Shabbos Walk

203 Shabbos walk

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Written by Noa. Noa is an experienced Jewrotica writer.

“[glossary]Shabbos[/glossary] Walk” is the fourth (and likely final!) chapter in Noa’s series. This piece is a prequel to “Countdown“, which is the prequel to “Shinui / Change“. “Shinui / Change” can be read as a prequel to “In Total Darkness“.


Rated PGThey happen upon each other as she approaches the walkway in front of his house. Well, more accurate to say that she happens upon him – he’s sitting out on the stoop, despite the cold, a thin pile of papers on his lap. He stands up as she arrives, as if he was waiting for her.

“Good [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary],” she greets him, surprised. A puff of visible air accompanies the greeting, then disintegrates.

“Good [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary], yourself,” he responds cheerfully. “Looking for Dassie?”

She chews her lip and nods, fiddling with the fuzzy blue scarf at her neck.

“She asked me to tell you to meet her at Ayelet’s house.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She turns away in the relevant direction, then looks back at his house. “Uh, should I say good [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary] to your parents?”

“No need, everyone’s out. My father’s in Montreal on a business trip and my mother took Noam out to the park.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Actually, I’m going in the same direction as you – I have a [glossary]shiur[/glossary] in twenty minutes. We can walk together.”

She knows that the [glossary]shiur[/glossary] he’s talking about is actually a [glossary]parsha[/glossary] [glossary]shiur[/glossary] that he gives weekly. It’s a tradition in their community that the older kids give a weekly [glossary]shiur[/glossary] for the younger kids, eighth graders to first graders, ninth graders to second graders, and so on, leaving out only the sixth and seventh graders, which includes her. She likes how modestly he says it – not, “I’m giving a [glossary]shiur[/glossary],” but rather, “I have a [glossary]shiur[/glossary].”

“How do you like doing that?” she asks as they fall into step.

“It’s great,” he says. “The kids are so sweet. Not old and jaded like us.” He realizes immediately what he just said, as if they’re the same age, when he’s really two whole years older. Not “us.” But it’s too late to take it back now.

“And Dassie still made you wait for me? What if I’d made you late to your [glossary]shiur[/glossary]?”

He’d offered to wait, actually, but he doesn’t want to admit that. Instead, he meets her eye and says, “Well, Shev, thank you for not making me late.”

She smiles and feels herself floating – hearing him say her name like that gives her butterflies in her stomach, and it’s almost too intense. She has to look away.

Her arms are starting to feel strange as she walks. Are they too stiff? But if she relaxes them more, are they swinging too much?

And walking down the street with a boy. She’s never done that before. What if somebody sees them and thinks that – that there’s something going on between them?

He goes on talking, as if he didn’t just turn her world upside down just by saying her name. “She said she wanted to tell you in [glossary]shul[/glossary] today – to go to Ayelet – but she forgot you weren’t going to be there because you had a… something? A [glossary]kiddush[/glossary]? Some kind of [glossary]simcha[/glossary]?”

“Yeah, uh, my cousin’s [glossary]bar mitzvah[/glossary], they [glossary]daven[/glossary] at [glossary]Shomrei[/glossary].”

“[glossary]Mazel tov[/glossary]. Who’s your cousin, anyone I know?”

“Lev Jacobs? No? He goes to [glossary]YRP[/glossary].”

“Ahh.” That explains it, of course – he himself goes to [glossary]YCY[/glossary], and these are two completely different crowds.

There’s more silence, and she tries to think of something to say. She comes up with, “What’s your [glossary]shiur[/glossary] about?”

“Well, they’re little kids, so it’s hard to keep them focused for very long. It’s pretty much the basic story plus some [glossary]Rashi[/glossary] and a few other things here and there that catch my interest. It’ll be harder to keep them interested once we hit [glossary]Vayikra[/glossary].”

She laughs. “Do you get nervous? I don’t think I could give a [glossary]shiur[/glossary] to so many people, week after week.”

“It’s okay, they’re children, so they’re not… it’s not too much pressure. And I’m used to them. Anyway, it’s fun, I like kids.”

She sneaks a glance at him. It’s funny – all of the boys she knows wear black suits on [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary], with blue or red ties (Effi’s is blue – one shade lighter than her scarf and gloves), they all have similar black coats; their head coverings vary, but not by much: plain suede or knitted [glossary]kippot[/glossary] of various colors, and a few even wear a black hat. Really, the only thing wholly individual about any of the boys is their face. But she looks at him now and he doesn’t look like any other boy she knows.

