Flavor of the Week: That's Not Kosher

  Many people claim that dating, especially in New York City, is a chore. And it can be—unless you use a points system. Me, I like to try anything once. So when I was asked to dinner by a married Jewish man, I thought it could be interesting. And by interesting, I mean I was hungry and he was paying. Sure, there were warning signs like, Hey, this guy is married, and not only has a wife at home but three young daughters and they all live in a very tony section of Greenwich, Connecticut, but I was willing to overlook all of that because he'd agreed to take me to a tapas restaurant in Soho and who doesn’t like small plates?  

I met him after work in front of my office; he was a baby-faced finance type with an impressive title but an unfortunate sense of style—all stiff, starched collar and pleated trousers. He was, in essence, the human equivalent of mashed potatoes without gravy. By comparison, I am, admittedly, some Sichuan-style dish with tons of peppers. I am heartburn. He resembled nothing like his dating profile photos, which belied an innate sense of cool. That they were mostly professional shots should have indicated to me some sort of duplicity; everyone knows that soft lighting and camera angles can turn any homely lump into a brutal hottie. During our walk over to the restaurant, he talked about his hobbies, which included gaming and fencing. I was not impressed. But he was intelligent and kind, and I liked that about him.

At the restaurant he let me select the dishes, but relayed them to the server himself, something that had me bristling. What is this, 1952? I can order my own sausage, buddy. Despite my protests, he insisted I have a glass of wine. “I’m not really drinking right now,” I kept repeating, while perusing the wine selection, settling upon a Spanish red. When I suggested that we order paella, he blanched.

“I was raised Orthodox,” he said.

Now this, this was interesting. “Really,” I said, leaning forward, taking a sip of my wine. “Why aren’t you anymore?” “Imagine being told your whole life how to live a certain way when you know it’s not what you want. My parents wanted me to go to Rabbinical school. I didn’t.”

“So,” I said, gesturing to the menu, “how much of this can you eat?” I knew all about keeping kosher, the set of Jewish dietary laws that pretty much rules out eating anything fun, including pork and shellfish, and combining meat with dairy. “I’m not suggesting we get a Philly cheesesteak.”

“I don’t really keep kosher,” he replied, “but as I didn’t grow up eating that stuff, I don’t really have any interest in it.”

“So, no lobster?” I asked sadly. “No lobster for me, though you can get it if you want,” he said.

“I’m not going to eat a whole paella by myself,” I sighed, draining the wine.

He motioned to the server. “Could she have another glass of wine?” “Are you trying to get me drunk?” I simpered over the rim of the glass.

“Yes.” I shrugged. “At least you’re honest.” Five dishes and four glasses of wine later, I tottered out of the eatery, clinging to the crook of his elbow. “Now, why don’t we go see your apartment?” The way he said it, it was more of an order than a suggestion. Up until that moment, I was convinced I could extricate myself from this date without any sort of amorous contact. It was then I realized he expected us to fuck and would not relent until we did. Resignedly, I hailed a cab. In the backseat, he leaned in close and started to kiss me; I didn’t protest. But when we reached my neighborhood, in an attempt to stall, I suggested that we have a nightcap at a nearby restaurant where my friends worked, and he agreed. Perhaps one more drink would make this feel less awkward, I thought; alcohol is, after all, a social lubricant. Tonight I was going to need it as a sexual one also.

After the drink, when we were in my apartment, he methodically removed every article of his clothing, draping it over a chair to avoid collecting too much cat hair. I am a terrible housekeeper by any standards, and have as much compulsion to clean as a frat boy at a keg party. Seeing him standing there in his Ralph Lauren boxers, erection peeking through the fabric, I felt nothing. There was no attraction, and yet oddly, there was also no revulsion. I simply did not care. So I let him fuck me, perhaps because he’d paid for dinner, but mostly because I was bored and drunk.

As he jammed his less-than-impressive circumcised penis into me, I thought, “That’s it?” I was expecting something revelatory, perhaps Yahw*h intoning, “You shall tell this to the children of Israel.” Here, there was nothing to recount. That this adulterous desecration was happening in my apartment, located in South Williamsburg, land of “the Chosen People,” amused me, but I would have rather had an orgasm than a laugh.

My bush wasn’t even burning.

When cleaning your bathroom seems much more appealing than smearing on two layers of Chanel lipstick to meet a stranger who won’t try the paella, perhaps it’s time to reevaluate your priorities. Maybe it’s time to hire a cleaning service. But when the points don’t even add up to one really interesting story and instead leave you sexually frustrated, generally befuddled and equally bored, it means you should spend more time at the hardware store, picking out implements to install shelving units. Me, I’ll be at home, on all fours, scrubbing my floors until I find something, someone, worth more than two points and my self-respect.