Every year during the traditional festival of lights season, I travel in from my edgy apartment in the city and spend time with my family at my childhood home in the comfortably predictable suburbs.
I look forward to spending time with my eema and abba, otherwise known as my mom and dad; my sisters, their husbands and my nieces and nephews. I help my mother, Ruth, in the kitchen preparing the traditional Hanukkah food for our family dinner, like potato, cheese, and apple latkes. It’s our family custom that on the first day of Hanukkah, our entire family gets together and lights the first candle of the menorah at sunset; offering our thanks. Later, we all sit down for our customary Jewish dinner. We talk and laugh together around my parent’s dining room table; catching up on the events of one another’s lives while looking over the myriad of platters filled with our favorite food amongst the open bottles of sweet Manischewitz wine. It may not be a major Jewish holiday but it’s definitely one of my favorites.
Going home for Hanukkah is a magical time for me; stirring up thoughts of my rich, German-Jewish heritage surrounded by all the colorful people I love and care about the most. Don’t get me wrong though, growing up in a strict Jewish home wasn’t always easy or as sweet as sufganiya, especially for me; a girl who learned fairly early on that she didn’t fit into every last one of her family’s traditions and expectations.
It wasn’t until I went away to college that I finally broke free from the world my parents struggled so hard to tie me to; a world that was filled with their model for convention. Like most children growing up under a roof governed by the strict rules of their parents, I later learned to create new traditions for myself that better suited me as a person, but still celebrate my Jewish heritage.
This year was no exception. I was starting a new custom by bringing my friend and lover, Samantha, home to our family’s traditional Hanukkah dinner celebration. My family knew that Samantha and I were a couple, but to further help our non-conservative relationship bridge our family’s ancestral traditions, I reminded my parents that Samantha’s name was indeed Hebrew; derived from Samuel, meaning: His name is God. I’m sure my parents were already versed in where the name Samuel was adopted from, but I hoped this information would warm my parents first time meeting with the important woman in my life.
“Hi, Eema. Yes, we’re coming. Sam and I.” I said into the phone earlier in the week; confirming the visit.
“When are you leaving so I can be sure to be awake when you arrive?” Was my mother’s response, which translates to: “When are you leaving so I can worry myself sick until you get here?”
“We’re leaving right after work on Friday. We should be there sometime late Friday night, depending on the weather and traffic, but please don’t wait up for us, mom. I’ll see you then, okay? Love you. Bye.” I said hurrying off the phone; my mom could talk your ear off.
The sky is grey with dark clouds. It smells like rain brewing as I lower the car window inch by an inch while peering through the windshield over the rental car steering wheel. I steal a glance over at Samantha who’s sitting comfortably next to me as she softly hums a song on the radio. It warms my heart and makes me smile. Samantha’s silky black tendrils of hair look a little messy after being swooped up into the blond wig she had on a few hours ago.
Samantha was inappropriately dressed for a visit to my parent’s house when I came to pick her up earlier; wearing only black garters, sheer black stockings and bright red lipstick. She completed the ensemble with matching the red high heels and a blond wig that made her look like a fairer version of Betty Page. I felt compelled to discipline her for her choice in attire which delayed our trip by an hour. I was merciful with each slap of the wooden spoon across Samantha’s bare ass though, because I knew the wig she wore was for my enjoyment; she was indulging me and my love of blondes.
My eyes shift back to the windshield. The old and familiar landmarks that sit along the open stretch of highway as I head home begin to flood my head with memories of growing up…
Shortly after graduating from college, I finally told my family I was a lesbian. After my father, Harvey, had poured himself a stiff drink, he said that both he and my eema loved me no matter what; which I’ve always known and felt deeply to be true. I was nervous to share my non-traditional news with them though, because even though I knew how much they loved me, they were holding onto to the traditional hope that I would someday marry a nice Jewish banker and take his last name, similar to what both my sisters had done.
Since age thirteen, I knew my sexual orientation was different from most of the girls I attended school with. When the girls at school swooned over the latest male pop-rock superstar; pointing at his chiseled jaw-line plastered on every cover of every adolescent and teenage rag-mag found at the grocery stores, I never understood the appeal. I was more interested in Bridgett Cohen. Bridgett sat in the desk one row over and one seat ahead of mine in our homeroom class.
