Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica

by Tristan Taormino

  I imagine myself not only Hasidic, but straight. Touching my husband, clinging to him, opening myself to him—

  No. It still doesn’t work. I can’t enter this image, can’t access this joy. So many people have it, and I never will.

  I turn to the racks of books. I can always lose myself in words, in that march of black letters across white pages. Regular and fixed.

  But these books offer no such escape. The books in these racks are heavy, bound in soft leather and stamped in gold. I can’t read the Hebrew, but I know they’re prayer books. Or Talmud. Or other stuff so holy I’ve never even heard of it. Heavy, beautiful books over which men run loving fingers, straining their eyes and pursing their murmuring lips. Books that are cherished, held and kissed, protected and praised. I wish someone would hold me, bless me, open me, read me, love me as each of these books will be. Each of these racks and racks of books that never need to be anything but what they are.

  And I wish I could love these books the way the men do. Anat could read these pages, but I don’t think she could tremble with them, cry as I’ve seen men cry. She doesn’t care about religion, probably wouldn’t be impressed by the soft leather covers and gold-rimmed leaves.

  I’m tired of being unimpressed, of not caring. I wish love would flow out of me like it flows from the quaking men in synagogue. I wish I believed in God. I wish I could love leather-bound books and God with all my soul, with all my passion, with no hesitancy or self-consciousness or shame. I wish I could love a girl with my heart and my eyes and my lips; a girl who’d accept my love without laughing at me or calling me a stupid American virgin or wanting to pound my hips into the tar on a filthy roof. I wish I could love easily, fully, three times a day in synagogue and every night in a clean bed with my wife—

  I stop short. My wife? That’s not what I meant. Wives are for—

  I grab a book and leaf through it, trying to remember my Hebrew alphabet, trying to recognize a word or two, trying to concentrate. Trying to push away the idea that has already exploded into countless streaks of light like fireworks and now buzzes toward me from every direction, unavoidable—

  If I were a man.

  If I were a man. A Hasid. I could love my wife, over and over, year after year, limitless.

  I almost put the book down and run from the store. Oh no, I think, does this mean I’m a transsexual? Please, please, I pray to a god I don’t believe in, not that. I have so many problems already.

  But the idea still pulses through me, the image of myself as a Hasid. Loving a woman over and over, with all the blessings of the fathers.

  I turn again to the Hasidic woman. She has finished selecting yarmulkes and has migrated toward the cash register. I imagine myself touching her, knowing she has never been touched by any man—not at all, not even a handshake—other than her husband. Knowing her breasts—her stomach, her shoulders, maybe even her wrists—have never been seen by any man except her husband. Imagining myself as that husband, imagining a woman so honoring me. Sharing her body with me, only me, forever.

  But this woman is not my type. She’s as old as my mother, for one thing. And her hands are full of yarmulkes for her husband. There is no room for me in that bed. I need my own wife to love.

  I rush to a rack of lucite key rings with women’s names. My wife must have a name. (“My wife”—the thought still terrifies me, but I will not think now about what it might mean.) I flip through the plastic tags: Yocheved, Malka, Ruchel—I don’t like these names. What are the Hasidic girls on my block called? Gitti, Shoshana, Chanie—that’s the one. But not Chanie. Chana. My wife is named Chana.

  My wife.

  Chana.

  The wedding guests are still dancing, men waving bottles of wine and schnapps on one side of the hall, women on the other side weaving through circles of dance and gossip. My father and uncles pushed me into a chair, then raised it above their heads and bounced me toward the ceiling to the sound of accordions and fiddles. After the women did the same with Chana, my parents and her parents were also danced through the air. Then my father brought me another shot of schnapps and told me to leave the party. My time had come.

  So now I am home with my Chana. Now I am in the bedroom I will share always with Chana.

