Behrouz Gets Lucky

by Avery Cassell

  Lucky had inherited a three-bedroom Edwardian flat in the Inner Sunset from her close friend Henry Bennett, who’d died of AIDS ten years ago. Lucky had rented the apartment out for income, staying put in the rent-controlled studio apartment in the Mission that she’d lived in for twenty years, and now the renters, the Petersons, were moving to Pennsylvania, leaving the apartment vacant.

  “I guess you’ll need to find new tenants. That shouldn’t be hard with the market the way it is right now. Or are you thinking of selling? I wouldn’t recommend that though. That apartment is a great investment,” I said.

  “Maybe I can find another use for the apartment.” Lucky held up her book in front of her face, Birthright: Murder, Greed, and Power in the U-Haul Family Dynasty, and pointed at the book’s title. She wiggled her eyebrows and dimpled her dimples.

  I’m gullible, bad at getting jokes, and was never very good at poker. I have the kind of face that gives everything away. On the other hand, my emotive expressive features make me an exciting bed partner. I tilted my head in puzzlement and asked, “What do you mean?”

  Lucky started giggling, “Look at the book I’m reading! U-Haul and…” she paused expectedly.

  “And murder? Who got murdered?“

  “No, silly. U-Haul and lesbians and apartments…”

  “I’m still on murdered. What are you trying to say? Is everything okay? Is Betty all right?” I looked at Lucky intently, trying to decipher her message by reading her facial expression.

  “Oh fuck. You’d suck at charades. Do you want to move into my giant apartment together?” Lucky asked me, laughing.

  I was stunned. We were getting along marvelously, I was in love, and I thought that Lucky was in love too, although she had not said those words yet. I’d never considered living with another person again. I’d had roommates, lived in collectives, lived with husbands, lived with girlfriends, and was now living alone. I had a rent-controlled one-bedroom Victorian apartment in a trendy, centrally located, safe neighborhood and had anticipated living in this apartment until I died. Or until I instigated the formation of my imaginary collective for elderly queer perverts, which would most likely never happen. In my head, the gang of us lived in a manor with a live-in masseuse and a burly butch dyke gardener, a bit like Lucky actually. We’d eat and cook together, get old and cantankerous together, read and write smut together. And raise chickens, so I could feed them cracked corn at sunrise, scattering dried corn and singing Doris Day tunes.

  I never imagined living with a lover again. It was chancy to give up a rent-controlled apartment, especially in San Francisco where the average one-bedroom apartment cost as much as three quarters of my annual salary.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I replied skittishly. “We’d be living together. All the time. In the same apartment. Sharing a bathroom. Sharing closets.” The Voice of Doom was on a rampage.

  Lucky cocked her head quizzically, then stood up. “I’m making us a pot of tea.” She left to give me time to brood.

  I thought about it. We’d be living in the same apartment. Lucky would have to give up her place in the Mission and I’d have to give up my place in Hayes Valley. Suppose it didn’t work out and we hated living with each other, then what? We’d be fucked, or rather I’d be fucked. There is no way I’d find a new affordable apartment in San Francisco. Hell, not even in Oakland. I’d have to move back to Ohio. If I moved to Ohio, I’d have to become a Buckeyes football fan. I’d definitely never get laid again and I’d probably get gay bashed. Or something. I’d start wearing sweatshirts and eating at fast-food restaurants. And I wouldn’t have health insurance so I’d have to stop taking T, so then I’d be just an old fat balding dyke. Lucky and I would despise each other. We’d break up and I’d never get laid again. Fuck. My brain jammed, stuck in a tailspin on the possibilities. Then I remembered “the song of mehitabel,” always a guide in times of self-doubt, which is often the only kind of doubt worth mentioning, “Oh, wotthehell, wotthell,” I muttered, “there’s might be a dance in the old dame yet.”

  Lucky came back into the living room and set the Queen Elizabeth tray on the engraved copper tray coffee table. She poured us each a mug of ginger tea, and passed my mug over to me, along with a couple of anise cookies. “Well?”