Then he opens his mouth again and ruins it.

“And if you get nervous, you know,” he says, “you can just imagine everyone in their under – uh,” he turns red and cuts himself off. “Nothing, forget I said anything.”


Dassie’s cute older brother just almost said underwear to her.

She looks straight ahead determinedly, as if it didn’t happen. Or as if she didn’t hear it, at least. Or maybe as if she just didn’t know what the end of the word was.

No. What is she, a coward?

“That wouldn’t work, I would just feel bad for them all freezing to death,” she says, and she punctuates it with a shiver. “It’s getting cold so early this year.”

“I know. Did you hear it’s supposed to snow on Tuesday?”


“Crazy, right?”

“Enough to cancel school?”

“We can hope so.” He has to admit (silently, to himself) that he’s a little bit delighted at how she managed to save that conversation. He underestimated her, he decides; she’s mature for her age. More than his sister, anyway, who always follows him around and never stops talking.

“If school is canceled, Dassie will probably invite a bunch of us over for a snowball fight. Since you’re on a corner house and you have that lawn.”

Why is she telling him that? They both know he can’t join a snowball fight with girls. Even if they are his little sister’s friends.

He can shovel the walk while they’re out there, though. And the sidewalk. And the driveway. Because… shoveling is necessary.

“The corner house does have its advantages,” he says. “Unless you’re the one who needs to mow the lawn.”

“Speaking of corners,” she says, and she’s almost sad to say it, “this is my turn.” Ayelet lives a few houses in, but Effi needs to keep walking straight to get to [glossary]shul[/glossary].

He turns with her, surprising both of them, but he still has plenty of time before his [glossary]shiur[/glossary] – the [glossary]shiur[/glossary] that he “has” – starts. They walk silently for the last few houses, hands in their respective pockets.

He stops on the sidewalk in front of their destination. “So, uh, have fun. Good [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary].”

“Good [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary] yourself,” she responds, and they both smile, braces glinting in the sunlight. She starts onto the walk of Ayelet’s house.

He waits until she reaches the stoop, then turns to go.

She spares one final look backwards as she knocks. He’s started walking again, and he doesn’t see her. She watches for one moment and then the door swings open and her laughing friends pull her inside.

He doesn’t turn around, but his ears keenly register the sound of a door closing. He exhales a sigh, smiles to himself and continues to walk.

Countdown (Part 2 of 2)

A195 countdown

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Written by Noa. Noa is an experienced Jewrotica writer.

This is a continuation of “Countdown (Part 1 of 2)“. Countdown is the prequel of “Shinui / Change“. “Shinui / Change” can be read as a prequel to “In Total Darkness“.

Rated PG-13I sit down on a swing. It’s the sturdy kind, with large plastic-reinforced metal chains holding up a thick rubber seat. I expect him to take the empty swing next to me, but instead he walks around and stands behind me.

“Shall I?” he asks, reaching his hands out.

He can’t possibly mean to push me.

He winks. “Don’t you trust me?” he says.

I do, absolutely and without hesitation, so I nod.

He closes his hands around the chains and begins to push me on the swing. When I come backwards at him, he catches the chains with his thumbs – gently so that I don’t get snapped backward – and then lets me go.

And so it goes, back and forth.

Technically, we’re not breaking any [glossary]halachot[/glossary]. Not [glossary]yichud[/glossary]: the park is public property, we’re out in the open, and the occasional car does pass by. Not [glossary]negiah[/glossary]: he’s not touching me.


He’s so close, though, that I imagine I can in fact feel his fingers not touching me.

He’s so careful. I wonder if his fingers will be so careful, so focused, when they’re on me. When they’re on my naked skin.

This is so not the spirit of the law.

I feel aware all over. All of the places that I can’t wait for him to touch me are tingling, and every time I land his hands are this close to my hips, and I’m going to combust if this keeps up.

What I need to do is get out of here, run as fast as I can to my bedroom, lock the door and rub furiously until I can breathe again. But… that would be rude.

“I’m going to jump,” I warn him.

“Okay.” He pushes again.

“One,” I count, and swing back towards him. His fingers half an inch away from me.

