I did not want to date Jewish boys. I can't say this was entirely my father's fault. The boys staring at me from across the dance floor at the latest Bar Mitzvah were not my cup of tea.
By Cara Bruce
A Nice Jewish Boy
By Cara Bruce
My father always wanted me to marry a nice Jewish boy. Whenever we would go to synagogue or he would drop me off at Hebrew School, he would be on the lookout for Abraham Cohen. That's what my father's mystery man was named, Abraham Cohen. Needless to say if I had ever met an Abraham Cohen I would have run for my life.
I did not want to date Jewish boys. I can't say this was entirely my father's fault. The boys staring at me from across the dance floor at the latest Bar Mitzvah were not my cup of tea. I was honestly convinced that Jewish boys developed slower than other boys. They all seemed so, well, dorky, and me, being a shallow teenager, couldn't get past it.
When I brought home my first boyfriend -- a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, couldn't-get-more-Aryan-looking, down-home type of fellow -- my father just looked at him and sadly shook his head. He didn't even join us at the table for dinner. My boyfriend, like most teenage boys, didn't care. I was devastated.
"Daddy," I said, "I cannot love someone based on his religion."
"That was no Abraham Cohen," was all he answered.
He was nice through many more boyfriends, even though none of them even remotely resembled the fantasy Abraham Cohen who had become a family joke.
I went to college. I got my first serious boyfriend -- you know the one, where you call home all excited to tell your parents he could be the one. My father listened to me ramble on and on before asking, "What's his name?"
"Pablo Schmidt," I said, breathy and flushed.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. "What kind of a name is that?" demanded my father.
"Well... he's half Puerto Rican, half German," I explained.
Apparently, this was not a good mix. My father was upset. His first reaction was to the German part, then to the Puerto Rican Catholic part. Poor Daddy, it only made me like poor Pablo more.
The funny thing was, Pablo looked very Jewish. We went out for years and the older he got, the more Jewish he got. He could have been any Russian Jew in my own family. He had a bushy beard and a sort of short and stout look to him. More than once, people asked him if he was a Rabbi.
But none of this made him Jewish.
The next boyfriend, Alex, was a punk rocker. He was a bad boy and everything he did was nasty. I loved it. We moved to the East Village in New York and got into wonderful trouble. Staying up all night, sleeping all day, waking up and doing it again. We had sex everywhere. I would give him blowjobs in the park. We fucked on the sticky tar roof under the full moon. He howled, I purred. I thought surely, this was love.
My father came to visit. We were sitting in our apartment waiting for Alex to get back so we could all go to Kiev to eat.
"So what is he like, this Alex?" my father asked me.
"He's great," I gushed. "He's so much fun, and smart, very smart."
Alex walked in. He had shaved his head except for two, hanging, Hassidic-like locks. My mouth dropped. My father's mouth was shut tight, his lips drawn into a thin, pale line. His eyes flashed. He did not say a word.
After Alex was gone from my life I decided I might be better off alone for a while. I got a job and concentrated on making girlfriends and having fun. I started going out more. I went clubbing, dancing, to parties.
A few months went by and it was April. A beautiful month in New York: Before it gets too hot, yet still with the relief from the harsh and bitter cold of winter. It was a Friday night and I was going to a party with some of my girlfriends. We were standing outside of the apartment building, waiting to get buzzed in. The crowd was growing around us as more people arrived, all waiting for the party. I noticed a tall, lean, dark-haired boy sort of skirting the edge of the crowd. His hair was hanging slightly over his face and his smile was a perfect mix of shyness and pleasure. As the door buzzed and we all packed onto the elevator, I made up my mind to get to know him better.
I played eye contact games with him throughout the party. I would be talking to my friend next to the onion dip and I would look up and stare at him, waiting for him to meet my eyes. He blushed. I liked that.
I walked up to him, swinging my hips and trying to be sexy. I was horny and all of this flirting was just turning me on more. I didn't want a relationship; hell, I wasn't even interested in having a friend. I just wanted to fuck.
"Hi," I said as I came up to him.
"Hi," he said. I could read it all over his face. He couldn't believe I was talking to him. I liked that.
