Chapter 25
25
We walk from the square to my apartment, the golem’s arm draped protectively across my shoulders the whole time. It’s cold, although there’s still no snow. The proximity to him keeps me warm, although I’m not sure if there’s any actual heat coming from him, or if it’s all emanating from my own body. Either way, I barely feel the temperature drop as winter asserts herself in the rapidly darkening night. All I feel is him—the weight of his arm on my shoulders, the solid bulk of his body beside mine, the steady reassurance of his footsteps as we walk. Being this close to him, I can’t deny it any longer. I want to feel more of him. To feel all of him.
I don’t even know if any of the wild fantasies heating my body are even possible. Is he actually human enough for what I want? My surging hormones are screaming, There’s only one way to find out , but I’m trying to maintain some self-control.
As we approach my apartment, a white minivan pulls out of the alley from behind my building. We halt our steps on the sidewalk, waiting for the vehicle to pull out onto the street. The tires crunch on the pavement as the van comes to a stop, pausing to check for pedestrians before slowly edging out toward the road. When I see who the driver is, I press myself up against Paul to make sure I’m hidden from view.
It’s Hot Josh.
But what is he doing in that van? He’s lived here for long enough that if the van was his, I would’ve seen it by now. I’ve never seen that van parked anywhere around here. And I’ve certainly never seen Hot Josh driving it. I would have clocked that, because it’s weird. What kind of single guy over thirty drives a minivan?
I’ve only known one dude who fits that description: Ricky, the skeevy dealer who lived just off campus when I was in college. The one who was cruising toward the latter half of his thirties while still spending all his time with nineteen-year-olds. His entire income came from selling skunk weed to any kid with twenty bucks cash. My gut twists a little as I wonder if my cute British-Jewish neighbor is, in fact, just some lowlife drug dealer.
“Mrmmm,” says the golem. You’re upset. You’re scared.
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. Let’s just—get inside.”
Pushing Josh from my thoughts, I hurry the golem through the courtyard. I roughly shove my key into the building’s exterior lock, trying the wrong one first, as usual— why do I always do this? —and lead us upstairs. I lock the door, and tell the golem to wait in the living room. I need a minute to catch my suddenly erratic breath.
When I shut myself into the bathroom, for a half second I’m afraid I might start crying. My emotions are all over the place. I don’t know what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking. My mind feels like a coffee grinder, obliterating once-whole thoughts into dark powder. Splashing my face with cold water, I stare into the mirror, shaking my head.
There shouldn’t be anything unfamiliar in the reflection: same dark curls, big eyes, round cheeks. But somehow I barely recognize myself. Everything is off-kilter, altered and askew. There are purplish shadows beneath my eyes, an odd angle to my jaw. I look like an alternate version of myself, unsettled and unsettling.
The magic of the day is rapidly fading. For some reason, seeing Hot Josh totally killed my mood. I don’t feel good and consequences-be-damned giddy anymore. Instead of feeling hot with desire, I feel flushed with embarrassment. The more I think about this twisted and impossible scenario, the more deeply uncomfortable I feel. Like I’ve been messing with things I shouldn’t have messed with, and nothing good can come of this. Awful reality is snaking its way back toward me, hissing indictments and disapproval.
My mind flashes back to the memory of Bubbe, first telling me about the legend of the golem. It wasn’t a story she was taking lightly; in her telling, the stakes were life and death. Making a golem wasn’t something done on a whim. Taking such drastic action was only justified by imminent danger.
But isn’t there imminent danger in my life?
There are threats all around me, all the time.
That’s not just in my head. It’s real. The whole world is a dumpster fire. There’s war, pandemics, climate change. Women still have to walk around with our keys between our fingers. Antisemitism is on the rise, yet again. Crime in the city is out of control. The person you love most can suddenly vanish, and then you’re alone to deal with all the nightmares.
There’s no one to keep me safe, or even check in on me. There’s no one on earth who loves me more than anything.
Not anymore.
Still, it’s hard to feel like I’m not just being selfish. Maybe I need to just close my eyes, click my heels or whatever the hell, and see if Paul Mudd just disappears. See if I can do the right thing, and drag myself back toward my actual obligations. My hand drifts toward my pocket, ready to pull out my phone, turn it on, and accept my fate. I can’t run away from it all any longer. I have to read the emails, respond to the texts, answer the calls, deal with my actual life.
“Eeeeeeeve.”
I see it happening in the mirror—cold shock sliding over my face like ice forming on a lake. Somehow, looking utterly surprised makes me look more like my old self again. My eyes are still staring into their own reflected depths, blinking slowly, as I try to piece together what I just heard.
