Some Like it Hot

It’s been a while, I’ve been marinating in my juices, doing this and that. Should’ve blogged it all, but somehow toasted my laptop on the Israeli current.

Soon, I will receive my new computer, and gear-up the gossip.


I did, however:

A. book a flight back home for a quick visit next month [home = UK].

B. Had what could be the last Brazilian wax job for the summer.

C. Prove that parking inspectors will forfeit a ticket for tit, or just skip my little car. Anyway, I was a few minutes late. And we were all very civil and courteous about it.

D. Decide to let you enjoy my mobile’s cam rubbish resolution:

Do take care, you lot. Will be back at it soon.

Pick-Up-Start-Up

With all due honesty, I do sin within the religious sector. With the married, the divorced, the single, the bearer of black velvet kippah, leather kippah and woolen kippah, introverted and extroverted fringes, gartel belts, beards, cut or tied sidelocks – circumcised as one.


Neither is the Orthodox woman out of bounds for me, but this entails a different method altogether. In order to reach these pious ladies, I use the services of a very fragile network. Upon strumming one of this network’s strings, I might be able to orchestrate sweet coitus. But this matter deserves a separate discussion.


Hence, it is Orthodox men we shall debate in following posts.


I am not a spiritual girl, entirely void of purity of mind and body. But I do try not to respond to men who are beneath my intellectual league. One can detect a high quotient of wise, learned and thoughtful conversationalists within the Orthodox masculine sector. And as such, I enjoy being a fully-appreciated occurring experience. I intend no harm or insult in my words, nor do I carry a confrontational tone. However, I will understand if I’m read so, and apologize in advance.


In my next post I will introduce a few beginnings. All took place, moreover in this holy city, but not all lead to intercourse. It is up to you to judge which did result, if not in an adorably fuck-friendly relationship, then at least in a pyrotechnic quickie.


Laters,
Jezebel xx

How I Nearly Run Over 3 Nuns

The past fortnight I've slept over at Julie's. Stressed Julie, closely an ex-wife, the struggling mother of two fashion accessories in the shape of baby boys. No, Julie and I are not sharing a bed.

Each morning before leaving to work, I make her a toast with jam and turn on the water boiler. In the evening, the toast slumps next to fried egg crumbs, and the hot water should last until the 4th Lebanon War.



Julie isn't depressed, merely powerless against the shallow trend of her life, or so she claims. According to her, the children are obstructing her near-future prospects, her husband Mike is cheating on her, and it is a certain pity she cannot act as mischievously as a little slut like me. I will only concede to the last argument.

'You should seriously consider Nir from the patisserie,' I try taunting her.

'You!' she exclaims. 'Potentially fucking the entire Aroma Café chain!' What's wrong with that? 'You must feel so sexually deprived because of me,' she shows sympathy, expecting me to retort with a no, absolutely not, she happens to be my top priority.

'No! Absolutely not!' I shout over the food processor's din, cranking out our batch of drinks from within the hell of the pre-divorce-process fridge. 'Don't worry about me,' pouring her something thick, green and pungent, I wince. 'I manage to insert a few quickies into my schedule.'

Julie blinks, either because I've missed the crucial sentence, or due to the toxic fumes.

'Not to mention that you happen to be my very top priority, clear?' I verify, and we chug what used to be tequila and something else, and possibly, kiwi. And gag.

'Remind me to remind you not to stuff mint leaves into every mixture.'



The root of Julie's problem, as may apply to other married people - if I am allowed the arrogance – is the fact that they fail to enjoy themselves.

'What do you mean, enjoy? If Mike would –'she launches a rant, so I shut my ears and bury my nose in a Graham Greene anthology. Julie chucks a slipper at me.

'Regardless of Mike,' I try again. 'Enjoy yourself, from within yourself, for yourself. Why do you think I'm still unattached? I'm too much of a hedonist; a singular Mike wouldn't satisfy me. One of us should be able to attain the golden rule of pleasure. Either I learn to contend with less, or you will learn to love your possibilities.'

Julie stares at me. I realize what rubbish I've spewed, and smirk. 'Wait here. Be right back.'

As I drive through the twilit Jerusalem neighborhoods, flowing with geriatric tourists and ice cream in paper cups, a favourite fuckbuddy calls. We arrange to meet later.



