A Note To My Readers,

It's been exactly one year since I first published this blog. Initially, I released an essay every week, but over time, I slowed down, eventually stopping publishing altogether. Before asking you to follow my now erratic publishing schedule, I wanted to share a bit about what’s been going on with me.

There were a few reasons for the pause. One was my desire to improve how I write about sex. A primary objective of this blog is to remove the taboos around sexuality. I wanted to create a space where I could write about sex as explicitly as possible—not because it’s entertaining or voyeuristic (though it can be, and there are plenty of others who write erotica better than I do), but because it is part of the human experience. I believe there should be no part of the human experience we’re ashamed to talk about in plain, open language. However, I began to feel that many of the sex scenes I described were sounding repetitive, and I wasn’t giving enough of a voice to the other characters—especially the women I was having these romantic experiences with in my stories.

Another reason for my pause is that I've been working on some exciting writing projects that I can’t wait to share with you. It may take a few more months before I can talk about them publicly, but these projects are taking up a lot of the time I used to allocate to publishing stories on *The Black Coat*.

That said, I really loved writing stories here and interacting with all of you. It was incredible to hear how much these stories resonated with my small but mighty group of readers. I’m also so grateful to those of you who bought a paid subscription and kept it going even during my break.

I’m still figuring out what to do with the blog, but I’m leaning towards going public with who I am and starting to share a greater variety of stories. Some will be about the romantic adventures I had while transitioning out of my life as a rabbi, and others will be more current, like the story below. If I go public with who I am, I’ll be able to interact with you more directly, in a way that aligns with how a traditional blog operates, rather than being limited by the format I was working with before. This will also allow me to share more freely and flexibly, reducing the time needed and leaving less room for procrastination.

All in all, I’m super excited to be writing on The Black Coat again. I hope you enjoy this piece, and as always, I’d love to hear your comments and feedback.

Much love,  

The Black Coat

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*****

We stood waist-deep in the crystal blue watering hole, standing in a semicircle as if in a ritualized formation. A couple was positioned a few feet ahead, where the water meets the grass. She stood in front, back arched, pivoting at the waist, allowing him to reach her from behind. She had the same focused look of pleasure from the night before, while we were lounging on the couch, mid-conversation, helplessly distracted by his rhythmic thrusting. Every so often, we’d catch a glimpse of his impressively thick cock, silently rooting for the consummation of this act, as though it were ordained by nature itself.

We were on Native soil, accessible only to locals like our hosts, Lola and Ber. Behind us, a raging waterfall carved a path between smooth stone, like we were in a pristine national park. We watched him fuck her, with only the water separating our naked bodies. Nala, Lola and Ber’s snow-white husky, observed from above the waterfall, panting.

I wasn’t thinking about how I looked or that my body wasn’t in an ideal fat-to-muscle ratio. The people around me were as beautiful as humans could hope to be. Our skin glistened in the sun, and an uncharacteristically cool August breeze rustled our hair. If someone asked me to design a scene from paradise, this would be it.

Fourteen of us had gathered for the weekend at Lola and Ber’s home, tucked away in the Catskill Mountains, for an intimacy retreat—a three-day program designed to foster deep connections between participants exploring various forms of intimacy, sexual and otherwise. Some were experienced couples in the “lifestyle,” while others, like myself, were singles just dipping our feet in the water.

Ber is a strong, yet gentle guide, charismatically maneuvering the multi-layered dynamics within the group. He is tall and broad shouldered, softening his impressive build with an innocent, almost boyish grin. Lola is at once mother hen and sexual muse. She balances the energy in the group while still being playful at all times. It’s impossible not to feel her presence; an exotic European beauty, with matching intellect and sophistication.  

When I left my life as a Hassidic rabbi in 2016, I knew I wanted to explore as broadly as possible. I dated people much older than me, was in an open relationship for nearly a year, and had sexual experiences with other men.

Until my first intimacy retreat in January, I hadn’t had a sexual experience in a group setting. Beyond my desire to play with multiple partners, I was drawn to a utopian fantasy of sexual freedom, without inhibitions. I wondered if it was possible to create a container for such an experience in a safe setting with a pre-selected group, centered around intentional activities to foster healing, connection, and boundary expansion. The retreat, aptly named “What If,” promised to do just that.

As we hiked back to the trailhead, I scampered ahead, barefoot, Nala in tow. The lime-green moss beneath my feet protected me from the slippery rock. A persistent ball of anxiety churned in my belly. In a few hours, we would gather for the penultimate activity of the weekend: each of us would receive affection in any way we desired. Some would ask for hugs, some for affection without physical touch, and some would say, “No boundaries. Use me as you see fit. Play with me; let your imagination run wild.”

The thought of fourteen people, in varying degrees of nakedness, showering me with uninhibited affection, love, and desire was one of the most wonderful things I could imagine. And yet, at my last retreat, my body didn’t respond sexually at all. The sensations from the touch and attention were almost mystical. Feeling the desire of fourteen people clinging to me as if their lives depended on it was as stimulating as I could imagine. But my dick stayed as soft as it was in the ice-cold watering hole.

It would be one thing if my intention was to remain in a sensual or erotic state and not to react sexually. However, I wanted to fully revel in their desire for me, for my body. I wanted to respond as sexually as possible and receive the pleasure they desperately wanted to give me.

There was a time when my existence was a complex hive of cognitive dissonance. I married someone I wasn’t in love with, yet feverishly wrote about how much I loved her. I taught people to observe the minute details of my religion and cried when I led them in prayer, all the while knowing, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I could drop it all without looking back. I loved pleasing people and making them feel heard and cared for, but then I’d walk away so exhausted that I needed hours alone to restore my energy. My body knew what I needed, but my brain had a different agenda.

Over the past eight years of healing, I’ve shed the need to live in a fractured reality. There are fewer discrepancies between how I actually feel versus what I expect myself to feel. 

But on that day, I was confronted with this duality again. My brain was saying, “Yes, I want all the naked bodies, all the touching, and all the fucking,” while my body was saying, “Absolutely not.” 

Why? What was I resisting?

As we left Eden, where we witnessed our very own Adam and Eve, I hoped for a breakthrough before the evening exercise. That my body might catch up with the messages my brain was sending. But as evening drew near, I sensed that wouldn’t happen. My body remained as neutral as it had been all weekend. I was still having a great time, soaking in the love and joy we shared, but there would be no sexual pleasure for me.

