Behrouz and Lucky are Looking For A New Home!

I’m looking for a publisher for my brand spankin’ new novel, Doily Is My Safeword! If you know any friendly publishers that might be interested in a politically astute, humorous, kinky tale about two curmudgeonly queers and their friends and family, then give me a shout-out!


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The Writer’s Life: A Humorous Glimpse at the Truth.

basic-typing-1La life de l’artiste
It’s beautiful in San Francisco, and it’s easy to appreciate because I make enough from book sales that I only have to work part-time. I get off work and take the Milan trolley home. The hot butch trolley driver surreptitiously slips me her calling card and winks,”Call me any time, hot stuff!” On the way home, I take some photos with my phone for inclusion in my urban photography blog.

Once home, I put on Nina Simone and start dinner. I sauté the shallots and zucchini, then grate the fresh corn from my CSA into the mixture. I add eggs and cream, then pour the quiche into the cast iron skillet and put it in the oven.

While it is baking, I read my emails. The New Yorker has accepted a fourth poem and wonders if I’m interested in writing a regular column, I have a good-sized advance check from my publisher, and a handful of ardent fan letters. I get a text from my paramour wanting to know if I’d like to fuck tonight, and I respond valiantly, “Yes!

I eat by candlelight, while writing the outline to my new novel. The moon is high and bright, and the trees beneath my window sway in the cool night breeze. The fog is wafting in; weaving it’s way between the branches. After dinner, I vacuum my apartment, then wash my dishes while humming Doris Day hits.

I have just enough time to dash off a few quick vignettes for a new queer comic anthology before my girlfriend arrives. I take a whore’s bath, then change into my vintage rust quilted flannel smoking jacket and slacks. Rudolph Valentino had one just like it, but in grey. I starch and iron my pink Oxford shirt, and steam my grey flannel slacks for tomorrow, then hang them on my oak clothes-horse.

I hear the soft click of the front door lock as my girlfriend arrives, and Pavlovian-like, my cunt swells at the sound. She is very happy to see me and throws me to the floor for a quick fuck in the hallway. Then she takes me into my bedroom to force me to suck her cock, after which she trusses me up, canes me until I’m weeping, then fists me until I’m limp and incoherent.

Afterwards she runs a scented candlelit bubble bath for me, then feeds me coconut cake from Tartine’s Bakery while I’m bathing. She tucks me in, then leaves. I’m extremely grateful for her tireless administrations and promise to dedicate my next novel to her.

I sleep for eight straight hours. I do not wake up at 3:30 a.m.

La realite de artiste
It’s beautiful in San Francisco! I get off work and take the Milan trolley home. Customers have been needy and I’m exhausted from working full-time. The bus is overly crowded, but I manage to get a seat. Someone who reeks of stale piss and tobacco falls onto my lap. They call me a “fucking asshole” but I console myself with the fact that they’re having a worse night than I’m having.

Once home, I play Nina Simone while I put bread into the toaster. I slather my toast with fancy Irish butter and slice off a chunk of sharp cheddar cheese. I read my emails while I’m eating my dinner of toast and cheese. My 84-year-old lesbian separatist aunt writes that she envies my writing talent. I read that bit ten times, gloating more and more each time

None of the other people that I sent my novel to have emailed me back. I wonder how much my writing sucks. Then I wonder if I’m so socially awkward that I’m actually unlikable; it’s possible. I feel bad that I’m so insecure, then I remember that I’m brilliant and perk up.

I open my annual statement from Social Security. I’ll get $1,173 a month if I retire at 66 in six years. My student loans alone are $244 a month. I’ll never be able to retire from my straight job. Ever. I feel awful again.

I put my plate in the sink and wash the dishes. The trash under the sink stinks and I consider taking it out, but am too tired, so I don’t.

I take a hot scented bath by candlelight. I use my new Italian sandalwood soap and feel better. I put on my green plaid cotton pajamas that I bought from Community Thrift. I work desolately on the outline for my new novel, then go on Facebook to catch up with news and gossip. I distribute snarky comments and kind words like breadcrumbs. The moon is high and bright, and the trees beneath my window sway in the cool breeze. The fog is coming in. I take some pictures of the night sky and post them on Facebook. I get 15 “likes” in 10 minutes. I feel loved.

