Hassidic Passion (2 page)

Beryl

Beryl was at yeshiva when he heard her name for the first time:  Raizy.  Not good that there were so many boys around:  he got hard immediately.

He pulled one of his
many books out of his backpack and shoved it in front of him so he could make his way back to the dorm room from the communal phone.  He needed to be by himself.

By himself probably wasn’t the best way to be
with all the excitement coursing through his brain right now at the thought of choosing a
kallah
– a wife. 

The temptation was
too great, when he was alone, to touch himself down there. 

But almost by design, the way the dorms were set up, so close to the classrooms, there was a good chance that another
boy could come in at any moment.  So he wasn’t even going to bother.  He would behave himself – for now.

He wasn’t even supposed to touch himself
at all.  It was a sin, of course.  He was supposed to save himself for the first night he would be with her.

With Raizy.

The name gave him a thrill, but waiting however long until the date actually arrived would be
gehinnom
.  Like living through hell.

Not that he’d even met her yet. 

So they would meet.  Once, twice.  He’d put on his best yeshiva
bochur
face… smile for the families.

And figure out later how to break it to her that he wasn’t exactly the perfect yeshiva
bochur
she may have had in mind.

He didn’t know which was worse, from a shidduch perspe
ctive, the fact that he didn’t want to sit and learn… or the fact that he walked around with such perverted thoughts all day long? 

Did every boy walk around hard the way he did? 
Pent-up, like a rocket ready to explode?

Perhaps, but he was certain they didn’t think about blonde girls kneeling on shag rugs, sucking them off over and over again.

Don’t touch,
he thought.  Save it for marriage.

It sounded so simple
when his teachers said it.  But at the age of twenty-one, bursting with manly ripeness aching to get out, no part of his “perfect” life was particularly easy for Beryl these days.

Raizy

Beryl.  That was the name the
shadchan
had given her parents.  Raizy’s heart sank just to hear it.  So thick with its Yiddish inflection.  So old-fashioned, like a visitor from another world.  The world of the yeshiva.  Visitor from the Pale Planet.

A guy named Beryl wouldn’t go down on her, she thought.

A guy named Beryl wouldn’t want to get his face sticky with her cunt-slime.

A guy named Beryl would mount her carefully, slowly, tr
ying to be considerate, wiggling his hips like an old lady in salsa class until he could bear it no longer.   Then, he would apologetically come, his shame bursting inside her, filling her up right along with his semen.

Twice a week, she could imagine it, with Beryl. 

Once for sure on Shabbos, the holy Sabbath day, when man and wife come together in rabbinically-prescribed pleasure.  Raizy resented even the thought of it. 

For her, Shabbos was about noshing late into the night with a good book.  Not about going to bed with some meticulously white-shirted stranger named Beryl.

A “Beryl” was not the kind of guy who would take you from behind.

A “Beryl” was not the kind of guy who would toss you down on the bed, spread your legs, and lick you out like a dog, then flip you over and take you from behind, taking his pleasure
through your ass in great pounding thrusts.

Beryl was a simpering name, Raizy thought. 
Maybe he’s even one of these secret gays you hear about in the yeshiva world.

But she wasn’t getting any younger, and everybody knew Hollywood wasn’t real, anyway. 

How many women, Jewish or not, ended up with guys who actually looked like the ones on the screen?  Most were probably closer to Beryl, if she thought about it:  scrawny and apologetic in their desires.

And he was, the
shadchan
said, great in Torah.  A scholar.  Of course, that meant she’d have to get a job, support the family with her income.  Work all day and do housework all night before falling exhausted into bed.

Where he would simperingly poke her pussy until he burst and fell asleep.
  And then, if she had any energy left, she could get up and write – something.  Maybe not the Great American Novel.  Maybe the yeshiva’s newsletter or website.

Raizy’s mother was more excited than she was, she thought.  But still.  She was a good girl.  S
he would meet him, they would go out.  If things went according to plan, they would eventually marry.