  I felt pale and was glad that the lights were turned down low. I didn’t want Lucky to see how frightened I was, and mistake my self-doubt about living together for self-doubt about my love for her. “Okay. But we need to talk.” I was starting to feel giddy, but this was how I often made big life decisions, by jumping off the cliff, eyes closed and fingers crossed. If I didn’t just fecklessly jump, I’d be in a quandary of doubt for years. Besides, I needed to turn my brain off about Ohio.

  “Yay! It’s a huge apartment with three bedrooms. They’re moving out next weekend, then we can go in, pick out paint colors, hire painters and cleaners, and move in,” Lucky enthused cheerfully.

  “Do you want to get a roommate? I mean, it’s big enough but I’d rather not. It’s going to be enough of an adjustment just to live together without throwing another person into the pot. How much is the mortgage?” When confronted with change, I often switched into high fix-it-and-control-it gear, and I was on a roll. “Do you own the entire house of just the second floor? What are the utilities like? Do you know the downstairs neighbors? Is the stove gas or electric? Is there a washer and dryer? Is there a yard? A balcony?” I poured another mug of tea. “When can we look at it? Do you want to share a bedroom or do you want separate bedrooms? I can see the advantages of both. Romaine Brooks and Natalie Barney built two side-by-side houses with a shared living room. Everything else was separate. Of course, we’re not Natalie and Romaine.” I took a deep breath.

  “Are you done yet?”

  “For now.” I dunked an anise cookie into my tea until it was soggy and ate it. Lucky handed me another cookie.

  “No roommate, just us. And Francy. I was thinking of getting another cat. We have enough room to share a bedroom or not. Your call. I own the second floor, not the rest of the house. The mortgage will be paid off next year. I’d really like to make one of the bedrooms into a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and armchairs in front of the fireplace. We can go over any time. I’ll need to call John and Autumn first, but they’re usually pretty relaxed about my stopping over. I think Daphne has already moved out.”

  I was excited about shacking up with Lucky but had a hard time showing it. It was like my capacity for outward fun had been buried years and years ago. I’d unpack it, shake it out, look at it dubiously, but the Voice of Doom was strong. I wanted to put on my party hat, shake noisemakers, throw confetti, but felt flummoxed. Lucky, on the other hand, was already maniacally scrolling through images of built-in library bookshelves, debating whether to get something made or to find a set of antique shelves. We balanced each other. Part of me just wanted to give up, take a hot bath by myself, and let the steam, scented soap, and candlelight untwist my thoughts, but I didn’t get up. A larger part of me wanted to leave the Voice of Doom baggage, dump that suitcase by the side of the road. Maybe I’d never throw confetti, but I could learn not to run away.

  I thought about our styles. We both felt strongly about the beauty of our surroundings. Lucky leaned toward Mid-Century and modern, and I toward Victorian and the Arts and Crafts movement. Between us we had two love seats, one sofa, one antique wooden bed frame and one brushed steel bed frame, numerous armchairs, one 1940s chrome-and-Formica dinette set, four bedside tables, at least eight rugs, and two large clothing armoires. The only saving grace was that Lucky lived in a studio apartment, thus she owned fewer furnishings. I was a packrat, and decorated through overkill. Lucky was more spartan, but far from a minimalist. The truth was, we were two decorating tops looking to move in together.

  “Maybe a set of Mission oak Gustav Stickley shelves in the library?” I said.

  “I was thinking teak Danish Modern built-ins,” Lucky replied.

  “A leather-
covered William Morris armchair would be perfect in the parlor,” I sniffed haughtily.

  “Of course, a Ray and Charles Eames leather lounging chair and ottoman!” Lucky retorted, trying not to laugh.

  “We’d be remiss if our dining room lacked a low, sleek Paul McCobb étagère,” I said.

  ”The better to fuck you over,” Lucky growled.

  “Oy! This is how it’s going to be for the entire next month isn’t it! Potato and potahto all the way,” I laughed.

  And we burst into a verse from Gershwin’s “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off,” making Francy pounce off in a huff at our caterwauling.

  The next day, we planned an outing to our new apartment, Arizmendi Bakery, and the beach. The Petersons were out at a going-away brunch. It was foggy and cool, perfect weather for huddling at the beach with hot tea and sticky pecan rolls. We filled a green metal Stanley thermos with sweetened mango black tea, and packed our rucksack with a blanket, notebook, and tape measure. We intended to measure rooms in order to plan furniture arrangements, and windows in order to plan curtains. We both dressed warmly, wearing T-shirts with plaid flannel shirts over them, and hoodies, then set off on the N-Judah train to the Inner Sunset and Lucky’s Edwardian apartment, soon to be our Edwardian apartment.

