It was a beautiful November morning in Tehran, cool and sunny. As I packed our suitcases to return to San Francisco from our honeymoon, I could hear my favorite ice-cream vender screeching “bastan-i” in his shrill, high-pitched voice as he rolled his cart down Khaiboon-i Hafiz and towards his corner on Hassan Abad Square. It was 8:00 a.m. and the last of the morning schoolchildren were laughing beneath our hotel window, lingering on their way to dabestân. Commuters were driving to work, their horns a cacophony that I already felt nostalgic for, and we weren’t even flying home until that afternoon. I had set up our open suitcases on the gold satin matelassé bed coverlet and was packing.
Lucky was in the shower, serenading me with the familiar sounds of “I Enjoy Being A Girl.” I rolled our briefs tightly, tucked them into the suitcase corners, and sighed. We were definitely going home with more than we came with when we arrived in Iran a month ago. I set aside a stack of American blue jeans for the hotel clerk as a going away gift and as a way to make more room in our suitcases. His name was Siavash and, once he’d gotten over the shock of realizing that, according to our passports, we were a male-female heterosexual married couple and not two male best friends, had become our unofficial tour guide. Siavash was young, wiry, and tattooed, with a luscious unibrow, and a verse of poetry tattooed upon his forearm, the elaborate Persian calligraphy wrapping its way around his muscular hairy limb. He’d became very fond of helping us pass as male by calling us Meester Bedford and Meester Bronson when we were out; this way Lucky could avoid Iran’s mandatory female dress code. I was sure that if the jeans didn’t fit Siavash, that they would fit one of his brothers.
I mulled over my life as I folded our sweaters and shirts, and rolled up our new Persian carpets. There’s nothing like the morning of a twenty-four-hour-long international flight to encourage philosophical musings. I hadn’t drunk my morning pot of tea yet, we’d been up fucking until midnight the night before, and I was feeling off center. How can we imagine the precise journey of our lives? I joked that it’s-a-long-story was my middle name, but I actually meant it.
When Lucky and I finally got hitched, we did it because we couldn’t stop fucking. That’s not entirely true, but it’s true enough. We couldn’t stop fucking, sharing dinners, cooking together, embarking on projects, laughing, reading together, sleeping snuggled against one another, throwing parties, and gallivanting around San Francisco. We were elderly, literary, queer flâneurs in love. I’d given up on romance and sex. When I’d put up my profile on OKCupid at age sixty, I certainly never thought that it would lead to Lucky, a middle aged debauched gardener with talented hands, a collection of midcentury pottery, a tender heart, and a fetish for domesticity. I was resigned to spending the rest of my days in the library behind the desk assisting patrons and in meeting rooms deciding policies, and then I would retire at age sixty six to become the doting grandpa to Alex and Sam, my two grandchildren in Ohio. I had it all mapped out, but then I met Lucky and everything changed. Like Don Marquis’ Mehitabel, I’d been around the block more than a few times. I’d hitchhiked across the country, been a teenage runaway and streetwalker in Hollywood, smoked opium with a Persian prince, raised children, been fisted overlooking the Bay in the Presidio, sung in an all-girl punk band, had a threesome with an American biker and a British member of Parliament, and like my mother, brother, and aunt had become a librarian. I’d buried one daughter and several lovers, lived for decades in Ohio, grown sprouts, gotten sober, been homeless, pretended to be a boy wanting to be a girl, driven across town in a blizzard to slap a red hot gigolo wearing black silk panties, changed diapers at a daycare center, attended PTA meetings, and tickled grandchildren. And yet, here I was, sitting on a queen-sized bed in a robin’s egg blue Tehran-i hotel room with an open window and the white lace sheers blowing in the breeze. I glanced at the still life of pomegranates over the headboard, and wondered at the path that led me to this room, this bed, with this handsome naked woman singing in the shower in the next room. I smiled.
Lucky came out of the bathroom, releasing clouds of amber-scented steam into the hotel bedroom. She toweled off her hair, grinned at me, and started getting dressed.
“Behrouz-joon, are you brooding? Has The Voice of Doom come out to play havoc with your poor sixty-two year old heart?” she asked playfully.
I rolled my eyes, mostly at myself rather than at Lucky. The Voice of Doom was my childhood bête noire, the gremlin that haunted me, springing up like a Jack-in-the-box whenever I felt anxious. “No. Yes. Well, Maybe, just a little. I mean, do you ever think about it all?”