Even vanilla sex was better than
no
sex, right?

Beryl

As if they knew how tense Beryl’s situation was (but how could they, right?), his parents arranged for things to move forward as quickly as possible.

“I talked to the
shadchan
again,” his mother said on the phone.

“Great.  What did she say?”

“She said Wednesday.”

So Wednesday it was.  Just two days away.

He was grateful that his family wasn’t the old-fashioned kind that would invite Raizy and her parents over to his house. 
Baruch Hashem
, they were actually allowed to go out on a real date.

He just never anticipated how aroused he would be when the moment came. 

“Relax,” said his mother, seeing him pacing in the living room, waiting to go out.  He’d gone home to get ready for the date.  To have a proper, private shower, and get dressed in some of the nicer clothes he left at home.

“What’s to worry about?” said his father.

Had he never been twenty-one before?

“Well, I just think I might…”  Oh, God, he couldn’t say what he was really thinking.  “I might say the wrong thing.”

“You’re a nice boy.  Just tell her what’s on your mind.”

Yeah, right.  What was on his mind at that particular m
oment was wondering whether he might be able to strap himself down so his cock wouldn’t give him away.  Maybe the bandage in his drawer from when he’d sprained his ankle playing baseball?

“What if I can’t think of what to say?”

“Ask her about her family.  Ask her if she likes to read, or if her friends have gotten married already.  There’s a lot to talk about.”

Everything except what was on his mind.  That, they were not permitted to talk about until their wedding night.

“I guess,” said Beryl.  “I never thought about that.”

H
e didn’t bother with the bandage, in the end.   He could always claim he was hot and whip off his black jacket to cover his overeager member should it rear its head.

Which it did, of course. 

The very first moment he saw her, outside the restaurant.

“Hi, I’m Raizy.”

“Beryl,” he said, careful not to shake her hand like he would have done if she’d been a guy.

They’d arrived separately, of course.  More appropriate that way.  Less chance that they’d spend time alone together en route.

“Should we go inside?” she asked.

“We’re a few minutes early.” 

“Okay, so we can wait out here.”

“It’s a nice night, anyway,” he said, running through his f
ather’s list of conversation topics.  He figured weather was a safe bet.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, not meeting his eyes.

He’d made a reservation for seven.  You don’t want to go on a first date too late, he’d heard from the other boys.  Girls might think you want to take advantage of them if you do that.

Which he did.

But he wasn’t about to let on.

Weather chatter exhausted, they decided it was okay to go in a few minutes early and take their seats.

Across from him at the table, he saw that she was beautiful, as he’d heard from his friends.  Actually, Avrumi had told him she was “hot,” for which he smacked him hard on the arm.  Of course, all the
bochrim
talked like that, a little, when the rabbis weren’t listening.  Trying on the bad-guy role, just a little.  Everybody knew they would straighten out when they got married.

Married.
  Beryl just couldn’t imagine it, on the one hand; on the other hand, he couldn’t stop imagining it.

Was he the only bochur whose mind was twisted this way?

Was he the only boy thinking of slipping his hand under a girl’s skirt, right there in the restaurant?  Under the table, perhaps, or even dashing away with her into the bathroom? 

He could barely focus to order for the two of them.

“Have many of your friends gotten married already?” he asked, trying to be polite, after the waiter left.

“A few.”

“Are they living here now?”

“Some are here.  One’s in
eretz Yisrael
.  One in Canada.”

“Ah.  I have friends there, too.  Montreal.”

He could barely speak straight.  And he was most definitely grateful for the tablecloth that lay over the table, concealing his nearly-bursting eagerness.

She was probably expecting some degree of awkwardness.  He knew already that, like him, she hadn’t dated anyone else yet.  But the girls must talk among themselves. 