“Two,” I say as I go forward, and let myself fall back to him one more time. I almost hope that he’ll stop me, that he’ll catch the swing and puts his arms around me, but of course I don’t really want him to do that, and he doesn’t.

“Three!” I fling myself from the swing and fly through the air. As a kid, I was always too chicken to jump off swings. I would go as high as anyone else, but I wouldn’t let go, ever. Tonight, I’m fearless.

I land on my hands and knees, laughing. Then I turn to see him, and the look on his face as he watches me…I’m soaring again.

Maybe I should jump the gun. Just a little bit. I go to the [glossary]mikvah[/glossary] five nights from now. Afterwards, I can put on that little purple thing given to me by our mothers – how mortifying, the idea that our mothers conspired and picked something out and said, Yes, perfect, this is what my daughter should wear in bed with your son – and a trenchcoat, and go to his place.

I’ll knock on the door, and when he answers I’ll say, Go get your roommates so they can see us going into your bedroom, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way, after all “[glossary]ha’isha nikneit b’shalosh drachim[/glossary]” and if it’s good enough for the [glossary]mishna[/glossary] it’s good enough for us (this is not true as a general rule but I’ll count it for this), and we’ll swear your roommates to secrecy even though that defeats the purpose of being witnesses in the first place.

The only problem is [glossary]dam betulim[/glossary] and how then we wouldn’t be able to touch at the actual wedding, and it would completely ruin the pictures.

I won’t do it. But now I can’t get the image out of my head, him and me and that purple thing, him taking the purple thing off of me with his careful fingers –

I turn over and lie back on the dewy grass and try not to squirm; I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and try to relax my body. This must be the real reason why the bride and groom don’t see each other the week before the wedding.

And why did I let him talk me into this again?

“Shev.” My eyes fly open, and there he is. While I was trying to neutralize my hormones, he came over to the grass and sat down by me. But the way he says my name, I immediately realize that he didn’t just come over and invite me for a walk at three in the morning just to push me on a swing.

I roll to my side and lean on my left arm. “You okay?”

“My father called me today. He’s flying in tomorrow.”

Well, that’s… complicated. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to get here until the day before.”

“Surprise!” he says in a bitter tone. “He wants to take me out to dinner tomorrow.”

“Are you going to go?”

“Of course I’m going to go; he’s my father.” He pulls out a clump of grass. My hand itches to pull his away, to relax him.

Of course he’s going to go; it’s his father. And he’s going to be respectful but distant, and afterwards he’s going to thank him for the meal, and then he’s going to go home and stew.

 Continue reading…

Countdown (Part 1 of 2)

A195 countdown

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Written by Noa. Noa is an experienced Jewrotica writer. This piece is the prequel of “Shinui / Change“, which can be read as a prequel to “In Total Darkness“.


Rated PG-13…up on the windowsill, cold glass against my thin T-shirt, a tapping sound on the window from the outside – I ignore it – my cotton skirt hiked all the way up my thighs as he grinds against me, teeth and tongue working on the side of my neck, making me shiver, another tap at the window, which I continue to ignore, and I start to undo the buttons on his waistcoat –


Okay, no more pilfering from my roommate’s Regency romance collection right before bed.

He kisses me hard and quick. “Ahh, Shev,” he groans against my mouth.

“Your Grace,” I whisper in response.

Then he pulls back and I can see his face as he scratches the hair above his ear and says, “I don’t mind if you call me Effi,” and he leans in and –

Suddenly I’m awake, jerked back into reality by… what was that sound?

My phone buzzing.

I fumble for my glasses – no sense in messing around with contacts in the middle of the night – and pick up my phone.

Effi: I’m out of pebbles. Look out your window already

I get up and slide the window open, realizing at the last second that I’m wearing a tank top, and I duck so that just my head is visible.

There he is, standing outside my building at – I glance back at my phone – three in the morning. He’s waving, too, as if I could have missed him. Despite my instinct to chide him, a smile breaks over my face.

I don’t want to wake up the entire neighborhood by yelling, so I text him back.

Me: We’re not supposed to see each other!

Effi: That’s just a [glossary]minhag[/glossary], humor me

Me: Should I come down?

Effi: YES 🙂

I quickly pull a jean skirt on over my pajama pants and a thin zippered hoodie over my top, gather my hair into a ponytail, and hurry outside to meet him. I’m thrilled that he’s here, even though he really shouldn’t be.

