It was weird of Hendrik to natter on about his Nazi-infested genes before scoring my digits, but I liked his honesty. I also liked how his shoulder muscles packed so nicely into his ski sweater and how his strong, steroidal voice would crunch all the way down to a creak whenever he tried to be romantic. "Did anyone ever tell you that your hair is the exact same color as your eyes?" Creak. Creak. Creak. He made me want to dig into his esophagus and slowly and tenderly caress his vocal chords. But I—fortunately—held myself back.
My first real date with Hendrik was a stroll through the New Orleans French Quarter. He spoke with terrific emotion about ex-lovers, probably to make me jealous, but I didn't like him enough to mind. There was Michelle Rosenthal with her nasal South Jersey whine, Mimi Moskowski who sported an unshaven hippie bush, and Avivah Katz who used to bob her tongue into Hendrik's earlobe in the back row of Temple Emanu El's Friday night services. "It was just her way of saying 'Shabbat Shalom,'" Hendrik insisted. The list continued on with clunky Jewish last name after clunky Jewish last name, lots of -bergs and -ovitskys, very few vowels. I pictured him masturbating to a map of Israel every night.
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Hendrik's flaming Jewish fetish made me more self conscious of my voluptuously Jewish facial features. One night, when Hendrik and I were enjoying our privacy outside an empty Café du Monde, he traced his finger along the curve of my nose as if it were a breast. I wanted to reroute his fingers to someplace—anyplace—sexier. Look! Down below! There's these fat, flowering 32D melons just above my ribcage, here, have a stroke! Hendrik couldn't hear my thoughts though, of course, and began to molest the bridge between my nostrils. I could practically hear him humming, "Ahhhh, Juuudaism."