Lucky gave me the fish eye and cocked one eyebrow. “Are you worried about flying? About going through security at Imam Khomeini International Airport?”
“No, my worries are more nefarious. Well, maybe not nefarious, but more extensive at least. I worry about Theo with her Marfan Syndrome. What if her heart tanks? And what if Trump wins the election? What about that? Will I ever get the chance to return to Tehran? Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful we got to spend a month here; it’s been a dream come true. It’s just that everything feels unsteady. San Francisco is tilting into a modern Gold Rush spurred on by technology. My dad used to take me to a local fossil pit to hunt for artifacts when I was a little girl in Virginia, and I remember my boots getting stuck in the mud, pulling them up with difficulty, the mud making a suctioning squishy noise. I’d panic, convinced that I was going to be sucked into the pit and stripped of my flesh until I was nothing but a pile of white bones. That’s what it feels like right now.”
Lucky took my hand. “Your kid’s going to be fine. Her heart has kept on ticking through two pregnancies and she is getting terrific care at the Cleveland Clinic. We can’t control the election, besides, it’s unlikely that Trump will win. Come on.” Lucky twisted my wedding band on my finger. “When we get back to the States, let’s plan a trip to Columbus to visit Theo, Alex, and Sam. Okay?”
I relented. “I’m sorry for being such a worrywart. Maybe we can have Betty come out over the holidays too? Would you like that?”
“We can ask Mom if she wants to visit, although she is usually neck deep in shenanigans with that rambunctious gang of violet haired tantricas from her retirement community.”
I took a look at my watch. “Yikes! We need to hurry up if we want to eat breakfast before we catch our flight.” I jammed one more carpet into my suitcase, and wiggled the zipper shut.
We gathered our suitcases, took one last lingering look at our beloved honeymoon hotel room, and then made our way down the carpeted hallway and the steps to the hotel restaurant.
We ordered the same breakfast that we had the first morning, a traditional Persian breakfast of barbari and sangak breads, quince jam, sour-cherry jam, salty goat milk feta, mint leaves, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, dates, and small glasses of hot sweet black tea.
Once outside, I took a deep breath of the once again familiar smells of Tehran, exhaust fumes, grilled kebabs, cigarettes, roasted corn, and ripe fruits and vegetables. I wanted to burn the city into my memory, the smells, the sight of the hotel’s entrance with its four-foot potted trees, stained bright red carpet, and the three Iranian flags fluttering over the hotel.
Siavash saw us off, exchanging deep hugs as we left. “Khoda hafez agha Behrouz vah agha Lucky.”
We hailed a gaudily festooned, clackity Peykan cab and soon were gone from the city of my childhood forever. Tehran sped away from us, as quickly as San Francisco sped to meet us.
We left foggy San Francisco for our honeymoon in Iran, my childhood home. Now it was November and we were traveling from Tehran back to California. Outcasts always, home was not a place, but wherever we rested our heads and clasped our hands together, fingers intertwined. Always together. Today, home was Lucky and I sitting side-by-side in this Lufthansa airplane, an insulated metal pod of recycled air, airline stewards and stewardesses, and stale food. The seats were upholstered in Lufthansa colors; several shades of antique blue and navy blue with orange trim, and we’d snagged a window and middle seat.
We flew home from our honeymoon quarreling affectionately, not really meaning it and secretly delighted that we were quibbling like an old married couple. How else would we commemorate married life, that delightfully unexpected surprise? We didn’t fight about sex and money, but rather about teakettles and potlucks, necktie knots and cat food. We bickered because we missed home, that intangible desire. We bickered because we could bicker. We weren’t going to leave one another; our quarreling was yet another indication of love, trust, and security, as tangible as our wedding rings.
It was teatime on the plane. We’d brought our own tea bags from Tehran, Lucky smuggling them past customs nervously, like a foodie drug dealer. This criminal prank was all Lucky’s fault. I was way too prim for such lowdown shenanigans.
Lucky had sewn an additional pocket inside the inner pocket in her tweed blazer while we were still in Tehran. The pocket’s opening was discreetly along the side, making it the perfect little cave, just large enough to comfortably stash twenty tea bags, hidden from all rule-happy officials.
When I found Lucky in her blue plaid pajamas, smoking a pipe and remodeling her blazer in our Tehran hotel room a few days before returning to the States, I was bemused at this surprise domestic project. I thought she was making a special pocket for condoms and lube, until she confessed that it was for tea bags. We sat on the saggy hotel bed together as she carefully sewed the grey satin pocket with tiny invisible stitches.
