Behrouz Gets Lucky by Avery Cassell
Date of Publication: March 8, 2016
Where can a middle-aged, Persian-American genderqueer dyke find love these days? Online dating, of course! "Only butch dykes need apply" Behrouz writes, eager to swap quiet evenings at home with a smoking jacket, a cat, and a Sunday afternoon's worth of well-used sex toys for a real relationship. Enter Lucky: younger, rougher, dominant, but far from perfect. Their first meeting explodes into powerful, rough, and panting sex, and Behrouz is soon determined not to let this captivator slip away. Their growing intimacy, set within a perfectly captured view of of contemporary gay, transgender and queer life in San Francisco, makes this debut novel a mesmerizing read for anyone who loves erotic romance.
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Excerpt Teaser
Let’s take the time to tell all. Behrouz and Lucky are older
queer rascals, our favorite curmudgeonly, tenderhearted gay uncles rolled with
a sweet coating of hedonism and snark. When we start off our story, Behrouz is
sixty and Lucky is forty-nine years old. Although they both are easily settled
into their gender identities, their preferred pronouns and the words they use
for their various naughty bits are not apparent to our fine readers. After all,
this is just a smutty little love story, so we can safely lay it all out on the
line without worrying about asking rude, politically incorrect, or insensitive
questions.
Behrouz identifies as a transgender genderqueer, and Lucky
identifies as a butch dyke. Both Behrouz and Lucky were born female, and both
often pass as male. Behrouz started taking testosterone late in life, at age
fifty-five. Lucky never has taken testosterone and is not tempted to start.
If we were to ask Behrouz which pronouns they prefer, they
would toss one fey wrist into the air and say, “Whatever you’re comfortable with!”
That’s a lie. Behrouz prefers they/them or he/him. If we were to ask Lucky
which pronouns she prefers, she would say she/her. Unless Lucky was topping and
in the mood for honorifics, in which case she would prefer the more masculine
“sir,” rather than the more feminine “ma’am.”
Behrouz and Lucky both call their clitoris their cock, flesh
cock, or clit, but usually just their cock. They call the whole package their cunt.
They own a ridiculous variety of expensive silicone dildos in many sizes, which
they also call their cocks. Lucky has a favorite silicone cock, which is seven
inches long, one-point-eight inches in girth, curved, and black. Lucky likes to
say that black is classic and goes with everything. We concur with her good
taste. Lucky and Behrouz both still have breasts. Behrouz binds to appear
flat-chested and so that their shirts fit better. Lucky usually wears a sports
bra. They will talk about both their breasts or their chest, and it means the
same thing. As we all know, everyone has an asshole and assholes have no
gender.
I wrote this book because I wanted to see more people like
myself represented in smut and romance. I wanted to see older genderqueer and
butch masculine-masculine couples having hot sex and BDSM shenanigans. I wanted
to read about people with full lives, lives that included adult children,
grandchildren, parents, books, marvelous food, over-the-top drag, and cuddly
cats along with lots and lots of hot fucking. I wanted reality, with heartburn,
forgetfulness, and aching joints. I also wanted protagonists that cared about
San Francisco and were activists, in their own quirky way. And finally, I spent
most of my childhood in Iran and love Iran as my other home. I wanted to
include a little bit of that amazing and beauteous country in this tale so that
my readers could get the chance to love the country too.
Chapter One
Lucky was sixty, and long past the age of hope, young lust,
love, and bewilderment. I was sixty, using my senior discount to buy oatmeal,
black tea, and ginseng at Rainbow Co-op, and silk neckties at Goodwill. I was a
time-traveling, part-Persian expatriate. I had been an outsider all my life,
and felt insulated that way. Insulation is protection, but it is also
isolation. Even though I lived in San Francisco, that bastion of sexual and
gender freedom, I lived outside of the galaxies of the butch, FTM, genderqueer,
and leather communities. I’d hitchhiked across the country, been a streetwalker,
smoked opium with princes, raised children, been fisted on Twin Peaks, sung in
punk bands, grown up in Iran, had threesomes with bikers and members of British
Parliament, and followed family tradition to become a librarian. I’d buried one
daughter and two lovers, spent decades in the Midwest, kneaded bread, gotten
sober, been homeless, pretended to be a boy wanting to be a girl, driven across
town in a blizzard at 5:00 a.m. to slap a gigolo who was wearing pleated black
silk panties, taught preschool, attended PTA meetings, and tickled grandchildren.
