Barefoot, I walk downstairs to the kitchen, stopping along the way to turn on an eclectic, local college radio station. A fast-paced funk song is coming to an end and the DJ introduces the next piece, an endearing klezmer piece that starts off with Yiddish exclamations I am only barely able to understand. The song gets going full swing—the perfect background accompaniment to my frenetic dinner preparations.
I reach for my apron, a worn hand-me-down that dates back two generations and has spanned a few thousand miles. The still elegant wraparound apron is dark blue, with vertical patterned flowers. My husband has always commented affectionately that I look like quite the Jewish yenta in my apron and with my hair up, concealed or framed by dark-colored scarves.
I pull out my worn cutting board and begin to chop carrots, onions, mushrooms, and potatoes. I throw together a matzah ball mix and leave it to chill in the refrigerator. I throw the vegetables and assorted herbs into boiling water and leave the entire mixture to simmer in a generously sized stock pot. I get to work on a vegetarian version of a shepherd’s pie to accompany my soup, draining and pressing tofu, boil-ing more potatoes, stirring together a convincing nonmeat gravy that has become a coveted trade secret in my kitchen.
I glance outside and realize that the sun has just begun to set, and I hurriedly set up my shabbes candles on the dining-room table. I hear Abram’s keys right outside the door—he’s home just in time. Abram’s handsome, olive-toned face greets me. Taking a quick whiff of the smell filling the living room, he beams an appreciative smile in the direction of the kitchen. “Matzah ball soup?” he asks. I nod and perform an amusing little curtsey.
“At your service, m’lord,” I laugh.
Abram chuckles and puts down his bag. “You’d better be careful,” he says. “I may just take you up on that.”
After removing his shoes, Abram walks over, wraps a strong arm around my waist, and leans down to kiss me on the cheek. “Gut shabbes,” he whispers.
“Gut shabbes,” I reply. “Let’s light the candles.”
Abram lights the candles as I chant the traditional prayer and cover my eyes with the palms of my hands. Abram looks at me appreciatively, and I continue with the rest of the prayers. We each drink a small cup of kiddush wine, ceremonially wash our hands, and break the challah, which comes fresh from the oven.
“I’ve got to go finish the soup. Come with me and tell me about your day,” I say.
Abram nods and follows me into the kitchen. He leans against the sink while I busy myself rolling matzah balls from the refrigerated mixture.
“I love that dress,” he sighs. “You look so ravishing in it.”
Such compliments melt my heart, and he knows it. I turn around to smile at him. Abram has folded his powerful arms across his chest. He’s wearing a short-sleeved black shirt and adorably sexy black jeans.
“You look pretty good yourself, Abram. “
I turn my back and continue putting the rolled balls of matzah mixture into the soup. I’m somewhat startled to feel Abram’s warm breath on my neck.
“Hey! What are you doing?! Stop bothering the chef, please,” I protest.
Abram doesn’t say anything in response. He presses his body against my dress and reaches around to touch my breasts.
“Beautiful,” he mumbles into my ear. “You’re so beautiful, Shayna.”
I reach down for the towel hanging from the oven door and wipe the remainder of the mixture from my hands.
“Abram…what are you doing?” I ask again, in a softer voice.
Abram’s hand moves up from my breasts to my neck. He tugs at my choker, creating a slightly uncomfortable but enormously pleasant sensation. I lean back to expose my throat even more.
Abram strokes my throat, stopping to tug on the choker a few more times. The sensation is unbearably exciting. He presses the front of his jeans into my backside. Even through the fabric of my dress, I can feel his large, straining cock up against the crack of my buttocks. Abram groans softly. He undoes the tie of my apron and pulls it off.
I feel flushed and utterly turned on. “What’s gotten into you, Abram?” I manage to say. “Are you about to make love to me right here on the kitchen floor?”
Abram pulls up my dress. “Have mercy,” he laughs gently. “Look at this tuchus of yours. It’s a dream come true.”
With my back turned, I can’t see Abram’s expression, but I can sense his level of arousal.
“Bend over a little for me, Shayna,” he urges. “Bend over and spread your legs just a little bit.”