“I was thinking about your story of Mahmud, your family’s caviar smuggler in the early 1960s, and about how he’d visit your parents’ apartment the first Thursday of each month with his brown leather briefcase packed with tins of black caviar,” Lucky confessed, squinting in the dim light, as she took another overcast stitch with her needle. “Your parents sounded so glamorous when they were young, your mom with her dirty blond French twist and long legs, and your dad in his Naval dress whites and bad attitude. Then the four of you in Tehran slathering gobs of caviar on your scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast…it was so romantic. I’m completely envious!”
“So you decided to become an international black tea pirate to make up for missing out?”
“If Mahmud can smuggle, then I can too!”
“You do know that we can actually buy this tea in San Francisco now? The sanctions have been lifted. We can buy Persian tea, carpets, caviar, saffron, nougat, basmati rice, and even pistachios.”
“But this is more fun, joon-am,” Lucky muttered happily as she tied the final knot with a flourish.
It occurred to me that Lucky may have read too many international espionage paperbacks as a teenager, but becoming a tea smuggling desperado seemed like an innocuous hobby for a middle-aged butch dyke. I kissed her neck.
“Hopefully,” I continued, “you won’t get caught in the rain. Your tea bags would get wet, and then you’d be streaming brown tea from under your jacket and down your pants legs. That would be a sure fire giveaway to the authorities that something was amiss!”
Lucky glared at me in mock annoyance. “Remember, you’re the smuggler’s wife. You get to bail me out of jail.”
On the airplane, I watched our tea steep as I rested my arm next to Lucky’s, pressing against her, elbow to elbow, chestnut ombré plaid shirt to pumpkin striped T-shirt. We timed the steeping, not wanting our tea to stew. I’d been reading great batches of British mysteries during our honeymoon and was enamored with the word stew along with all things that were vintage British. As a result of my new reading habits, we were both drinking massive amounts of black tea and contemplating making spats.
We discussed teakettle brands over Switzerland, watching the rugged mountains, meadows, and billowing clouds rush by below. Out faithful red kettle’s whistle had finally bit the dust a few days before we’d left for Tehran. With the hectic business of getting ready for the wedding, entertaining visiting family, and leaving for the Middle East, we hadn’t yet bought a new one. We still had the old non-whistling kettle; however, we were coming home to a teakettle silence. No whistle to announce the start of the day and the falling of dusk. Lucky had fallen in zombie lust with a French Mauviel kettle in copper with its slick sculptural lines and brilliant finish, whereas I was rooting for an old-fashioned, utilitarian Revere Ware kettle. The thought of foregoing our morning whistle set off a wistful discussion of whether Bear and Francy missed us, or if they thought anything at all of our absence. Would they immediately cling to us purring, or would they stomp off, ears laid back and tails swishing angrily? We’d never been gone for so long, so we didn’t know what to expect from the cats: adoration or bitterness.
The stewardess came by a second time with more hot water and sugar packets. She was a tall German woman roughly in her 40s, sporting a sinewy build topped off with a voluptuous ass, short wavy blond hair, thick dark eyebrows, and the alluring face of Isabella Rossellini. She wore the tailored navy blue uniform well, with its jaunty gold neck scarf and white blouse. Her nametag read Kerstin. Both Lucky and I swooned a little each time she swayed by.
She frowned as she freshened our hot water. “Those aren’t Lufthansa tea bags. Where did they come from?” Her lip curled in disdain and she winked. She looked from Lucky to me.
Lucky flushed pink. “They’re mine. I brought them as a souvenir from Iran.”
Kerstin raised one elegant eyebrow and reached over, picking up an unused tea bag with her long tanned fingers. I caught a whiff of Shalimar from her wrist, its powdery spicy scent making me catch my breath and causing my cunt to tingle. Kerstin’s tiny oval fingernails were bare and trimmed short. Her hands were small and looked soft. Looking at her short hair, minimalist perfect manicure, and swagger, I couldn’t help but hope that she was one of us. I was becoming turned on by her. How would that delicate, athletic hand feel buried in my cunt?
“So, are you two gentlemen traveling back home? Is it so very difficult to find tea in San Francisco that you must bring some back from your travels? Isn’t this extremely illegal?” She drew out each syllable of the word illegal, then examined the teabag critically before putting it back on our tray.
I nervously explained that Lucky was like James Bond and, just like that notorious secret agent, Lucky was a connoisseur of fine food, tea, and jewelry. I stammered, blushing, mesmerized by her hands. I knew that I sounded awkward and nebbish, but couldn’t help myself.
