Behrouz Gets Lucky

by Avery Cassell

  “We’re out of here. They’ve opened up Iran again. I can go back!” Just as suddenly as I was planning my trip, I remembered that I was a man on my passport yet I had breasts and a cunt. And that Lucky was a woman on her passport, yet looks pretty fucking manly at first glance, and second and third. I started pacing quickly across the Tabrizi carpets. Back and forth. “Fuck! Can we get in? Suppose they want to look at my cock? I don’t have one. You’re a woman. Will you need to wear a headscarf? Will they think I’m a woman because I have a cunt? Will I have to wear a headscarf? I have facial hair. But what about the breasts? I don’t even have the same name I had when I lived there before! And the secret police! What about the secret police? What if they arrest and torture us for being the sons of the Great Satan?” I could not stop thinking about gender, danger, and Iran. I mean, not real danger, but maybe complications might be a better word. Complications and lots of them.

  Lucky laid the New York Times science section down on the coffee table. She looked both amused and concerned. “Take a deep breath, sit down like a good boy, and tell me what the hell you’re going on about!”

  I sat on the sofa next to Lucky and reached over for her paw, holding it and twisting the gold-and-diamond-horseshoe art-deco ring around her forefinger distractedly.

  “The rules have changed. I mean, for traveling to Iran. And we can go now, that is if you want to come with me. But I might be a girl and you might be a girl. Do you want to? Go there, I mean?”

  “Let me get this straight. The laws have changed for visiting Iran and you want to go there. You want me to come with you and you are worried about gender. Did I hit it all there?”

  I felt enthused by the thought of traveling to Iran, bemused by the thought of any girlishness between us, afraid that they would not let me into the country, and embarrassed at my inarticulateness in explaining my worries. “Yes. I want to go back. I never thought this would happen. Will you come with me? Oh fuck.” I started crying again, overcome with equal parts trepidation and relief.

  “Of course I’ll come with you, monkey butt. Stop crying and babbling. Let’s buy our tickets today. But first.”

  Lucky hauled me up by my overall straps, goose-stepped me over to the slate-topped mahogany Victorian washstand that we used for a liquor cabinet, yanked my denim overalls down, planted me on the gold-and-blue Isfahani antique carpet, and bent me over the cold stone table top. I squirmed as she pushed me over, feeling the hard slate edge against my chest.

  “I know how you get when you’re scared, afraid something will happen and they won’t give you a visa. Afraid they’ll arrest you and throw you in prison because of some long-forgotten teenaged transition. Afraid they’ll hang you for being queer,” Lucky said as she held me down, her forearm wrapped around my chest tightly. “You’re all wound up, aren’t you?” Lucky twisted my right nipple, the more sensitive one. I could smell her, a sexy and familiar combination of sandalwood soap, coffee, come, and sweat.

  Lucky ran her hand over my striped knit Jockey shorts and cupped my cunt, feeling my dampness spread. She pulled my shorts down roughly and with a quick twist, shoved her fingers, then her hand inside my cunt, crouching over me with her full weight and leaving me breathless. I immediately groaned with relief, my orgasm sending a stupendous amount of come gushing down my leg, soaking my overall pants legs and puddling onto the rug. I collapsed with a moan, my cheek resting on the icy slate washstand, my fear drained from me by Lucky’s hand. Lucky’s hand inside of me was both my ballast and my way into the present when I became overwhelmed. Some folks de-escalate and unwind with drugs or a martini. I’d take a quickie with Lucky any day.

  Lucky lay on top of me, holding me. “Better?”

  I smiled, licking the salty, calloused palm of her hand, which was curled up next to my head. “Better. Let’s go buy airline tickets now.” I kissed the faint bruise on her wrist, the bruise that marked my orgasms on Lucky’s body.

  We snuggled up on the window seat with my laptop, cruising travel sites for tickets. Lucky was self-employed and since I worked parttime, we both had flexible schedules. I pined to fly with Lufthansa, my favorite airline as a child. I had fond memories of warmed hand wipes, fuzzy slippers, friendly women in tight uniforms, and metal wing pins. Fortunately, Lufthansa made regular flights from San Francisco International Airport to Imam Khomeini International Airport, so for a little more than a thousand dollars each we were able to book two round-trip flights to Tehran for my sixty-second birthday in October.