  A man is not supposed to look at a woman unless she is his wife. As a boy, of course, I looked into the faces of my mother and sisters. But as I grew older, I learned to look at the ground or at other men when women passed. In moments of weakness I have snuck quick glances—haven’t we all?—but I have never held a woman’s gaze. Now, for the first time, I may look. Without fear. Without shame. For as long as I want. Without pretending to do otherwise. Without disguising my passion.

  Her eyes are as hungry as mine; her gaze darts over every point of my face. Unmarried women must keep a distance from men as well, if they want to retain respect. But now, we may both look, and we do, we do.

  And my eyes…how can I see so much at once? Her long face, full lips, soft gray eyes—so much to see. The vast expanse of skin from forehead to chin, from nose to ear on each side. So much exposed. So much softness. And I will touch that softness tonight, and over and over for the rest of my life. I am weak with unbelieving.

  She removes the veil covering the top of her head, and her curly hair falls down. As a married woman, she will cover her hair in public from now on, but she will not shave her head as women used to. We are a modern people. Chana’s black curls tumble around her face; the smell of shampoo drifts toward me.

  For a moment, my amazement is displaced by panic. Who is this woman who has been thrust into my life? Ours was not purely an arranged marriage; we have spoken several times and consented to each other. But one could not say we know each other well. Perhaps we should not touch tonight, but instead talk.

  Chana has noticed the distraction in my eyes; questions and disappointment fog her face.

  I push my hesitancies aside. Tomorrow we will talk. We have the expanse of our whole lives to get to know each other. Tonight we must fulfill our obligation to each other, not as individuals but as man and woman, husband and wife. Tonight, we exist only to satisfy each other’s desire, as we have been commanded.

  Without thinking, I reach out my hand to her. She raises her hand, and lays a single finger in my palm. We sit on the bed together, the pad of her finger slowly tracing lines in my palm. I am transfixed on her finger, on skin touching skin. Somehow, I never believed I could really be so lucky. I never thought this would actually happen to me.

  I close my hand around her finger and press hard. I hear her breath catch and I look up, concerned that I have hurt her. But her lips are parted, eyes half-closed, cheeks flush.

  The sight ignites me so. I grab both her hands in mine, and without even thinking, I am kissing them, rubbing my lips feverishly against her palms, licking the cracks between her fingers.

  Chana is moaning now. I take each manicured finger full in my mouth, sucking hard. She rakes her nails through my beard. I lick, suck, bite, breathe hot over her wrists, feel her pulse through my lips. Chana is gasping now and maybe I am, too. I slide off the bed and kneel before her, hugging her hands to the sides of my head, blocking out our sounds. It’s too much. I can’t take it all in one night.

  But Chana will not let me escape. Still in her wedding gown, she slides off the bed and kneels beside me on the floor. The dress rustles as if layers hide beneath the skirt.

  My hands still clap hers tight to the sides of my head. But suddenly, she takes control and pulls my face toward hers. And Chana, my Chana, kisses me full on the lips.

  Oh, so many times I have praised God, so many nights I have recited the shma, the call to all Jews on Earth. Shma Yisroel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad—Hear, oh Israel, the Lord is God, the Lord is One. But only when Chana’s soft lips meet mine, when I taste her breath and feel the flicker of her tongue—only then, for the first time, do I feel my spirit burst from my body to touch all others. Only this joyful noise could reach all on ear
th. This kiss is the shma—hear oh Israel, this kiss is God, and we are one. Chana and I. And all Jews, shma, all breathing creatures on the earth, shma, all kisses, shma, are one.

  We fall to the floor.

  Chana is in my arms and we are rolling. I’m so happy, I start to laugh. For a moment, she looks confused, then she laughs, too, grabbing me tighter as we roll on the carpet. It feels so good, this squeezing. All these years of not being touched; now I press her hard against my chest, kissing and laughing, rolling and gazing and laughing for a long, long time.

  But suddenly, through our laughter, I become aware of her breasts pressing against my chest like two soft biscuits. And my laughter dissolves.

