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.”
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.”
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