Confessions From My Crotch

BY: Noah Levenson

It surprises me more than anyone, but I’ve had sex with women. I’m not sure how it happened. Despite the myriad failures I’ve collected since reaching the age of majority, getting blown hasn’t been the Apollo Mission I’d always feared orchestrating.

I sometimes imagine traveling back in time to meet the thirteen year old me – alone and de-pantsed in that paint-peeling room, furiously jerking off to the Earth Science class memory of Trisha Petruzzi’s Communion-fed midriff, my perennially unstudied Haftorah portion hopelessly discarded under a pile of frantically-torn filth. The analogue stuff; vintage. We’re talking like, ’93, or whatever. Our eyes would meet uncomfortably; he’d recognize the slouch – a visitation from the future. With wonder, amazement, reverence (and a hard-on), he’d ask: How’d you do it, Levenson?

I’d shrug. It’s unearthly phenomena – Arthur C. Clarke shit. There is no empirical study. The blowjobs came from the monolith. It’ll happen. Don’t drive yourself nuts.

Pale and stunned, eyes widening with junior high naivete, he’d whisper: I will!? With whom? With what? What will they look like? What format will my partners in intercourse assume?

You’re going to screw the goys of your wildest fantasies. Roman Catholics, Baptists, Charismatics, Buddhists. (Are Buddhists goys or are they Buddhists?) One after another, after another, after another – though there will be few droughts of carnality in your adulthood, you certainly ain’t gonna be swimming in Jews. This sexual segregation will not be a design of your choosing; rather, it’s just the type of chicks that were down. You put the ball in play.

They’ll tell you things like “my mother says Jewish men know how to treat women.” They’ll profess their love for Woody Allen and encourage you to wear glasses. They’ll find heroism in wit and business acumen – not so much in being good at sports.

Turn down that Nirvana record, you schmuck – I’m telling you something. This is your post-assimilative future speaking: Your dates, your girlfriends, your one-night stands will see in you something completely integrated and perfectly acceptable to their parents. All penises are circumcised in this country. Yours is no different. You’re the grandson of an identity revolution that happened a half century ago. It’s cute. You get laid. You listen to their gentile stories about kayaking and motorcycles and Easter candy. Stuff kind of repeats itself.

And the years pass. Quickly. And then you’re me.

You’re a grown man – of thirty – whose vertebrae have already begun to misalign, who cannot have even a sip of Diet Pepsi within three hours of bedtime, lest you should experience lucid psychotropic nightmares akin to Jacob’s Ladder – and, much as you sit in the paint-peeling room of your childhood home, disregarding the instructions of your bar mitzvah tutor in favor of the whims of your schmeckel, you will find yourself as me – as you – seventeen years from now, seated, prick-in-hand, in front of the futuristic pornography machine you claimed was a “business expense” on your taxes – frenziedly searching the video sites for the keywords “Jew,” “Jewish,” and when those prove a failure, the consolatory (and more fruitful) “Israeli.”

It’s an unpredictable twist, bubbelah. That you will find images of these curly-haired, big-nosed women getting humped (and kind of hackneyedly complaining about it) the ultimate object of erotic devastation – that you will one day masturbate strenuously to their sunken shtetl eyes and praying-mantis-physiques – eyes and physiques precisely like yours – is a plot so intergalactically absurd that Clarke himself couldn’t wrangle a third act.

Prepare thyself for this knowledge: At my age, You Will Die To Fuck A Jew! A regular-assed Jew – a Jew like you! This is no power fantasy or ego-stroking historical imposition. This is not about shoving your schlong into a young Golda Meir or Ethel Rosenberg. I’m talking about Julie Jew-Face from Jersey, in the gefilte’d-up “Never Ending Tour” tee – hurriedly applying the Clearasil before Frontline comes on!

The everyjew! That’s what’s exotic, dangerous, filthy – the mirror of your own cultural who-gives-a-shit laying lamely beneath you! It’s Jewish liberation come full-circle! The Jew is the shiksa! The shiksa is the Jew! No superior Scandinavian thigh or precious Anglican nose will excite you – been there, done that! Boring! But, oh my god – to ejaculate upon the ass of a girl whose mother dutifully prepared the brisket – whose father worked, begrudgingly, every day – and despite his multitude of dissatisfactions, remained married – to said brisket-preparer, in the same house that the aforementioned victim of my ejaculate returns to, two Sundays a month, to kvetch and crack jokes and argue about matters of trivial importance – holy fucking mackerel! Did your mother, too, stand in front of the menorah, arms-folded, “like a hawk,” one hand on the hotline, ready to mobilize FEMA – in the event that such unmonitored open flame should cause something on the level of Kristalnacht? Then fuck me! Please! I’ll do anything! I can’t cum with the gentiles anymore! The act, no matter how expertly performed, bores me to the brink of coma as I consider whatever goyische Edith-Wharton-women’s-field-hockey-team horror story has brought their mouth to my penis!

Writer and film director Noah Levenson nurtured his formative ennui while skipping stones in the stagnant Bronx River.  His work as a screenwriter, script doctor and story producer has been slow-clapped by some otherwise enthusiastic development executives.  Lately, you can find him on tour with Brandon Flowers.

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