The flight home was uneventful. We ate three kinds of pie during our layover in Chicago, and both of us napped during the leg from Chicago to San Francisco, our heads on each other’s shoulders and Queen Victoria nestled between us as a chaperon. The Midwest, children, and grandchildren were a different type of exhaustion from work and our urban existence in San Francisco, and we were tuckered out. We gratefully staggered into San Francisco International Airport at 5:00 p.m., splurged on taking a Super Saver van home, and were deposited on our apartment doorstep by six thirty.
I loved arriving in San Francisco after leaving Ohio. Ohio was so quiet, bland, and low-key, but San Francisco was an assault on my senses. The elaborate Victorian houses mixed with the tacky new tech-driven glass monoliths, the combined smells of fresh coffee, exotic jasmine, and sharp piss, the multilingual murmur of people, and the incredible volume of movement, people, and noise renewed my happiness at returning home.
We wearily climbed the carpeted steps to the second floor, unlocked our front door, and dragged our luggage into our bedroom. Our returning home ritual involved much petting of Francy, hot showers to clean travel from our skin, and a pot of heavily sweetened Scottish breakfast tea. There was a note from Tov reading, The cats claimed a dire need for caviar and salmon. I did not fall for it. Lucky had first dibs on the shower while I put the kettle on for tea. Francy was a forgiving feline. After eating and belly rubs, she settled down in Lucky’s open boot suitcase for a nap, her head resting on a Wesco harness boot and her body stretched out on a Dehner patrol boot. Lulu-Bear was more temperamental, ignoring us both for having the gall to leave her for Ohio. The apartment filled with the smells of sandalwood soap and the sounds of Lucky belting “I Enjoy Being a Girl,” then she came out of the bathroom wrapped in her Pendleton green-plaid robe, and I made my way into the bathroom. I adore showers. I love the hot water pouring over my skin, the spicy smell of soap, and rubbing slick soap bubbles over my hips and breasts. I came out of the bathroom looking forward to finishing my tea and eating out for dinner, but Lucky had other plans.
Lucky was lounging on the bed with her hands behind her head, wearing a smile, her biggest blackest cock, and a tight black tank top. My lips parted; she stood up, grabbed me by the back of my head and shoved me to my knees. I opened my mouth with a moan, but Lucky just teased me by circling my lips with the head of her cock. It had been days. I was dizzy with need, but stayed still.
“Do you need it?”
“Yes!”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Please, may I have your big black cock?”
“What do you say?” Lucky demanded, slapping my ass. “Did I hear you say Sir?”
“Please, Sir! Please, Sir, fuck my mouth with your big black cock!”
Lucky thrust her cock all the way inside of my mouth. I could feel her cock hit the back of my throat as she started fucking my mouth, taking quick deep stabs the way she does when she is already close to coming. It had been too long. I needed Lucky inside me and I knew she felt the same. Lucky needed to be inside, surrounded by my ass, my mouth, my cunt. I gagged as she held the back of my head, fucking my throat and grunting with her first come of the night. Lucky fell to the carpet and pushed me down. I was lying on my belly, ass up.
“Open your ass. Now.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Again!”
“Yes, Sir!”
“What do you say?” Lucky slapped my ass again. “What about my cock?”
“Please, Sir! Yes, Sir! Please, Sir, fuck my ass with your big black cock!”
She squirted a dollop of lube into her hand, lubed up my asshole and sunk her cock into my ass in one quick move.
With each stroke, Lucky grunted, “Again!” and I replied, “Yes, Sir!” as we fell into a rhythm, Lucky pulling out until I wailed, “Please, Sir! Yes, Sir! Please, Sir, fuck my ass with your big black cock, Sir!”
I was so ready for her to stuff me. It had been days of Lucky teasing me, and me with a hard-on, desperate to have her cock, her hand inside of me, my cock and nipples painfully hard and my cunt rubbing together slickly as I walked around, never getting any relief. I snuck my hand down between my legs and started jerking off as Lucky fucked my ass furiously. This was not a slow subtle fuck, but brutal and fast. My other hand twisted my nipples, my nipples that had been ignored by Lucky and me for four too-long days. I came, my hips rising to meet Lucky’s, and she came again, this time shouting with relief before collapsing on top of me.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I managed as Lucky turned me over roughly, then slapped my face until it stung.
