The Jewess

The Jewess is small and pale and freckled, with a bushy head of auburn hair, a slight curvature of the spine and a tipped uterus, that final item being the reason when we fuck her ass has to be propped-up angled onto a pillow, otherwise I scrape bottom. I’m always afraid after I scrape her that when I pull out my dick a little pink fleshy piece of her will be stuck onto the end of it, like a chunk of chewed bubble gum.

I met her in an acting class. There we were lying in a circle on the stage, our feet in the middle of the circle, a human sunflower, eyes closed and lights dimmed, chanting This is a zither; this is a zither, when I felt myself get nudged over and when the exercise was done there was a Jewess sitting right next to me, in the flesh. They call her the Jewess because when she got here she was the only Jewish girl in her dorm. There was a Jewish guy too, and they called him the Jew, but he moved off-campus.

And now I’m meeting her family.  We’re still in the hook-up stage, nothing official, she still has an actual boyfriend who she cheats on with me, but a seven hour drive seems a reasonable distance for me to get to fuck her again.  The school year is over and otherwise I won’t see her until we both go back west in August.  She’s different than what I’m used to.  She’s very hairy between her legs; I like that.  I’d never given it much thought before but now I have.  First time I saw it spring up out of her panties I said, Forget about hair pie, what we have here is a five layer cake.  I couldn’t even tell you what her pussy looks like even though I’ve eaten it more often than I’ve eaten at the McDonald’s on campus, the damn thing is so opaque.  I’d need a weed whacker and a pith helmet to fully investigate.  Maybe something with a light on it, like a miner wears.  The only clear look I get at it is from behind, when she’s bending over and what I see is luscious, a walnut held carefully there, a mutated plum, an exotic fruit split open and spilling with juice.  I’m not sure what I’m more thirsty for; the taste of her, her bitter tanginess, or an ice cold beer and on a sweltery and humid New York day, usually it isn’t even a contest.

It’s in one of endless and identical rows of co-op housing off of Queens Blvd.  They’re made out of block and look like they might have been once a copper color but now they all look pink, like a real salmon, not one from the grocery store all pumped full of dye.  The only people I know who live in apartments are poor people and students and welfare cases.  The idea of a family of six jammed into an apartment feels foreign to me.  Where do they escape to after they fight?  Out to the hallway to wait for an elevator?  If there’s a line to use the bathroom and you have to piss, what do you use if there’s no backyard to piss in?  The kitchen sink?  Then again, except for the Jewess’s old man, it’s all girls in their family.  I’m used to girls, having six sisters, not to mention a first cousin I’m so close to that we fuck when we see each other, and girls will generally hold it in unless they’re drunk or stoned and then they’ll piss right there in front of you.  It’s just the cousin I’m so close to I fuck, by the way.  I’m not nearly that close to my sisters.

She’s waiting on the sidewalk in front of her building, waving her hand like an insane person or someone who thinks I must be blind.  It’s hot for June and she’s in her usual get-up, baggy, formless shorts, tank top, no bra.  Her breasts are small, small even for someone her size, while her hips are round and ripe, much to her dismay and my delight.  Hey, Jewess, I say, picking her up around her tiny waist and kissing her.  She jumps up and wraps her legs around my waist and I carry her to the doorway.  It’s a bit of a fumble her handling the keys, that’s another thing about apartments, everyone has so many goddamn keys, but I don’t put her down until we get in the elevator. 

Don’t call me Jewess in front of them, please, she says.

You got it, Elise, I say.  It doesn’t feel right in my mouth, like I have a cock in there, something that doesn’t belong.  I’m just meeting the parents today.  The three sisters will be over tomorrow for brunch.  I don’t know much about Jews but I figure I’m about to find out.  I know about the Holocaust, I know about the stereotypes, the cheap, whiny Jew, and like most stereotypes, I doubt its sincerity, and I also know that after Italians, Jewish women are the hottest in the world, and possibly the hairiest.  Jesus was a Jew.  So was his mother Mary and his lady friend Mary Magdalene and I used to masturbate to both of them when I was a kid.  Mary and I always did it missionary style and after she’d cover her tits and blush.  They were big with massive, rosy nipples.  Occasionally I’d eat her out but I always felt ashamed after, but with Mary Magdalene it would get wild, with whips and anal and sometimes a crucifix.  I have nothing against Jews. 

