Lady Grinning Soul

Malaysia's Hassidic Valentine Day:

2012-02-14T09:21:00.000-05:00

This news story reads so eerily like a What If movie - what if the religious fanatics from the Coalition government succeeded and had a say in policing public morals in Israel. Beit Shemesh tasted it already. Jerusalem has the religious vigilantes burn trash dumpsters and deface public property in a huge temper tantrum should politics not go their way.

The fanatics already have a self-styled and morality police checking that women don't mingle with men, sit in the back of the buses, don't wear shoes that click on the pavement, and wear jeans skirts, etc. The Moslem concept of close proximity is basically Judaism's law against seclusion. I think that Rabbis are looking up to Moslems, because they seem to copy their prohibitions, and with some delay - as it has been with the uncovered hair, Blue Tooth, internet, SMS and smart phones.

Morality police in Malaysia kicked off Valentine's Day by raiding cheap hotel rooms to arrest more than 80 young Muslims trying to "celebrate" the holiday. The unmarried couples were charged with "close proximity," which is basically being alone with a member of the opposite sex, a crime that is punishable by jail terms of up to two years. Islamic religious officials have been conducting an anti-Valentine's Day campaign that dates back to 2005, based on the idea that the holiday is a "trap" that is "synonymous with vice" and leads to other immoral activities. The raids took place almost immediately after midnight on Tuesday and focused on budget hotels and public parks, suggesting that the "couples" may not have been together that long, making them easy targets for morality warriors.

(http://news.yahoo.com/malaysia-celebrates-valentines-day-arresting-unmarried-couples-102643618.html)

me - I am with My Retro friends, not at a budget motel, because there are none in this country, but relaxing our own way, after they spent the day running around the city publishing their portfolio to get paid. A reminder: don't forget to send me ideas for my sex party!

It's that Gloryhole Morning Feeling!

2012-02-14T03:49:00.000-05:00

What a nice, sunny and naughty morning!

g-string triangles.

I don't need to be wearing the C-string all the time!

I realize that I am still too much of a goody-two-shoes, and yet I need to keep go up a notch in my quest for esthetically decadent experience. Out of the following items on my girlie wish list – I have wished for:

Interracial group sex at a motel
Sex chaperoned by another loved one
Any threesome
A night with a classy, elegant, Russian escort girl
Private sex party game involving me and a glory hole

I think it is the glory hole that interests me most, since it is the easiest to materialize so far.

For that I also need real ideas. I would have to be the organizer, actually, since the people I know are really goody-two-shoes, and are passive observers, waiting for me to come up with something good.

So – hereby I am inviting the blog's readers, followers and respectable lurkers to contribute their ideas for the gloryhole game. The party will also be made into a video file, and will be sent to those ingenious ones who sent in their ideas.

A sort of a board game, a large cardboard with any number of holes in it (imagination, nu?), - the sex game can also involve the spin the bottle, and a card game, though cards would just be too simple, since I don't know how to, and never played strip poker - what a boring, rabbi's daughter!

Maybe I should thank you now, on behalf of Alex, and My Retro Couple, their friends, and maybe JFK, at that thought I blush.

Angry Words and Thoughts of Giants

2012-02-13T15:14:00.000-05:00

And Sunday was also the day I got an angry phone call from my 2^nd ex, I figured it was long overdue, considering that I insisted on living in Tel Aviv, keeping them away from him, letting my Diamond Dog babysit them, with storybook success and healthy results, and that I still keep on nursing them, which causes him problems when he has them over, and they can’t fall asleep without their mommy's breasts.

He called and it was a matter of minutes before it got to our first, he shed all the self-control and started blurting out angry rhetorical questions and accusations: do you know what I've done for you?…do you have any idea how much I loved you and our babies?...no, you are not a gold digger, you are a killer…Are you trying to kill me too?

That was supposed to insinuate that I ruined MH's health, life and caused him to die. It is that time of year, the time of health challenges and life and death events. A year ago MH died. I had my twins.

Cathleen Naundorf – and another raven. Now I am comfortably through with my sense of inadequacy, that my hair is not raven-black.