It’s-a-long-story was my middle name.
At sixty, and in my considerable dotage, I spent my evenings
wearing a quilted, charcoal velvet smoking jacket with a foulard silk cravat,
and worn, cuffed flannels while delicately sipping English Breakfast tea with
my cat, Francy, strewn across my lap, a pile of tattered paperback Dorothy
Sayers mysteries at hand, and vacillating between wanting to manifest a lover
and relishing each delicious second alone. Between chapters, and inspired by
Lord Peter Whimsey and his paramour Harriet Vane, I imagined a lover, a you. If
I could manifest you at 6:00 a.m. when I was lolling between the sheets
distractedly having my morning prework come, or on Sunday afternoon when I was
settling in for a leisurely fuck session with myself, my two biggest silicone dildos,
nipple clamps, my S-curved metal dildo, a metal sound, a stainless steel butt
plug, Eartha Kitt wafting from the stereo, a fountain of lube, dim lights, and a
cushion of towels and rubberized sheeting to soak up the spillage…I would
imagine a you.
Sometimes I craved you when I came home, tired from a day of
advising patrons, giving restroom directions, problem-solving minor computer
issues, and searching for copies of the latest bestselling romance. Sometimes I
craved that moment of perfect domesticity when I’d open my door to the oregano-
and tomato-scented smells of minestrone soup wafting from the kitchen, and you
in the rust velvet armchair in the living room. I’d fall to my knees on the rough
wool of our Tabrizi carpet, start to crawl across the red and gold fibers,
imagining that moment when I could unbutton your fly and fill myself with your
cock as an appetizer. Your pipe would be smoldering in the ashtray, filling the
air with the sultry sweet aroma of tobacco and cherry. You’d lean back and
spread your denim-clad legs, rubbing your cunt as I approached on my knees, the
workday rolling off me the closer I got. Reaching your cunt, I’d rest for a
minute, my lips caressing the bulge in your crotch, as grateful for your hand
on the back of my neck and your packed jeans as I was for salt. I’d growl softly,
nipping at the thick blue fabric, damp from my spit and slightly threadbare
from past administrations. You would unbutton your fly slowly, each button
releasing a soft pop. I’d cover your cock with my mouth until it reached my
throat, then ease up and lick the shaft, lost in your smell and your palm
firmly pushing my head into your cunt. Your cock would shove the outside world
aside, erasing demanding supervisors, aching joints, and crowded MUNI buses
until all that was left was your cock in my throat.
I had a shallow, translucent blue glass bowl on the dining
room table that I filled with garnet-colored pomegranates, dusty plums, phallic
bananas, and tart green apples, and sometimes I longed to see your house keys
on the table next to the bowl of fruit. Did I want this complication to
interfere with my quiet life? Did I really want someone to know my quirks and
fears? To discover that I sometimes ate cheddar cheese, figs, and cookies for
dinner, to twist her hand into my silver-haired cunt, to be privy to my mood swings
and self-doubt, to be content to live with my need for solitude? I’m Middle
Eastern to my part American core, and as such have a deep belief in fate. At a jaded
and indecisive sixty, I decided to leave love and lust to fate.
How did we meet? How does fate decide to roll her dice? Was
it at the park, commiserating over fawn colored pigeons fighting for brioche
crumbs at our feet, while the ginkgo trees shed golden, fanshaped leaves on the
park bench? Was it in an airport while listening to the murky flight update announcements,
wondering if we should grab an overpriced stale croissant and latte before our
flight, and finally reaching for our lattes at the same time, our fingers
touching over scattered copies of USA Today? Maybe it was at work, sighing and rolling
our eyes over gum-snapping coworkers, discovering mutual tastes in movies and
politics in the lunchroom, meeting outside the office on the sly, and texting filthy
thoughts to each other across the table during meetings.