I read a murder mystery on the sofa with my purring cat perched on my belly. I become sleepy at 10:00, so go to bed. I fuck myself in the ass while beating my thighs with a silicone slapper until I come. Hard. I’m grateful that I’m good in bed and consider dedicating my next book to my favorite dildo. I sleep for six hours, wake up at 3:30 a.m. in a panic about not getting published, go back to sleep until 5:00 a.m., and go back to work.

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A Valentine’s Day Vignette


It was morning and I was still in my flannel pajamas. I gathered our dirty shirts, socks, briefs, and jeans, stripped the bed of the week’s sheets, grabbed the dank towels off the brass rack in the bathroom, and stood over the unmade bed sorting laundry while listening to the rain. The ripe smells of exhaust, nearly new leaves, and damp sidewalks eased their way in through the cracked window, blowing the curtains open. Just a waft, not much. I turned on some music; found Ann Peebles singing “I Can’t Stand the Rain” and sang along.

It was Valentine’s Day and I was a romantic. It’s true; my brittle curmudgeonly heart was a fist worth of soft, bloody, hopeful tissue eager to give bouquets of orange fluted tulips to Lucky. I never could get this part straight. Was it unseemingly heteronormative to give flowers to one’s beloved on a commercial holiday named after a Christian saint, even if there were pagan overtones? Was this too tender? Would some homemade smut, a dinner of Lucky’s favorite frittata, a spinach and grapefruit salad, and a blackberry pie with vanilla ice cream, followed by an earnest blow job make a better gift to commemorate devotion?

Somehow, we’d managed to steer clear of celebrating Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t deliberate. We’d met in April, so avoided an all-fucking-all-the-time-brand-new-relationship Valentine’s Day. Our first Valentine’s Day together we were housesitting at Poppy and Tiny’s, hand-feeding a litter of blue-eyed, ratty feral kittens, thus way too busy meowing and cooing over fur-babies to coo over one another. The second year, Lucky was away at some gardeners convention for the long weekend, so I holed up in our bedroom with a chunky metal chain, my two largest silicone dildos, nipple clamps, an S-shaped metal dildo, a stainless steel butt-plug, Eartha Kitt, a fountain of lube, dim lights, and a cushion of towels and rubberized sheeting. But this time there were no wobbly kittens and we were home alone.

I was idly rubbing at an octopus-shaped tomato stain on one of my white dress shirts and fantasizing about Lucky beating my ass with a rubber slapper as I crawled on my knees down the hallway, tit clamps swinging, when I heard Lucky singing from the kitchen,

I, I will be king,
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing, will drive them away
We can beat them, just for one day
We can be heroes, just for one day…

Really, that’s all it took. Lucky’s crackly voice from the next room, our sheets permeated with the smell of fucking and orgasms, and the San Francisco winter rain against our bedroom window. I gathered our laundry, the rumpled clothing draped over my arms, and walked through the kitchen to the washroom to start the week’s wash. The door to the washroom was halfway open. I could smell the sweet, herbal scent of lavender spray starch, and see Lucky’s bare legs. She was wearing red ribbed socks held up with old-fashioned striped sock garters and a blue chambray shirt with extra long tails.

I pushed the swinging door open with my hip. She was standing at the metal ironing board working through a pile of dress shirts in a wicker basket, spraying them with extra-heavy starch, carefully pressing them flat with an iron as they hissed, then hanging them up on wire metal hangers. Lucky’s ass jutted out delectably, with her shirttails draped over it like an elegant tablecloth. Her muscular thighs were covered with the finest sprinkling of silver hairs, and her feet were planted firmly, spread a foot apart. I objectified Lucky faultlessly for a long, long moment, long enough for my cunt to swell and pulse, and my nipples to tighten up. I put down our laundry, walked over, and hugged Lucky from behind, “Hey, you. Want to go out for dinner tonight?”