You are not pretty…not beautiful anymore…you are a monster…and I am not the only one to suffer your flaky ideology…I used to feel embarrassment in front of your father that I could not make it work, but I understand that I have been too hard on myself…it was impossible to always try and catch up with you…your tastes and dreams are not for family being together… I don’t feel strong anymore to be a nice friend to your father, because YOU came between us…even if you go and work on yourself, I won’t look at you, because you betrayed my inner feelings. That is ugly…

So I said, I hope you feel better, maybe you and YOUR ex can remarry?

He said, you're very cruel!- and hung up.

Dior's Muse, Arizona. It is clear - I thought of it all first – the elegant, retro skirts, and the addictively yummy Gentle Black Giants. No music or the sublime feeling of witnessing the creativity of the Russian Mozart can replace the sensory nirvana of being a captive within an African's hands-and-fingers-and-knees basketball hug. Sometimes I am not sure I am with Alex. I close my eyes and – good thing he is quiet in sex – I think I am with Chidi, but the thrusts of the frustrated artist remind me that they are a far cry from what I call the tribal, wave-like bumping.

Good thing I rinsed myself of the Bais Yakov and Nevey brainwashing.

Being a mom is not enough, for I am consciously trying not be the authoritarian mother… I hate to imagine my children 10, 20 years from now thinking of me as a dictator. My kids are well fed, provided for, and cling to me, because I am the source of fun surprises, funny JFK, yummy milk, food and inspiration.

I must drown my sorrows…in an afternoon of clean healthy creative fun with the Retro Couple in Their studio.

Thoughts on Willpower, Morning Erection, and Linguistics

2012-02-13T12:33:00.001-05:00

He wanted bulgur and Thai cabbage, something like San Choi I made a week ago, so we all had it. It gave me a tommy ache that woke me up at 4 in the morning, and gave him burps all day.

I woke up 4 in the morning, feeling the tommy ache, and had to sit in the bathroom, but that was not it, it was just gases in my stomach, and I just spent the time reading newspapers and mediating on the meaning of Shabbos for me.

The gentle gradients of watercolors are great for matching interior themes! – looked so great in the colors of the Shabbos morning!

I realized that I have been thinking of frumpy as the composite of grumpy frum woman. Our Shabbos guests and all my friends and lovers' have always asked me why am I not like the other religious girls, being reserved and leery and – frumpy! I always say that I am conscious of that, and try to be nice and see the fun and the positive side to people and things, even risking being called dumb.

I love unpretentious Shabbos, the kind opposite of the conventional Jewish interpretation which makes men neurotic and absent from home. In Tel Aviv I am free to observe my minimal Shabbos of lighting my candles, and even make my own Kiddush, without forcing it all on JFK. The angel-like non-religious people are all too happy and curious to watch and ask questions. The last thing I want is for JFK to get into the ideological controversies and other party pooping activities.

I read the weekend supplements to the newspapers and found that in my favorite Israel Hayom especially, the language is unpretentious, without fake and fancy Biblical grammar. Tel Aviv felt unquestionably angelic. I was decidedly inspired at this hour, and feeling a little better, checked on the twins, who got over their cold from the past Shabbos, and slept fitfully. Almost nude – in nylons, gauzy peignoir and low heel slippers with fluffy puffs, I felt chilly, and felt the goosebumps, which needed human warmth. When I returned to the bedroom, and was rewarded.

As I snuggled up to JFK, I discovered his morning erection, which immediately lit my lust, and which I quickly mounted, and it was so good that he was asleep, for I would have been embarrassed to climax so soon. I was thoroughly pleasured by the global, electrical orgasm, and collapsed beside him. The sex attack woke him up though, but 6 in the morning was still too early. We left it at that for the afternoon.

