In Search Of Tamar Ch 8

I sat in the hotel lobby room waiting for Tamar. I whiled away the time with the current edition of the Jerusalem Post and numerous cups of Israeli

kafeh botz

. The cut and thrust of Israeli politics was interesting enough but what I really wanted were the latest CFL football scores. That day in Israel, the sports pages consisted of third-rate soccer teams from seedy West Bank settlements playing on the pitches of dismal Negev communities. Nothing about the Alouettes or the Argos. Obviously Canada wasn’t at the top of an Israeli’s thoughts.

Originally, I set out on this trip to find my Israeli girl friend, Tamar, to take her back with me to Canada. I found her all right, in an ultra-Orthodox religious commune in Mea Shearim, the unfriendliest place on earth next to Mecca for an infidel like me. It just blew my mind to think of Tamar as a religious fanatic. Was she now so goody-goody Jewish that she wouldn’t consider balling a gentile like me? On the other hand, with some people, religious passion is interchangeable with sexual passion. Think televangelist for example. So, becoming more religious might mean that now Tamar was even more interested in sex. Since I agreed to meet Tamar, I must have faith in assumption #2.

If the first assumption were correct, Tamar wouldn’t be impressed by my recent romp through a varied assortment of Israeli cunt. So far, in one short week, I fucked Tamar’s old boss, Tamar’s worst enemy, Tamar’s best friend, an unconscious

Ulpan

teacher, one of Tamar’s former students and my hotel’s desk clerk in a threesome with her

blondini

girlfriend.

Then there was Tammy Fink, the compulsive talker/peeler/hairdresser/personal services agent who mistook me for one of her paying customers. Should I count Tammy as a fuck on this trip? After all, she was so tough and the Israeli rubber she used was so thick that I never came. Tammy must have ground on top of my

zain

for ten minutes without results. Now, there’s a Zen koan equivalent to “If a tree falls in the forest with no one to hear, is there any sound?” Answer this one. “If you poke a hooker and you don’t ejaculate, have you really fucked?”

There was no doubt in my mind about whether I fucked Miriam Kessim, Tamar’s

Ulpan

student. Miriam was Falasha, a rape victim from the civil war in Ethiopia. She was just a shy and frightened child when we first met. In the two days we spent together, Miriam changed into a confident woman. I grew so fond of Miriam that I was a few millimeters away from falling in love with her and forgetting Tamar. If we spent any more time together, I wouldn’t be in Jerusalem right now. So, it’s probably just as well that Miriam slipped away from me in the middle of the night.

I suppose that, even if you count Miriam as love and don’t place her in the generic fuck category, I still racked up a respectable score for a tourist spending just a week in a small country. Despite all the assorted road nookie, I just couldn’t get Tamar off my mind. Tamar was beautiful, intelligent, articulate, apparently religious and the best piece of ass I ever had. It was five years since I last saw Tamar, not counting our brief encounter the day before. My mind returned to what she had become over those five years.

Too much thinking always makes me hungry. So, I bought a

boureka

and a Hebrew newspaper from the coffee shop and went back to my chair in the lobby, just in case Tamar showed up. I have trouble reading Hebrew at the best of times but

Maariv

uses a weird font and there’s no

nikudot

(vowels) to help with the pronunciation. Where’s Vanna White when you really need to purchase a vowel? I took my first bite of my

boureka,

when I heard Tamar’s BBC-accented voice behind me:

“

Beteh Avon

.” That just means “

bon appetit

” in Hebrew. I’ve always wondered why the English never wish each other a “good appetite”. I suppose that a race of people that dines on bubble and squeak with spotted dick for dessert, all washed down with warm beer, can’t appreciate being wished a “good appetite”. My musings on food etiquette were interrupted by Tamar’s instructions, as she stood in front of me.

“Get up and follow me out the door as if we’re friends. We don’t have much time. I got away from the yeshiva because I went to the

mikveh

(ritual bath). They’re expecting me back soon so we don’t have much time. Remember not to touch me. And maybe you can tell me why that red-headed desk clerk is giving me such dirty looks?”

I could hardly recognize Tamar. Yesterday, in Mea Shearim, Tamar just peeked out the door. I caught a glimpse in the shadows of a Semitic beauty with long black hair. In the light of day, I couldn’t help but notice she was dressed in an unflattering old-fashioned long-sleeved dress, the ultra-Orthodox Jew’s answer to the Afghan

burkah

. Tamar looked as if she had gained weight. I hoped that it was just her bulky clothing. I checked if she was wearing a wig. Her hair was long and natural, but lifeless. No wig on an Orthodox woman means no husband yet. That was reassuring. Tamar had lost her olive complexion and was rather pasty-faced. Was her faded beauty the result of too many meals of brisket and cabbage followed by too many hours of studying

Shulchan Aruk

? Like a real man, I lied through my teeth.

