M. Newman's Blog, page 7

The Kinkiest Sex Places

A few months ago, Men's Health Magazine published a list of exciting places in which to have sex. Some of the suggestions were quite imaginative and exciting. In case you haven't seen it, I'm happy to share my favorites from the list:

On the washing machine: your washing machine produces more vibrations than any other appliance in your home. When the guy's butt is on the lid, motion is transmitted through his pelvis, essentially turning his penis into a giant vibrator.

In a vault: The safe deposit box room at a bank offers lots of privacy. The door is closed; there are no cameras. This is a great place to make a deposit and withdraw.

At Victoria's Secret: They have the best dressing rooms for sex. Sometimes they have love seats in them. And of course, the store's atmosphere can be quite arousing.

On a Pilates ball: Couple sits on the ball with the woman straddling the man and facing away from him. Holding her hips for balance, he will use the rocking motion of the ball to thrust in and out of her from behind. Do 1 set of at least 50 reps.

In the back seat of a '57 Chevy.

MH readers contributed some kinky comments. Below are some steamy samples:
"At a movie theater during the show."

"On top of the Space Needle in Seattle."

"The best place to have sex is on the stairway of your office building with a co-worker. Not only does the rail/wall provide ample support for both parties to take turns on top but the fear of getting caught makes the entire event all that much more exciting."

"On the green of a golf course after dark."

By far, the most salacious suggestion came from a reader named K. Davey who wrote: "The best times to have sex is when we go to a party and the wife is dressed very sexy, showing a lot of breast and wearing no panties. The other men just can not keep their eyes off her. She becomes very open to the other men watching her. She will soon ask them to our room for just the two of them. After they have sex my wife is very hot and ready for more. That is when we go to our room and have the best sex ever, usually leaving the blinds open so others might just see us."
Interesting. This scenario may not be for everybody (certainly it is not for me) but whatever turns you on...

I hope that this piece gave you all some ideas for spicing up your own sex lives.
I'm sure that some of you have your own favorite scenarios (actual or fantasized.) It would be wonderful if you would share.

An apple a day? No way!

You've all heard the saying "an apple a day keeps the doctor away." It turns out that the old adage no longer holds true. Today the saying should go, "26 apples a day keep the doctor away." You read that correctly...26! According to Dr. Al Sears, you would have to eat 26 of today's apples to equal just one apple from 1914. Today's commercial farmers grow fruits and vegetables that are designed to look good on the shelf but they do not contribute to our health. These foods are little more than pulp and water; and harsh fertilizers leave the soil with few-if any- minerals to nourish the plants. Our food has been stripped of the nutrients we need. The produce we get from our grocery stores is lacking the necessary vitamins, minerals and fiber.
Are we doomed to a life lacking in good health, vitality and energy? Not according to Dr. Sears. He suggests a diet which he calls "Ultra Greens" which includes so-called "super foods" like spirulina, chlorella and chlorophyll which are packed with concentrated nutrition and all the vitamins we need but may not be getting from our produce.
Spirulina is the oldest food on earth, arriving on the planet over 3.5 billion years ago. It's actually a kind of blue-green algae and is the world's richest source of vitamins, minerals, iron and protein, as well as a host of other energizing and detoxifying nutrients. In one study, children who took just one gram of spirulina a day for six months showed a dramatic improvement in their academic scores. Other benefits that can be obtained by taking these super foods are:
*better overall immune system response.
* better ability of the body to eliminate toxins
*improved digestion
*enhanced oxygen delivery to the body's cells
*healthy cholesterol and blood pressure levels
*better growth and repair of cells, tissues and organs.
So, we should be wary of the traditionally healthy foods that we see on our grocers' shelves and consider alternative means of nutrition. Just some food for thought.

A Burglary Gone Bad

To my readers: Here is a new short story of mine.

A Burglary Gone Bad


I finished dressing in the tiny bathroom of my dingy little apartment on 50th St. in Boro Park, Brooklyn. Don’t ask how a lapsed Catholic, two-time loser like me landed in this Jew neighborhood, one of the largest Orthodox Jew communities in the world. I couldn’t tell you.

