-American War Memorial at Market and Dolores across the street from Whole Paycheck, the building with the private organic butterfly habitat and gardens on its roof.” I was giddy with excitement.
“I love that statue with the Pegasus horse and the million pointy things, guns, hooves, swords, and wings. Fuck Whole Paycheck and fuck private rooftop butterfly gardens!” Lucky gestured wildly as Francy and Lulu-Bear scurried off the bed in alarm.
“The windmills in Golden Gate Park! Down by the Pacific Ocean and past the buffalo fields. I hear that the windmills are still used by gay men for cruising. With the salty tang of the sea air mixing with the dank fog, and seagulls serenading us as you glide into my ass, inch by inch, until we come in the park, coming together beneath the protective shadows of the windmills and the ghosts of all the men that have come there before us. I can be Sam Steward and you can be my rough trade.”
“So many possibilities.” Lucky turned on her side to go to sleep.
I felt Francy and Lulu-Bear jump up onto the bed again between us, solid hunks of fur and purr, curled up, snuggled around our knees. Then I heard Lucky’s soft snores and I too fell asleep.
A couple of weeks after our construction site maneuver, we planned a foray to Twin Peaks. We wanted to do this one in the daytime, us overlooking San Francisco in triumph and San Francisco overlooking us in protection. We packed a Southern picnic lunch of pimento-cheese sandwiches sliced into triangles, Veronica’s pickled-dill green beans, two fine slabs of three-layer coconut cake, and creamy deviled eggs wrapped in waxed paper, then packed it into a rucksack along with a quilt, a thermos of sweetened iced tea, gloves, Lucky’s favorite black cock-sucking dildo, lube, and wipes. Like the Boy Scouts, our motto was “Be prepared!”
We hopped on the 33 bus and rode to the base of Twin Peaks, rising breast-like and overlooking San Francisco—Twin Peaks was originally called Los Pechos de la Choca or Breasts of the Maiden. We got off near the hiking trail and started walking the narrow trail through the scrubby bushes, butterflies, and wildflowers to the top. It was sunny in the city, but the closer we got to the peak, the windier and cooler it became, the sky cornflower blue overhead, and inklings of fog in the distance. The trail was dry and dusty, and the bright earthy scent of the foliage led us forward. We got to the top of the peak, leaned against a rock, and rested, taking in the city beneath our boots. There were two peaks, one named Noe and the other Eureka. Fittingly for public sex, we were on Eureka.
The city spread before us, glistening in the sun as Lucky unbuttoned my jeans. We made out, kissing against the sharp rocks, and letting the sun heat us up. I took off my hoodie, my long-sleeved striped knit shirt, and my binder, letting the breeze envelop me and the sunshine warm me. Lucky suckled my nipples into peaks, and yes, I thought of Noe and Eureka as my nipples hardened in her mouth and between her pointed teeth. Lucky took her mouth away, leaving my tits wet and cold, aching to be twisted, the electricity running from them to my cunt. I was on fire, my hips arching toward Lucky and San Francisco, begging to be filled by both. And Lucky, oh my captain.
Lucky also took off her blue-plaid flannel shirt and hoodie, her olive skin breaking out with goose bumps, and her dark brown nipples hardening in the breeze. She kneeled in the dirt, kneeled over San Francisco, kneeled to bless the city with our love and our lust. I was dripping already, dripping down my hairy thigh, my precome falling to the tawny dust as black crows circled overhead, cawing their encouragement. She caressed my cunt, jerking off my clit until I threw back my head to the sky and clouds and pleaded for her to fill me with her hand, and with a cackle she did. Lucky’s gardener’s fingers, those tendrils worrying their way inside of me, so knowing. And then a pop as her entire hand was inside, twisting and pressing and I let loose, my come gushing out like a spigot irrigating the trail. She kept going and I kept coming, raining my pleasure over San Francisco as she poured herself into me. I yelled into the wind until I was hoarse, my pleas traveling over San Francisco and my come watering the hills. Lucky was yelling too, the crows, Lucky, and myself a pandemonium of ecstasy.