When evening fell, we gathered on sheepskins and soft carpets, leaning on cushions and on each other. In my medicinally assisted state, I meandered from person to person, bonding with them, drinking in their words, their faces and touch. One person shared their recovery journey while I caressed his arm, feeling his hairs brush over the softness of his skin. I crawled over to another, held her from behind, looping my arm underneath hers, and rested my shoulders on hers. She caressed my face as she listened to another participant share their story. The light was dim, the temperature felt cool and soft on my skin, and the sounds in the room were like gentle jazz notes, rising and falling at random, consistently delightful.

Then I heard my name. “Elie, it’s your turn.”

I moved to the center, taking in the gazes directed at me. A couple sat on either side of me. He, a tall Adonis, with a beard and long curly hair. She, a sculpted beauty, with eyes that pierced and melted at the same time. She held my hand, while he massaged my shoulder. I didn’t turn to look at them, for in that moment, they were an extension of my limbs, of my being.

Then I spoke.

“I am afraid. I want to be turned on, physically. Yet, for reasons I can’t fathom, my body won’t respond. It sucks. I want people to experience giving me pleasure because I know how much I love giving pleasure to others.

During my years as a rabbi, I learned how to cultivate intimate, yet strictly platonic, relationships with both men and women. I wasn’t the type of rabbi who avoided eye contact with women when they spoke. Despite being a Hassidic rabbi, I reveled in my ability to form authentic, multi-layered connections with everyone I met. Perhaps my body needs time to adjust to the idea that it is okay to experience sexual desires and sensations in public. 

However, as much as I want that, I realize that in this moment, I could choose to let go of these thoughts swirling in my head. If I do that, I wouldn’t be lacking anything at all. The sensations I am feeling right now in my body could go on forever. I feel at peace with myself and my surroundings, with no thoughts of the past or the future.

Isn’t this what we all strive to achieve at some point in our lives? The ultimate state that we center all our energies and pursuits around, hoping that if everything worked out, we would eventually taste a semblance of this? Isn't this the fantasy we all wish for the world but have resigned ourselves to the reality that it might never actually happen?

Isn’t this what religious rapture is all about? A pleasure-soaked union with the Divine and creation? Isn’t this what we seek from sex? To achieve an ecstatic union with oneself, with a partner, or with many partners?

Something in me clicked just before the exercise began, somewhere between Ber’s soothing voice guiding us through a meditation and Lola expertly dosing the medicine. I was already in the state that the sexual sensations would eventually lead to—like right after climaxing. A liberated, light sensation, the kind you hope will last longer than the fleeting moments we usually get.

So, I concluded, “I won’t let my body’s resistance take up any more space. I will rejoice and have plenty of time to be confused later. Because for now, I finally discovered the utopia I was looking for.”

This past Sunday concluded the first season at The Black Coat. It detailed my first year transitioning from rabbi to ordinary human. It was messy, exciting, and all the elements that make new things great. In many ways, I see this as a coming of age journey. The earlier adventures were the first steps into the total unknown.

The next season will be a series of stories as I entered a new phase. I wasn’t only dating strangers and I had a more confidence to pursue connections that I was actually attracted to. What a surprise! I cannot wait to share these stories with you as they are, in my opinion, steamier and and more fully fleshed out romantic encounters. Complete with heartbreaks, summertime flings, and taboo age gaps. You know I love those.

I’m taking a break right now to prepare those stories and to work on some exciting creative projects in my real life. Feel free to reach out to hear more :)).

As I prepare the next season of stories, I have a few questions for you, my dear reader. I would be delighted if you could take a few moments of your time to reply. This will help me better understand how to grow this blog based on your feedback and not just the black hole of my imagination.

Now, for the poll!

Poll

Do you have any other thoughts, feedback, ideas, criticism, compliments to share with me?

This has been a really scary and wonderful experience so far. Thank you for coming along the ride.

The Black Coat

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I put my phone down and ran upstairs to see if Yitzi was up. He was arranging chairs for the next morning's Shabbos service. I told him Julia texted me and we were probably going out next week.

I was treading delicately. Implicit in my account was that I transgressed Shabbos. It was one thing for Yitzi to know, it was another to discuss it with him. Like he was sanctioning it or worse, complicit. 

I remember as a child being told not to watch a fellow Jew drive on Shabbos. “Nebach, sadly, they drive, but don’t watch.” Would you voyeuristically watch someone humiliate or hurt themselves? If you can’t help them, turn away. 

Yitzi didn’t turn away but he remained silent. Foolishly, I thought we were bonding on a deeper level. I was sharing my new life with him. After all, I respected his life, maybe this was a bridge to learn about mine.  

“You’re okay with this, right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“She’s part of your community. I want to make sure you’re comfortable with it. By tomorrow morning I’ll have my mind set and won’t be able to go back on it.” I knew this was the only window in which I’d be willing to give up my plans if Yitzi asked me to.

“You’re adults, I’m not getting in the way.”

“But it won’t just be a date… I’ll probably end up at her place… The texts were pretty explicit.”

“It’s fine, I really don’t care.”

On Saturday night, Yitzi and I went for our traditional post-Shabbos coffee and cigarette. It was a much-needed refresher after twenty-four hours of alcohol, heavy multi-course meals, and exhausting prayers, speeches, and conversations with community members. 

We pulled up to Starbucks and placed our favorite order: Christmas blend, tall, black. We grabbed our coffee, walked into the cold December night, and lit up a Parliament. The earthy aroma filled the air, milky white smoke rising up to the sky. 

“You know, I thought it over and I’m not comfortable with you and Julia going out. Can you cancel?”

“Are you kidding? This is exactly why I brought up it last night. I told you it would be too late by this morning.”

“I didn’t understand what you meant, I don’t feel comfortable with it.”

Why did he get a say in this? This is my life and no one tells me who I can date. 

“I’m sorry Yitzi, this isn’t up to you. We are adults and we are going out.”

“Please don’t.”

“If I cancel just cause you asked, I’ll resent you for it but if I feel differently, I’ll call it off.” 

“At least tell me before you go out.”

I left for my already scheduled New Year’s plans. Julia and I continued texting. We confirmed plans for Monday as discussed. I didn’t say a word to Yitzi. 

On Monday night, she suggested we get dinner at an Israeli restaurant. After a decadent, albeit messy falafel, we went over to her place. We steadied ourselves on a stool at the entrance of her house and made out. Her big, sensual lips devouring mine, our tongues dancing in each other's mouths. I slipped off her blouse, wrapping my hands around her full breasts. pressing on her nipples, feeling them harden. She shimmied out of her tight pants, revealing a thong barely covering her ample thighs. I reached between her legs, her labia, thick and wet. 

