Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica (30 page)

Suddenly, my mouth and eyes are wet.
It must be so easy,
I think. Longing splashes all over me, sudden as thunder and rain. To be this Hasidic woman, to have my life set: husband, sons, buying yarmulkes on a Wednesday afternoon. So easy. So clear. She doesn't have to ghost her way through high school,
laboring each day to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She's not so lonely that she'll settle for anyone—even a sullen semi-delinquent who thinks all Americans are idiots—just to have someone to talk to. She would never be on her knees in gratitude, buying a girl a present just so she'll stick around. And when this Hasidic woman has sex—which she does, and I don't—she does it in a clean bed with the door closed. Not on a dirty roof with the sun beating down.

Oh, you're idealizing,
I chide myself. She probably works twenty hours a day, boiling chickens and wiping baby butts. And what if she's lesbian, too? Imagine how awful that would be, to have to marry some guy or lose your whole community.

But maybe she's never even heard of lesbians. Then, maybe, it wouldn't be so bad. Would I be able to imagine women together, if I'd never heard the words? Maybe I'd think I was just shy or asexual. Maybe it would even be sort of okay.

I imagine myself, Hasidic, in bed, waiting for my husband. He pulls back the covers and climbs in—

No. The fantasy doesn't work; I'm cold as the silver behind the glass. I can't have this life even in dreams.

The Hasidic woman has noticed my stare; she's sizing me up me out of the corner of her eye. I move to the racks of tallises: dazzling white linen with silk embroidery, dark stripes and soft fringes. They have so much.

What if she is straight? I look at the Hasidic woman again. Imagine how wonderful that would be, to share desire with one person, over and over. I guess some Hasidic women don't love their husbands. But imagine being one of the ones who does. Imagine wanting your husband, never worrying about whether it was right or normal or if you were really sure or if you might change your mind. Never worrying about what anyone might think; knowing that everyone—family, friends, neighbors, rabbi, God Himself—was urging every kiss, every
moan, every tremor in your hips. Imagine wanting your husband, wanting him, only him. And having him, over and over, year after year. Limitless.

I imagine myself not only Hasidic, but straight. Touching my husband, clinging to him, opening myself to him—

No. It still doesn't work. I can't enter this image, can't access this joy. So many people have it, and I never will.

I turn to the racks of books. I can always lose myself in words, in that march of black letters across white pages. Regular and fixed.

But these books offer no such escape. The books in these racks are heavy, bound in soft leather and stamped in gold. I can't read the Hebrew, but I know they're prayer books. Or Talmud. Or other stuff so holy I've never even heard of it. Heavy, beautiful books over which men run loving fingers, straining their eyes and pursing their murmuring lips. Books that are cherished, held and kissed, protected and praised. I wish someone would hold me, bless me, open me, read me, love me as each of these books will be. Each of these racks and racks of books that never need to be anything but what they are.

And I wish I could love these books the way the men do. Anat could read these pages, but I don't think she could tremble with them, cry as I've seen men cry. She doesn't care about religion, probably wouldn't be impressed by the soft leather covers and gold-rimmed leaves.

I'm tired of being unimpressed, of not caring. I wish love would flow out of me like it flows from the quaking men in synagogue. I wish I believed in God. I wish I could love leather-bound books and God with all my soul, with all my passion, with no hesitancy or self-consciousness or shame. I wish I could love a girl with my heart and my eyes and my lips; a girl who'd accept my love without laughing at me or calling me a stupid American virgin or wanting to pound my
hips into the tar on a filthy roof. I wish I could love easily, fully, three times a day in synagogue and every night in a clean bed with my wife—

I stop short.
My wife?
That's not what I meant. Wives are for—

I grab a book and leaf through it, trying to remember my Hebrew alphabet, trying to recognize a word or two, trying to concentrate. Trying to push away the idea that has already exploded into countless streaks of light like fireworks and now buzzes toward me from every direction, unavoidable—

If I were a man.

If I were a man. A Hasid. I could love my wife, over and over, year after year, limitless.

