It was exciting to watch him. He had a pretty cock. There were all kinds: cute ones, butch ones, sweet ones, even beckoning ones—but his—well, it was pretty. It was dark pink and resiliently hard at the moment. He hadn’t been cut, another forbidden thrill for Nancy, and his foreskin was long so that there was a short turtleneck around the smooth head.
He started to use his tongue on her, teasing with light, quick motions. He rubbed his distended organ against the sheet and stuck his tongue all the way into her slit, wide open now. His face was covered with her; it was like drinking from a well. She was twisting around and he was surprised at her strength. She was fairly tall but not that big; he could feel the layer of muscle underneath the soft padding of her curves. She grabbed his head and shoved it harder into herself.
‘Put your face in there. Use your nose.” She locked her legs around him. They both knew he could break her hold if he chose, but he didn’t. He did what she told him to do, and she relaxed. Soon she stiffened and bucked and yelled her orgasm.
He turned over on his back and plopped her down on top of himself. Likes the bottom, she noted hazily. I was right. Sit on his face? she wondered. Or how about those nipples, they were the same color as his dick. Nancy was crazy about that color, kind of dark for a blonde. She flicked them with her fingertips, lightly at first, then more roughly, using her fingernails too. They rewarded her by turning into hard points. She gave them a final twist as he groaned and thrust his hips back and forth, then indulged her fantasy, the ultimate Catholic-boy fantasy. She put his little gold cross in her mouth and sucked on it. He twisted away, startled, and she mocked, “Did that disturb you? I thought you just wore that for a joke, a little prank, right?”
He was a mix of out-of-control feelings, bewildered by the intensity of his desire for her. He had been right. There was more than a simple pick-up fuck here, if he wanted it. If she wanted it.
She reached down and picked up a glove and some lube. When he saw what she was doing, he slowly moved his knees apart and bent his legs, looking into her face the whole time. She licked around the head of his cock and applied some moderate pressure to his asshole, which was that same shade of dark pink. He was loose enough to allow her finger to slip in fairly easily. She moved it around shal-lowly and then added a second finger, going deeper, watching for signs that she’d hurt him. When he shoved himself back against her fingers, she searched for that gland to stroke. A scream confirmed that she had found it.
“If you keep doing that I’m gonna come,” he hissed.
She stopped then, not because she didn’t want him to come, but because she felt there was something just not right. She wanted to give this man something special. “This is all real easy for you, huh? You surrender very nicely. I imagine you’ve done it before.”
He held his breath, not knowing where this was going. He had not expected this from her, and he didn’t think he wanted it. But he also knew he wouldn’t stop her.
Nancy was working on blind intuition. “Stand up for me.”
Tom looked confused but did as she asked. She knelt in front of him with her long curls brushing the floor. “What do you want me to do?” she asked. “You own me. I’m here to serve you.”
Nancy looked up so he could see that she was serious. She saw fear skitter across his face and the tension in his body. You can do it, Tommy. Be in charge.
He felt like crying. He realized he was frightened. Never had he been this scared when somebody else was in control. He looked down at her. She was licking his feet. Suddenly, joy ripped through him in all the places where the fear had been. He was possessed.
“You don’t do anything unless I tell you to,” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“You know better than that,” he said calmly. “Yes, what?”
Okay girl if you’re going to do this, you’d better do it. And don’t laugh. “Yes, Sir.”
He was half hard. “Suck me,” he said in a louder voice. She raised her head to obey him, and he slowly fucked her mouth as he lengthened. He was all the way hard and his erection was pushing against the back of her throat. She gagged, and kept on sucking as hard as she could. She was drooling all over herself. She did belong to him, at least for this moment.
“That’s enough.” He spread his legs. “Lick my asshole. Make love to it.” She grabbed the nearest piece of latex and scurried behind him to do as he said. Goddess, he did have a beautiful butt. Round globes that dimpled as she held them. She buried her face in the crack of his behind, and suddenly her boundaries disappeared. She was everywhere, supreme and yet annihilated. She filled the whole room, the whole house, the whole world, and yet she was nothing.