Then, I felt a sting on my neck. Was she biting me? I was about to yell out, when I remembered this was a thing people do. I could see myself getting into it but maybe with a gentler start? I didn’t say a thing, not wanting to seem inexperienced.  

We went to her bed, helping each other disrobe as we went. She wanted to suck on my very aroused dick. I was about to cum so I reversed places after a few seconds and buried my face between her legs, tasting her sweetness. 

After we were both satisfied, the energy relaxed and we went outside for a smoke. She took out her phone, snapped a selfie of us, and before I could say a word, sent it to Yitzi.

The next day, Yitzi texted me that he was having a hard time sleeping. “Can we talk?”

We met in the parking lot of a kosher pizza spot, sipping on ice-cold Diet Cokes. 

“I’m worried about you.” 

“You’re worried?”

“You’re on a dangerous path. You could end up with abortions, suicide, drugs, tattoos, who knows what else.”

“Yitzi, you know me more than anyone in the world. You know how dysfunctional my life and my marriage were. You know how much I struggled. I'm happy now. I'm a better and healthier version of myself. No one knows this more than you.”

“You went out with someone and I can’t even say what you guys did.”

“You can’t say? You set it up! Did you think we would go to a nice hotel lobby like an ordinary Hassidic couple?”

“I set this up?”

“Ya!”

“I don’t even remember what happened. I was drunk and it’s all a haze.”

“You don’t remember? You told her parents we look good together.”

“I don’t remember.”

“How fucking convenient.”

Yitzi retreated into that world of his that no one can reach. I was livid. How could he deny this?

At that moment I knew. This was the dead-end of a life I had lived for too long. My very best friend preferred I remain unhappy than take risks in a scary and dangerous world, even if I was happier and healthier in that dangerous world. And I, in the pursuit of happiness, chose my unending appetite over my best friend's wishes. 

I said goodbye to Yitzi a little more alone but a lot more sure of who I am. 

I got in my car, shaken but strangely at peace. This was a new sensation. Disappointing people. I reflected on my earlier life. How I couldn’t tolerate disappointing anyone. All I wanted was for people to think I was the kindest, sweetest person they knew. My identity was bound up in this narrative. It would take less than a heartbeat to forgo my wishes to fortify another’s.

Little by little, I stopped knowing what I wanted. Or that I was giving anything up. This was how I existed in the world. I had grown so used to pleasing people that it consumed how I operated in the world at all times. 

Now that I was no longer attached to any identity or narrative about myself, I was disappointing people around me, especially those closest to me. It was like the structures around which I had built life-long relationships were crumbling and from the rubble, seedlings of my actual self sprouted forth.

It was painful to discover the truth. Yes, I am a kind person who derives joy from making people happy. But right beneath that sweet surface is a stubborn, petulant teenager who cannot tolerate control. If the right buttons are pushed, he will blow everything up to release the stranglehold. Even if in the process he looses the precious gifts life has to offer are lost; Love, friendship, companionship. 

So is a one-night stand ever worth the loss of a lifelong friendship? A thousand times no. Is finding the entirety of who I am through that loss worth it? Ten thousand times yes.

Transitioning into adulthood was mired in struggle and fueled by idealism. We were excited to finally go out on our own; establish our own communities, raise our own families. I got divorced and left my life as a rabbi just as we were transitioning into the next phase. When life gets a little more comfortable and a little less exciting. 

I pulled up to Yitzi’s nugget of suburban paradise just as his children, three of them now, raced out to greet me. I barely knew them but I may as well have been their long-lost uncle. I was no longer religious and already shaved my beard but I still presented as a moderately observant Jew. I wore a kipa, arrived before Shabbos, and was going to sleep over so as not to transgress the Shabbos by driving back home.

Yitzi knew I was no longer religious and seemed okay with it. I was grateful that my friends and family took my transition in stride. No one threatened ex-communication and I prided myself for not being resentful. 

To be sure, I carried plenty of resentments but they had nothing to do with why I left. If anything when I was religious, I was even more critical of “the system.” Now that I was out, I didn't want to be a bitter, vengeful reject. I would hold my head high and take responsibility for my decisions. By the same token, I wouldn’t hide how happy I was to be out. This was my journey, not a verdict on the “truth.” 

By taking this approach, I earned a certain social status. Most secular people are viewed with a layer of envy and suspicion. But I was an insider who was also secular. If you play it right, you get all the envy but none of the suspicion. I was suddenly cooler than I was before. People went out of their way to treat me nicely, to show they were open-minded. I knew it was mixed with a healthy dose of pity but who cares? It was from a good place. 

“Who’s coming over for the meal tonight?” Yitzi had my bags and was escorting me into the house. He and his wife hosted lavish Shabbos dinners, always intimate and lively. It was a multi-course, homemade extravaganza accompanied by limitless wine. 

Yitzi made sure my favorite dishes and drinks were in abundance and always found new goodies to try. After years of favoring peaty single-malt scotches, we were on a tequila kick. Only silky smooth reposados, only the best brands. 

“Her name is Julia, divorced, has a six-year-old. She’s coming with her parents. They’re Russian…”

A single mom, coming over for Shabbos dinner. My mind was racing. Was she cute? Was she outgoing and fun to talk to? Generally, Yitzi was frustratingly hard to read. But when he wanted to, he made sure you knew what he meant. What he didn’t say was, “These people are fun, we’ll have a good time.”

Yitzi and I learned how to drink from Russians. One day, as young rabbinical students, we went to visit a Jewish-Russian businessperson at his office. The goal was to befriend him, put on tefillin, a Jewish prayer ritual, get a check, and secure another meeting. Five hours, one bottle of Grey Goose, a pack of Parliaments, and a $5,000 check later, we were on our way. Just a regular Wednesday afternoon as fledgling Chabad rabbis. 

After harmonizing the Shabbos services together, Julia arrived with her parents. The first thing I noticed was her broad, disarming smile and bubbly personality. My eyes dropped to her tight wrap-around dress, revealing generous curves, deep cleavage, and wide hips. She was tall with long black hair reaching past her shoulders. Her honey eyes sparkled as if she was perpetually about to laugh. 

Women showed up to Chabad all the time. But as a rabbi, the dynamics between guys and girls were irrelevant. Of course, I noticed if I was attracted to someone but it was removed from any practical application so it hardly interrupted how I interacted with them. 