Next to oral sex and vigorous fucking, being spanked is my favorite form of sexual activity. Abram knows this, and he likes it. I comply with his request and lean forward over the stove, with my legs spread slightly. The matzah ball soup steams and bubbles close to me, filling my nostrils with a pleasant aroma.
A few seconds pass in complete silence. I know not to turn around to look; the implicit rules of our sexual games state that he is allowed to do as he wishes with me when I assume a position like this. I hear him unbuttoning his jeans.
“Shayna, I’ve been fantasizing about this all day,” he says in a voice tinged with excitement. “I couldn’t wait to come home and look at my beautiful wife.”
I can tell by the sound of it that Abram is stroking his cock. He groans softly again. I stay in my position, arching my back slightly so as to give him a better view of my ass and my shaved pussy, barely contained within the fabric of my black panties.
A sharp slap on my ass greets my movement. The pain is gone in an instant, but I’m left panting for more. Abram rewards my moans with three more quick slaps, and then he sinks to his knees. Now underneath my dress, his face moves forward to taste my honey. I bend my knees slightly to lower myself to a better position. Eagerly, he pushes aside my panties and begins to lick at my opening, making small, muffled noises of excitement, which I can barely hear through my own cries and moans. His hand comes up to play with my clit, causing me to shiver with pleasure.
Over the six years of our marriage, I’ve learned that Abram never does any one thing for too long. While I would be content sucking his beautifully circumcised cock all night long, Abram’s theory of what works best to pleasure me is to keep stimulating me in various ways until I reach the point of orgasm.
Abram leaves one finger resting on my clit while his other hand teases the opening of my wet pussy. Two of his long, narrow fingers press upward, barely inserting themselves into my vagina. His hand rests this way for a short time while the finger on my clit rubs me in a slow, circular motion. I’m weak from the pleasure of it all, and I steady myself against the stove. Abram removes his hand from my clit and reaches back to squeeze my ass, then pulls away the fabric of my thong. One of his fingers gently brushes against my anus, just as he pushes his two strong fingers deeper inside my pussy. With mad passion, I fuck his fingers, sliding them deeper inside me.
Abram can clearly sense that I am on the verge of coming. He pulls his wet fingers out from inside me and emerges from underneath my dress. He turns me around, and we kiss fervently with our tongues, pressing our bodies close. I can taste the faint, commingling flavors of my juices and the soap with which I just cleansed myself.
“Abram,” I plead, “make me come.”
“Up against the wall,” he demands playfully.
Again, I comply, although unsure about what Abram intends to do.
As I face him, with my back resting against the kitchen wall, Abram pulls off his jeans, grabs hold of my waist, and lifts me up off my feet. His straight, thick, dark cock pulses with anticipation. After years of looking at Abram’s body, I am still awed by the beauty and perfection of his organ. Abram positions himself underneath me and brings me down toward him so that my opening is touching the tip of his cock.
I let out a sharp scream of delight as he lowers me down toward his body. His engorged cock fills me, and the sensation of dangling a few inches above the kitchen floor is enough to send me into waves of pre-or
gasmic pleasure. I look down at Abram’s straining, muscular body and at his face, which is set in an expression of sheer enjoyment and concentration. I reach down to rub my clit as Abram bucks against my body, his hands tightening against my waist.
As the force of his movement carries me to orgasm, I throw my head back against the wall. My body shakes violently, and Abram struggles to hold me up as he shoots his warm come inside me. He groans loudly, uttering my name as he finishes emptying his load.
In one quick motion, Abram pulls out and sets me back down on the floor. He leans against me, breathless, and kisses me softly on my lips.
“Gut shabbes, Shayna,” he laughs softly.
“I’ll send you right to bed without dinner if you’ve ruined my soup,” I reply while straightening my dress. “Just sit down at the table and behave yourself.”
One Single Night
Susannah J. Herbert
Two days until the wedding! I was one of the last of my friends, male or female, to get married, and I was still incredulous that it was happening. That David wanted a chuppah had surprised me almost as much as the proposal that came after we’d been together for over seven years. I had been happy enough as we were, but we talked, and the next thing I knew we were registered for stemware.
