Let's Fall in Love

by

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, Historical, First, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: This is the first of a series of stories that I am going to do based on various songs, mostly ones I suspect most readers have never heard. This one is based of an old standard, and involves two young Jewish kids in love with each other in the arranged-marriage ghetto of the Lower East Side. Their marriages have been arranged, but not to each other. How will they cope?

Author's note: The version of the song being used for this story's purpose is not the long-standing version sung by Frank Sinatra among others. It is a slightly more modern doo-wop version done by many groups- the particular arrangement is by the Five Discs, and the song, if you are interested in hearing it, can be found on YouTube.

Hurry Up! Hurry Up!

Let's Fall In Love

Hurry Up! Hurry Up!

Let's Fall In Love

Let's Fall In Love,

Why Shouldn't we fall in love?

Our Hearts Are Made For It,

Let's Take a Chance,

Why be afraid of it?

Let's close our eyes,

And make our own paradise,

Little we know of it,

Still we can try,

To make a go of it.

We might have been made for each other,

To be or not to be? Let our hearts discover!

Let's fall in love!

Why shouldn't we fall in love?

Here at the eighth grade,

While we are young,

Let's fall in love!

Hurry Up! Hurry Up!

Let's fall in love!

It was a long time ago. I was a young boy, and the year was 1964. I was in Junior High School. It was a cold winter. A cold, cold winter. Snow fell from the sky like no tomorrow, and it was an unusual time. Out west, the time of love, peace, happiness, and too much fucking pot was starting to really come into full bloom. But that wasn't here.

Here was New York City, Manhattan. A Jewish ghetto on the Lower East Side. No, it isn't as bad as it was 60 something years ago. Living conditions have improved some. My mom worked at home, and my dad was a wholesale clothing salesman who wasn't home very often. My parents were smart enough to stay the fuck out of that nasty, and then new, concept known as the suburbs.

We lived in a three bedroom apartment, then. My sisters Rachel and Sarah shared one of them. My brothers Saul, Jacob, and I all shared the second. My parents shared the third, of course. Maybe five kids seems like a lot, but my neighbors had 12, so I don't think we were too bad off.

My parents weren't black-hat religious, but they believed, and we were raised to believe with them. Not two months ago, I had been Bar Mitzvahed. That means that, in the eyes of the community, I was a man. In our community, men were men, women were women, and men became men when they had partaken in the Bar Mitzvah. Which made me ... a man.

As a man, I was expected to do certain things. First of all, I was expected to partake in the religious responsibilities that came with being one. Second of all, I was expected to watch over the younger members of my family when my mother was unable to do so. Third of all, I was expected to find a job and bring much needed money into the family coffers. Fourth, I was expected to continue my education so that I could get a college degree, and my doctorate.

Because, as we all know, while science tells us that a child is a living, breathing individual soul with rights at the moment of conception. But my mother, like all Jewish mothers, knew the truth. A child becomes a living breathing human being with rights when they graduate from Medical school, or, if they are a dunce, law school.

This might seem foreign to you, but it was the way I was brought up. It wasn't so much that my parents hoped I would be a doctor. No, I was going to graduate from high school in the top of my class. I was going to attend NYU, but only if I failed to get into Columbia. And I was then going to go to medical school, so I could make enough money to support my then-to-retire parents in the manner to which they had become accustomed. This was not up for debate.

Oh, I forgot the fifth responsibility. I was to be found WAS TO BE FOUND- a woman who I was to marry and bear grandchildren with, starting with when we got married in five years time.

Yes, I was expected to do all this. If I could manage to eat, sleep, and use the facilities in addition, that meant I had good time management.

So, as soon as the ceremony had been complete, and the small, family, celebration that had gone along with it, I was ordered to find work.

Since I didn't find work within a week of the order being given, my parents had set me up in a job with an older jeweler named Benjamin Epstein. Mr. Epstein to me. I may be a man, but he was still my elder and my boss. I was responsible for assisting him, and he was a kind man, so in addition to my assisting him, he taught me the business.