We sat down for the meal after reciting kiddush & hamotzie, the traditional blessings for wine and bread. Yitzi seated me directly across from him, at the end of the table. Julia sat at the corner, to my right next to her parents. Yitzi’s wife, Chavah, on the other side, to my left, with the kids.

It doesn’t take long for a Shabbos table at Chabad to feel like an intimate dinner with close friends. There is very little formality. You are being hosted in a young family's home. Yes, Chabad is an organization with thousands of centers across the world, but they are independently operated so you might as well have entered the only one to exist. That is how Chabad rabbis see themselves, for the better and worse. 

We compete with each other as if we weren’t part of the same international network. Yet we feel responsible for our communities as if there was no one else to do our jobs. 

Yitzi was pleased with how things were going around the table. It felt like old times. We didn’t have to say a word to each other and still managed the rhythm of the evening flawlessly. Like a play so well rehearsed, the stiffness and awkwardness of opening night gone with the wind. A glance, a comment delivered with exactly the right double meaning; we shared a code we weren't quite aware of ourselves. 

Jewish dietary law mandates a separation between fish and meat. So a natural lull occurs between the fish and meat courses, sometimes buffered with a hot bowl of Matza ball soup. Yitzi was in the kitchen helping Chava while I stayed at the table entertaining Julia’s parents. From the corner of my eye, I could see Julia in feverish, hushed conversation with Yitzi.

“He’s a good guy, a single dad…. my best friend, I don’t recommend him lightly…”

It was weird to hear my friend setting me up. As kids, we never talked about girls. When we started dating, we kept our experiences private. This is the way amongst many in the Hassidic community. Dating is as taboo as a sensitive medical condition. Every dating prospect is measured like it will determine the rest of your life. And it will. 

Hearing my friend talk to someone about possibly going out with me confirmed that I was outside of the life we used to share. True as it was, it stung. Like I was demoted to the class of people who date so casually that it can be discussed while ladling a bowl of soup. 

The sting didn’t last long. I was more excited to hear that Julia was into me. From her animated gestures and the furtive glances in my direction, I knew we were on. 

Most of my experiences till now had been hookups generated by dating apps. I’d never gone out with someone I’d met in the course of my regular life based on attraction and chemistry alone. Even on dating apps, I didn’t prioritize attraction. I had one goal: to explore sex with anyone willing to explore sex with me. 

Julia came back to the table and the tenor of our conversation changed completely. The fact that I knew she was into me was a gift. I didn’t get in my head or entertain every insecurity. Yitzi seemed to love what was happening, remarking to her parents, “Don’t they look good together?” 

The thing about Yitzi is that we went through every young boy’s rite of passage together. One day we were innocent Hassidic boys and the next we were in Barnes & Noble perusing the aisles for nude photography. Not Playboy. That would have required a pre-meditated decision to seek out porn. Instead, we sought books that weren’t overtly pornographic, giving us the out we needed to keep it up. After a year of this, we never talked about it again. Not ever. But we both knew how desperate we were to experience what sex was like. 

So in this moment, it felt like we understood each other. I could see in his eyes that he was happy for me and excited to play wingman. 

On the other hand, I wasn’t quite sure Yitzi understood what was really happening. He was always a little more sheltered than I was. I loved breaking rules and crossing lines, and Yitzi gladly broke them with me. But for him, it was like scratching an itch. For me, it was a statement about my individuality. I hated being seen as “just one of them.” Yitzi did everything to make sure he was exactly like “one of them.”

I wondered if Yitzi understood what was going down between Julia and I. Or was he just swept up in the excitement of the evening?

The meal ended. Julia and I snuck off to a corner where I entered my number into her phone. Electronics are forbidden on Shabbos so this had to be done clandestinely. 

The Russians left, Yitzi and I cleaned up. I couldn’t get to my room quickly enough to check my phone for messages. 

And waiting messages there were. Three photos: Two selfies, in barely discernible variations. A strapless dress, lots of cleavage, side angle, looking seductively up at the camera. The other was a close-up of her breasts in revealing lingerie, no face. 

“Kiss me at midnight tomorrow?”

After months of chasing women I wasn’t attracted to and being rejected by women I was attracted to, I’d finally get to play it cool. I already had plans for New Year’s. 

“I’m available Monday, can we meet up then?” 

Cry face emoji. 

It was a cold mid-winter Saturday afternoon. I was still in bed savoring the freedom to get up as late as I wanted. Saturday was the hardest day of the week as a rabbi. Now, I didn’t have to get dressed, eat greasy foods, or interact with people endlessly. The quiet was cathartic. My phone wasn’t delivering incessant notifications because most people I knew didn’t use their phones on Shabbos. 

It was also lonely. I could feel Shabbos thick in the air. Like a bickering couple giving each other the silent treatment. Jealous of anyone she interacted with but determined to maintain the standoff. Instead, I swiped. Every flick of the thumb dissolving into the abyss of matchless faces. 

“Congratulations! A match!” This was Bumble where the woman initiated contact. She messaged me right away. Instead of days-long, meandering conversations, she cut to the chase. 

“Hang out at my place? Tonight?”

Wow. This is what the hype was about. A match. An invitation. It wouldn’t be long before we were fucking. 

I was never this forward in my fledgling dating app career. Even as a Hassidic man, I was hyper-aware of the douchiness men exhibited towards women. I was determined to prove, that I, a Hassidic man, with no experience dating in the secular world, would be the quintessential gentleman. I was as horny as any guy out there, maybe more so with all the years of celibacy I had to make up for, but I would play the long game. 

In reality, however, I was often lacking the confidence to say what I wanted. Women wouldn’t take me at face value when I said I wasn’t looking for a relationship. They ended up hurt and I, confused, perpetuating the very thing I set out to avoid. 

In any case, it seemed that Becca and I were on the same page. No conversations about hobbies or benign chit-chat. 

I told her I’d be there at 9 pm. 

Wait. Was this too good to be true? Was she a catfish, or worse? What was I getting myself into? I decided to be alert for any (more?) red flags in case I had to make a hasty retreat.

“Hey, it’s me, just buzzed.”

“Ok, coming.”

I found myself in an old musty elevator. Dark brown paneling, dim lights, worn-out navy blue carpet flooring. It was clean and sparse, as you’d expect a 1980s apartment building to be.

I was graduating to the next level in my sexual maturity, bypassing the steps between getting a match and finally hooking up. Obviously, I didn’t know for sure that we were going to hook up. It was all innuendos and wordplay. But I knew. No one invites you straight to their apartment if the only thing on their mind isn’t sex. The fact that I knew that, confirmed my new found veteran status. I wasn’t a kid anymore who had to have elementary conversations about when sex would take place. Now, I showed up and knew what to do. 