“Hey,” he says as I walk up. “I missed you today.”

I can feel myself beginning to yearn. I want to stick him in my pocket and bring him home. I want him to be mine. I want to whisper, “I love you, I love you, I love you” into his ear and let my lips brush against the soft skin of his earlobe. Six more days, I remind myself.

“Were you throwing pebbles at my window? And you actually hit it? Four stories up?”

“I missed the first few times,” he admits, as we start walking. “But I bullseyed at least five of them. You are a heavy, heavy sleeper.”

“I hope that doesn’t give you any last-minute doubts,” I say. “And I think your pebbles were incorporated into my dream, at least.”

I try not to blush as the rest of the dream comes back to me. Can he see it in my face? Sometimes I feel like ever since he gave me that ring, all I can think when I’m around him about is my desire for him and wonder if he feels even a fraction of it. People say that being engaged is stressful, but they don’t warn you about this. Often I’ll be talking to people about flowers and colors and music and all I’ll be thinking is, “Who cares about any of this? I’m going to have sex in a few months!”

Or, a few weeks.

Or, six days.

I know that I can relieve some of the tension on my own, in the dark, behind my locked bedroom door, and sometimes I do – but not too much; I feel like that would be cheating the game. And to tell the truth, it doesn’t help for more than five minutes, either.

“Once we’re married, I’ll make sure to text you if I need to wake you up,” he says.

There’s an elementary school with an open playground about a block away from my place, and we stop as we reach it.

“Want to go in?” he asks.

 Continue reading…

Shinui / Change (Part 2 of 2)

A180 kincks

Written by Noa. Noa is an experienced Jewrotica writer.

This piece is the continuation of “Shinui / Change (Part 1 of 2)“. “Shinui / Change” can be read as a prequel to Noa’s first story, In Total Darkness.

Rated R


Wednesday is another nightmare evening. I’m afraid the neighbors are going to call the police the way the baby has been screaming on and off for two hours.

“No, it’s first stomach, then swinging,” I say.

The pacifier pops out. Again.

“Sucking is the last step,” I say.

The baby starts to wail.

“Make a bullet list!” my wife snaps.

“We’re supposed to shush her,” I say.

There is fire in her eyes. “Get me that Dr. Harvey’s telephone number. I’m going to call him and demand that he come here right this second and calm down this baby or give us a full refund for the price of this book. Plus interest. Happiest baby on the block, my ass.”

“Do you think he’s Jewish?” I ask. “His name sounds kind of Jewish.”

“Karp? I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

“Well, if he’s Jewish, we can’t charge him interest.”

She groans loudly. “Okay, Mr. Comedian, it’s your turn again. Fix this swaddle –” which is almost completely undone– “and work this five S witchcraft.”

I grab the earplugs from the counter, insert them, then get to work.

Ten minutes later, I have a sleeping angel in my arms.

“Look at her,” I say, taking out the earplugs with my left hand. “Isn’t she the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen in your life?”

My wife looks at the baby. Then she looks at me. Then she starts to laugh.

“I need a drink,” she says.

I put the baby down while she pours wine into two glasses. We drink while standing, leaning on the counter.

“From the tone in your voice,” I say, “I was sure you were going to get out the hard stuff.”

“If by ‘get out the hard stuff’ you mean ‘drink vanilla extract straight from the Economy Size bottle,’ I considered that.”


She takes a sip. “Did I really yell at her to make a bullet list?”

“Yeah, that was classic.”

“My brain is fried. Deep-fried. Like a… like a deep-fried Twinkie. I hope you enjoyed those few years of being married to a human being. Good luck with what you’re stuck with.”

“I don’t know, I find what I’m stuck with to be pretty entertaining.”

“‘Make a bullet list!'” she falsettos, and bursts into giggles. Her glass is empty, so that might be

I finish off my wine. She rinses the glasses and then turns back to me, her face flushed from alcohol and laughter.

Then she hops onto the counter and crooks a finger at me.

I move in promptly, standing pressed against her for a few moments. Just feeling. My blood is going, pounding, for real, more than any time since last Thursday.

When she reaches for my zipper, I just need to make sure – “You’re not drunk, right?” It’s [glossary]assur[/glossary] – [glossary]haram[/glossary], forbidden, ix-nay on the opulation-cay – to have sex while one or both partners are drunk.