In reality, we met prosaically. Lacking a noisy yet accurate
village matchmaker, we filled out our profiles on OKCupid, rolled our mutual
eyes at the idiocy of naming the five things one could never do without, and
updated our profiles earnestly and regularly. I worried about whether I sounded
too shallow, and you fretted about sounding too serious. I mentioned that I had
an Isherwood haircut, lank thinning brown hair, hazel eyes, a husky build, and
a pale DAR complexion. We both were annoyed at OKCupid’s lack of queer identity
choices. I changed my sex from male to female and back again monthly, while she
identified as bisexual so as not to leave out possible FTM matches. I mentioned
that I was a daddy in the streets and a strumpet in the sheets. Although I took
testosterone, I was not a man or even FTM. She put up an out-of-focus picture
of her repotting plants, said she spoke French, ironed and starched her sheets,
had olive skin, dimples, and a graying pompadour. She didn’t mention her sexual
proclivities at all. I mentioned flagging red, gray, black, and navy right in
the first paragraph, said that I cooked Persian food and collected bird skulls,
put up a photo of myself half-dressed and playing an accordion, and said that
only butch dykes need apply. She was eleven years younger than I, a
rough-hewn-looking butch who gave me five stars, which made my heart flutter
and my cunt get wet in anticipation. I rated her five stars back, and nervously
sent her a short, overly edited but carefully flirtatious email suggesting that
we meet for tea and conversation. Then I heard nothing for five months. In the
interlude I went on a series of fruitless first dates, but I had not forgotten
her. In spring she finally wrote back, suggesting that we meet for coffee. Her
name was not Amber or Dixie or Tyler, but Lucky. And I wrote to Lucky, signing
my name Behrouz, which means lucky in Farsi.
We met at Café Flore, the classic rendezvous for queer blind
dating in the Castro. Public transportation was two steps away, so it was easy to
flee from the date if it was awful. Café Flore was loud, and gay as fuck, with
mediocre food and sweet servers. We were both on time. I wore pleated gray
flannel pants, a white shirt with a Campbell clan wool necktie, my tattered
gray Brooks Brothers jacket, purple silk socks with striped garters, horn-rims,
my hair slicked to one side, and my favorite butterscotch-colored brogues. Lucky
wore a stately pompadour, a red-ribbed wool sweater with frayed cuffs over a
white oxford shirt, black 501 button-fly jeans, three gold rings on her right
hand, and harness boots. She was stocky and muscular, a little shorter than my
five-eight, had deep-brown hair threaded with gray, small breasts, olive skin,
a chipped front tooth, hazel eyes, a large aristocratic nose with tiny
nostrils, black framed glasses, and a beguiling swagger. She drank black
coffee, and I sipped sticky-sweet soy chai latte.
I was immediately turned on by Lucky, trying not to look too
eager as I glanced at her rough gardener’s hands, evaluating them for size and
dexterity. I was nervous and unsure if she liked me back. I was never good at
reading signs, and knew that my reserve was often read as disinterest. I wanted
to feel her hand in my cunt. We started slowly. We talked about our cats, the
general state of classism and disrepair in San Francisco, our jobs, food, and our
upbringings. Lucky’s tuxedo cat, Elmer, had died two months ago, after living a
long and productive life of catching mice, napping in her oval, vintage, pink
porcelain bathroom sink, and skulking on bookshelves. My ginger cat, Francy, had
one bronze eye, a puffed-out tail that was longer than her body, and liked to
pee with me when I came home from work. I told her about my love of books,
organization, and social service, which led to the good fortune of a job at the
San Francisco Public Library. After studying biology, Lucky had fallen into
gardening, and spent her days planning gardens and fondling manure and plants.