Was that...?
It couldn’t have been.
I slowly open the bathroom door and look up to see the golem staring down at me, his handsome face chiseled with concern.
“Eeeeeve,” he says again.
“Did you just say...my name?” I ask, and when he nods, I gape. “But I thought... I thought you couldn’t...”
“Eeeeeve,” he says. “Safe.”
He moves toward me, slowly opening his arms. Like he wants to enfold me. Wrap himself around me like an impenetrable wall, and make sure nothing and no one can hurt me. At the sight of his open arms, something in me begins to crack.
Here is someone who wants to keep me safe.
Here is someone who cares about me more than anything.
I take one tentative step closer to the golem.
“Yes,” I say. “I feel...safe with you.”
“Safe,” he says again.
“Yes,” I say. My voice becomes a trembling whisper. “I want to be safe.”
“Want,” says the golem, slowly.
“You...want...?” I ask, unable to form the word me .
“Eeeeve want?” Paul Mudd says, and I realize he wants this to be my choice.
Here is someone who will not pressure me, no matter what he might want. An increasingly human protector who wants what I want.
What do I want?
Do I want to do this?
Do I want this to be the first time I get into bed with a man in over a year—finally breaking my dry spell with someone who might not even be real?
When he gets close enough to me that I can breathe in his earthy scent, I know the answer. Whether or not he’s real is beside the point. Desire is rarely based in reality, and I’m ready to release myself into this fantasy.
Yes.
This is what I want.
I kiss him, immediately forgetting all the angst of a few moments ago. His lips are rough, but tender. I taste fine grains of sand on my tongue, and there’s something delicious about the granulated sensation. It’s like sugar, melting instantly in the humid heat of my mouth. When I place my hands under his shirt to feel his body, there’s no film of dust. Only flesh and blood, warm and taut. I kiss him again, rising on my tiptoes to press myself against him, and then I’m not having to reach at all because he’s lifting me. The simple feeling of his arms around me is enough to make me shudder, my emotions caught somewhere between lust and pure relief.
This is what I want.
I wrap my legs around his waist and he kisses my mouth, my neck, my collarbone. Keeping one hand firmly against my lower back, in one smooth motion he pulls my shirt off. With a rumbling sound, he nuzzles into the lace of my best black bra. His jaw feels lightly stubbled, like soft sandpaper against my breasts. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make me ache.
Our pants are still on as we begin moving against each other, and it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt. The slim separation of the fabric allows an already-ecstatic sensation that promises, with increasing fervor, all the pleasure that still awaits. The feel of him makes my whole body catch fire. He’s hard and strong, straining against the denim that can barely contain the oversize contents. He thrusts forward and up, and I cry out in primal delight. I can feel him already, through every layer. He’s right there, finding his way with his perfectly shaped key, ready to slide into the long-neglected lock of my desire.
“Eeeeve want?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes...”
All my inhibitions are gone. The sensations sizzling through my body are all I know. I’m moving against him, head rolling back, breath coming fast and heavy. Everything else is falling away, forgotten. All I want is him, and all that exists is this movement, this feeling, shifting up and down, up and down, my thighs tight around the sides of his body. So close, so close.
Even through the tight new denim of his fresh jeans, I can feel every solid inch of him. But it’s not enough anymore. I need him inside me. I push against him, harder. Fireworks are already sparking between my legs as my whole body begins rhythmically contracting and releasing, slow now, slow but not for long. Already eager for the pace to increase, wanting to go harder, faster, craving the escalating thrill of friction, our bodies chasing that final satisfaction.
I want to devour this feeling.
I’m hungry.
So hungry.
And finally— finally —my craving isn’t for food, or sleep, or the past. It’s for this moment, right here, right now. I want to be in my body, to experience and revel in whatever is about to come.
“More,” I whisper. “Now.”
His grip on me tightens.
I start to unbutton his jeans, but he stops me. For a terrifying moment I’m afraid everything is going to stop. But then he’s lowering me onto the bed, pinning my arms down with one of his muscular hands while the other does everything for me. He has his pants off in an instant, then somehow with just one hand, smoothly removes mine while I remain pinned. I’m trembling with desire as he sinks his full weight down on me. I reach up for him, scraping at his strong back with my fingernails.
“Eve wants,” he breathes against my ear, before sliding his mouth lower.
“Yes,” I say, arching my back as he bites at the lace of my bra, tearing the fabric away with a rough, electrifying rip of his teeth. His sandpapery mouth closes around my nipple and I gasp with unrepentant pleasure. “Yes, Eve wants.”