Through his humbleness in love he makes me love him. He knows his physical and sexual limitations. There is no way for him to be on top of me, for now I hope, - I hope we can change that soon, there are so many physical therapy methods, - he is extremely wise and knows now that by NOT telling me what to do I only want to be with him, to come back to him, every night, sleep next to him, next to his hairiness, even though Ms. Retro so wants us to have a sleepover, a girls' night in one of these days, and I say – not yet – so I go back to him, and like this Shabbos sit next to him, and see and enjoy how the parade of his friends come over, hoping to see the new JFK, in the company of the most erotic woman in Tel Aviv, who sees something in him that others overlooked. When they grow silent, and then realize that I am watching them, and JFK happy and sharing fearlessly his ideas with his friendly competitors, customers, the politically important elite, whoever, - they wake up and say, you look so good together!

This stuff makes me horny and of course easily outcompetes Alex the most talented musician in the world, the most passionate maestro, the most Mozart-esque composer to ever come out of Europe, even though he is busy in the dead of night – like that middle of Shabbos night I was awake with the tummy ache – he was composing ME – in my symphony, who knows – but JFK is the guy who lets me date other people, therefore he is the strongest, - and I want to be with him, and maybe I will slowly devote myself to him exclusively, monogamously.

The sexy ads in my Hotmail are so intuitive! I have lost weight! All that running around and eating too much veggies.

The guests asked for our story, how we met, and how I happened to decide to be with him. I repeated my ideology – that this is my political activism – instead of looking for causes to join, I do what many women have done, when they have stepped forward and married political prisoners. Why shouldn't JFK not deserve someone like that? He is home, he is full of ideas, his ideas are pure, and he works hard at making them come true, and he has a nice. I want to be near him, and want to make the nest in this cute cozy home.

The guests go that cute wuzzy look, and I felt like accusing them, why didn't you match him up with someone? And then I thanked them silently, for saving him for me. They are such an innocent, leftist-looking, dangerously-elite-appearing friends, who are so heimishe, that they are basically the same shtetl Jews who have finished prestigious colleges, dressed up in Euro-American finery, and gotten themselves nice jobs. They are very old-fashioned, and easily amazed. They are more verklempt than Mr. Retro. They are not the candidates for my threesome ideas, and surely my glory hole party dream.

She's wearing my raspberry colors. She is the illustration to Alex opinion on me: the nice girls with the sweetest smiles are the real sluts. I like the fact that he has been thinking about all the nuances in our behaviors.

And that's why I eagerly agreed to go with JFK and visit his relatives in LA this Pesach, as a part of my transatlantic vacation.

Artsy Thoughts on The Fly On The Wall

2012-02-11T11:13:00.010-05:00

So what's next? Who's next? I don't know about you, but the parade of Tori's lovers and hobbies is discombobulating. I never expected this Alex guy, or the experimental piano. Meanwhile, even her liaison with Alex is downright bizarre, I'd just love to be a fly on the wall when she is at his place, and I dig girls only. They must look like a work of art.

I asked her about JFK, and she said that "JFK is not Alex, and Alex is not JFK."

I also get emails asking to see more site statistics. Because Blogger shows the content warning to every visitor, it renders all detailed stats virtually useless, especially if you want to see the city, ISP, and the source of the hits, like search engines, search words, or direct (from Bookmarks, etc.). The source of the click is always the URL of the content warning page. What is possible to see almost in real time is the list of most read posts ("the past month") on the right margin.

Apparently the subject of the fly on the wall has received extensive treatment at the hands of these artists. Article from http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/27/arts/design/27picasso.html

Who’s the Voyeur Now, Picasso?

By KAREN ROSENBERG

Degas and Picasso make an odd couple, a Realist-Impressionist and a restless Modernist born nearly 50 years apart. But their relationship, as seen through the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute’s “Picasso Looks at Degas,” isn’t the tempestuous kind typical of blockbuster shows. Neither a partnership (“Picasso and Degas”) nor a competition (“Picasso/Degas”), it’s about one artist regarding another, calmly and from a distance.

The title tells us that Picasso is the subject, Degas the object, but it’s not always clear who’s doing more looking. Degas, after all, is the notorious voyeur, whose fly-on-the-wall views of women bathing, dancers resting between scenes, and prostitutes awaiting customers are in turn, in this exhibition, surveyed by Picasso.