"Good party," I said, casually. "Do you know whose it is?"
"No," he stammered, "I think my friend does though."
"I have no idea who lives here," I said, flashing my eyes at him. "Where do you live?"
"Just down the street, on Twenty-First and 2nd," he was so cute, I just couldn't help myself.
"Let's go," I said, taking him by the hand.
I gave my friends a wave goodbye and a wink and led him down to the street. I held his hand tightly as we walked and when we reached his building, I stopped. He looked at me to see what was wrong and I pulled him down until his lips met mine. I slid my tongue between his lips and kissed him long and hard. I felt like I was in the movies.
"Let's go inside," I whispered.
He nodded. I could see his hard-on beginning to press against the fabric of his khakis.
We hurried inside and were all over each other as soon as he unlocked the door. I pulled off his shirt and was unbuckling his pants as he backed up into his bedroom. He plopped down on the bed behind him, pulling me down on top of him. I pulled back. I looked into his eyes, I smiled. I pulled my shirt off over my head. I could hear him pull his breath in sharply as I unfastened my black lace bra, letting my tits fall out in front of his face.
He was on them in a second. For all of his hurried passion, he was still gentle and tender. He flicked my nipples with his tongue, then covered them with his mouth; he alternated back and forth, planting tiny kisses in between. I sighed, he was beyond turning me on.
He unbuttoned my jeans, pulling them down over my slender hips. He breathed on my curly patch of pubic hair, sending quivers up my spine. I steadied myself on his shoulders as he lay back, pulling me on top of him.
I sat on his face as his tongue wriggled in and out of me. I felt one finger, two fingers, three. His tongue focused on my clit then traveled from clit to cunt. His nose rested lightly on me. I moved slowly across his face. I held onto his hair until it got to be so much that I tried to pull away and crawl over him. He held me down and kept tongue fucking me until my thighs clamped around his ears and I was grinding my pussy into his face, my orgasm racking through me.
I moved off him. His eyes were on fire, his cock was almost ripping through his pants. I unzipped him, allowing the thick monster to spring out. His cock was beautiful, rock hard, and wide in the girth. A rubber was unwrapped, in my mouth, then on his cock in about two seconds. I opened my throat and went as deep as I could, sliding hot lips up and down, hitting the underside with my tongue. After just a few mouth strokes I could feel him growing and pushing against me.
I pulled him out of my mouth and pushed him back. I lowered my dripping pussy down on him. Slowly, letting me feel all of him as he traveled in to me. I controlled the motions for a while, slow and sensual, enjoying every sensation. He began to pump a little faster, harder. It felt like he was digging in my stomach and had struck gold. I put my finger on my protruding nub and rubbed. He watched me, his thrusts growing in speed and intensity. I leaned forward, holding his shoulders, my tits swaying in his face, as he pounded into me, fucking me hard and deep, bringing me to another orgasm. My cunt constricted around him and I was groaning something unintelligible. His face was contorted and I felt the spasm of his cock as he exploded, screaming out, "Oh yeah."
I lay back, exhausted. He stroked my hair for a while until I drifted off into sleep, feeling satisfied, happy, a well-fucked woman.
The next morning I was up early. I looked over at him sleeping. He was good-looking and after last night he had passed the test for potential boyfriend material. I got up quietly and decided to do a little snooping. He lived by himself in New York, which meant he had money; and he had tons of books, which meant he was smart, or at least tried to be. I opened up his kitchen cabinets, cereal, noodles, some canned green beans, and a few canisters of macaroons.
I headed to the living room where I spotted a stack of unopened bills and letters. I just wanted to make sure there was no girlfriend who just happened to be out of town for the weekend. There was no girlfriend, but to my greater surprise was the fellow himself, his name, if you can believe it, was Abe Cohen. I laughed as I thought of how happy my father would be.
"What are you laughing at?" Abe was standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. I smiled at him and walked over, sliding up against his body and feeling his semi-erect cock. Oh well, I thought, for the first time in my life I had the chance to make my Daddy happy. I licked my lips and slid down to my knees, taking his boxers with me.