enough, to deal with old walls, with brothers, with the
rest of the family. With his mother.
Years had passed, but Bnei Brak had been left behind.
Nothing had changed there, he felt. Nothing. No peeling plaster repairs.
Sidewalk pits were still there. Only street names had changed slightly. Not
replaced, only varied. Street this and that became three different streets,
without any apparent reason.
He thought of those years during which he surely missed
memorial after memorial. At first, his family accepted hollow excuses. Over
time, this stopped. He stopped going, stopped making excuses, no longer living
there. Did not want news from home. Did not want to speak about him, either.
Dim memory, that’s all that was left. A closed wound.
"This is the address?" asked the taxi driver.
"Yes," he lied, and paid his way. In fact, he
still had more than ten minutes’ walk to his parents’ place, but he welcomed
the fresh air. It was a lovely August night.
*
(A decade before the Bnei Brak trip.)
There was something sweet in the air. Sweet skin, honey
hair, lips full of nectar, slot full of wonderful nectar, the connection
between the end of the leg and the beginning of the buttocks. There was
something sweet, something boyish, something golden, something that flowed, and
Zomy sucked every drop of honey that flowed from it.
This was the first time he saw, felt, fondled, this slot.
The first time he became aware that such a thing could be, flexible, cheeky, so
natural. Naughty fold, created when the leg straightens, and disappeared when
she bends.
He had never seen a naked woman.
And now, as in a dream fog, eyes large as saucers roamed
over her naked body up and down, sip it slow, deep breaths. This was something
sweet, something tempting. Lustful kisses he had never before imagined were the
reasons for his heart fluttering with feelings of immortality.
He loved her.
Loved her from the first moment she turned to him, in the
little street he ruled. Loved the hidden ways along which she took him, the
mysterious adventure into which she dragged him in the stolen few hours between
the computer lessons and the evening talks with the rabbi.
He breathed in the scent of her wetness, reveled in the
unbelievable immediate response it produced in him. Breathing, closer and
closer, breathed again and again.
There was something sweet in the way she laid her hand on
his shoulder, when she brought him his supper, walking barefoot. There was
something soft and creamy, the way her fingers tangled in his hair, the way
they slid down his chest hair. There was something sweet on her breath in his
ear, whispers, arms, dragging him back, fighting exhausted strength,
electrifying their hold on the small mattress.
There was something sweet in her young breasts, perfect nipples,
upright, dark pubic hair, luminous eyes. There was something honeyed, magical
about the path leading from the meeting between her breasts to her navel, and
down it. Far below.
There was something breathtakingly sweet when her breathing
became ragged and lust streams crossed the border from her.
There was something so sweet. So pristine. So desirable and
seductive.
*
Only now, in New York, when the last breath struggled to get
out, when lack of oxygen to his brain fogged the mirrors of his mind and
flooded him all these memories, he suddenly knew.
Knew why she was so sweet, the only sweetness in the home of
Rabbi Eligad. The rabbi who was a father.
Stolen Waters are sweet, he thought.
Stolen Waters, in which he drowned more and more. As
rectangular room then, another rectangular room today. As then, with his first
love, today, with the latest lover.
Stolen water tastes sweeter.
Stolen spring water.
05/13/01 Email
I survived. We'll talk.
05/13/01 Email 2
It wasn’t easy, just so you know. Lia says I came through a
life-threatening situation, but I don’t feel that way. Difficult to write
because I cough all the time, like I
rest of the family. With his mother.
Years had passed, but Bnei Brak had been left behind.
Nothing had changed there, he felt. Nothing. No peeling plaster repairs.
Sidewalk pits were still there. Only street names had changed slightly. Not
replaced, only varied. Street this and that became three different streets,
without any apparent reason.
He thought of those years during which he surely missed
memorial after memorial. At first, his family accepted hollow excuses. Over
time, this stopped. He stopped going, stopped making excuses, no longer living
there. Did not want news from home. Did not want to speak about him, either.
Dim memory, that’s all that was left. A closed wound.
"This is the address?" asked the taxi driver.
"Yes," he lied, and paid his way. In fact, he
still had more than ten minutes’ walk to his parents’ place, but he welcomed
the fresh air. It was a lovely August night.
*
(A decade before the Bnei Brak trip.)
There was something sweet in the air. Sweet skin, honey
hair, lips full of nectar, slot full of wonderful nectar, the connection
between the end of the leg and the beginning of the buttocks. There was
something sweet, something boyish, something golden, something that flowed, and
Zomy sucked every drop of honey that flowed from it.
This was the first time he saw, felt, fondled, this slot.
The first time he became aware that such a thing could be, flexible, cheeky, so
natural. Naughty fold, created when the leg straightens, and disappeared when
she bends.
He had never seen a naked woman.
And now, as in a dream fog, eyes large as saucers roamed
over her naked body up and down, sip it slow, deep breaths. This was something
sweet, something tempting. Lustful kisses he had never before imagined were the
reasons for his heart fluttering with feelings of immortality.
He loved her.
Loved her from the first moment she turned to him, in the
little street he ruled. Loved the hidden ways along which she took him, the
mysterious adventure into which she dragged him in the stolen few hours between
the computer lessons and the evening talks with the rabbi.
He breathed in the scent of her wetness, reveled in the
unbelievable immediate response it produced in him. Breathing, closer and
closer, breathed again and again.
There was something sweet in the way she laid her hand on
his shoulder, when she brought him his supper, walking barefoot. There was
something soft and creamy, the way her fingers tangled in his hair, the way
they slid down his chest hair. There was something sweet on her breath in his
ear, whispers, arms, dragging him back, fighting exhausted strength,
electrifying their hold on the small mattress.
There was something sweet in her young breasts, perfect nipples,
upright, dark pubic hair, luminous eyes. There was something honeyed, magical
about the path leading from the meeting between her breasts to her navel, and
down it. Far below.
There was something breathtakingly sweet when her breathing
became ragged and lust streams crossed the border from her.
There was something so sweet. So pristine. So desirable and
seductive.
*
Only now, in New York, when the last breath struggled to get
out, when lack of oxygen to his brain fogged the mirrors of his mind and
flooded him all these memories, he suddenly knew.
Knew why she was so sweet, the only sweetness in the home of
Rabbi Eligad. The rabbi who was a father.
Stolen Waters are sweet, he thought.
Stolen Waters, in which he drowned more and more. As
rectangular room then, another rectangular room today. As then, with his first
love, today, with the latest lover.
Stolen water tastes sweeter.
Stolen spring water.
05/13/01 Email
I survived. We'll talk.
05/13/01 Email 2
It wasn’t easy, just so you know. Lia says I came through a
life-threatening situation, but I don’t feel that way. Difficult to write
because I cough all the time, like I
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