Happy Holidays with a Turkey Fisting Scene from Behrouz Gets Lucky:

There was only one scene in Behrouz Gets Lucky which horrified my publisher, and this was it; She was scandalized that Lucky did not use latex gloves.

By noon Alex, Sam, and Theo were crashing from the sugar. Lucky and I volunteered to start the roast turkey and sent everyone off for naps. I removed the twenty-five-pound hunk of bird from the brining bucket on the back porch and patted it dry while Lucky chopped sweet onions and tart apples for our traditional cornbread and apple stuffing.

I fried the sage sausage, and when I was done Lucky mixed everything in a large metal mixing bowl.

“Baby, I’m going to show you how to stuff a turkey. Watch closely.” Lucky whipped out a pair of black nitrile gloves from the back pocket of her jeans. She put them on, snapping the cuffs, then flexed her hands. I jumped at the snapping sound, my cunt getting wet in Pavlovian response.

“I gotta warm this sweet little bird up,” she said, and reached into the turkey’s cavity slowly until she was in halfway up her forearm. “Come closer so you can watch my hand. Stand next to me. There you go. Closer. Right next to me. Just rest your hip against my ass the way I like it.”

I was mesmerized, turned on, and horrified all at once. I was in my daughter’s kitchen in Ohio while my lover did dirty things to and fisted a clammy cold dead turkey carcass. Lucky removed her hand from inside of the turkey, poured a dollop of olive oil onto her gloved palm and rubbed her hands together, getting them slick and shiny.

“I need to make sure the flesh is tender, so I’m going to smooth this olive oil into the inside and then the outside of our bird,” she said, like a perverted Martha Stewart. She reached in again, meeting my eyes. “See how I’m making sure our bird is all slick and slippery inside. I’m turning my hand around and pressing into its tender flesh with my

knuckles. I’ve got to make sure that I grease up every spot. Put your hand inside too and grab my fist. Go on. Don’t be shy.” I reached in the opening, felt Lucky’s greased up fist, and gasped. I imagined her sliding into me the way she’d slid into that turkey and my hips moved forward against her ass. I couldn’t help it.

Lucky grabbed a garlic clove, then separated the cold, feather-pluck marked skin from the turkey breast. She took the clove and slowly inserted it with her index and middle fingers under the loosened skin “See how I gently loosened the skin? Now I’m sliding the garlic in between the skin and the flesh.” She moved her hand around, the two fingers straightened out and sliding carefully, reaching the entire breast and pressing in with her fingertips. “I’m softening up the breast flesh and making it flavorful. You know how important it is to soften things up before you cook them, right?”

“Oh baby,” I moaned. “You are so fucking unfair. So fucking mean. We haven’t fucked in days!”

“That’s why I’m the sadist, monkey butt.”

“Hey you two,” my daughter, Theo stood in the doorway rubbing her eyes. “Tell me what you want me to do next.”

Theo came into the steamy kitchen and I backed away from Lucky’s ass. I did all but throw myself onto the snow in the backyard to cool off. I washed dishes. I folded laundry. I peeled potatoes. I took out the trash. I fed the cats. Anything to stop thinking about Lucky’s right hand in my cunt and her left hand at my throat.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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