Her father is Harold and the mother’s name is Bina, shortened from something else I’m hoping.  They’re so short it makes me dizzy standing near them, like I’m looking over the top of a couple of giant toadstools, and this three inch thick carpeting isn’t helping my balance at all.  I search for a still point to stare at.  The walls are a riot of colorful ceramic figures, many shaped like chickens and bunnies, all approximately the same size, some wearing woolen caps.

Daddy collects egg cups, the Jewess says.

I have over six hundred now, he says, looking mighty proud of himself.

Bina is fat.  So the Jewess has the fat gene in her, I never would have guessed it, though it’s obviously not reared its head yet, but her mother has layers of fat underneath her fat, her face a mass of loose pink skin; she wears massive glasses, they make her look like a bug from a science fiction movie, and she has some sort of cape draped over her shoulders, it over the top of a track suit, though I doubt she ever does any jogging.  Her fingers are as thick as breakfast sausages straight from the griddle and swollen with grease.  They look like they can pop at any minute.  Harold is built like the Jewess, small, around the same height.  He wears glasses of a normal size and is old, a good twenty years older than his wife.  I wonder if she was skinny when he met her, that one day he just rolled over in bed and noticed she had turned into this fat blimp.  That would be a nasty surprise for anyone but then I spot a picture and in it Harold, looking pretty much as he does right now, only with a full head of hair and look of hopefulness in his unspectacled eyes, is standing next to what looks like a professional football player in a wedding dress. 

It’s a small apartment, a kitchen that would be crowded with two people in it, small living room with a TV nook off of that, three bedrooms and two baths, all of them half the size of what I grew up with.  They don’t drink so my dream of a cold beer evaporates and I settle for a glass of pop.  Soda.  That’s what they call it but it’s pop to me

Me and the Jewess settle onto her childhood bed.  She shared a room with her sister but since she moved out they took that bed away and moved in a TV.  Good move.  I put the Yankee game on with the sound down and run my finger down her spine, feeling the curve of it.  Scoliosis, I say.  Sco-lee-o-sis.  I like saying it.  It has a pretty sound, like the name of a flower found only growing in the shade of one type of tree deep in the jungle’s heart.  You still seeing that guy? I say

You still fucking your cousin?

That’s not a fair comparison, I say.  And I haven’t seen her so I haven’t fucked her.

If you had seen her?

Well, of course I’d have fucked her then.  Why else would I go there in the first place?  To visit my uncle?  No, it’d be to see her.  It goes to reason I’d be there to fuck her.  But I haven’t been since March.  I could have gone but I didn’t.  She expected me to.

The Jewess has blue eyes.  I’m so used to brown eyes blue is nice for a change.  Her nose is small and narrow.  Freckled.  The Jewess sucks her thumb when she sleeps. In the winter she wears Dr. Dentons, the kind of pajama bottoms that have feet attached.  You should have gone to see her, she says.  Obviously you love her.  You were there when her baby was born, for crissakes, which leads me to once again ask, are you sure it isn’t yours?  So why didn’t you go see her again?

I already told you.  Because I stuck around to spend a few more days with you.  And I also already told you it was a teacher at her school.  I never fucked her until after she was pregnant.  You didn’t answer my question.

I haven’t broken up with him.  No.

Let’s fuck, I say.

We turn up the sound on the TV up to drown out the noises; we’re both very expressive, sometimes it gets like a contest between the two of us to see who can out scream the other.  She’s wet down there; she’s always wet.  Maybe it’s the hair and she’s simply sweaty.  Or she’s perpetually turned-on.  Either way, it makes it easy to slide right in even with her being so small. I feel bad for little guys because unless they fuck a midget, and even then, midgets usually are pretty bulky, they’ll never know this feeling of being in absolute physical control.  I sometimes threaten to take her, throw her up in the air and catch her on the way down, impaling her on my cock.  If you have never fucked a diminutive woman, a really petite one, you really should get on it and have yourself a go.

