We talked. Beth was an only child, had grown up in Manhattan, gone to college in London, and was an investment banker. We discovered that we were the same age and had lived in London during the same period, 1966/67. I’d gone to The Polytechnic on Regent Street; she’d gone to the London School of Economics. My favorite places were rock clubs like the Marquee Club and The Underground on Tottenham Court Road—where I used to see Pink Floyd play every Tuesday night for half a crown—and nasty dance clubs in Soho. Her favorites were shopping at Harrod’s, tea at Simpson’s, and posh dance clubs like Annabelle’s, Pescadora, Sue’s Soul, and Barbarella’s, none of which I had ever been to.
She admitted to being a “Sloane Ranger,” one of the trendy upper class birds who hung out or lived near Sloane Square; Diana Spencer before she married Chuck was the classic “Sloanie.” Beth was probably too sophisticated—and too bossy for me but she was so good looking and her voice was so mezzo-soprano delicious that I wanted to meet her.
I gave her an honest description of myself, and she said it was to her liking. I asked her why she was available. She said she’d just broken up with a short, rich, Jewish investment banker-wimp and wanted to meet a taller, less conventional Jew. The conversation stayed buoyant, and there was obviously some sort of mutual interest.
Beth was going away for a “fortnight’s holiday,” so I took her address and sent my photos, two of them, one dressed in a tux for a wedding and one boxing. How many Jewish men have boxing pictures to send? My boxing photo was me at my thinnest, looking great, and landing a punch on a black boxer who later beat the shit out of me and bloodied my nose.
I phoned the other finalist, who was equally attractive, but in a slinky, bohemian, darker way. Her name was Helene and she was a social worker. She was twenty-nine and came from a middle-class Jewish family that sounded vaguely like mine except with two daughters instead of two sons. Her photo showed her in jeans and a cut-off New York Jets T-shirt revealing a flat tummy. She was luscious unless she’d gained fifty pounds since the photo was taken.
She said she was 5'7" and 125 pounds, which looked right. She had longish brown hair, a winning smile, no cheekbones, but a pleasing oval face. She said her hair was even longer now. I was looking at her picture, talking to her politely and wondering what her ass felt like.
I liked her voice. It evinced education with a hint of Long Island. It was cigarette deep and made me think she gave great head. She said she smoked pot; cigarettes only occasionally, drank wine, and didn’t like coke. She’d done some speed and acid but that was history. She never mentioned any of the opiates, which I took as a good sign.
During the next day’s conversation she said she loved sex, but never did it on the first date, so please don’t even try. I didn’t probe her on her sex likes/dislikes because I couldn’t find a spot where it fit in. She did say she was “uninhibited.” That’s usually code for “likes anal.”
She’d never been married and had been dating a gentile stockbroker for six years and just broke up three months ago. She ended it because she didn’t love him anymore. She thought her love died mostly because they had almost no cultural intersections and in the long run that’s what keeps couples together. It was her second long-term relationship with a shagats (a gentile man) that had ended thus. Like me, she wanted to try to find a Jew and settle down. We decided to meet for one drink with dinner optional. I suggested the Village and she suggested a bar on Seventh Avenue called Montana Eve named after a famous douche from the 1930s.
The first moment our eyes meet there is a little spark. Not a huge tractor beam but meaningful magnetism. I’d been working out everyday for months and felt confident. I wore my best chambray shirt that made me feel sexy. I had on my zip-up collarless, black leather jacket that was slimming. I wore my jeans on the smaller of the two belt holes I frequented, which gave me a mental edge.
She speaks first. “You didn’t lie too much when you described yourself,” she giggles. “You’re actually better looking than you said.” I’m stuck for something to say.
“You’re just as lovely as I expected,” I lie politely. She’s actually not as pretty as her picture, but close. She’s “photogenic,” an odd compliment meaning one looks better in photographs than in person. Helene does have terrific skin, nice hair and sweet large brown eyes with a hint of hazel. And she’s demure with a soft pleasing voice that’s even throatier than on the phone. I bet she gives great head.
