Sex & the Holy City

Some Like it Hot

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 04:39:39 PDT

It’s been a while, I’ve been marinating in my juices, doing this and that. Should’ve blogged it all, but somehow toasted my laptop on the Israeli current.

Soon, I will receive my new computer, and gear-up the gossip.

I did, however:

A. book a flight back home for a quick visit next month [home = UK].

B. Had what could be the last Brazilian wax job for the summer.

C. Prove that parking inspectors will forfeit a ticket for tit, or just skip my little car. Anyway, I was a few minutes late. And we were all very civil and courteous about it.

D. Decide to let you enjoy my mobile’s cam rubbish resolution:

Do take care, you lot. Will be back at it soon.

Pick-Up-Start-Up

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 23:46:11 PDT

With all due honesty, I do sin within the religious sector. With the married, the divorced, the single, the bearer of black velvet kippah, leather kippah and woolen kippah, introverted and extroverted fringes, gartel belts, beards, cut or tied sidelocks – circumcised as one.

Neither is the Orthodox woman out of bounds for me, but this entails a different method altogether. In order to reach these pious ladies, I use the services of a very fragile network. Upon strumming one of this network’s strings, I might be able to orchestrate sweet coitus. But this matter deserves a separate discussion.

Hence, it is Orthodox men we shall debate in following posts.

I am not a spiritual girl, entirely void of purity of mind and body. But I do try not to respond to men who are beneath my intellectual league. One can detect a high quotient of wise, learned and thoughtful conversationalists within the Orthodox masculine sector. And as such, I enjoy being a fully-appreciated occurring experience. I intend no harm or insult in my words, nor do I carry a confrontational tone. However, I will understand if I’m read so, and apologize in advance.

In my next post I will introduce a few beginnings. All took place, moreover in this holy city, but not all lead to intercourse. It is up to you to judge which did result, if not in an adorably fuck-friendly relationship, then at least in a pyrotechnic quickie.

Laters,
Jezebel xx

How I Nearly Run Over 3 Nuns

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 23:46:45 PDT

The past fortnight I've slept over at Julie's. Stressed Julie, closely an ex-wife, the struggling mother of two fashion accessories in the shape of baby boys. No, Julie and I are not sharing a bed.

Each morning before leaving to work, I make her a toast with jam and turn on the water boiler. In the evening, the toast slumps next to fried egg crumbs, and the hot water should last until the 4th Lebanon War.

Julie isn't depressed, merely powerless against the shallow trend of her life, or so she claims. According to her, the children are obstructing her near-future prospects, her husband Mike is cheating on her, and it is a certain pity she cannot act as mischievously as a little slut like me. I will only concede to the last argument.

'You should seriously consider Nir from the patisserie,' I try taunting her.

'You!' she exclaims. 'Potentially fucking the entire Aroma Café chain!' What's wrong with that? 'You must feel so sexually deprived because of me,' she shows sympathy, expecting me to retort with a no, absolutely not, she happens to be my top priority.

'No! Absolutely not!' I shout over the food processor's din, cranking out our batch of drinks from within the hell of the pre-divorce-process fridge. 'Don't worry about me,' pouring her something thick, green and pungent, I wince. 'I manage to insert a few quickies into my schedule.'

Julie blinks, either because I've missed the crucial sentence, or due to the toxic fumes.

'Not to mention that you happen to be my very top priority, clear?' I verify, and we chug what used to be tequila and something else, and possibly, kiwi. And gag.

'Remind me to remind you not to stuff mint leaves into every mixture.'

The root of Julie's problem, as may apply to other married people - if I am allowed the arrogance – is the fact that they fail to enjoy themselves.

'What do you mean, enjoy? If Mike would –'she launches a rant, so I shut my ears and bury my nose in a Graham Greene anthology. Julie chucks a slipper at me.

'Regardless of Mike,' I try again. 'Enjoy yourself, from within yourself, for yourself. Why do you think I'm still unattached? I'm too much of a hedonist; a singular Mike wouldn't satisfy me. One of us should be able to attain the golden rule of pleasure. Either I learn to contend with less, or you will learn to love your possibilities.'

Julie stares at me. I realize what rubbish I've spewed, and smirk. 'Wait here. Be right back.'

