This Modern Writer: Pork and Other Sins by C. Cohen

I worry that one day I will accidentally e-mail a potential sugar daddy my resume or a prospective employer a photo of my body dressed in fishnets, garter belt, and heels.   One of my fellow gold digger friends recommends the sites Seekingarrangement.com and Seekingmillionaire.com, free for would be Sugarbabes like us.   I create a profile boasting I am multilingual, a world traveler, and an Ivy League grad.     Who wouldn’t want to date such an irresistible Whore of Mensa?

I managed to lose three jobs last year.   The last job I had re-located for, selected an apartment in close proximity to work, and surrendered 2 months security deposit to management vultures.   I naively budgeted my life with the anticipation of a 60K salary (after taxes more like 37K) being direct deposited into my account every other week.   I signed a contract for a 1 year membership at a health club with orchids in the locker-room the same week they canned my ass.

So I join the rest of America by filing for weekly unemployment benefits and mass e-mailing resumes and cover letters.    Maybe because this is round three, my life feels like some warped recession carnival, playing that impossible game where you waste money to throw little plastic ping pong balls at bowls of goldfish.   Eventually one has to land so I can claim a prize that will only die in a matter of days.

Via my Sugarbabe account, I hear from guys like HinduHot4U, PonziSchemer, and WealthyMan9547, a hedge fund manager who is seeking, “A woman who if not a supermodel, is as hot as one, and is open to life changing experiences, mind blowing sex.   She understands our relationship will slowly devolve into an emotionally devastating, unstable affair devoid of true intimacy… content that as we continue down our route of mutual emotional destruction, our sex will get angrier and better in some sort of bizarre love/hate dynamic until one or both of us reach the point at which we finally implode, preferably without the destruction of any of my personal property.   Should that occur– well let’s just say I am friendly with many judges who will happily sentence you to a women’s penitentiary.”

Since I’m not looking to do any time I take a pass on that Daddy.   I have been corresponding with another who claims, “I have the ability and willingness to spoil you and I think we could have a great time together.” Loubotins and Missoni dance in my head so when he invites me out to lunch, I accept.   He says I can choose the restaurant; food is of no importance to him.   I’ve been contemplating applying for food stamps hence am in no position to turn down free food.   Despite his claiming a net worth of one million I forgo requesting 11 Madison Park or the Four Seasons, opting instead for a Cuban place I like on the UWS.

I arrive before him and am seated at the bar stirring some azucar into my cafe con leche when an unmistakably Hasidic man approaches.

“Are you Summer?”

I do a double take.   He has a thick, dark beard and mustache which covers most of his face and he is shorter than I am.   He can’t be any taller than 5’2” and is extremely round.   A large black hat covers his head and the curls Google was kind enough to inform me are called “payos” dangle over his ears.   I, who never has had much luck with a curling iron wonder how Hasids style their payos?   Do they leave curlers in overnight and is there some special hairspray they use to keep their buoyancy?   I want to ask if this is part of a daily hygiene routine?

I am also curious about the hats they don and later discover a website, which claims to be “The internet’s only clothing catalog for Hasidic Jews.”   According to them, “Modesty is our strong suit” and, “You will never be noticed by onlookers or passers-by but only by the ever watchful eye of G-D.”   They offer several varieties of black hats, including the Shvartze nipple, The Chosen One, Fear of a Black hat, and even The Pimp ranging from $47 to $450.   Their coats also have entertaining names including Saturday Night Fever, The Fiddler, and Backdoor Man and are priced at $450 each.

This “Chosen One” has asked again if I am, “Summer”?

I consider telling him he has mistaken me for Spring and making a run for it but instead stammer, “But you’re Hasidic.”

He nods, “I am.”   He leans in to whisper in my ear.   “Does that turn you on?”

My eyes widen and I shake my head.   “No!”

“You’ve never fantasized about getting with a Hasidic guy?   You are Jewish?” he asks.

I bite my tongue before I can proclaim myself a Jehovah’s Witness.   “I’m Jewish,” I say, “Reform but I haven’t been in a synagogue in years.  I had a batmitzvah, though.”   I decide not to ask if he’s interested in hearing my Torah Portion since I can’t remember anything beyond my 12 year old embarrassment that it had had to be sung.

I can barely believe any of this is happening and I know there is no way I am going to hook up with this guy.   My mind flashes back to my 10 day trip to Israel with the Birthright organization.   I have the worst luck and ended up being grouped with a bunch of Orthodox Jews.   I was in complete culture shock and it was hardly sleeping on a Kibbutz, climbing Masai, or “swimming” in the dead sea that I found so startling.   For me it had been the endless days surrounded by the young Orthodox men and women for theirs is world which demands girls marry young and be virgins on their wedding night.   Not utilize reproductive rights or family planning and have endless children- mouths they can’t feed and bodies they cannot clothe.   As if that weren’t bad enough there was the female dress- long skirts worn with sneakers and the expectation that Hasidic women shave their heads and wear wigs.   It’s beyond my understanding.