We agreed that the recent invasion of stealthy, gleaming-white Google buses
with blacktinted windows that transported entitled tech workers from their cubicle
penthouses in San Francisco to their jobs in Mountain View were shark like, and
wondered why they hadn’t been violently defaced yet. We mourned the loss of
Plant It Earth, Osento bathhouse, Faerie Queene Chocolates, the dimly lit Mediterranean
place on Valencia with Fat Chance belly dancers swiveling sensuously around the
tables, The Red Vic Movie House, and Marlene’s drag bar on Hayes Street, and then
we sighed like curmudgeonly old farts wondering where the past had disappeared.
Lucky was raised Jewish in Columbus, Ohio, a hotbed of
Republican ideology and Christian intolerance, graduated a year early from Bexley
School for Girls, then fled to UC Berkeley for sexual and intellectual freedom.
Her dad was an insurance adjuster and her mom worked part-time in the ladies’ undergarments
section of Lazarus department store. Her father worked late hours and fancied
himself a suave businessman, leaving the house each morning awash in citrusy
Spanish cologne and cigarette smoke, and sporting a flashy gold Rolex wristwatch
won while playing cards. Her mom was bitter around the corners and sentimental
in the middle. She was a brunette in turquoise double-knit pants suits and the
sweetly floral scent of Chanel No 22. Lucky told me about coming home to find
her mom drinking endless goblets of chardonnay while listening half-cocked for
the metallic sound of her father’s key in the front door, and the sneaky shuffle
that announced his belated presence home. Lucky was an only child, but lived in
the same Tudor-style home in the same quiet middle-class neighborhood her
entire childhood, with the oak-lined streets, and her aunts, uncles, cousins, and
friends with their families protecting and loving her even when Lucky’s folks
were distracted.
Since our family had moved every two years from state to
state, country to country, and continent to continent, I found Lucky’s childhood
geographic stability both exotic and enviable. At age seven, Lucky decided she
wanted to be a boy. Each night she’d stare dreamily out her bedroom window
while \ stroking the faint down on her upper lip to wish a mustache into
existence. Wryly, Lucky told me that it didn’t work, but now she was content with
her hard-earned butchness. As a child, Lucky escaped into books, and spent
hours in the Bexley Public Library, scouring the shelves for anything related
to sexuality and gender, which wasn’t much in the 1960s. Lucky’s curiosity and scholastic
diligence paid off with a full university scholarship and an early release from
Ohio. I’d also grown up immersed in books, hiding in odd corners at home with a
stack of books and a pocket full of raisins. I related to the escapism that
they provided to desperate kids like us, junior outsiders and renegades.
After three hours of exchanging stories and too much coffee
and chai, we started to talk about sex and desire. Our drinks cooled as the temperature
heated. We both lived in San Francisco, home to sexual freedom and excess, with
everything from International Ms. Leather, to the Eagle, Mr. S, the 15 Association,
the Exiles, regular play parties for every identity and orientation, BDSM
coffee houses, and more. One-time hookups, public play, and casual sex were
easily obtainable, but I was embarrassed to admit to Lucky that in my
mid-fifties I’d grown out of the ability to do casual play and sex. It didn’t
work for me anymore, and although I missed the immediacy and physical relief of
instant sex, I needed lovers, continuity, and intimacy. Lucky commiserated, and
said that she’d felt the same ever since turning forty three. Even though we
agreed that we both wanted love and deeper intimacy, everything felt dangerous and
forbidding—as if we were getting ready to foolishly leap off an emotional
cliff, our hearts potentially shattered on the shoals below.
I flushed as our eyes met. We both stopped breathing for a
second, unsure if we wanted to continue. Finally, Lucky inhaled, leaned forward,
pierced me in my eye with the future, and murmured, “Tell me. What do you want?
What do you need?”
I blushed, my eyes widening and quickly looking down, and my
cunt tingling. I admitted to wearing my hankies on the right, and a proclivity
for getting fisted, giving head, ass-fucking, bondage, and getting beaten.