Kerstin caught me staring at her hands, smirked, leaned closer, laid one tanned hand over mine and asked, “And is your special friend a connoisseur of women too?” She winked again, patted Lucky on her red cheek, slipped a plain eggshell-colored calling card embossed with her name and telephone number on it under my teacup, then sauntered down the airplane aisle, her magnificent ass swaying.
“Whew! Now that was a real stewardess!” Lucky exclaimed with awe.
“She was the stewardess of the volks. I wonder how you say that in German?”
Lucky fiddled with her phone, squinting at Google Translate. “Volkflugbegleiterim.”
I picked up Kerstin’s calling card, tucked it into my jeans pocket, and giggled. “I guess today’s my turn to get lucky!”
We sighed deeply in unison at our shared vision of the three of us jammed into the airplane’s too-small restroom in a tangle of limbs, hands, and mouths. I leaned over to whisper in Lucky’s ear, “Joon, I miss fucking in our home. I want your hand inside me as soon as we walk in the door. On my knees with you fucking me from behind.”
“I miss fucking you at home, too. I miss driving you down the hallway, beating your ass, your tits dragging on the rough carpet, and rug burn on your knees.” Lucky held my hand, our fingers intertwined. “I forgot, I got an email from Poppy while we were at the Tehrani airport. Something about Tiny wanting to open up the relationship. I got the impression that there was more, but she was mysterious. She didn’t sound too happy.”
“Whoa! That’s a big deal. Those two have been monogamous as long as they’ve been together, what, eight years?”
“Monogamous and jealous. Once Tiny threatened to kick Poppy out because she got tipsy and kissed her ex on New Year’s Eve, and Poppy destroyed Tiny’s dream catcher that she made in high school after the midnight Memorial Day naked pool party incident,” Lucky chuckled.
“Oh my god, I forgot about that. I can’t believe those two. They look so cute and granola crunchy, but they’re the biggest drama queens I know!”
“Well, I’m extremely curious about whatever has Poppy so flummoxed.” Lucky was starting to sound sleepy and I was getting tired too.
I wrapped the thin blue airline blanket around us, and gradually dozed off, dreaming of being home with Bear and Francy, the familiar and comforting smells of sandalwood, furniture wax, English breakfast tea, and dinner enveloping us as we slept.
The rest of the flight was uneventful, then finally we were belched out at San Francisco International Airport at 1:00 p.m., tired, grubby, and excited to be home. We got off the airplane and started tramping down the endless carpeted hallway toward the baggage claim area. The loudspeaker announcements were in English, their rumbling American squawk sounding foreign after weeks of melodious Farsi. All I wanted to do was get back home to our apartment.
“Let’s pee and wash up,” said Lucky, grabbing my hand to yank me toward the nearby men’s room. Surprisingly, the restroom was almost empty, with one elderly Chinese man wearing overalls and a blue quilted jacket, walking slowly, as he leaned on his carved wooden cane and leaving as we rounded the corner, and a middle-aged tattooed ginger bear washing his hands. Lucky smiled. I knew that quirk well…that charming smile of hers, and felt my cunt clench in anticipation.
She paced the cavernous bathroom before settling on a stall that was tucked away in the corner, the most private in the airport men’s room, and pulled me in behind her. I hoped no one else would come into the bathroom. I wanted to listen for invasions, but I wanted Lucky more. She slid the latch shut with a click. Lucky unbuckled my jeans, slid them down to my ankles, then shoved me onto the cold toilet seat. My brass belt buckle clanked as it hit the tile floor, the sound echoing in the empty bathroom. “Spread your legs and hold your cunt open. Stay still. Don’t move your fingers!”
She undid her travel heavy jeans, spread her cunt lips, and aimed a stream of piss at my cock. I was getting wet and hard under her hot piss, my cock growing and my cunt swelling. Her piss went on for minutes, all those cups of smuggled black tea poured by Kerstin piled up in her bladder waiting to pummel my cunt. I moaned with the need to touch myself as my cock twitched, but held back. Lucky told me to stay still and I wanted to follow her directions. I was hoping no one else would come in, and kept an ear open for more travelers.
I heard two men come into the restroom, talking in French, then the slam of one stall door and the hiss of dual pissing. “Be quiet,” Lucky whispered.
Lucky jacked herself off in my face, tugging on her clit as it engorged under her fingers, red, wet, and swollen. She was so close to me that I could hear the slick sound as she straddled me, rubbing herself off.