  Something serious sweeps through me—a new kind of grave desire incinerating my bones, my flesh, my thinking mind. My laughter is gone; I hold Chana tense, my eyes inches from hers. And she stops laughing, too.

  “Chana,” I say, my voice so smoked with desire that I barely recognize it. “Chana,” I say, “Please take off your dress.”

  She is still for a moment. Her eyes close once, then open to me. She kisses me once more, quickly, on my lips. And then she pulls away.

  “Yes,” she says, and the word sounds like a single drop of rain sliding off a leaf. “Yes, I will take off my dress for you.”

  And wonder of wonder, it happens. Chana stands without breaking my gaze. Watching my eyes, she reaches around to her own back in such a way I did not know arms could bend. And she slowly unzips her wedding gown. Then she loosens the cuffs around her wrists. And slowly, as if by magic, the dress sinks to the floor. The white dress is heaped around Chana’s ankles, like clouds at the feet of God. I am worshipping.

  Do all women have so much skin beneath their clothes? The thought is incredible, obscene. No wonder men and women are separated so strictly; what man could concentrate enough to tie his own shoes with women hovering about, naked and entrancing, hidden only by thin sheaths of cloth?

  But now I do not need to concentrate on anything but my Chana, who stands before me in white underpants and a brassiere. Chana, with the bony, pale shoulders, the impossible softness tucked into her brassiere, the small roundness of her belly.

  “And you?” she whispers.

  “What?”

  “My husband,” she says, “take off your suit.”

  For a moment, I am shocked. In anticipation of this night, I had imagined touching Chana, imagined us pushing together beneath the covers. But it never occurred to me that I might undress in front of her. I am suddenly sheepish. My clothes will not curl gracefully from my body as hers did from her; I doubt I could muster the power to stand unclothed and commanding as she. I cannot equal her, can never be as beautiful for her as she is for me. Her beauty is a gift I must accept humbly, knowing I can never return it.

  But she is my wife. And she is right. I must satisfy her tonight. And she wants me naked before her. So be it.

  I stumble to my feet and begin tugging at my shirt. My fingers, so sensitive a moment ago, now struggle. It’s as if the buttons have turned to mist; I can’t grip them. But finally I release myself. The trousers are easier; they unzip like Chana’s dress. I kick them aside.

  I stand in my underwear, undershirt, and tallis. Do I take off the prayer shawl? I suppose I must. I lift it off gingerly, suppressing an urge to flick the fringes against her belly. I fold my tallis neatly on the nightstand.

  “Undershirt, too,” she says. There is no graceful way to obey; I yank the shirt over my head.

  And we stand, three feet of air pulsing between us. She gapes at the hair on my chest—is it enough? is it too much? I worry—and on my stomach. I feel each hair spring to life and reach toward her, like the fur on a jungle cat’s back.

  And Chana, my Chana, moves toward me.

  But she stops, inches away. I can see every pore, every freckle on her shoulders. She smells like soap and wine and something else I’ve never smelled before. I want her all at once, hot and electric, inside and outside, I want her so badly, now and forever, I want her so, I almost cry with the wanting. I almost fall to my knees and cry. No one has ever before had such power over me; at this moment, I would trade my soul, sell myself into bondage for her. And at the same time, my desire could burst from my body, grip her, deliver her to me like a wave crashing on the shore. I am a king about to ravage a feast. I am a boy afraid to taste the wine.

  I move not at all.

  Slowly, sighing, Chana folds herself into me. First she touches her bare shoulder to mine. Then she rolls her bosom against my chest. And her silken hands slide to my back.

  So much warm skin against skin.

  My hands travel her spine. And the curls of her hair.

  Now our kisses come fast, forceful. I kiss through the softness of our lips, into the hardness of her teeth and bone. My fingers press into not just skin, but muscles and joints. I push and she falls, we fall, into the bed.