  That evening while Lucky was out singing karaoke with gardening pals at the Mint in the Castro, I spent hours sitting in my leopard armchair in front of the fireplace in our library brooding about the nature of home while staring at copies of our confirmation email from Lufthansa and compulsively clicking through Persian websites on my laptop. Tehran 24/7 was one of my favorite sites, updated regularly. Would I even recognize Tehran? They had just opened a highway from Tehran to Tabriz right before my family had returned to the States, the first modern highway in Iran. Now Tehran was surrounded by freeways and highways, and even had a subway system. Transportation wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Drinking alcohol had become illegal after the revolution. No more wild discotheques, John Glenn vodka, and gin and tonics at the Iran American Cultural Center. Women had to wear head coverings and dress modestly, and men were not allowed to wear neckties, that Western tool of the devil. One of the results of the revolution and overthrow of the shah in 1979 was that streets, monuments, and parks were renamed, making me worry that I would not be able to find my way around. My onetime home’s address at Ghaani Street was obliterated. Where did it go? If not Ghaani, then what? The almost decade-long Iran-Iraq War from 1980 to 1988 had changed the landscape even more dramatically, leaving bombed and burnt-out buildings.

  I woke up on Monday morning from my recurring nightmare of the past twenty-five years that I was lost in the postwar, bombed out city of Tehran. I could smell dust, destruction, and death in the air. As I stumbled around the crumbling vacant buildings, I ran into others and asked for directions to my old home on Ghaani Street. They told me not to worry, but no one knew where it was. I ran from empty street to empty street, homes falling down and compound walls leaving dying gardens exposed, rosebushes brown, and goldfish ponds dry.

  I spent the following week frantically researching Iran’s current policies on homosexuality, gender, and dress codes. Homosexuality had always been stigmatized. Sometimes gay men and lesbians were whipped or hung by the state. There was an activist organization called Iranian Railroad for Queer Refugees that smuggled endangered Persian queers out of the country. Gender dysphoria was recognized, and transgender folks were officially considered legal and treatable in 1987. Once they were approved for sex reassignment, they were expected to undergo hormone treatment and surgery immediately. Blatant human rights violations in Iran had gradually lessened in the last year or so, and homosexuality was starting to become officially recognized by clerics. Once that happened, we hoped it would become decriminalized. The new rules changed things. In an effort to placate potential tourists, the headscarf for women was no longer mandatory and men were allowed to wear neckties. Iran was a long way from celebrating Pride the way they did in Istanbul, but change was happening.

  The next few months were a flurry of hepatitis A and typhoid inoculations, Persian language lessons, and research. We threw a Persian potluck to get into the mood and so that we could answer all of our friends’ questions at once. Ian brought a magnificent platter of sticky homemade baklava, all the time fussing over it and confessing that he’d made three batches before he felt that he’d gotten it right. Tov and Mikail brought fudgie dark chocolate brownies, the tops sprinkled with fleur de sel. Nona, Laura, and James brought an enormous glass bowl of distinctly non-Persian banana pudding complete with vanilla wafers that James had made. Laura was allergic to gluten and dairy and Nona existed on air, so James was elated to get the chance to feed everyone the dessert of his poor-f
olk Central Valley childhood. We were just as delighted to eat it. Ebony and Faye brought a heavenly dill-infused Persian kuku sabzi, plus an armful of brilliant blue irises. Our sideboard groaned under the weight of food and flowers. Our friends were evenly divided between thinking we were foolhardy twits who would end up either thrown out of the country or imprisoned, or brave adventurers that were going to spend three weeks touring ancient monuments. We were in good company in our travels to Persia, but were we modern Gertrude Bells, or were we feckless inverts like the Swiss writer and morphine addict Annemarie Schwarzenbach? We were none of these. We were two older American queers, one seeking their past and the other along for the ride.