Lucky gazed up at me and I gazed up at the sky. Suddenly I was fucked out and could not come any more, melting into the rock that we’d been fucking against. Lucky was drenched to her elbow, my throat was sore from yelling, and I was limp. Lucky rested her silvery head against my knee and I laid my hand upon her in benediction. Then Lucky stood up, the sun shining against her muscular back, unbuttoned her jeans, pulled out her pack and pee, and let loose with her piss, yelling to the open sky in triumph. Her piss baptized Eureka, showered the hills, the grasses, the winding streets below, the Google buses, the corner stores, the Sisters, the hipsters, our town.
The city gleamed beneath our boots, having been renewed by the drenching cosmic rainbow of our come and piss. The Victorian houses were washed clean, the streets freshened, the air clearer. There was something about fucking amongst the wind, the fog, the sandy dirt, and the blue butterflies that felt expansive.
Giggling and high, we cleaned up, meandered down to a field of unearthly lupines swaying in the breeze, found a place to spread out our quilt, and ate our Southern feast, nibbling sandwiches and devouring cake until there was not a crumb left. Curled up, sated, and self-satisfied, we napped on Los Pechos de la Choca dreaming of nothing but the present.
CHAPTER FIVE
STUFFED
There used to be a transman in his midthirties from Noe Valley who would post in the Craigslist Man-for-Man section on a regular basis. There his photo would be, shot from the waist down, his hairy thighs spread, his bits glistening proud and hard. The title of his post demanded, Fill my Hungry Holes. I admired him relentlessly. I didn’t have a flesh cock that I could fill him with to the top and back the way he demanded, so I wrote him a fan email instead. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to growl to my lovers to fill me until whatever they were stuffing in my cunt and my ass was squirming out of my mouth, my heart. I never heard back from him, but I thought about bumping into him at Dolores Park or Tartine, he prowling and I outwardly complacent, but inwardly from the same insatiable tribe. I would never recognize him unless he stripped, spread his legs, and demanded that I fill his hungry holes.
I like to get stuffed. I mean I love to get everything filled like a turkey on Thanksgiving. Fill my mouth, my cunt, my ass, my pisshole. I don’t care what you stick in there, although I have my favorites, the ones I keep close to my bed. I love the cold, battered, 24-inch-long heavy metal chain, each oblong link sliding in one by one, the edges pinching my tender flesh, and me tasting the metal as it fucks me. I’ve been known to jam two eight-and-a-half-inch-long silicone Outlaw dildos into my ass, bigger than I thought possible, first one, then the other layered on top sliding in smoothly and filling me. I like to fill my pisshole with the delicate length of a long cool metal sound, opening me slowly, and reminding me of all the secret places that can be possessed, all the wet caves.
Then there is the gleaming stainless-steel ball hitch that we bought at Tractor, Farm, and Fleet last winter. It was snowing and we were desperate to find something to fill me up for the holidays. We grabbed it right before they closed at 7:00 p.m., Eartha Kitt huskily crooning “Santa Baby” over the scratchy loudspeakers and Lucky’s hand clenching my overall-clad ass as we worked our way through the line of exhausted last-minute shoppers. Even now, my nipples are tender hard as I hunch over shivering, my asshole twitching, thinking about that planetary sphere sliding into my ass like the moon into orbit. We’d bought the stainless-steel hitch in Ohio during our visit to my daughter and grandchildren’s home.
It was fifty-three degrees in San Francisco, with the kind of dank spitting rain we’d get sometimes that was somewhere between foggy and raining, but not quite either. I looked down through the velvet curtains in our library bay window to see whether the cars had their wipers on and what folks were wearing. Dressing for the moody San Francisco days was never easy, so we looked for
clues in the street. What would I wear to the airport? Would it be my red hoodie, my wintery fleece-lined pullover, or my corduroy blazer? In the end, I settled on my olive tweed Norfolk, a seedily fashionable jacket with a plethora of sneaky hidden pockets and the ability to suavely straddle the twenty degree difference between Northern California and Ohio. Lucky wore her favorite vintage 1970s black leather jacket, with its multitude of buckles and vague safari look. We were leaving in half an hour to take BART to the airport, so we would soon be making that transition between fog and snow, San Francisco urban and Ohio Midwestern, hedonistic frolicking and parental snuggling. Lucky and I were flying to Ohio from San Francisco to spend the holidays with my daughter and my two grandchildren. It was the first time Lucky had come out with me to Ohio to meet my family, and we were nervous.
