The Fringes of Memory

Prev2 of 2Next
Use your ← → (arrow) keys to browse

A143 fringes_b

Each night I took a different piece of Gavi to bed. It was mostly shirts and t-shirts, but as my daring developed and the reality of his approaching departure began to toll in my mind, I spent the final two nights wearing a pair of his shorts. They were soft and lay lightly on my skin. I stroked them slowly, my fingers running with increasing pressure towards the place between my legs that I did not name.

He was scheduled to leave Tuesday evening; I was called on to babysit my cousins late on Monday afternoon. To be dragged from home at such a time was a tremendous hardship. But, as my mother often tells me, even today after everything I have been through, blessings come from hardships and we never know what Hashem has in mind.

It was still light when I returned home to a house that was empty and airless, the heat of the day trapped inside. Outside there were shouts and raucous laughter from my brothers.

I wandered to the back window and caught my breath. Directly in my line of vision, as if running straight towards me, was Gavi. They were playing football and he wore nothing but a pair of shorts and tzitzit, which flapped and flew as he moved; his long, muscular legs flexing and moving with a strength that made mine weak; his tight, glistening abdomen all but calling for me to touch it.

I stared and stared and stared. I made no move to switch on lights as dusk descended for fear that it would end their game. And Hashem, in his infinite kindness, gave me a full hour of the most glorious show of manliness that I had witnessed in my short life.

When my father’s key turned in the lock I fled to my bedroom, feigning sleep. His grumbling was a small price to pay.

That night, as I lay in Gavi’s shorts reliving those precious memories, mania befell me. The vision of Gavi’s youthful physique plagued my mind. The beads of sweat, which had rolled down his face and formed pools of darkness on the front of his tzitzit, were tantalising. I had to touch them; I had to smell them. And thus the plan took shape.

It was not difficult really. I had already decided not to return his shorts and one of his t-shirts, which sat on my skin so snuggly that I knew it was meant to be mine. I expected that like most boys he would notice the absence of these items and then move on with a puzzled shrug of his shoulders.

I had no fear of consequences. And I had to have those tzitzit.

Early the next morning, before the boys had stirred, I sneaked into Yonatan’s room, quietly and carefully. I dared not look at Gavi asleep in the corner for fear of losing my nerve, for fear of wanting to watch him.

The tzitzit lay draped over the back of a chair by his bed. Slowly, breathlessly, I scooped them up and in one quick movement took in their smell and turned towards the door.

It was a daring raid, which I had achieved with aplomb. But foolishly, I turned back at the door to look. Still and unblinking, Gavi’s beautiful grey eyes were watching me.

I did not see Gavi again. Shame kept me out of the house until well past his departure. It took several months until the vision of those eyes ceased burning my cheeks crimson. Eventually, the mortification subsided and I slipped back into his shorts and t-shirt.

Sometimes, in the privacy of the bathroom, with the shower streaming hard into an empty recess, steam filling the room and clouding over the mirror, I lowered his tzitzit over my naked breasts. His smell filled my nostrils, the fabric rubbed rough over my hard nipples as I ran my hands across the taut, smooth skin underneath.

Yonatan went to Gavi’s wedding about a year before I circled my own beshert under our chuppah. The tzitzit went into hiding, the shorts and tshirt into the bin. Two years after my husband’s tragic early passing I heard that Gavi and his wife had divorced. Yonatan did not know the circumstances, or if he did, he would not tell me and I did not press him.

This morning, not long after I had dropped the children at school and parked myself behind my desk, I received a Facebook friend request, which I accepted with lightning pulses coursing through my body. A message followed shortly after. It said: “I am looking for my tzitzit. Do you know where I can find them?”

Prev2 of 2Next
Use your ← → (arrow) keys to browse

Sosha Pearl is a writer and reader of erotic fiction who believes there is much potential, as yet largely untapped, for Jewish erotic fiction. She hopes both to cover and uncover some of this potential.