  We watched Journey to Kafiristan about Annemarie’s journey to Persia in 1939, reread Garden of the Brave in War: Recollections of Iran by my old family friend Terry O’Donnell and Persian Pictures by Gertrude Bell, made flash cards of common Persian words and numbers from one to twenty, and cooked too many khoresh stews. I fretted over chadors and headscarves, while Lucky dreamed of endless mounds of black Caspian Sea caviar. Then Lucky fretted over villainous turbaned clerics, while I sighed over the rose gardens at Hafiz’s tomb in Shiraz. Taking turns was our style.

  We were careful to pack no shorts, short-sleeved shirts, fitted long-sleeved shirts, or T-shirts. Although Lucky was officially a woman, we were counting on her ability to pass as male, together with the relaxed rules for farangi, or foreigners, to free her from the female dress code. Even though it was no longer mandatory to cover the hair and many women wore jeans, we did not anticipate meeting any Persian butches. Maybe the actress, activist, and filmmaker Kiana Firouz was the only Persian butch out there. I knew that was unlikely, but I wondered how signifiers such as butch and femme would translate culturally. Would we even recognize a Persian butch if we stumbled over her in a teahouse? We took turns worrying while accumulating a stack of books on Iran, along with a passel of fears and expectations.

  We developed the habit of spending Sunday afternoons learning Persian in the park. We would walk through the weekend crowds of bicyclists and coffee drinkers to Arizmendi Bakery, buy a large bag of baked goods, and walk another three blocks to Golden Gate Park’s Arboretum. Once through the park gates, we’d meander to the Fragrance Garden, to sit on our favorite green wooden bench with a butter-stained brown paper bag of pecan buns and ginger shortbread and a file of flashcards, surrounded by butterflies and the scents of rosemary, lemon verbena, and lavender, our fingers sticky and sweet. My Persian came back, and my vocabulary progressed from a three-year-old’s to a five-year-old’s, with a sailor’s ability to cuss thrown in for good measure. Lucky learned the numbers to ten, some basic sentences, intonation and sentence structure rules, and started calling me her kucheeki gul or little flower.

  As it got closer to our departure date, I became more and more nervous. My biggest fears circled wolfishly around home and gender. Could I go home again? To paraphrase Gertrude Stein, what if there was no home there? Would we be picked up by Basij, the uniformed morality police, for deviance? Would chadored women surround Lucky in the streets, spitting their disapproval?

  One sunny Saturday afternoon in July we went on a North Beach excursion for deli sandwiches and books, taking the N-Judah underground to downtown, then the #45 MUNI bus through the tiny grocery stores and bustle in Chinatown to Columbus Street in North Beach. There was a translucent layer of fog over everything and it was only sixty degrees, a little chilly for August in San Francisco but perfect as far as I was concerned. The 45 was crammed with Chinese grannies clenching bags of vegetables and chickens, wiggling children sucking on candy, and serious bearded hipsters. I felt a swarm of affection for San Francisco, the wispy fog, the chattering crowds, and the surly MUNI bus driver, and squeezed Lucky’s paw in mine as we sat together in the back of the bus.

  We got off the bus at Columbus Street and strolled a block to the revered Molinari’s Deli for sandwiches. The tiny joint was packed with tourists and Italian families, Midwestern and Italian accents mingling over the smells of cured meats and olive oil. We took a number, then grabbed a hard roll from the bread bin, and good-naturedly bickered over which sandwich to share. Molinari’s sandwiches were husky and came cut into halves. If we bought two sandwiches, we’d have soggy, garlicky leftovers in the bottom of our knapsacks. One sandwich was just right for the two of us, but which one to choose always required negotiation.

  Lucky’s eyes got big at the Molinari’s Special, piled high with seven different Italian cold cuts and mozzarella. Lucky tended toward the meaty side of the menu, whereas I was borderline vegetarian. I wanted a less carnivorous sandwich and put in a plug for the Luciano Special with prosciutto and fresh mozzarella, but we compromised and bought the Renzo Special with spicy copa, prosciutto, and mozzarella. Lucky chose a lime Pellegrino and I got an Orangina.

  Finally our turn came, our sandwich was made and bought, and we scooted out to buy a box of cannoli from Stella’s Pastry across the street. We pushed our way through the tourists, outdoor Cafés, and restaurant barkers toward Washington Square Park.

