I love religious boys the best.
I’ll hook up with a goy, or one of those 
almost-self-hating Israeli types, who seems embarrassed by it,
because at least they’re embarrassed.
Or, I’ll blow some guy I just met at a bar mitzvah, or a wedding –
especially a wedding.
But when it comes to love,
I love the frum ones the best.

They’re so delicate,
as if the indentation above their lips
is still in the shape 
of their mother’s finger.
As if they are still sitting still in Hebrew school,
before the doubt crept in,
before they knew,
before any of the compromises 
or losses of innocence.

Jock boys are always trying to swing their dicks.
Jewish boys, the delicate, effeminate, religious ones –
they almost apologize for having them.
Their dicks aren’t smaller than other boys’,
I’ve made a study of that.
But their cocks are. 
You see the difference, or you don’t,
but there is a difference, between a dick and a cock.
One of them is physiological; the other psychic.

Religious boys are deferential,
the skinny ones especially.
They’ve been told there is something bigger than them,
and there is.
And when it comes time to hold them in my arms,
after they’ve come, after the moments which are the same for everyone,
then come the moments that are different.
The almost-desperate grip, 
the taste of matzah,
the grape juice they were allowed as a child.
 
 
 
 

Jay Michaelson
jay@metatronics.net