There was laughter from our restroom companions as they finished pissing. I heard the splash of the water from the faucet and the whoosh of the electric hand dryer as the French fellows washed up, then their voices faded as they left the restroom.
“Please. Please may I touch myself?” I begged, my fingers trembling with the desire to jack off. I looked up at Lucky, pleading, and Lucky slapped my face. The slap stung and I felt come dribbling from my cunt down my thighs, a track of salty tears. I didn’t dare jerk off. Lucky slapped me again, then moved her body forward until her cunt was smothering me, smearing piss and salty sweat across my mouth and cheeks. She smelled pungently of travel, piss, and come, her juices stewing across Europe, the Atlantic, and the States. Stewing like the most exotic tea, in her button fly jeans, waiting for my mouth.
“Clean me. Now!” Lucky demanded. She sighed huskily as I sucked and licked her cunt furiously, finding each soft pink furrow with my tongue, wiping off the hours spent sitting on the plane with my lips. Twelve hours of airline washed off. She ground her cunt harder onto my face. “Do it. Suck my cock.”
I felt a dribble of leftover piss from Lucky squirt into my mouth, swallowed what I could as it dribbled down my chin, then shivered. I desperately needed her to come in my mouth. I pulled on her clit with my lips, tonguing the head. It was hard to resist moving my fingers as they held open my cunt lips, but Lucky had told me to stay still so I remained immobile. I wanted to bury my fingers inside of Lucky until she came in the palm of my hand. With Lucky’s cunt in my mouth, I imagined Kerstin fucking me, her delicate fist gliding inside my cunt, that moment hanging in the air like a cloud before it was all the way inside, then the slick pop as her hand slid into me. I opened my eyes to Lucky’s cunt and belly, the cottony smell of her shorts. I could see the white toilet stall tiles out of the corner of my eye, the grout worn and sad. I smelled Lucky’s musky sex, her piss, and the bathroom’s disinfectant, and we both came just as what sounded like a football team came roaring into the bathroom, the sound of men’s boisterous conversation bouncing around the hollow bathroom walls.
We tried not to giggle. Lucky tore off a hank of cheap toilet paper, wiped my face off tenderly, then wiped off her cunt. I took another piece, managed to remove most of the piss and come off my legs, then pulled my jeans up. We looked at one another, steeled our shoulders, and sauntered out of the stall nonchalantly.
The restroom was suddenly packed with sweaty burly men in their early 20s in various stages of pissing and washing their hands. They wore yellow and red Trojans sweatshirts and hoodies, and carried overstuffed team duffle bags.
“Did you imagine our lovely stewardess fucking you while you were sucking me off?” Lucky whispered into my ear as we walked past a bearded Latino athlete with a large twinkling diamond in one ear as he tucked his cock in his jeans.
I choked on my spit and giggled. “Fuck you! Of course I was!”
We stumbled out of the restroom and resumed our trudge to the baggage area. We fetched our suitcases, then caught a packed blue and yellow shuttle bus into the city and back home. The cheerless Pakistani van driver dropped us off first in front of our apartment in the Inner Sunset, then sputtered off down the street. We opened the downstairs front door lock and walked up the wooden steps to our apartment, the familiar smells of old wood, our neighbors’ spicy cooking, and tangy lemon cleaner welcoming us home from our journey.
Lucky slipped the brass house key into our front door lock; we cautiously opened the door, dropped the keys into the blue glass bowl on the side stand, and called for Bear and Francy. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
“Where are those furry miscreants? Peeshi!”
We left our dirty luggage in the hallway to find the cats. Tov and Poppy had taken turns coming over to feed and pet them, so we knew they weren’t dead. We peeked into the living room, checking their favorite naptime haunts, the kilim covered window seat and the red mohair sofa.
“Bear! Francy!” Lucky and I cried in unison. “We’re home! Peeshi!”
“I’m not so sure they speak English or Farsi,” I muttered as we walked through the dining room and into kitchen, then opened the pantry door on the off chance that they were roosting with the flour and rice.
I looked at the kitchen table. There was a note written in black sharpie on yellow legal paper propped up on a potted African violet: Welcome home! The fur kids broke a McCoy vase in the dining room. They blamed it on unruly house guests, but I suspect they were just covering their tracks. I’ll call you later. XO Poppy
“They’re mad at us. I can feel it in the air,” Lucky said as she opened the library door to find nothing. No fur balls on the reading chairs by the fireplace or curled up on the naked lady needlepoint footstool. We walked through the connecting door into my bedroom and studio. Everything was neat, albeit dusty, but there were no cats. “It’s our bedroom, the bathroom, or they’ve run away from home, those ungrateful creatures.”