Private schools and school uniforms were another part of my traditional Jewish upbringing. During the cold winter months, girls were required to wear navy skirts; just past our knees, long-sleeved, light blue oxford shirts, long gray socks, or gray tights and black shoes but as the weather began to warm up, you’d see more skin start to peek out between the layers of the uniform. I prayed for summer for that reason alone.

In the spring and summer months, Bridgett wore her three-pleated navy skirt, short- sleeved, light blue polo shirt and white, lacy; turned downed socks with her black loafers; exposing her long, tanned legs. As the homeroom light would blaze through the glass windows, it would catch the glistening of the soft blond hair on her coltish shins, rounded knees and shapely thighs. Bridgett was so different looking compared to most of the girls at school, including myself. My rich black, curly hair; olive skin; dark brown eyes and aquiline but regally arched nose were more typical-looking for the Jewish girls at my school.
Bridgett looked like an angel to me: She had a small, oval-shaped face, full, naturally red lips, green almond-shaped eyes and her dimpled cheeks were naturally flushed with a rosy glow; which always made me wonder what she was thinking about…lustful thoughts, I hoped….She had long, thick blond hair that she wore high up on her head in a ponytail, and it would swish back and forth in time with her hips; a perfect beat as she walked to and from her classes.
I would follow closely behind Bridgett as she would leave our homeroom class and head to her locker, which was fortunately located close to mine. I held my books close to my chest; trying to suffocate my pounding heart while the stirring between my thighs grew stronger. She would turn her sweet, cherubic face to one side; smiling and laughing in conversation with whomever she was walking with.
Later, when I reached the age of eighteen, all the girls in my class looked up to Hannah Fisher, because her perfect-sized breasts, small waist and the curve to her hips made me think she must have flunked at least three grades to possess a body like that. Other girls looked up to Hannah because she was going steady with the football jock, Joshua Edelman. Hannah used to give explicit details in the girl’s gym locker room after our physical fitness hour was up. Her and Joshua’s back seat car gropings that would ultimately result in what she described as “fever and spasms between her legs” whenever Joshua was lucky enough to get his hands down the front of her pants.
Every Monday, the other girls sat like crows on a fence, balancing on the edge of the gym locker benches, listening intently to Hannah’s reenactment of her and Joshua’s past weekend rendezvous, dreaming of what lay within Joshua’s snug jeans. But unlike the others, I wondered what it might be like to jump into the back seat with Hannah and take her for a spin around the block.
I hadn’t experienced any type of intimacy or exploration with another person at this point in my life; other than the sex I’d had with our shower nozzle at home. This involved putting the head of the hand-held shower spray between my legs and letting the warm pulsating spray of water bring me to what Hannah described as the “fever and spasms” of orgasm, I could still relate to what she was describing and it made me want to trade places with Joshua Edelman, if only for one hot, passionate weekend, just to be with Hannah.
I never acted on any of my sexual feelings for other girls until I entered college, mostly because I was uncertain if my sexual feelings would be reciprocated and if they had been, I was scared to death of anything getting back to my parents. Having sexual attraction for girls would not be on the list of my parent’s traditions. Needless to say, college was liberating for me. I attended a university that wasn’t private or Jewish for the first time in my life. My mind was suddenly turned on to other cultures besides the only one I’d ever known. I was also less exposed to the watchful eyes of my both my parents and my rather conservative home town; giving me free reign to delve into my sexual yearnings.
Ever since Bridgett Cohen, I have been a sucker for blonds. I met Kim, my first lesbian lover while she was working as a barmaid and attending the same university I was. I met Kim in early December; coincidentally on the weekend prior to heading home to spend Hanukkah with my family. You could say she lit my candles a little early. Kim had platinum hair that she pinned up on her head. Wisps of long silk stuck out around the sides of her face and at the nape of her neck. Small, silver peace sign earrings dangled from each of her delicate ears.

She was poured into an old, white, wife-beater tee-shirt which clung to her long torso; you could see the lace trim of her black bra through her white tee-shirt. The black bra strap slipped down and grazed the top of her right arm; making her look disheveled and sexy—little miss urban chic. Her breasts were barely A-cup in size, and they fit her petite frame. She was wearing a pair of dark blue, industrial workmen’s pants, slung low on her small hips. They were the kind of pants you’d see a serviceman wear while he worked on your car, or filled it with gas. Black Doc Marten steel-toed shoes; the kind with laces, covered her small feet.