Lucky pulled on a black nitrile glove, then with a twist of her wrist slid into my cunt. I was babbling by then, with her kneeling between my legs, her fist inside of my cunt, and me pulling my nipples, which were like mountains, pointed and rock hard. Lucky put her forefinger and middle finger inside my open mouth and I started sucking her fingers, fucking one hand with my cunt and the other with my mouth. I wanted everything filled by Lucky, her reaching inside and grabbing my heart. She removed her fingers from my mouth to slap me hard again across my face. I felt a wave start in my chest and ripple down my belly and my cunt, then a powerful burst of come shot out of me, soaking Lucky from her hand to her armpit and even to her chin.
Lucky collapsed on top of me, our sweaty bodies limp and sated, both of us breathing heavily.
“Oh, baby. I’m so glad we’re back home. I love you,” I murmured.
“Me too, my little tacchino. Me too,” Lucky replied drowsily.
CHAPTER SIX
HITCHED
What is home? Is home the feel of your soft, rounded belly pressing against my lower back as we fall to sleep? Is home the clink of house keys tossed upon the side table when we come home, one set of keys following the other, nestled side by side? Or is home the fact that I’m never home? I’m always longing to breathe in the feeling of home, letting it become part of me, then exhale as my heart travels into the world and I become part of it.
I trace my dissatisfaction and restlessness to being an exile from the home of my childhood, the home that I do not deserve by dint of my nationality. I am an American who was raised in Iran during the reign of the Shahanshah Reza Shah Pahlavi. I have not returned home to Iran since I turned seventeen in 1972, yet was it ever my home? I am of Scottish and German heritage, not Persian. Can I call Iran home? Do I belong anywhere? I know that I belong in San Francisco. I know that I belong in our apartment. I know that I belong next to Lucky.
I woke up at 5:00 a.m on a Sunday morning in June in a melancholy mood. I slid out from under our covers, careful not to disturb Lucky, who was still snoring softly, olive limbs curled up. She was recuperating from a short summer cold and needed her rest. I made my way into the bathroom to piss. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror critically. My hair had thinned out when I was diagnosed with low thyroid in my forties, and when I started transitioning in my fifties, my hairline had gradually receded as I molted limp straight brown hairs down the shower drain every morning. My decades-long short on the sides and back, part on the left, and a thick bad-boy lock of hair flopping over my forehead wasn’t working anymore. My lank forelock had bit the dust and now looked more like fluff. My pal Nona had even spoken the dreaded word “comb-over” at me. It was time to throw myself at the mercy of my barber again. Apparently there was no age limit on vanity.
I limped to the kitchen to start some tea water. I remembered when I went to bed at 5:00 a.m., instead of waking up at 5:00 a.m. Then I remembered that I used to spend hours sitting cross-legged on the floor painting, and now I was a gimpy old fuck with an inflamed left knee limping my way down a dark hallway grumpily at dawn. Things change. I turned on the gas burner on our 1940s Wedgewood stove, filled the red enameled kettle, then made a large pot of smoky Taylors of Harrogate Scottish breakfast tea and sweetened the pot with several heaping spoons of brown turbinado sugar, fed Francy and Lulu-Bear who were meowing frantically at my feet
, and limped into the parlor to brood, drink tea, and wake up.
I curled up on the window seat in the bay window overlooking the park and wrapped my brown corduroy robe close, nestled the silk quilted collar around my neck, and tucked my cold toes under a Kurdish kilim-covered throw pillow. I’d pulled the bittersweet-dark-brown velveteen drapes open. It was a drizzly foggy morning, with the fog winding its way through the treetops. I liked cooler weather and hoped it would stay misty and chilly throughout the day. We had plans to go to the Civic Center farmers market for leeks and clementines, Blick Art Supply for more gouache paint and brushes, and to Arizmendi Bakery to pick up some sticky buns, shortbread, and croissants.