Lucky reached across the table and held my hand, my palm facing up and her
calloused hand beneath mine, leaving me feeling exposed, trapped, and cradled
all at once. I swooned a little at her touch. Lucky smiled a lopsided, sweetly
sly smirk, and I imagined one pointed incisor sharply peeking through her lips,
her teeth hard against my neck and biting my flesh. She told me she was a top
and a sadist, and had been that way since she was a baby dyke in plaid flannel
shirts, Frye boots, and Carhartts. I blushed again, and felt my nipples harden
painfully in the tight confines of my binder, as I whispered through dry lips
that although there was no accounting for chemistry, thus far we seemed to have
chemistry just fine. I told Lucky that I had simple tastes really, all I wanted
was to suck her off, then be beaten, and fisted until we were swimming in a
pool of come.
Lucky asked, “And what do you call your top? Daddy or Sir?”
And I answered, “I call my top, baby.”
Lucky looked at me with her hazel eyes turning green as
polished sea glass. She leaned closer, took my hand, and bit the side of my
palm while looking into my eyes. As she bit harder, my hips lifted, and I groaned.
I wanted Lucky’s teeth on my neck, my breast, my ass. There is a vulnerability
to a hand’s underbelly. It is my favorite place to be bitten, so tender and so
blatant—I melted. I wanted her to read my desire with her mouth, hurting me
because she needed to, and me letting the sharp sensations course through my
flesh, forming a loop of desire between us.
“Baby,” Lucky said, managing to draw the word out like we’d already
taken our clothes off and were lying hip to hip. She didn’t huff up in toppish
indignation, wasn’t quizzical or offended, but understood that “baby” was my
code for hotness, tenderness, and love.
After four hours at Café Flore, Lucky murmured, “Let’s go.”
Lucky stumbled lightly over the shallow steps leading down
to the sidewalk, exclaiming that her new bifocals were a bear to get accustomed
to, then leaned in to kiss me on the sidewalk in front of a gaggle of Sisters
of Perpetual Indulgence and next to the organic stone-fruit stand at the
farmers market. “It’s Raining Men” was playing tinnily through Café Flore’s
speakers. She kissed exactly correctly…and if that sounds dry, it isn’t meant
to be so. Her lips were firm and pliant, and fit mine like a T-shirt on a
teenager. She’d mastered the art of the tender lower-lip bite, and as I
delicately licked the corners of her lips, we quickly became breathless. We
pulled away a quarter of an inch to prolong the anticipation, and fell onto
each other after five seconds. I pulled Lucky closer as a Sister with a violet
Marie Antoinette wig wolfwhistled in our direction. Lucky slipped one muscular
thigh between my legs as my cunt melted and throbbed. I moaned into her mouth
as her wide palm smoothed my back under my jacket, and I whispered that I
wanted her hand inside of me. Now. Lucky growled—a low nip from deep in the back
of her throat. The Sister with the lime-green boa passed us a fistful of
condoms. I was starry-eyed and damp as we stumbled to my apartment in nearby
Hayes Valley.
It was dusk, that magical time when the day ends and night
begins, when responsibilities dissipate, and mystery and longing fill our
hearts. The evening air smelled of jasmine, anticipation, and piss, the violent
and sweet scents circling us as we walked. The moon was rising as bright as a
streetlight, and the sidewalks were full of early evening dog-walkers, with
their pups tarrying by trees and potted plants while the owners peered into
their palms at their phones. We barely talked. We’d talked through an entire
afternoon. Words mean something, but I needed to know how Lucky tasted, how she
touched, how we smelled together as we heated up. All I could think of in that
fifteen-minute walk was Lucky’s hand in my cunt, her gardener’s fingers
entering one by one, packing me full of her. Anything else was gravy on the
cake. You know.
By the time I unlocked the door to my flat, it was dark and
the full moon watched us. The streetlights had followed us home, each lighting one
by one as night fell and we were closer to my apartment. I unlocked the top
bolt, then struggled with the pesky bottom one, trying to make the stuck key
turn. As I jiggled the lock in the dark hallway, Lucky pressed her body against
mine from behind, rubbing her cock against my ass, and reached around to untuck
my shirt and run her hands up toward my nipples. I moaned, humping the doorknob
with my clit and almost dropping the key. Finally the brass key turned, and the
door flew open under our weight. Lucky pushed me suddenly through the dim
foyer, down the hallway, and into the sandalwood-scented living room, then to
the floor. I wasn’t expecting the quickness, and fell to the Persian carpet, my
jacket still on and my shirt half-untucked. She stood over me, unbuckled her black leather belt, threw
off her sweater, unbuttoned her jeans, pulled out her dick, and started
stroking it with her hips insolently cocked forward.