I hug her firmly and she responds in kind. I slide my hand down her lower back and just below—not so rude as to put her off—but enough to feel that her bum is firm. She’s wearing a not-too-short tight black skirt, clingy black silk top, a lightweight very expensive-looking British racing green leather jacket and a yellow-accented Hermes scarf. She has two earrings in each ear, one a small ring plus a long, dangly thingy. Though she dresses well, she doesn’t seem acquisitive and materialistic. She doesn’t wear too much makeup or jewelry. Besides the earrings, she’s got a single gold bangle bracelet and one simple semiprecious ring, probably her birthstone. When I compliment her clothes she just says, “Thank you,” and doesn’t go on about the shopping or bargains the way only Americans and arriviste Europeans do. Instead, she tells me she likes to paint and write poetry. Another good sign.
We easily slide past the drinks-only marker and decide to order dinner. We order medium-rare hamburgers, also a good sign. I’ve noticed that women who order their meat either very well done or bloody rare come with too many unresolved men issues. I don’t know why. She eats politely but with gusto, with two hands. She smiles a lot and has a little laugh that is a fraction nervous. It’s something that might become unendurable and drive me to murder her in twenty years but it’s half-charming at this early stage.
Nothing automatically disqualifies her and usually ninety-eight times out of a hundred there is something that shouts “NO!” about a date that comes up and bites you within six minutes. It could be their looks, breath, hair, laugh, breathing, skin, voice, attitude or aroma.
Some women go to great lengths to smell good but to me their effort achieves the opposite. They use differently scented bath oil, soap, shampoo, conditioner, hair spray, powder, makeup and deodorant, and then add a splash of perfume plus a spritz of vaginal spray to create a well-meaning but horrible olfactory cacophony. It’s an unpleasant barrage committed by women who are otherwise sensible enough not to wear stripes with plaids.
Helene smells only of Ivory soap and Chanel No. 5, one of my favorite man-made combos.
We spend a long time talking about the movie, “Tootsie.” We both loved it and agree it’s one of the few flawless A+ comedies we’ve ever seen. We talk about actors: Hoffman, Brando, Pacino, De Niro. I say that after seeing De Niro in “Raging Bull,” a benchmark hundred-percent effort, I probably hadn’t ever put more than seventy-five percent into anything in my life. Even my best fuck. I blurt out the “fuck” remark without thinking—but she smiles invitingly.
We keep the ball in the air most of the time, no stumbles, just a few awkward courting pauses that signal we fancy each other. The talk volley is whimsical, not competitive. She says she really must be going. She had a great time, would love to see me again if I were so inclined and would I walk her to the subway. And would I like to smoke a doobie on the way there. Okay, good. Yes. Of course. And for sure.
Evening has cooled off the autumn day just enough to make us button up our jackets.
We take a left on Charles to get off Seventh Avenue. Although we are in the Open-minded Free Turf of the West Village in the Liberated Zone that is New York City, smoking a joint in front of cops—and there are always cops near the subway in Sheridan Square—could get us in trouble—for hubris if not specifically for breaking the law. And to cops in New York, middle-class hubris, especially middle-class Jewish hubris, is a worse crime than smoking pot.
It is some tasty shit she is smoking. Very expensive. Good quality like her leather coat. Zaps me right away. Like Vietnamese kil
ler weed that makes it nearly impossible to finish a joint.
The conversation drops away as we pay attention to the machine-rolled joint with an English-style cardboard filter. Lots of oows and ahhhs and a few wows and then we just saunter along the street like it is an amusement park ride. At one point she holds firmly onto my sleeve, our first post-hug physical contact. Usually I’m more aggressive, but I let her make the first move. It seems natural, like the way a lioness in oestrus parades her stuff to get the males going.
I’d made sure to have sex with my friend Erika The Cum Junkie that afternoon so I wouldn’t be particularly horny. I had decided to play it cool and lay way back. The worst thing a horny man can do is wear it on his sleeve. Most women hate that on a first date.
