Flight Delayed, Romance Not

Written by Zachary. Zachary, a first-time Jewrotica writer, is a straight Jewish male currently based in Brooklyn. He has worked in Boston, DC and Los Angeles. Although self-labeled as straight, he has ended up in other amorous situations and gone with the “flows.”

Having worked at a new job for nearly a year without a break, I scheduled an eight day vacation to Israel in the Fall. Time was critical; every moment would count. I was planning to fly from JFK Airport in New York City to Ben Gurion in Israel and crash at the Tel Aviv flat of a cousin. Tel Aviv would be my base of operation.

You can therefore empathize with my slight irritation when the evening flight was delayed for two hours, and then delayed again until the next morning. My mistake for flying a budget carrier – but it is not as if my income could cover a ticket on a more reliable flight. The gate attendant, with a moderately abrupt Israeli accent, told all New Yorkers to go home until the next morning. Passengers from out of town, however, would be put up in an airport hotel, or was it a motel – I forget.

I definitely did not want to head back to my apartment in Brooklyn; my roommate and his girlfriend were probably already acting out a scenario in my absence. Using my DC driver’s license – I failed to change it to a NY State one – I was able to score a bed at the airport hotel on the dime of the air carrier. But this was an Israeli carrier, so there was no single room or two to a room. Passengers under about 25 were placed four to a room. No problem. I was flexible and my attitude, having spent many nights in youth hostels, was ‘the more the merrier.’

Four to a room meant two to a bed, and my bedmate for the night was a grad student from Princeton. As an alum from another Ivy university, we automatically felt like army buddies, but without the uniforms. We exchanged information on our courses of study, career interests, and itinerary. We made plans to meet up mid trip in Haifa and sample the hummus near Technion. Should we sleep head – to – toe? Unnecessary. Plus, I might end up kicking him in the head.

It was nearly midnight by the time we got settled and under the double sheets. Double sheets? I felt like a piece of cheese in a white bread sandwich. Our two other roommates fell into deep sleeps quickly. We did soon afterward. An hour later, in the darkness – in the silence broken only by the sound of flights overhead and cars on the Van Wyck – I realized that as we slept, we had rolled against each other. We were two young shirtless Jewish spoons; I was a big spoon, sleeping behind him. In the time it took me to realize this and before I would move, he had rolled around and we were facing each other: chest to chest, knee to knee, boxer brief to bikini brief (please note, I was not the one wearing bikini briefs. I never have, I never will).

I was frozen. As was he.

I listened to him breathe in and out. And I started to breathe in cadence to his pattern. Inhale, exhale, inhale, pause, exhale. His right hand touched the left side of my pelvis. Half his palm was on my naked skin, the other half of his hand lay on the fabric on my underwear. I kept my eyes closed and continued to wakefully sleep, breathing in cadence with him. I could hear my heartbeat quicken in my ears. And then feel our hearts racing slightly.

And then I realized we were both getting aroused. My cock was hardening in my underwear and throbbing against his underwear. His grew and hardened and I could feel it against me. Since he wore bikini briefs, the tip of his cock, actually the entirety of its head had escaped his underwear and was touching my waist.

Silently, he adjusted his position and then our cocks were touching, shaft to shaft. Knee to knee, hairy thigh to smooth thigh, his right hand pulled our waists closer so that the exposed head of his cock sat against mine. He pulled down my boxer briefs slightly so that now both of our exposed heads touched.

We froze there for what felt like hours, but was under fifteen minutes. Breathing. Feeling. Throbbing.

I could feel a droplet of pre-cum rising up my shaft, half inch by half inch, like an air bubble in a straw, and trying to eek out of my cock. He must have felt it or its wetness, because with a finger he touched the droplet and shared it with his own head.

Our penises, given the sudden lubrication, now rubbed more freely, but slowly, against each other, but still confined to the tight space of being against each other, like cattle in narrow gates being led to slaughter. As he grabbed my back and pulled me even closer I felt him throb, shake, and ejaculate against me. He let out a quiet moan and dropped his forehead against my shoulder for a moment.

It was exhilarating, but the frugal neurotic in me wondered whether I should dispose of my wet briefs in the motel or take them with me and wash them in Tel Aviv.

He got up from the bed, brought a towel from the bathroom, and wiped my stomach and chest. He then rolled to his side of the bed and promptly fell asleep. In the morning, it was as if nothing happened. He never gave me his e-mail address so we could meet in Haifa. We sat in different sections on the jet (which was delayed another two hours that morning), and other than catching a glimpse of him at baggage claim, I never saw him again.

I can’t tell you the sites I saw on that trip to Israel, but I remember every moment from that night in a JFK motel.