I almost put the book down and run from the store.
Oh no,
I think,
does this mean I'm a transsexual? Please, please,
I pray to a god I don't believe in,
not that. I have so many problems already.

But the idea still pulses through me, the image of myself as a Hasid. Loving a woman over and over, with all the blessings of the fathers.

I turn again to the Hasidic woman. She has finished selecting yarmulkes and has migrated toward the cash register. I imagine myself touching her, knowing she has never been touched by any man—not at all, not even a handshake—other than her husband. Knowing her breasts—her stomach, her shoulders, maybe even her
wrists
—have never been seen by any man except her husband. Imagining myself as that husband, imagining a woman so honoring me. Sharing her body with me, only me, forever.

But this woman is not my type. She's as old as my mother, for one thing. And her hands are full of yarmulkes for her husband. There is no room for me in that bed. I need my own wife to love.

I rush to a rack of lucite key rings with women's names. My wife must have a name. (“My wife”—the thought still terrifies me, but I will not think now about what it might mean.) I flip through the plastic tags: Yocheved, Malka, Ruchel—I don't like these names. What are the Hasidic girls on my block called? Gitti, Shoshana, Chanie—that's the one. But not Chanie. Chana. My wife is named Chana.

My wife.

Chana.

 

The wedding guests are still dancing, men waving bottles of wine and schnapps on one side of the hall, women on the other side weaving through circles of dance and gossip. My father and uncles pushed me into a chair, then raised it above their heads and bounced me toward the ceiling to the sound of accordions and fiddles. After the women did the same with Chana, my parents and her parents were also danced through the air. Then my father brought me another shot of schnapps and told me to leave the party. My time had come.

So now I am home with my Chana. Now I am in the bedroom I will share always with Chana.

A man is not supposed to look at a woman unless she is his wife. As a boy, of course, I looked into the faces of my mother and sisters. But as I grew older, I learned to look at the ground or at other men when women passed. In moments of weakness I have snuck quick glances—haven't we all?—but I have never held a woman's gaze. Now, for the first time, I may look. Without fear. Without shame. For as long as I want. Without pretending to do otherwise. Without disguising my passion.

Her eyes are as hungry as mine; her gaze darts over every point of my face. Unmarried women must keep a distance from men as well, if they want to retain respect. But now, we may both look, and we do, we do.

And my eyes…how can I see so much at once? Her long face, full lips, soft gray eyes—so much to see. The vast expanse of skin from forehead to chin, from nose to ear on each side. So much exposed. So much softness. And I will touch that softness tonight, and over and over for the rest of my life. I am weak with unbelieving.

She removes the veil covering the top of her head, and her curly hair falls down. As a married woman, she will cover her hair in public from now on, but she will not shave her head as women used to. We are a modern people. Chana's black curls tumble around her face; the smell of shampoo drifts toward me.

For a moment, my amazement is displaced by panic. Who is this woman who has been thrust into my life? Ours was not purely an arranged marriage; we have spoken several times and consented to each other. But one could not say we know each other well. Perhaps we should not touch tonight, but instead talk.

Chana has noticed the distraction in my eyes; questions and disappointment fog her face.

I push my hesitancies aside. Tomorrow we will talk. We have the expanse of our whole lives to get to know each other. Tonight we must fulfill our obligation to each other, not as individuals but as man and woman, husband and wife. Tonight, we exist only to satisfy each other's desire, as we have been commanded.

Without thinking, I reach out my hand to her. She raises her hand, and lays a single finger in my palm. We sit on the bed together, the pad of her finger slowly tracing lines in my palm. I am transfixed on her finger, on skin touching skin. Somehow, I never believed I could really be so lucky. I never thought this would actually happen to me.

I close my hand around her finger and press hard. I hear her breath catch and I look up, concerned that I have hurt her. But her lips are parted, eyes half-closed, cheeks flush.

The sight ignites me so. I grab both her hands in mine, and without even thinking, I am kissing them, rubbing my lips feverishly against her palms, licking the cracks between her fingers.