As I drive through the twilit Jerusalem neighborhoods, flowing with geriatric tourists and ice cream in paper cups, a favourite fuckbuddy calls. We arrange to meet later.

Back at her house, Julie is sprawled drunk in her bathtub. I place my casket on the bathroom mat. 'Nearly run over three nuns. How ironic.'

Right, treasure scan. 'This is Uzi, handmade by a famous DJ,' I introduce. 'It's slightly unpredictable, as inspired by the Israeli submachine gun, rather spasmodic and explosive, but that's where its charm lays.'

Julie gapes at the shining instrument. 'That is revolting. I don't like sex toys.'

I couldn't care less. 'This is the tiny bunny, preferably for couples' use, and that is a lovely butt-ring. Whatever is still in original packaging hasn't been used yet, and you're welcome to confiscate a pussymate for yourself.' Those aware of my collection, and the fact that I share it like a Carnegie, tend to shower me with sex devices. Personally, these appliances are seldom utilized in use, yet seeing as I've reached amateur collector level, I wouldn't like to halt the momentum.

'Whichever item has been used already, it indicates its efficiency. You will find antiseptic and wipes here as well, and you have got soap and water. Enjoy. I'll be back tomorrow.'

Julie selects a blue dildo with a pear-shaped base. Feeling merciful, I spare her the fact that it is arse-intended.

On my way out I pick up the Graham Greene book. After fucking with Gabi, I will recite a snippet from an inspiring story aptly named 'May We Borrow Your Husband':

"At the end of what is called 'the sexual life' the only love which has lasted is the love that has accepted everything, every disappointment, every failure, and every betrayal, which has accepted even the sad fact that in the end there is no desire so deep as the simple desire for companionship."

Naughty Fruitcakes!

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 23:46:53 PDT

Finally chanced upon the lowest point. Mud-splattered, sweaty and reeking of sulphur – I hit the Dead Sea!
Last week my two faggoty mates, Eran and Beau [I am the instigator of this temporary match] invited me to join their Dead Sea jaunt.

Eran brought:
1 car
1 thong
1 pair leather flip flops
1 iPod + mini speakers
1 Ray Ban shades [Israeli Plague ‘08]

Beau brought:
1 sun block
1 pair of trunks
1 pair plastic moccasins
1 white undershirt
1 aviator shades [Aviator Flu, UK 2008]
1 little purse to carry it all
20+ containers for Dead Sea mud
10 cheap carrier bags

Beau is a recent friend I made last time I visited home. He was stunned by the idea of a nice British girl like me playing rough on the Wild Middle East prairies. As we met at a gay club, I showed him a number of mobile photos of my local playmates, and he noted down my email. 2 months later, he made a royal entry and immediately slunk up to Eran, who apparently looks ravishing in his stolen IDF uniform from his teenage days. As for me, the banality nearly killed me.

I brought:
1 pair of vintage sun glasses
1 pareo [black&white orchid print]
1 red bathing suit [black&white polka dot straps]
1 black wide-brim straw hat
1 pair black sandals
1 box of wipes
1 sun block
1 lip balm
1 hand lotion
1 plastic envelope full of work documents to review + pen
1 beach bag to match pareo

For some reason I still believe I am a minimalist. I really do need the lip balm.
First off, we parked by a palm grove and packed Beau’s containers tight with mud. Eran and I hold occasional DIY spas at my place, during which we smear each other with Dead Sea masks and lounge naked on my balcony. Eran’s favourite digging spot is not very gay-friendly, or friendly at all, since it’s a sinkhole hazard zone. A giant mineral pit may just gape open at any given moment and swallow us degenerates. In case this happens, I do hope I get mummified in a complimentary fashion.

As we drove to our regular back-to-belly beach, we passed a van full of young religious men.
‘See those?’ I pointed for Beau’s benefit. ‘I really like them.’ They looked up at our little car, blasting horrendous pop remixes. It may sound like I was referring to them condescendingly, as to a sociopathic trend, but I wasn’t. These boys in black sneakers and fringes are a charming bunch I would love to hang out with.
‘Terrific!’ said Beau. ‘Think we could arse any?’
‘Don’t count on it,’ replied Eran, and we sped along. We did hold an argument as to the likelihood oh any of us scoring these Yeshiva boys, and if so, how and how much.