We’re sitting on the fire escape outside her window, smoking where her parents won’t see us.  They’re very anti-tobacco.  She’s just a casual smoker, a habit she gets from being around me.  I smoke so much I’m anticipating with absolute giddiness the lighting of my next cigarette before I’m halfway through the one I’m smoking.  Fire escapes aren’t exactly a backyard but I guess they do in a pinch.  There’s a couple black guys smoking weed in the alley down below, a little girl drawing circles on the driveway in white chalk, another little girl following right behind filling in the spaces with pink. You wanna drive back with me?  I say.  Instead of flying, drive with me.  We can share driving.

I don’t drive, she says.  I don’t have a license.  She’s wearing her glasses.  She only wears them after she cums.  She says it makes her vision less fuzzy.  Orgasms make everything a blur, she claims.  Twice she came with such a quake she suffered vertigo for a full day.  The glasses look like something a nerdy intellectual in a movie would wear, which is only fair, being that she’s pretty fucking smart; way smarter than I could ever hope to be.  She learns things easily while I struggle to learn anything.  She went to a special high school in Manhattan for smart people.  Sometimes I stand in line at the grocery store and watch the clerks behind the register with amazement, wondering how long it took, how many years, for them to master the scanner and the keys.  It’s why I’m majoring in management.  I can hire people to do the stuff that I can’t do myself.  If you flunk out, she says, once again reading my mind, a skill she wields with uncanny accuracy.  If you flunk out you’ll go home.  What’s the point of me breaking up with someone I know will be there in exchange for the unknown? 

I’ll be fine, I say, and I will be, is what I think, as long as I think I have a reason to stay.  Otherwise, I can learn the same old crappy shit at the same old crappy college in my hometown, as ugly as that thought might be, even now, it nowhere near being a reality and already my stomach’s churning.

I’ll consider it, she says.

**********************************************************************

I now know one more thing than I did before about Jews.  Or at least these Jews.  They don’t care if me and the Jewess share a bedroom and a bed.  This is an attitude I commend, much better than me sneaking around, having to wake up early to switch beds, risking running into one of the parents while I crawl naked back to my bed, my dick pointing straight out from me, still dripping pearls of jizz.  And they like a brunch, if I can measure how much they like something based on the effort they put into the thing, it is safe to say that brunch is a favorite.  There are bagels and bialys and belly lox and whitefish and smoked sturgeon and some other sort of fish that comes in a jar and looks like a gray hunk of an internal organ, something they might show you in a commercial to try to get you to stop taking drugs.  There are also capers and cream cheese and slices of red onion and tomato.  It’s just the seven of us, the Jewess, her three sisters, her parents and me and there’s enough food to feed a village.

Daddy must like you, she whispers to me.  He went to the good bagel place, the place in the city.

The Jewess’s sisters are an interesting trio.  The oldest is Louise.  She’s plain and mousy and pretty damn bitter about it.  I can tell by the way she sits, her arms hugging her small tits tightly, a fake smile pasted onto her face, even it looking more like a sneer than an actual expression of happiness.  The next sister is Sarah.  She has a pretty face, even prettier than the Jewess, except she has big, yellow teeth.  She keeps a hand covering her mouth at almost all times.  She’s the tallest and her breasts are large and, as I’m later told, augmented with silicone.  The next sister is Janice, and she doesn’t look like the others.  She has big soft and natural tits and long, straight blonde hair, a big, hard athletic ass, thick legs under her tights.  She looks more like a tennis playing country club WASP than a Jew.  Then there is the youngest, my Jewess.  How many kids did you say your mother had? Janice says.

Nine, I say.

She’s not planning on having anymore, I hope, she says.

It doesn’t sound like she did any planning at all, Louise says. 

I like kids, Sarah says from behind her hand.  I’d be so afraid I’d break one if I had one.

You’re clumsy enough to do it, Louise says.