I poured another cup of tea and sighed. I worked part-time at the main branch of the San Francisco Public Library, but hoped to retire within a year. There had been budget cuts at work, so some much-needed positions were going to stay unfilled. The gentrification of San Francisco was affecting middle-income and poor folks strongly. The main library was blocks from Twitter headquarters, so we felt the reverberations more strongly than some branches. The increased evictions, heightened enforcement of the sit-lie ordinance, and brutal harassment of the poor meant that we were dealing with more mentally ill, more homeless, and a greater number of stressed-out patrons. It was painful and heart wrenching to watch, and I often was grateful that I’d worked in crisis management and social services before becoming a librarian. The experience came in handy. This wasn’t how I wanted to start my Sunday, but I worried. It was too easy to suck up their pain. I wanted to heal each of them, remove their suffering with a calming touch. I would feel my heart softening with empathy when they came to me for help. Often, the only assistance I could offer was to acknowledge their humanity, their pain, and the hopelessness of their situation. I rarely felt I did enough. I hated taking the F-Market streetcar to work. Invariably, the police would board to check fares at the MUNI stop in front of the Twitter building at Market and 10th. People in rags living out of shopping carts made their way down the sidewalk in front of Twitter’s magnificent 1937 Art Deco building, while booted officers yanked folks off the trolley and wrote them $274 tickets. A new law was going into effect in March that would let seniors and disabled people whose annual income was under the Bay Area median income level of $67,950 ride MUNI for free. I was hoping it would cut down on the massive ticketing on MUNI. I’d been telling my patrons about it and helping them sign up for the program.
I drew the line at feeling guilty for our elegant Victorian apartment and somewhat decadent lifestyle. We both earned below the relatively exorbitant Bay Area median, shared our income, and our only dependents were two roly-poly cats. Lucky also received dividends from investments made when she was a high-rolling techie, so we lived very comfortably. I’d been briefly homeless in my twen ties and I considered us extremely fortunate. Lucky volunteered with Francisco League of Urban Gardeners, I answered the hotline at San Francisco Suicide Prevention, and we donated money to a few favorite nonprofits annually.
I poured the last dribbles of tea from my Brown Betty pot into my bear orgy tea mug and looked out at the fog as it started to dissipate. Francy and Lulu-Bear were curled up together on the Empire récamier, their fur mottling beautifully with the amber upholstery. I heard the pad-pad of Lucky’s bare feet on the carpeted floor as she woke and came into the parlor. She stood over me looking disheveled and sleepy, then tousled my mussed-up morning hair.
“Hey you. Have you been up long?”
“Just a little. Do you feel any better?” Lucky rubbed her eyes, yawned, and sneezed a tiny high-pitched achoo.
“Some. I took some Emergen-C last night.” Lucky smiled, then reached inside my robe and tank top and squeezed my right breast, working my nipple until it started getting hard and I groaned softly, shifting my legs. She parted my robe and reached for my cunt, slowly running her fingers from my cunt opening up to my clit, then stopping to pull on my clit, jerking it off. She smiled as I leaned back against the cold window glass and opened my thighs farther, my cunt wet and my clit hard.
“I’m feeling a little better, but I like how you’re feeling even more,” she said as she leaned in with three fingers and slid them inside of my dripping cunt, her thumb rubbing my cock and her other hand pinching my nipple. Unlike with other lovers, it never took much to get me going with Lucky.
“Yes, yes,” I panted, as I started fucking her fingers back.
She slipped her fourth finger in, folded her hand, and twisted inside of me filling me up with her fist. I loved Lucky’s hand inside of me first thing in the morning. Her skin pressing on my flesh, her hand moving inside of my hungry cunt, and her moist breath on my neck brought me home. I came quickly, contracting around Lucky’s wrist as she twisted her fist inside of me. It was one of those fast first-thing-in-the-morning comes. Just enough to let you know that you’re awake and in love. She slipped her hand out of my cunt as we lay together on the window seat, soft belly to belly and chest to chest. I stroked and squeezed her ass, that meaty rounded shelf of a butt, so difficult to fit into jeans and so luscious when naked and under my palm. Lucky started humping my thigh, her cunt open and damp, leaving a snail trail of precome down my leg. She smelled of yesterday’s sweat and morning sex, a deliciously pungent smell that filled my throat. I burrowed my nose closer to her armpit for more and worked my fingers between her asscheeks seeking her asshole, circling it teasingly and then wetting my fingers with her cunt juice and fingering her soft musky asshole with one and then two fingers, fucking her. Lucky groaned and sped up, her hips and cunt pressing hard against my leg, sliding faster as her asshole opened up under my fingers to second knuckles deep, and she started to come. She grunted twice in snorts of pleasure, then came.
