The Sleepover

I cried and laughed and didn’t give a flying fuck about anything but the heart-pounding rhythm coursing through my veins.

It was quickly turning into the quintessential all-American date: Dinner, drinks, and a movie. This would be the third time I was ever in a movie theatre. The first time was when I sneaked out of Yeshiva as an eighteen-year-old student to watch “The DaVinci Code.” I read the book a year earlier, in secret, so when the movie came out, I decided it was time to finally enter the “Temple of Impurity” as it is sometimes described in Hassidic literature. 

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.