Wayne  Gladstone
lives in New York with his wife and two children. When he is not helping "the man" oppress the weak and naive, he enjoys crafting fiction that nice people don't like. His work has been rejected by some of the finest literary magazines in the Nation.

|| STORY 8.29.06 | estimated reading time: 3:02
My Cruel Fetish
by Wayne Gladstone

To some extent, we are all prisoners to our romantic desires.  And most are grateful for this predisposition to certain characteristics.  Personal preferences narrow down a crowded bar.  There are other advantages, too.  Ass men can go home happy with a new found friend even when that perfect ass is attached to an otherwise ass-like individual.  For many, large breasts trump small brains and a host of other deficiencies.  But these are the fetishes that forgive.  These are the romantic inclinations that can be spoken aloud.

What about the cruel fetishes?  What about the cursed few they consume?  Those who are kept isolated by their predilections with desires too specific to be satisfied.  It is a hell I must confess as my own. 

The world is round.  The sun sets in the west.  And I am only attracted to illiterate Jewish women. 

Don’t judge.

I can’t pretend to understand.  I just live with the reality.  Illiterate Jewish women.  Mind you, a mere Jewess holds no special charm for me.  And a WASP illiterate?   Well, that’s just disgusting.  (Although I did once get off with an Italian chick on a fifth grade reading level.)   But nothing compares to seeing a lovely member of the tribe stammering across the printed page.  Something about their inability to read the word “erection” gives me one.

But where to find such a delectable creature?  It hasn’t been easy.  I used to make too many assumptions.  I cruised Miami, hitting on the chicks with Grisham novels on their beach blankets.  Yes, they were Jews, but it turns out you can’t assume someone’s illiterate just because they own Runaway Jury.

Then I tried hanging out in Chinese Restaurants on Christmas so I could target the babes with menu difficulties.  That wasn’t reliable enough.  I couldn’t tell if they were struggling with the words or counting carbs. 

I got so desperate last summer that I bought a ticket to Tel Aviv and spent a whole week in bookstores flirting with any lady who seemed to be perusing pages from left to right.

Prostitution isn’t a solution either.  While there is a serious literacy problem confronting our nation’s streetwalkers, it appears that Jewish women haven’t taken to the profession.   Furthermore, those Jews who do move in that circle don’t seem to overlap with the illiterates.  There’s virtually nothing shaded in this Venn Diagram.

I know.  I know.  Why don’t I just pretend?  Because it has to be real.  This isn’t some reform school girl fetish that can be satisfied with a plaid skirt and knee socks.  We’re talking about illiterate Jewish women.  I’m not sure how you would role play that, but I’m certain I could never suspend my disbelief long enough for Bambi or Kwaneesha to get the job done.

So mine has been a lonely life.  A heart teased and tormented.  The synagogues and JCC’s are filled with false hope.  The adult literacy programs are more exclusively gentile than the best country clubs.  But each day I fan the dying embers of hope, refusing to give up on love.  I think it’s paying off.  I had one my best ideas just this morning.  I posted my bio on JDate, and included “Neo-Nazism” under “Hobbies.”  Now I just sit back and wait for fate to bring my beloved to me.  I know she is out there, and I won’t stop until I find her.  I will be hers and she will be mine.  We will share our life.  With each passing day, we will fill another page in the story of our love.  And when it’s over, I will read it for her.

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