I felt a tinge of hopefulness, but I felt mostly doomed. As a child, my parents nicknamed me the Voice of Doom and I re-earned that moniker daily. I wanted to pull away. That is the truth. I called Tov and whined that Lucky texted me every day. I yearned for those texts, yet they stifled me. I became the king of mixed messages, even to myself. I started carrying my phone in my chest pocket, the buzzing of each new text from Lucky vibrating my heart into panic and my cunt into action. We could not keep our hands off each other. And that is also the truth.
The next three months were a whirlwind courtship. We fucked almost daily. I had to buy a new stack of trick towels to keep up with my prodigious amount of come. I didn’t have the time and lost the inclination to shop for household goods, so I started getting groceries delivered, even Francy’s cat food and kitty litter. My apartment reeked with a combination of come, sweat, and pheromones. With regular lunchtime quickies, I had to buy new underwear just to make it through the week. Epsom salt baths became my friend, soaking away my muscle aches. I discovered that Lucky had a weakness for San Pellegrino and sandalwood soap, so I set my Amazon Prime Subscribe and Save account to deliver sparkling water, Caswell-Massey sandalwood soap, nitrate gloves, condoms, and lube weekly. I cleared out my nightstand top drawer and filled it with sour gummies, chocolate, and licorice from Miette down the street, in case of energy depletion emergencies. Lucky developed a violet bruise around her wrist like a bracelet from fisting me every day, and one glorious Saturday afternoon we broke two slats in the bed, and three silicone dildos clean off at the base. My nipples became tender and sore. Lucky discovered how sensitive they were and delighted in torturing them at every chance, pulling, twisting, squeezing, and clamping them. She would torment my tits while I was cooking, the smell of sautéed sweet onions and butter rising as Lucky came up from behind me to hurt me, reaching around and slipping her hands beneath my shirt to grasp them. Once my poor nipples were swollen and aching, she would command me to crawl down the hallway, my tender nipples rubbing against the rough Persian runner. I sobbed as she sauntered behind me, beating my ass and my thighs, occasionally taking great handfuls of my flesh and twisting them, squeezing the bruises clean as I howled and she laughed.
For three months, we stayed in to fuck. From May to June, we missed festivals and events. The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence Easter Hunky Jesus Contest in Dolores Park, the San Francisco International Film Festival, the Sing-Along West Side Story at the Castro Theater, the Cinco de Mayo parade in the Mission, the annual AIDS Candlelight Memorial in the Castro, watching the Bay to Breakers costumed foot race, listening to queer punk Pansy Division at El Rio, the San Francisco Silent Film Festival, and the always cruise-worthy Dyke March and Trans March. We were fisting as the Dykes on Bikes zoomed down Market Street during Sunday’s Pride Parade.
We spent most weekends and many weeknights at my place. I stayed the night at Lucky’s a couple of times and ate dinner there once. There was more room at my apartment, and besides I had Francy to watch over, pet, feed, and otherwise wait upon. Lucky lived alone in a beautiful third-floor studio apartment in the Mission. She was still mourning Elmer’s death and said that her tiny sun-filled apartment reminded her of him. She couldn’t brush her teeth at her pink oval sink without seeing his white paws draped elegantly over the nickel faucets. His presence lurked in the seat of her Mid-Century leather reading chair. She claimed to be happy spending the majority of her free time with Francy and me, however I fretted that she missed her home.
Lucky installed a pole in my closet in the beginning of May to store the clothing that was following her to my apartment like wayward lambs. One Saturday we went to the hardware store on Mission near Van Ness, the huge one with a lumberyard in the back. The store smelled like machine oil, freshly cut lumber, and Wrigley’s spearmint gum. Motown hits played through the loudspeakers: “Baby, baby, where did our love go?” Diana Ross sang huskily. It was full of people buying items for their weekend projects, home renovators roaming the isles and examining each nail, power tool, and tub of tile grout seriously. I eyeballed Lucky appreciatively, admiring her walk, her style, and her all-over hotness as she sauntered down the aisles in her denim 501s, white T-shirt, Mr. S hoodie, black bandana in her left pocket, and brown lace-up boots. In the rope and chain aisle, a lithe leather boi flagging a gray bandana on the right gave Lucky a sideways wink, while a plump, sweet, high-heeled femme asked her for help deciding how much rope to buy, laying her manicured hand over Lucky’s rough hand to eloquently make her point. Lucky flirted like others breathe, with a bouncy innocence and delight. I liked the bubble of sexual heat that surrounded Lucky, drawing others into her orbit. How could I resist being charmed?