Back at her house, Julie is sprawled drunk in her bathtub. I place my casket on the bathroom mat. 'Nearly run over three nuns. How ironic.'

Right, treasure scan. 'This is Uzi, handmade by a famous DJ,' I introduce. 'It's slightly unpredictable, as inspired by the Israeli submachine gun, rather spasmodic and explosive, but that's where its charm lays.'

Julie gapes at the shining instrument. 'That is revolting. I don't like sex toys.'

I couldn't care less. 'This is the tiny bunny, preferably for couples' use, and that is a lovely butt-ring. Whatever is still in original packaging hasn't been used yet, and you're welcome to confiscate a pussymate for yourself.' Those aware of my collection, and the fact that I share it like a Carnegie, tend to shower me with sex devices. Personally, these appliances are seldom utilized in use, yet seeing as I've reached amateur collector level, I wouldn't like to halt the momentum.

'Whichever item has been used already, it indicates its efficiency. You will find antiseptic and wipes here as well, and you have got soap and water. Enjoy. I'll be back tomorrow.'

Julie selects a blue dildo with a pear-shaped base. Feeling merciful, I spare her the fact that it is arse-intended.



On my way out I pick up the Graham Greene book. After fucking with Gabi, I will recite a snippet from an inspiring story aptly named 'May We Borrow Your Husband':

"At the end of what is called 'the sexual life' the only love which has lasted is the love that has accepted everything, every disappointment, every failure, and every betrayal, which has accepted even the sad fact that in the end there is no desire so deep as the simple desire for companionship."

Naughty Fruitcakes!

Finally chanced upon the lowest point. Mud-splattered, sweaty and reeking of sulphur – I hit the Dead Sea!
Last week my two faggoty mates, Eran and Beau [I am the instigator of this temporary match] invited me to join their Dead Sea jaunt.

Eran brought:
1 car
1 thong
1 pair leather flip flops
1 iPod + mini speakers
1 Ray Ban shades [Israeli Plague ‘08]

Beau brought:
1 sun block
1 pair of trunks
1 pair plastic moccasins
1 white undershirt
1 aviator shades [Aviator Flu, UK 2008]
1 little purse to carry it all
20+ containers for Dead Sea mud
10 cheap carrier bags

Beau is a recent friend I made last time I visited home. He was stunned by the idea of a nice British girl like me playing rough on the Wild Middle East prairies. As we met at a gay club, I showed him a number of mobile photos of my local playmates, and he noted down my email. 2 months later, he made a royal entry and immediately slunk up to Eran, who apparently looks ravishing in his stolen IDF uniform from his teenage days. As for me, the banality nearly killed me.

I brought:
1 pair of vintage sun glasses
1 pareo [black&white orchid print]
1 red bathing suit [black&white polka dot straps]
1 black wide-brim straw hat
1 pair black sandals
1 box of wipes
1 sun block
1 lip balm
1 hand lotion
1 plastic envelope full of work documents to review + pen
1 beach bag to match pareo

For some reason I still believe I am a minimalist. I really do need the lip balm.
First off, we parked by a palm grove and packed Beau’s containers tight with mud. Eran and I hold occasional DIY spas at my place, during which we smear each other with Dead Sea masks and lounge naked on my balcony. Eran’s favourite digging spot is not very gay-friendly, or friendly at all, since it’s a sinkhole hazard zone. A giant mineral pit may just gape open at any given moment and swallow us degenerates. In case this happens, I do hope I get mummified in a complimentary fashion.

As we drove to our regular back-to-belly beach, we passed a van full of young religious men.
‘See those?’ I pointed for Beau’s benefit. ‘I really like them.’ They looked up at our little car, blasting horrendous pop remixes. It may sound like I was referring to them condescendingly, as to a sociopathic trend, but I wasn’t. These boys in black sneakers and fringes are a charming bunch I would love to hang out with.
‘Terrific!’ said Beau. ‘Think we could arse any?’
‘Don’t count on it,’ replied Eran, and we sped along. We did hold an argument as to the likelihood oh any of us scoring these Yeshiva boys, and if so, how and how much.