“On your knees. I want you to suck my cock. Now.”
I crawled over, leaned forward and opened my mouth. I loved filling
my mouth with stuff, whether it was cock, chains, or fingers. My cunt was
soaked, my dick was throbbing, and I wanted nothing more than to suck Lucky’s
cock. I wrapped my lips around the black silicone and took it to the hilt while
looking up greedily at her. Lucky thrust her hips forward, then drew away,
teasing me with just the head until she roughly pushed it all the way in again,
banging my throat rudely. I could smell her cunt heating up, and sucked her
cock, pushing it hard against her cunt, then letting up, and then pushing it in
again. I was lost in the rhythm, smells, and sounds of cocksucking, feeling my
cunt muscles spasm the more turned on I became by Lucky’s moans and growls, and
the feeling of my mouth being stuffed.
Lucky grabbed my head, shoving me harder into her groin
while letting loose with a stream of fuck noises and words. “I’m gonna fuck your
mouth until I come. Suck me, my little invert.” I was slobbering with drool running
down the sides of my mouth as I made slurping and snorting noises while she
pulled my hair and fucked my mouth. I desperately wanted to jack off, but even
more desperately wanted to suck her dry. I wanted Lucky to come down my throat
and out my asshole, her heat burrowing into my body. I wanted her to come like
lightning through my cunt. I fucked her cock harder with my hot mouth, until
with a tremendous series of guttural grunts Lucky came, my swollen lips wrapped
around her big black cock.
Lucky’s hand loosened on my hair for a minute, then she
pushed me backward on the rug. I fell awkwardly on my back, supported by my
elbows and looking up at her dazedly. She kneeled over me, her pompadour sexily
disheveled, her cheeks flushed, her eyes half-closed and blazing, then took my face
between her calloused hands and we kissed, a long luxurious smooch, full of promise.
I shrugged off my jacket as Lucky did the same. As I was unknotting my necktie,
I heard the swooshing sound of her leather belt being jerked rapidly through her
belt loops and looked up to see that she’d doubled it up and was grinning at me
evilly.
Lucky shoved me sideways growling, “Bend over the ottoman.”
I kneeled over the high, Moroccan-leather ottoman, as she
yanked my flannel trousers and my briefs down to my knees. Lucky’s hand reached
between my thighs, cupping my cunt, then withdrawing slowly, her fingers
separating my labia and running from my cock to my cunt to my asshole. I could
feel salty sweet precome drip down my thighs. I moaned and pushed back, trying
to draw her inside of me. I didn’t care where, I just needed her fingers inside
of me pumping and rolling and fucking…filling my hungry holes. Instead, she
stood up, hovering over me, letting the heat between us build. Suddenly she drew
back and let at me with her belt against my ass. The first hit was a kiss. My
cunt was slammed into the ottoman and my ass reached up for Lucky. She hit me
harder the second and third times. I still wanted to jerk off, but didn’t want
to come yet, so I shoved my clit into the side of the leather, forgetting about
the belt and spreading my legs to expose my cunt to her touch, then closing
them rapidly as I remembered what was coming and the leather flew through the
air. The next hits were harder and faster, and I could feel Lucky’s grin and her
hard-on behind each swoop of the belt as it thumped my ass. I was making
whimpering noises, and each time her belt hit me, it drove my chest forward,
pushing the air out of my lungs with a whoosh. My ass was on fire and my cunt
felt hollow. Suddenly, I heard the snap of latex. Lucky dropped to her knees and
started grabbing my burning ass, twisting my newly bruised, tender flesh. I
moaned at the fresh pain. Then there was a cold slurp of lube and one finger
circling my hole. I was frantic for her hand and bucked, trying to suck her in,
but she slapped my ass with her free hand.
“Impatient, are we?”
