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I was in L.A. on business and had finally made it back to Canter’s Deli. It’s the most famous Jewish deli in la-la-land. It ain’t Ocean Avenue, but it will do. I was eating a man-size pastrami on rye with mustard and cole slaw, a side of kishka, a sour pickle, and washing it down with a bottle of HE’BREW beer.
This is my soul food. When I eat this meal, or brisket with the gravy soaking the bread, or corned beef — not first cut, it’s too dry — I’m transported someplace else.
I happened to look up, and she brought me back to the here and now. She was facing me, across the aisle and about eight tables down. Had a big slice of chocolate cream pie in front of her that was nearly finished. She was eating very slowly, with a spoon, sliding it in and out of her mouth, with a dreamy look on her face. That motion was just icing on the cupcake, so to speak.
There was something amazingly sexy about her. Not L.A. starlet sexy, but Jewish-smart-but-slutty sexy.
There is no better package than really smart Jewish girls who are into sex. One minute they’re engaging you in a discussion of philosophy or politics, and the next minute they’re sucking your cock. What’s not to like?
I tried not to stare, or at least not to get caught staring. She finished and got up, walking toward the exit, and that meant she was walking my way.
She had tousled, I-look-great-after-I-fuck, hair. On her face, understated brown eyeliner and beige shadow with slutty red lipstick. She wore a pleated-Catholic-guilt-wielding mini skirt, fishnet stockings, three inch high Mary Jane’s and a plunging-show-those-breasts-v-neck blouse.
She was not starlet thin — thank God — but well-proportioned with stunningly great curves. She swung her hips as she sashayed down the aisle with the confidence of a woman who knows she is a prize.
The final touch were her tortoise shell framed glasses. That just sent me over the top. Girls who wear glasses… well, Helen Gurley Brown was just wrong!
I had to say something, and I knew lame-o was better than silence. “You should try the rugelach sometime.”
She stopped in her tracks and just looked at me.
“I like the kind with raspberry jam.”
Still stopped, still looking. A smile crossed her face. She said “That’s so goyishe. Everyone knows apricot filling with nuts is best.”
I said, “To each his own.”
She said, “I don’t think so. I know what’s good because I ate it at my bubbie’s table.”
I stood up, probably too close. “Well, I wouldn’t know from that, my bubbie was from the strudel school.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed in, and said, “I love the smell of beer on a man’s breath.”
That, for my non-business-type friends, is a buying signal, so I tried a trial close. “I’m Al, and I’m in town on business. I realize it’s short notice, but would you like to have a drink with me tonight? I’ll be happy to drink beer and breath on you.”
She smiled again and said, “You’re on buster!” She told me her name was Leslie Schwartz. We made plans to meet at the roof bar of my hotel, the Mondrian, at 8.
I could barely contain myself. First of all, that name, Leslie. Leslie Newman was a classmate in 6th grade and I know my first wet dream was inspired by her.
I also knew I shouldn’t get ahead of the situation. A drink is sometimes just a drink. But I couldn’t help thinking about going up to my room, us arguing over economic policy, and then plunging into the middle of those double Ds.
After our meeting at the deli, I couldn’t get Leslie Schwartz out of my mind. Fortunately, my demetevler escort work that afternoon was a catch up meeting with one of the sales reps who works for me, and didn’t require any intellectual calisthenics. I’d save those for later.
The Mondrian is one of the trendy hotels in Hollywood. I run the sales department of a boutique software publisher, so it fits our image for us to stay there when we’re in L.A. on business. I don’t mind. The rooms are very well furnished and everything is in shades of white.
On the roof is the SkyBar and pool overlooking the city. It’s quite a romantic spot and when you’re there, you’re among the beautiful people. Yes, beautiful, thin guys and gals, the kind you see in the fashion pages of magazines.
I decided to wear my Suit of Doom, a charcoal Italian job, with a white open collared shirt and red Chuck Taylors. I got upstairs early and started drinking to find my courage. I ordered my regular, Fish and Fowl. That’s a Bass ale and a shot of Wild Turkey bourbon. Get it?
Leslie appeared around 8:30. That’s 8:00 Jewish standard time. I was on my second round. I had been imagining all day how she would look in the light of night.
