After dinner Lucky and I were sent out into the wilderness of Columbus, Ohio by my daughter to buy a turkey baster, a string of small clear lights, garbage bags, tape, lard, and half-and-half. Ohio liked to snow for my visits, and a wet snow had been falling softly since midmorning. Ice trucks and plows were already out, preparing the streets for a Christmas day of squiring squalling excited kids and sleepy caffeinated parents to relatives’ homes, and other folks to packed movie theaters and Chinese restaurants. We were grateful for some time alone. Alex and Sam had reached their optimal level of preholiday anticipation and were whining, too wound up and reluctant to go to bed. Theo had resorted to assigning them household chores on different floors just to keep them busy and separated until bedtime. They were plotting insurrection, but not until after they’d absconded with their gifts on Christmas Day. We’d left Theo frantically scrolling through pie crust recipes, muttering about flakiness, ice water, butter vs. shortening vs. lard, and swilling black coffee laced with whiskey, tempered by listening to the Indigo Girls.
Most stores were already closed for the holiday, but Theo had directed us toward a decrepit mall on the South Side that was usually open on holidays. She Google mapped it on Lucky’s phone and sent us off. It was off a desolate side road filled with construction, but after getting lost in the snow twice we finally found the mall. There was a grocery store, a Tractor, Farm, and Fleet, a cheap haircutting salon, the ubiquitous Starbucks, and a bank. It was everything one could possibly want on Christmas Eve. The parking lot was full in front and empty in the rear, kind of like a reverse mullet. We parked next to the grocery store, went in, and managed to get everything except for the turkey baster. Tractor, Farm, and Fleet was our only hope. The store was almost deserted, the only shoppers looked desperate and bewildered, with shopping carts filled with wrapping paper and last-minute gifts of toys and tools. To two urbane queers from San Francisco, Tractor, Farm, and Fleet was an exotic wonderland of Middle America sprinkled with kinky sex toy possibilities. We decided to start at the right and work left, the bright overhead lights illuminating us as we fondled and giggled over butchly overalls and hoodies, J-Lube, riding crops, bales of barbed wire, sundry dangerous-looking metal tools, and shoulder-length latex gloves. I found a blue button-down shirt for Alex and we grabbed the last turkey baster in stock for tomorrow’s dinner, with a rubber bulb in the shape of a plump brown turkey. We almost made it out without any sex toys until Lucky’s eyes lit on a shiny chrome hitch ball that bore a remarkable resemblance to a pricey butt plug we’d seen at Mr. S a month ago. She pounced on it, I raised my eyebrows in mock indignation, and we added it to our basket. We checked out, the chirpy, mustached, flannel shirt–wearing bear of a clerk wishing us happy holidays, as Etta James huskily made promises that she was not going to keep over the loudspeakers, and then we started back home.
We were on the highway and nearly home, when Lucky pulled over to a rest stop. It was deserted and I wondered why we were parking there. Lucky turned off the car lights, unbuttoned her black jeans, took off her packy, fished into her man-bag, put on her biggest cocksucking cock, and stroked it, tilting her hips up. “I want you to suck my cock. Now. Get me off. I’ve been waiting too long.”
She grabbed my head and shoved my head roughly onto her cock. I love sucking cock. I love getting stuffed, that feeling of opening and the lack of control. I love the messiness of cocksucking, the spit, drool, and tears as I gagged, choking on her cock. The smell of Lucky’s cunt, out of reach yet less than an inch from my mouth, and my lips chaffing as she fills me. I wanted to be Lucky’s boy, Lucky’s girl, Lucky’s man, and Lucky’s woman. I wanted to be Lucky’s everything.
I opened up my mouth, feeling Lucky’s cock hit the back of my throat. Lucky thrust into my mouth as she held on to my neck and head, tightening her grip on my neck. It was hard to breathe and I could feel drool gathering in the corners of my mouth and cooling as it trickled down my chin. She bucked beneath me as I made gulping noises, gagging as her cock buried itself in my mouth, stuffing me full of Lucky. My cunt was on fire and my nipples were painfully hard. All I wanted was Lucky speared down my throat as deep and hard as possible, and coming in my mouth and out my cunt. The windows were fogging up and all I could hear was the quiet sound of falling night snow, her grunts and growls, the wet slobber of her cock pushing into my mouth, and my gulps and moans. With a final shout of, “Fuck me!” Lucky came in my mouth, her cock slamming into the back of my throat one last time. She leaned back and relaxed as I put her cock away in her bag, buttoned up her 501s, and wiped the spit and tears from my face. My lips were puffy and sore from cocksucking. I wanted her hand inside of me desperately. It had been three days of no fucking, my cunt and ass unstuffed. I was becoming carnivorous and feral, desperate to be filled, but I knew that I wasn’t getting any until we were back in San Francisco. My cunt, my ass, my pisshole, and now my mouth were empty.