“Hey Tamar, you look great! Yeah, we have to talk. I’m sure that the last five years have been as dull for you as they were for me.”

Keeping a respectable distance between us, we went out for a walk. A long walk. We had five years of separation to overcome and it wasn’t easy for Tamar. A guy can jump back into bed with a lover after a five year hiatus, maybe even ten years later, no problem at all. Women are different, in case you haven’t noticed. Tamar was a real woman, so we had to go through all that interpersonal relationship and feelings shit before she would even accept a cup of coffee from me.

Much of what Tamar had to say hurt me deeply. It wasn’t just the other guys she’d been with. It wasn’t because she thought I was her intellectual inferior. It was her bitterness that I waited five years before returning to Israel. I tried to explain about Daniellah Argov and the Mossad pursuing me for those five years. A bitter, angry woman doesn’t listen to valid excuses. If I wasn’t so much in love with Tamar, I could have hurt her back with some readings from my short-term sexual rap sheet. Instead of hitting back, I listened like a good little boy to get where I wanted to be.

I won’t bore you guys with all the details about the interpersonal stuff, feelings, etc. You’ve been through enough of that with your own woman. As for you women, you don’t need any more ammunition to use on your poor

schmuck

. Once Tamar was satisfied that she had dumped on me enough, we sat down at a café and talked about things a guy can deal with, like reality. A latte with some whipped cream pastries and Tamar’s mood improved immeasurably. So, let’s cut to the facts and skip the feelings.

“…so, when Mossi got out of jail, he headed straight for Kibbutz Hagafen. I left before he got there and went straight to Mea Shearim. That was the one place I was sure he’d never look for me. I got a job teaching English in the yeshiva of a famous

rebbe

, Rabbi Shlomo Putz. I have to dress the part or these

haredi

women refuse to learn from someone ‘outside’.”

“I know Mossi’s been out of jail for a couple of years. He almost caught up to me in Be’er Sheva last week. Do you know that he married Delilah Toledano, the biggest slut in Be’er Sheva?”

“Serves that

momser

right. Sarah Liebowitz provided me with those details. Did you meet Sarah yet? Isn’t she the sweetest best friend I could ever have?”

“Ummmmh, yes I met Sarah and she’s, uh, as sweet as you say. But Sarah never told me that you went religious. You’re not exactly dressed like the Tamar I once knew.”

“Trust me, Chris, I haven’t changed. I’m still Tamar Ya’akov, just as religious as I was doing my National Service. You knew that the Ya’akov family is a prominent

mizrachi

(Sephardic) religious family. I told you my father, Yishai, is a politician in the National Religious Party. Those were my credentials to teach in Rabbi Putz’ school.”

“Tamar, isn’t Rabbi Putz the same

rebbe

who wants to build a wall between Bnei Brak and Tel Aviv to keep the secular Israelis from polluting his followers? I read that in Ha’aretz a few days ago.”

“Yes, that’s the same Putz. Chris, all is not well in Mea Shearim. I need to get out of there. The

rebbutzin

wants to arrange a marriage for me with one of the

rebbe’s

followers, Zalman Nebbish. Zalman’s only accomplishment is that he’s the world’s dumbest yeshiva student. What Zalman lacks in IQ, he tries to make up by quoting Talmud, 24/7, and usually incorrectly. I’m sure that we could all do with a bit more Talmud in our lives but Zalman isn’t any girl’s idea of a good time.”

“Well, that’s bad but you haven’t married Zalman yet. I still have a chance, don’t I?”

“I haven’t told you everything. Besides the

rebbutzin

playing cupid, I have to fend off the

rebbe

as well. The ultra-Orthodox have a custom of never touching a woman except your wife and only then for sex. Somehow, the

rebbe

thinks that little rule doesn’t apply to him. Every time the

rebbutzin

isn’t looking, the

rebbe

chases me around the classroom. Then, there’s the

rebbe’s

teepee creeping every night….”

I kept Tamar talking. The longer she was with me, the less likely she would return to Mea Shearim. What kind of excuse could possibly explain five hours in the

mikveh

? I didn’t need to force the conversation. Tamar brought up the subject of running away with me. I was exactly where I wanted to be, reconciled to my Israeli girlfriend and planning our future together.