I think about making up an excuse but I want my free lunch and I figure this will be amusing if nothing else.   We get a table and I peruse the menu of beans, rice, and platanos settling on a shrimp and avocado salad.   It occurs to me why The Chosen One had not cared where we went.

“Oh!   You can’t eat shellfish!   Or use silverware or plates at restaurants!”

He confirms this, taking a sip from a bottle of Poland Springs he has brought with him.   I think about being culturally sensitive but when the waiter comes I decide fuck it, I’m having me some shrimp.   The Chosen One doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by my choice.   He is too busy giving me one of those I want to rip your clothes off looks I know all too well from men.   In my experience they’re pretty cross-cultural.

I find it interesting that it’s a sin for them to eat pork or shellfish or use electronics on the Sabbath but prostitutes are fair game even for married Fiddlers.

My food arrives and I am really excited for the avocado and shrimp.   I pierce a shrimp with my fork and chew it slowly.   It is delicious.

“So you’ve never been with a man like me?” The Chosen One is determined to ruin my meal.

I shake my head.   “I think you’d really enjoy it,” he says.   “I have a very special cock.   Very clean, very kosher.”

I’m thinking how I would love to order the platanos but I can’t sit here and listen to this big, hairy Hasid talk about his penis much longer.

“I bet you have a very beautiful body.   Can I take a better look at it?” he asks.

I shrug.   I’m wearing a blazer over a white button down blouse.   It occurs to me if I take the blazer off I will without a doubt spill food on my blouse.   I compromise by taking it off for a minute then putting it back on.

I”â„¢m still thinking how I can turn this situation around to my advantage so I tell him about the lingerie boutique on the corner I had perused earlier.   “You know, they have such gorgeous lingerie,” I tell him, “We should totally go in! You could get me something sexy.”

“Will I get to see you in it?” he asks.

“Of course!   They have dressing rooms.   You can watch me try something on then   buy it for me.   It will be super hot!”

The only person inside is the demure, Asian woman running the store.   I can only imagine what she is thinking seeing me return with the Chosen One.   I show him what I like- Cosabella and La Perla panties and bras, lovely, lacey Hankey Pankey pieces.   I am hoping for a matching set.   Chosen One doesn’t appear to be in a generous mood, though.   He points to a black thong and tells me to pick out my size.   I”â„¢m pretty annoyed.   Does he seriously need to live up to the Jewish stereotype of being a miser?

Even still I figure one thong is better than no thong so grab a small, and head towards the dressing room.   Chosen One attempts to follow but the store keeper stops him.

“Women only,” she says firmly.   Chosen One is not happy and appears miffed, like a little kid denied dessert, when he pays for the thong.

I have an interview uptown and The Chosen One offers to drive me.   I am running late and feeling too impoverished to take a cab so I allow him to play chauffer with his SUV.

As he pulls away from the curb and onto Amsterdam, he resumes talking about his, “Special, kosher cock.”   He asks, “Don’t you want to see it?”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen a circumcised penis before.”   I don’t bother keeping the boredom out of my voice.

With his left hand on the wheel, Chosen One takes his right hand and unzips his black, wool pants.   He pulls out his kosher friend.   I am almost expecting it to have a label on it- Parve: Kosher for Passover.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“That you need to focus on driving,” I say.

“Go on and touch it.   Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” I say dryly.   It’s not fear I feel but annoyance.   His penis is hardly intimidating; in fact the thing is downright flaccid.   We’re stopped at a red light and I just want this to be over with.   Harlem and a job interview working with octogenarians can’t get here quickly enough.   The real world of non-profits with their endless red tape, bureaucracy, and budget cuts is starting to look pretty good next to him.

“C’mon honey, give him a little kiss.   He really likes you.”   The Chosen One is trying to coax me into giving him road head.   That is so not happening.   I need to set the record straight.

“Dude, you bought me an $8 salad, a $2 coffee, and a $25 thong.   You’re lucky if I take my earmuffs off for that.”

“So how much is this going to cost me?   $50?” he suggests to the girl with $80,000 in student loans.   What was this cheapskate doing on Seeking Millionaire is beyond me.

“Look this doesn’t feel right,” I decide to lie, “I can’t be with a man of your religious background.   I’d be too afraid I’d go to hell.   But it was nice meeting you and good luck with everything.   Shalom.”   We’re almost there so I open the car door and step out into the street.   I will never meet another guy without seeing his photo first.

C. Cohen is a writer on the Eastern seaboard.