Haven’t they ever heard of birth control? Janice says.

They’re Catholic, I say.  I’m Catholic.

Janice looks at the Jewess, seeming alarmed.  I hope you’re using birth control, Bunny, she says.  Bunny is their pet name for her.  Maybe they saw her bent over naked once and mistook the tuft of hair sticking out behind her for a cotton tail dyed dark.  You better be using birth control, she says.

I am, the Jewess says.  Most of the time we do. 

You should all of the time, Janice says.

He doesn’t like the way the gel tastes when I use my diaphragm.  I don’t like the way it taste when he kisses me.

You have to put gel in your mouth for a diaphragm? Sarah says innocently. 

  You’re a fucking retard, Louise tells her and actually punches her on the arm, hard.  Sarah’s eyes fill with tears.

It goes down there, the Jewess says, pointing between her legs.

Oh, Sarah says, her hand clamping tight over her mouth.  I wouldn’t want anyone’s mouth down there on me, she mumbles through her fingers.

Like someone would ever want to do that to you, Louise snaps.  They’d probably catch a disease. 

At least I can get a boyfriend, she says.

Because you’re a slut, a slut with fake tits, Louise says and threatens to punch her again.  I know all about the fights between these two from the Jewess, their Baby Jane relationship.  Louise has, from the moment she was born, tormented poor Sarah, dragged her from room to room by the hair, used her as a personal punching bag, forcing her and the other girls, when they were younger, to play Holocaust with her in the basement of the building, making each strip naked while she sprayed them with the icy water from a hose, sprayed them top to bottom, putting the pressure on so high when she sprayed Sarah in the face her nose would bleed.  Sometimes she would take one of them by the hair, drag her to the open incinerator and threaten to shove her head in.  Even before that, when they were much younger, Louise took Sarah’s brunette Barbie and stuffed it head first into an easy-bake Oven, watching giddily as the smoke poured out the miniature door and Barbie’s hair burst into flames, intermittently barking out some German she had learned watching a documentary at school.

Harold drifts over.  The reason people from some countries have such big families is agrarian, he says.  Agricultural nations on average have much larger families.  They require the labor.  It’s been ingrained into them so they still do it, even though they are no longer on farms.

I thought it was because of no contraceptives, I say.  What I really want to say, though, is what business is it of anybody’s how many kids we have?  Some people have more kids than others.  No need to study it, to try to put it into historical perspective.  I get sick of people treating us like a topic of conversation, like we’re open to discussion. 

The church created those rules to reflect what was needed for the country to operate, he says.  He goes on to relate a story about the early church, as if I have any interest in what those people thought.  The way I look at it, I don’t need some old, bearded guys from two thousand years ago, guys for whom the wheel stood as the height of luxury, guys who swooned at the sight of fire, telling me what to do two thousand years later.  This guy is a know it all.  You’re lucky to get a grunt out of my Old Man unless it’s him screaming at one of us or him with his buddies sitting at the bar.  I’m suspicious of any man who talks too much.

Then the question I always dread comes up.  What do your parents do for a living? Bina says.

The truth is that my father is a bookie, he takes bets on all major sporting events, runs a weekly card game, drinks, smokes, fucks around, has yet another kid, a tenth kid, with a waitress in town, something only me and him in the family know about.  He owns a construction company, I lie.  But he’s mostly retired, I say, which is closer to the truth.  And my Ma stays home.

Is he in the mafia? Janice says.  Isn’t that what they all do, own construction companies?

I feel like asking her if she herself killed Jesus Christ, being that she’s a Jew, but I think better of it, not the least of reasons being that I’m really not sure who actually did kill Christ, whether it was the Jews or not.  Four years out of Catholic school and my mind is liberated.  Who cares if being liberated means knowing less?  There’s plenty of other things I wish I could forget as well.  He’s not in the mafia, I say.  They don’t have mafia in small towns. 