“I’m just relaxed,” she confirms. “It was only one glass.” She unzips me and takes me out and I just about lose my mind.

After a few minutes, I have to stop her. The counter is too high to do this comfortably, so we move to the bedroom and sit down on the bed, next to each other.

I hold her, caress her face as we kiss. Her mouth still tastes like wine, ripe for romance. My head is still spinning, from arousal or from the wine I don’t know, but everything is going in fast forward and slow motion at the same time.

It’s going to work this time. We just need to take things slowly, work up to it. I need to tease her so hard she’ll be crying from the frustration by the time I touch her.

I let my fingertips skim over her hips and lower back, just underneath her shirt. She shuffles closer and takes my head in her hands. Our mouths touch so lightly that it can barely be called a kiss – more a tracing of lips. In the meantime, she’s running her hands through my hair and I’m dipping my fingers under her waistline.

Then I hear the fussing sounds coming from the bassinet.

“No, no, no, go back to sleep,” I whisper in the relevant direction. “Or at least make a bullet list.”

Of course, she doesn’t listen, and of course, the wine’s secondary side effect hits, and of course, my eyelids snap shut as soon as I lie down – like one of those baby dolls – and they won’t stay open for more than a second at a time no matter how hard I will it.

I barely make it to the end of [glossary]Shema[/glossary] before I’m completely out.


Thursday night, they’re still nursing as I get into bed. They started about forty minutes ago, but apparently it’s a slow bedtime routine tonight. I guess I’m just in time, because the baby falls asleep a few minutes after I get there, and my wife gets up to place her into the bassinet.

I figure that since I’m awake for once, we can try this again when she gets back to the bed. So I’m sitting up, waiting patiently. But when she gets to the bed and settles in, she barely glances at me.
I cover her hip with my hand, and she shoves it away, letting out a frustrated sob. “Damn it, leave me alone! Haven’t I done enough for you?”

It doesn’t even take a second for her face to go white and her eyes to widen. She’s never spoken to me like that before. I don’t even begin to know how to react.

“I’m sorry,” she says immediately.

I’m still speechless. What did that even mean?

I made a point of asking her if she wanted to wait longer, and she insisted – she insisted. Not me.

“I wasn’t – I didn’t mean that,” she continues.

I snap out of it. “Don’t worry about it,” I say.”You’re under a lot of stress.”

Is she lying to me about what she wants? Is she afraid of how I’ll react if she tells me she doesn’t want to have sex? But just last night…!

“I am. But that doesn’t excuse… ” her voice trails off.

“It’s fine,” I insist. “I understand.”

I wish I did.


This is too big for just the two of us.

On the one hand, I’ve never breathed a word of our sex life to anyone else. I don’t want to disrespect her – disrespect us – that way.

On the other hand, I’m running out of ideas here.

I think about adding an extra line in the freestyle part of [glossary]Shmoneh Esrei[/glossary] for a solution – but praying in order to get laid reminds me too much of those football players on their knees at their fields, praying for a touchdown.

My boss has a one-year-old. My boss also [glossary]davens[/glossary] in our [glossary]shul[/glossary] and says good [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary] to my wife on a weekly basis.

That won’t do.

My father and I have always had a strained relationship, which I prefer not to talk about. Maybe we’ll reconnect one day, but it won’t be over this.

My brother is still basically a kid. Not my mother. Certainly not her family; I’d never be able to look them in the eyes again.

My sister is a nurse. But she’s single and certainly has never given birth. But she’s a nurse. And she’s a woman. And she’s the smartest person I know.

I call her and ask her to come over Shabbos lunch, if she doesn’t already have any commitments.

She doesn’t.

And if any eyebrows are raised at the last-minute invitation, she’s the one who called me Friday morning and asked to come over for lunch.

She agrees.

And when I say [glossary]mincha[/glossary] five minutes before [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary], I [glossary]daven[/glossary] my heart out for an end to the drought, both physical and emotional.
Friday night, we don’t even try.

This is too big for just the two of us.

10. [glossary]SHABBAT[/glossary]

When I wake up in the morning, my shorts are stiff.

Damn it.