  The front of my shorts stands like a pyramid. Now. “Now,” I say, and bump my clumsy hands against her breasts. I tear at the fabric separating her from me. I must be rid of it. But the fabric clings to her.

  “It’s—” Chana’s breath is as rushed as mine. “It’s in back,” she says. “The clasp.”

  I grip the back panel and pull, but nothing opens. Chana throws off my hands, then reaches behind her (again with that arm-breaking contortion) and unbuckles herself. And like the dress before, the brassiere melts off her body.

  Oh, her breasts are small and soft; her nipples brown and wrinkled and large in my hands, between my lips and my tongue like sweet raisins in challah. I kiss and lick every part of her, gnawing and kneading. I am on top of her, pressing myself between her legs. Chana is moaning; heat tumbles forth from her divide.

  Suddenly, her hand darts down and grips me below, through the cotton of my underpants.

  Never before have I been so touched, and I stop, shocked, simply feeling her fingers around me.

  “Please,” she says. “Now. Please.” Her fingers find my elastic waistband. And they slide beneath to grip me again.

  I am motionless, gape-mouthed, wordless. Her dry, warm hand travels up and down my length, burrowing into the thicket below. Her other hand tugs my underwear to my knees.

  “Now,” she says, withdrawing her hand to strip off her underpants as well. I grab her buttocks in my hands, crash her body against mine, kiss frantically, swipe my palms against her drenched hairiness. My greatest sensitivity is extending, extending toward hers. With a gasp, I push my sensitivity into her wetness, where all is warm and dark and plump and throbbing alive. Oh, my sensitivity is in hers and we are rocking in and out, throbbing to throbbing, crying and spilling and oh, I am buried so deep, my whole body vaults to press deeper into her heat. Then we are rubbing faster, sweat and tears and slickness pouring off us.

  Chana screams and arches first, shuddering over and over and clutching my shoulders. And then the world turns red and yellow and pink and I empty into her, each pulse sweeter and sweeter and sweeter, until there is no more. No more but sweat and warmth, and Chana in my arms.

  I am suddenly aware that I am still standing—slack-mouthed, vacant-eyed, wet-crotched—in Rosenbloom’s Jewish Books and Religious Articles.

  My eyes focus forward on a shelf of small cardboard containers.

  Shabbos candles, twelve to a box.

  Anat. I remember: I came here to buy a present for Anat. And I have chosen the gift I will bring to her roof, the gift I will give with desire and certainty.

  I will give Anat these wax sticks and say, “When I love a woman for the first time, it will be slow, on a clean bed, with red wine, by candlelight.” I will watch her eyes. And then I will walk away.

  I take my candles to the Hasid behind the cash register. As he gives me my change, I notice he is careful not to touch my hand.

  juba

  Letta Neely

  for Renita

  u be a gospel song

  some a dat

  ole time reli
gion

  where the tambourine git going

  and the holy ghost sneak up

  inside people’s bones and

  everybody dancin and shoutin

  screamin and cryin

  oh jesus, oh jesus

  and the people start to clappin

  and reachin back to african rhythms

  pulled through the wombs of

  the middle passage

  and women’s hats start flying

  while the dance,

  the dance they do gets hotter and holier

  and just the music has brought cause for celebration

  yeah, u be a gospel song, girl

  like some a dat ole back in the woods, mississippi river

  kinda

  gospel

  and i feel the holy ghost when you is

  inside me

  and the tambourines keep goin

  and folks is stampin they feet

  and oh no,

  it’s the neighbor knockin on the door

  askin is we alright

  say we was screamin

  oh jesus, oh jesus

  and i heard us but i

  didn’t hear cuz

  i was bein washed in the gorgeous wetness of

  your pussy

  being baptized w/ ole time religion

  the oldest religion there

  is

  2 women inside the groove

  of each other

  we come here

  we come

  we come here

  to be

  saved

  The Angel at the Top of My Tree