Now, please keep in mind, this didn't mean my parents didn't care about me. They loved me dearly, and my father worked himself ragged trying to provide for us. My mother was a wonderful cook who kept a clean and bright house. She taught us all well, and raised us properly. Perhaps she would be called abusive now.

But I don't think that when I experimented with arson when I was five years old, it was abusive of her to spank my ass so hard I couldn't sit for a few days. Sometimes a child needs to have it explained to them that they should not do that again. Very thoroughly. Lest they not understand and do it again.

Mr. Epstein was, as I said, a nice man. Among the things he did that was nice was to give me a lunch hour, and allow my lunch, which was to be had at Levine's Deli up the street, to be paid for on a tab billed to him. He also taught me so much about the business that I ended up starting a business working with jewelry when I got older.

Anyway, it was at one of these lunches that our story begins. I was sitting at the counter enjoying - what else? - a Corned Beef, Pastrami, and mustard on rye bread. I was washing this down with a can of Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda. Excuse me being a stereotype.

A girl walked in. I knew her from school. She was a little older than me, and she had already been hooked up with Mark Chazen. Her name was Rebecca, I don't recall the last name. Weisenstein? I think so. But this was the first time I looked at her outside of school. She didn't wear the glasses that hid her animated and very emotive face. She was one of the brightest girls in my class.

I was also one of the brightest kids in my class. So much so that I was actually at the top of the class in a class full of people who were all bull-whip driven by their insane Jewish parents to be at the top of their class. So much so that I actually had the chance at becoming the doctor my parents wanted me to be.

Anyway, this was interesting, because, even in her ankle-length skirt and loose-fitting blouse, she was stunningly beautiful. She had a very animated and happy face. Her eyes glowed. She smiled a lot. I was smitten.

The problem is, as I said, we lived in a world where marriages were arranged, and she was already hooked up to be with someone, and that someone wasn't me. But a man can dream. And I dreamed. Not just dreamed- acted.

"Hi," I said, smiling at her in a friendly and interested way.

"Hi," she said, looking at me with interest, "Aren't you Ari Freidman?"

"Yes, I am indeed," I said, smiling, "We are in several classes together."

"I know," she said, her smile lighting up my heart.

"I never noticed," I said, "I am sad to say, that you are so beautiful, however."

She blushed, and turned away. She, as I said, belonged to somebody else.

After receiving the meat she ordered, she left the store, presumably for home.

It was a brief encounter, only a few minutes long. Words of import had not even been exchanged. Except for one thing I had fallen in love. And it was a love that continued to grow as I paid more and more attention to her. I had been hooked up with a somewhat dull kvetch of a girl named Megan Lowenthal. She didn't seem to particularly like me, and I sure as fuck didn't like her. But our parents had decided that this made a great deal of sense. Or possibly cents. I'm not sure which.

Probably, nothing would have happened. It is highly likely nothing would have happened. But faith, or in my mind, God, intervened, about a year and a half later.

The date was November 9th, 1965. A few days before, some idiot set an automatic trip relay for a voltage line leading from Sir Adam Beck Niagara Generating Station #2. At 5:16 PM, a surge from Robert Moses Generator in Lewiston caused that relay to trip. The resulting redistribution of power caused a cascading systems failure that resulted in one of the largest blackouts in history up to that point.

At 5:27, I was riding in a largely empty subway train that I had boarded at Prospect Ave, known internally as Coney Island 458N because it was an N-train that had departed Coney Island station at 4:58. Rebecca had boarded the same train, in my car, at Atlantic Ave. The chances were one in a billion, or one in a trillion, that we'd even be in the same car together on all the thousands of cars running through the city, all the hundreds of trains, that were running now at only a few minute headways for the evening rush hour.

The train was empty because it was running a reverse peak move, operating out of Brooklyn and into Manhattan, and because, due to the odd location of the stairs leading closest to our homes, we had picked the front-most car of the train, which is rarely crowded.

Rebecca was sitting directly across from me when the power went out. At that point there were three people in the car, one of which was the train's driver.

And it was at that point, practically in the middle of the Montague Street Tunnel, when the lights went out, and the train came to a halt.

Rebecca screamed.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Romantic / Historical / First /