“Baby, that was good. You’re a good little fag cocksucker.” Lucky turned the key in the ignition, set the heat on high, and whistling “The Lady Is a Tramp,” drove us the rest of the way home.
Lucky did not relent at any point on Christmas Eve, but kissed me chastely before dropping off into a deep sleep. I stuck my hands under my armpits to keep them away from my cunt and thought of England, but it didn’t help. I tossed and turned until Bacon Bits came into the living room and curled up in the crook of my neck, purring me to sleep noisily, orange tail swishing under my nose.
When Theo was little I used to make her eat a bowl of oatmeal sweetened with dried fruit before she was allowed to open presents on Christmas morning. Being a hippie, I also banned sugar from our diet, saying that it was a mood-altering addictive substance. I saw the error of my ways once Theo grew up and left the house, but she had never forgiven me for a childhood bereft of chocolate Easter bunnies and Halloween candy corn. I was dutifully remorseful, so I made a point of sending her California chocolate and home-baked cakes and cookies regularly. In rebellion against her austere upbringing, Theo had not maintained what she felt was the unreasonable family holiday ritual of oatmeal on Christmas morning. She prided herself on her holiday morning breakfast of sugar-bomb baked iced cinnamon buns and whipped-cream-topped hot chocolate on a tray in the living room so that the kids could mainline sugar while opening their presents. I found the combined sugar rush, excitement over new toys, and early morning hours too rowdy for my taste, but it was only once a year so I sucked it up for the sake of ultimate peace.
Alex and Sam woke up at 5:00 a.m., and parked themselves behind the closed pocket doors between the dining room and the living room where we slept near the Christmas tree. I could hear them whispering and shuffling, hoping to wake us so we’d let them into the room with all the gifts and their stockings.
“Shhhh. Mom said we aren’t allowed to wake up Grandpa and Lucky,” whispered Alex.
“You’re making all the noise,” replied Sam.
“Shut up. We’re gonna get in trouble!”
“I’m gonna tell on you!”
“Santa won’t bring you anything!”
“I know there isn’t a Santa.”
Lucky was still sleeping the sleep of the well sucked. At five thirty I gave up. I stealthily got up without waking her, gathered the wayward grandkids, and went into the kitchen where Theo was putting an enormous pan of cinnamon rolls into the oven and drinking coffee.
Theo divvied up cooking tasks. “Alex, help me whip the cream for the hot chocolate. Sam, do you want to grate the bittersweet chocolate that we sprinkle on top? You can wake up Lucky in thirty minutes when the cinnamon rolls are done.”
I grabbed an extra-large mug of coffee for Lucky and went into the living room, sliding the door closed behind me. “Hey you, Christmas will officially begin in about fifteen minutes. You might want to guzzle this for a head start.”
Lucky poked her head out from under her pillow. “What the fuck time is it?”
“Five forty-five, kiddo. Rise and shine.
Theo, Sam, and Alex will be coming in here with a platter of cinnamon rolls and too much anticipation, so you’d best get up and chug this coffee.”
I hefted Lucky up out of bed, settled her with the mug of coffee in hand, and put away the futon mattress and bedding just as Theo arrived, triumphantly bearing an enormous tin tea tray decorated with bluebirds perched on a cherry tree, and loaded with a red Fiestaware platter of hot iced cinnamon rolls and red mugs of fragrant hot chocolate.
“It’s that French blogger, David what’s-his-name’s recipe this time. It is all about the hot milk and chopped bittersweet chocolate. I used the Scharffen Berger that you sent me last month, and yes, of course I tarted it up with whipped cream! Are you sure you don’t want any?”