Also, I take her No-Sex-On-The-First-Date literally. I’m looking for a wife, not an easy lay. We hold hands and rub against each other in a kind of walking cuddle. Then at the corner of Charles and Hudson without a word we turn around to go back to the subway and in mid-pivot when our eyes meet, we kiss.
Haimisha fireworks. Instant Jewish karma.
We kiss too long and gropey for a first kiss. In a pause she falls half limp into my arms like al dente pasta. Whatever her number is, I have it.
We duck into a basement stairwell and dry fuck standing up. I feel her small soft breasts. I put my hand under her skirt and feel the wet on the front of her pantyhose. There are no panties beneath them. I lift up her skirt and feel her ass. It is heavenly. I hold her hand on my jeans just over my hard-on and she dances with it.
“Let’s go back to my place in Brooklyn.”
“What about the no-sex-on-the-first-date rule?”
“I lied. Sometimes I sleep with guys I like on the first date. Let’s go get the subway.”
“Fuck the subway. Let’s catch a cab.”
“The subway is faster.”
“Yeah, but we can make out better in a cab.”
I hadn’t used the term “make out” in ten years.
We grab a cab and kiss and fondle our way south toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Hands travel underneath clothing. Her nails are sharp, and she cat digs them into the skin on my back just a little. Just enough to let me know she’s hot as well as warm.
Over the East River I ask her if she would like me to rip a hole in her pantyhose. She says yes. I stick my finger in her. Fabulous vagina! Very wet. Nice contractions. Excellent viscosity. The Pakistani cab driver is watching the rear view mirror as much as the road. On the Brooklyn side of the bridge one of us, I’m not sure who, I think it was me, helps my penis emerge. She goes down to greet it. She gives great head! I knew it! I smile at the cabby who is watching my face and her head bob up and down and he gives me one of those grins that says, “Yes, I am knowing you are lucky man.”
Her apartment building in Brooklyn Heights looks vaguely familiar. I think ten years before Andrea and I had gone to some orgies there given by a nice Jewish couple named Ken and Matty. We button up enough to keep clothed and get out of the cab. Helene unlocks the front door and guides me to the elevator. We take a long, civil, handholding, silent ride up with an older man and his smiling doggie going to a higher floor.
Her one-bedroom flat is large and fastidious, with a spectacular view that is ninety-eight percent Brooklyn and only a slight slice of the river and Manhattan. It’s furnished like she dresses, tasteful, expensive and mostly black with lots of leather. The only thing I can smell is more Ivory soap and Chanel No. 5. The bedroom and living room are theatrically lit with half a dozen low-wattage hidden floodlight floor spots shining up the walls in an unconscious tribute to Albert Speer. Either she expected she might bring me back, or she lives like this and pays lots of attention to lighting. Either way is OK with me.
Helene pulls me into the bedroom and onto a giant slippery duvet on her queen-size bed so quickly that if I’d been a thief I couldn’t have taken inventory of what was worth stealing.
She scampers into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of Asti Spumonti and two flutes. She pulls out another perfect pre-rolled joint and lights it as I open the Asti and pour. We pass the smoke, clink our glasses, smile and drink. We both undress to entertain each other. Not two dozen words have been spoken since we left Manhattan.
Helene rolls onto the middle of the bed and I get my first glimpse of her completely naked. She’s slender with a magnificent ass, a pleasing combination of muscle and fat and firm and soft. Helene has a body I can adore.
She moves up toward the wooden headboard and spreads her legs and beckons me with her entire self. “Put it in me,” she says. I like her more and more. Her skin is lovely. I feel empowered by my ancestors. I am hard as a rock. And with a hot Jewish Girl! Destiny calls!
I enter her and feel like Judah Maccabee after a successful day killing Philistines. We find our rhythm, slow exaggerated deep and round. Her fingers first dig gently into my back and then come around to my chest and caress my nipples. This girl is fun.
In a variety of positions for the next fifteen minutes I can tell she comes at least twice. Once when I fuck her from behind. Once when we are eating sixty-nine. Then I’m back on top of her. I can feel myself getting close to coming and exercise restraint. I slow the pace down. We are diagonal across the bed with her head near stage-left bottom corner.