This hasn’t happened to me since the week before our wedding, when the anticipation was taking over most of my thoughts and all of my dreams. Except then, I knew it would be over soon. I knew that the future was going to be wonderful. And it was.

The future was wonderful.

Now, it’s so different. I hope things will get better, but how can I know for sure? Sometimes, marriages really do fall apart after kids. Sometimes, people just have more and more kids, trying to cover up the rotten smell of their relationship until one day it all comes out and everything falls apart.

Damn, damn, damn.

Or maybe I’m completely overreacting over one lousy wet dream.

And on [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary], too. Perfect.

There’s no way I can make, “No pressure, but your lack of arousal is causing me to majorly sin in my sleep,” sound like anything but a guilt trip, is there?

Shit shit damn.

 Continue reading…

Shinui / Change (Part 1 of 2)

A180 kincks

Written by Noa. Noa is an experienced Jewrotica writer.

Shinui / Change can be read as a prequel to Noa’s first story, In Total Darkness.

Rated R


The baby is asleep.

She’s been asleep for the past two hours, and I’m praying silently to God that she’ll stay asleep for the next two hours, too.

I’m standing there in the living room, looking absently over the bookshelf, praying that the baby will stay asleep, when I hear the key turn in the door. I turn in that direction, automatically, my body alive and attuned to every sound and movement in the house.

I’m at the door before it opens, and as soon as she crosses the threshold, I’m kissing her, bringing her head towards mine with my right hand while closing the door with my left, then using the same hand for support and it’s almost embarrassing how desperate my kiss is. I’m devouring her mouth like I’m a hungry kid and she’s an ice cream cone, sucking and licking at the edges, savoring the flavor.
When we finally pull away, we’re both breathing hard. “You didn’t even ask if everything went okay,” she says.

I almost panic.

“Everything went fine,” she confirms, her eyes lighting up in laughter.

“Don’t tease a man like that, ” I say, but I’m smiling, and I give her a quick, chaste kiss on the lips.

We hurry to the bedroom and undress each other quickly. Our breathing is loud, heavy, aching. Laughing, I run my fingers through her damp hair, pull her in close, and warn her to keep her hands away from certain parts of my body so that it’s not all over before it starts. She gives me a wicked grin but complies, running her hands up my back and over my shoulders.

And… record scratch.

Two minutes later, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I know it’s not my fault, I heard all about postpartum hormone shifts and how they can mess with your sex life, but I honestly didn’t think it would be a big deal. I had never had any doubts that I knew how to please my wife. Even on our wedding night, the two of us virgins but eager to learn, we still managed, and managed well. I’d heard all about how awkward and terrible it always was the first time, but it wasn’t. Granted, it wasn’t the highest combined orgasm count we’ve ever worked up, but she was warm and wet and moaning underneath me. And we’ve had no problems since.

As for the pregnancy… well, there is nothing physical in this world that is better than pregnancy sex, let’s leave it at that.

This is the opposite. I’m touching her between her legs just how she likes it. I know this is how she likes it because the last five hundred times I touched her exactly like this, she melted and writhed and made little noises and begged for more. But right now, all I can feel is skin and friction.

“I’m sorry,” she says, which makes me feel even worse. She carried my child inside her body for nine months, went through twelve hours of labor, pushed her out, uses her own body to nourish her, and now she’s apologizing for not being turned on.

I kiss her hair. “We’ll work it out. It’s going to be fine.”

“Maybe we should skip the foreplay and just…” Her voice trails off.

“You sure?” I ask.

She nods. “Yeah. The pieces will still fit.” She coughs out a shaky laugh. “I’ve been doing my kegels, just like they say. I could probably bench press a truck with my vaginal muscles.” She pauses. “Well, maybe not a truck. Maybe just a car. Like, a Mini Cooper.”

“Nervous?” I ask, once she finishes talking.

“Why would I be nervous?”

“Exactly.” I take her hands in mine as I settle above her, and she adjusts around my hips. I start to push in, slowly. She winces.

“Let’s stop,” I say.

She winces harder this time, and her eyes get a glassy look to them.

I disentangle myself, then put my arms around her. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but listen, the night’s not over, let’s try something else.”

She nods, so I kiss my way down her body. Her arms are crossed over her belly – what is that about? – so I nip at the inside of her wrist on the way. And then I reach my destination. I start to kiss her, very softly. She exhales. Tilts her hips, like a flower reaching for the sun.