  Before lunch, we stopped off so that I could take a leak at the round metal pissoir next to the park. I pushed the wide button for the door to open, and when it slid open, Lucky grabbed my hand, pulling me into the forest green pissoir and letting the sliding metal door roll shut with a metallic clang. Her eyes gleamed with glee as she leaned against the sides of the toilet, unbuckled her brown leather belt, unbuttoned her jeans, each button making a pop as her fly opened, revealing a bulge in her red knit shorts. She fondled her cock casually, drawing it out for me as I fell to my knees on the filthy concrete floor. The pissoir reeked of stale piss, picnic trash, and pine cleaner, but all I could smell was Lucky as my mouth closed over her cock, my hands flat against the gritty floor to balance myself.

  Lucky clenched my head tenderly as I gave her head, her dimples deep, murmuring French indecencies into the air. “Mon chouchou, ma puce, suce ma quéquette!”

  She didn’t come, but she buttoned up her jeans and motioned for me to piss. I sat on the rickety white toilet seat, suddenly pee shy, until Lucky knelt before me commanding, “Piss. Now. Do it,” and I forced out a trickle.

  Her hand darted out to intercept the stream of piss and with that, the trickle became a flood, drenching Lucky’s hand in urine. I moaned as Lucky started jacking off my cock, her wet fingers sliding on either side of my tiny erection. Then she slid home, her fingers reaching inside of my cunt, curling up to yank my come from me. My cunt was slimy and hot, my thighs helplessly opening under her rough hand. The chipped toilet seat creaked as I leaned back against the green metal walls of the pissoir so that she could stuff more of her hand inside of me. I came within minutes, washing my piss off her hand in a salty gush of come. We got up, kissing, cleaned our hands on the wipes that we’d packed in my rucksack, and left the toilet, weaving our way through picnickers, Frisbee players, musicians, and playing children to our favorite bench.

  It was after lunch and while sitting at our favorite forest-green wooden bench, the one dedicated IN MEMORY OF “THE KING” MARK THOMAS JAMES 1953–1997: A GREAT GUY, RICH WITH THE SPIRIT OF NORTH BEACH, that I breached something I’d been brooding over for the past few weeks. We toasted to good food and park benches, and then I brought it up.

  “Have a cannoli,” I began nervously, hoping to soften my proposition with pastry. “Let’s get hitched.”

  It’s true that we’d been shacking up for almost two years and I was in love with Lucky. Lucky was in love with me too, but I did not consider either of us the marrying kind. Marriage both terrified and fascinated me. I’d been married three times. None of the marriages had been successful, and on some level I worried that formalizing love and lust was a relationship jinx. It was the Persia trip that got me thinking of making us legal. If we were married, we’d be a straight couple on paper and documentation is what counts with the Persian authorities. Marriage would validate my maleness for Iran despite my C-cup h
airy breasts and my cunt. On paper I was a man and Lucky was a woman. Marriage would cinch our heterosexuality despite our blaring queerness. At least that is what I told myself. Was I rationalizing my romantic nature with politics?

  Lucky spit out her soda and stared at me in disbelief, “What did you just suggest? Marriage!” She crossed her denim-clad legs firmly and glared at me. The gry-and-brown pigeons that had been lurking near Lucky’s Wescos hoping for crumbs flew off at her outburst. “I don’t do marriage. Never have, never will. Marriage reinforces heteronormative power relations and is counterproductive to queer equality.” Lucky tossed the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth, glared, and crossed her arms over her blue plaid ombre Pendletonclad chest.

  I flinched at her anger, giggled in nervousness, and stared into the distance at the statue of Ben Franklin. “Look, it might make it safer for us in Iran. And wouldn’t we be toying with and mocking heteronormative power relations by passing as straight?”

  “I am not an assimilationist!” Lucky sputtered, her hazel eyes deepening to green in anger.

  “I never said that you were an assimilationist and getting married would not make you one either. For real. What it might make you is safe though,” I continued. “Besides, think of all the wedding drag. Monogramed cuff links, ruffle-front shirts, tuxedos, silk socks, and cummerbunds.” I wiggled my eyebrows, but Lucky was not buying it.