“Harder,” he said. “I can’t feel it through that shit. Put your tongue inside.”
Erotic energy ran through him in a way he had never experienced before. I deserve to feel this good, he thought.
“Please my Lord, fuck me. Please,” Nancy begged, meaning it.
“Back on your hands and knees,” he told her, and she almost came when he said it. “Put the rubber on me. Do it nice.” She did it with her mouth.
His cock went in from behind and she angled herself up, shamelessly trying to get it farther inside. He was fucking her hard, hitting against her G-spot, and slapping her butt while he did it. She couldn’t tell how hard he was hitting her because it all felt so good. The sounds they made were impossibly arousing. When he came he yelled almost as loud as she did.
When they crawled back into the bed from their pile on the floor, cuddling together, Tom’s face was luminous and he looked very beautiful.
“See, I said you were an aristocrat. You can be my Prince. World, this is Prince Pulaski.
“Something happened to me,” he said in wonder.
‘It’s just magic, baby. Go to sleep now.”
Catholic boys. The fire of that unleashed sexuality was the more brilliant for having to work through guilt and repression.
Catholic boys. If they ever figured it out, they really figured it out.
Mother Was Right
Judith Arcana
I remember he had blonde hair so straight it wouldn’t curl if you threatened it. Light eyes with maybe three or four yellow lashes on each eyelid. Beige eyebrows. He taught at a college called William of Orange. What kind of a name is that for a college? Only the goyim!
When he took off his underpants, I saw right away that his penis was too big. I don’t mean too big for me; I’m a big girl. I mean too big for him. He was wearing somebody else’s penis by mistake. I was used to the body of a Jewish bear, hairy, weighty, and thick, but this little goy was so light I could flip him over in bed, roll over and over holding him pressed against me. So that just couldn’t be his penis. But there it was, hanging, and for a minute my vision blurred; I imagined it dangled to his knees.
Is this possible? Such a little nose and such a big shlong? Could anybody suck this elephant’s trunk? And what about all that wrinkled skin? Do you just roll it up, like putting on panty hose? Or will it retract into his body, like his balls on a cold day? Could I even consider eating such trayf?
With his giant sausage, this uncut gentile goes into Jewish girls. His ex-wife is a Jew. And she’s so tiny, that one. What did she do with it? It’s so big, all you can do is store it, I guess. She must have always been looking for some place to put it. Well, he’s found the place for his goyishe putz—he brings it to nice Jewish girls who wish only to oblige Prince Valiant, to let him unfurl his Christian banner at our gates.
Blinded by the passion that brought me to this greatest of all gifts, the love of a blondie, for a while I didn’t even realize that my goyishe lover couldn’t keep his erection. Actually, I just couldn’t tell the difference; it lay there, a log across my thighs. Even soft, it seemed hard; the weight really fooled me.
But this can’t be an ethnic trait, I thought. Surely there are Garfinkels and Weissbergs with sticks like this. Right away, in fact, I thought of the Stein kid.
He’d been a student of mine when I was a high school teacher. Years after he graduated, I fucked him in a tiny wooden loft in a cabin in Santa Cruz. He had a huge penis, sort of thick, but length was the remarkable feature, like linguine. And his worked fine. The Stein kid had no trouble with erections; in fact, we almost had to break it to get rid of his erection.
So size is not the issue. It isn’t true that when it gets that big, you just can’t lift it. (Right, and there was that other young one, Rosenbloom, the artist. When he got it up, he didn’t know where to put it, and he thought he wasn’t allowed to use his hands. But I digress.)
No, it’s not about size; maybe it’s that chemise they wear. I’d never before seen one that wasn’t circumcised. My husband’s clean Jewish penis had been smooth and honest, no secrets. But these guys could be hiding anything—what have they got up that sleeve? Is this why we’re not supposed to do it with them?
Maybe we’ve been taught to avoid them because you can’t know what you’re getting; there’s no opportunity for a truth-in-packaging guarantee. They hide their heads, these goyim, they cover their tiny mouths with fleshy cheesecloth. Lack of boldness, is it? They’re secretive about their desire? What are they afraid of?