“Harder! I want it harder,” she orders.
I speed up. I slam into her a dozen times and we slide slightly on the duvet. I’m getting close to the point of no return.
“More hard!” she yells and each thrust takes me one step closer.
“Bang Me! BANG ME!”
She’s writhing in her eleventeenth orgasm. I pull back, just ready to come, and hit my midsection against hers with enough force to move a professional football tackling practice dummy. We slide off the bed and she hits the floor headfirst with me still in her. Her neck makes a cracking sound you never want to hear. It’s the crunch of a 300-pound defensive lineman who misses the sideline tackle and helmet-first hits the skull of a one-hundred-thirty-pound photographer.
Her head is bent over sideways.
Not breathing.
Eyes open.
Lifeless. I’m about to come.
I think I killed her.
My penis doesn’t care.
It starts shooting.
What the fuck do I do? I’ve accidentally killed a girl. In mid-orgasm. I’m not a necrophile. How does one abort an orgasm that’s achieved liftoff? The bottom half of me keeps moving like a headless chicken.
Two-hundred-and-forty-seven different thoughts collide.
What do I tell the police? I don’t even know the exact address. Do I hunt around for some envelope with her address on it? Do I run naked through the halls screaming for help? Do I stay and wait for the cops or split? Will I go to jail? Does this say something about my future with Jewish women? Will I go to jail?
She doesn’t move.
The devilpenis says she’s already dead so just keep pumping.
Penis wins although I can’t say it was one of my better orgasms.
I pull out on the second to last squirt with my what-to-do-next questions still unanswered.
I hover over dead Helene. I gather my wits. My mind aches. My body is still in afterglow.
CRACK! Helene straightens her head back to where it belongs. She moans. Cries. Screams. It’s a good sign. She’s not dead.
I’m glad I didn’t kill her.
I didn’t want to explain this to my mother. The police. Go to jail. End up as some giant tattooed biker’s prison bitch.
“Can you move Helene? Are you all right?”
She’s not screaming anymore. She’s just crying.
Maybe she’s paralyzed. Will that carry less jail time than killing her? Will I be spending every Sunday for the rest of my life visiting her in some hospital? How will I explain this to her parents? How will I tell my parents?
I promise to believe in God for the rest of my life if he makes her well again.
She
moves. Maybe I won’t go to jail.
“What happened?” she asks.
She blessedly sits up and rubs her neck.
“We slipped off the bed and your head hit the floor and your neck went sideways and you went out like a light for a moment. Should I call you a doctor?”
I thought it best not to tell her I thought she died.
“No. I think I’m okay. It’s just that my neck is sore.”
“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital or see a doctor?”
“No, I just want to go to bed. I’ve got a bad headache.”
I’ll bet she does.
I get dressed and for certain the mood is different. Somewhere deep inside her she knows I fucked her when she was dead.
We kiss perfunctorily.
I take the lift down, walk outside, and get a fix on where I am. I catch the subway to Port Authority in time for the last bus out to the country. It’s a long fucking bus ride as questions ricochet around inside my skull looking for answers.
I thought that whatever potential Helene and I may have had was poisoned. Over. History. This would prove true with the lifeless phone conversation we have when I call the next day. She was polite but I could tell she wanted to get off the phone. Maybe by that time she knew I fucked her when she was dead. That could put a damper on any relationship.
A week later I called Beth. She loved my photos! I was much better looking and sexier than she expected, but—a big but—she’d met a man on “hols” and they were already half an item. His description matched her ex—short, rich New York City Jew. He was a lawyer and from her description he was as malleable as her previous wimp.
A few more replies came in over the next month but no one I found attractive.
Whatever was going to happen to me after Laura wouldn’t be fast or easy. There wouldn’t be a quick fix. But the good news was that just before I killed Helene, I was outside the fog of perversion and completely absorbed in a good old fashioned fuck.
Laura Meets Jeffrey Page 29