We were a threesome mill.
Farahnaz and I have evolved into the Wonder Twins of Sex. Each of us is good. Together, can’t nobody stop us.
Our combined powers are rooted in a mutual respect for one another’s singular abilities. She professes to admire my prowess. I am taken by her beauty, humor and astonishing endurance.
At the sex party, Farahnaz and I set up camp on the taco futon of death. We made love with ferocious tenderness, cool ease contrasted by heated passion.
Anyone who came near us risked being drawn into our swirling vortex.
One by one, we drew in man after man. One after one, they were spent and consumed, each to be replaced by the next.
Throughout, we peppered one another with smiles and kisses, long glances and sensuous words.
A couple of days later, I dropped a line saying how nice it was to spend time with her at the party.
She replied by asking when we might try meeting one on one.
This girl is an incorrigible flirt—as is this boy.
Anytime you like, I replied.
Anytime? she ventured. Anytime? As in now?
It was ten in the morning.
I could see you now, I said, but only for a couple of hours. Would you prefer to meet at my place or yours?
Come to my place, she invited. You have never been to Farahnazville.
I scribbled the address and put on my shoes.
It rained as I strolled under my umbrella.
On impulse, I brought flowers.
“You are soaked to the skin!” she exclaimed at the door. She leaned to kiss my cheeks, as if to avoid contact with my clothes—which were scarcely wet.
“Oh, and these are for me?” She took the flowers. “There was no need.”
“Never any harm in bringing flowers to a beautiful woman,” I said, kissing each of her cheeks in turn.
“Your mother must be very proud.”
I left my umbrella open near her door, and crouched to remove my shoes. She was barefooted and wearing one of the Audrey Hepburn dresses she favors.
Elegant casual at home on a weekday morning. Ravishing, as ever.
Farahnaz talked as she tied the flowers I brought. Stepping over her sofa, she hung the flowers upside down from a curtain rod.
I noticed dried flower arrangements similarly hung on every wall of her studio apartment.
So many suitors, I thought.
She walked across her bed towards me. “May I offer you water, or juice, or coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I’ve just had coffee.”
“Good, you are no bother at all. Sit. I am glad to have this opportunity to talk and get to know one another better.”
Of course, my head was abuzz with curiosity about my new transsexual lover.
Still, I thought it forward to ask the most obvious questions: When did you leave Iran? How long have you been a woman?
All things in time. She can reveal her autobiography at her own pace.
For now, I was happy to savor her mysteries.
“One thing I wanted to ask you about,” she began. “Your divorce. I hope you don’t mind my prying, but I am beginning my own divorce, and it is very confusing.”
“It is confusing, and I don’t mind at all. Anything I can offer by way of advice, I am happy to do so.”
Was she married as a woman to a man, I wondered? Or prior to that, as a man to a woman? If the latter, was she still married to a woman—and thus in a same-sex marriage?
All of that would be outside my own experience.
“You are very kind.” She put a hand on mine, gazing in my eyes. She withdrew her hand. “It’s not a very complicated matter. My husband and I are on friendly terms, but it is just over between us. We hope we can do this simply and easily. “ She paused. “Would you like to see a picture of my husband?”
“Yes, please.” One question answered.
She stood and crossed the room to a bookshelf. Among the books were dozens of videos of Dean Martin roasts. She lifted a frame that was face down on the top shelf. She looked at the photograph for a moment before passing it to me.
“He is nowhere near as handsome as you, of course,” she said, “But in my way, I loved him.”
The photograph showed Farahnaz with a blonde man, each well dressed and smiling in a nondescript room.
“You married at the courthouse?”
“Yes, with my mother as the witness. Just a few years ago, but it seems ages.”
“You both look very happy in the photograph,” I said, handing it to her.
“We were.” She glanced at the picture again before returning it, face down, to her shelf. “But that was then, and this is now.”
She sat next to me on the sofa. “So.”
“So tell me about your divorce. If you don’t mind.”
I began to talk through the basics—how we broke up, the emotional upheavals, the legal travails—that constitute the conversational level of my divorce. Ask the right questions, and I will take you deeper.
“It’s awful,” she said. “And nothing like mine.”
“I suppose not. Different issues entirely. How are you transitioning to dating, and so on?”
“Well, dating, you know, that is an easy thing. I have someone who is very fond of me, and we go out. Of course, I have other friends. And I am very happy to have met you, and Todd, and everyone at your party.”
“Likewise, dear. But you have no immediate plans to find Mister Right?”
She smiled. “If Mister Right is looking, I am here. I mean, look at me.” She raised her hands and looked down. “Am I not, if you will forgive my immodesty, extraordinary?”
“You are certainly that.” She was boxing me into a corner, prepared to toy with me as she might any man enamored of her beauty.
I think she knows that, with me, is not necessary to do so. But I played along.
“You are very sweet. As I know.” She stood. “Shall we do something about getting you out of those wet clothes?”
“If you don’t mind, please.” My clothes were perfectly dry. For show, I removed my socks.
She rubbed my thigh. “Where did you get these pants?”
“Someone bought them for me. Said they made my ass look good. Why?”
“If I were to buy you clothes, they would be much nicer.”
“If you were to buy me clothes, “ I replied, “You would find me very grateful.”
She smiled. “Mister Jefferson, we are going to get into great trouble together, you and I.”
I touched her cheek and pulled her face to mine. We kissed, soft and sure.
“Sign me up for all the trouble you have to offer.”
As I undressed, Farahnaz stepped across her bed to close the blinds, disappointing floors of office workers across the way.
She unzipped the back of her dress, and pulled the shoulders forward. She lifted the dress over her head, tossing it onto her sofa.
She stood before me in black thong panties, her dark and lithe body as I remembered it.
I removed my pants.
As we made love, my eyes were well aware that we were, for the first time, in a brightly lit space. I soaked in her familiar beauty, looking for new details in her cuticles, her toes, her skin.
Curves, bones, childhood scars—all were inventoried for future reference.
Her eyes were open too, as if we were evaluating one another.
As we went one on one for the first time, we rehearsed things we already knew about one another from sex parties, and introduced things we reserved for more intimate moments.
I was letting her know that beyond the sex party stud, there was me—gentle, easy, romantic.
She had never seen me cum. I rarely do at parties.
In time, as she pulled me close, as our eyes locked, as I breathed her, I came.
She ran her hands through my hair as I convulsed. “Jefferson, Jefferson,” she said. “That was so beautiful.”
I kissed her in response, too breathless for more words.
She held me as we relaxed afterwards. Our eyes gravitated to the television muted at the foot of her bed.
It was tuned to “Dynasty.”
“Joan Collins,” she said, admiringly. “Now there was a real woman.”
“Minus the shoulder pads, of course.”
I could not stop laughing.