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Kissing the Veil

By on September 12, 2012
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Kissing the Veil 1Written by Layla’s Lover.  Layla’s Lover is a first-time Jewrotica writer.

Her lips are hungry. She is giggling. And she wants me.

Every first kiss is its own mystery. Wariness overcome by want. Lips taking over for arching shoulders, pressing fingers, and a look in our eyes that says, yes…maybe…finally…more. Eyelashes, noses and then you are holding your breath for what should always feel like forever, a first dive into the deep.

It took me a while to understand how girls in Arabia eat with a niqab masking everything save their eyes.  My introduction to how they kiss was much less forgiving. Slowly, at first, with the veil slipping down and away, swept aside as the sands before a swirling khamsin; the lips exposed, an oasis amid all that endless black cloth. A treasure this desert explorer had not sought but could not resist once discovered.

Every first kiss is a leap into the unknown. A headfirst dive through mores and regulations designed to wall everyone up in their own private castle. Sometimes the castle walls are especially formidable, covered with fearsome taboos like race, religion, social status. Sometimes those walls are established by others, though the sheerest walls are surely those built from within. Legs intertwined, eyes locked, breath short, my conscious mind was mostly thinking, “yes!” “must get that top off” and “don’t mess this up.” But somewhere inside, I was stuck before those castle walls. The ones I had established over a lifetime of a closely observed and dearly appreciated religious heritage. The promises my religion asks of me and I have made in return, about not finding myself in the arms of a mocha colored, Arabian princess, veil cast aside, soon to be followed by any lingering sense of religious doubt.

Shiksas are supposed to be blond and blue eyed. Not descendants of the prophet. Not a black eyed beauty born to a family of oil sheikhs and Islamic scholars, with fingers and a tongue that were more than capable of reassuring me that exploring each other’s bodies was the least we could do in bridging the gulf between our two communities.

Hidden amid the ivory sheets that writhed beneath us were scurrying figures from our past. A bearded figure, wrapped in a black bekishe, struggling through the snows of my grandparents’ shtetl. A murky shadow, swallowed up in black abaya, peering through the desert haze of her native Arabia. Could they have ever imagined their descendants locked in erotic combat, giggling, panting and fumbling with buttons and bra clasps in a sea of bed sheets not so removed from the snow and sand storms that blanketed their fragile lives?

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