Becca was short with a cute face, endearing smile, and shoulder-length curly blond hair. She looked like her photos on Bumble, a preliminary sign that she was a real human. She smiled sheepishly and invited me in. I handed over a bottle of wine, still maintaining the allure of a gentleman.

“Netflix and chill, hu?” 

“Right…” I laughed nervously. We sat on the couch going through the motions of looking for something to watch. She slid next to me and we cuddled. 

She was so small. I bent over to kiss her and she responded with a force. Quick and fast. No feeling each other out. She had full lips, cold to the touch.

Things moved quickly from there. We tangled on the couch, shedding pieces of clothing as we went. She was taught and wiry, much stronger than her small frame suggested. Her movements seemed to be driven by a sort of desperation. Whatever was going on, I wanted to be as present as possible. 

We moved to her bedroom and fucked. I came too quickly and apologized. She was kind and gracious. I went down on her. Afterward, we lay in bed looking at each other. She started talking. 

She was in her forties and lived far away from her family. She never had kids and didn’t have many friends. Her job sucked with little hope of landing a job she actually wanted.

How could this be? She was so lovely and kind. I loved how spontaneous she was, up for an adventure. She told me about her struggle with depression and the numerous attempts she’d made on her life. She assured me she was doing okay these days and not in any danger. 

I wanted to hug her tight. I looked into her eyes and wanted to cry. She seemed so strong. I never saw this kind of loneliness. Sure, I met lonely people before. But I was never with them in bed, naked. Witnessing her personhood so vulnerabally was crushing. I wished I could make it disappear with tender eye contact, a soft touch. But I was just a whim who’d come and go, leaving her to pick up the pieces.

I sensed how precious these fleeting moments of companionship were to her. It reminded me how essential skin-to-skin contact is when we are birthed into this earth. Maybe that’s what we are seeking as adults, trading sex for physical touch.

We got out of bed and went back to the couch. We were still naked. I stared at her muscle-bound limbs moving around the house gracefully, confidently, without inhibition. It still shocked me that I could see a real women’s body. My eyes wandered between her legs capturing the image of her vulva. Saving it for later. Or maybe for the teenage boy who stayed up all hours of the night trying to imagine what a moment like this would feel like. 

We sat next to each other and she draped a blanket over us. The atmosphere was lighter now, having dispensed with protocol, we could just hang out. 

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” 

“Pizza?”

“Yes, please!”

“I’ll order from Dominos. Pepperoni?”

“Sure.”

I never had non-kosher pizza, let alone pepperoni. Was Dominos good? Was it gross? 

I sipped on the wine while we waited. The pizza arrived a few short minutes later. I snapped a photo of the thick crusted pie, blood red pepperonis garnishing the cheese and sauce. My first treif pizza in a strange woman’s house post coitus. The pizza tasted good. I’ll have it again, I thought to myself. 

Months later, I was living in a different city, with a whole new set of adventures. My phone pinged. 

“Hey! I was re-admitted to the culinary program! Can’t believe it! You will be the good part I remember when I think back to these last couple months of hell.”

“No freaking way! So happy for you :). Never give up.”

“Sounds so cliche but it’s true.”

“You’re on the good guys. Let me know if you’re ever in town.”

“Aww Becca, I will!”

We never did meet up again but every so often I think of that evening, laying in bed, looking into her eyes, wishing the loneliness away. I hoped she was ok. Maybe even happy. 

I felt embraced by the dark wood panels, a low-hanging rack of glasses, and the silent but always moving bartenders. The low din of voices and soft folk music was comforting. You wouldn’t expect it but they served a rotating tap of thirty-two local brews. 

There were plenty of bars to go to for social reasons, either to get laid or at least to meet someone interesting while trying. But this place remained sacred. I never said hi to anyone or struck up a conversation. I would sit belly-up at the bar, sip on a beer, and bury my face in my phone while reading an essay. Occasionally I’d feverishly jot down an inevitable flash of inspiration. This was where I could make sense of my life and determine what my next steps would be. 

“Sorry, do you have a light?” 

“Sure, here you go.”

When he returned it, he asked me what I did. I told him I was in coffee sales. Turns out he was in coffee too. We exchanged numbers. Nice guy. I took a sip of my Belgian Triple and went back to reading. 

“Hey buddy, can I get your lighter again? Sorry.”

“No worries man, sure.”

He returned the lighter, I paid my tab and walked towards the exit. 

“Why don’t you join us?” It was the guy who kept asking me for a light. He was sitting at a table with two women calling out to me from across the room. I smiled and declined, turning towards the door. “Join us for a cigarette then?” 

Couldn’t say no to that.

We stood outside in the crisp fall night, huddled around our cigarettes. His name was Hassan, his girlfriend was Marguerite, and she was with her cousin, Sarah. They were friendly and chatty. Before long, they convinced me to join them for another beer. 

We sat down, took a sip of our freshly poured drinks, and then Marguerite got up for the bathroom. After a while it was clear she wasn’t coming back. Sarah got up to check on her. A moment later they stormed out, Marguerite in tears, Sarah clutching her hand. They stomped out of the bar without so much as a glance in our direction. 

“I’m sorry, let me go see what’s going on.” Hassan ran after them.

I sat at the table wondering what the hell was going on. Hassan came back, “Hey, I’m so sorry to put you through this but my girlfriend just broke up with me.”

“You're apologizing to me? I’m sorry dude, that’s awful. How long have you guys been together?”

“About six months but it's been shaky for a while. I recently came out that I’m bi and it hasn’t been easy.”

“I’m sorry, that’s rough.”

“It’s ok, I’m just sorry we put you through this. I’m gonna get going.”

Not a minute after he was gone, Marguerite and Sarah walked in and sat down at the table. Marguerite was still in a full-blown panic attack; hyperventilating, sobbing, snot pouring down her face. I rushed over and tried to help her breathe. In between sobs, she repeated, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean for this to happen to you.”

“Why do you keep apologizing? I’m the one who’s sorry, this is awful for you.”

“I love gay people and have nothing against them. I tried. I love him and I know he loves me. I promise I’m not a bad person. I don’t judge you.”

“You don’t judge me?” Wait. “Do you think I’m gay?”

“It’s ok, it’s ok, I promise! I just couldn’t stand how he was looking at you. I was sitting right across from him but he wouldn’t take his eyes off of you.”