It hasn’t yet dawned upon Israel that homosexual men are rather cruel creatures. They’re still seen at that early evolutionary stage of fluffy and unreliably intelligent, though slightly more employable. I am waiting for Israel to realize that these chihuahuas come with a sharp set of teeth. Middle-Eastern gays are cruel, sly and cynical tools with bulimic disorders at best, gym schedules from hell at worst.

‘Jezebel might hook up with some,’ commented Eran. ‘But only because she’s less of a sin. Inside, they’re dying to be manned!’
‘I’m not a lesser sin!’ I wail indignantly. ‘I am a wicked temptress!’
Eran snorts. ‘Just because you’re more common –‘
‘What!’
‘- doesn’t mean the weight of desire for your case is greater!’

We could’ve argued back and forth, culminating in tears on all sides. Since I haven’t met enough Yeshiva boys, I kept quiet. Also, consider this: they spend over 80% of their social lifespan in single-sex settings. What power have I got against these stats? Possibly, superb power. Perhaps not.

Finally, I have my desired even tan, as what good are polka dot straps if one can’t daintily liberate them? This is just the beginning of summer; I’ll perfect the tint as we go on. Beau and Eran fucked, I lathered my hands and reviewed reports, and we had a collective fruit salad at a nearby hotel to celebrate our fruitiness.

Wear Nothing Beneath Your Housecoat

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 23:47:00 PDT

I am not simply bi-curious, I'm bi-compulsive. I have bisexual tendencies which swing deep into the lesbian zones.
One of the most exciting explorations of my inclination is in collaboration with various partners who would commit social suicide if their cooperation was to be discovered.

This is why I am so good:

EVE: Housewife, previously part-time accountant; mother of four ranged between 2-11 years of age. Loves baking, hosting dozens of guests on Friday nights, and Leonard Cohen. Auburn hair, honey eyes, dimpled buttocks, skinny legs and arms. Otherwise known as Brandy.

ADAM: Yeshiva high-school teacher, escorts the 2-years-old to nursery daily, returns home for lunch 3 times a weeks, for late supper (around 9:00 pm) four times a week. Also known as Dovid.

EDEN: 3-bedroom-flat on the second floor of a building located across from Tzvi's Minimarket in a Jerusalemite Ultra-Orthodox neighbourhood.

THE SERPENT UNDER'T: Eve/Brandy home-schools degenerate or ignorant young women, tutoring them some Halachik tips.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT: Eve/Brandy likes it rough. Although I love my lace, organdie and chiffon, for Brandy I shed feathers and grow scales, rough leather and denim scales, threadbare at the thighs. Bright purple wifebeater, shin-high biker boots and heavy eyeliner. Cheap black skirt and arrogance to fit the my-Orthodox-parents-disowned-me-but-I’ll-respect-you profile. Dovid has met me twice, always on his way out to evening prayers and classes. I’m sure he appreciates his wife’s contribution to the grand social proclivity towards the blacker zones of the Jewish spectrum.

Tonight, Brandy and I chat a bit as she stacks the dishwasher, wedding present from an American aunt. The younger children are asleep, the 11-years-old sleeps over at a friend’s house. This is one of my only prerequisites. We have a little over 2 hours to ride dirty.
As she lines the ketchup-stained plates in the racks, I step forward swiftly, slap her buttock and leave my hand there.

Regularly, I am not aggressive, and never slap, kick or bite fiercely. Yet as my fingers rest there I feel the warmth rising, glowing about the handprint through the thin housecoat fabric. She remembered to remove her panties: it was my suggestion last time we met, which enables her to excite herself throughout the evening’s anticipation.

Soon after we hit the master bedroom, lock the door and roll on her bed. In this ghetto the beds tend to stand apart most of their furniture lifespan, so as when Suri pads in the morning to cuddle with her parents, no questions arise.

AFTERMATH: None, no dramatic exodus from Eden. After playful licking, serious finger-thrusting and glorious kissing, we climax and lay snuggled together for a short while. The apartment clicks and whirrs, the dishwasher hums, Hassidic tunes float in from a neighbouring window. I stroke her shoulders and torso lightly, lulling us into drowsiness.