The Clark is the only North American stop for the show, which runs through mid-September and is the perfect coda to a summer of Picasso in New York’s museums. Its organizers, the Picasso expert Elizabeth Cowling and the Degas scholar Richard Kendall, have wrangled some extraordinary loans and assembled some inspired pairings (as well as an excellent catalog). In the process they have found a revealing new angle on Picasso and exposed Degas as a proto-Modernist, if not quite on par with Cézanne.

We don’t know whether the artists ever met, although their studios in Paris were just blocks from each other in the first decade or so of the 20th century. As a young artist in Spain, Picasso encountered reproductions of Degas’s work; in Paris he had many opportunities to see it in person. But his most intimate acquaintance with Degas came only after the elder artist’s death in 1917, when the contents of his studio — including many unfinished works — were displayed and sold in a series of very public auctions.

At the Clark the raw and unpolished version of Degas is much in evidence — a refreshing change from the sanitized, Impressionist-focused presentation to which we are accustomed. The show gives us Degas as Picasso saw him: an artist with a classical hand and a modern eye, who idolized Ingres but indulged in coarser and more outré forms of eroticism.

The show’s first few galleries delve a little too deeply into the early lives of both artists in an effort to show parallels: Picasso and Degas were strong draftsmen, with overbearing fathers who pushed them to specialize in portraiture. The works of interest here — there aren’t many — include Picasso’s expressive sketch of his sister Lola and a preparatory drawing for Degas’s gloomy group portrait “The Bellelli Family.”

After this false start the show begins in earnest with Parisian cafe scenes by both. From the Musée d’Orsay comes Degas’s marvelously bleak painting of a woman slumped over her glass, “In a Café (L’Absinthe)”; it hangs next to a boozy blue-period Picasso from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, “Portrait of Sebastià Junyer i Vidal.”

Yet the link to Degas feels a bit forced: To Picasso, Degas was one cafegoer among many; a small oil sketch of a male cabaret audience, “Stuffed Shirts,” finds Picasso emulating Toulouse-Lautrec.

Two striking paintings of dark-eyed women, Picasso’s “Portrait of Benedetta Canals” and Degas’s “Woman With an Umbrella (Berthe Jeantaud),” make a deeper connection. Degas knew Mme. Canals, who was a friend of Picasso’s lover Fernande Olivier, but the point made by these paintings is that he and Picasso were acquainted through Goya.

Among the exhibition’s numerous images of women at their toilette, no third-party introduction is needed. Picasso’s blocky nudes of around 1906 respond, clearly enough, to the physical awkwardness and perverse sensuality of Degas’s crouched bathers. And decades later his violent painting “Nude Wringing Her Hair” (1952) picks up on the masochism inherent in Degas’s paintings and drawings of women yanking brushes through their tresses.

But as another pairing shows, Picasso also grasped Degas’s sympathy for working women. In 1904 he made a painting after Degas’s “Woman Ironing,” translating the earlier work’s sturdy Parisian laundress into a pinched figure with a bony, raised shoulder.

He could sometimes be oblivious to subtleties in Degas, a point reinforced by two sculptures of pregnant women. Degas’s small bronze statuette bends slightly at the waist, cradling her belly in her palms. Picasso’s version, a straight-backed figure with milk jars for bosoms, is more grotesque than tender.

The show includes many other small bronzes by Degas, some of which were cast after his death from wax molds found in his studio. They relate closely to the paintings and drawings, emphasizing a tendency (shared by Picasso) to slip back and forth between mediums.

Degas’s most famous sculpture, “Little Dancer, Aged Fourteen,” anchors a brilliant, and mischievous, grouping in the next gallery. This snub-nosed, pubescent diva is flanked by two Picasso paintings: one of a dwarf in a tutu and another of a come-hither nude in the style of his “Demoiselles d’Avignon.” Both figures ape the little dancer’s pose, with their hands behind their backs.

Other sculptures and works on paper flesh out the ballet theme, including two luscious Degas pastels from the Clark’s collection that show dancers catching their breath in the wings. Picasso had his own reasons for lurking backstage; drawings and family photographs remind you that one of his wives was the ballerina Olga Khokhlova.