By the time evening rolled around, I was escorting Tamar up to my hotel room. Taliah Tal’s shift at the front desk was over so we didn’t have a red-headed obstacle to navigate. Once in the elevator, Tamar dropped her religious pretenses and transformed into her strictly Orthodox slut mode. She threw herself at me, kissing me aggressively, forcing my mouth open with her tongue. With one arm she held me close and the other hand targeted my crotch, rubbing my cojones and stiffening

zain

. The line between passion for God and passion for man was indeed very thin with Tamar.

The elevator stopped abruptly at our floor. Tamar broke off her frantic kissing only to make sure the hallway was clear. She pulled me off the elevator and fumbled in my pocket for the key, making a side trip to check out my

zain

. Her body trembled visibly under all her clothes.

“Oh Chris, you’re still as hard and as big as I remember. I haven’t been laid since…well never mind. I’ll explode if you don’t

shtumpf

me. I want that circumcised monster between your legs. I want a fuck that will make the front page of

Yehidot Ahronot.

”

Once the door to my room was shut, Tamar dropped to her knees and unzipped my fly. She couldn’t get my

zain

out my Jockeys so she undid my belt and let my pants drop. Exploring carefully in my briefs, she finally pulled out the prize she had been searching for. The first time a woman gets her hands on your

zain

, she’s just curious about what you’ve got. An old lover like Tamar will take your

zain

carefully, reverently, almost worshipping your maleness for the memory of past fuckings. Tamar savoured the feel and smell of my

zain

, gently caressing the length and girth.

Tamar then began a slow blowjob, putting the tip of my

zain

in her mouth, then letting the glans slide slowly over her tongue. Just as slowly, she pulled her head back until the tip was just inside her lips. Then she performed the slow erotic slide over her tongue almost to the back of her mouth again. You just don’t get that kind of service from a woman you just picked up. Tamar knew just how much of this treatment I could take. She stopped and looked up at me.

“Undress me Chris. Make love to me as if it’s both our first time and our last time. Eat my pussy. I want the whole deal. I want to remember this night whatever happens to us.”

I didn’t like the way Tamar seemed still a little uncertain. Nevertheless, I started to unbutton the back of Tamar's dress, trying to look as if I didn’t know what I was doing. Of course, I had some idea of the territory I was entering, having already undressed the ultra-Orthodox Rimona Katz. I tried not to hurry. I had to give Tamar the impression that we had a lifetime together ahead of us, so what’s the rush.

I unbuttoned Tamar's dress down the back. She let it drop slowly and seductively, that is, if you find multiple layers of petticoats to be seductive. Tamar stepped out of her dress and kicked her sensible, flat-heeled shoes to one side. I began to unbutton the first layer of undergarments. Tamar stepped out of that layer of clothes and then another. How do these Orthodox women ever get through an Israeli summer?

Tamar laid a carpet of long-sleeved dresses and petticoats from the door to the bed, leaving just an old-fashioned brassiere that went almost to her navel. Just below her navel began a pair of Victorian bloomers that went to mid-thigh. They ended in a tight elastic that I suppose was all that kept her brown stockings from falling to her ankles. Even after shucking all those clothes, Tamar was still 80% covered up. Here’s what I can’t understand. Covered up, Tamar was even more seductive than when I first saw her naked.

I undid button after button on the relic of a brassiere until her ample breasts popped free. Propelled by its weight and the force of liberated boobs, the bra slid easily off Tamar’s smooth white arms. She advanced towards me and played her firm breasts on my chest, as if it was necessary to prove to me Israeli women have the world’s biggest tits. I picked her up and carried her the rest of the way to the bed. I was wrong about Tamar looking heavy. She hadn’t gained any weight even though she felt somewhat softer than in her soldier days.

As I figured, her stockings were held up by her bloomers. I rolled those down to reveal lily-white legs instead of the olive-wood colour I remembered. Damn, these ankles hadn’t been on view for years. As I pulled off the bloomers, I looked between Tamar’s legs. Her bloomers had a huge wet spot in the crotch.

Tamar raised her

takat

(ass) and I pulled off her bloomers as slowly as I could. Her navel appeared first, then protruding hip bones and, finally, black damp bush. Tamar raised her legs, letting me remove the bulky underpants. She parted her thighs wide open, displaying pink in the middle of black curly pubes.