We meandered through the store, discovering that it appealed to our shared fetish for domestic pleasure. At one point we ended up in the home appliance section among the refrigerators, stoves, dishwashers, washers, and dryers. We both sighed over a humongous, gleaming, stainless-steel-and-black Viking six-burner, two-oven stove, caressing the metal top greedily while thinking of all the delicious stews and cakes that it could create if we owned it.
“Peach khoresh and cardamom pistachio shortbread,” I said enticingly.
“Lemon-roasted chicken and sour cherry pie,” Lucky murmured back, biting the side of my neck.
“Spicy rugelach and tarragon goat cheese tarts,” I retorted, groaning.
“Salted mocha brownies and garlicky eggplant patties.” Lucky pressed her groin against my ass from behind, leaning over my shoulder as a pretext for examining the burners. “I want to suck your cock while you’re leaning up against this monster. Take it way down, letting you fuck my throat until I need to ream you from behind. Turn you over like a pancake, pull down your pants and fuck you. The pound cake baking in the oven, everything smelling of vanilla and sex, with you bent over, my cock sliding up your cunt. Fucking you until we both come against the stove, the oven handle hard against your clit.”
“Then the timer goes off as we come, you with a yell. We fetch the cake from the oven, and eat it in bed,” I whispered back to Lucky hoarsely.
We took the long way through the rope and fasteners aisles before finding ourselves in front of a box of wooden closet poles, talking to a portly middle-aged Latino man with faded nautical tattoos.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked Lucky.
“I need a five foot pole to put into my boyfriend’s closet,” Lucky replied.
I pretended a sudden interest in metal closet flanges in order not to burst into unseemly giggles. A pole in my closet indeed! Metaphorically, Lucky had been putting her various poles into my various closets for the past two months. My asshole still tingled from Lucky’s vigorous pole-reaming that very morning and I was wearing a thin rope harness tightly around my chest and under my binder. The rope was rough and itchy. It dug into my skin; just its proximity to my breasts made my nipples throb with anticipation.
We got a pole and flanges, along with a length of new red rope and a set of bits. There was a key duplicator next to customer service. I looked at Lucky, then I looked at the pole, then I looked at the key machine. “Hell, if you’re putting your pole in my closet, maybe you should have a key.”
Lucky threw in a set of silicone critter key caps, and we took off for home. After all, it was Saturday and Saturdays were for fucking.
Sex and sensual pleasure infused every moment together. The nail in my bachelor coffin might have been the morning I found Lucky in her button-front red-plaid boxers and a wife-beater ironing an aqua linen shirt, spray starch in hand, while singing along to Etta James’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On.” I swooned on the spot.
Perhaps it was when I spied Lucky’s key on the dining table next to my blue glass bowl filled with fruit, or when I heard the soft clang of keys on the tablecloth-covered wood as she walked into the living room. Her keys sat there until morning when we went to work, right next to my keys. They looked so friendly and hopeful together, Lucky’s raccoon keys nestled n
ext to my red-leather-clad keys. My heart jumped inside my chest. What were we doing?
Or maybe it was the morning I came out of the shower in my redplaid Pendleton robe to find Lucky seated on the side of the made bed in a still-warm white button-down shirt, her black cocksucking cock strapped on, and wearing her Dehner dress-patrol boots. Lucky stroked her cock with a smile on her lips, then nodded to me for service her. I fell to the kilim carpet, my mouth open and greedy as Lucky’s hips tilted forward, her hazel eyes gleaming.
Or it could have been the nights spent talking and snuggling on the sofa, Francy curled up between us, the fog outside and torch songs inside. We’d often find ourselves in the kitchen at 8:00 p.m. cooking, stirring butter and sugar for a cake, sautéing shallots for a crustless goat cheese quiche, or mixing a batch of overnight-yeasted waffles to bake the following morning. Lucky would dice while I stirred, bumping elbows companionably in the tiny kitchen. Then, after eating and fucking, we’d trade stories in bed until we’d drift off to sleep.