I had on black chinos, a black tee shirt and black shoes and socks, not exactly a flashy fashion statement but appropriate for my work tonight. Hopefully, this would be my last job. I wasn’t proud of all the two-bit burglaries and midnight muggings that I’d committed over the years but what the fuck; I had to pay my bills somehow.

This one would be different. My ex-girl, Rhonda, had tipped me off to easy pickings at this mansion in Millbrook, a super-rich community in upstate Dutchess County. She had worked as a decorator/housekeeper for the elderly owners until they’d gone to Florida for the winter, gaining their trust and learning the lay of the land, so to speak. According to Rhonda, the dumbasses left a fortune in cash and jewelry up north just ready for the taking. Rhonda said that the two geezers were so naive that they’d never even installed an alarm system.

God bless Rhonda’s fine ass for hooking me up. Who’d have guessed? Our relationship had been rocky. I’d always apologized after smacking her around and she’d always taken me back. However, we hadn’t spoken in nearly a year; not since the day she walked in on me and her sister. I guess that had been the last straw. As soon as the shock wore off she swore angrily that if she ever saw me again she would cut off my dick. But now I figured bygones were bygones. The way I figured, Rhonda must have spent the past year feenin’ for another taste of my big boy. Tipping me off to this job was her way of getting me back into her bed. “She’s probably expecting a share of the loot, as well,” I thought. Dude, believe me I was down for fucking the bitch again but after I got some of that fine booty, so help me Rhonda, I would be out with the whole haul.

So, I was finally ready to roll. Before leaving I said a little bruchah, some Jewish prayer I learned from this Yid that I used to get high with. I pray for luck before each job but I know it’s bullshit. The last time I got busted, I’d said the damn prayer and look what happened. I guess maybe it only works for Jews. Probably, I should learn a Catholic prayer.

I gulped down half a can of Bud and with an optimistic bounce in my step, I headed for my car which was parked on 18th Ave. A cold wind blew small flakes of snow into my face and I scrunched my shoulders and lifted the collar of my pea coat to protect myself against the minor winter onslaught. I reached my car, a rusty ’86 Datsun and indifferently removed a parking ticket from the windshield, crushing it in my hand before throwing it into the street. The car started on the third try and I pulled out of the parking spot and headed for the Verrazano, hardly even cursing when the piece of shit jalopy stalled at the first red light. “It’s alright,” I told myself. “Soon as this heist is over, I’m buying a brand new Benz. Homeboy gonna be riding in style.”

I took the Taconic Parkway to the Pleasant Valley exit and then route 44 towards Millbrook. Rhonda’s directions were kind of vague, and with limited visibility because of the suddenly-heavy snow, I got a little bit lost. I pulled a little bottle of whiskey from the glove box and took a swig to calm myself. It didn’t work; I was still stressed. The Datsun stalled out and I cursed loudly and punched the steering wheel. I should have been a mechanic. Apparently, punching the steering wheel was all that was necessary to bring the car back to life. Things were looking up now. The snow suddenly stopped and a full moon appeared from behind the storm clouds. A silly grin formed, unbidden, on my face. After retracing my route, I discovered the turn that I had missed a few miles back. I drove past the horse farm that Rhonda had said was two miles up the road from the mansion and a few minutes later I reached my destination.

I turned out the headlights as I pulled into the driveway and drove slowly toward the house, a huge colonial set way back from the road. I stopped next to the garage and quietly got out of the car, staggering a bit as the whiskey went to my head. I reached back into the car for another little taste just to calm my nerves. Beneath a brilliant full moon, my all-black outfit contrasted sharply with the several inches of virgin snow on the ground, essentially negating whatever camouflage effect that I’d planned. Big shit. Who was going to see me in the middle of the night a quarter mile off a deserted road in West Bubblefuck?

It was a snap getting inside the house with my little set of burglary tools. I don’t think it took more than a minute to pick the lock of the front door. It was black as death inside and I fumbled for my mag-lite. Before I could turn on the flashlight my head seemed to explode. Intense pain bounced from my skull to my brain and back again; bright kaleidoscopic forms flashed behind my eyes. These were quickly extinguished by what I can only describe as a vast nothingness..