Then we heave up, collect our clothes and I check for any smears of eyeliner.

We kiss once against the locked door, followed by a swift lick oh her lips and I slip out, adjusting the skirt and racing downstairs, twirling behind me the smell of her sweet auburn crotch.

Eloping Southwards with a Married Woman Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 23:47:09 PDT

Julie called me on Sunday morning, sniffling and chewing vehemently on what I assume is non-leavened gum, and announced that she needs to get away.

‘What about Shaya and Nati?’ I asked, already scanning the Israir site for Eilat deals.
‘They are coming along!’ she yells, and unwraps something in the background, something sweet and cream-topped like one of those Passover cookies.
‘Of course. So let’s go!’ Excellent, Nati is under 24 months, which makes things cheaper.
‘I’m sick of this city,’ she blows her nose. Like hell she does, living in a villa in one of the most peripheral neighbourhoods, whereas I’m stuck with 2 roommates at the centre of town.
‘How would you like to go to Eilat?’ They have OK rates at the non-Kosher hotels, and Julie merely pretends to observe Kosher. They served shrimps at their wedding! And told the rabbi on duty that they were carved out of Persian carrots.

It took me half an hour to pack a lovely beach bag with all the tiny dresses and cotton capri pants it could muster without turning out to be an IDF duffel bag, and drove to Julie’s.

This is the best thing about children nowadays: they get transfixed by the screen. Julie’s babies were glued to the carpet, dribbling Matzah crackers unconsciously.
Julie was dribbling too, crying actually, in her bedroom. Unable to pack a single item, she slumped among her cardigans, lingerie and Escada suit (winter suit! What was she thinking?!) and performed an excellent imitation of a breakdown.

‘Cut the crap, Jules,’ I said, tossing away 2 tweedy Zara skirts. ‘We both know you’re able to breathe now that he’s out.’
This is the good thing about girl-friends: we are not lying when we’re not telling the truth. We are not even twisting the situation about. We’re just saying what sounds good and optimizes our momentary wellbeing. Not to mention that she wasn’t crying about Mike, but over the fact that nothing fit.

And here we are at the airport, the boys bellowing, Julie on the phone to her mum, and me acting as if I could really use a child as a fashion accessory. I figured that if you separate Nati from Shaya, and take the latter plane-watching, he could be rather a doll. However, I do not think I’ll be having any of my own in the near future.

I’ll be back next week! With a tan!

Eloping Southwards with a Married Woman

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 23:47:19 PDT

This is Julie: a blonde gone raven, bulky chain necklace, nifty Chanel purse, further accessorized by 2 children.

This is what we are doing at the airport: waiting for our flight to Eilat, munching on Kosher potato crisps and screaming our fluffy heads off. That is, this is what Julie’s boys are doing, quite devotedly. I think I am about to burst a bra-strap, but uphold a kind and concerned I-might-even-pass-for-a-modern-day-Mary-Poppins expression. Mary Poppins in a beautiful full skirted, pine-green retro summer dress. And little black sandals with sunglasses to match. And blood-red lipstick.

Julie and Mike held a row during their Seder. I didn’t ask for details but trust her not to spare me a nuance of their quarrel. They maintain this off-and-on affair for the sake of their 2 beautiful baby boys and Julie’s eternally cardiac-arrested [no, over-cholesterolized] mum. They are married – hell, they launched a massive, gluttonous wedding bash where I got so pissed I ate my eggrolls from my shoe.

Sometimes, on days such as this, I do wish they would just let it go, stop trying and get on with their respective lives. Mike is obviously repulsed by Julie, and she cannot stand his guts for stretches longer than 3 minutes. Yet, they keep attempting at this silly liason, Mike retrieving his toothbrush to the rack and his briefs to the drawer, as Julie buries her Ben & Jerry’s at the very back of their oversized freezer. Then unvaryingly, Mike grows sick of Israel, of the heat/cold/current affairs/lack of Sam Adams or whatnot, packs his Braun and briefs and storms out, with Julie cussing him on her mobile phone.