“What can I getcha’?” She asked the first time we met; her voice raspy, with smoky hues and she didn’t look at me. Nearly every one of her fingers displayed a silver ring as they busily worked the beer taps running parallel with the bar, making her look bohemian-like.
Long pause. “Beer. Uhhh…pitchers of beer. Uhhhh…two pitchers of beer.” I finally got the words out. I was stirred by her presence; intrigued by her looks. She looked like she could be the lead guitarist in a rock band, while cramming for chemistry exams on the side.
“Yeah? What kind of beer ya’ want?” She asked, this time looking at me.
Her large, round inquiring eyes were dark blue, lined in heavy black liner; making them appear iridescent. She had a small straight nose, and her high cheekbones were flushed naturally in pink. She wore no lipstick on her pouty insolent lips.
Nervously, I pushed defiant black curls behind my left ear and my dark brown eyes studied her; blinking. “Is there something you prefer?” Or what’s the least expensive?” I asked.
She glanced at me briefly while scratching at the clip that held her glorious blond hair up. “Unfortunately, my preference isn’t the least expensive.” She answered, hinting at a smile.
“Oh. Well, I want two pitchers of your preference, regardless of price.” I responded to her somewhat boldly; wanting to impress her.
She looked straight at me this time she smiled devilishly.
She grabbed two pitchers and placed one under a beer tap; pulling the handle toward her and filling up the pitcher.
“You taking a study break from exams?” She inquired, while appraising me with her smoky eyes.
“Yeah. We’ve been studying in the library for hours. I’m starved, thirsty and my brain is fried.” I responded, managing a smile.
“I think I’ve seen you on campus. Are you in the Engineering Department?” She asked.
I suddenly felt my arm pits dampen; my heart was thumping against my chest. “Yeah. I am. You too?”
“Nah. An old friend is though. I’m in the Business Administration building. She answered as she finished with one pitcher and started to fill the other; the rings on her fingers clinked and clunked against the glass pitcher.
“An old friend, hmmm….I wonder if that’s a code name for an old lover…?” I thought to myself. “Is your old friend, an ex?” I asked her, wishing I hadn’t; fearing I was getting ahead of myself.
She didn’t answer, but she looked at me thoughtfully as she brought both pitchers over to where I was standing. “That’ll be $15.00, please.” She said putting both of them onto the bar in front of me.
I quickly pulled the money from my purse and gave her $20.00. “Please, keep the change.” I said with a smile full of apology for asking such a bold question about her love life.
“Thanks. How many glasses do you need?” She asked; the naughty blue in her eyes flickered.
“Um…there’s eight of us. Eight glasses,” I answered having difficulty formulating the words.
She counted out eight cups, grabbed one of the pitchers and unexpectedly walked around the bar toward me. She was shorter than she had looked standing behind the bar; she was maybe 5’0”. I felt like I towered over her at my petite height of 5’4”. She sauntered behind me to our table with the pint glasses in one hand, and one of the pitchers of beer in the other. I hoped she was checking out my ass. Once we reached our table, she started pouring the beer and passing it around the table to everyone.
I smiled at her coyly and she smiled impishly back. We were flirting. She stood next to me; her fingers looped around the empty pitcher’s handle, and both hands rested on her hips. She looked up at me and said quietly, “The friend in the Engineering Department… she was my lover, and we’re not together anymore.”
My belly was turning cartwheels at the knowledge that this sexy lesbian was single and I calmly reached for the remaining empty glass on the table and poured beer into it. “Oh. Well, that’s too bad. You okay?” I inquired, taking a sip from the cup; trying to mask my excitement.
“Yeah. It’s been a couple months now since things officially ended.” She responded, looking straight ahead, but following me with her eyes before turning to say, “Hey, listen, my name is Kim.”
“Thanks Kim. I’m sorry about your breakup. That sucks.” I responded, looking at her.
She shrugged and then smiled before saying, “I should get back to the bar.”
“Oh. Of course. It’s Rachel. My name’s Rachel.” I said, calling out to her as she walked away.

She stopped, turned and said, “Great meeting you, Rachel,” and then turned and kept walking back to the bar and this time I checked out her tight little ass.
