I read the Facebook group description, wondered if I qualified; genderqueer and transmasculine folks were not mentioned in the group description, just butches. I worried that the fact that I took testosterone would be a detriment, so I politely and nervously messaged the administer, a silver-haired, butch sheep farmer in Massachusetts, who went by the initials, SK. SK promptly and graciously added genderqueer and transmasculine to the group description and welcomed me into the group. I figured that I’d find companionship, but had absolutely no expectations of romance or hook-ups. My experience on the West Coast had been that there was a smattering of butch/butch and Daddy/boi romances among two groups; folks under age 30 and older leather dykes. I wasn’t interested in a Daddy/boi relationship and vastly preferred to date and fuck people that were at least over age 50. I knew that love pickings would be slim to nonexistent, and that was fine. I had my art to keep me warm, or at least that’s what I told myself.
How did the magic start? Please bear with me as I untangle meeting Lucky. As I write this, it’s the second week of September and I’m sitting cross-legged under a tree in Golden Gate Park. I just finished a lunch of artichoke pizza, a coconut shortbread cookie, and mint green tea. I really am astonishingly like Behrouz, and as it turned out, SK really is astonishingly like Lucky. SK is arriving in San Francisco on October 17th so that we can meet in person, fuck like wild things, meander in the park, cook dinner together, read books foot-to-foot on the sofa with my cat between us, and see if what feels like love over 3,000 miles away from one another, is actually love in person. We met online May 25, she propositioned me on June 7th, and we’ve been flirting ever since, but again, I’m getting ahead of myself.
On May 25th, SK read my Facebook group introduction where I mentioned having published erotica, then told me that she also wrote erotica. I was glad to hear that another group member wrote and was curious. Would it be hot? Was it kinky? Could she actually write well? A few days later, SK started a group thread about sewing machines and posted some vintage sewing machine porn. I was flummoxed. Why was a butch posting sewing machine porn? Sewing’s not a common butch hobby or skill, and I was the only fellow butch sewist to respond. The sewing machine discussion segued into lively chatter between us about vintage typewriters, accordions, samovars, and after seeing a picture of my living room with it’s Victorian sewing cabinet, Victorian sewing cabinets. On June 1st, SK started an erotic writers circle for the group members in Google Docs. She uploaded a story and I uploaded the first chapter of Behrouz Gets Lucky.
SK had identified as a switch in an earlier group poll, she came off as a top, was close to my age, and hot. Then SK made a reference in her story to falling to her knees in front of another butch, so I revised my earlier opinion of her as a top. I was startled and disappointed that she was turning into a bottom. A few years before, I’d run across a slew of tops that were secretly bottoms. I’d spent more than a year trying futilely to get topped by them, gritting my teeth, seething, and hissing, “I. Am. Not. A. Top.” to eager leather-clad would-be tops, who were really bottoms. I was not eager to repeat those misadventures. I was a switch, but only for a top that would cheerfully and sadistically top me first. Besides, SK was 3,000 miles away. SK read my porn and we started messaging privately. I thought nothing of it, except to hope that she’d become a new friend. On June 3rd, I published a piece in this blog about service tops.
I’d been thinking about the concept of service tops for years, and felt that the best S/M relationships operated in service to one another. Wasn’t sadomasochism a loop of energy, a mechanism if you will, where the masochist fed the sadist and visa versa? In my piece on service tops, I wrote, “I want a kind-hearted, proficient, and energetic top to mysteriously appear in my apartment, beat me senseless, and then fist me until we both collapse in a sticky puddle of come and sweat. I want a top who gets off doing this, who needs to control the scene and beat me, as much as I need to be submissive and beaten. I want a physical and emotional connection between us, albeit for just a few hours. I don’t want to plan it, don’t want safe words, don’t want to be in control, and don’t want to be passive.”
A few days after I published the service top piece, I received the following delightfully blunt and sexy message from SK, “And, honest to gods, if I lived near you, I would be delighted to service top the fuck out of you. I’m an excellent baker, as well.”
I was astonished at SK’s message; as a rule, people did not proposition me. It had literally been years since anyone had done this. I was a stern daddy whose demeanor often intimidated people. I came off as a top, yet was a bottom heavy switch. Additionally, I had unusual, taboo butch-for-butch proclivities. Besides, I may have mentioned that any ideas of a lover had been firmly shelved.
I told my friend and coworker, Tony, about SK, except that I had no idea what her actual name was, so I called her The Sheep Dyke since she raised sheep and I didn’t like the initials SK. Tony immediately pounced on the idea of SK being my manifestation of Lucky, imagining me moving to Massachusetts to raise sheep. I wasn’t so sure. I was jaded and had baggage from my last relationship, besides Massachusetts was pretty darn far from San Francisco. The Sheep Dyke was polyamorous and had a steady girlfriend, a sex educator. I found the fact that SK had a stable lover comforting. It meant that she was loved and trusted. SK and I continued our increasingly intense online flirtation, and I finally blushingly admitted to SK that I’d been calling her The Sheep Dyke; she laughed and told me that her name was Scout.
As Scout and I got to know one another, similarities to Lucky begin cropping up. Some of the similarities were in the first book, yet others were in the second book, which had not been published yet.
Some were surface similarities and some were deeper. There were so many that it became eerie. Lucky and Scout worked with dirt and nature. Lucky was a gardener and Scout was a farmer, Lucky and Scout both were casual foodies who enjoyed cooking, reading, knitting socks, and had strong DIY creative inclinations that translated into fetishizing domesticity. They were confident tops with high sex drives and similar sexual predilections, down to the desire to occasionally switch. They were the same age. They were extroverted and sexually charismatic. Scout and Lucky had a penchant for antiques and a definite anachronistic style, although Lucky preferred Midcentury and Scout loved Mission. Lucky and Scout were excellent communicators, kind-hearted, and patient. I’d given Lucky these attributes carefully and thoughtfully as I’d written my book, Behrouz Gets Lucky. Was Scout actually Lucky? Had I manifested a lover? To be continued….