The following hour, I’m cordially invited over for a wicked meal, as Julie plays the perfect housewife in a frilled apron too small for her bust, drinking champagne and odd versions of mojito, and engorging ourselves in whatever it takes to cheer her up.

But this time even Julie had enough of this place.

To be continued when I find some inner peace or outdoor quiet…

Portrait of a Nude Reclining on a Seder Plate

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 15:06:48 PDT

Festival of Freedom, is it not? General information regarding Passover, as accumulated inside my little brain, does not include much detail beyond the Red Sea, cheap wine and overdramatic a-la-Nefertiti eyeliner. I don't usually commemorate the Seder night as it always seemed so tedious.

This year, I considered celebrating the Seder in a more gay-friendly manner. Well, actually, in the naturalist sense. Like, nude. What's wrong with a nudist Seder? As it is well known among my friends, I am a proud naturalist. Fine, an exhibitionist within concession, but still lovely.

Eventually, the Nudist Seder will not transpire. Pity, since I spent so much effort in persuading my all-of-a-sudden-holier-than-thou friends. What's so difficult about confessing that you just cannot stand the sight of tits?

At any rate, see below for the Top Ten Reasons for Celebrating a Nude Seder. La-dee-da. And in case I've inspired you: no polaroid evidence is required, thankyouverymuch.

1. Call off the fundamental Jewish worry: no need to overspend on fancy mum-will-kill-for-this-vest Yom Tov clothes.

2. Nonetheless, a great motive to finally overspend at your nearest cosmetics joint, and have your body waxed for the First of Spring.

3. Hello, this is the Festival of freaking Freedom, might as well feel all comfortable, pat our tyres in public, and relax.

4. And our Sages came forth and said we may rub sweet Haroset paste [tacky fruit & nut mix] on each other. Yummy!

5. Those involved in that scene, or curious: tonight is the time to explore the fascinating subject of slavery and domination, with appropriate dress code. Well, nude or not, rabbis allow light Egyptian gear, possibly a golden beard and such regalia.

6. Historically speaking, we should be celebrating our winning gene pool, and what better proof than the birthday suit?

7. Still on the ideological and ethic note – rejoice in our lack of foreskin!

8. Let's turn to the practical aspects of the evening, and announce that there aren't many board-games as entertaining as Nekkid Twister on the Seder Plate. Try it at home!

9. Finally, traditional sing-along to your favourite Passover tunes:
Who knows One?I know One!
One is our Lord in the Heavens
Two are our Nipples
Three are our Holes
Four are our Asscheeks
One is the Lord, the Lord is One.

10. You might as well reconsider the entire event, rent a small battered 4x4 and head south towards the Red Sea, and celebrate an even tan!

What can be achieved with 11.20 Shekel

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 04:01:20 PDT

Below is an excursion I don’t often embark upon. It requires an empty slot in my self-consumed schedule or must coincide with one of those odd errands at work. The tour involves preliminary groundwork: stocking my iPod with ambient artists such as Schiller, Paul Oakenfold, Röyksopp and others.

Total cost: 5.60 NIS x 2 Egged Bus Tickets

Today I was asked by my boss to pick up one of our accounting files from the other side of Jerusalem, since his assistant is on a day off. He offered to supply cab cash, but I declined, and asked for a longer time allowance.

I boarded the bus, found an empty window seat toward the back, and plugged in the earphones. Upon breaching the outer lining of the religious ghetto I switched to the appropriate playlist. Eerie, echoing melodies juxtaposed with puppy gangs of Cheder boys, leaping and yapping in their chequered shirts, flying fringes and hefty satchels. Bottom-heavy teenage girls in housecoats, pregnant women sweaty at the brow, all pushing bag laden prams between grungy Subarus and outlined against large bulletin signs. Laundry flapping, consecutive sizes of jocks and coarse towels, pastel-hued with wear. Pigeons, pots, pantyhose, seeping rubbish tanks, black suits, mourning signboards, cats.

I love this city to a point of destruction. It’s odd, out of bounds and ridiculously filled with diminutive lives. It is a boring city, depressing and lacking a future. Regardless, nothing would contend over my heart with these images of a Jewish village.