Harold gets on a roll again, this time about mob families in Buffalo and Niagara Falls and Cleveland.  When he’s done, I remind him that I’m not from any of those places, sixty miles away from the closest of those cities, but that gets him talking about driving through quaint little towns, searching for egg cups.  The wholesomeness and simple lives the people lead.  Selling things for half the price they’re worth.  Always wearing the same wary smile no matter what.  He makes us sound like we’re retarded.  I’m not one to like the sound of my own voice, let alone another man’s.  The Jewess calls me the Quiet Man after the John Wayne character in a movie we once watched.  It was after I brought the heel of my shoe down on the bridge of the nose of some guy who wouldn’t stop asking her out.  It was the first time, she claimed, to have ever seen a fight so close.  The blood sprayed us both.  Ever since she’s always sure to flirt with guys when I’m in a bar with her, hoping to cause a fight between me and some unsuspecting victim.   Many times she’s successful. 

Harold is an Anglophile.  If it’s British it has to be good, even if it isn’t.  Take the worst American comedy on TV, give it a British accent and put it on PBS and he’ll start telling you it’s a brilliant satire of current government policies.  He gets annoyed with me when I take the side of the Irish in Northern Ireland.  He gets surly when I compare the terror there to the tactics used by the Colonialists during the Revolutionary War.  Strike one more for my knowledge of Jews.  Very patriotic.  But then he explodes when I mention the same about Arab terrorists.

You would compare Osama Bin-Laden to George Washington and Thomas Jefferson? he says. 

I didn’t compare them, I say.  I just said from an Arab point of view they might see that.  I mean, George Washington isn’t exactly a British hero.  He’s an American hero.  Most labels of heroism come from a nationalistic, xenophobic and ethnocentric point of view.  Our hero is not their hero.  Their hero is not ours.  They loved Arafat, we hated Arafat.

I think the janitor in my building is a terrorist, Louise says.  And he steals toilet paper.  I see him loading toilet paper into his car. 

He will be a terrorist if we turn him into one, I say.  You can pretty much turn anybody into anything these days.

Later, when they’re gone, when the apartment is empty, we strip naked and go exploring.  Harold has porn under the mattress on his side of the bed.  His fetish is fat women in bondage.  I stick my finger in the Jewess’s ass while she kneels in front of the bed flipping pages, shaking her head.  Thankfully we don’t come across a pair of cuffs and a whip anywhere, otherwise I won’t be able to look at Bina without my cock racing its way back up into its shell; it’ll retreat so far up that it’ll look like I have a foreskin.  That’s another thing about Jews.  The foreskin is dirty.  It isn’t enough to just slice the damn thing off in the hospital, instead they have to have a full-out exorcism, with singing and candles, to rid themselves of it.  Those flaps of skin are apparently not only filthy but they’re evil as well. 

She shows me the chair she was sitting in when she was thirteen and got a metal tube of lipstick stuck in her ass, it was swallowed by her rectum while she had her legs over the arms of the chairs and was alternately sticking the tube in and out while masturbating herself.  The bathtub where she’d sit for hours every day, letting the warm water run over her labia, shuddering every time she came.  The room where Louise got so mad at Bina she dumped an entire can of paint on her.

 My cousin Jade’s baby is nearly a year old.  I took a three day weekend away from school and got there the day before she had it.  Manipulate my nipples, she said.  I need this fucking thing to get here.  I was in the room, holding her hand, trying to remember the quickie Lamaze lesson she gave me in bed the night before.  We shared a bed, her dad, my father’s brother, asleep to the world in the next room.  It isn’t my kid.  Her 10th grade English teacher knocked her up.  He’s no longer around and she never told on him.  She’s just going into her senior year now.  He sends money now and again, which she uses to buy weed, as her father takes care of all the bills.  Thankfully the baby came before I got stuck visiting her mother, my aunt, in the nuthouse where they have her locked up.  I promised Jade I’d come in May but I didn’t.  Instead I chased the Jewess up and down the hallways of the empty dorm, her naked and in roller skates.  It isn’t my baby but it’s starting to feel like it is.  Jade even named it after me, Francisco Joseph Rossi.  Little Frankie.  I love her but she’s my cousin.  She’s willing to face the wrath, face the family, tell them about us, how when she graduates from high school she’s moving where I am and we’re going to share an apartment, be a couple, raise a baby and go to school, but I’m not willing to go public.  My Old Man would wrap his paws around my neck and squeeze, probably lift me off my feet while he shook me.  If we had a baby it would look like a football.  Or worse yet.  If we do end up together she’ll always have an available out.  I’m sorry, Frankie.  We’re family.  This was wrong.  It’d be like her having a mulligan clutched in her fist the whole time.  I’m not secure enough for that.