Chana is moaning now. I take each manicured finger full in my mouth, sucking hard. She rakes her nails through my beard. I lick, suck, bite, breathe hot over her wrists, feel her pulse through my lips. Chana is gasping now and maybe I am, too. I slide off the bed and kneel before her, hugging her hands to the sides of my head, blocking out our sounds. It's too much. I can't take it all in one night.

But Chana will not let me escape. Still in her wedding gown, she slides off the bed and kneels beside me on the floor. The dress rustles as if layers hide beneath the skirt.

My hands still clap hers tight to the sides of my head. But suddenly, she takes control and pulls my face toward hers. And Chana, my Chana, kisses me full on the lips.

Oh, so many times I have praised God, so many nights I have recited the shma, the call to all Jews on Earth.
Shma Yisroel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad
—Hear, oh Israel, the Lord is God, the Lord is One. But only when Chana's soft lips meet mine, when I taste her breath and feel the flicker of her tongue—only then, for the first time, do I feel my spirit burst from my body to touch all others. Only this joyful noise could reach all on earth. This kiss is the shma—hear oh Israel, this kiss is God, and we are one. Chana and I. And all Jews, shma, all breathing creatures on the earth, shma, all kisses, shma, are one.

We fall to the floor.

Chana is in my arms and we are rolling. I'm so happy, I start to laugh. For a moment, she looks confused, then she laughs,
too, grabbing me tighter as we roll on the carpet. It feels so good, this squeezing. All these years of not being touched; now I press her hard against my chest, kissing and laughing, rolling and gazing and laughing for a long, long time.

But suddenly, through our laughter, I become aware of her breasts pressing against my chest like two soft biscuits. And my laughter dissolves.

Something serious sweeps through me—a new kind of grave desire incinerating my bones, my flesh, my thinking mind. My laughter is gone; I hold Chana tense, my eyes inches from hers. And she stops laughing, too.

“Chana,” I say, my voice so smoked with desire that I barely recognize it. “Chana,” I say, “Please take off your dress.”

She is still for a moment. Her eyes close once, then open to me. She kisses me once more, quickly, on my lips. And then she pulls away.

“Yes,” she says, and the word sounds like a single drop of rain sliding off a leaf. “Yes, I will take off my dress for you.”

And wonder of wonder, it happens. Chana stands without breaking my gaze. Watching my eyes, she reaches around to her own back in such a way I did not know arms could bend. And she slowly unzips her wedding gown. Then she loosens the cuffs around her wrists. And slowly, as if by magic, the dress sinks to the floor. The white dress is heaped around Chana's ankles, like clouds at the feet of God. I am worshipping.

Do all women have so much skin beneath their clothes? The thought is incredible, obscene. No wonder men and women are separated so strictly; what man could concentrate enough to tie his own shoes with women hovering about, naked and entrancing, hidden only by thin sheaths of cloth?

But now I do not need to concentrate on anything but my Chana, who stands before me in white underpants and a brassiere.
Chana, with the bony, pale shoulders, the impossible softness tucked into her brassiere, the small roundness of her belly.

“And you?” she whispers.

“What?”

“My husband,” she says, “take off your suit.”

For a moment, I am shocked. In anticipation of this night, I had imagined touching Chana, imagined us pushing together beneath the covers. But it never occurred to me that I might undress in front of her. I am suddenly sheepish. My clothes will not curl gracefully from my body as hers did from her; I doubt I could muster the power to stand unclothed and commanding as she. I cannot equal her, can never be as beautiful for her as she is for me. Her beauty is a gift I must accept humbly, knowing I can never return it.

But she is my wife. And she is right. I must satisfy her tonight. And she wants me naked before her. So be it.

I stumble to my feet and begin tugging at my shirt. My fingers, so sensitive a moment ago, now struggle. It's as if the buttons have turned to mist; I can't grip them. But finally I release myself. The trousers are easier; they unzip like Chana's dress. I kick them aside.