Finally I gasped, “Please fuck me!”
Lucky grabbed the rope binding my breasts, lifting me up off the bed, and twisting it savagely. “What makes you think I want to fuck you?” she hissed, then leaned over, biting my shoulder until I cried out.
Lucky fastened the clamps to my tender nipples, then held the chain that traveled between the clamps to my mouth. “Open your mouth and hold this.” She shoved the stainless-steel chain between my teeth. Her mouth moved from my neck to my nipples, suckling, nipping, and licking, her warm breath and wet lips tenderly soothing then pinching each bruise and stripe. She worked her way down to my belly, following the outline of my fire-beetle tattoo with her tongue.
Lucky had never sucked my cunt, my flesh cock. She had sucked my silicone cock many times, down on her knees, looking up at me adoringly, us melting into each other. No one had sucked my flesh cock or my cunt for decades. It had never been a favorite sport for me, and with testosterone I was unsure of myself. I’d even drawn a rare boundary there, asking Lucky to refrain from sucking my flesh cock. As Lucky licked the fiery tattooed beetle on my belly, I squirmed, trying to get away.
“No!” I begged. I didn’t have many boundaries, but this was one of them. Was Lucky breaking a cardinal rule of kink behavior with her insistence, or was Lucky helping me stretch my boundaries? I didn’t have long to mull over this conundrum because Lucky was moving quickly.
Lucky held my thighs apart with her hands, squeezing the marks and bruises until they burned, and making my cunt swell and my cock harden even more. “You’re mine. Give it up,” she said as her mouth lowered onto my flesh cock.
If I had not been tied down, I would have fled. It was horrifyingly intimate. As it was, I tossed and turned as much as I was able until Lucky rose from my cunt to slap me across each cheek. “You’re mine. I own you. Hold still.”
Lucky held my nostrils pinched shut with the forefinger and thumb of one hand, and covered my mouth with her other hand. She held her salty, calloused palm tight over my mouth, allowing no air to reach me. As instructed, I held still until I couldn’t help but stiffen with needing air. Lucky leaned over and released the hand that was over my mouth. I looked at her face. I managed a shallow breath before she quickly covered my mouth with her mouth instead of her hand. She held her breath as I tried to remain calm beneath her lips, unable to breathe. And then she breathed into my mouth, still holding my nostrils tightly shut. Lucky’s breath was my breath. Her exhale became my inhale as we breathed together, our breath binding us together, and the air traveling from her body to mine, then back again. I was passive, the fleshy body that Lucky was feeding with her breath. I was passive, but my passivity was an active state of receiving Lucky’s desires, giving up power, and letting the deep sexual and emotional energy travel between us. I opened my body and heart as wide as I could make myself, offering myself to Lucky.
She said more softly and tenderly, “You’re mine. You can do it.” She lifted her mouth from my mouth, her hand from my nostrils, and moved south with her lips, kissing and nibbling. She returned to my cunt, licking, biting, and suckling my cock and cunt lips as I whimpered. It was so difficult to hold still, to remain open. This kind of tender was a type of tender that I was not accustomed to, softer and fleshier.
I didn’t think I was going to be able to come with Lucky giving me head, but Lucky had other ideas. I felt Lucky rub lube on my asshole, then she slipped a medium-sized plug in. It was just enough to fill me and cause my asshole to throb with the desire to get fucked, a visceral vibration that made it open and twitch. She continued to suckle my cock, then slowly started working her rough fingers into my cunt. It was hard to concentrate, tied down with my asshole throbbing around a butt plug, Lucky’s mouth full of my cock, and her fingers circling my cunt, occasionally working their way in to remind me of how much I needed to get fucked. My cunt was heating up, the tendrils of electricity gathering there and in my belly. I was starting to forget myself as I thrust into Lucky’s mouth, her teeth nipping at my cunt lips and cock. Lucky’s fingers continued to promise a fucking, one, then two, then three inside me, and me dripping, clenching her fingers with my cunt muscles, willing her to force her fingers way inside of me.
“Please fuck me!” I begged, my hips rising as far as the ropes would let me, riding her mouth and hand.
