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Written by Donald Fox. “Enter the Goyter,” is the first in a series of three fictive memoirs by this first-time Jewrotica contributor. It will be followed by “The Goyter Comes Again” and “The Goyter Finishes.” Mr. Fox resides in the country.
Enter the Goyter: A Confessional Memoir of Passionate Realization
Her eyes were upon me the whole time; face smushed cheek-first on the rose-patterned sham, flushed like a rare bit of porterhouse. Set wide above the strawberry-pink mouth, her dark eyes owled wide, and she was sucking in breath more wildly when I came than when she did.
I’m a thoughtful man, and often, I like to think about what makes me aroused. I tend to investigate why a particular detail turns me on, or shuts me off, and I look at things from different angles for longer the usual 30 seconds.
Hair. Eyes. Eyebrows. Glances. Moans. Elbows. Manicures. Hair. Profanity.
This, I believe, does not make me different from all men, but it makes me different from most of the men I know.
That, you’ll agree, may only be a subtle difference, but it makes me different.
Thinking about turn-ons is a strange exercise, and maybe sometimes, I overthink things a bit. I mean, I’m not Jewish, so Jewish women once were terra incognita for me, but one thing you learn quickly with sex and relationships is that experience is the most thought-provoking thing in the world. And people always surprise you.
“Shit! Fuck me now, I want to be a disciple of Christ!”
Well, this was Adiva’s normally lilting contralto quarterbacking me the first time we screwed. I had never, ever, heard that kind of command in my life before.
“You’re my fucking goddamned savior. Now, hard, motherfucker, shove your face in there and eat me!”
That was another first.
And, apart from the blatant blasphemy—for me, for her—and how she broke character—seemingly such a nice girl—it was an about-face, sexually. But, yeah, coming from her, a religion professor, emotionally stable, gentle, caring, and a gender-egalitarian, all those imperative, bitchy, aspirated, cringy, kitten-purr screeches…
Uh-huh, it was really fucking hot, too.
I mean, I’d been back from Europe for maybe a month, and Adi didn’t eat the mussels or pork apps at dinner, so I knew she was Jewish. But she told me I was dining with a “culturally aware,” not religiously devout, Jew. It wasn’t as if I expected to see a cantor leap out with an portable folding chuppah before we bumped uglies and shout, “Mazel!” after quizzing me on my Hebrew vocab.
Later, I thought about the strangeness of what other people do to you early in life. Things you can’t control, and how they determine what we do to each other when we get our own shit together later. Call it “the law of unintended sexual consequences.”
“Oh, sweet fucker, slap me in the ass with something else now,” Adi said, loud, fast, after we’d sloshed around more. “Come on. Fuck, slap your shit against that hot fucking red ass and anoint me. Please, Monsignor, I want you to come on my ass with your goy cock.”
I had never been so explicitly “goy” before. I briefly questioned this, internally. Nor had my hog ever been called that, either. More questions. And…“Monsignor”?!? After three years fucking around in France, Italy and Germany, upon brandishing the load-bearing column, I’d always heard, “I didn’t know you were Jewish…”
Circumcision, yup—that ole chestnut.
Marks you over there in flagrante the way baptism does among a sea of undunked, yarmulke-clad templegoers anywhere else.
The first thing I thought, though, when I saw Adi’s mound was, “Oh, sweet Jesus, that’s some monster bush.”
I mean…she’d just come back from Israel—literally had walked the lengths and breadths of the land—and it was obvious that those suburbs hadn’t seen the business end of a razor or trimmer in about a year. Armpits were soft as down, but down there, all was dim fern and shadow-forest.
Christ. What am I talking about. It was a thick, black burning bush set at an alternately horizontal, perpendicular, and acute tsunami flying up, out and forward. I wanted to eat it as soon as I saw it, and slicker my tongue against her clit in that dense moss-patch so bad that once I was finished, I’d enter her and not stop until I left a taste of goy moi upon her thorax, ribcage and the ventricles in her fucking heart.
Note: Blondes do nothing for me.
Zilch. Nada. Zero, son.
I’ve never wanted to screw anything but dark-haired women, and Adi’s glossy Jaffro and the dark eyes, heavy heavy brows, and light black hair on her arms were just, wow. All that hair! It hit me so hard when I first saw her, brooding in wait for the 6 train one morning during my commute.
Black leggings, chunky black heels, just a little out of season. She was oddly pelted—clad in a weird, gray shag-carpet short coat that made the black hair, blaring out in the damp atmosphere beneath Times Square, seem even more wild.
I creeped around her, and managed to bump against her butt, and chat her up on the train, after I saw a copy of Absurdistan spining about in her bag. Funnily enough, what came to mind, just then, speaking with her, was something Shteyngart had written in a New Yorker story a while back about his character enjoying it when his girlfriend stuck a finger in his brown eye. Well, it went something like that; my wording is less elegant.
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