My Sweet Boy, My Goy Toy

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A38 toy
We ended up back in her apartment, kissing on the couch.  She pulled my tucked polo shirt out of my jeans, her hands running up my torso, finding my nipples. I gasped, my own hand reaching up to cup her breast.  Chana suddenly pulled back, pushed back her spectacularly tousled hair, and announced, “Wait. I need to ask you something.”

I was sure she was going to ask one of two things.  Perhaps: was my divorce final? (It wasn’t.) Or: did I have a condom?  (Not on me, but I was prepared to sprint to the nearest pharmacy.)

Instead: “Are you Jewish?”

I was stunned.  My first thought was that she was trying to figure out if I was circumcised.  But what an odd way and time to ask, I thought.  “I’m half,” I replied, “my father is.”   Chana nodded.  “But not your mother?”

“No, she’s an atheist Episcopalian. Does it matter?”

Chana leaned forward, butting her head gently into my chest.  I kissed her hair, waited.  “This can never go anywhere serious,” she said, proceeding to explain – without ever raising her gaze to meet mine – that she was totally committed to her faith and her heritage and would only consider marrying a Jewish man.  I stroked her hair while she talked, trying to figure out if I was flattered that this brilliant, gorgeous woman would consider marrying me – or if I was insulted that my mother’s background took me out of the running.  Mostly, I was amazed. It was 1992!  What serious academic (and Chana had extraordinary intellectual chops) made decisions based on religion?

I lifted Chana’s face to meet mine.  I kissed her.  “It’s okay if we can’t get serious,” I whispered, “I just want to enjoy this now.”  She laughed.  “I’m gonna hold you to that, baby; remember you said that.”  She cocked her head to one side, studying me.  I held her gaze, sensing that if I wavered, I’d be asked to leave.  And then, without another word and in one fluid motion, she pulled my shirt up, over, and off.

Both naked at last, Chana pushed me gently but firmly onto my back on the couch, straddled me, grasped my cock in her hand, gently rubbing the head against her clit.   “You sure, sweet boy?” she asked, tender concern and lust mixed in her voice.  “Jesus, yes,” I groaned.   Her brown eyes danced.  “Jesus,” she repeated softly as she slid me inside, “has nothing to do with this.”

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Hugo Schwyzer is a professor of history and gender studies. Follow Hugo on Twitter at @hugoschwyzer.