Clean

Written by Esther Orr. Esther’s foray into erotic fiction cured her writer’s block in her other fiction. This is her first time writing for Jewrotica.

I stood in the spot that was going to be the guest shower and watched his chest hair curling out of his button-down shirt. A shirt that was filled out by muscles. We stood so close that if I blew softly, the shirt would stay taut but the hairs would flutter. I wondered how they would feel if I pressed my face into his body. His body, whose energy, both active and static, seemed to say to me, “I am a man.” I wanted to breathe it in. It felt hard to breathe at all.

I had only ever slept with one person before: my husband. We were religious. Not ultra-orthodox, but religious enough that it had felt deviant after a few months of dating to have sex in my childhood bed. He licked me until I came, working his tongue so gently while a hand on each nipple squeezed and pulled roughly as I writhed and arched. With no premarital sex we had become experts at going down on each other. But that night, instead of lying back so that I could go to work on him, as was our custom—capturing his balls in my mouth, lolling my tongue over them, replacing them with my hands while my pulling his shaft in as deep as I could—he simply straddled me and pushed himself into my hot wetness under the frilly yellow duvet.

“Is this ok?” he said. I dug my fingers into his buttocks. He thrust and immediately I understood, “Oh. This is what the world talks about. This is why.” Blow jobs and cunnilingus momentarily paled in comparison. Even as I thought it I knew it was a cliche, but it didn’t make the feeling any less true: now I knew what it was to be a woman. Now I knew what it was to be fucked.

Over the years this continued to be our favorite position. Traditional, perhaps. But not vanilla. It thrilled us to have the roles so hyper-conservative, codified, while making each other feel anything but. “I’ve been waiting to fuck you all day,” he could whisper into my ear, coming up behind me as I chopped vegetables for dinner after the kids had gone to bed. He would put his hand under my shirt and touch my bare stomach, with his other hand he would rub first one nipple, and then the other, flicking them to attention, and within a minute we were on the kitchen floor, cold under my bare ass with my skirt around my waist, my panties pushed aside and my husband on top of me, holding my legs up and back as he pumped me.

But now I stood in the July heat in a hollowed out space, my shoes sinking in the dirt that wasn’t yet a floor, studying my contractor’s chest as he explained where the shower head would go. They would even build me a ridge where I could place shampoo and soap for my guests. I was his first stop this morning and as I stood in front of him I could smell his after-shave. His hair, close-cropped, was still wet at the sides. I wondered if his quickly rising and falling chest was just how he breathed, or if, like me, it was becoming scarily titillating to stand together in such a close space. I looked at his dark jeans below his belt buckle to see if it had a tell-tale ridge. We were maybe two inches apart but our hands were at our sides. To reach out and touch, even accidentally, felt so inappropriate, there might as well have been two miles separating us. I tipped my head back to look at him fully and it felt like there were heat waves shimmering between us.

Since he’d been working on our apartment he’d taken to coming over first thing when he crossed the bridge into the city. I’d arrive from dropping the kids off at day camp and meet him in the cool lobby. We would take the elevator up together so we could discuss the progress of the renovation, which was going to be my family’s new home. But now it was still empty, except for the wiry but surprisingly strong laborers who didn’t speak English, but I was noticing would eye me talking to Chris.

Even his name, Chris, felt “other” to me. A good, simple name. An all-American boy who’d played football, who’d had a tough upbringing somewhere upstate but who’d made good and now had his own successful business. But it didn’t roll off my tongue. I’ve never met a Jewish boy called Chris who was barrel-chested, tall, thick, and blond. Even the tall boys I’d grown up with felt frail next to my petite frame. Not that what I was thinking would have been better with a Jewish boy. My underwear felt slippery and I knew it wasn’t just the heat. When he left, he kissed my cheek. I smelled his aftershave on me the rest of the day, the scent warm with the burn of my cheeks and the sultry summer air.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his ass filled his jeans. I wondered if I was making an ass out of myself. To him, I was a nice Jewish girl, a client. He was working for us, as opposed to the other two contractors we’d gotten bids from, because my husband liked him. They’d hammered out the details over a beer. He’d swing my kids up over his truck-like 6-foot frame to touch the ceiling as they giggled. We had interesting talks. I was a nice Jewish girl. A mother. But god, I didn’t want him to think of me that way.

I went to the one working toilet, avoiding the workers’ glances, and locked the door. My panties were slick. I put my finger inside me to feel the viscous heat of my body and slid my fingers back and forth until I felt swollen and pulsing; my lips curled around my teeth and I breathed out. But I didn’t feel satisfied. I did it again, faster. I sucked my fingers. I let them swim again. I unlocked the bathroom door and left the apartment, trying not to feel the workers undressing me with their eyes. As if they knew what I had just been doing, and what else I wanted to do.

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