This is good. This is right.

And yet, it’s still not the same. She likes it, obviously, but something is holding her back.

“Get over here,” she says, which is not something she’s ever said before so early in this situation, but I do, and she looks at me, all vulnerability, and we fit our hips together.

I ease myself inside, and it works – but just barely. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t done this in a month and a half and it feels –

It feels different, just slightly, like when you’ve put your favorite jeans through the wash, and it takes a few wears to get it back to normal.

Is that offensive? I don’t mean it to be.

“Slow down,” she says, but I’m barely moving at all.

She adjusts her hips slightly, and I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to hold out, and I’m watching her for signs that she’s enjoying this at all but I’m coming up blank.She shifts again, and again, and then she says,

“Maybe you should just fin –”

The baby wails, and I disengage and roll away like she’s on fire, eternally grateful that she didn’t get a chance to finish that sentence, because no, never, never.

As she moves to nurse the baby, I go wash my hands, I say [glossary]Shema Al Hamita[/glossary], I stare at the ceiling.

When the baby is done, she stumbles back half-asleep, her eyes already closed, and she collapses onto the bed. I’m still up, in more ways than one.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep Thursday night.


The baby is decidedly not asleep.

She was asleep during dinner. She was asleep during the ten-minute walk home. The second we walked through the door, though, she was awake – and angry.

She was swaddled. She was rocked. She was nursed. Her diaper was changed, and then she was re-swaddled.

No dice.

Now she spits up her body weight all over the bed and then starts to scream.

I feel bad for her, to tell you the truth. It must be scary to have all that food just burst up out of you like that, and you have no idea what throwing up even is. I’d scream, too.

We change her again, and burp her again, and then we let her nurse for ten minutes and switch her to the pacifier.

Once she’s down, I change the sheets and I throw the old ones in the hamper and I join my wife on the bed.

“Take two, action?” I ask.

She gives me an apologetic smile. “I’m so tired, my eyes are crossing. Tomorrow?”

Tomorrow, I say.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep Friday night, too.

03. [glossary]SHABBAT[/glossary]

I don’t sleep on [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary] afternoon. We have guests for lunch, the kind who like to talk. And sing. Not that I don’t like talking and singing, but after the night I had, I could really use a nap.

We get off to a good start Saturday night, and I think we may be about to break the streak.
However, we’re still fully dressed when the baby starts to cry, and a few minutes into the nursing session, my eyelids start to droop.

“Wake me up when she falls back asleep,” I say, and I succumb to exhaustion.

The last thing I hear is a muttered, “Oh, that classic pick-up line, seducing young women since the dawn of time.”

I’m not surprised when the next time I wake up, it’s Sunday and the sun is shining.

 Continue reading…

In Total Darkness

A146 inTotalDarkness

Written by Noa. Noa is a first-time Jewrotica writer.

Rated R“Hello. Good [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary].”

“Good Shabbos yourself. Wow, that’s bright.”

“Still awake? You didn’t give up on me?”

“Three more minutes and it would have been in question.” A beat. “Are they both asleep?”

“Would I be here otherwise?”

“What took so long?”

“Ugh. Don’t even start. I had to read One Fish, Two Fish a thousand times. And that is a long book.”

There’s a soft laugh. “You know, if you read them a thousand books a night, they’re going to grow up to be awful tyrants.”

“Yes, but if I only read nine hundred and ninety nine, they’ll end up mass murderers, telling their psychologists all about how their parents had no time for them growing up.”

“That must be hard for you.” A pause. “Oh no, don’t say –”

“No, but I’ve got something else that’s hard for –”

“Oh God, I married a fourteen-year-old manchild.”

The bed springs creak. “Am I exhausted or what. Let’s get this over with.”

“Aww, you always know what a woman wants to hear.”

“Pffft. Too tired to flirt. Come here and kiss me.”


“What’s all this clothing in the way? Let’s get this off of you.”

“And you.”

“All right.”

“Okay, let’s –”

“Here, turn –”

“I got it –”

“Okay, there.”

“You’re stuck here.”


“Okay. Here, help me with my necklace.”

“No, leave it on.”

“Hmm. If you want.”

“This looks just how I pictured it. That’s a nice necklace. I got that for you, right?”

“Yeah, for our anniversary last year.”

“I have good taste.”