I awoke with a major league headache and did not at first remember where I was. It took a few moments before it dawned upon me that I was stark naked and bound to a straight-backed chair in the parlor of an upstate mansion. As my head cleared, I became aware of a beautiful woman, as naked as I was, standing in front of me. Before I could say a word, Rhonda dropped to her knees and took my flaccid penis in her mouth. I was hard in no time but the bitch immediately removed her mouth from my dick and stood up.
“Oh, more baby. Don’t stop...,” I began.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” the naked temptress demanded as she slapped me in the face. She laughed, harshly and looked at me with unadulterated hatred in her eyes. “You are a stupid motherfucker,” she said. “You didn’t think this through, idiot. What made you think that I would help you to an easy fortune after the way you treated me? You must be a moron to have fallen for the story I told you.”

My hard-on deflated like a punctured balloon and I glumly asked her what she planned to do.
“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,” she promised, with an evil glint in her eye. “Would you like to guess? In fact, why don’t you take three guesses? Or maybe you’d like to play twenty questions.”
“Come on, Rhonda,” I demanded, beginning to get a little annoyed. The bitch had always liked playing these stupid little games and I was not in the mood. “Just tell me what you’re gonna do.”
“ Okay, sweetheart, if you insist. The last time I saw you, I swore an oath,” she stated coldly as she returned to her knees and licked my dick hard again. “And I intend to keep my promise.” Suddenly she stood and reached for a large carving knife. I let loose a blood-curdling shriek as she swung her arm in a descending arc, the knife cleanly slicing through my still-aroused manhood. Desperately, I struggled to free myself from my binds so as to recover my severed phallus from the floor. Rhonda looked on sadistically, exceedingly proud of her grisly accomplishment.
“Look at you, you pathetic fool,” she gloated, triumphantly. “You came in here arrogant and half-cocked, and now,” she added with a wicked smile, “you’ll leave broken, with half a cock.”

Anotha "nigga" post

A few more words about that pesky "N-word:" The word, now usually spelled "n-i-g-g-a," has evolved from a pejorative, used by ignorant racists, into a harmless slang term used as a form of address synonymous with words like "dude" or "man." Despite the many, understandable, protests from older blacks and well-meaning whites, who relate it to a much uglier and more hateful time, this once-powerful word has become little more than a meaningless cliche, thoughtlessly spouted scores of times a day by young blacks and even young whites. It is rare that it is used in the context of "you, nigger, are inferior."
The term is so meaningless that I, a middle-aged white man, have countless times been told, "Newman, you my nigga."
To me, it is a good thing that the term has lost its venom. Although it is wise never to forget the atrocities brought upon people in the past lest they be repeated in the future, attaching so much meaning to one word would seem to diminish the perception of how evil those atrocities actually were. If it were just about the "n-word" one could advise the victims that "sticks and stones..."
My all-time favorite usage of the word was related to me by my good friend, Rubin, a fellow high school teacher. Rubin had assigned an oral report on current events to his special education class. Very few of the students actually completed the assignment but one young lady strutted up to the front of the classroom and, without the benefit of notes, proceeded to offer the following "current events" report:
"Yesterday I bought a new pair of Jordans. Them niggas was fresh."

Nigger or not?

As some of you may have heard, a new edition of Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" will have the so-called N-word replaced by the word "slave," thus sanitizing the book for young readers. There are, doubtless, many opinions on this and, naturally, I wish to add my own. First, and foremost, I find it terribly presumptuous of anybody to change the words of any classic piece of literature, especially one which was written by, perhaps America's greatest author, a man who said, "the difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug."
Changing this word does nothing but diminish the awesome power of this great novel. "Nigger" Jim was not cast as inferior or sub-human but rather, as a real and decent man, perhaps, other than young Huck, the only such character in the book.
The use of this offensive word conveys the reality of the era in which this novel was written. Young readers need to understand how people of color were treated and why that treatment was abhorrent. By replacing the word, the censor will present a distorted view of history and actually make it more difficult to illustrate man's inhumanity to his fellow man. Rather than shielding young readers from our shameful history we should be enlightening them in the hope that such reprehensible deeds and attitudes as took place in that time never take place again. As Santayana's famous quotation went, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
Keep in mind that many young black people, in the face of criticism from whites and older blacks, often address each other or refer to friends as "nigga." Contrary to popular opinion, I disagree with this criticism. The term, in this case, is not used as a pejorative and actually serves to remove the stigma from the once highly offensive word. It's all about context.
I would love to hear other people's opinions. Please feel free to reply on Goodreads or FB or my personal email. I look forward to hearing from everybody.

