Treif After Sex

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.

Warning: There are references to suicide and self-harm in this piece.

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.