They must know a bit what to expect from these
bochrim
, these boys who – their whole lives – had never spoken to another woman beyond their mothers, their sisters.  Maybe store clerks.  And some of the luckier boys had married older brothers, so not only had they witnessed the process, and had some idea of what to expect, but had actually been forced to make conversation with those terrifying characters:  their brand-new sisters-in-law.

“My friend Shmuli’s brother Lazer got married last year,”
Beryl said.  “It was a beautiful wedding.”

“Was that Lazer Strauss?  I think I was there, too.”

“Really; amazing.”

“Amazing,” she agreed.

He didn’t mention that he’d gone to the wedding with Shmuli.  The bride hadn’t been beautiful, but that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about her.  From staring at her little feet, eyes roaming upwards into those magical white folds and creases of her dress. 

From there, they’d strayed upwards to the little virginal bulge of the bride’s tummy, where she hadn’t quite managed to lose all her teenage plumpness, to her little breasts.  As much as the bride’s mother had tried to flatten them beneath the heavy white satin, they were still there, still visible.  And then her pale neck and terrified face, her chin just visible beneath the opaque veil as she was led to the chuppah.

And then led away by Lazer, to the private yichud room, before returning to raucous music and celebration with the crowd.  The yichud room, where bride and groom are alone together:  the first time either had been secluded with a person of the opposite sex.

That whole wedding, Beryl couldn’t stop thinking about Lazer and the yichud room.  About what he’d do to Hindy, his new bride.  But Shmuli did say they didn’t do it right there in the yichud room.  The parents and rabbis only gave couples
about ten minutes there.  No, the serious business waited until that night, said Shmuli, exactly like that. 

“That’s when they did the serious business.”

“Oy!” said Beryl.  “Don’t talk about it.”

“Why not?” asked Shmuli.  “It’s only natural.  Don’t tell me you never have.”

“I never have,” lied Beryl.  “And you shouldn’t either.”

“I don’t think about what they
do
,” the boy insisted.  “Who wants to think about that?”

“Right,” said Beryl.  There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him.

“But my brother said it’s holy, what happens, and that the rabbis will teach us when the time comes.”

“Okay,” said Beryl.  He wanted to change the subject, and baruch Hashem, it was time for their next class anyway.

Despite his tough talk, Shmuli was a good kid.  He would never think about what actually went on that night, the way Beryl did.  If this was Shmuli out on a date with Raizy, he wouldn’t have any trouble, talking, ordering, paying attention.

But all Beryl could think about was what lay beneath Raizy’s dress.

“So do you like to read?” he asked.

“I love it,” she said, her face animated for a second with an unexpected passion before she continued.  “I love to read and…” she hesitated.  “I write.”

“Write?” he asked, like he’d never heard of it.  Dumb, Beryl.  Dumb.  She’s going to love you now.  “Write what?”

“I don’t know.  Some articles, so far.  Some stories, poems.”

“Like, for a job?” he asked.

“Well, nobody’s paid me for it so far.  Maybe someday.”

“But you have a teaching certificate, right?”

“Right,” she agreed.  “After I get married, I’ll teach to su
pport – my husband – so he can sit and learn.”  They all had to say that, he thought, or else they’d never snag the Torah scholars… unless they came from rich families.  He didn’t think Raizy did.

And again, here, the thing he’d never say:  “What would you think if I… wanted to go out to work, instead of sitting and learning?”

How could he shatter her dreams that way?

“Tell me about your family,” he said instead.

“What about them?” she asked.

And they were off on another awkward meander, down a
nother conversational dead-end street, a placeholder meant to conceal the fact that all they really knew about each other was what the
shadchan
had told their mothers:  height, weight, shoe size and a rough family history.

Somehow,
despite the conversation, despite his erection, despite his blasphemous thoughts, Beryl muddled through that date.

Somehow,
Raizy agreed to meet with him again.

And again.

And somehow, after one more date, they and their parents agreed:  it was a match.

Somehow,
Beryl was getting married.

He hoped that marriage would turn him into less of a pe
rvert.  And perhaps more of a conversationalist.