Written by David Kann. David, a professor at California Polytech State University, is a first-time Jewrotica writer. (Editor’s Note: This piece contains explicit content, politically incorrect language and emotionally charged imagery, hence the XXX rating. Jewrotica does not necessarily condone or endorse the sentiments of its authors, but rather remains an open forum for the exploration and expression of Jewish sexuality in all its forms.)
I – Beguiling the Goy
I stalk the New York winter
Friday evening, hugging the walls,
dressed in a black pigskin coat,
soft as butter, soaking up light
giving back night.
Another midtown sidestreet bar,
the stale bread smell of spilled beer
and cheap well drinks,
tired hors d’oeuvres in the corner:
pigs in soggy blankets,
limp shrimp floating in melting ice.
I eat, skulking through the enemy camp,
observing the reedy, pale blondes
sheygitz boys chatting them up.
They lean against the bar,
holding old-fashioned glasses,
I sidle up and stare
at the little black dress
with platinum hair,
with my hooded Jewish eyes,
at how a single strand of pearls
curves into the luscious dimple
between her collarbones.
You’re mine. All it takes
are my lowered lashes
and my soulful Semitic gaze
speaking the semiotics of original lust.
In the lamps’ pink flush,
among leatherette crimson banquettes,
and polished mahogany veneer,
I flick my eyes doorward,
put my palm gently
in the small of your back,
and steer you into the night.
II – Shagging the Shikse
The cab stops at my tenement.
by my words’ shtetl melody.
I answer every question
with another question,
creating my mysterious
I have the power to fog men’s minds.
I am Lamont Cranston as Hebe.
So you never think to ask
why we’re at a walk-up
with a brownstone stoop
just south of Houston
and north of Delancey, on Rivington
and not on glittering Park Ave.
with its rectilinear parklets
up the middle, each with a Christmas tree,
and the golden Met Life Building
looming at the south end
or on opulent Central Park West
with fancy faygeles swishing
through the complacent West Side night
behind their ridiculous poodles,
eying each other while they
wait for them to shit.
I have entangled you, my silvery fish,
in the slings and filaments
of my Yiddish web,
with my dark eyes, weighted
with prelapsarian wisdom.
In the diamond-tiled hall,
up three flights of stairs,
under bitter fluorescent lights,
I unlock my door
with the mezuzah screwed to the frame.
I escort you into my home
full of the smell of yoykh and tsimmis.
As we wander slowly to my bed,
you let me undress you.
I’m entranced by your
creamy beauty, honey-shimmered
in the street-lamp light leaking
through my parchment window shade.
You lie on my bed.
I stare at your glittering body,
sleek and sharp as a swallow’s,
built for slicing the air;
stare at your golden pussy
and its clenched folds
like a withholding fist.
And I undress.
I uncover my Hebraic body,
blocky and black-pelted
on the shoulders and
at the small of my back,
and I keep up my spiel
as I lower myself on you,
as I enter you.
That cold, tight cavern
loosens and kindles
like a blooming flower.
With each thrust,
I exorcise my history
feel bones and wounds knitting,
ropy scars sinking back into my flesh.
That’s for autos da fe, and
that’s for pogroms and Cossacks, and
that’s for ghettos and slaughter, and
that’s for kristallnacht and brownshirts, and
that’s for Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and Marienstadt, and
that’s for barbed wire and furnaces, and
that’s for wasted arms and legs
poking from bulldozed graves like broken sticks, and
that’s for the horror in your eyes when I’ve stopped speaking
and weaving my Old Testament spell, and
now you see what I’m up to, my blue-eyed quarry. And
now I’m moaning and pounding the pillow by your head
because I can’t contain my bliss, and
now you’re grunting and bucking like a sow in heat, and
now I can see that now you know you’ve been had,
are being had
have always been had
will forever have been had
by this angry, hairy Jew
hopelessly in love with you,
looking into your eyes
while his circumcised prick
raises you to the sky,
and the holocaust of your pleasure
has left you unfit to deal with your milky
boyfriends, thin as gruel, who groan politely
where I howl my liberation to the skies,
blow the ceiling off this room
that speaks of my special madness, and
blow the walls out of this tenement
full of different words
in different tongues,
each room another voice in another key, and
blow the roof off this hovel
so the dark that Yahweh cleaved
from the day looks down on us,
so the stars he hung in the sky and the waning
gibbous moon tremble with our howls and
scrawl new caligraphies of desire–
from right to left.
You are a warm, slippery and ample,
an anthem to flesh and pleasure.
I think I have made you