Doña Levy and the Day of the Dead

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Written by Oxartes. Oxartes is a 50 year-old modern-orthodox Israeli who writes erotica as a hobby. ‘Writing is my escape, my therapy,’ he says. For more Jewrotica writing by Oxartes, check out Babylon Nights, Vashti and the Leprechaun, Samson Agonistes Redux, and Reading the Signs.

Rated PG-13

All scenes take place at an old age home in Mexico City unless specified otherwise.

Day of the Dead (Dia de los Muertos)


Senora Maria Juarez struggled with her canes as she approached the table where her friend, Doña Rebecca Levy, waited in her wheelchair.

“You have not touched your lunch, my friend. Is it not good? It’s much better than ours.” Sra. Juarez paused while a volunteer set down her lunch and helped her to her seat. “Sometimes I think I should tell them I am Jewish so I can get the kosher food that you get. Ay, the slop they feed us.”

The volunteer smiled and went to help another resident. The women watched her.

“Such a sweet girl,” Doña Levy said, “from the high school.”

“Ay, we used to have asses like that. We’d get Jorge’s and Alejandro’s attention in no time, remember, eh?”

“Mmm. When is Consuela coming?”

“Soon; in a few hours, I think.”

“You’ll sleep in the cemetery, holding that same picnic basket, with all the things that Jorge likes?”

“Of course.”

“And he really comes?”

“I know you have your doubts, but he comes. And we eat and make love, and are together until sunrise. And I don’t need these.” Sra. Juarez brandished her canes. “For one night, I am like her,” she gestured towards the volunteer, “young and beautiful.”

Doña Levy sighed.

“Oh, I am sorry. I can be so stupid sometimes. Don’t worry, Jorge will bring word from Alejandro again; he always does. They are still friends, over there, you know. Jorge always says that Alejandro tells him that I must tell you how much he loves you, how much he misses you. Alejandro would like to come himself but he knows you cannot…

The elderly Jewish woman shook her head. “It is not our way.”

“The Day of the Dead is not supposed to be our way, either. The new Catholic chaplain here hates it but, ehh, we were Mexican long before we were Catholic. But I suppose you were Jewish long before you were Mexican, so…” Sra. Juarez’s voice trailed off. She gazed out the window. “He does love you, you know.”

Doña Levy nodded, with tears in her eyes.

“Ay, there I go, being stupid again.” Sra. Juarez looked for the volunteer.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Doña Levy pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

Sra. Juarez ate; Doña Levy did not.

“Are you alright?” Sra. Juarez asked anxiously. “You are not yourself.”

“I am very tired. Yes, I need a nap, a good sleep. I will see you soon. Give my best to Consuela.” Doña Levy called for the volunteer, who wheeled her to her room and helped her into bed. The latter turned out the lights and left.


Doña Levy woke with a start. “Who is it? Who is there?”

“Oh, Rebecca, my sweet Rebecca, your ass still gets my attention. Well, it would if I could see it, or feel it.”

Her husband sat at the foot of her bed, young and vigorous, as he was before the cancer had eaten him.



“But, but how is this possible?”

He put a finger to her lips. “Hush, my angel, permission has been given. Come.”

Doña Levy knew that look. It meant that her husband had one thing on his mind. She smiled coyly and reached for him.

“Oh no my love, not in this sad place.” He stood on the floor and held out his hand. “I have a better place in mind.”

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