I had not introduced my daughter, Theo, to a lover since an ill-conceived marriage when I was thirty-nine to a handsome oaf who, in retrospect, we’d nicknamed Numbnuts. Numbnuts was a bumbling mechanic and had the smelliest feet of any man I’d ever met, a nasty concoction of toe-jam and old motor oil that had permeated his socks, wafting around him like a cloud. When Numbnuts and I first got together, my daughter had been pregnant. With her hormonally enhanced sense of smell, she could not bear to be in proximity to Numbnuts and his stinky feet. I’d had a propensity for handsome devils who were a little on the slow side, cheap, and often cruel. Lucky was different. Lucky was slyly handsome, yet thus far her cruelty was confined to the bedroom where it belonged, and she read Jean Genet and Djuna Barnes for Sunday morning pleasure. She was an erudite devil and I was contentedly in lust and in love. Theo was territorial and protective of me, and often claimed that I had the sense of a house cat in heat when it came to choosing lovers.
Lucky packed large and I packed small. This is not a metaphor for what was in our pants. In that respect, neither of us packed. We flew cockless. My driver’s license read male and Lucky’s read female, but it was a crapshoot as to how we’d be perceived at the airport by TSA. At the least, my curmudgeonly scowls got me nervous pat-downs and twirls through the X-ray machine, and Lucky’s flirtatiousness, combined with her masculine demeanor and good looks, got her a collection of business cards with phone numbers handed over surreptitiously by femmes intent on discovering what Lucky might be really packing in her 501s. I was amused by the string of fluttering hopeful hearts that Lucky carried behind her like a glittery kite tail, but Lucky remained oblivious to her effect on most femmes.
Finally we made it to BART, and soon were on our way, past Daly City, past South San Francisco, past the cemeteries of Colma, past the scrubby conifers, dusty hills, fog, and ticky-tacky houses beyond the city that I loved so much and called home. I hated leaving San Francisco and was mesmerized by the highway, the underpasses, the motley BART passengers, and even the wafting fog every time I traveled outward. We arrived at the airport, scuttled through security, and got on the plane safely and quickly. Lucky checked two bags, carried her laptop, and had a messenger bag slung over one black-leather-clad shoulder. One hardside aluminum suitcase was jam-packed with boots and gifts, the boots comforting and soothing her nerves, and the gifts an effort to please the family that she had spontaneously and roundaboutedly acquired through the miracle of online dating and OKCupid. The other was packed with clothing, each pair of jeans, sweater, and shirt meticulously folded with tissue paper layered between them. I carried my battered brown-leather rucksack over my shoulder and a small vintage tweed duffle bag of tightly rolled-up clothing. I’d snuck an extra pair of boots into Lucky’s boot and gift suitcase and was pleased with my ability to travel light and loose. By the time we’d settled into our seats, Lucky had three scribbled femme’s phone numbers stuck in her pocket, and I was digging through my rucksack for my e-reader and our flight snacks.
Somewhere over Utah, Lucky took a sip of cranberry juice and ate a handful of goldfish crackers, then turned to me. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, there is a queer play party on New Year’s Eve? Do you want to go to it together?”
I looked at Lucky in horror. “No. I don’t like play parties.” My refusal to go to play parties had been a bone of contention between lovers and me in the past, but Lucky hadn’t shown any interest in going to them since we’d been together. It wasn’t the play part that annoyed me, but the party part. I was an introvert, far happier in small groups or alone.
“Aw, come on, they’ll have a sling we can play on! It’ll be fun!”
“Lucky, do I look like I enjoy having fun?” I said sharply, “No, I’m not interested.”
“Will you at least think about it? Tov and Mikail will be there too,” Lucky said hopefully.
I said I’d consider going to the play party with Lucky, but I lied. Although I loved the idea of play parties, the smell of pheromones and come, and the sounds of people fisting, fucking, and flogging, when it came down to it, I disliked rooms full of partying strangers more than I liked public sex.