Japanika

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 13:52:53 PDT

His tall, assured bearing is his first advantage; he reeks of pure charisma. His studiousness, perfect manners and friendliness are his second.

Actually, split that: in the Ultra-Orthodox dating market, the most auspicious shares combine a top Yeshiva, Talmud proficiency, six daily Seder attendance [Yeshiva classes], outstanding genealogy and pure background. Gabi has it all. Alas, he is 28 and single. He breaks the heart of every girl he dates. Each date last about 2-3 hours, takes place in a hotel lobby or a relative’s living room, involves a can of diet coke for him, bottled water for her, shy glances and a light conversation which develops a more concrete and engaging frankness as the night proceeds.

This is Gabi: tall, flawless teeth, tailored suit, black hat poised at precise angle, polished shoes, dernier cri tie and drop-dead-gorgeous eyes, generous on the lashes.

Tonight’s date is irrelevant, but I will not spare you: pretty hair piled up correctly, demure kitten heels, peach coloured suit and tan pantyhose, black faux-satin blouse and the wrong shade of lipstick. Smart, seminary graduate with honours, training as a social worker, daughter to a prestigious line of Halacha adjudicators. She does not realise how his exquisite mouth hypnotises her, those thick lips parting to flash a healthy set of enamel and a nippy tongue.

She does not recognise the cocksucker abilities of this mouth, because how is she to know anything about homosexuals except that they are pedophiles as well? I do know. Gabi is one of my biggest and favourite secrets. We’ve known each other for around 5 years, and maintain a most intimate friendship.

After the obligatory couple of hours, Gabi thanks the girl, pays for her cab, and makes two phone calls. One to his Chevrusa, the Yeshiva study partner who arranged this date, to notify him of his disinterest in pursuing further, and one to me, a.k.a. ‘Eli’ on his contact list.
ME: Hello boo! Did you enjoy your evening?
GABI: Dreadful. She only shops at certain certified stores for fresh produce because of her father’s national ban, and smears the wrong lipstick.
ME: My poor boo! Want to come over for consolation?
GABI: Only if you remove any trace of lipstick. Are you hungry?
ME: Starving! For inside-out futomaki.
GABI: There’s no way we’re going to Gong’s.
ME: No need. There’s a new kosher takeaway. Just come over.
GABI: Kosher?
ME: And bloody cheap!

Japanika, my darling sushi-bar in Tel Aviv launched a new branch in Jerusalem. I love the Allenby Japanika for its booth-style seating and low, low rates. The Shlomtzion restaurant is indoors, yet just as inexpensive and the menu is quite passable.

Gabi arrives, I remove his suit jacket and he embarks on a post-date rant. I know that he is distressed though he sustains a light and humoured tirade, masking his deep personal ache. I don’t get to touch that bitter side until much later, when we dispose of the sushi containers and little sauce platters. I kiss him goodbye and he suddenly unfolds like mimosa origami, allowing me inside his dejected heart. We slip into a full tongue kiss, and I get lightheaded. He lifts me up, I lock my knees at his waist, and we make out by the staircase.

He is gay, and so profoundly lonely. He has allowed himself to slide into hopelessness, refusing to believe that he will ever find the right woman, or even a man. This is where I come in, sweet solace and a fresh bout of sexual intimacy he is so deprived of. We stumble back inside and lock the door.

Japanika Sushi Bar:
1 Shlomtzion HaMalka St., Jerusalem
02-6247530
Sun–Thur: 11:30am-last customer
Sat: until last customer leaves

Forbidden Fruit Disorder

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 15:07:01 PDT

My main reason for resurrecting the blog is to confide in complete strangers the secrets of others.

I suffer from a condition which many would recognize and sympathize with: Forbidden Fruit. Are we not but overly delectable?

Forbidden Fruit Disorder n. Abbr. FFD - pathology
An erotic disorder, in which the affected person, item or act lays just beyond the good citizen’s moral reach, and whose appeal is a direct result of the fact that it shouldn’t or cannot be acquired.

Etymology: Biblical, Genesis 3 – Eve, Snake and Adam prove that the Forbidden Fruit is the sweetest object of desire which affects hangover corollaries such as labour pains, male workaholism and dust biting.

