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Written by Shayna Abramson. For more work by Shayna, check out Kiruv.
Do you remember that night when I felt your breasts for the first time? They were round and soft, except for your hard nipples, which fit perfectly into the space in between my forefinger and my thumb. I wanted to nibble, but the store-owner was giving us a funny look, and you giggled when I pushed you up against the beer cans. I could feel my groin on yours, and we started grinding.
I had never understood why the rabbis considered collar-bones erotic, until I kissed yours. But then again, I had never understood the laws of yichud until I tried having a platonic sleepover with a friend I was sexually attracted to. Lesson learned: The chances of the sleepover remaining platonic are pretty slim if the lights aren’t off yet and he’s already kissed your breasts.
I never thought I would feel the breasts of another woman – not because it was forbidden (spending the night with men isn’t exactly lauded by the rabbis), but because it just never appealed to me – until I met you. You had hair blacker than a raven’s wings – yes, I know that’s cliche – and when you tossed it, you moved your neck in a certain way that made me just want to kiss you. It was like Zionism: I couldn’t explain it.
That night, after we had grinded up against the beer aisle, I bought you some wine, and you took me up to your apartment. You lived on the top floor of a walk-up, and the staircase lights weren’t working, so we reached to steady each other in the dark. There they were, your breasts again, my fingers feeling for your nipples beneath the cotton of your shirt. “You really should buy a jacket.” You laughed. “I liked being cold”, you said.
Your apartment was dark; I could barely see the outline of the chanukiah you had by your window, the shades drawn up slightly, so that those on the street would see the testament to God’s miracles. It was the fourth night – exactly halfway through the festival. Jerusalem had started preparing for it a month earlier, when bakeries started selling jelly donuts in the streets. I was a little nervous that with all of my Chanukah donut-pre-gaming, I might have developed a set of love-handles.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Where to put the wine.”
“Give it to me and take your coat off.”