Written by Hugo Schwyzer. Hugo is a first-time Jewrotica writer, and a professor of history and gender studies. Follow Hugo on Twitter at @hugoschwyzer.
“Don’t be silly. You’re never going to meet my parents.”
Chana was on top of me still, my cock slowly softening inside her, her long damp curls hanging in my face. Her fingers gently stroked my neck, the transition from frantic coupling to pillow talk already well underway. It was a Sunday afternoon in my tiny Westwood studio apartment. Fellow graduate students at UCLA, Chana and I had been sleeping together for three weeks. We’d been friends for three years, and
I was falling for her. Hard.
“Sweet boy,” she murmured, seeing the hurt flash across my face. “Please don’t make this more than what it is.” I sighed. Chana raised herself on her elbow. “If you fall in love with me,” she said, her voice tender but serious, “we’ll have to stop this. I’ve always been clear with you, right?”
She had been. We’d first met at a new graduate student orientation. I’d been 22, Chana two years older. We were each starting doctoral programs; I was a budding medievalist, she a scholar of late antiquity with an interest in Jewish texts. From a modern Orthodox family in Connecticut, Chana had done her undergrad work at Columbia before a brief and unhappy stint in law school. When I met her that first day at UCLA, she’d just broken off her engagement to a medical student her parents adored and moved out west to pursue her true intellectual passion.
From the moment Chana walked in – late – to the orientation, I was mesmerized. When she sat down next to me, in that hot and crowded Bunche Hall classroom, I could smell the mingled scents of her perfume and her sweat. Her first words to me were an urgent, throaty whisper, her hot breath in my ear: “What did I miss?” Not much, I replied, cursing myself for not having anything cleverer to say. Chana’s extraordinary red hair cascaded down her back, the tight curls glowing in the afternoon light. Our shoulders touched. I barely heard the department chair’s long-winded welcome. At the wine and cheese reception that followed, I felt pangs of jealousy the moment that she chatted with any other man – and a flush of intense pleasure when she turned her attention back to me.
When Chana finally noticed my last name on my nametag (I’d only given her my first) her eyes grew wide with mischief. “A schvitzer? Do you live up to it?” I blushed hot, transfixed by the way her pointed tongue darted out from between her lips. I couldn’t tell if she was flirting with me, but I hoped she was. At the end of the orientation, she tossed that impossibly glorious red mane of hair over her shoulder, locked eyes with me, and said she hoped to see me around sometime. I grunted inarticulately, and berated myself for it all the way home.
I crushed on Chana for the next three years, through the entirety of a brief and very ill-advised starter marriage to a college sweetheart and through Chana’s rather public flings with a couple of fellow graduate students. Finally, in the fall of 1992, we were assigned to the same professor to serve as teaching assistants for a survey course in modern European history. At last, we went out for coffee alone.