Lucky shook her head blearily while clutching her coffee firmly, and I declined the hot chocolate due to heartburn. Theo sat cross-legged beneath the Christmas tree and handed out presents, rotating between Alex and Sam with an occasional gift tossed our way. I’d gone overboard on board games, pogo sticks, and stilts for both grandkids. Theo loved birds and collected bird salt-and-pepper shakers, so I bought her a set of vintage ones in the shape of a girl bird in a bonnet and a boy bird in a top hat, both with demonically sparkling rhinestones for eyes. My Great Uncle Garland, one of the elderly single gentlemen in my Southern family, painted rustic outhouses, and I’d given Lucky one of his earlier outhouse paintings framed in a walnut spool-style Eastlake frame from the mid-1870s. Lucky and I traded gifts of cuff links. I gave her a pair of vintage Tiffany gold cuff links in the shape of stag heads with sapphire eyes and she gave me a pair that had a tiny handcuff key concealed as part of the design. Bacon Bits and Chuck Norris got a handful of frisky felt catnip mice from Rainbow Co-op, but ended up ensconced in empty boxes and torn-up wrapping paper. The grandkids’ and Lucky’s zoo gift shop plotting had resulted in a red-butted furry baboon hand puppet that I named Queen Victoria.
Alex was enthralled with the puppet’s red butt and spent the rest of the morning holding the puppet, snorting, and chortling, “Queen Victoria has a big red butt!” Then she would make the puppet shake its ass and she’d collapse in giggles.
Lucky leaned over and whispered, “That inflamed red monkey butt looks like your ass after I’m done caning it. That’s why it is the perfect gift for you, my little monkey butt.”
By noon Alex, Sam, and Theo were crashing from the sugar. Lucky and I volunteered to start the roast turkey and sent everyone off for naps. I removed the twenty-five-pound hunk of bird from the brining bucket on the back porch and patted it dry while Lucky chopped sweet onions and tart apples for our traditional cornbread and apple stuffing. I fried the sage sausage, and when I was done Lucky mixed everything in a large metal mixing bowl.
“Baby, I’m going to show you how to stuff a turkey. Watch closely.” Lucky whipped out a pair of black nitrile gloves from the back pocket of her jeans. She put them on, snapping the cuffs, then flexed her hands. I jumped at the snapping sound, my cunt getting wet in Pavlovian response.
“I gotta warm this sweet little bird up,” she said, and reached into the turkey’s cavity slowly until she was in halfway up her forearm. “Come closer so you can watch my hand. Stand next to me. There you go. Closer. Right next to me. Just rest your hip against my ass the way I like it.”
I was mesmerized, turned on, and horrified all at once. I was in my daughter’s kitchen in Ohio while my lover did dirty things to and fisted a clammy cold dead turkey carcass. Lucky removed her hand from inside of the turkey, poured a dollop of olive oil onto her gloved palm and rubbed her hands together, getting them slick and shiny.
“I need to make sure the flesh is tender, so I’m going to smooth this olive oil into the inside and then the outside of our bird,” she said, like a perverted Martha Stewart. She reached in again, meeting my eyes. “See how I’m making sure our bird is all slick and slippery inside. I’m turning my hand around and pressing into its tender flesh with my knuckles. I’ve got to make sure that I grease up every spot. Put your hand inside too and grab my fist. Go on. Don’t be shy.” I reached in the opening, felt Lucky’s greased up fist, and gasped. I imagined her sliding into me the way she’d slid into that turkey and my hips moved forward against her ass. I couldn’t help it.
Lucky grabbed a garlic clove, then separated the cold, feather-pluck-marked skin from the turkey breast. She took the clove and slowly inserted it with her index and middle fingers under the loosened skin. “See how I gently loosened the skin? Now I’m sliding the garlic in between the skin and the flesh.” She moved her hand around, the two fingers straightened out and sliding carefully, reaching the entire breast and pressing in with her fingertips. “I’m softening up the breast flesh and making it flavorful. You know how important it is to soften things up before you cook them, right?”
“Oh baby,” I moaned. “You are so fucking unfair. So fucking mean. We haven’t fucked in days!”
“That’s why I’m the sadist, monkey butt.”
“Hey you two,” Theo stood in the doorway rubbing her eyes. “Tell me what you want me to do next.”
Theo came into the steamy kitchen and I backed away from Lucky’s ass. I did all but throw myself onto the snow in the backyard to cool off. I washed dishes. I folded laundry. I peeled potatoes. I took out the trash. I fed the cats. Anything to stop thinking about Lucky’s right hand in my cunt and her left hand at my throat.
