Fifty Shades of Oy Vey: A Parody (Excerpt)

Editor’s Note: The following post has been identified by the Jewrotica staff as containing content that may be triggering for some readers. This type of content may include derogatory language. While Jewrotica’s editors do not condone this type of language, it is part of the conversation and therefore this story is being published uncensored on Jewrotica.

Written by E.L. Jamesbergstein, author of “Fifty Shades of Oy Vey: A Parody” (Alfred A. Knish, 2013 – “So erotic, you’ll plotz.”). E.L. Jamesbergstein is a writer and balaboosta based in Brooklyn, New York. From early childhood, she dreamed of creating stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold to write “Fifty Shades of Oy Vey,” available from Amazon.com and booksellers everywhere. She is currently working on a Jewish cookbook for vampires. The following is an excerpt of her book

I am dressed in my balaboosta costume—pullover shirt, long skirt, hair covering, heavy stockings. My inner yenta is making chicken soup. I am cowering as I wait for Chaim to enter. What will he do? What sacrilegious fantasy will we enact? Will his back give out? What if it’s his heart? Sheesh, I hope not. A Hatzolah ambulance would come and I’d have to explain all this to a team of Orthodox EMTs.

The door opens and Chaim walks in. He’s wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, black gabardine jacket, and dark gray pants. Except this time they’re knickers, and he’s wearing white silk stockings below the knee. He’s dressed like an Eighteenth Century hasid. This is serious.

Chaim winds a black handkerchief around my eyes and ties it behind me. Then he places a pair of giant headphones on my head. I feel like an air traffic controller.

“This is so you can’t see or hear me,” he says. “You can only feel me.”

And smell you? Will Chaim ever wear the body wash I bought him?

“You will hear only music.”

He begins to undress me. It takes a while, as my uniform is heavy and there is lots of it. It feels great to be out of it though. When I am naked, he gently guides me to the bed. I lie on my stomach as he shackles my hands and feet to the four posters at the corners.

My heart is beating like a steel drum at a destination wedding.

“Wait just a minute,” he says. “I need to turn on the music.”

Will it be Barry Manilow? Barbra Streisand? No, not this time.

“Quiet, now, tsatskeleh.”

I hear the sound of a phonograph needle landing on a vinyl LP, then the familiar snap and crackle of an old recording.

A lone mournful voice sings unaccompanied, almost sobbing. I have never heard anything so depressing. At the same time, I feel something on my back. It’s Chaim’s hand, but encased in something—an oven mitt? He’s touching me with it, everywhere.

Chaim moves the oven mitt down my body, below my belly button, between my legs, then down my thighs and legs. I am completely at his mercy.

The sad, scratchy music is still playing. I manage to make out “My Yiddishe Mama.”

“What is this music?” I ask.

“‘Yossele Rosenblatt Live,’” he tells me. “No one sang ‘“My Yiddishe Mama’ like him. Though I like Jackie Wilson’s version too, and he was a schvartze. Go know.”

Suddenly he climbs onto the bed. I feel his weight next to me as he starts spanking my rear end.

“Oy this tushy—so soft yet so firm. I’m going to spank you now, hard. First with my hand. Then with a belt. And then with a rusty iron pipe I found on the street. You tell me if it hurts.”

The spanking begins and it definitely hurts. The hand not so much, the belt some, but I think the rusty metal pipe is getting to me. I can’t take too much more.

“It hurts,” I say.

“It what?” he answers, hitting me again.

“It hurts,” I say again, but he doesn’t stop.

“I’m not quite understanding you,” he says. “It must be your pronunciation.”

“It hoits,” I say, and finally he stops.

Thank G-d.

“That’s my Anatevka,” he whispers. “You really took a lot of punishment, sweetie. Sorry about the rusty pipe. You’re going to need a tetanus shot. Now, turn over.”

He unlocks the shackles holding me to the bed but locks them again once I am on my back.

Oh no, what happens now?

Then the tickling begins. It comes hard, under my armpits and down my rib cage. I can’t control my limbs. The sensation is too much for me.

“Stop squirming!” he commands.

“I can’t,” I giggle at him.

The torment is excruciating. He tickles me further, behind my knees and in the crook of my elbows.

I try to hold on to sanity. I am overwhelmed, yet he does not stop. Not behind my ears! Tears spring unwelcome into my eyes. He’s not holding anything back. And then, oh no—my belly button! I weep uncontrollably.

Finally, he is finished. I am still struggling against the restraints as he undoes them.

“Don’t touch me!” I hiss. You promised, no tickling!”

“When did I promise?”

“In the contract. Months ago. I insisted.”

“But I didn’t…we hadn’t signed… Ana, please!”

“Don’t give me legalisms. I said no tickling and I meant it. Nobody tickles Anatevka Stein!”

I run from the Blue Room of Broadloom to the bedroom and close the door behind me. I wrap my arms around myself. Oy! Thank G-d, the feeling is fading. How could I have been so foolish? Why did I let him do that to me? Spanking, whipping, sure. Maybe a golden shower, some fisting, a little asphyxiation. Different strokes. I wanted to experience the dark side, to know how bad it could be, but it’s too dark for me. So that’s how Chaim really gets his kicks. Tickling! I cannot do it. Not now, not ever.