“Listen, I’m not gay. It would be okay if I was but I’m not.”

That sent her into even more convulsing sobs. 

Sarah thought it would be best to step outside for some air. Marguerite wanted to call Hassan but her phone was dead. Neither she nor Sarah remembered his number. 

“Oh, I have it!! He gave it to me earlier.”

“Of course, he gave you his number!” The sobs continued and a helpless Sarah was at her wits end. 

“Listen, I can prove to you I’m not gay.” Marguerite was already leaning her weight over me trying to steady herself. She was full-bodied with silky black hair, tight jeans accentuating her thick thighs, and heels that made everything pop. I took her hand and brought it towards my pants. “Do you still think I’m gay?”

She laughed and seemed to enjoy feeling me up. I pressed my lips against hers, keeping her fingers on me as I got harder. Sarah let us know she was leaving. We made out for a few minutes then I asked Marguerite if she wanted to go home. She said yes. I ordered an Uber and we made out in the backseat. Halfway there she fell asleep on my shoulder. I decided it was probably not a good idea to take this any further. I dropped her off and went back to my place. 

The whole evening was unbelievable to me. Was I that big of a whore that I’d kiss a woman whose relationship just ended in front of my face? Being the object of both of their desire was so hot though. I felt bad for the sweet Hassan, who bolted not knowing what was about to transpire, and the cousin Sarah, who had no idea what to do with herself. 

I reasoned that I was a passive participant in this whole drama. I was at the right time and place. Or the wrong time and place. Maybe both. Either way, I didn’t do anything wrong. Right? I was opportunistic and if a beautiful woman wanted to feel me up who was I to say no? 

Mostly I was flattered that I was attractive enough to be the cause of a break-up. I’d come a long way from the bearded, overweight guy, who struggled to transition any interaction into a sexual one.  

I tried not to make much of the fact that they were so convinced I was gay. I already developed a narrative about myself that I wasn’t manly enough. This had to be the reason that I friend zoned the women I liked. I was kind and sweet, but maybe I was too emotional, too expressive. The big, muscular guys didn’t talk much, knew how to fix things, and were generally more stoic and composed.

It sounded like a classic trope gay men dealt with. Women liked me but not in that way. The women who did like me in that way were not the women I liked. Was there any way out of this cycle? 

I sent them a text the next day wishing them well. I expected at least one of them to yell at me but they were sweet and understanding. I never did find out if they ever got back together. 

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But I had yet to take a date out to the movies. The new Beauty and the Beast had just come out and Sylvia, the woman I matched with on a dating app I just joined suggested we go see it. I wasn’t sure how to buy tickets so I followed the steps online and hoped for the best. 

I chose a spot for dinner and picked her up. She ducked into my car, long, silky, black hair hiding her silhouette. I gave her a quick hug and turned into the traffic. She seemed kind and eager to carry on a conversation.

At dinner, we exchanged our date-ready life snapshots. I wasn’t sure how to go about this part. Do I share that I still feel like the rabbi I was only a few months ago? That I have a two-year-old child living with his Hassidic mother? That I just started a new job with no college degree or career prospects? That I feel more at ease packed into a room with sweaty dancing rabbis than in a swanky cocktail bar with a woman in her mid-twenties? 

I was smack in the middle of whatever life change this was turning out to be and I lacked the perspective to package and deliver it in consumable form. It was easier to present myself as I appeared in the present: A secular guy in sales with not a care in the world. I wondered if I had any value without the exotic embellishment of a “story.”

After dinner, we walked outside and held hands. We paused by a fence on the sidewalk and I pulled her towards me. I felt her body pressed against mine. My core stiffened to carry her weight. She leaned in further. I moved my face towards hers and we kissed. I loved that we were in public; no walls or doors concealing us. She had strong thighs and I felt myself getting hard between her legs. We untangled and got in the car. 

I still had no idea if I purchased the movie tickets correctly and was hoping my ignorance of American culture wouldn’t be exposed. Thankfully, we made it to our seats without incident. 

After the movie, we left the theatre and headed to the car. I suggested we go back to my place. She hesitated and asked if we could go a little slower. I promised we would go as slow as she wanted but “let's at least go back to my place where we could keep hanging out.” She agreed. 

We cuddled and put on a movie. Before long, we were making out, sinking into the couch, our bodies entangled. She had these deep, soulful eyes you could get lost in. Her lips were luscious and suctioned my mouth perfectly. 

I slid my hand under her top and could feel her soft, smooth skin. As I lifted the fabric, she stopped me. I asked if everything was ok. She said she didn’t want to go too far. I promised we wouldn’t go any further than she was comfortable with. Then, she took her top off. Her breasts spilled out of her bra and I buried my face between them. I slid my fingers between her legs and could feel her pressing over them. 

Why did she keep hesitating? How could I show her that I wanted to give her pleasure? That I wasn’t here just to take. Intercourse was only one of the options, not a goal to achieve. I looked at her and asked if I could take her pants off. She said yes. 

At some point, I was on the floor kneeling over the couch, tracing my tongue along her leg up to her thigh. Her head was thrown back, hair draped over her shoulders down to her nipples. I buried my face between her thighs feeling how wet she was. She got up from the couch and we stripped off our underwear as we got into bed. I assured her that we wouldn’t have intercourse unless she wanted to. 

She laid back on the bed, completely naked. I tasted her until she was in a puddle on my sheets. We switched places and she went down on me until I came in her hands. 

We laid back for a few minutes, talking as we caught our breath. It was late but I wasn’t going to make her get an Uber at this hour. We got dressed and I noticed she slipped on my t-shirt. I looked at her quizzically and she laughed getting back into bed. I insisted it wasn’t a bother. She waved it off. Then it clicked: she was sleeping over. 

An involuntary shiver rose in my spine. This wasn’t okay. I crept into bed and she fell asleep instantly. Who was this person sleeping in my bed? I enjoyed her company and was grateful for what we shared. But in this bed, I was the real me, not the guy out there presenting himself as an ordinary man of society. 

I spent hours trying to fall asleep growing resentful of the body only a few inches away. Gone was the intimacy I felt only a few moments ago. 

Then, a thought emerged as if it were rising from the fog: This was the first time a woman was sleeping in my bed since my divorce. Before getting married, I looked forward to cuddling up with someone and falling asleep with them. In fact, before getting married I made sure my soon-to-be-wife was ok sleeping in the same bed when she wasn’t on her period. Hassidic couples always have two beds to sleep in when the woman is on her period. I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t do that when we didn’t have to. 