After three months of our seclusion, our best pals Tov and Poppy became querulous, demanding something more from us than brief texts in between bouts of fucking. One Sunday morning I woke up at 7:30 a.m., turned to Lucky, who was reading and drinking a large mug of black coffee while snuggled in a nest of gold-colored cotton sateen pillows, and said decisively, “I need leeks.”
Lucky put down The Trials of Radclyffe Hall, took a fortifying gulp of black coffee, raised one bushy eyebrow, and asked, “Do you need them this very minute?”
“What I mean is this: we have been fucking for three months. That’s all we’ve been doing,” I said, drawing the sheet up over my chest to cover my tender nipples. I didn’t want to be distracted by any sexual shenanigans. “We need to get out and do normal things too…or at least I do.”
I felt all stumbly and clumsy and claustrophobic. This feeling had been brewing for a week or so, and now that I’d started, I continued speaking nervously. “I miss Tov. I miss the infamous conjoined poly trio James, Laura, and Nona. I miss my writing group. I even miss grocery shopping!”
“Are we processing?” Lucky asked with trepidation.
“No, we’re getting dressed and going to Rainbow Co-op.”
Lucky uncovered one of my breasts, fondling my nipple with her calloused fingers then leaning over to suckle and nibble it until it was a hard ball. I pushed her away, “I mean it! We can fuck later. I want leeks now!”
Lucky started laughing at me. I knew I sounded like a petulant three-year-old that had just had their cupcake taken away. I started laughing at myself too. “Pouting aside, I’ve got to leave the apartment. Now. You can come with me or you can stay here and keep Francy company. Your choice, kiddo.” I kissed Lucky’s forehead and got out of bed, tossing the sheets aside dramatically.
My knees ached, so I downed another turmeric capsule with a glass of orange juice, then got into a steaming shower, lathering up with Mistral Amber soap, luxuriating in the deep spicy scent. It was always like this with me. I would brood silently for weeks until I figured it out, not stewing exactly, but just a wiggle of discomfort beneath the surface. Once I knew what direction to take, I wanted to move quickly. I got out, threw on a rust ombre Pendleton shirt, my overalls, and a pair of Frye harness boots.
Lucky was in the kitchen eating a bowl of Greek yogurt with blueberries when I went in to pick up my knapsack. “Wait up. I’ll come with you to Rainbow. There are a few things I need too, but not leeks.” Lucky grinned and grabbed a canvas shopping bag and we took off for Rainbow.
Going to Rainbow for the first time together felt curiously solemn and momentous, as if we were hatching, breaking out of a secret cocoon of fucking and orgasms to be in the so-called real world. I blinked once we hit the midday sunshine, stunned that there were people walking about, drinking lattes, pushing strollers, waiting for buses. I’d spent the past twelve weekends indoors fucking, lost in our world of cunts and cocks and bruises and kisses. It struck me that I’d hardly ever even seen Lucky in the daylight, outdoors. She was wearing a red long-sleeved waffle T-shirt, a Mr. S hoodie, black 501s, Wescos, and green-tinted aviator sunglasses. She looked like the kind of dyke that I’d walk into a lamppost cruising, so distracted by her hotness that I never saw the post coming.
As we walked down Folsom Street, Lucky groped my ass. “You’re so hot. Wanna cruise the salt section at Rainbow with me? Then we can snag free cheese and fruit samples.”
I squeezed Lucky’s meaty ass, her flesh so tender beneath my palm, “Baby, I’ve got a senior discount at Rainbow and Goodwill. Stick with me and you’ll be set for life!”
Rainbow was crowded with its usual weekend hordes of ponytailed sensitive New Age guys scowling at Spanish cheeses, frail-looking vegans in blue Mohawks comparing flavored seitan, middle aged lesbian couples wearing sensible shoes with carts full of herbal supplements and soy milk, and young tattooed queers lurking over the sauerkraut. These were my people and it made me happy to be amongst them. We joined the flock, both of us piling our handbaskets high. I stocked up on Taylor’s Scottish tea, bulk raisins, bulk oatmeal, bulk walnuts, Oscar Wilde sharp cheddar cheese, leeks, expensive freerange eggs, turmeric, ginko, and ginseng. Lucky bought coconut oil, beeswax, vitamin E oil, goat cheese, and a tub of fresh mozzarella. We split up so Lucky could pick up spices and I could get toiletries as they were on the opposite ends of the store.