Lucky continued to finger-fuck me softly and slowly, barely inside, while biting my cock and cunt lips wolfishly. My asshole and cunt were throbbing in frustration and pleasure as I ground myself into Lucky’s wet mouth. Lucky started working her hand inside of me, sliding in with a twist and a pop until I was filled, stretched around Lucky’s clever mitt like a glove. I was stuffed with Lucky, her spit, her fingers, her fist, her toys, her teeth. Filled with Lucky, dripping with our pleasure. Lucky growled into my cock, her fist clenching and my cunt fucking her hand, drawing it deep into my heart. I felt pleasure unfurl from my cock, through my belly.
I could see it, a fleshy pink ribbon of electrical desire undulating through my belly and chest, radiating as it traveled down my arms, up my neck, through my head, and finally shooting out of the top of my skull in a brilliant saffron-colored explosion.
My come gathered in waves as it flowed from my belly down to my cunt, and finally gushed out of me vigorously, soaking Lucky’s face, chest, arm, and the sheets with my salty wetness. Lucky growled and snorted as I shouted, releasing an explosion of nonsensical babble, my body shaking, wired on ecstasy.
I started crying, overcome with the unexpected strength of my orgasm. I was leaking everywhere and had ejected the butt plug onto the sheets. Lucky lay on top of me, kissing my cheeks and petting my head. My throat was sore and gravelly from shouting and I was suddenly overcome with tears.
Lucky untied my wrists and ankles letting the ropes fall to the floor, then pulled the quilt up to cover us both. “Oh, baby, you’re mine,” she murmured as Leonard Cohen crooned “I’m Your Man” into the tender night.
And tender, we were so tender together.
CHAPTER FOUR
OWNED
San Francisco was becoming a dystopian wonderland, or maybe it had been one all along and the present had finally caught up with the past. From gold diggers to techbros, from North Beach to SOMA to the Castro to the Mission, from Bohemians to activists to drag queens to hippies to hipsters, the history of San Francisco enveloped me every time I left my apartment. Sometimes it was a comfort, to be surrounded by such a rich past, but sometimes it felt like quicksand, a stew of unwashed longing.
Is this how it begins? The homeless fellow outside of All-Star Donuts Café died. It wasn’t really a Café, it was a cheap donut place with burnt coffee and a basket of spotty bananas next to the cash register. There were always homeless folks hunched over the chipped, dirty Formica tables, the metal table legs uneven and the grimy tabletops wobbly. Each workday on my way to the MUNI bus stop on Market, the smell of crappy bacon and fried donuts would waft around the corner of the tiny triangular brick building next to a parking lot. The homeless man I’m talking about slept on the southwest corner, huddled on the sidewalk wedged up tightly next to the building. They’ll be tearing down the All-Star sometime in the next few years to put up a five-story edifice to money. I thought it would be this year, but maybe not, because they’re having a party in the parking lot tonight to unveil a mural painted by three street artists: CARATOES from Hong Kong, LOLO from Oakland, and TATI from Miami. All women. And the mural depicted a bouquet of wide-eyed slender waifs, its style second cousin removed from renowned San Francisco artist Margaret Keane. This is what I mean. See how easy the trip was from cheap donuts, hunger, and death to hipster street art? Oh, fuck me.
I never talked to him. He was there each morning, soaking in the greasy stink and foggy shadow. He was never really awake, and I never saw him beg. He must have eaten food, pissed, taken a shower, jerked off, shot up dope, and smoked cigarettes somewhere, but all I ever saw was him passed out. Once, I walked by hurriedly, late
for work, looked down at him and realized that he’d shit himself, his ragged filthy pants pulled half off and dark brown diarrhea oozing onto the gray cracked sidewalk. His ass was pale white smeared with dirt and shit, his butt crack a crevice of unimaginable depth. I looked away, wanting to give him privacy. How could his shit and my carefully knotted silk necktie exist in the same universe, the same street corner? Sometimes I’d look at his face as I walked by, trying to see the five-year-old he’d once been, imagine that he had a cowlick, and a mother who loved him, fed him, held him, sent him to school in the morning. Then one day I read about a fatality in the San Francisco Chronicle, the death of a homeless person at Van Ness and Market, the brick corner of the All-Star Donuts Café. I read about the death wondering if it was him. I never saw him again after that. He passed like the greasy smells from the Café, rising into the San Francisco air to disappear into the clouds. Did anyone else notice that he died? Did his mother know?