After my divorce, I experienced what it was like to live alone. And I loved it. After growing up with seven siblings in two bedrooms, followed by an endless string of roommates in dormitories all over the world, the quiet was beautiful and affirming. I still remember an epic dance party that erupted late one evening. 

Music was blaring, I had a few drinks in me, and the self-pity meter was topping charts. Out of nowhere, I started dancing. I cried and laughed and didn’t give a flying fuck about anything but the heart-pounding rhythm coursing through my veins. I kept looking up to see if anyone was watching and remembered it was just me. From that moment on, my personal space became sacred. No one would enter unless I felt like they belonged. 

I couldn’t wait to come home and experience the sound of silence welcoming me. Of course, I still wanted cuddles, intimacy, and endless romping but it never occurred to me that anyone would sleep over. 

Sylvia and I woke up late on Saturday morning. She, bright and cheery. I, groggy and confused. This had to end. She recommended a French crepe spot down the block where we could enjoy a nice breakfast. I had no strength to resist. The quicker I said yes, the faster we’d get through this date-turned-sleepover.  

We poured syrup and chocolate over a steaming pile of thin, soft crepes and sipped on freshly brewed coffee. I looked at her and felt none of the chemistry we experienced a mere twelve hours ago. I had a hard time looking at her or talking with her. It was a physical sensation that I didn’t understand. I wasn’t angry at her. If anything she tried to slow things down. It was I who kept asking for more. 

After breakfast, I drove her home. Thankfully, I was traveling the next day and would have time to process before contemplating another date.

What went wrong? Was it that I was going out with women I was only mildly attracted to? My first two dating app hookups had been with women I was just barely attracted to and I seemed to friend-zone the ones I was very attracted to (see Liora here). Was it only a matter of time before one was repulsed by someone they weren’t really attracted to? Wasn’t I happy to have sex with anyone who was happy to have sex with me? 

I wished the whole thing could be more direct. Like, “Hey, I'm only interested in exploring sexually. No sleepovers and mushy breakfasts. I completely understand if you’re not into that but that’s where I’m at.” Surely some women wanted that too. 

Could I ask for that? I was good at making people feel comfortable. Would I ruin it all by exposing that I was only interested in sex? 

Was I only interested in sex? I liked getting to know people and spending time with them. I just didn’t want to integrate them into my life beyond the context of a romantic experience. I knew too little of who I was and what my life looked like to invite them in. 

I drove home on this bright Saturday afternoon and realized that my son was only a few blocks away about to enjoy a Shabbat lunch with his mom. I continued towards my downtown apartment hoping to find quiet and solitude. It would be a few weeks before I could go on another date. Hopefully, by then, I’d figure out the ingredients for the perfect hookup. 

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I was dressed in loose, comfortable clothing, not the restrictive layers of rabbinic attire I donned my whole life. No one knew who I was except the rabbi. He was a friend, and until not too long ago, a colleague. He was discreet, hospitable, and, most of all, not awkward.  

As services wrapped up, I thumped my prayer book shut, anticipating the festive Rosh Hashana lunch we were about to share. Then I saw her. Tall, with flowing chestnut hair, and a long skirt lilting to her gait. Prayer book in hand, her posture was determined yet gentle. My eyes followed her, hypnotized until she was out of sight. 

Later, after evening services, we gathered for yet another holiday meal. My friend, the rabbi, suggested I sit at a table with other young professionals. Then, I saw her coming from the other side of the room. She sat right next to me. 

“Will I be awkward? Will the conversation flow? Will she like me?” These questions rushed through my head as I steadied myself like it was obvious she should sit next to me.  

Until recently, I never had to find out if someone actually liked me as a guy. I was safe to fantasize that everyone I was attracted to was also attracted to me. In a world where everyone is off limits, I was free to assume my own worth. Now, the stakes couldn’t be higher.

After exchanging pleasantries, she told me her name was Liora and that she was an actor. There is no way she’d be interested in me now, I thought. If I had any chance at all, I needed to keep the conversation deep and meaningful, where I thrived. Self-discovery and Jewish safe zones like Birthright were all-time favorites. Turns out she was in the process of becoming more religious and just ended a five-year relationship. I was becoming less religious and just ended a five-year relationship. She was coming back for services the next day and we agreed to continue the conversation then.

After services, we joined the rabbi and his family for Tashlich, a Jewish ritual where we discard our sins in a natural pool of water. Liora and I talked during the one-mile walk to the pond. We shared seemingly endless parallels, save for the one major difference: she was becoming more observant and I was steadily shedding my religious practice. It was like the two of us were at a crossroads, each of us going in a different direction. 

I liked that. There were enough similarities to feel connected, yet big enough differences to keep things from getting serious. God knows I wasn’t ready for a new relationship, nor did I want one. My whole life was about simplicity, exploration, discovery, and if I could avoid it, no drama. I didn’t want anything that required absolute definitions. I was just emerging from a world where everything was dictated by absolute values and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t swapping one set of absolutes for another. Whether it was religion, politics, relationships, or sexuality. I was a free agent. 

As the afternoon drew to a close, we decided to get drinks. Liora suggested we go to a bar on a boat at the city’s dock. We ducked inside, ordered wine and popcorn, and sat at the cafe-style tables, rocking gently to the cadence of the water. 

Was this my first real date? Until now, I had only been on aggressively orchestrated dates as a Hassidic young man. It was never just because we got along. The dates in my Hassidic community are by choice and not “arranged” but they are at the zenith of performative human interactions. We pretend we haven’t already done months of oppo research and are essentially conducting an interview to determine physical chemistry. After all, one must know if your future mate, partner, and offspring bearer match up with what was already concluded in the research. 

If all goes well, you get engaged. And I did. After five dates during a ten-day period. So, sitting here on an unsanctioned date with someone I just met, enjoying the time for what it was without a thought for its long-term procreative viability felt like a long overdue vindication that I had any worth at all as a man who was attractive enough on my own merits. 

The next day I messaged her saying I happened to be in her neighborhood. I had been up all night reflecting. Why would someone like her be into me? I wasn’t in great shape, I had an ungroomed Hassidic beard and wasn’t anywhere near her zone of cool. She was an artist and an actor! People generally liked me as a person but was she attracted to me? 

There was almost no physical contact between us the day prior. Any physical contact was so formal that it almost confirmed that nothing else was going on. I berated myself for lacking confidence and initiative. Maybe I should have taken things further after our date. Suggest we go back to her place.