“Foggy outside,” Lucky murmured lazily, her legs entwined with mine.
“It’ll burn off. Waffles?” I asked as I sniffed her pits happily. I loved the smell of ripe pits and especially Lucky’s.
“Yum, waffles and bacon and coffee. And you,” she said as she pinched a faded bruise on my right breast from Friday night’s romp, the sharp jolt causing my hips to twitch and me to giggle.
I got up and made my way through the glass-paned French doors, the soft peacock-blue dining room, and into our kitchen where Uncle Garland’s painting of a barn-red, rundown rustic outhouse hung over the oak table. Lucky had made a bowl of yeasted waffle batter last night, which was rising on the gray-veined soapstone kitchen counter. I added egg and baking soda to the red pottery bowl, then stirred. I heated water for another pot of tea for myself and a French press of coffee for Lucky, plugged in the Art Deco stainless-steel waffle iron and started baking waffles at the table, then removed some smoked bacon from the freezer and put the frozen bacon into a covered frying pan to defrost and fry. The kitchen was starting to smell cozy like Sunday. I turned on Nico crooning praises of the dawn with “Sunday Morning,” singing along with the tiniest baby piano notes and Nico’s lonely voice.
I could hear Lucky in the shower, the water running and the heart-stopping domestic sound of her lustily belting out “I Enjoy Being a Girl.” I never tired of hearing her sing that song in the shower. It meant all was right with our world. I set the oak kitchen table, laying out green-and-natural-striped linen napkins and pottery plates. I trimmed the bouquet of periwinkle thistles, fragrant rosemary, and surreal-looking rosy protea in an aqua McCoy pottery vase that I had on the table. The flowers were from the gals at Church Street Flowers in the Castro, where we had a standing weekly order. The scent of waffles, frying bacon, sandalwood soap, and coffee along with the joy of a beautiful world to look at and the buzz that comes from being well fucked, well beaten, and well loved had me feeling smug and lazy in all the best ways.
We ate breakfast eagerly, then retired to the parlor to read the Sunday paper. I used to get the paper edition of the Sunday New York Times, but had stopped before I met Lucky. I could never keep up, so stacks of unread newspaper would pile up, taunting me with my carelessne
ss and inability to slog through current events without either wanting to throw myself out a window or nap. I downgraded my paper subscription from daily to weekend, then to Sundays only, finally canceling it in favor of the less accusatory digital subscription. When Lucky and I moved in together, I discovered that I had a lover who plowed through the Sunday New York Times like a schoolboy through smut and we renewed the paper subscription. I enjoyed having the hard copy New York Times Book Review section once more, and on Sundays Lucky wallowed happily in beheadings, natural disasters, coups, and financial escapades.
I returned to the window seat with my laptop while Lucky fetched the newspaper from the doorstep, then spread out on the green velvet sofa, coffee in hand. I went to the New York Times website and as usual, the headlines were gloomy, sure to have me in a funk within minutes. Stream of Foreign Wealth Flows to Elite New York Real Estate, ISIS Declares Jordanian Airstrike Killed a U.S. Hostage, and Unequal Education: How Elementary School Teachers’ Biases Can Discourage Girls From Math and Science started wiping out my joy, smoothing it over with despair and pain until I came to a headline that made my stomach drop and my heart pound. As I read, the world slowed down, just like in a movie. Iran: Travel Restrictions for U.S. Citizens Lifted the headline read. It couldn’t be! For years, the Persian government had required that all U.S. visitors travel with a Persian government authorized private guide or group tour. I read through the article. Three times. For loopholes. There did not seem to be any. For the first time since the revolution that overthrew Shahanshah Pahlavi in 1979, Americans would be allowed to freely visit Iran without a Persian sponsor. Additionally, all banking and shipping sanctions had been lifted. One of the many positive repercussions of the banking sanctions being lifted was that tourists could use their credit cards while in the country. As it sank in I started to cry, tears rolling down my cheeks. I could return home. I’d been waiting for over forty years to go back to Iran, my other home. By the time my daughter was an adult, Iran was nearly impossible for me to get into and I was unwilling to pay guide fees and be monitored while visiting my old haunts. And then I shrieked.
Behrouz Gets Lucky Page 15