  We stopped off at the bakery first, buying a white paper bag of ginger shortbread cookies, two humongous pecan rolls, and a loaf of light rye bread for later. Sauntering to the apartment was odd. This would be our neighborhood. Arizmendi, our local bakery. Green Apple, our local bookstore. Golden Gate Park, our local park. Progress Hardware, our local hardware store. Instead of eating spaghetti at Chow on Church Street in the Castro, we’d go to the Chow on 9th near the park. Goodbye to Dolores Park in the Mission with wall-to-wall, littering, champagne-guzzling techbros. Goodbye to itsy bitsy Patricia’s Green Park in Hayes Valley with its designer each-scoop-individually-made-at-six-dollars-a-scoop ice cream. Hello to Golden Gate Park with its buffalos, Stow Lake, the de Young art museum, the windmills, and the Arboretum.

  The apartment building was a classic two-story Edwardian, painted in glorious shades of fey purple with charcoal-gray trim and gold metallic accents, the entrance flanked by two potted rosemary plants in tall red ceramic vases. A dozen gray marble steps led to the front doors. Lucky’s apartment was on the second floor; the door was unfinished and had its original beveled and leaded decorative glass panes. I was immediately enamored with the cast-iron Art Deco doorbell with its graceful swooping lines and bossy instructions. It said PRESS in the round center buzzer. Another family lived on the first floor. Lucky had only met them a few times, but said that she understood from the Petersons that they were quiet.

  We opened the front door and climbed up the steep carpeted steps while holding on to the polished wooden bannister. There was a window at the top of the stairway that was set with stained glass in an Art Nouveau design of three deep-pink roses with green leaves on an amber background. The steps led to a small square foyer that was paneled with original wainscoting. Lucky and I stood together looking down the long hallway with doors on either side leading to as yet unseen rooms. There were three doors to the left, and four doors to the right. The Petersons’ belongings were already boxed up and shoved to the side. We wandered through the rooms on the right-hand side. First was a parlor with a large bay window overlooking Golden Gate Park. French doors led into a dining room with a smaller bay window, then into the kitchen, which had a small tidy combination pantry and laundry room in the back; lastly, there was a half toilet that opened onto the hallway. Leaving the kitchen and crossing the hallway, there was the library with a working fireplace, a bedroom, and then another bedroom with a connecting master bath.

  Fortunately, most of the woodwork, including the flooring, had been left natural and was in relatively good shape. My apartment in Hayes Valley had ugly, cheap, ubiquitous oatmeal-colored low-pile carpeting, so I was gratified to see the gleaming hardwood floors.

  “Lucky, my Persian carpets will look amazing on these floors,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure why I was whispering except that the apartment was twice as big as both of our apartments combined, and a million times more glamorous. I felt a little like an imposter, the poor wee prince who has been suddenly lifted up into a royal lifestyle and now wanders about drooling with confused delight and wonderment.

  On closer inspection, the kitchen proved to be a large square room with a double window along one wall. It had an awesome vintage 1950s white-enamel forty-inch Wedgewood stove with two ovens, a small battered vintage white Frigidaire with a rounded top, dark-gray soapstone countertops, matte charcoal-gray rectangular slate tile flooring, a huge vintage white farmhouse double sink, and warm caramel-colored oak cabinets glowing with a deep patina and adorned with bronze cup-pull handles. The kitchen walls had matching oak wainscoting, giving it a 1930s bungalow feel. There was a separate small shelf-lined pantry off the kitchen with a stacking washer dryer. It was very cozy, and I was already imagining wildflowers on the kitchen table, the red teakettle whistling, white curtains adorned with pom-pom trim fluttering in the cool breeze, and a cardamom pound cake baking in the oven.

  The room that Lucky wanted to turn into a library had a stunning, unpainted, antique Art Nouveau wood fireplace mantel that was festooned with elegant carved trees and two mantelpiece mirrors. Both the tentative library and the bedroom next door had large closets, and the main bedroom had a closet that stretched the length of the room. Aside from the bathrooms, the entire apartment was painted with dingy cream paint, but that was easily remedied. All the rooms in the apartment had beautifully curved coved ceilings with picture rails. Except for where Henry had renovated with antique stained glass, all the windows had their original beautifully blemished wavy glass panes.