Dinner was terrific and the table was packed with Christmas orphans. Theo’s heavily sun-tanned gay couple next-door neighbors, her filmmaker, gluten-intolerant, vegan landlady, two hopeful exes, and a freshly single teary-eyed girlfriend, along with three pals from my activist days twenty years ago all came. The freshly fisted turkey was juicy and tender, the mashed potatoes a glory of Yukon gold, cream and butter, and the roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon, pecans and maple-balsamic vinaigrette vanished quicker that you could say “Queen Victoria has a red monkey butt.” We had Theo’s pumpkin pie, my sour cream raisin pie, a pomegranate cheesecake, and Lucky’s pear pie for dessert. We were truly stuffed. After dinner, we sipped tea and played a rowdy game of Cards Against Humanity until the tryptophan, carbs, and sugar started kicking in. Folks started leaving at nine, and by 10:00 p.m. Lucky and I were flat on our backs on the futon mattress with Theo, Alex, and Sam upstairs asleep.
“That was so good,” I said. “I’m really glad you came with me to meet my family. Do you like them?”
“I’m stuffed. I like your kid. Sam is a firecracker and Alex is a sweetie.”
“Theo likes you. At first she thought you were a player though.”
She kissed my cheek. “Could you go get me a plate with a few of those ginger cookies? And while you’re at it bring back a dollop of lard.”
I padded into the kitchen, arranged some cookies on a plate, then scooped out a couple of tablespoons of lard and put them on the side of the dessert plate. I came back into the living room, shutting the doors behind me, and sat on the futon mattress next to Lucky. We shared the ginger cookies, then Lucky smiled at me slyly.
“Lie on your stomach,” she said, and rolled me over. She pulled my pajama pants down and sat on my thighs with her palms resting on my ass. “Poor monkey butt. All stuffed full of food and nothing else. You need to be stuffed don’t you?” I heard the snap of a glove and watched as she scooped up the lard with her right hand. “You’re my petit porc, aren’t you? Gotta have things stuffed into your ass and cunt until they are coming out of your mouth.”
She caressed my asshole with two lard-smeared fingers, then told me to spread my legs. She reached over to her bag that was above my pillow and pulled out the chrome hitch ball, then rubbed lard all over the mirrored surface. The metal was icy cold and felt wonderful against my hot asshole. I inhaled and my breathing became fast as Lucky pushed the ball inside me. I opened up, feeling my cunt juice drip down my legs and my cock get hard and swollen. I shook and groaned, my belly tensing. My nipples ached.
“No coming. No fucking
. You’re mine, my petit porc. Lie still. Put your hands up over your head away from your tits. Close your legs.”
Then Lucky took off her pajama pants and lay on me full length, her raspy cunt hair brushing against my ass and her soft belly warm against my back. She spread her cunt lips, smearing my ass with her juice, and started humping my ass. I could feel her cunt get wetter and her cock get harder against my ass. I had to resist moving to meet her.
“Hold still. Fucking stay still.” She opened her lips up farther, her cunt splayed over me, grinding into my ass. “Don’t you wish I was fucking you right now, my cock sliding in and reaching deep inside your ass? Oh yeah, coming out until the tip is barely in, then slamming in so fast and deep that you feel it in your gut, and fucking you so hard and fast that you’re grunting with each stroke?”
I could feel the hitch ball inside of me, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to be filled. My eyes teared up in frustration. I was never going to be able to come again.
I lay on my belly, my ass filled with lard and metal as Lucky got herself off, humping me like a dog on a stranger’s leg. Her cunt left a trail of come as she rubbed faster and faster. She grunted as she pushed me into the futon, my cock flattened and exposed against the sheets, my juice pooling between my closed legs, and my ass throbbing around the chrome ball. With a deep almost silent moan, Lucky came. She rolled over and we both started giggling.
“Go clean up kiddo. You have lard and come dripping all over your monkey butt,” she chortled.
When I came back to bed, freshly cleaned chrome ball hitch in hand, Lucky was curled up and snoring lightly. I crawled into bed and fell asleep empty.
We were flying home at noon the next day. We had a big breakfast, then Sam and Alex insisted on packing our lunches for the flight. They had flown before and remembered starving over Kansas, looking down at farms, fields, and roads and wasting away to nothing in the air. Or so they exclaimed dramatically. We left with two enormous bags of holiday dinner leftovers, assured that we would last the eight-hour trip intact, and with Queen Victoria the monkey puppet tied to the outside of my rucksack with a red bungee cord. Alex and Sam felt strongly that the Queen should be out and about for her first flight, rather than packed away like so much dirty laundry and we concurred.
Behrouz Gets Lucky Page 14