So here I was showing up at her doorstep. That should signal that I am interested in developing things further, hopefully, something intimate and yes, physical. 

I wasn’t in a rush to have sex. I wanted to embrace her and feel our breath heating the air between us, run my finger along the softness of her forearm. It would surely be the most beautiful thing in the world. 

I spent a few hours at her place wondering the whole time whether I was missing a cue. Gosh. How does this work? Is it really this vague? Does it require this much guessing? 

Evening was upon us and it was time to leave. I stood in her kitchen, my back against the counter. She was talking but all I could hear were voices in my head berating me for not making a move. We hadn’t so much as held hands and I was in her apartment! Was something wrong with me? Did she not like me? 

Then, my ears registered what she was actually saying. 

“You are so wonderful and I think we could be great friends. I had such a lovely couple of days with you and we have so much in common. But I don’t want to lead you on. Nothing romantic will happen with us. Is that ok? Can we still be friends?”

I was out of my body and she was talking to another person. I didn’t even need this to be romantic, after all this is the blossoming of a beautiful friendship.

“Liora, you are so sweet. Thank you for being upfront and honest. Of course, I wish something more could happen between us but I value our friendship much more than I want anything else. I totally respect how you feel.” 

She gave me a hug and I left. My heart was broken into a thousand tiny pieces, yet my brain applauded my courageous reaction. As I got into my car and turned on the ignition I tried to suppress how much I wanted to kiss her, hold her hands, feel her body, run my hands through her hair, and gaze at her beauty. Instead, every time I looked at her, my gaze would be filtered through the lens of a friend, not a lover.

I pressed on the gas and started to wonder how sincere I really was. Was this just a long con, hoping a friendship would eventually lead to sex? 

Wasn’t it natural for this connection to evolve into physical intimacy? I craved it so much. Was I a bad person for wanting that, yet also not wanting a serious relationship?

Then a thought occurred to me. I had never been with a woman in a social context. Yet, when I became a rabbi it felt very natural to create meaningful relationships with the women I met. I was always respectful and maintained strong boundaries. So my only orientation towards interacting with women was ardently platonic. 

This ability, which allowed me to be a successful rabbi and community leader was now haunting me like a ghost. Would women ever see me as physically attractive? More importantly, would I ever learn to tell a woman I was attracted to her without solely relying on the safety of meaningful conversations to form chemistry?

I thought back on Liora, the woman who walked past me, prayer book in hand, and then disappeared out of my sight. I was grateful these questions were relevant at all and accepted, that at least for now, I made a new friend. 

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I still wore the beard of a Hasidic rabbi but had a gray felt cap on instead of a kippah. Beer in hand, I walked to the back where a band was playing folk tunes in this musty Irish pub. Noticing that I was scanning the room for a seat, she signaled me to sit next to her. Flattered and nervous, I sat down. 

There were two younger, college-age women sitting with her. Apparently they met at a beer festival earlier that day. 

It’s almost a year now that I walk into bars fantasizing that someone, more precisely a woman will take interest in me. I am too insecure to take initiative, worried I’ll be exposed for who I am: a twenty-nine-year-old Hasidic man who has no business engaging with strange women in a bar. “But if she says hi first, I should ignore her? I’ll be kind and charming and maybe, hopefully, it leads to something more.” 

I was painfully aware this was not a winning strategy. The more I walked into bars the more I realized no one was going to approach me. And if someone were to start a conversation with me, what would we talk about? Judaism? The meaning of life? I had no language or cultural bridge by which to create a playful or even neutral interaction. 

I wanted to take initiative but never did. At the end of every failed outing, I’d console  myself, “It’s ok, you went out to think and explore, to gaze upon this new world and see what it’s all about.” There was some truth to that but also I wanted to get laid. 

It wasn’t just about fucking. I was curious about sex and sexuality. I was eager to find out what sex was like without the boundaries of marriage or relationships. What was it like for people to explore erotic or romantic connections with no agenda other than the experience itself? 

The older woman got up to dance. She looked at me, motioning to join her. Swallowing a wave of insecurities, I stood up and danced with her. She got real close, whispering in my ear, “Those girls like you, talk to them.” I could feel her wet breath lingering in my ear, fragrant with malty hops. 

“I don’t care about the younger girls. I like you.” 

Pretending she didn’t hear me, she insisted I connect with the younger women.

I was genuinely more interested in her. The younger women were cute but she was interesting and hot. I was drawn to her energy and attracted to how she looked. The fact that she was older turned me on.

This is what my life looks like now. Noticing what I am drawn to and investigating. Many of my crushes in the past were for older women and here was such a woman, in the flesh. 

After a couple rounds of beer, she suggested we go someplace more exciting. We walked to a club a block away and ordered cocktails. This time I danced with the two younger women. One of them was from Cuba and we made out. Hands on her hips, we swayed side to side while people, music, and lights swirled around us. The room was small, dark, and crowded. It was easier to lose myself in the rhythm and connect with my dancing partner.  

“It's almost midnight, we have to get going.” 

Disappointed, I watched as the Cuban girl and her friend left the club. I looked around for the older woman and found her slumped over a drink at the bar. I suggested we get out of there. 

We walked outside towards a busy thoroughfare in the center of town. 

“I’m staying at a hotel a few blocks away, I’ll be fine.”

“Let me walk you.” 

“But I’m as old as your grandma.”

“So? I like you and I think you're pretty.”

When we got to the hotel elevator she insisted I couldn’t possibly have any interest in her. We got to her room and I didn’t know what to do next. It was one thing to charm myself up to a stranger's room but I’d never actually done this before. She went to the bathroom while I waited, sitting on a chair. If she told me to leave when she came out, I would.

The door opened and she stood there naked. A real woman, completely naked. I stared at her small supple breasts, the curve of her side body. She was suddenly more frail than the force of nature from earlier. Without preamble, she walked past me onto the bed. I undressed dumbfounded and thrilled. 

We made out for a while, then she turned around, and asked me to fuck her from behind. As I assessed the logistics of the situation she grabbed her hair and flung it across the room. What remained, was stringy short hair matted to her scalp. Her face took on a completely different appearance. Something from scripture about fleeting beauty crossed my mind.

I went down on her and felt the mound of her hair on my face. We finished, laying next to each other and had what resembled a real conversation for the first time. Turns out she’s in town for a conference. We didn’t talk much. I got dressed and left. 

I walked out of the hotel and into the breezy summer night. Suddenly I realized we hadn’t exchanged names or phone numbers. 

This was my first one-night stand.

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