I’m sorry it’s been so long. I started writing Part III once and then ditched it. This is the second attempt. Everything is fine between us, or at least as fine as possible in this turbulent environmental and political climate. Scout is still in Massachusetts and I’m still in San Francisco, yet we’re talking about living together out east. Sometimes it seems frighteningly complicated, but most of the time it feels absolutely right.
As Scout and I became closer, Scout and her girlfriend became more distant. I worried that Scout wasn’t paying sufficient attention to her girlfriend, but wasn’t sure how to mention it without sounding like a scold. Scout and her girlfriend had been having difficulties with communication and sex since January; during the summer, it came to a head between them. Her girlfriend suggested that they break up, and Scout agreed, perhaps too quickly. I felt like a homewrecker, an abject 63-year-old homewrecker. Part of me was childishly pleased that I was still hot enough to turn someone’s head so hard, but most of me felt horrified and guilty.
Where does fantasy stop and reality start? The differences between Scout and Lucky were becoming obvious, and yet similarities remained. Maybe the demarcation is space and money. My handsome alter ego, Behrouz, had worked for the San Francisco Public Library for several decades and lived a pleasantly quiet bachelor life. Behrouz even got to retire in book II. In reality, I worked a prosaic, low-paying retail administrative job with no retirement in sight.
The debonair Lucky was a single gardener living in San Francisco’s Mission district. In reality, Scout had an 11-year-old daughter that she was devoted to. She earned a modest income by providing care to her beloved mother, who lived with dementia. Scout, her mother, and her daughter all lived in a small town in western Massachusetts, not the Mission. A few years prior, she’d suffered a run-in with a hockey puck that left her with a severe traumatic brain injury (TBI), but she’d made immense strides in her recovery. As a result, Lucky and Scout shared some minor issues with their memory.
Despite the differences between fiction and fact, we flirted online. We flirted via Messenger, occasionally delving into phone calls. We spent the first two months in a state of constant arousal, our cunts hard, swollen, and wet. We fucked each day; I started telling Scout smutty “stories” each night to lull her to sleep. I filled her head with naughty thoughts as she jerked in her solitary bed. The three-hour time difference, combined with the fact that Scout kept farmers hours, meant that I fucked her to sleep each night as I was getting off of work. I would gleefully Message her about sucking her off while I fisted her, and all the while surrounded by fellow commuters on the number 21 bus riding home. I recorded myself coming over and over, and sent her audio recordings to jerk off to. We were shameless.
We were both artists. Scout drew and wrote, but had been artistically fallow for the past fifteen years, busy with childrearing and recovering from her TBI. We started planning projects together and discovered that we worked well together. She agreed to draw a few butches for the sequel to the Butch Lesbians of the 20s, 30s, and 40s Coloring Book, We started sharing notes for two books that we wanted to write and illustrate together, a children’s book and a style book for masculine of center people. Scout had professionally copy-edited for decades and graciously copy-edited Doily Is My Safeword, the sequel to Behrouz Gets Lucky, then arranged for several readers. I was overcome with gratitude and also stunned. I’d always wanted a lover that I could work on projects with, and suddenly there was Scout. She was a hot, creative, smart-ass butch lusting for me…and I was lusting right back at her.
We decided to meet, and that Scout would visit me in San Francisco, except that Scout was afraid of flying. This was the result of being near New York during 911 and left-over effects from her brain injury. Scout was terrified of airports, airplane take-off, turbulence, getting lost in an airport, missing her connection, and planes. We cobbled together a plan that consisted of fistfuls of Xanax, a backpack of protein snacks, test runs to the airport, and a peculiarly romantic first date. Scout asked me to meet her at her layover in Las Vegas, and I agreed. I bought a round trip ticket to Vegas, while Scout bought a round trip ticket to San Francisco. More to come…