in2books

Today I'm writing about a wonderful organization that I learned about from my friend Mystique O'Purr. In2books promotes literacy learning in grades 3-5 by having students engage in reading and writing experiences with carefully screened, adult pen pals. The pen pal experience is complemented by the classroom study of genre and genre-related literacy.
From its inception in 1997, in2books has focused on students from low-income, socially diverse neighborhoods. The thought-provoking curriculum includes carefully chosen, high quality and diverse books and proven teaching strategies.
All students are connected with adult pen pals. They select and read 5 books each year and their adult pen pals read the same books. The students and adults exchange 6 online letters each year: one "getting to know you" letter and 5 book letters about the important issues in the books.
All adult pen pals undergo a background check and each of their letters to children must be approved by a teacher before a child reads it, thus ensuring the safety of the children. The adult pen pals are then coached to support classroom instruction. They are provided with many resources including information about letter writing to students, sample letters, suggested vocabulary and thought-provoking questions.
I urge anybody with a little bit of time to get involved with this worthwhile organization. The future of our children is in our own hands.

in2books.epals.com

The Shiksa

The Shiksa
by M Newman



Arthur Lipsky had it made. He was handsome and smart; dark wavy hair, clear skin, a hundred watt smile and a physique like Charles Atlas. He’d graduated at the top of his class at Brooklyn Tech, the crown jewel of Brooklyn high schools and was headed for CCNY in the fall. And his parents were filthy rich. Dad owned the largest and most successful chain of Jewish funeral parlors in Brooklyn and there was lots of money, mostly from Wall Street, on Mom’s side of the family as well. Mom and Dad had bought him a Porsche 550 Spyder for his eighteenth birthday; the same car, according to the Hollywood gossip sheets, that Jimmy Dean was speeding around in that summer. That car made Arthur the King of the drag strip on Fountain Ave.

Right from the start, he had had no trouble attracting girls. Audrey Cohen and Barbara Weiss, for example, had each given him a hand job only an hour apart at his Bar Mitzvah reception, a gala affair that was held at the elegant Bossert Hotel in Brooklyn Heights. Quiet Ellen Goldberg was driven to tears when she discovered that she was too late to present him with the same gift. When Arthur was 14, Laurie Levine gave him his first of many blow jobs under the ivy in the P.S. 233 schoolyard. Laurie was 17 and had even gone out with a college boy or two. Not too long afterwards, he and Annie Schain took each other’s virginity beneath the bleachers at Tilden High School after Arthur had run 35 yards for Tech’s game-winning touchdown, breaking the heart of every Tilden Blue Devil fan except Annie, the pert and pretty captain of the Tilden cheerleaders.

Now, the handsome high school graduate was sleeping with his friend Lenny Shapiro’s mom. Some months ago, unaware (or was she?) that Arthur and her son were in the house watching a Dodgers game on TV, she’d come out of her bedroom and Arthur glimpsed her heading to the kitchen wearing nothing but a bra and a skimpy pair of pink panties. Arthur could not keep his eyes off the scantily clad Mrs. Shapiro and when she felt his gaze practically burning a hole in her butt, she turned and offered him an inviting smile. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, after lingering for a long moment then feigning embarrassment. “I didn’t know anybody was here.” She scampered back to her bedroom and put on some clothes, reappearing a few minutes later with an offer of a snack for the boys.
Unbeknownst to Lenny, his friend and his mom had been getting it on ever since. Lenny’s mom, a recent divorcee, was still beautiful despite being nearly forty; she had a better body even than Miss Levy, the spectacularly sexy Social Studies teacher who was only twenty-six and whom every boy at Tech dreamed about and whom Arthur had been secretly shtupping; and the more experienced older woman could do things to Arthur that Miss Levy could not even imagine; things that had him climbing the walls and still other things that actually aroused him to squeal with uncontrollable pleasure.

