Hassidic Passion Page 5

  Almost before he knew what he was doing, he licked it. A taste of salt, of metal, but mostly – of course – the starched smell and taste of fresh hotel sheets.

  But also the warmth of the sheets; the feeling of her body pressed up against him in the night, when she had been dreaming and probably hadn’t realized she was doing it.

  Combined with the thing that happens naturally to every boy – to every man – first thing in the morning, it was too much.

  Emboldened by the sound of the shower, he reached into his pants and felt his dick, streaked now with her juices, mingled with his own.

  Damp with sweat – and bursting with neediness. He wrapped that white sheet around himself, rubbing the bloody spot right against the head of his cock.

  Stroking it up and down until, imagining himself inside her once again, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

  He burst; coming with a fresh smear of creamy-white cum leaking right through the blood spot.

  He gave an involuntary barking noise, then cleared his throat so she wouldn’t be suspicious if she heard. Clearing his throat to mask the grunts as he pumped himself empty, over and over again, onto the sheets they had shared.

  He wiped himself with the sheets all over – his balls, his triangle of hair and up on to his belly. Smearing his own juices everywhere, rubbing up against her blood.

  It may be forbidden… but it felt very, very good.

  CHAPTER Eighteen

  Raizy

  So this was married life.

  Niddah, she moved into her new apartment with Beryl, an apartment her parents had helped them find. Niddah, she unpacked the brand-new dishes into the cupboards. Niddah, she undressed in the bathroom each night and went to bed alone.

  Each day, she probed herself with a white cloth to make sure her vagina was still free of blood. Today was Day Three. After Day Seven, she could go to the mikveh at last.

  But first, she had to find a job. The apartment was lovely, but her parents couldn’t continue paying for it month after month. They had promised to help for two months until Raizy found a teaching job.

  After that, they’d get by on her income, plus whatever stipend Beryl got from the yeshiva. She could look forward to shopping in the kollel store, with the other wives, buying bruised, dented, cracked packages for half price.

  And pray for a good dental plan, for herself and her children.

  “Any luck?” Beryl asked her at lunch one day. If she wasn’t niddah, she’d have strangled him by now, she was sure. Maybe that’s why every night this week they were out, hosted at lavish sheva brachos parties in their honor.

  “I’ve called around to a few schools. Gotten a few nibbles.”

  “Great,” he said. “What grade do you want to teach?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Really? You don’t have a preference?”

  “Not so much.”

  “What made you decide you wanted to teach?” he asked.

  “What made you decide you wanted to sit and learn?” she challenged him back, with a flash of impatience.

  “I’m just asking,” he said. “I think you should do something that makes you happy.”

  “I already told you what makes me happy – I love to write.”

  “So write.”

  “Unfortunately, that doesn’t pay money. It doesn’t pay the rent. It doesn’t buy us groceries, even in the kollel store, where everything is damaged but cheap.”

  She knew she sounded shrewish, like a harpy. But why was he pressing her on this? She was fully prepared to do what needed to be done.

  To support her virtuous husband in learning Torah so he could go out every day, then come home, make her pregnant, so she could have the blessing of giving birth to sons who would grow up and leave her for yeshiva every day.

  This was what she’d wanted her whole life… so now that she had it, why did Raizy feel so deeply, deeply unhappy?

  She put her head down on the table. “I’m sorry. Just tired, I think. All these sheva brachos.”

  “Me, too,” he said. Quick to agree. She wasn’t sure she liked that about him. But maybe she was just finding fault with everything today.

  This niddah thing was tougher than it looked. She wished he could just scoop her in his arms. Hold her, cradle her, tell her it would be okay. Tell her she’d find a good job she loved – well, she wished he could tell her that and have it be true.

  As it was, she would do what was expected of her. Of course. She always did. But she was feeling less and less resigned to the life she’d thought she wanted. Working, housework, and writing in her spare time . That’s what she’d promised herself.

  But now – with everything she knew teaching would take out of her – she didn’t know if it would really be possible after all.

  “Lots of my friends teach,” she began, hoping he’d understand. “You have to have a ton of energy. You have to pour yourself into it.”

  She hoped it didn’t sound like she was complaining. She was grateful for her lot in life, for the education courses that at least made her qualified to teach, at least in the neighborhood’s Jewish girls’ schools.

  “I’m just worried,” she ended, lamely.

  “Worried about what?”

  “That there won’t be enough money. That I won’t have enough energy. That there will never be time to write.”

  “There will be time,” Beryl said. “I promise; I’ll help you make the time.”

  It seemed like he was sitting straighter when he said that. Like he’d reached a decision of his own.

  But even though he was her husband, Raizy didn’t feel she knew him well enough to ask.

  And who knew? Maybe she’d feel better when niddah was over. When they could be together again, joining their bodies in bed.

  Or maybe she’d never feel better again.

  CHAPTER Nineteen

  Beryl

  Looking over his shoulder, Beryl snuck away from the yeshiva. There was something he had to check.