She wore a lacy, candy pink bra-top camisole showing bodacious cleavage, a short, black fitted skirt, patterned black stockings, and black stilettos. Her tousled I-haven’t-fucked-yet-but-I-might hair was up, her makeup and lipstick matched the cami, and her glasses sported black frames. As Curly Howard might have said, “gnagnagnagnagna!”
She was zaftig poetry in motion as she cruised towards the bar, and heads swiveled in her direction. Now, here was a woman of substance. And sizzling hot to boot.
As she came close I got a whiff of her perfume. There was something distantly familiar about it.
Heaven Scent. The perfume that launched a million teenage boys’ self-abuse sessions, including quite a few of mine, thanks to Debbie Friedman. I went out with Debbie a few times in 10th grade and had decided to make a move on the next date, when I overheard her telling another girl in biology class she thought French kissing was gross.
“Hey buster,” Leslie said, “I didn’t scare you away?”
My courage well-saturated, I just looked at her, took her hand, pulled her close and kissed her.
“Mmmm, I guess not.”
I said, “The only thing that scares me is the Bush administration.”
“Hmmm, so you’re scared of bush?”
“A Jewish bush doesn’t scare me at all. By the way, what will you have?”
She ordered an old-fashioned. A drink from our parents’ generation. Bourbon, bitters, sugar, with a cherry on top. She took the cherry by its stem, licked it and sucked it into her mouth, her eyes on mine the whole time.
Even trendy hotel bars need to drum up business on a Wednesday, so they had a jazz combo with singer performing standards. I asked her to dance. I’m not much of a dancer, but it was a ballad, the lights were coming on across the city, and stars were out, reflected in the pool.
My hands were around her waist and her hands were around my neck. I held her close as we shuffled around the dance floor, eyes on each other. Her abundant breasts swished hard against my chest, which gave rise to something she perhaps sensed.
When the song ended, I led her over to the edge of the roof, by the pool, to view the city lights. Now she was at the railing, me behind her with my arms around her tummy. She leaned into me and pushed her behind back against me. She moved my hands up to her breasts, inviting me to massage them.
“You escort demetevler know,” she said, “Back in the eighties, we all thought Reagan was a dangerous loose cannon, but he ended the Cold War. Maybe we’ll feel differently about Bush in the long run.”
She turned her head toward me, pulled my head to her, and kissed me. I broke away.
I said, “Not exactly. It wasn’t Gorbachev who tore down the Berlin wall as Reagan had implored. It was the people, buoyed by a system collapsing in on itself. And if Bush’s minions have their way, we won’t have twenty years to reflect. Happy End Days Are Here Again!”
She retorted, “Reagan may not have done it single-handedly, but his unwavering stance certainly influenced the result. More effective, I’d say, than JFK saying he was a jelly donut.”
Now she reached back and rubbed my erection.
I stammered, “B-but that’s been mis-interpreted. Yes, a Berliner is a filled pastry, but it is also what you call someone from Berlin. E-R is the standard suffix in German to indicate origin, whether it’s a person or a foodstuff.”
She kept rubbing. “Speaking of stuff, I think I’d like you to stuff me. Whaddya say, buster?”
I glared at her. “I think I should put something in your mouth that would keep you from spouting Republican revisionist history.”
I grabbed her hand, dropped money on the bar as we exited to the elevators, and went down to my room. It wasn’t the only going down to happen that night.
As we entered my hotel room, I was ready to impale Leslie Schwartz like a stingray on Steve Irwin. But I knew I should take my time and make the night something special, so I cracked open a couple of Michelobs from the honor bar and we settled on the plush white sofa.
After a while I slipped off her stilettos, pulled her legs up to my lap and began massaging her feet. She relaxed into the sofa and let out a “mmmmm.” I don’t have a foot fetish, but I love massaging women’s feet, and they seem to like it just fine.
After a few minutes, I began working my way up her legs, enjoying the texture of her stockings. Her eyes were closed now. She had a serene look on her face and continued “mmmmm”ing.
As I reached her thigh she took a deep and sudden breath. And as I continued, I was the one breathing hard, because her stockings were stay-ups, so I hit silky skin. I couldn’t stop now. When my hand found its way between her legs it became clear she was wearing nothing under that skirt.