  The bathroom off of the main bedroom had charcoal gray wainscoting topped by olive-green, gray, and peony-pink swirling Art Nouveau William Morris wallpaper, a white claw-foot tub, white and gray hexagonal floor tiles with dark-gray grout, and a white pedestal sink. The small high window was inlaid with more beveled and leaded decorative glass panes, similar to the ones in the front door.

  The small toilet near the kitchen was also lavishly decorated. It was papered with William Morris Strawberry Thief wallpaper in sage greens and deep peony pinks, and had small white hexagonal floor tiles with dark-gray grout and a deep-rose ceramic pedestal sink and toilet. There was one narrow rectangular window set with clear beveled and leaded panes.

  The dining room had a lovely rectangular stained-glass transom over the center bay window. It was a graceful design with a beautiful Art Nouveau stylized sensuous curved floral motif, a clear background, and rose, sea-foam-green, and sky-blue rondels scattered throughout the design. It reminded me a little of some of the Liberty of London cotton paisley fabrics that Lucky and I had admired a few weeks before, thinking they would make dandy dress shirts.

  Lucky got out her phone. “Let me show you the Mid-Century dining room table and chairs that I’ve been eyeballing,” Lucky began scrolling through her phone looking intently for a picture of the dining room set.

  I was suddenly mesmerized by Lucky’s forefinger as it moved on the phone screen. Her calloused finger traveled from the top of the screen to the bottom of the screen, then she picked it up and moved it again from top to bottom, and a third time from top to bottom, stroking the glass screen as she searched for the dining room set. I blushed. All I could think of was Lucky’s finger stroking inside my cunt, burrowing its way inside, curled up like a fiddlehead only to unfurl inside of me, hard and searching. Her sensitive fingertips searching for each tender swollen spot, wet and eager. Her finger, the sweetest scavenger. So, yes, I blushed imagining her finger slipping inside of me.

  Lucky looked up from her phone. “Are you okay?” Comprehension lit her eyes as she recognized my blushing muddle for what it was and ran her hand over my chest, fondling my breasts. She ran her hand along the waistband of my jeans, slipping her thumb under the denim, and te
asing me. “What do you want?”

  “Your fingers!” I gasped. “Inside!” Articulateness had fallen by the wayside. I leaned into Lucky’s grip. “Please!”

  “Do you think we should?” Lucky asked lasciviously and eagerly. “Suppose Autumn and John return? What then?” she asked as she unbuttoned my jeans slowly. “Are”—one button popped out of its buttonhole. “You”—a second button popped out of its buttonhole. “Sure?”—and a third button popped out of its buttonhole.

  I wiggled, trying to get my pants down and Lucky’s hand closer. “Oh yes,” I panted.

  Lucky pushed me over to the dining room table that had been shoved against the wall, ready to be taken away by the movers. It was covered with a paint-splattered navy-blue cotton tarp. “Bend over.”

  I bent over, placing my palms on the tabletop. Lucky stood behind me. She pulled my jeans down to my ankles, kicked my legs apart, inserted her hand between my shaking thighs, and reached inside my dripping cunt with her rough finger. The finger that minutes before had been scrolling through pictures of teak Mid-Century dining room sets in such a distracting way.

  “Is this what you want, my little invert?” she asked as she shoved one, then two fingers inside my cunt, curved and hard.

  As I looked up from the tabletop, a beam of sunlight broke through the fog and shone through the stained glass, casting a scattering of rainbows throughout the dining room. “Oh fuck!” I exclaimed as I came with a short burst, come dripping down my legs to my knees.

  Lucky draped herself over me, holding me until I caught my breath. “Welcome home,” she murmured, as we kissed, folded together over the dirty canvas tarp, the cast rainbows dancing around us like a blessing.

  After a few minutes, I straightened up, fastened my pants, buckled my brass belt buckle, and sucked Lucky’s wet fingers clean, licking each digit sweetly, relishing the texture of her skin and my scent and kissing her after. “I like this apartment.”