Lucky and I were moving into her apartment in the Inner Sunset in a month. I’d watch that corner as I walked past, thinking about the man who shat himself to death there. There was no marker. His ghost didn’t linger. We were moving, deep in discussions over paint colors and deliriously ordering an extravagant four-poster bed and antique oak barrister bookcases. But that is what San Francisco was like. It was a mixture of the most elegantly sensual and the most filthily profane. Lucky and I discussed this dichotomy over pasta alla puttanesca, over rhubarb and strawberry pie, as she washed my back, while chopping onions, when riding the trolley, and while in bed with the covers drawn up to keep away the night damp.
It was part of a larger system, something beyond our control. This beast was a racket that let people stay cold and hungry, while food was wasted and buildings were empty. I started carrying change in my pocket and would empty handfuls of coins into the hands of whoever asked me for it. I met the eyes of the people who lived on the sidewalks that I walked upon, each glance saying, “I see you.” I sent out all the power, energy, and love I could as I walked past the homeless and bereft, imagining that I could heal something. Anything at all.
One night, after a dinner of a mushroom and smoked Gouda omelet and sourdough toast, Lucky and I took a moonlight stroll, looking for some fresh air and a dark alley for a little after dinner cock sucking, Lucky in her black leather jacket and I in my hoodie. We walked through Patricia’s Green Park, the one-block-long and one-quarter-block-wide park at the end of Octavia. Five lanes of speeding cars turn at the park, and two small lanes flank the park. Exhaust fumes act as fertilizer for the palm trees, the ginkgo trees, and the brown-eyed Susans. The palm trees and a collection of concrete tables and benches filled the Hayes Street end, the brown-eyed Susans and a children’s playground were on the Fell Street and Octavia Street end. In between were two grassy areas for dogs to shit, piss, and play and a sculpture that changed every year or so. Usually the art was made by Burners and was quasi-mythical, but the current sculpture was made of steel and involved too many sharp corners and not enough compositional forethought. It was a cool night and the fog obscured the full moon. We sat on one of the metal benches by the ginkgo trees, and discussed our day and our upcoming move. Lucky lit her pipe, the fumes and smoke rising delicately in the night air.
“Is that a new tobacco? I like it. Kind of fruity. Do we want to go with the peacock blue for the dining room and the leaf green for the library?” I asked.
“It’s called McCranie’s McArris; it’s a Virginia blend. I like the sweetness. I’d rather we went with something softer in the library, a deeper more muted green. I bought those teak dining room chairs for the dining room and a Mariko teak and an amber-colored resin side table for the library. We need to get a fireplace screen too. Have you thought any more about the bedroom situation?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “It’s more about privacy than about sleeping or not sleeping together. I need options to be alone. You have the library. You can shut the door and know that you’re alone. We have the middle room, which could be a guest bedroom, but maybe it could be my bedroom or maybe it could be my studio. The apartment is huge, but I don’t want us to be underfoot with each other. You know?”
“We need a place to put up friends. You need a private place to write. Why don’t you make the middle room into your studio and have a sleeper sofa in there? It’s big enough.”
“The thing is that I also want it to be my cave. I want to be surrounded by my stuff. I don’t want it to feel like a guest room or a hotel room,” I whined. “How would you like to have the sleeper sofa in your library then?” I asked querulously.
“We could put the sleeper sofa in the living room.”
“Oh, all right. I don’t know why I’m being so crabby about sharing a room with a sofa. Let’s just put it in the middle room and call it my studio. That seems eminently fair. Just no futons. I don’t want to feel like I’m camping out in a dorm!”
“Why are you so crabby tonight?” Lucky asked me, relighting her pipe.
Just then one of the local Hayes Valley mentally ill people walked by talking to himself angrily. Jerry was in his forties, tall, good looking, with shoulder-length, tangled blond hair, chiseled cheekbones, a muscular but lanky build, and very handsome. He was a painter and wore the same torn, paint-splattered, faded blue jeans and a bleached-out blue chambray shirt every day. He was always barefoot and jack etless, no matter the weather. I once ran into Jerry in the local, now closed, bookstore, and got into an unexpected lengthy discussion with him on German artist Joseph Beuys’s mediums, specifically which kind of animal fat he used in his performance pieces. I’d never talked with Jerry before. He used to yell at me in the park and call me a capitalist prisoner that was being controlled by the mafia, and tell me that I’d be shot by Satan at dawn. The art conversation was on one of Jerry’s good days, but his good days were infrequent. After we talked art in the bookstore, he stopped yelling at me, but continued his rake’s progress of becoming unhinged.