  Yes! He’d been right. There really was a Help Wanted sign in the window of the bookstore, just a few blocks away from the yeshiva. Edelman’s. He thought he’d seen it when he walked past on Shabbos.

  It was a place he’d always sneered at. Not secretly, but openly, with all the other boys. A place where Jews went to feel good about their Jewishness even when they didn’t bother observing any of the mitzvos, the 613 commandments that kept their own lives in check.

  “Can I help you?”

  The woman behind the counter was wearing a low-cut, filmy purple blouse, like something you might see on a hippie. The deep rift between her breasts was clearly visible, as was a sea of wrinkles across her entire chest. Her hair was short, grey, bristly. This woman must be his bubby’s age, with none of his bubby’s modesty.

  He almost turned around and walked out, but his desire to find a job overrode the awkwardness of the view.

  “I noticed the sign in the window.”

  “Oh.” She rummaged beneath the desk, pulled out a Yiddish newspaper, and handed it to him. “Two bucks.”

  “What’s this?”

  “The sign in the window? That says we carry Yiddish newspapers?”

  “No, the other sign.” Actually, there were about fifteen signs. The window was a hodge-podge of flyers, signs and notices of different kinds. Obviously, he’d have to spell it out, or she’d be handing him Mahjongg cards next.

  “The Help Wanted sign.”

  “Ohhh…kay.” She looked at him squarely. “And who would this be for?”

  “For me. Myself.” She seemed to be still asking something. “To work.” Quit it, Beryl. You sound like an idiot.

  “Do you have any experience?”

  For a second, and only for a second, he thought she meant experience in bed. Luckily, he thought fast and didn’t blurt out any embarrassing details.

  “Not really.”

  Come on; he’d never get it at this rate. “I haven’t worked in a bookstore, b
ut I am terrific at organizing books. I love books. I’m very neat,” he said. “And my wife is a writer.”

  At least she would be, if he got a job, so she could write, instead of teach, a prospect she obviously found more depressing than she was letting on.

  “Wonderful,” the woman said, as if these were just the qualities she was looking for in her staff. She reached out her hand. “Meryl.”

  Really? That was really a name?

  “I’m afraid I can’t shake your hand,” he said. Now he’d blown it for sure. “Only with my wife. Well, my mother… and sisters. And grandmother.”

  “Uh-huh.” Obviously, not impressed. “And do you have a name?”

  “Um, Beryl.”

  “Beryl, as in, rhymes with Meryl? You’re shitting me.”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, kid. You’ve got a lot of learning to do. Are you reliable?”

  “Very reliable,” he said.

  “Are you sure you’re not needed – off in yeshiva or a diamond business somewhere?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Okay, well, leave me your number. I’ll speak with Mr. Edelman this afternoon and we’ll give you a call.”

  Beryl frantically scribbled his number on the scrap of paper she handed him. It took three tries; he had to keep crossing out his attempts, he was so nervous.

  “Calm down,” she said. “It’s just a job.”

  “I never had a job before.”

  “Wonderful,” Meryl said again. “This is a great place to start.”

  She took the piece of paper from him with a surprising delicacy, careful not to make contact with his hand.

  “Tell your wife I’d be happy to see what she’s written.”

  “I don’t think she’s written it – yet.”

  “Then tell her to get going. Time’s a-wastin’. From the looks of you, she’ll be knocked up before you know it.”

  What did that mean?

  How could this woman know what he was really like, deep down inside?

  “Relax, kid. I can’t read your mind – or at least, I wouldn’t be able to if you had a better poker face. I just know every guy’s a total horndog at your age. And I figure if you’re frummies, you’re not using protection.”

  There was no answer to this. Beryl just nodded, as if she’d imparted some great, deep life lesson.

  “Okay, get out of here, kid, before you scare the customers away. When Mr. Edelman calls, be polite. He’s not as let-it-all-hang-out as I am. More traditional.”

  That was one way to put it.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thanks so much.”

  He hoped Mr. Edelman would call soon. But if that happened, what would he tell Raizy?

  CHAPTER Twenty

  Raizy

  It wasn’t like this was her first time going to the mikveh. She’d already been there, less than two weeks ago, before the wedding.

  But that time, she’d gone with her mother. Some brides even make it into a party. A woman-only party, hanging around, probably not even mentioning the real reason that the bride was immersing in the holy waters.

  So she could get laid.

  This time, Raizy felt like an experienced married woman. But also, a bit, like she was sneaking around. The mikveh entrance was concealed around the back of the synagogue, and down a staircase.

  Anybody who saw her going in would know why she was there.

  She pressed the buzzer on the outside door and one of the attendants let her in. And that was when she realized – there would be other women here. Women who would see her, and know why she had come.

  It actually looked like she would have to wait. It was a busy night at the mikveh. Maybe it was a full moon or something.

  Last time she’d come, the ladies had rushed her into the “bridal suite,” somewhere on the luxury scale about halfway between a bathroom and a spa. No such treatment this time.

  This time, there were five other girls – women – in the waiting area, perched on mismatched chairs, waiting to be ushered into the private preparation rooms.

