Cool Hand Luke

He says she says.She says:

The yoga class was very crowded. He opened the door and scanned the room. It’s a big room, did he have to squeeze in beside me? Guys are so obvious. OK, Rina*, stop being uber-bitch. I deigned to ask him if he had enough space; not like I would have scooted over if he hadn’t. He said yes. Whoa – those eyes – big and blue exuding wickedness and delight. They held the promise of…what? His hair was sandy grey and his nose upturned. A face as not-Jewish as they come. He wore black sweat pants with a blue dress shirt. Where was he coming from, looking half formal and half slob? His feet stuck out from the bottom of the pants. His big toe was wide and round. He had hobbit feet and not very big. Not very promising if I were making deductions about his ****. But he was tall. I like that. What was his deal? I wonder if he knows that I’m Jewish? Damn, they can always sniff it out.

The earth moved, literally.

"Earthquake?" he mouthed.

 I nodded.

I’ve never seen a man who looked like that talk to a woman, a strange woman.

It was hard to focus for the rest of the class. His sexual energy was piercing, but oh God, the way that he looked, the tzitzit hanging out, the beard, the yarmulke, it was enough to dampen the desire of any modern girl.

When class ended and we were rolling up our mats, we finally spoke. God, that voice, it was deep and gravelly, the accent heavenly, yet it threw me off, another puzzle piece in the mystery. He was Australian.

I mentioned that I was taking a Hebrew class. This was the litmus test. If he did not react, I would know that he was simply chatting with me out of politeness. But his eyes lit up and he looked at me anew. Not just a cute ass, but a tribe member as well.

I asked him to have tea because I wasn’t ready to let him go quite yet. He told me that his father was an outcast Seventh-Day Adventist minister and he was a blogger. This was getting stranger and stranger, but I liked that he was a writer like me.

As we left the building, I surprised myself and offered him a ride. This is a big city, you don’t let strangers in your car. Plus, he had yoga breath. Maybe I just wanted to show off the brand new Infiniti G37S, which is better than sex most days of the week. All week I had f****** the car alone. Now I liked having a witness.

He seemed so straight-laced, I was surprised when he suggested a ride on the PCH north. I was wary, but my decision making was already questionable that evening. I could feel the metal between my legs, the purr of the engine, the fear in his eyes, yes I was getting excited.

Finally, at 85 mph, he told me we had reached his comfort threshold. So, he was a risk-taker, but measured.

He was wearing a leather jacket when we pulled over to walk on the beach. He had previously mentioned that he was sick. I asked him if he was OK walking at night in the cold by the ocean and he said yes. In fact, he seemed revived by the ocean, like meeting an old friend.

He walked straight out to the end of the jetty, again, the risky brave behavior with a dose of caution. I liked it. He turned me on and made me feel safe.

I was surprised when he offered his hand to help me over the slippery rocks. I had never seen a bearded Jew touch a woman before, not even on the hand. What was his deal?

The decisive moment came and went. I mean, a movie perfect moment, the ocean spraying our faces, the moonlight overhead. He moved in close and I just about puckered but he didn’t complete the pass.

I was relieved. I had yoga breath too. I took him home, both of us refreshed by the seaside jaunt. I wondered if I would see him again. I kind of liked him but he made my stomach hurt.

When we went to the movies, the Arclight on Saturday night, I had to steel myself against the looks of consternation on the other moviegoers’ faces. Here was this super-Orthodox guy walking in with a pretty, obviously not Orthodox women. Oh God, give me courage. I did wear a long skirt but still there was no mistaking the visual disparity between us and the odd stares of people passing. Does he know that people stare at him?

My outfit had a two-fold purpose. The long skirt was to let him know that we were from the same Jewish world. Yet below it, I wore skimpy panties and freshly shaved legs. Above I wear a cream sweater and no bra so he might notice the shadow of my nipples.

During a Q&A with the director of the film, he whipped out a video camera. I was mortified. Everyone knows that’s illegal. He was making me uncomfortable and on the way out he held my hand. Please, please, don’t let me bump into anyone I know. How would I ever explain this?

On the dark roof of the parking structure, I was surprised when he put his hands along my sides but not unhappy. At least nobody could see my choice of date.

We went for a ride and parked like a couple of teenagers on Mulholland Drive and moments later we were shooed away by the police. We found a quiet place to park and talk. I coyly placed my foot on his lap to test his reaction. When he gently rubbed it and touched even higher on my leg, he passed the test.

We put the seat back and he rubbed my breasts, him lying flat on his back and me on my back stacked on top of him like a couple of pancakes. I was bored. I wanted him to flip me over and make out with me hard. After all, that’s what his eyes promised. Was he being respectful? Was he even into it? Is he thinking about the Torah? An idea for a blog post? Fantasizing about an ex? Is he wondering whether to put potatoes in the pea soup?

Now I know more about Luke but not much. He ****s me for hours at a time without moaning or grunting. Even though he is in constant motion, there is a stillness, a repetitive heaviness in the act. It is reliable and methodical, risky but measured like Luke himself.

Is he releasing everything? Sperm? Anger? Sickness? Childhood? Rage? Lust? Passion?

Is it the fact that it’s me, someone age appropriate, bright, Jewish and pretty? He can finally release his cruel intentions on this girl, this girl who represents thousands of years of Yiddishkeit, whose DNA shouts Mount Sinai.

By pounding and pounding, he is proving his worth and sincerity. ****ing me he is saying **** you to all who don’t see him as Jewish or worse those who see his Judaism as mockery. All the built-up shame and rage comes pouring out of him, like I don’t matter. Yet I do. I can tell by the way he kisses me, licks me, holds me tightly, asking me over and over, are you OK?

Don’t get me wrong, I need the pounding as much as he does. No matter what, who or how long, I never feel filled up, but he comes close. I want to **** him until I am beyond sense, incoherent and in pain, until all visuals and thoughts disappear, into the single act of smell, sound, touch and pleasure. Pure being, pure rebirth, another chance.

Sex is the life raft. I don’t want him to stop. I hate when he pulls out. The illusion is over. We become two separate people again, which saddens me to my core. But when we talk in the dark, our scents mingling, candle burning low — about our families, religion, work — then it’s not so bad. An invisible thread of conversation connects my **** with his ****. And I feel slightly better.

When we part tonight, I know I will need many many chocolate chip cookies.

About Luke Ford

I've written five books (see My work has been covered in the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and on 60 Minutes. I teach Alexander Technique in Beverly Hills (
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