The Picassos here, like most of the works in the previous galleries, date from the first two decades of the 20th century. At this point you may start to wonder whether Degas had any real hold on Picasso after that time. The answer is in the next and final gallery, and it will surprise you.

On view is a series of 39 etchings made by Picasso in 1971, just two years before his death. It’s a lucid, highly specific response to a group of monotypes by Degas, known informally as the “brothel series” and based on the close observation of Parisian prostitutes.

Only a few of these louche, smeary prints are at the Clark, but you can see reproductions commissioned by the dealer Ambroise Vollard (who, in all likelihood, introduced Picasso to this furtively circulated body of work). Picasso was taken with the monotypes, and in the late 1950s he finally had the opportunity to buy some of them. He already owned a photograph of Degas, which he kept in his Cannes studio.

The women in Degas’s pictures are scantily clad but not very active; what they do, mostly, is wait. In Picasso’s etchings they’re Gorgon-faced exhibitionists who intimidate potential clients with enlarged, mazelike genitals. More shocking, though, is the presence of Degas as a recurring character in this oversexed narrative. (And it is most certainly Degas; the titles mention him by name.)

He’s most often shown in profile, peering in from the edge of the composition with wide saucerlike eyes. In one scene he has his hands clasped behind his back, as does the prostitute standing in front of him — a pair of “Little Dancers.” In another he’s there twice, as customer and spectator.

What, exactly, is Picasso doing here? Why, at the end of his life, did he summon an artist associated with the 19th century? Was he using Degas, who was reportedly celibate, to satirize his own sexually voracious reputation? Identifying as an outsider, a voyeur on the art world of the 1960s and ’70s? Letting it all hang out, a privilege of old age?

Maybe he was simply reminding us that art is about finding distance, even in close proximity.

The Parable of Mozart and a Hassid

2012-02-09T15:58:00.002-05:00

I went to see Alex. We exchanged our sex wish lists again, and the lists coincided: he wanted me to tell him how to please me, and I wrote down that I wanted to enjoy a real long session of tongue bath and face sitting.

Impatient, and feeling the effects of Shostakovich on his DVD player, we were having musical sex, and he was beside himself, and it was obvious he was in seventh heaven, while I enjoyed and memorized the sensation of the spirituality, and on top of that, I thought: I can’t believe I am enjoying sex with him; if any of my sisters saw me, she would ask, what does she see in him?

If it wasn't for this musical sensuality we share so naturally and uniquely, I would never give him a minute of my time, or even touch him.

To set the tone for this post's confusion in Dutch-Yiddutch-Yiddish communications:

The Dress Carousel, by The VALS Femmage

I was nude, the pat-down stance? - leaning, with my ear to the door, as if holding up the door, as if listening to the sound of innocence on the other side, - the best was yet to come - and Alex was doing his best, - eating into me, getting me close to orgasms, repeating his mantra, a variation on his accusation: you shave for your lovers' needs!

I was proud of him – for someone who knew nothing about Aley Shor, and Pirkey Avos, and Likutey Amorim, and Derekh Hayim, and Hovos Levavos, - he was of extremely pure mind and guarded his eyes, and the only woman he ever idolized and saw naked so worshipfully for the past years, has been me.

He is like the Jewish Terminator: passionate, spiritual, soulful. He is like Sam, easily crazed, angered, but thankfully soothed by his other love, his musical spirituality.

So it was so wonderful: and Alex was tongue-bathing my most pampered and sensitized intimate well-sought private places, when … a religious reader would say, mishomayim, when least expected, we heard a knock. There was even more dramatic surprises – through the peephole I saw a Hassidic man, in full garb, the flattened, kinky bowler hat, the grotesque beard that always manages to startle me whenever I am in a ferfrummed neighborhood, and not just the funky Santa Claus in a Diaspora's shopping mall. This Hassid was all proud to sport his tall, chunky stature, his pot belly forward – a groisse paveh, טווס, proud as a peacock. And I was very comfortable, because somehow today, this Hassidishe crap stopped being a party-pooping turn-off.