  Nobody met her eyes as she took her place on a folding chair with ripped padding. One woman read a book, another held a magazine, and a third sat silently, but her lips were moving. Tehillim: she was reciting psalms, Raizy knew. A truly virtuous woman, and this was confirmed when the woman reached up to adjust the edge of her sheitel, the human hair wig she wore, to ensure it hadn’t slipped to reveal any of her own natural hair.

  Of course, Raizy’s own hair was covered as well. No married woman would go out with her hair showing. From now on, it was only for her husband to see. But Raizy just wore a simple scarf, and she was sure there were a few little fuzzy hairs showing around the edge.

  This wasn’t a big problem, her rabbis at school had assured the girls, as long as it wasn’t intentional. Of course, all their wives wore sheitels. Raizy figured she would, too, someday, as she took her place as a godly wife and mother.

  Meanwhile… she didn’t know what she was. She hadn’t thought to bring a book. There was an assortment of women’s magazines on the coffee table in the center of the room, along with a dusty vase that held equally dusty fake flowers.

  She couldn’t help glancing around the room, trying to guess what was going on in each woman’s head. How could they sit here not thinking about what would happen later, when they were permitted to their husbands once again?

  For most of these women, it had probably been a minimum of twelve days, probably more like two weeks, since they’d first bled.

  And since they’d last touched their husbands?

  Well, surely they didn’t do it every night.

  The rebbitzen had told her that twice a week was considered a holy and reasonable quantity, but added that if her husband seemed to want “relations” more often, she should concede, as long as she wasn’t utterly exhausted.

  “He is just a boy, after all,” the rebbitzen had said, with a knowing smile. “A boy, with a man’s needs.”

  “So how often?” Raizy had asked. “Like, three times a week?”

  “Three, or sometimes more,” she agreed. “But don’t worry; when they’re that young, it doesn’t take long.”

  Raizy had just nodded.

  “And of course, he’ll want it on Shabbos.”

  “Of course,” said Raizy.

  “Mirtz Hashem,” God willing, “you’ll even conceive your first child then, on Shabbos. It’s a segulah.” An omen.

  For what, Raizy hadn’t wanted to ask.

  So many hints, so many whispers… so little honesty. How could so many girls dive into marriage with no clue what to expect?

  Somebody ought to write it all down.

  The rebbitzen herself, of course, was past all this herself. Long past childbearing, like most of the ladies who worked here in the mikveh or taught the kallah classes.

  Only those who were past the age of knowing or caring were considered fit to usher the next generation into these secrets. The world’s oldest secrets.

  But why did they have to be secret? If this business between husbands and wives really was as holy as everybody said, why not share it openly? Maybe not shout it from the rooftops, but at least write it in a book. A pamphlet. Something.

  Raizy wondered how often most of these women here in the waiting room did it with their husbands. Three times? Twice a week? Maybe less?

  She figured how often a boy – a man – wanted to do it had to with how much juice he had built up inside. That slippery juice she’d felt between her legs that first night.

  Did Beryl have more than most boys? Less?

  She was so curious about that juice… and couldn’t help thinking about these virtuous women lying beneath their husbands in bed when they got home from the mikveh.

  Bearded husbands, white undershirts, discarded tzitzis lying on the floor, pants around their ankles, pumping juices into each of these ladies who now sat demurely, legs crossed, reading or praying as they waited.

 
Squirting them full, full and then overflowing, juices pouring out of the men into their wive’s most private éclairs.

  Oy.

  Raizy was starting to squirm on the uncomfortable chair. She realized she’d been rocking back and forth, just slightly, pulling and stretching her private parts in a way that was starting to tingle.

  She shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not here.

  Soon enough, she’d strip down, dunk in the mikveh, and then rush home to be with Beryl again.

  More than anything, she wanted to know more about his juices. She wanted him inside her, but she also wanted to know everything about it – to see, to touch, to taste whatever came out of him down there.

  Patience, she told herself.

  There were years ahead. There would be time ahead for everything she wanted to try.

  But her private parts didn’t believe it, at least to judge from the way she’d started rubbing herself again – almost against her will – on the rounded edge of the chair.

  “Next!”

  It was Raizy’s turn, finally, to be led into a private room.

  “What do I do?” she asked, embarrassed to sound like a novice, even though that’s essentially what she was.

  The mikveh lady came with Raizy into the room and started water running into the bathtub.

  “You studied how to prepare?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, so take a bath, shower off, comb your hair, dentures out, earrings out. Just press the green button to call one of us when you’re ready.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  The mikveh lady shut the door as she left, and Raizy turned the lock behind her.

  Dentures?

  The rest she knew already. She knew how to prepare like a virtuous woman. She’d gone over it with with the rebbitzen, of course.

  But there was one thing she needed to do first. Raizy didn’t think she’d make it into the cleansing waters without letting out some of this tension first. There would be plenty left for her husband, she promised herself.

  At least it wasn’t a sin for a woman to explore herself. No seed to spill. Right now, she was grateful she wasn’t a man, with so many more opportunities for transgression and punishment in fulfilling his pent-up desires.