Freud got it confused, all that meshugeneh business about women having penis envy—maybe the real problem in this Christian country is penis shame. Are they hiding, these blonde boys? Do they want to be coaxed out of their flaccid anxiety?
Like that other one, the pilot. He was even circumcised, I think. But he had the same problem; his schmuck was shy. Okay, so it’s not the fact of being hidden, it’s all in their minds? So my mother was warning me against disappointment all those years—she knew they were troubled, disturbed?
Yes, he was definitely circumcised, I remember now, and he even had kinky hair—yellow frizz, a novelty item. But sure enough, when we finally got naked together, he couldn’t hold his head up. Now this wasn’t love, like with William of Orange. This was lust and we both knew it. We flirted, teased, and talked about it constantly, and once I was sure he was as hot as I was, I took off work to spend a day in his apartment.
The irony is that while we were still in those early stages of mutual fascination, I heard all these stories about his prowess. Paeans to his talent were scrawled on the walls of women’s toilets up and down Lincoln Avenue. The bars were full of women who’d done it with him—and gave referrals; the guy had an actual reputation.
I read one of those scrawls a couple of months afterward, in a stall at the old Oxford Pub. “Chuck Thompson is a great lay,” a woman had printed above the sanitary napkin disposal box. No marking pen in my pockets, I could only vocalize my reply: “I beg to differ, honey; Chuck Thompson is no lay at all.”
So what’s the story? Are they all like that? I remember Karl—a German, may the Shekhina forgive my childish folly—in college in 1960. This was before I went all the way, so we were hot most of the time we were together. I was seventeen; he was twenty, but he was way behind my Jewish high school boyfriend. He actually ran into the bathroom to jerk off when our grinding on the couch in his apartment brought him near ejaculation. He panted, “Somethin’s comin’ in my pants,” leaped off me, and dashed for the toilet.
I’d never known a Jew to do such a thing. I mean, of course he would come in his pants. Hopefully, so would I. That was the idea, right? Sticky jockey shorts were par for the course in our generation; didn’t these Christian boys want to get it off?
Ricky Greenglass, my high school steady, had been a model lover for a fifteen-year-old-girl. He was kind of messy and a little foolish, but cute—and he could have been a sculptor, a pianist, with those fingers. He was good for hours; life-size statues he could have molded, whole symphonies he might have played in my teenage vulva, when my clitoris turned sweet sixteen.
Okay, in fairness, I have to say that there was that pale blonde pizza delivery boy who kissed with intense suction. He may have been the exceptional shaygetz, but we never got far enough for me to find out.
But what about it? When the professor could finally fuck, he turned out to be mainly interested in the piston effect: up and down, in and out. He could do it a long time, but I lost interest. And the pilot—what he wanted, as we turned to each other on his king-sized mattress in the morning sunlight, was the immediate grab. I was pretty excited, licking his throat, sliding my legs along his, when—after less than three minutes—he suddenly asked, with a slight gesture toward his groin, “Are you ignoring me?”
Ignoring him? I was practically enveloping him! I explained that I wasn’t the early bird out after a worm, and that we literally had all day, so why didn’t we just take our time? He mumbled, “Sure, sure,” but he didn’t mean it.
So. Were Jewish girls forbidden the shaygetz because our mothers knew that they wouldn’t do right by us? Does their gear work right only when they do it with gentile girls? Or—incredible—does it never really work right? Has this recollection of youthful fumbling uncovered the reason so many of my Christian girlfriends’ mothers urged them to find a Jewish husband? Is this what those shiksas wanted to know when they asked, “Is it true that they learn in Hebrew school to make girls happy?”
Did my mother know, in 1956, that the sexual frustration of women would become a major cultural issue before her daughter was thirty? Was she protecting me when on my thirteenth birthday she astonished me by saying, “No more gentile boys. You’re too old now.”?
I can hear them now, my mother and Anita in West Side Story—yes, it’s Bella Solomon singing a duet with Rita Moreno, and they’re both shrying at me: “One of your own kind! Stick to your own kind!” I seem to have come round again to that familiar point in my life when I blink, stretch my mouth into a comic O, and recognize a cosmic truth: for practical purposes, my mother was right.