It was Friday night. David, newfound piety notwith-standing, was about to spend his final Erev Shabbat as a single man at that last of all socially accepted bacchanals: his bachelor party.
I tried to be nonchalant about it, despite the fact that David’s best friend, Phillip, was coordinating the evening, under the sort of security usually reserved for the joint chiefs of staff.
Let’s be honest: as I watched David dress to go out, I felt threatened. Hard to admit, but true. Phillip was a great guy and I knew he liked me, but his libido ran somewhere between those of the Marquis de Sade and Howard Stern. I asked David what men did at “those things.” Whores, strippers, what? This wasn’t mere jealously; let’s not forget it’s the end of the millennium and sex isn’t always safe.
He laughed and told me not to worry. (Did this mean he’d be chaste, or wear condoms when fucking the harem-for-hire?)
I teasingly reminded him it was Shabbat, the holiest of nights. He repeated what the rabbi had told us: it was a mitzuah to make love on the sabbath. We giggled, two Jews who went to shul once a year on the High Holy Days and saw nothing wrong with Christmas carols or crispy bacon. Eager to perform a mitzvah on this sacred occasion, I kissed my lover and ran my hand along his crotch. His familiar hard-on grew instantly in my hand. I dropped to my knees, unzipped his black cords, and sucked him. For once, foreplay held no interest for me. I wanted him hard and I wanted him now.
I grabbed his round, soft ass and took his cock into my throat. Backed against the bedroom wall, he caressed my hair and thrust into my mouth. He grabbed at my sweater so he could suck my breast while simultaneously working to pull off my pants. Had it not been so hot, his awkward enthusiasm would have been humorous. Usually a playful lover, today his actions were anything but carefree. He kissed me hotly, then in one fluid motion turned and dipped his tongue into my cunt.
We were on the floor, hungrily licking and sucking at each other’s centers. Every move was deliberate, wild. He kissed my clit and penetrated my core with one, two, three fingers. I knew the spots that drove him wild, and I visited them with my tongue, my knuckle, the flat of my hand. As my cunt began to shake, contracting around his fingers, I turned to his ass and flicked my tongue across the dank, puckered darkness. He cried out and mirrored my actions with his tongue in my cunt. I moved my lips to his cock, using my wet fingers to tickle his balls and bum. With a primal moan, he bucked and exploded. I swallowed the warm cream and slowed my rhythm, reveling in each wild spasm of his body. I savored his smooth, slippery head, sucking it softly, knowing that any touch from me would elicit a sharp moan and an intense physical contraction. I loved him when he came. I loved the intensity of his response. He crawled around to collapse in my arms…just as we heard a pound-ing on the door.
Phillip.
David quickly changed while Phillip enigmatically pressed my emotional buttons about the evening ahead.
“You can’t mind one last night. Then he’s yours for life.”
“This ritual means that much to you?”
“It’s a guy thing. C’mon! You know he loves you. And nothing he does tonight will change that. Even if he does ‘nothing’ three or four times.”
David appeared and called his best friend a “truly diplomatic asshole.” Phillip laughed proudly, thirty-five-going-on-fifteen.
David kissed me and said, “I’m sure all I’ll do is get shit-faced. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” I said.
“I’d worry,” Phillip chimed in.
“Fuck off,” David told him as they walked out the door, laughing all the way to Phil’s car.
Having organized the wedding with all the attention of Eisenhower planning the Invasion of Normandy, I had nothing left to do. Relatives would arrive tomorrow. Tonight, I had planned on a self-facial and an evening of laser disks. Just as I was deciding between Godfather Part 2 and The Trouble with Angels, Judith called.
“You’ve got ten minutes to get ready. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“Not important. Get dressed. Anything casual and a push-up bra!”
Judith made me laugh. And curious. She was the boldest person I knew, a worthy namesake of the decapitating amazon of biblical lore. With no money, on a whim she would hop a jet to Paris or Paraguay, from where she’d send vivid postcards scribbled with exotic adventures. Each country held at least one lover, male or female, often both. I was as intrigued by her stories as she was by my stability.