We went into our bedroom to find nothing. No cats sleeping head to head on our wool crazy quilt, none resting like princesses on the pillow, nor sprawled like feline sultans on the Persian carpet. I thought for sure they’d be sleeping together on our bed.
“How do you like that! We leave for a month and they forget us!” I sniffed.
Just then we heard a scrambling at the bedroom closet door, as our hideaways came slinking out, blinking slowly and looking slightly annoyed at being awakened from their afternoon nap. Francy yawned, her one eye squeezed shut, as Bear stretched, her claws extended pointedly in our direction.
“I believe Bear just exclaimed, ‘Look what the cat dragged in!’ to Francy,” Lucky said, horrified. They looked at us accusingly.
“Let me go get their presents.” I scampered off, then dragged my suitcase in, hoisting it onto our bed, unzipping it, and fumbling about until I found the bag of wool tassels we’d bought Francy and Bear as souvenirs from Iran. “Look! Toysies for the babies!”
Bear sniffed, stuck her tawny freckled nose into the air, and left the room. “Oh dear. We’ve been dissed. Francy?” I dangled a wine and navy tassel over Francy’s head, trying to entice her into playing. Francy looked peevishly at the carpet tassel.
“She just needs to cuddle. Come to Daddy! Do you love your daddy, peeshi?” Lucky scooped up our ginger baby and rubbed the top of her head between her ears. “Daddy loves you, and you love Daddy, don’t you, baby-kins? Who has the softest bunny fur? It’s Miss Francy-Prancy, that’s who!” Lucky kissed Francy’s head as Francy broke into loud approving purrs.
“Oy!” I fetched the rest of our luggage from the foyer as Lucky laid on the bed snuggling, murmuring nonsense, and petting Francy, then took off to bring Bear back so we could all cuddle together. The next thing I knew, we were napping, completely dressed on top of the quilt, two cats happily curled between us.
Bear and Francy woke us up at 6:30 p.m. for dinner, so we fed them, showered, and started unpacking. I knew that I was really truly home when I heard Lucky singing “I Enjoy Being a Girl” as she washed up, the spicy waft of sandalwood soap gusting from the bathroom.
We didn’t want to leave the cats, so we ordered pizza to be delivered from Pasquale’s on Irving. By 9:00 p.m., we were hunkered down at the kitchen table in our plaid flannel pajamas, scarfing down hot caramelized onion and mushroom pizza while the cats sat nearby hopefully, watching intently for stray strands of mozzarella cheese to fall to the floor. I wiped the grease from my lips with a cloth napkin, then sprinkled my slice with sea salt.
Lucky filled our green glass tumblers with more sparkling water. “Joon-am, I missed pizza. Hard to believe, but I actually got tired of kebab by the end of our visit.”
We finished up dinner, then staggered to bed, scrubbed clean and with bellies full of greasy pizza. Lucky conked out first, and I followed within minutes, ecstatic with being back home in our bed in San Francisco with Bear and Francy.
We slept deeply, then I was woken at 6:00 a.m. to feed the cat rascals. I came back to bed to fall back asleep until the unholy, unthinkable late hour of 10:00 a.m. I woke up and sleepily spooned Lucky, fitting her meaty ass snugly against my hairy belly, my arm flung over her chest. She still smelled faintly of sandalwood from the night before, her flesh hot and juicy. She stirred, then rolled over, one hand reaching for my breast and the other for my cunt. I caught my breath as she twisted my right nipple, and my hips rose, my cock swelled, and my cunt tingled. I could hear birdsong through the open window, the linen curtains softly blowing morning air into the bedroom. The bed sheets carried a hint of lavender as we tussled, clean, flowery, and crisp. The cats had been dozing at the foot of the bed, but jumped off indignantly once they realized we’d be fucking.
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 two boys together clinging, / One the other never leaving,” and we were together as my cunt muscles spasmed around her hand. Holding her hand tightly with my cunt, I came in a rush of need and love.
Lucky collapsed on top of me for a few minutes, both of us breathing heavily from the morning quickie. I can’t resist rise and shine sleepyheads fucks like this one, this quick filling and I’m done for, coming hard, pushing dreams and nightmares out of my cunt to greet the day renewed. With Lucky’s fist inside of me, I knew that we were home.