I wondered if Lucky was getting sexually bored with me. I was once in a poly relationship with a lover who was a big old player. After two years, she started begging me to go with her to play parties, and then started lying to me about fucking other women. In hindsight, I can see that she got bored and was looking for something or someone different or more exciting, but she couldn’t be direct about it. I ended up going to play parties with her, but I would have been happier with her going by herself. I didn’t care if she got new lovers, but she needed the subterfuge of lying. Lucky’s father had also been a player, always stepping out on her mother in a cloud of bad cologne. But Lucky’s mother, as far as I could tell, was honest with her lovers about her flings. Obviously, a penchant for sexual adventure ran in Lucky’s family, and as far as I was concerned, her curiosity about sex and willingness to be adventurous served me well, but still I had limits.
We were spat out at midnight in Columbus, Ohio. The pilot thanked us for flying with Southwest and announced the weather. He was upbeat, but it was twenty-two degrees and windy, with a bitter December chill. The thirty-one degree difference had us scurrying through our carry-ons for wool scarves and caps. Theo picked us up at the airport a little bit before midnight. All six two of her was bundled in an orange down jacket, skinny jeans, black riding boots, and a froggie green knit hat with one missing pop-eye. She wore her new violet and rhinestone cat-eye glasses, her chin-length hair was in burgundy ringlets, but she still looked wan and tired. We staggered into her battered but faithful blue Honda Civic, with Lucky crammed into the backseat cluttered with overdue library books, soccer balls, and stray hats and gloves. It was snowing lightly on the outerbelt, as Theo and I chatted about how the grandkids were doing and our plans for the holiday, until we heard Lucky snoring lightly from behind.
“So, you two moved in together.” Theo managed to sound angry even though she was talking softly so as not to wake Lucky. “After only six months? What are you thinking? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”
“Theo, don’t be a chump. And stop talking to me as if I’m sixteen and just staggered home drunk without my panties.”
“Mom! She’s a player! Even I can tell that. Sorry, I mean Dad.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been your mom for almost forty years and I’m still your mom. Call me whatever you’d like.”
What could I say? I wanted to tell Theo to fuck off about her misgivings about Lucky, but that would not earn me any points for maturity. Defending Lucky seemed irrelevant and like a losing proposition. Either Theo would grow to like Lucky or she would remain skeptical, and me griping and nagging would only make the situation worse.
“Well, when you two break up you’ll finally move back to Ohio. We can buy a place with an in-law unit and live together. You’re getting older, Mom. What if something happens?”
This was familiar territory. It was the “you’re-getting-older-what-if-you-break-your-hip-get-mugged-dotter-about-half-crocked-with-a-faulty-memory-start-hoarding-newspapers-kittens?” lecture. I
rolled my eyes. It had come to this. I remembered my mother’s tone of voice as she scolded me when I was eighteen for not being serious, fucking too many girls and boys, taking too many chances, really just being uncontrollable, and knew that my daughter had turned into my mother. I remembered my scolding Theo for earning mediocre grades, getting pregnant too young, and dating men who didn’t respect her enough. Life was a full cycle of parents or children reining-in one another in ferociously.
We pulled up to Theo’s brick row house. Snow had started to drift down hypnotically through the dark night, lightly covering the black streets, the hedges, and Theo’s windshield. The snow was soft, sticking, and would cause havoc for traffic in the morning, nature’s metaphor for my daughter’s annoying but loving behavior. We woke up Lucky, gathered our luggage, and made our way carefully up the icy sidewalk to Theo’s home.
The house was quiet as Theo disarmed the alarm and showed us in, the children and cats sleeping. She stayed up with us sitting at her vintage red Formica kitchen table for a bit while we ate the cheddar cheese sandwiches she’d prepared, and settled in. Lucky admired Theo’s windowsill herb garden, and chatted about Theo’s plans for an expanded vegetable plot this spring, and offered to give her advice on heirloom varieties that would grow well in Central Ohio. I was relieved to see Theo start to thaw toward Lucky a little. It was late and Theo was used to going to bed at 10:00 p.m., while we were exhausted from the flight. Theo spread out a futon mattress on the living room floor for us, then finally toddled off to bed.
Behrouz Gets Lucky Page 12