I didn’t hesitate a second. I dived between Tamar’s thighs and began a slow tongue job. Tamar’s scent was intoxicating. She was clean and fresh from a dip in the

mikveh

. I buried my nose in Semitic bush and inhaled Tamar’s delectable scent. My tongue slid up the valley between slippery inner labia towards Tamar’s swollen clitoris. My tongue ascended from the depths of the valley to the top of Mount Clit, causing Tamar to scream in ecstasy. With limited success, she tried to keep her hips still and me on target. Tamar released her pent-up sexual energy through her upper body, writhing with pleasure.

“Oh shit, Chris. That felt so good to scream when I came. Orthodox women are taught to stay quiet and just make babies from sex. They mustn’t take their husband’s mind from the Torah. I just had to get that scream out, I’ve been repressed so long.”

OK, so it was a scream of rejection of the Rebbe’s teachings. As for me, I certainly didn’t care if the

rebbe

approved of what we were doing. I got up from between Tamar’s legs and slipped on one of the condoms from what remained of the dozen that Taliah brought the night before. If Tamar had been to the

mikveh

, she couldn’t be ovulating yet. But I wasn’t about to take any chances. My cock was leaking and the rubber slid on. I just crawled between Tamar’s wet thighs and Tamar had her hand on my

zain

, guiding me into her. I stuck my

goyische zain

into wet, quivering Jewish cunt. Even through the rubber, I felt that Tamar was tight, something that pleased me immensely. This cunt hadn’t seen a lot of use in the last five years.

I played my

zain

around the entrance to my Jewish Temple, not out of reverance but because of mechanical tolerances. I was swollen and Tamar was tight and quivering. Between her spasms, I worked my way in as slowly as I could. Tamar took deep breaths with every movement I made. Then she relaxed and raised her knees up. I lowered myself onto her soft body and went the rest of the way into her in one thrust.

Tamar brought up her legs and squeezed my ass tightly to get as much of me as she could. We clenched for the longest time, afraid to come and lose the moment. As old lovers, we knew each other’s moves and what prolonged the fuck or what made the other come instantly. After the longest time just enjoying the shared closeness, Tamar spoke.

"Chris, take that rubber off. Then fuck me nice and slow with your bare

zain

. I want to feel your skin against me as you give me those nice long deep strokes. I could come again right now if I wanted to, but I want you to spill your seed inside me."

Tamar even talked dirty in Biblical terms. Sarah was right. Tamar knew all the dirty parts of the Bible. I pulled out from Tamar and rolled the vulcanized rubber off my

zain

. Tamar shoved me on by back and was all over me before I knew what was happening. I couldn’t remember if she was this aggressive making love before. But what the hey – I enjoyed it and let Tamar enjoy me. Finally, she mounted my

zain

, carefully taking the measure of the tip before pushing down on the shaft.

“This is forbidden fruit to an Orthodox woman. They’re supposed to let the man have his way with them and get on with producing babies. And they have absolutely no imagination when it comes to different positions. Let me enjoy this Chris. Don’t move.”

Let Tamar enjoy it? I was enjoying the feeling of Tamar’s silky smooth cunt gripping every millimeter of my

zain

. Tamar was still tight as a virgin. However, Tamar had raised a good point. Exactly how do the ultra-Orthodox fuck? Do they use a variety of positions or do they conform to something mystical from the

Cabala

? The Bible lacks the details of the

Kama Sutra

when it comes to sex. A lot of fucking went on in the Bible but the Bible is essentially silent concerning which positions the Patriarchs and Prophets used.

I assume that Judah gave his daughter-in-law Tamar a good roadside doggie. I can’t imagine a feisty woman like the Queen of Sheba any place but on top of King Solomon. There’s no information at all on how many ways the hooker Rahab satisfied her customers. She must have used woman on top as part of her sexual arsenal. Rahab and the Queen of Sheba get good marks in the Bible, so a woman on top can’t be all that un-Orthodox a position.

Tamar leaned forward to let me suck on her nipples and take my mind off my Biblical research. Then she straightened up and started to move my hard cock in and out, moving in all directions, stirring up her insides like she was stirring up a pot of soup. Tamar kept at it for what felt like an eternity

Since my mind had turned to the Bible, I tried to keep myself from coming by thinking of as many randy Biblical characters in as I could. Gomer, wife of Hosea, came to mind. That was a bad example. Gomer fucked religiously and that was the way Tamar was doing me at that moment. Tamar was intense, almost religious in her determination to gloriously shag me off and herself in the process. She moved faster as she felt my zain harden, bringing me to a climax, tout de suite. Tamar still had all the moves and didn’t stop making them. The sloppy sounds emanating from her pussy were finally interrupted in an explosive scream of ecstasy.