But Arthur was becoming bored with his love life. There was an alarming sameness to each of his sexual encounters; he read it as an annoying “Jewishness.” Every girl that he slept with seemed shallow and ultimately interested in capturing him for marriage. Even Mrs, Shapiro, who, granted, provided sex on a totally different level and who certainly did not want to marry him, treated him, outside the bedroom, as would a clinging Jewish mother. She pampered him as if he were her ten year old son, smothered him with guilt when he left her embrace and made it clear that she expected a long-term commitment.

“I can do better than this,” Arthur told himself. “Sure, I have my pick of every beautiful girl in the neighborhood. I know that I’m the envy of every boy but there must be more. I’m sure there is another world outside this Jewish ghetto; a world of goyishe women, more beautiful and certainly more sophisticated than these yiddishe maidelech. Brooklyn Jews are so provincial,” he mused, “so kleinschtetldik . It’s time for me to step up in class.”

***

Arthur grinned at his reflection in the mirror as he dressed for his night on the town. “What would Mom say if she knew what I had in mind for tonight,” he thought. “She’s spent my entire adolescence warning me to beware of shiksas.” It was true. “You want a nice Jewish girl, Arthur,” she would say. “Those goys are nothing but trouble. If you date a shiksa, the next thing you know you’ll be marrying her, god forbid, and then what kind of children will you have? Non-Jewish, that’s what kind!”

After shaving, Arthur patted a liberal amount of cologne on his face, enjoying the astringent sting. He used the better Canoe tonight instead of his everyday Aqua Velva. Ignoring his usual black chinos, tee shirt and black leather jacket, he put on his best suit, a slim-cut, small-lapeled charcoal gray Hart, Shaffner and Marx. He wore a light gray shirt and a skinny black tie that he attached to his shirt with an expensive sterling silver tie clip which bore his initials. The french cuffs of his shirt were fastened with cuff links that matched the tie clip. Of course, he placed a brand new, white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

As he headed for the door he planted an affectionate kiss on his mother’s cheek. “Don’t wait up, mom,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll be home tonight.”
“Oy,” she replied. What do you mean you don’t know if you’ll be home? What are you, a trombenik?”
“No, I’m not a bum,” he laughed. “It’s just that I’m going into the city so maybe if it’s late I’ll check into a hotel.”
“Okay. Have a good time but be careful.” She gave his cheek a little pinch as she told him, “you look so handsome, boychik.”

Arthur placed a smart-looking fedora on his head as he raced out of the house to the Porsche and sped to the city.

***


He dragged on his Pall Mall and nursed a Black Label on the rocks as he sat on a stool at the upscale bar on Fifty Second Street. He’d arrived about fifteen minutes ago and was admiring the classy little joint, rubbing his hand over the surface of the mahogany bar. He was inordinately impressed that the stools were covered with real leather. When he’d entered the establishment he’d immediately noticed that the floors were not covered in sawdust like the floors of the dives he frequented in Brooklyn. Frank Sinatra was singing My Funny Valentine on the jukebox and a middle-aged couple was slow-dancing in a corner of the room, the man’s right hand not quite discreetly squeezing his partner’s butt. Several other couples sat at tables, eating dinner and speaking quietly. At one table sat six well-dressed gentlemen discussing, in hushed tones, the heist that would be going down tomorrow evening.

Her fragrance preceded her into Arthur’s awareness. It was the sweet aroma of Chanel #5. Somehow, the smell of her perfume combined with her own bodily chemistry to form the most intoxicating elixir. He was hooked even before he had seen or spoken to her. When he looked up it was a wrap. He saw a tall, olive-skinned Venus in her mid-twenties with dark wavy hair that ended a bit above her shoulders. Her hair looked so soft and inviting that he could imagine the ecstasy of running his fingers through it. Heads turned when the dark-haired beauty entered the room on black stiletto heels, wearing the sexiest dress Arthur had ever seen: black and backless with a plunging neckline in the front and a form-fitting pencil skirt, seductive slit in the back. As the woman walked past him toward the other end of the bar, he swiveled his stool to admire the way she wiggled her sweet derriere. She stopped and turned back, locking eyes with Arthur and flashing a smile. She only hesitated for a second before deciding to sit on the stool next to his.
“I’ll have a Manhattan,” she informed him and sent an electric thrill through his body as she touched the hand that lit her cigarette.