I adore being the Forbidden Fruit. It turns me the hell on. I love having married men and women consider me lecherously; making them hot and bothered and obsessed. When women regard me with a fresh perspective, suddenly aware of the shameful possibilities, I cream my mind-panties. Twisted sex, socially-kinky intercourse, back-of-a-Hassidic-van coitus catalyze sweet liquids in my glands.

This matter will be the main bulk of my blogging. Being a FF is my alter job description, although I am going to edit and blur any revealing details. You may believe my words, or not: I will note down my adventures with care and precision and perhaps one day you will find yourself among them, together with your wife thrown into the deal.

Keeping Opinions to Myself Or Else

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 11:06:00 PDT

There are times when the Shiseido gloss coating my lips is really not worth the fact that it doesn’t keep them shut. I also happen to think that it’s too creamy. The lipgloss, that is.

I haven’t had a life-partner for eons, because you cannot expect to settle on one individual when you recognize dirty personal traits such as finding other people attractive. That is, identify such traits within your own very soul, as you walk down Ben Yehuda Street one late morning and fail to listen to the man walking beside you.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ I ask Uri, who happens to have broken up with his life-partner about a week ago. I ask that because I was checking out somebody else at the ATM queue.
‘I wanted to know if you’d like to go to a movie tonight.’

I wrinkle my nose, since going to the theatre in Israel is such a disaster, considering the constant commentary, popcorn and bleeding subtitles. Usually, if at all, I watch films at the Jerusalem Cinematheuqe [for details & programme: http://www.jer-cin.org.il/index.php]. Being escorted by an Israeli guy to a non-subtitled Serge Le Peron piece defies the point, whatever that point was, because French films tend to irk me regardless. And I tell him so.

Undeterred, he offers to take me out for a drink. Which was odd, since we do hang out frequently, but he has never invited me with such formality. As formal as a bloke with a Goldstar lager could be.
‘Alright Uri, what is the deal, please?’

Of course, he thinks we are compatible. I have yet to find a man who doesn’t think I match at least 35% of his shopping list, though most aren’t aware of the fact that I can’t fry an egg to save my life. And of course my reaction sounds rather dramatic, ultimately Uri is a lovely chap and we’re good friends and I shouldn’t be so harsh. ‘Is it because I am so bloody “flowing”, now is it?’

Zoremet - colloquial Heb. [eng = Flowing - adjective, intr.]
May refer to a slightly promiscuous girl who could be taken out to an obscure French film and provide certain oral services.

‘No, not at all,’ he replies, squinting a bit. ‘It’s just that I broke up with Shiran, and thought that maybe we could try something out. Like, get together more often, be there for each other, go for drinks and movies – ‘ at which point he trails off, so I cut in and declare that he should not, in any manner of speaking, consider anything serious with me, and at this point, anything at all.

This was unfair on poor Uri who took my manners for granted, as do many others, myself included. Generally, I can’t help being a cute slut. However, I do not think I mislead Uri into thinking that I could be the beginning of a wonderful relationship. Or anything at all. This is due to my Forbidden Fruit Disorder, and my definition thereof of the term Life-Partners as pure oxymoron. However, this will have to wait for the next installment. There is an Italian film broadcasted on the Israeli telly.

Massacre

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 08:32:44 PDT

Shooting spree at Merkaz HaRav Yeshiva last night. The cycle of pre-war-but-really-we-are-in-a-war, like the summer before last. This time however, it is at the gates of my city.

Summer 2006 was too queer. I just returned to Israel after a fleeting affair with Amsterdam, and late June in Tel Aviv was unbearable. I held a few phone-fights with an ex-partner, ruined my washing machine, decided to relocate to Jerusalem, and lost at least 7 pairs of favourite sunglasses over a stretch of 3 weeks.

Upon reaching Jerusalem, unpacking my paisley-printed bags in a tiny room, hell broke loose somewhere out there, North of Nachlaot. The room belonged to a friend-of-a-friend and was available throughout summer, granted you tended to the dusty cactus collection. The hell broke loose in the North in such a loud manner, and one day in mid-July the Safed Hospital was bombed, so I decided to stay in Israel and feel safe within the Jerusalem bubble.