With further exploration, I discovered a plush Chanukah bush there. I know clean-shaven is all the rage now, but I’m still attracted to a lush and hairy pussy.
I moved to the left so that her thighs now rested on my lap, and thus while my right hand continued its mission underneath, my left hand could now explore her torso and chest, reaching even to caress her face and lips.
Down below there was the first sign of dampness and some subtle rolling of the hips as I rubbed her labia and inner thighs. Further up, I felt the hardening of nipples under the bra top. When my hand passed over her mouth she reached up to put my forefinger in her mouth and began swirling it with her tongue and sucking gently.
I lifted her on to my lap and now she took control, kissing me with an active tongue, she breaking off to kiss my neck while rubbing my chest. I’m sure she could feel me hardening under her.
Leslie unbuttoned my shirt. I removed it, along with my glasses and hers. She removed her top and, oh my, what a treat. Her breasts were everything I had hoped for: large, pliable, with demetevler escort bayan beautiful dark brown nipples. I stuffed my face between them while cupping them with my hands and rubbing my thumbs around her nipples and areolas.
Then I took to licking and sucking them alternately while she held my head. As this left one hand free, I could bring it back down between her legs, rubbing more and then as she became wetter, sliding a finger into her.
Now her hips were rotating again and she encouraged me. “Stick your finger in me like Bill Clinton stuck his out to America. And don’t ever say you never had sexual relations with that woman, Leslie Schwartz!”
I said, “Some DNA is going to get spilled tonight. Let’s get the rest of your clothes off so there’s no evidence for Ken Starr.”
She stood and removed her skirt. I took of my shoes and socks and scooted out of my pants and shorts.
I sat her down on the sofa, knelt between her legs, and dove my face into her Kosher cunt. From this position, I could use one hand on her thighs and then her breasts while with the other, one, and then two, fingers roamed inside her.
At first her clit was elusive, so I just kept licking around and between her lips, until I could feel it hardening under the hood. Then I increased the pace of licking and fingering. She leaned forward to push my head into her and came with a scream.
When her breathing returned to normal, I told her how good she tasted. She said, “It must be because I’ve been a lacto-ovo vegetarian all my life. But I can eat your meat.”
Those were the words I wanted to hear. I lay down on the sofa and now she knelt before it, with perfect access to my entire body.
First she nuzzled my chest and sucked on each nipple.
Thanks to a higher power, my Hebrew National was already long and hard for her. She engulfed it with her mouth and then teased me for several minutes with slight lip, tongue and hand movements until I cried out for mercy.
“We’re going to have sexual congress soon,” I said, “and Congress hasn’t approved torture.”
She smiled, unwrapped one of the condoms I had placed on the side table and unrolled it onto me. Saying it was time to play “hide the salami,” she straddled me on the sofa and lowered herself down.
This is one of my favorite positions. I get a great view and can have my hands all over my partner. She leaned back with her hands on my thighs as I grabbed her tit with one hand and rubbed her clit with the other. She bounced up and down with increasing speed and after some minutes shuddered with an orgasm and collapsed forward.
I stroked her hair, pulled my head up and kissed her for a long time. I was inside her but still. Then I pushed her up to get off and had her kneel on the sofa with her upper body leaning over the top.
I entered her from behind. It felt so good. Slippery, tight and deep. I was in no rush, but after a while my gonads determined it was time to finish. I banged into her harder and faster, yelled for her to reach under and grab my balls. When she did, they exploded and I felt myself contracting against her inner walls, releasing my load with a yelp.
I melted onto the carpet and she with me. We cuddled there for quite some time. Then I got up and put on my glasses. As she watched through nearsighted eyes, I walked over to the mini-fridge and removed something she couldn’t make out.
I gave Leslie her glasses and then she could see. It was a slice of chocolate cream pie from Canter’s. I took the fork and fed her a piece and then kissed her, our tongues swirling together. We finished the pie together that way.
Then I took a chance and asked her to spend the night. She said, “You bet I will, buster.” And when we walked into the bedroom, I saw her overnight bag. She had it sent up while we were in the bar.
Breakfast was pretty good too, but that’s another story.
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