I can imagine someone's Shabbos table, or a tish, or a farbrengen, where a supposedly wise bearded Jew telling impressive stories: you know, once a wayward loose girl was mezaneh, in a maseh beheymoh no patience at all, right by the front door, when there was a knock on the door, and she still full of lust, asked who that was. It was a Hassidishe man, full of yiras shomayim, a kavtzan, collecting tzedoko for his rebbeh's New Bridegroom Fund. This Hassidishe man was a messenger to stop this shikseh-like Jewish woman by the use of words alone! Just like Moshe Rabbeinu and the Egyptian! [the Rebbeh's pale, girly fist thumps the table] and his rebbeh proclaimed that the moment the man knocked on the door, the holy presence rested on his head. We should pray that we could be zocheh to serve in such a holy matter, for whoever is busy with holy matter of public welfare and morality deserves to receive innumerable merits for the World To Come!

Actually I am proud of having fictionalized this parable and used it to illustrate for JFK the mind-mucking storytelling ways of Hassidim. I have heard enough when they used to come over and try to dazzle my skeptical father – probably to get accepted through being associated with him, or more luckily, to get him to donate a large chink of the charity fund he has always been keeping in the closet.

I told JFK, see, I am a victim of having read Artsctroll commentaries in my sem years.

So I asked, vos macht a yid heunte? How is the fellow Jew doing today? The Hassid said, not missing a beat, - collecting tzedaka (!) Considering this non-religious, artsy and intellectual area, the appearance of a religious man all the more asking for charity was truly commendable – this is Hassidus in action.

I said, I can't touch money right now, - and he said, totally ambitiously: why not? I said, I am busy having sex (!) He must not have been familiar with geshlecht, and thought I said gesheft, business, and he asked me, farnumn mit vas? – busy with what?

All my exchange across the door has pleasantly tortured Alex, who became impatient with sex, and started performing like he has never done before. He concentrated on sex, I looked back at him, he looked quiet and obsessed, and proud of the length and turgidity, - I answered the Hassid, I am busy porn zich, copulating. In a typically Hassidic persistence and patience, he was unfazed, and said, so what? Your man home?

Yes, he is right here! (maybe in all his innocence the Hassid did not figure out what we were doing) Then all it takes is a second to give me a shekel!

The man's persistence and bravery was so annoying and funny that he made us both laugh, and sex was even more spicy. I stopped responding to the Hassid's Nu? Nu? And started concentrating on the teasing, approaching orgasm. Alex came first, wonderfully relieved and still frustrated at the Hassid, and orgasming too soon, but I took him with my wet hands and led him to the couch covered with sheet music and oily falafel wrappers. I came and saw hope – and wanted to point out to him how easy it is to freshen up our sensuality. But he is the Russian Mozart, a heavy-duty musician.

He cried, I asked him, why – when the feelings are so right, we came together several times? He said, he could tell - literally translated from Russian - I am leaving him … through this door, I am going to throw him. He slid down my legs, hugging them, kissing them, making me feel so complete, when he was in shambles, wet-eyed, begging me to stay.

I did, for my mandolin lesson, "might as well now" and he is such a good teacher.

Then I let him watch me as I showered, lotioned my body, blew him a kiss and blinked him a mwuah, drove carefully, enjoying the Tel Avivian ethical drivers, picked up my twins from my Cousine Shiri. I hurried back home, in time for JFK to come home from a walk with my daughter. Life couldn’t be more beautiful, I should be thankful! I did say, J., thank you – don't you feel like we live in a book? He inhaled the gentle almond scent off my neck, and the quick French onion soup I was about to serve, - and June also coming to keep the moment "could I call you daddy J.?" I thought to myself, this guy really deserves all of me. This man is so wonderful. How could I have let him be a one-time love years ago? I got to do something, and I got to do this right!

I love this series. This conductor gives an engaging, intellectual lecture on the music and the soul behind the symphonic passion.

As we watched, Alex asked me to interpret it into Russian, and I was so amazed that we had sex again, as if we were musicians from that orchestra, and that's what we did after a concerts. I also watched it with JFK and interpreted it into Hebrew. Of course, predictably, the professionalism, the excellence, and the artistic milieu turned me on again. I am just a Bais Yakov girl.

