Sex is a Mitzvah

Written by Not Tznius. Not Tznius, a first-time Jewrotica writer, lives in dangerous and delicious proximity to Hasidic Williamsburg, Brooklyn. She attends Chabad Shabbat services, speaks a tiny bit of Yiddish, and hopes to one day convert.

We tumble down the stairs from the rooftop, where we had just managed to knock over a couple bottles of Naragansett as we rolled around, my hand down his jeans, his hands all over my everything. He scurries into my room and I disappear for a second to the bathroom.

When I return, his shirt is untucked and he is standing in the middle of the floor. Balancing slightly tiptoe, I kiss his lips, his beard tickling me a little. It’s been a while since I was so into making out with anyone.

He grabs me by the waist of my shorts, sliding his hands down the front of my thighs to the deliberate rips in my lace tights, running his fingers up and into them. I put my hands on his face, his beard, the back of his head. I always want to be so entwined.

I hear his jeans fall on the floor, ­he must have sneakily unbuttoned them earlier. I slide his boxer briefs down, and fall lightly to my knees. Pulling up his shirt, I go down on him with a fervor that can only be described as simultaneously sweet and smutty.

He is unbuttoning his shirt now, and now he is standing in the middle of my room in his wifebeater and the driving cap he sometimes wears to cover his head instead of his kippah. I am sucking his cock, looking up at him, with his beard and his payos, in his naughty, immodest goyish clothes, and I’m pretty sure this moment is the hottest moment of my life.

He sees me looking up at him, and he pushes my head closer into him, grabbing my pigtails, which he told me earlier, he thinks are sexy. I sneak some looks at him as I sit there on my knees, in my tights and little girl ballet flats, fucking him with my tits, sucking on him every which way. He is beautiful. He is so, so lovely.

We move to my bed, where he lies me down and kisses me everywhere imaginable. Jewish boys are unfailingly incredible at going down on girls, and he is no different. Ten minutes later, he’s made a mess of me.

Allowing me a second, he kisses me sweetly before lying on top of me. We’re close to the wall at the head of my bed, and as he demolishes me by making us so very connected, I put my hand on the top of his now-­hatless head so that he doesn’t hit his precious self against the exposed brick wall.

We’re so squirmy together, hours of gentle and fierce and sticky and sweet squirming, rubbing, licking, biting. He loves to smack my ass, and even though I think my roommates might hear, I couldn’t care less, as every time he smacks me, I tingle head to toe and can’t help but bite him a little as we kiss, inextricably linked.

He flips me over, fucking my ass, holding onto my shoulders, rubbing my back, always touching me everywhere like a fucking dream I’m living in. He pushes so far forward into me, and I push back toward him. After a little while, it’s impossible for him not to, and he pulls out, cuming all over my ass, whimpering sweetly, the raw and real connection I’ve desired for so long coming to fruition with the exactly right person.

We lie there together, and he kisses my cheeks and hair from behind me, holding my shoulders still. He never wants to get up, he tells me, tucking his damp payos back behind his ears. I’m not entirely sure it isn’t a dream.

We drink deeply of each other in the early morning hours­ whispering of the past, our fears, and life lessons learned. We are entangled, intertwined, so incredibly close. I could kiss him forever, make love to him forever, but unfortunately I rise with the sun. We get dressed, eyes bleary, bodies damp and exhausted in the most beautiful manner.

We smoke one final post­coital cigarette on my front stoop, silently, knees touching, minds frayed and fuzzy like well-­loved stuffed animals. He gets up to go, and we thank each other a million times over for the closeness, the sweetness, the dirtiness, the spankings.

And I realize as I turn my key in the lock to go inside, the slightest hints of morning licking at the horizon behind me, that I am beautifully transformed, if only just a little. Making love all night with him was a little piece of heaven, like white light, and everything holy, ever.

I shake my head at the fact that this is verboten and as I walk on the clouds back up to my apartment, I remind God, if he’s still listening, that I know that sex is a mitzvah, but not this type of sex and we go back and forth about whether this too counts, if you are so very loving. This sex is a mitzvah, I conclude, and my whole world appears now in a golden hue.