***

Joey Paloma turned from his five colleagues and watched angrily as Arthur left the bar with the beautiful Gina on his arm. Paloma had been banging Gina off and on since they were teenagers growing up on Elizabeth Street in Little Italy. Although Gina felt differently, Paloma considered her his property. She’d told him that she loved him before he’d done his year upstate and the ex-con couldn’t get it into his head that her love had faded like last year’s blue jeans.
“Paloma, pay attention,” Sally the Barber scolded. “We need to know that everything’s copacetic for tomorrow’s job.” Joey turned back to the conference because you did not want to get on Sally’s bad side but he could not stop thinking about Gina leaving the bar with that boy.




***

Arthur left the Porsche in the parking lot and hailed a cab. He and Gina, both a bit drunk, fell into the roomy back seat of the Checker and instructed the driver to take them to the Waldorf where Gina maintained an apartment. The couple held hands, giggled a lot and smooched a little.

The cabbie let them off at Park Avenue and East 50th Street and Arthur paid the fare including an exorbitant tip for the cabbie who quickly pocketed the money. The doorman greeted Gina with a large smile and a very friendly “Good Evening Miss Vitale.” She returned the smile and Arthur nodded. They took the elevator to the forty-fifth floor and entered a breathtakingly beautiful suite. The moment the door closed behind them, Arthur, hardly able to contain his excitement, pulled Gina into his arms and kissed her deeply. She responded in kind and Arthur’s blood began to boil as she pressed still closer and rubbed seductively against him; but as his hands began to roam about her body, she pulled back and breathlessly advised, “hold on, slugger. Let’s take it a little bit slower. Come inside my boudoir and let’s get comfortable.”

Arthur reluctantly loosened his embrace and obediently followed her into the bedroom. “Relax for a few minutes, honey,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.” He sat down on the king-size four-poster bed and took off his shoes. After a minute or two he got up and removed his suit jacket, neatly folding it and placing it on the arm chair near the bed. He took off his tie, placed it on top of his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and lit a cigarette. He walked across the spacious room, parted the plush purple velvet drapes and looked out the large window at Park Avenue below.

After a few minutes Gina reentered the room wearing a sheer, black negligee and carrying a decanter of whiskey. She placed the decanter on the nightstand and walked to the window, hugged Arthur from behind and planted a hot kiss on the nape of his neck. She took his hand and walked him to the bed and poured each of them a shot of whiskey.
“L’chaim,” Arthur toasted as he took one last drag of his cigarette and crushed it out.
“Whatever that means,” said the girl and they both giggled before downing their drinks in one gulp.

Presently, Gina produced what appeared to Arthur to be a hand-rolled cigarette. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “You can light it up.”
“What is this,” the confused boy asked.
Gina was highly amused. “It’s reefer, silly. Don’t tell me you’ve never smoked.” She laughed good-naturedly at the nonplussed boy and said, “don’t worry, it won’t hurt you; you’ll love it.”
Arthur lit up as per Gina’s behest and promptly fell into a violent fit of coughing. Gina laughed harder now but quickly stopped when she recognized his embarrassment.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. That happens to everybody the first time they smoke pot. You’ll be fine your next toke.” She hugged him provocatively and nibbled his ear before taking the joint from his hand and inhaling deeply. She returned it to Arthur who inhaled with no adverse results this time. The couple finished the joint while sipping their refilled glasses of whiskey.

Feeling fine now, in fact, more relaxed than he’d felt all evening, Arthur made his move, sliding his hand between her legs and squeezing the inside of her shapely thigh. Gina moaned deep in her throat, reached over to turn out the light and after hurriedly helping him to remove the rest of his clothes, pulled him atop her eager body.


***



Arthur walked out onto sunny Park Avenue with a bounce in his step, whistling Love Is A Many Splendored Thing, the current hit by The Four Aces. Truth be told, he was not really in love but he was looking forward to seeing her again. It had been a memorable night; they’d fucked for hours and Gina had proven to be a very imaginative lover, taking him to heights that he’d never before reached; and what stamina! Despite multiple orgasms, she kept coming back for more. Whenever he thought that he couldn’t possibly do it again, she coaxed him back to life with a talented tongue or a dextrous hand. They finally fell asleep and awoke in the morning to perform an encore. Finally satisfied, they polished off a delicious room service breakfast, shared a relatively sex-free shower and said their goodbyes.