Shayna’s Shabbat
Claudine Taupin
Yah! How I long for the bliss of the Shabbat
united in secret with Your own fer vent wish.
Give way to Your own deep desire to love us.
May Sabbath in Torah be our sacred bliss.
Share Her with us who desire to please You —
Our deep thirst for union be met with delight.
From a Sabbath hymn, “Yah Ekhsof
Noam Shabbat,” by Reb Ahron of Karlin.
The Sabbath, shabbes, the presence of the Queen on the holy seventh day of the week. On this night more than any other, I welcome in the presence of the Shekhinah, conceptually the feminine presence and manitestation of Ha-Shem, the ever-present spiritual force that represents the Oneness of all creations big and small.
In my life, Sabbath tradition takes precedence over perhaps all other forms of Jewish observance. In terms of utmost simplicity, it is a day of rest from secular activity, a period of reflection, spiritual focus, study, and sexual union. Friday afternoon brings with it a rush of pre-shabbes activity. I hurry to finish my work, then tidy my home office for Sunday the next working day. I braid the dough into the shape of a challah, and smother the top with sesame seeds that soon fill my house with a delicious, sensual, oven-baked smell. With the dinner menu planned and the ingredients chosen, I hurry to shower and dress myself.
I turn on the shower, discard my work clothes—sweatpants, T-shirt, flannel, slippers—a mass of dark-colored clothing forms a puddle on the floor of my steam-filled bathroom. The water is near-scalding, a fiery temperature that brings the blood to the surface of my skin. Methodically and quickly, I wash my armpits, back, arms, face, neck, breasts, and legs. I part the lips of my vagina slightly and allow the hot water to trickle in and down my legs. I lather myself with a deliciously scented soap, rubbing my fingers in and over every crevice. I turn my back to the showerhead and lean forward to allow the water and soap to rinse my backside. Cleansed, I turn around again to shave my legs of the dark, short hair that covers them. The tattoos that grace my feet and lower legs come to life with vibrant color. I look down at my dark pussy hair, a wildly untamed and
curly bush, and decide to shave it as well. Seconds later, my fold is covered by a narrower brush of hair; it is no less curly or dark, simply tamed to a sleeker version of its natural shape.
Out of the shower, I towel myself dry, standing before a wide mirror that reflects my earthly image to me. A medium-height, dark-haired, Semitic-featured woman looks back at me. There have always been things I have loved and disliked about this body. Lately, I’ve taken on a more athletic look; strong thighs, well-developed calves and biceps, and slightly visible stomach muscles. Ah, but there’s that zaftig rear end. It never seems to diminish in size. My ancestors have given me such a tuchus—no amount of exercise ever reduces its bountiful proportions. My breasts bring me no particular sense of pride or accomplishment—they are average breasts, and they hang a bit lower than I would like. Their bounciness is a bother when I exercise, but I am always reminded of their worth when my husband buries his head in between them, or wraps his teeth around my red-brown nipples. A baby would like these breasts. Nu, who am I to complain?
I’m shivering—it’s too cold in the house. I turn on the heaters and walk to my bedroom. There are no mirrors here. I’ve gotten used to dressing without mirrors—preferring to dress by feel and emotion rather than by image. Tonight, the feeling is soft, sensual, slightly wicked. I find a dark-colored, somewhat see-through bra that hoists my breasts up to form the kind of cleavage that nature, in her confusing benevolence, did not grant me. I slip into an older dress that still feels as seductively soft as when I first purchased it—a dark, forest green velvet gown with a tight bodice and near floor-length hem. Deftly, I wrap my hair up in an elaborate twist with the aid of a black scarf, adding a black velvet choker and a pair of polished silver hoop earrings. Underneath, I slip on a pair of black thong panties, knowing that my rear end looks inviting to my husband, Abram, this way. I forego tights or pantyhose—they’re rarely worth the trouble it takes to put them on or, more important, to take them off.
The Oy of Sex Page 6