One finger, a second finger, and finally a third slipped
into me, with her thumb rubbing against the side of my engorged, stiffened
clit.
“Please fuck me. Please! I need your hand inside my cunt,” I
begged.
Lucky groaned but pulled out, prolonging my agony as she
teased my cunt by barely dipping her fingers inside of me. I sobbed as she
finally started pushing four fingers into my cunt while biting my shoulder with
her pointy teeth. By now I was inarticulate with wanting to get fucked. The
world had shrunken to Lucky’s hand in my cunt and her breath on my neck. Then
she was twisting her hand inside, I opened up to Lucky, pushing back, and we were
fucking—her gardener’s hand in my cunt, the wettest nest, everything swollen
and rippling. Lucky’s mouth. My cunt. Lucky’s cunt. My cock, my clit. Lucky’s
cock. I was fucking her back and she was growling. I was making noises that
said, “Fuck me fast and hard.” I could feel my orgasm start in my belly—a heavy
roll undulating from my chest down to my cunt as I shot out a gush of come, my
cock swelling and my cunt clenching around her fist. Lucky was shouting as I sputtered
hoarsely, my salty come squirting out a second time, soaking us both.
I slid off the ottoman to the carpet, panting, my pants
tangled around my calves and come dripping down to my knees. Lucky fell down to
the floor and we held each other close until our breathing slowed down. We were
still mostly dressed, our clothing soaked with sex and sweat. I tried to get
up, and my knees creaked as I stumbled over my twisted and damp trousers. I
tipped over onto the floor laughing. Lucky was in better shape, but her wrist
joint ached, her shirt was wet up to the armhole with my come, and her cock was
listing perilously to the left. I sat Lucky down on the olive mohair sofa, put
Eartha Kitt crooning “C’est Si Bon” on the stereo, poured her a snifter of
cognac, and hung up our jackets. Woozily, I staggered into my bedroom, fetched
Lucky a fresh shirt from my cedar-lined wardrobe, changed into a dry pair of pants,
and made my way to the kitchen to fix us a postcoital snack of a simple omelet,
à la Alice B. Toklas.
In the kitchen, I turned on Marlene Dietrich dramatically
singing “Black Market” and swung my well-oiled hips. I let the warmth of the afterfuck
flow through me lazily as I vigorously beat the eggs, water, cheese, and a
hearty sprinkle of coarsely ground black pepper with a fork, then slid them
into the hot skillet. Soon the omelet was bubbly and I plopped bread into the
toaster, singing along with cabaret singer Marlene’s racy wartime entreatments
from A Foreign Affair.
I could hear Eartha Kitt’s husky voice as I strolled back
into the living room carrying a silver tray with plates of hot omelet and crisp
buttered toast. As I walked through the French doors into the living room, Lucky
was humming to Eartha while rubbing her wrist. I cleared the low, Persian,
engraved copper-tray coffee table of leatherbound books, dime-store mysteries,
a prickly tomato pincushion, and a clutch of fountain pens and put down the
tray, then sat down next to Lucky, massaging her wrist and hand, pressing my
thumbs into her over-fucked joints. We ate, denim knee to flannel knee,
devouring the steaming eggs quietly.
Eggs and toast finished, I suddenly became nervous and
insecure. Was this just a queer, kinky, senior citizen version of the one-night
stand? Did I want this invasion of heat and conversation in my midst, winding
its way through my apartment and life? It was easy to know what I wanted when
my legs were spread—my cunt and Lucky’s hand conversed fine. What the fuck was
I doing? I must have jolted in panic, because Lucky removed my empty plate from
my lap, leaned over, and snuggled me against her shoulder.
Lucky said softly, “Hey, you.”
I said, “Hey, you too,” back. And this is how it all
started.
About Avery Cassell
Avery Cassell is a member of the Bay Area's queer BDSM and literary communities as well as a writer, painter and cartoonist living in San Francisco, whose erotic short stories have appeared in Best Lesbian Erotica 2015, Anything that Moves, Whipped: 20 Erotic Stories of Female Dominance, Sonic Erotica and More Five Minute Erotica.
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