Lucky looked at me over her shoulder, turned around until she was facing me, slowly unbuttoned the horn buttons on her shirt, looked down, and smirked. Call me dense, but I did not expect to see Lucky’s big copper cock come curving up at me like a Sunday morning sucker. Lucky stroked her cock with the palm of her gardener’s hand, callouses smoothing the soft silicone surface, her hips jutting forward suggestively. I gulped, wide-eyed. Lucky smiled, raised one greying bushy eyebrow, and nodded at her cock. I can recognize a heartfelt Valentine’s Day gift, even if it’s being handed to me in a cramped, mildewed laundry room.

I fell to my knees, careful to fall on the orange braided rag rug. At my age, every little bit of padding helps. I fell to my knees and opened my mouth. I could smell Lucky’s cunt through the rubber of her harness and the flowery cloud of dissipating spray starch. Lucky started fucking my mouth. I imagined that my mouth was my cunt, remembered the porn flick Deep Throat, then reached down to jerk myself off. I yearned to be stuffed with Lucky. The slick feel of her cock sliding slowly over my lips made me moan, my thighs shiver.

Lucky started talking dirty in a low growl, “Don’t you wish I was fucking your asshole right now, wiggling my way inside of you, reaching up with my cockhead and stroking your clit from the inside out. Oh, baby. fuck you until you can’t talk anymore. Drawing out, then slamming back in until your eyes rattle in their cage.” The more she talked, the harder and faster she fucked my mouth.

I shook and babbled, my cock swelling harder under my fingertips, a ripe red bud ready to burst. Lucky was fucking me deeper now, gripping my head so she could control the fuck and grunting with each downstroke. Drool collected in the corners of my lips, slobber pooling on my chin, making me hotter. Suddenly, Lucky yelled, “Fuck!” and her cock filled my mouth with warm come, a sticky sweet mess dripping down my chin to my chest.

I came as Lucky came, on my creaky knees, hunched over the worn linoleum tiles in the laundry room with a rickety steel ironing board behind us. We came together, dirty laundry in the corner, dress shirts on their hangers, the lonely rain pouring down, and the world in its rightful place. I sat back, balancing on my knees and steadying myself with my hands on the floor, then licked my lips, trying to identify the flavor of Lucky’s latest jiz concoction, “Cherries?”

“Cherry cordial,” Lucky laughed, pleased with herself, “Happy Valentine’s Day, joon-am.”

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Happy Valentine’s Day from Behrouz & Lucky!


“Lucky rolled me on my tummy, kneeled between my thighs, reached for the bottle of J-Lube on our bedside table next to the Arts and Crafts copper-based stained glass lamp, filled her cupped palm with lube, and pushed herself inside of me, the cold lube cooling me down. Two fingers, three, four filled my cunt with Lucky hunched over me growling her way inside of me. I buried my face in my feather pillow, turning my head so I could breathe and moaned as she fucked me leisurely, oh to be filled with Lucky. The first two lines of Walt Whitman’s poem, “We Two Boys Together Clinging” ran through my head as Lucky twisted and turned her gardener’s fist inside my soaking wet cunt, with my legs shaking and her grunting in rhythm with my hips. “We boys together clinging, One the other never leaving” and we were together as my cunt muscles spasmed around her hand, holding her tightly. Holding her hand tightly with my cunt, I came in a rush of need and love.” – from Doily Is My Safeword

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Synergy Between the Sadist and the Masochist

whip“There is an ethereal synergy between the sadist and the masochist. When Lucky beat me, it was if she was kneading me, my fleshly dough softening beneath her hands to transform and rise. When I was a little girl, my favorite favorite fairy tale was “Cap-o’-Rushes” in which the prodigal daughter returns to show her father that her love was powerful, as strong as meat needs salt. Lucky’s gift of giving pain, and my gift of receiving pain produced a similar alchemy; she was the salt to my meat, and I the meat to her salt. When we fucked, when Lucky beat me, we spun a century’s old fairy tale, a fable that was infinitely larger than a motel room on Geary Street.” – Lucky, from Doily Is My Safeword


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