It hasn’t yet dawned upon Israel that homosexual men are rather cruel creatures. They’re still seen at that early evolutionary stage of fluffy and unreliably intelligent, though slightly more employable. I am waiting for Israel to realize that these chihuahuas come with a sharp set of teeth. Middle-Eastern gays are cruel, sly and cynical tools with bulimic disorders at best, gym schedules from hell at worst.

‘Jezebel might hook up with some,’ commented Eran. ‘But only because she’s less of a sin. Inside, they’re dying to be manned!’
‘I’m not a lesser sin!’ I wail indignantly. ‘I am a wicked temptress!’
Eran snorts. ‘Just because you’re more common –‘
‘What!’
‘- doesn’t mean the weight of desire for your case is greater!’

We could’ve argued back and forth, culminating in tears on all sides. Since I haven’t met enough Yeshiva boys, I kept quiet. Also, consider this: they spend over 80% of their social lifespan in single-sex settings. What power have I got against these stats? Possibly, superb power. Perhaps not.

Finally, I have my desired even tan, as what good are polka dot straps if one can’t daintily liberate them? This is just the beginning of summer; I’ll perfect the tint as we go on. Beau and Eran fucked, I lathered my hands and reviewed reports, and we had a collective fruit salad at a nearby hotel to celebrate our fruitiness.

Wear Nothing Beneath Your Housecoat

I am not simply bi-curious, I'm bi-compulsive. I have bisexual tendencies which swing deep into the lesbian zones.
One of the most exciting explorations of my inclination is in collaboration with various partners who would commit social suicide if their cooperation was to be discovered.


This is why I am so good:


EVE: Housewife, previously part-time accountant; mother of four ranged between 2-11 years of age. Loves baking, hosting dozens of guests on Friday nights, and Leonard Cohen. Auburn hair, honey eyes, dimpled buttocks, skinny legs and arms. Otherwise known as Brandy.


ADAM: Yeshiva high-school teacher, escorts the 2-years-old to nursery daily, returns home for lunch 3 times a weeks, for late supper (around 9:00 pm) four times a week. Also known as Dovid.


EDEN: 3-bedroom-flat on the second floor of a building located across from Tzvi's Minimarket in a Jerusalemite Ultra-Orthodox neighbourhood.


THE SERPENT UNDER'T: Eve/Brandy home-schools degenerate or ignorant young women, tutoring them some Halachik tips.


FORBIDDEN FRUIT: Eve/Brandy likes it rough. Although I love my lace, organdie and chiffon, for Brandy I shed feathers and grow scales, rough leather and denim scales, threadbare at the thighs. Bright purple wifebeater, shin-high biker boots and heavy eyeliner. Cheap black skirt and arrogance to fit the my-Orthodox-parents-disowned-me-but-I’ll-respect-you profile. Dovid has met me twice, always on his way out to evening prayers and classes. I’m sure he appreciates his wife’s contribution to the grand social proclivity towards the blacker zones of the Jewish spectrum.


Tonight, Brandy and I chat a bit as she stacks the dishwasher, wedding present from an American aunt. The younger children are asleep, the 11-years-old sleeps over at a friend’s house. This is one of my only prerequisites. We have a little over 2 hours to ride dirty.
As she lines the ketchup-stained plates in the racks, I step forward swiftly, slap her buttock and leave my hand there.

Regularly, I am not aggressive, and never slap, kick or bite fiercely. Yet as my fingers rest there I feel the warmth rising, glowing about the handprint through the thin housecoat fabric. She remembered to remove her panties: it was my suggestion last time we met, which enables her to excite herself throughout the evening’s anticipation.

Soon after we hit the master bedroom, lock the door and roll on her bed. In this ghetto the beds tend to stand apart most of their furniture lifespan, so as when Suri pads in the morning to cuddle with her parents, no questions arise.


AFTERMATH: None, no dramatic exodus from Eden. After playful licking, serious finger-thrusting and glorious kissing, we climax and lay snuggled together for a short while. The apartment clicks and whirrs, the dishwasher hums, Hassidic tunes float in from a neighbouring window. I stroke her shoulders and torso lightly, lulling us into drowsiness.

Then we heave up, collect our clothes and I check for any smears of eyeliner.