“Your mother probably helped you pick it out.”

“Please don’t talk about my mother right now.”

“Mmm. Deal.”

“I was thinking about this all throughout dinner. I kept looking at you, waiting for this moment, thinking, Please, keep that necklace on.

“I noticed. Don’t look at me like that next time we have guests! I’m trying to be a hostess and meanwhile you’re looking like you want to –” cough – “ahem, [glossary]shtup[/glossary] me on the dining room table. It’s embarrassing.”


“It’s indiscreet.”

“What do you have to be embarrassed about? Are you embarrassed by this?”


“Or this?”


“Turn around.” A pause.

“That’s it. That’s exactly the look you were giving me during dinner.”

“Funny, this is exactly how I was imagining you looking during dinner.”



“Oh, hey, look, it’s not even 9:30. If we skipped the sex and went straight to bed, we could get ten straight hours of sleep.”

“Hmm. That sounds great, let’s do that.”

“Annnd there’s some more of that sweet-talking charm I love.”

A loud, exaggerated yawn. “Hey, it was your idea, not – ah! Ohhhh. Okay, you have my – ohhhh – full attention.”

A beat. A soft pop. “Yeah. I can tell.”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account. Yeah. Ohhhh.”

A few minutes of soft moans, then, “Okay, okay. Stop. Stop. Ahhh.”

Another pop. “Well?” Then a shriek, and a laugh. “Ow, my shoulder! Be careful – What are you – oh!”

A pause. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m repaying –” pause – “the –” pause –

“Oh my God!”

“– favor. Are you done interrupting me?”

“Yes, I’m done, just keep – ohhhh – yessss – ”

A few more minutes in this vein –

“Ahhhh – ohhhh! Ohhhh – what? Are you – Are you stopping? What are you doing?”


“Argh! I was so close!”

“Ahh, don’t hate me.”

“I do, I hate you.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I had to stop.” A beat. “I wanted to see your face.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Damn it. How can I stay mad at you when you go and say things like that?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Mmph! Mmm.”

“Now get over here already.”

“Here –”

“Here –”

“Just –”

“Got it –”

And, in unison, “Ahhhh.”

“Ahhh –”

“Ohhh –”

“Yeah –”

“Yesss –”

A grunt.

“Oh, do that again.”


“Yes, that, again. Ahhh. Again, yes, ahhh – oh, no.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The soup. I left it on the counter.”

“And you just thought about it now?”

“It just popped into my head!”

“Well, we can get it later.”

“Okay. Mmm.”


“I’m sorry, I just can’t concentrate.”

“Can’t it wait until after you’ve reached –”

“I’m not going to reach anywhere with this soup thing hanging over me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I never kid.”

“You kid a lot.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A quick rustling sound accompanies this statement.

“You’re punishing me for not finishing you off before.”

“I’m not, I promise. I’ll be right back. You won’t even know I’m gone.”

“I already know you’re gone!”

No response.

Less than a minute later, “Okay. It’s all settled.”

“Good. Now. Do I have to tie you to the bed in order to make sure you stay?”

“Mmmm, keep talking.”

“I – oh, no good. I forgot. Shabbos. No knots.”

“Good point.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe tomorrow I’ll tie you to the bed.”

A beat, then, together, “[glossary]Nisht Shabbos geret[/glossary].”

And laughter.

“[glossary]Chas v’shalom[/glossary].”

“Okay, enough.”

“As you wish.”

“Now – Oh. Yeah.”


“No more – ahhh – talking.”




“Wait, shift like this –”


“Ahhh, yes –”

“Mmmm –”

“Yes –”

More sounds. Soft pants.

“Unf – I can’t, I need you to –”


“Ohhhh –”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes. Don’t stop –”

“I’m not stopping –”

“Keep –”

“I’m right here –”

“Ohhh –”

“Ohhh –”

The voices become indistinguishable, groaning and gasping, and finally, screaming.

Then, more pants.



“Good night.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“I’m too comfortable to move.”

“You’re crushing me.”

“Okay, okay.” Pause. “You want help with that necklace now?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Clink. “I do have good taste.”

“I’m not going to argue with that.”

“Good night.”

“Enjoy your nine hours of sleep. Hope it was worth the trouble.”

“Mmm. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Good [glossary]Shabbos[/glossary].”

“Good Shabbos yourself.”