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You notice few people in yeshiva. So much similarity between them: clothes, haircuts, mannerisms. But then there are those few, the heartbreakers, the boys who cause you to sit facing the back of the study hall each day so you won’t miss their entrances.
Among that small group is one.
He stops and lingers at the door, and you take him in. The straightness of his back, the flatness of his stomach, the roundness of his butt, the tight fit of his shirt around his chest. A strong jaw with a hint of whiskers and gentleness. Your study partner goes on about the different ways one can marry a woman in Jewish law while you wonder what he looks like with his shirt off, his muscle definition, those likely specs of light hair beginning just below his sternum, getting darker and thicker with each inch of his lithe abdomen. When he moves you picture him as Bernini would sculpt him: blond hair, blue eyes. Even from afar you get lost in those shades of ocean or heaven.
You tell a joke and he smiles, bright white teeth half protected by his round red lips. Perfect. Perfect: to be in his tight embrace, cradled in his strong arms, head nuzzling at that pocket of space between shoulder and neck. That pocket that seems like it was made just for you.
Another time, another place. Another life.
- Male, 34, Brooklyn (NY)