More Shostakovich. I love his 13th (Babi Yar), and the 14th. Good night -

xoxoxo

Slimming With The Retro Couple

2012-02-09T09:56:00.034-05:00

I am starting to cool down my relationship with Alex. I have honestly missed My Retro Couple, and I went back to them, visiting them, and due to the time I have been gone, I have grown a little self-conscious to undress right away with people other than JFK or Alex – only a week ago or so I spent two days being nude around her and her husband! - , and as she started up to confide in me, it turned me on – my hands stroked my thighs - and I felt the stirrings in my tummy, the goosebumps, and the intense desire to kiss her.

Because I did not expect to hear: "ever since you entered our lives we haven't been the same." I woke them up – they stirred me up too!

All That is Spiritual and Nude In Me moved me to create this Raspberry-Daiquiri-Banana with Dill idea. I couldn’t actually spend more than 40 minutes nude, because it was a teensy chilly, - my goosebumps came out, and function followed form, which means that I felt pre-orgasmic, I had to finger msyelf with Ms. Retro's assistance, and then I put on a silk kimono, which is on this blog but I couldn't find using a simple search, and it was just fun to guess – for whom I wore it last. Mental note: donate it, to renew my wardrobe totally, for JFK. Where was I? - and then I felt the warmth, her warmth, and we drifted into the next subject.

I said, you are a very cute couple, - caring and open and that keeps you so close and lovey-dovey. I was right, she confirmed, they love each other, so purely that it shows – I see how Mr. Retro looks at her lovingly, even while she was between my legs, or I was standing there, stark-nude, my precious labia in his face, and he was still grinning, head cocked, looking at his wife, literally holding her hand, and being happy for her.

So what's the problem? The marriage is so perfect and esthetic, that they are both afraid of moving it forward. They have discussed right before I arrived – what is forward? What is new? What changes? What does Tori mean for us? For me [her]? For you [him]? How can she be with us? Because we can’t be without her for long. We need her professionally, and for our artistic neshama.

Speaking of neshomos, - Jerusalem – is so chilly, and Alex the Russian Pianist on par with Mozart had the huge loving neshama and insisted that I wear his fluffy, cuddly, caressy Russian hat. Fur! – that's what you need for surviving in Jerusalem!

What they love is watching me talk breathingly; my lips, - "whatever language I speak, or what I say, - the way they come to rest after each word, the way they turn vowels into explicit candy, which actually mirror Ms. Retro's Hebrew - my lips are indecent…Were you born like that?"
I said, No, I learned that from Katya. The idea is to adjust your lips into what you think is a prim symmetric bow tie.

You are so yummy, I told her out of this mutual admiration. I communicate with them using this palette of imagism they drew themselves in the quest to define me.

I did not know what else to say. I need to kiss you now – this is part of who I am, of how I am – a kiss or a full intimacy with a woman – for me is a given, it's a natural form of affection. I forgot or no longer understand the reasons against it. Do you feel threatened by the idea of me and your husband? Does your husband feel jealous of us together – though he seems happy for you?

She said, the three of us are such a natural shidduch. She said that in a religious way, and it was so true. Ms. Retro smiled and leaned into my face, and I still was not sure whether to kiss her. He loves her, adores her, kisses her everywhere, gives her orgasms, but they are predictable, and I give her orgasms caused by thoughts feelings as well as our sexual touch.

It's a confusing triangle, confusing perceptions, and confusing appearances. I don't want to come between you, either take you from him, or him from you. I am not attracted to him. I have thanked him profusely for being so kind with his wife, for giving us privacy, though he is so sweet he is always welcome to be there, to make his wife feel truly at home, with his love beside her, to feel comfortable with another woman who is not out to get him.

What is he hiding behind his sweet smile? Does he ravage you lovingly after I leave? How come you never had sex when I am here? He must be jealous, and terribly shy. He never undresses completely when she and I take a bath. She loves him, and can't imagine him with anyone else, but with me – yes, though he has no inner desire for other women. Another non-religious man I respect - no religious education, and totally faithful, I see for myself.