I was saying my goodbyes to everyone, when two more pitchers of beer showed up at the table. “You leaving?” Someone asked.
“Yeah. I’ve got more studying to do tonight.” I responded.
“Well, the girl at the bar, Kim, she wanted me to give you this,” and he handed me a note; folded over twice.
“Oh. Thanks.” I said unwrapping the secret note. I felt like a giddy school girl as I gingerly folded back the creases of a love note passed to me from someone in class.
The note was plain, simple and to the point, it read: “Rachel. Call me if you want to get together. Kim.” She left her telephone number.
I glanced over to the bar, but Kim was really busy and I couldn’t get her attention. I drove the short distance home, and once I was inside my apartment, I didn’t wait too long before punching Kim’s digits into my cellular phone; leaving her a message:
“Hi, Kim. This is Rachel. I’d love to get together. I’m going to be up studying for awhile. Call me and we’ll figure it out.” I left my number. “Okay, bye.”
I must have dozed off at the kitchen table while studying, because the shrill sound of my cellular phone suddenly woke me up and I lifted my head up from my open book and reached for the phone mid-shrill, “Rrrr-g.”
“Hello?” I said somberly into the phone.
“Rachel?”
“Yes. It’s me. It’s Rachel.” I managed to get the words out; I was more asleep than awake.
Long pause. “It’s Kim. I think I woke you, and I’m sorry. I just got off from my shift and listened to your message. I was excited that you called and…well, can you get together now?” She inquired.
“Uh, uh, uh…yes. Do you want to come here?” I said, somewhat groggy, but excited to see her.
“Yes.” She said in her raspy, sexy voice that sent chills over my body. I gave her the directions to my apartment and snapped my cell phone shut.
I quickly washed my face, brushed my teeth and changed my clothes while running around straightening things up around my messy apartment. Kim must have hustled getting to my house, because within a few minutes, I heard the buzzer go off downstairs. She was here.

I buzzed her into the building and once again, only a few minutes passed before there was a knock at my front door. I reached to open the door and Kim stood there smiling from ear to ear; holding a six pack of beer in one hand; her other hand shoved into the front pocket of her pants. My pussy suddenly began to throb inside my panties. I opened the door wider; welcoming her inside. She stepped in and looked around before unzipping her leather jacket and placing it and the beer on the coffee table. I don’t remember all the small talk particulars, but I do remember how strong the physical attraction was between us, because before too long I could feel Kim’s decorated silver fingers as they slipped into the back loop holes of my jeans as she pulled and spun me toward her open lips.
Our lips pressed together, ferociously; sending off a display of fireworks inside my head and stomach before settling to a sizzle between my legs. Kim tasted of beer, cigarettes and cherry lip gloss.
She pushed me onto the couch and lay on top of my wanton but still virginal body; grinding her crotch into my swelling cunt. My head rested upon one of the earth-toned toss pillows my mom had bought to help spruce up the worn-out look of couch that was given to me by my grandmother. The same couch I used sit on when I was a little girl and eat my grandmother’s homemade lentil soup; washed down with an ice cold beverage.
Little did I know that someday I’d be imprisoned, writhing, beneath a very hot woman on the same tired sofa. Kim grabbed both my hands and pinned them above my head with one hand as her other lifted my tee-shirt up and over my head; exposing my bare stomach and my breasts. She was like Magellan and my body was her unchartered territory; her lips began plotting a course across my lust-racked body.
Her lips sucked and nipped at my hardened nipples; sending more electrical currents into my cunt. Between my fits of heavy panting and moaning pleasure, I would look up at the top of her blond head as she kissed and sucked every inch of my torso. She inched her body down and over mine, until her beautiful face hovered over my crotch. My cunt was pulsating; I was sopping wet and knew I smelled like sex: Sweet and salty, musky and needy. I felt a little embarrassed, because I was so wet and I wanted this more than anything I could possibly imagine. It felt deliciously good.
Kim looked up at me with her devilish smile, like the Cheshire cat as she began unfastening the buttons on my jeans and pulled them down to my hips; the wet cotton crotch of my multi-colored panties welcomed her. I lifted my hips and she pulled my jeans and panties off with what seemed like one swoop. My full, black and curly pubic hair was glistening from my juices and I could feel the warm wet spot on my grandmother’s couch beneath me.