“Can’t wait to see her again,” he thought. “This girl is incredible; so much more sophisticated than anyone I’ve ever known. It’s just what I was talking about.” They’d made tentative plans to go to the Met later in the week and possibly the Stork Club next weekend.

Arthur knew that he was not the only man in her life, nor would he ever be and he was alright with that. For one thing, there was the rich old fart who was paying her rent but would never leave his wife even if Gina had wanted him to; and gorgeous as she was, there was always a procession of handsome young men at her beck and call. He would be happy being just one of her men.

Suddenly, Arthur’s pleasant thoughts were rudely interrupted. He felt a small stab of pain as a pistol was jammed into his ribs. “Get into the car, scumbag. We’re going for a ride.”

He did not resist. He tumbled into the back seat when the gunman pushed him, roughly, through the door. Panic rushed to the surface like bile and he struggled to keep it down. “Who is this guy,” he wondered. “And what does he want with me?”

As if he could read his thoughts, the stranger said, “You and me, we’re going for a little ride. What the fuck made you think you could make time with my girl, you cocksucker?” Joey Paloma, in his rage, did not consider that Arthur had been unaware that Gina was “his girl;” nor did it ever occur to Joey that she was not “his girl.”
“Sir,” Arthur stammered, “I...,”
“Shut the fuck up,” Paloma screamed, rage getting the better of him like a potent drug. Unable to control himself, he punched Arthur in the mouth, loosening a couple of the boy’s teeth. Arthur, not quite understanding what was going on, tasted blood and spoke no more.
“Joey,” the driver said, sternly. “Calm down. We’ll take care of this when we get there; and let’s do this quick, we got that job with Sally later. ‘The Barber’ will bust our nuts in a vise if we’re late. We’re not even supposed to be out this morning.”
“Okay, then; let’s do this,” Paloma hollered.

They sped downtown to the Battery Tunnel and crossed the river into Brooklyn, exiting the Gowanus Expressway at the first opportunity, crossing Buttermilk Channel and heading straight to a warehouse on Commerce Street at the waterfront. Paloma pulled his prisoner from the car and dragged him into the warehouse. Arthur could not fathom why this was happening to him but every time he attempted to speak, the thug punched him in the face.

The driver followed them into the warehouse and closed the door behind them. Paloma immediately let loose a left hook to the side of Arthur’s head. The bewildered boy did not even attempt to defend himself. “You stay the fuck away from my girl,” Paloma screamed and punched him in the solar plexus. While Arthur was bent over, desperately attempting to regain his breath, Paloma picked up a rusty metal rod that he had spied on the floor nearby and swung it violently at his hapless victim’s knees. A loud crack filled the empty warehouse and Arthur somehow found the breath to scream. It was an agonized scream that, unfortunately, only the two hoodlums heard. The poor boy fell to the floor in a heap and began to whimper like a wounded dog. Now the driver got into the act. He kicked him in the ribs and something else cracked. Paloma kicked the boy in the head and the two hoodlums continued to kick their defenseless victim as if he were a soccer ball. As he drifted into unconsciousness, Arthur thought that it was incredible that such a magnificent night had turned into such a horrendous morning. His last thought was, “Mom was right. Never go out with a shiksa.”

News Item:Palin Calls Criticism "Blood Libel."