As usual, I was drawn to the hand soap aisle like a toddler to a mud puddle. My downfall was Rainbow’s humongous selection of imported and locally made soaps. I had a stash of at least a dozen bars at home at any given moment. I soon became lost in sniffing the bars, admiring the packaging and colors. I’d added a square bar of sea salt in a nauticalthemed package, a local bar of piney cedar wood, a French bar of peony pink grapefruit, and was contemplating a bar of very pricey Spanish amber when Lucky interrupted me.
“I’m glad to see that you understand the importance of cleanliness!” She grinned.
“It’s true. Smelly things are my weakness.” I giggled, winked, then looked down at Lucky’s red plastic grocery basket. Right on top were a handful of white paper spice packets, each carefully labeled in Lucky’s meticulous angular handwriting. “Rosemary salt, truffle salt, gray salt, pink Himalayan salt, and fleur de sel. “Someone has quite the salt habit, I see!”
I leaned over to smooch her.
“Behrouz!” a perky but nasal voice exclaimed.
I looked up from our clench to see Adrian. I’d met Adrian while waiting to get into a movie at Frameline, the local GLBTQ annual film festival. Adrian volunteered with them each year, corralling flirtatious and rambunctious queers, lesbians, gay men, dykes, bisexuals, FTMs, and MTFs, etc., into tidy lines. I thought of it as the GLBTQRSVP film festival, but never to Adrian’s face. Adrian was very serious and very sensitive. He was a transdude who was sensitive to most scents, all cats, pineapple, tobacco, pot, gluten, chocolate, hemp, and silicone. He had three pet ferrets and two spouses. He was also prone to being triggered by life, that is, racism, incest, foul language, violence, sexism, fatphobia, transphobia, homophobia, Christianity, and classism. I’m sure that I’ve left something out. His delicacy fluctuated from month to month. As a result, he would go into a snit at the drop of a word, and we’d often go for weeks without talking. He annoyed me most of the time, but charmed me some of the time. I found him good-hearted if awkward, and was grateful that I was more shallow and less touchy than Adrian, as it allowed me to be more comfortable in the world.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself!” Adrian chided me. He carried a basket piled with mango juice, cherry pie, caramel sauce, strawberry sauce, and several pints of ice cream. He put the basket down and cocked his hip at Lucky. Apparently Lucky’s legendary charm was already taking effect. Adrian was wearing fuchsia nylon hot pants, black Doc Martins, a pink ribbed tank top embellished with TRANS MARCH 2012 in chipped silver metallic script across the chest, and a black-and-white buffalo-checked flannel sh
irt. He fanned himself with his left hand, swooning. Lucky had that effect.
“Hiding at Rainbow Co-op? Hardly. Adrian, meet Lucky. Lucky, meet Adrian.” I tried not to roll my eyes.
Adrian shook Lucky’s hand damply and tittered, “You’ll have to come to the unicorn hunt and play party that I’m hosting next week! We’ll have a posse of rainbow unicorn pets plus a griffin or two! You’ll get to see my new tail!” Adrian giggled again, simpering at Lucky and turning a delicate shade of seashell pink. As his eyelashes fluttered flirtatiously, a flock of silver glitter spilled down, freckling his chubby cheeks.
Lucky responded sweetly, “We’d love to, but we’re hosting a little shindig that weekend. We figured it’s about time to come out of hiding. We’d love to have you.”
“I’ll email you an invite.” I tugged on Lucky’s hand. “Gotta go now. See you later!”
Once out of Rainbow I asked Lucky what that was about. We hadn’t made plans together, certainly not to throw a party. We’d spent the past three months fucking and friendships had fallen by the wayside.
“I figure it’s time we met each other’s friends. Are you okay with throwing a party at your apartment? I’m sorry I didn’t ask first, but I didn’t want to go to Adrian’s unicorn hunt and it seemed like great timing.” Lucky smiled at me beguilingly.
Behrouz Gets Lucky Page 5