“It’s kind of that.” I gestured toward Jerry as he turned left by the palm trees onto Hayes Street. “Then there are all the HELP WANTED signs littering the windows of the coffee shops, boutiques, and chocolate stores. I live in an upscale paradise, but no one can afford to even work here anymore! I can’t afford to buy shoes in my own neighborhood and recoil at paying fifteen dollars for a pita wrapped sandwich. What will happen to Jerry?”
Two young men walked by our bench in the same direction that Jerry had taken. They were in their mid twenties, not stylish, white, straight looking, clean cut, with short hair, and wearing plain jeans, T-shirts, sneakers, and dark hoodies. They were talking earnestly about buying a sofa and as they passed us one turned to the other and said, “Maybe I’ll get it in leather. I just got a forty-five thousand a year raise.”
“And that,” I said, “is that. It just makes me want to cry. Jerry will go home and maybe paint or maybe talk to the walls, and they’ll go to some hipster bar and get drunk. Then spend money and not look at any of us in the eye. It feels more and more like us versus them. There is a class war going on and the enemy is here in this city. Or is it like Pogo said, ‘We have met the enemy and he is us?’ What can we do to own our city again?
“And look at this shit! People leaving their crap all over the park!” I gestured at three empty Smitten ice-cream cups, a discarded Ritual coffee cup, an empty bottle of LonjeviTea’s Gravenstein Apple kombucha, and a box with dried-up pizza crusts from Casey’s pizza food truck. I scooped up the debris and angrily threw it into the nearby metal trash container. “I’m sorry.”
Lucky turned to me, and grabbed my hand, looking at me seriously. “I have an idea. I have an idea on how we can own San Francisco again. Reclaim the city. The Lexington may close down to become a ritzy restaurant for techies, but we will own our city again!
“When I was a little girl, growing up in Ohio, my dad had a tool shed in the back yard. One of the neighborhood tomcats, an enormous battered ginger with one ear, took
to entering into the shed through a busted window and spraying on my dad’s drills and saws. Dad fixed the broken window, but the cat found another way inside. It stank in there and dad was pissed. One summer Saturday night, with the green smell of freshly mowed grass in the air, dad grilled steaks on the brick barbecue pit. As we ate at the redwood picnic table, dad hatched an idea to keep the pesky tomcat away from his tools. Dad downed can after can of Schmidt beer. The fireflies and mosquitoes came out and mom sprayed us down with Off bug repellent. Dad kept guzzling beer, until he was full of hops and piss. He then swaggered over to the tool shed in the dark, unzipped the fly of his khaki slacks, and methodically peed around his shed, circling three times for maximum effect. The tomcat never returned. Dad had marked his territory. We could do that.”
I grinned at Lucky. “So you’re talking the best ever kinky version of us shaking our canes and yelling, ‘You kids get off my lawn!’ We piss all over San Francisco?”
“Well” Lucky replied slyly, “I was thinking we could piss and we could come all over the city. Mark our city with our juices and reown it. Google, Twitter, Uber, and all those techbros can’t take San Francisco away from us.”
“I like it.” I giggled. “We need to make a list of places to mark. I remember James and Laura telling me about the San Francisco Yuppie Eradication Project back in the 1990s where activists would slash the tires and otherwise deface the cars of upscale gentrifiers. He had friends that were involved. A group of women that pissed on Hummers and other ostentatious cars; they’d climb up on top of the cars, lift their skirts, and let loose!”
“Let’s start tonight in Hayes Valley. Behind what used to be Marlena’s.” Marlena’s drag bar had been a twenty-two-year institution, the oldest drag bar in the city. Now it was Brass Tacks, a cocktail bar and techbro pickup joint that was as hipster and annoying as it sounded, filled to the cheap black, gray, white, and metal brim with hipster girls looking to score with techbros.
Behrouz Gets Lucky Page 10