Spontaneity is not one of my many talents; I reconsider my fantasies repeatedly, and upon settling on one, execute it immediately. However, that paint-your-bunker-with-Snoopy-motifs summer, I dismissed any other fantasy, such as return to Europe for good; progressing academically; and saving for a Ford Cortina or an Oscar de la Renta dress. That summer of goodness-they-have-been-murdered-at-twillight-at-the-Port-of-Haifa killed my need to readjust to possible realities.

Now, the weather has just improved, and is about to burn the tarmac. The bodies are covered. The winter is over. It will come around again, and I do not feel terrorized, just irritated at my inability to emotionally participate. It’s March, and February was fun but stressful, as I slumped before my screen at work and rotted my ovaries away. It’s March and they’ve massacred those innocent boys with socks in their sandals, bright freckled smiles and sincere hearts. It’s a multi-casualty event, claim the reporters, and who the fuck invents such a term.

May the lord avenge their innocent blood.

Babette's Feast

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 08:32:34 PDT

This is a haircut-day. The fact that I failed to have it styled today doesn’t diminish the immense stress I underwent earlier, since this impressive date coincided with fat-day and Epilday-today-exclamation-mark-day.

I never did get around to having my hair chopped, my fine hairs tweezed or my love-handles overlooked, but I did go for a jog, cleaned my room, and devised a new combination of stretches which would excite any circus ringmaster. I think I am quite the flexible babe, and my talents are wasted at the office. I discussed the issue with Eran, who used to study at the Suzanne Dellal Centre for Dance and is therefore so totally gay and critical. He came over to check out my new do, and received instead a girl in jogging bottoms and hectic choreography.

‘Absolutely out of order,’ he said, so we went for hot chocolate at Babette’s. Eran ended up ordering applesauce and cream waffle, but I watched my figure. We sat snuggled at the back, which in this small Belgian waffle hole is quite near the counter. The place is a gem in the winter, though after I sipped most of my thick sweet drink, we went for a stroll around Independence Park as he wolfed down his waffle.

My hair will be styled some other day. In the meanwhile you should check out Bebette’s Feast, the baby of a lady named Neta, who opened it over 10 years ago upon her military discharge. This isn’t really a promotional blog, yet some things should be noted down. Oh, and don’t do Saturday nights.

Babette’s Feast:
16 Shamai St., Jerusalem
02-6257004
Sun–Thur: 1:00pm-2:30am
Fri: 10:00am-one hour
Sat: until 2:30am

Cheers!

noreply@blogger.com (None available) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 08:32:21 PDT

Supposedly, I should be working now, going through accounts with my pink marker, sipping watery coffee. I cannot be bothered, this being a Sunday, and Saturday has been such a hectic day.

I would like to start this blog from the lowest point. That is, the lowest point on earth, the Dead Sea. However, here I am at my desk, dreaming of black mud seeping between my toes. Don't worry, I will be at that deathly point sometime in the very near future.

I used to have another blog, over a year ago. For some reason, I let it go. Maybe because it was getting all too repetitive: sunshine-day, fat-day, horny-day, sunshine-day, what-shall-I-do-today-day, horny-day, what-shall-I-wear-today-day, flabby-day, can’t-be-arsed-about-my-ex-day, rainy-day.

Oh, and snow-day. We’ve had a few of those and I missed the act of blogging about it, yet it was too slushy and I had to admit that my hardcore rocker chick boots weren’t up to their ultimate waterproof notch. So now you know.

Anyway, I am Jezebel. Again. You’ve met me at a similar incarnation and this one would be just as obtuse. Cheers. Can I pour you some wine?

No, because I’m breaking rules on purpose. The Talmud says I cannot open a bottle of wine – rather, you can’t drink from this Dalton Moscato which I uncorked, seeing as I dissolutely refrain from observing the 7th. According to 10% of Israeli population, I never actually did observe the Sabbath, being the daughter of a one of the seniors of the Liberal Synagogue. Upon reaching Israel, I’ve tried the full Ultra-Orthodox act once or twice, but got discouraged by the details. I think you should know this about me, since this is Israel, and this is one of the categories of classification, identification and natural selection.

You should also know that I get repetitive, though it doesn’t mean I am boring. And that I love vintage clothing, and would never own a pet.