We kiss once against the locked door, followed by a swift lick oh her lips and I slip out, adjusting the skirt and racing downstairs, twirling behind me the smell of her sweet auburn crotch.

Eloping Southwards with a Married Woman Part 2

Julie called me on Sunday morning, sniffling and chewing vehemently on what I assume is non-leavened gum, and announced that she needs to get away.

‘What about Shaya and Nati?’ I asked, already scanning the Israir site for Eilat deals.
‘They are coming along!’ she yells, and unwraps something in the background, something sweet and cream-topped like one of those Passover cookies.
‘Of course. So let’s go!’ Excellent, Nati is under 24 months, which makes things cheaper.
‘I’m sick of this city,’ she blows her nose. Like hell she does, living in a villa in one of the most peripheral neighbourhoods, whereas I’m stuck with 2 roommates at the centre of town.
‘How would you like to go to Eilat?’ They have OK rates at the non-Kosher hotels, and Julie merely pretends to observe Kosher. They served shrimps at their wedding! And told the rabbi on duty that they were carved out of Persian carrots.

It took me half an hour to pack a lovely beach bag with all the tiny dresses and cotton capri pants it could muster without turning out to be an IDF duffel bag, and drove to Julie’s.

This is the best thing about children nowadays: they get transfixed by the screen. Julie’s babies were glued to the carpet, dribbling Matzah crackers unconsciously.
Julie was dribbling too, crying actually, in her bedroom. Unable to pack a single item, she slumped among her cardigans, lingerie and Escada suit (winter suit! What was she thinking?!) and performed an excellent imitation of a breakdown.

‘Cut the crap, Jules,’ I said, tossing away 2 tweedy Zara skirts. ‘We both know you’re able to breathe now that he’s out.’
This is the good thing about girl-friends: we are not lying when we’re not telling the truth. We are not even twisting the situation about. We’re just saying what sounds good and optimizes our momentary wellbeing. Not to mention that she wasn’t crying about Mike, but over the fact that nothing fit.

And here we are at the airport, the boys bellowing, Julie on the phone to her mum, and me acting as if I could really use a child as a fashion accessory. I figured that if you separate Nati from Shaya, and take the latter plane-watching, he could be rather a doll. However, I do not think I’ll be having any of my own in the near future.

I’ll be back next week! With a tan!

Eloping Southwards with a Married Woman

This is Julie: a blonde gone raven, bulky chain necklace, nifty Chanel purse, further accessorized by 2 children.


This is what we are doing at the airport: waiting for our flight to Eilat, munching on Kosher potato crisps and screaming our fluffy heads off. That is, this is what Julie’s boys are doing, quite devotedly. I think I am about to burst a bra-strap, but uphold a kind and concerned I-might-even-pass-for-a-modern-day-Mary-Poppins expression. Mary Poppins in a beautiful full skirted, pine-green retro summer dress. And little black sandals with sunglasses to match. And blood-red lipstick.


Julie and Mike held a row during their Seder. I didn’t ask for details but trust her not to spare me a nuance of their quarrel. They maintain this off-and-on affair for the sake of their 2 beautiful baby boys and Julie’s eternally cardiac-arrested [no, over-cholesterolized] mum. They are married – hell, they launched a massive, gluttonous wedding bash where I got so pissed I ate my eggrolls from my shoe.

Sometimes, on days such as this, I do wish they would just let it go, stop trying and get on with their respective lives. Mike is obviously repulsed by Julie, and she cannot stand his guts for stretches longer than 3 minutes. Yet, they keep attempting at this silly liason, Mike retrieving his toothbrush to the rack and his briefs to the drawer, as Julie buries her Ben & Jerry’s at the very back of their oversized freezer. Then unvaryingly, Mike grows sick of Israel, of the heat/cold/current affairs/lack of Sam Adams or whatnot, packs his Braun and briefs and storms out, with Julie cussing him on her mobile phone.

The following hour, I’m cordially invited over for a wicked meal, as Julie plays the perfect housewife in a frilled apron too small for her bust, drinking champagne and odd versions of mojito, and engorging ourselves in whatever it takes to cheer her up.


But this time even Julie had enough of this place.


To be continued when I find some inner peace or outdoor quiet…