The hand that rocks the dreidel

Iris spat on her hand again and proceeded with her dirty work. I don't know whether her dad hadn't given her enough attention when she was a kid or what, but I knew she wouldn't stop until I had spilled all over her strong but delicate hands. Soon she had her comeuppance, so to speak, and went over to her bathroom sink to wash it off.

See also...
... by Steve Robles
... in the Crave section
... from September 8, 1999

"Have you no shame?" I chided.

"Of course not," she said. Or actually, "Ahf cowse nwat," since she was from Lwong Eyelind, NY. Iris' parents were semi-orthodox Jews (they even moved to Israel a couple of years ago), and while she tried to pretend she was unaffected by their dogma, there was only one place on her voluptuous bod where a man could find, er, love: her hand.

She was still a "virgin" at 23, although her palm had seen more schween than a urinal at Yankee Stadium. (Get it? Yank-ee? All right, I'll stop now.) I had known Iris for about three years and I still couldn't get into her pants, although she thought nothing of meeting a guy in a bar or on an airplane and jerking him off, sometimes taking care of herself at the same time, sometimes not.

"So where's the most dangerous place you've ever stroked a guy?" I asked. She paused for a second.

"There was one time..." she offered with a devilish smirk, still whittling the wand. "When my parents still lived here, and I jerked my boyfriend Jacob off in the back seat as we were driving to temple."

"Really?" I deadpanned, zipping up my pants.

"Yeah. He was a Jew but he wasn't into it or anything, so he hated going with all of us. My parents actually thought that someday he would be listening to Rabbi Gellar and a light from God would shine down on his head or something. I don't know."

So I literally had to bribe him into going with us. Usually I would wait until after as kind of a reward, but I was horny so I just went for it in the back of our Buick LeSabre, this big, huge car that we had. Daddy would drive and my mom was so busy chattering at him like an old yenta that I figured she would never notice."

"Did she?" I asked.

"Yeah. Jacob was getting into it, and he slid his butt across the leather seat and it made kind of a fart-y sound, ya know? So she looked in the rear view mirror and I think she saw."

"And she didn't say anything?"

"No! That's the weird thing! I think she got off on it, 'cause she kept on looking in the mirror. Just quick looks, ya know? It was probably kind of a thrill for her -­ my parents were sooo sexually repressed. So I just kept pumping on it until he was ready to cum, leaned over like I was gonna shut the window and scooped it all up. Then I wiped it on some Kleenex and stuffed the wad into the back seat ashtray. The funny thing is, the next day I heard her and my dad fucking for the first time in ages. It must have been like foreplay for her."

"OK, now we're heading into the land of too much information," I quipped.

"It was kinda cool, actually," she said, ignoring my attempt to derail her train of thought. "I got kinda horny, even, and ended up rubbing myself in the next room."

I had had enough. "You're sick, ya know that?"

"Yeah, but you love me," she said.

And she was right. In a weird way.

Dope addict Steve Robles often channels the ghosts of Bukowski and Lester Bangs for "inspiration." His work has appeared in Odyssey and UnRealPeople.