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.”

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
This entry was posted in Behrouz Gets Lucky, erotica and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s