“You’re so wet, Rachel.” She whispered to me and my so obviously aroused cunt.
I laughed nervously. How could I argue? I was guilty as charged.
Her lips hovered over my vibrating pussy before breathing me in deeply and then slowly blowing her hot, breath onto my enlarged and quivering clit. My hips bucked toward her teasing mouth; wanting more. Kim spread my legs wide before taking her first taste of my essence; enveloping her whole mouth around my pussy and then pointing and licking her tongue into my wet cleft. Kim flicked her tongue up and down against my clit, like a light switch. I felt the pulsations surging throughout my body. My back strained and arched. Kim ate and sucked me hungrily.
She pushed her hands underneath the cheeks of my ass; squeezing them firmly, while pulling me closer to her mouth. Kim was skillful as she teased my indignant cunt and finally after what felt like torture mixed with pleasure, I begged her to let me come.
She pulled her mouth away from my pussy as she squeezed my ass cheeks harder; teasing me with pain before giving me the pleasure I so needed. I knew my pussy must have looked red and swollen and it ached for release.
“Do you want to come?” Let me hear you beg, Rachel…” The breath of her sultry, raspy voice lightly blew against my needy cunt.
“Yes. Please. I’m begging you…” I whispered as my hips bucked higher trying to meet her pleasing mouth; aching to feel her tongue plunge into me.
Kim squeezed my ass cheeks very hard one last time and I winced in pain. I knew Kim’s hand marks would still be evident on my ass days later. Kim released the grip her hands had on my ass before she methodically and meticulously began licking my clit back and forth and back and forth with just the tip of her tongue. My fists clenched at the couch and I tossed my head from side to side; panting and moaning in pleasure. My clit felt hot with fever, the way I remember Hannah Fisher describing her orgasms so many years ago. Then I felt each impulsive tsunami wave of orgasm washing over me with shivering, teeth-grinding pleasure. I opened my eyes and lifted my head as I watched Kim suck and drink the juices that escaped from my trembling cunt until I had to pull away from her touch.

Kim and I dated for over a year before she moved away to graduate school. I really owe my ability to freely express my sexuality to her. I had other lovers between Kim and Samantha, but Kim was my first and you always remember your first fuck.
…I felt the rumble of the tires as they jack hammered against the highway line dividers; collapsing the thoughts of my non-traditional path as I got closer and closer to the conservative world I grew up in. I could see the final exit sign now; it was less than two miles away. Samantha’s beautiful, soft, olive-colored face lay against my shoulder; she had fallen asleep in my reminiscent silence, the evening sky and the lulling beat of the windshield wipers brushing away the rain as it hit against the car.
“Sam…? Samantha, baby, wake up. We’re almost there.” I said, gently nudging her.
Samantha’s eyes slowly blinked open and she moaned a little, before nuzzling her lips against my neck. Samantha always seemed to wake up feeling horny and this car trip was no exception.
“What time is it?” She asked in her groggy state.
“It’s late, babe. It’s after midnight.” I said quietly.
“Mmmm…I’m hungry.” Samantha whispered in her naughty voice.
“I know. I could eat too.” I answered knowing the reference for food was our code for let’s get naked and get dirty, but I felt we should press on. My mom would be worried. It was late.
“Tell me again about all the fragrant, smooth oils used in preparing your family’s Hanukkah meals.” Samantha asked teasing me with her reference for food and now oil.
I felt the familiar surge rising between my legs and I looked at her smirking. She smirked saucily back.
“You know, we’re already going to be late.” Samantha said, winking and smiling up at me; baiting the hook.
I had to admit, there was something definitely erotic about pulling off to the side of a dark road, just minutes away from my parent’s home that shimmered inside me, like the headlights of the oncoming cars.
“Hmmm…are you suggesting that we christen the rental car’s back seat?” I mused to Sam, already growing aroused.
“Well, I know how much you like creating new traditions, Rachel. Maybe stopping for a quickie on the way to family gatherings could be part of a new tradition we start together.” Samantha said, reeling me in.
“Okay. You win. I’m pulling over, but I’m holding you to this new tradition going forward.” I said smiling. I thought about my mom proclaiming in Yiddish, “mann macht und Gott lacht.” Make plans and God laughs. Yes, eema, and there’s more than one way to spin a dreidel!”