For those of you who missed it, Sarah Palin denounced her critics in a video statement that accused journalists and pundits of "blood libel" in what she called "their rush to blame overheated political rhetoric for the shootings in Arizona."
The term 'blood libel," is generally used to mean the false accusation that Jews murder Christian children to use their blood in religious rituals such as the baking of matzoh for Passover. That claim was used for centuries to incite anti-Semitism and justify violent pogroms against Jews. Palin's use of the term has attracted warranted criticism, in part because the critically wounded Congresswoman, Gabrielle Giffords is Jewish.
Ms. Palin's use of a map with cross hairs targeting a number of swing districts has become a symbol of that overheated rhetoric. In the video, Palin rejected criticism of the map (despite the fact that she had removed it from her Facebook page after the shootings; oh, and by the way, why didn't she remove it when Giffords first expressed concern about the targeting of her district?) and claimed that the criticism was an attack on the rights of free speech practiced by people of all political persuasions. She said that acts such as the shootings in Arizona "begin and end with the criminals who commit them...not with law abiding citizens who respectfully exercise their First Amendment rights at campaign rallies."
Palin attacked her critics saying that they "should not manufacture a 'blood libel' that serves only to incite the very hatred and violence they purport to condemn. That is reprehensible."
In other words, the critics are more to blame than the hate-monger. Palin's defense is what is reprehensible. Rather than simply taking some personal responsibility and apologizing to the victims of the shooting, the woman makes the issue all about herself, actually playing the role of the victim. Poor Sarah, unjustly attacked by the "touchy, feely" Liberals.
Palin's finger-pointing at those who have criticized legitimate use of First Amendment rights is totally bogus.The First Amendment right that Palin feels is being violated is no more an example of free speech than yelling fire in a crowded movie theater.
Palin also defended her call to "take up arms," claiming that "when we say take up arms we are talking about our vote." Okay, maybe that was nothing more than an unfortunate albeit, violent metaphor but how does she explain her call to "reload?"
Of course, Palin is far from the only politician spewing dangerous rhetoric. Tea Party candidate Sharron Angle had said during her election campaign against Harry Reid that voters could pursue "Second Amendment remedies" if the political process did not work for them. Angle, of course, issued a statement defending her rhetoric.
People like Ms. Palin and Ms. Angle and others of their ilk such as Michelle Bachman and Rand Paul are despicable, dangerous and anything but the "patriots" that they claim to be.

The Jets, the Super Bowl and Football Fiction

I watched the Jets beat the Colts last night; a very exciting game which kept me at the edge of my seat. As expected, the Jets were carried by their defense and their running game but kudos to Mark Sanchez for engineering the drive that culminated in a game-winning field goal as time ran out. Unfortunately, I can't see the Jets beating New England next week. In my opinion, the Pats are clearly the best team in the NFL.
My Super Bowl prediction: New England over Green Bay, 24-14.
Last night's game got me thinking about the greatest football novels. Somehow, I could only come up with two. 1973's "North Dallas Forty" by former Dallas Cowboys receiver, Peter Gent and Dan Jenkins' "Semi-Tough," written in 1977. Both books were included in Sports Illustrated's list of the Greatest Sports Books ever, and deservedly so.
"North Dallas Forty," a thinly disguised autobiography, is an angry, insider's look at pro football with what, at the time, were scandalous revelations regarding sex, drugs and alcohol abuse in the NFL.
"Semi-Tough" is a hilarious book which is considered by many to be the funniest sports book ever written. It follows the adventures of Billy Clyde Puckett, the star running back for the New York Giants, whose team is in Los Angeles to face the despised Jets in the Super Bowl.
Both authors have written other books but none have lived up to the standards set by these masterpieces. To the best of my knowledge, neither have any other books.

About me as I enter the Blogosphere

Hello readers (if I have any yet). M. Newman is my name as you no doubt have figured out by the title of this Blog.
I am the author of 2 novels: "School Colors," published in 2002 by Xlibris, written under the name Mitch Newman, and still available at xlibris.com. It is a smoking story of sex, drugs, violence and basketball at an inner-city high school. My current novel, published about a month ago is entitled, "Sophie Paraskova," and tells the story of a beautiful young Jewish woman who flees Russia with her family in the 1880's and arrives on NYC's Lower East Side where she falls in love with a handsome anarchist with whom she sets 19th century America on its ear. This book is available at Amazon.com.
In the past, I have written many articles for sports and sports-coaching publications and I was sports columnist for "The Newspaper," a Brooklyn weekly paper. More recently, I have been writing short stories which I plan to post on this Blog about once a month. I would also be very happy to post stories by my readers on this page.
Unfortunately for my writing career, I have a day job (really a day and night job) teaching PE and coaching basketball and softball at a NYC high school which, combined with an epic commute, keeps me too busy to do as much writing as I would like. I love the job, though, so no thoughts of quitting (I need the paycheck anyway}. Despite the time constraints I plan to post as often as possible. See you soon.