Twenty minutes later (I had to do my face), I was in her cherry-red Miata, top down in the night air. All around, our senses were soothed by the scent of eucalyptus and night-blooming jasmine.
“Okay, Judi. What’s this about?”
“Do you trust me?”
“You’ve never given me reason not to. Other than the time you dyed my hair purple before the Dexy’s Midnight Runners concert. But I’ve forgiven you for that.”
Judith smiled. “I mean it. You know I’d never hurt you. But you have to promise you’ll go with what happens. I want you to forget about the wedding, about the damned bachelor party, about being the most responsible person on the planet. Just this once.”
“What are we going to do? Make Carlo answer for Santino?” I was joking, to cover a rising fear that was kind of thrilling. Judith read me perfectly. She handed me a brilliantly printed red, blue, and gold Hermes silk scarf. “If you’re up for this, put it on.’
I touched its sensual softness. “It’s beautiful,” I murmured, wrapping it around my collar.
“Uh-uh,” Judith frowned. “This isn’t decoration. Around your eyes, please. You’re not allowed to see a thing tonight.”
I could have argued. Or questioned. Instead, I let her tie the fragrant silk around me, a blinding caress. She’d been my best friend since Hebrew school. How strange could things get?
Her route was circuitous enough to throw me off track. Somewhere on Mullholland I lost all sense of direction. As she drove, we talked about marriage, commitment, monogamy.
‘How do you do it?” she asked. “I’m never faithful.”
“When I’m in love, I’m not interested in anyone else.”
“How hurt would you be if David’s friends bought him sex tonight? Honestly.” There was an urgency in her voice.
“Hard to say. One part of me would be devastated. Another part would know it didn’t mean anything. Phillip says anything men do at bachelor parties doesn’t count. I don’t know.”
“How do you think he’d react if you were the one partying? “
“Me?” I laughed. “Right!”
“As possessive as men are, I bet there’s a part of him that would love the idea of you going wild.”
I was si
lent. She continued, “I’m talking one night out of your entire life. One single night. I know you’re hot. After seven years, David still can’t keep his hands off you. You’re lucky. You two have love and respect. I wish you the best marriage ever—but I still think you deserve one moment devoted to your absolute pleasure.”
My head was swimming. The car stopped. I heard music in the distance. Were we at a club? A private home? “Judith, what are we doing?” I asked.
She carefully led me out of the car and took my hand. The night air tasted sweet. My nipples strained against my blouse, less from the breeze than from a shiver of anticipation.
“I’m taking you inside. Any time you want to leave, say, ‘Judith, stop,’ and I’ll take you home. This is a gift. Accept it.”
I slowly nodded, preparing myself for whatever was waiting beyond the door.
She led me into a room scented of roses and lavender candles. I heard no voices but knew we weren’t alone. She then kissed my cheek and placed a champagne flute in my hand. “I’m not out to get you drunk. This is for celebration. It’s your favorite: Cristal.”
I raised the delicate glass to the room I couldn’t see and drank. The intoxicating liquid felt icy and good. I drank most of it, then held out the goblet to…who? It was taken by someone with a masculine scent. He moved closer, and I felt strong hands unbutton my blouse. There were soft murmurs of approval. How many were there? Men? Women? Friends? Strangers? A knot of fear leaped from my stomach to my throat. I wanted to cry, “Judith, stop!” I opened my mouth to speak…but said nothing.
I went with it.
His hands were bigger than David’s, the feeling altogether new. The knot in my throat softened, began to melt, grow warm. He stepped away. I crossed my arms over my exposed breasts and the hands were back, covered in a warm oil scented of marigold and chamomile. His powerful touch worked its way down my neck, along my shoulders, down my arms. Tension melted. I became so relaxed, the sensation was so intense, that my legs grew wobbly. A second hand, softer, female, steadied me. My two protectors kept me upright. The man continued to rub his firm, oiled palms along my arms and breastbone, moving closer to my breasts, but not touching them. Mentally, I was still comparing him to David, but the scarf around my eyes, the forced anonymity, took me out of reality. This was a dream—it had to be.
The Oy of Sex Page 7