Here’s the deal, the Jewess says.  We’re back out on the fire escape, sitting Indian style on pillows from her bed, smoking weed, sharing a bottle of cold, fruity wine I grabbed down at the corner.  It’s dark, the streetlight is broken, and we’re still naked.  The outline of her hair is big compared to the outline of her slender shoulders, her chest nothing more than an eggshell, like I could poke my hand right through there and come out with her heart.  I talked to What’s-his-name, she says.  That’s our name for him.  It’s better not to say his actual name and make him more real.  I told him I think I might be pregnant and he totally went ice cold on me, she says.  How can I be sure it’s mine? he said.  He practically accused me of cheating.  Yes, I know I am, but he doesn’t know that.  He’s saying that out of some sort of paranoia, not based on any knowledge.  It’s the same as making it up.  He’d have accused me whether I was or not.

Pregnant?

I thought I was when I called him but now I’m sure I am. 

And you told him before me.

I assume it’s his.  I mean, it could be yours.  That last week I slept with both of you a lot.  Both of you on the same day.  Multiple times on multiple days.  No wonder she was always so quick to leave after, I think.  She had to clean me out of her and then let What’s-his-name fill her up again.  Rarely did she stick around for the best times, the times that come after you’re all done fucking and just laying there, twirling her cunt hairs around your finger, thinking what a magnificent thing a girl is, wondering how all of that passion and heat and scratching and biting can come out of such a tiny thing, how such a small woman can have so much goddamn power.

Then why’d you call him first?

One of you two had to go first.  I just picked up the phone and called.

And if he’d have taken responsibility then you wouldn’t have told me at all.  Or you might just tell me he knocked you up, the whole time not knowing whether it was his or me.

What’s the difference?  I’m getting an abortion.

The difference is that if you had asked me I’d have stepped right up and taken responsibility.  I’d have paid for the abortion.  Him not so much.  One of us you can count on, the other not so much. 

If I wanted to keep it?  What then? 

What?

Get that look off your face.  I’m not your hillbilly cousin.  I’m not having a kid but it would have been nice if you offered.  It might be yours.  We fucked mostly during the day so if I started ovulating in the morning or even the afternoon it’s yours.  I’m almost sure you’re the one. 

A thin reed, don’t you think?

You can either help me or not.  It’s probably yours anyway.  I was stupid to call him first.  I’ll pay if you just bring me and wait there.  Drive me back home. 

I’ll pay, I say.  It’s probably mine. 

She rests her head against my chest and the frizz of her hair makes my nose itch.  So this is what I have to look forward to.  Last year at the start of school it was a birth, a baby coming out of an opening that I very much enjoy putting my cock inside of and moving it back and forth until stuff comes out the end.  I read it described like that once in a book and I’ve always wanted to use it and now I have.  And this summer it will be the opposite of what I did with Jade, me going along so a baby can come out way before it’s fully cooked, come out of another hole I enjoy placing my stiff cock inside off, it wraps me like a velvet glove, the ingredients dumped into the pot and simmering and then the flame shut suddenly off and the pot scrubbed clean.  Vacuumed spotless.  I won’t see it happening but I’m sure sitting there in the waiting room, flipping through old magazines, trying to avoid eye contact, I’ll be able to picture it, picture her on her back, legs open, paper gown not nearly enough to keep her warm.  My baby.  It will be my baby.  Or at least it’s as good as mine.  Dead it can belong to anyone but alive it needs to belong to a specific someone.  In this case I’m laying claim.  I’m laying claim to the exact thing I have coming to me, the one prize I have earned.