And this is the look Jojo loves so much, - I dressed up for her in private, when I was still shy to be seen not wearing a skirt - the look of the hot SALT in Jaffa, - for now we all have to wait a little bit till Jojo allows me to publish my frontal face shots. I did start publishing Judy's! Jojo says that my portrait shots are commodity to be used as leverage (?) The shoes – the echo of the green theme of two years ago, slims – everyone's favorite. Mr. Retro had a flattering erection that she let me feel while he stood beside us. I came to peace with the tows-in stance (which I've hate so much). Everyone said that mine is very erotic.

Three children! Two by Cesarean, and gym, and Adkins diet, and plenty of sex - that's the secret to the girlish figure. Being 5'8" in heels helps too.

Breastfeeding: now I love it for the pleasure of it as well, a way to feel like nobody else can give them the precious white milk, - that means protection against their careless father, whose mind is abandoning common medical sense and getting obsessed in salvation through honoring purveyors of esoteric Hassidic mystic and other reform-like rabbinical figures who think they are exponents of daas Torah.
And maybe somewhere in my subconscious there is something incestual.
Being analytical is yummy! J

We kissed, and she wanted to hear it from me again: how do I do that so naturally, kiss her like we were meant to be together like that? I explained my nature again: it is naturally that women kiss to reaffirm their friendship, then it is naturally for me to be totally physical with a girlfriend to enjoy our soul mate relationship. I don't even think it is lesbian. It is like infants needing to nurse, I am convinced that a woman who refuses to have that part of her relationship with a girlfriend, is pathologically heterosexual.

4 months and counting - no period yet in there.

I don't have to brag that they are adorable – Alex or Ms. Retro, or JFK himself just love my lapki, after I refreshed them by a total changeover: my Bais Yakov-seminary-debutante rings still fit me, the new color for the OPI nail lacquer, and new lotion – the admirers just roar with impatience when these hands are slow feeding them my labial moisture.

We putter around the kitchen, I teach her shortcuts with wine and syrups, and I feel like I felt with my Cousine Shiri: we understand each other, we love to be in each other's aura, we are comfortable with each other's loves, and we love each other's physical aspect that embodies all those emotions and sentiments. We want to drink in that physique-spiritual essence. We taste each other, as a beautiful, silent intermission in mixing, boiling, cooking – we nuzzle each other's downy buttocks, fingers slowly explicitly sneaking into the privacy of our prized anatomy, and the taste is on par with the best of French custards and creams.

You two should talk about my role in your life. Obviously, I can’t move in with you guys. I don’t want to think about it, really – I don't want to think of you guys as my safety net, where I would want to run in case of an emotional disagreement with JFK. How else can we spend time together? Share each other? - that brings up the topic of our threesome. And then she murmurs into my ear, - why are we agonizing on how to of it? We have so much fun times ahead of us, it'll happen.

I got more advice. I complained to her, like I would to one of my sisters, - but I tend to overestimate them now - what should I do about missing periods? Go back to the Specialist, or change doctors? Ms. Retro felt me up while we still faced each other, then tasted me off her finger, and still a little self-conscious, nodded, tastes like a medical mystery.
I will definitely make an appointment.

I have to ease – לשחרר - that's the word – Alex gradually, first, in my mind, and then physically, and everyone will be there for me, Ms. Retro says. And she promised to come to Alex's private concert. The Victoria Symphony.

I felt so much better, and JFK felt that the minute I walked through the door.

2012-02-09T06:33:00.013-05:00

Two afternoons of hanging out nude with the Retro Couple again, soul-searching about the break-off with Alex growing more eminent, being artistic, posing for their compositions, for my sketches, and soaking in an apricot or pine baths with Ms. Retro – and then – straight into the situation where I had to socialize with my sisters again, this time they were nicer, and the questions were like but how do you manage to maintain your figure…when do you find the time…doesn't this arrangement (disarrangement) with Micki getting to you?...and knowing that you've thrown away such a goldeneh package deal?

How do I do that? - To all that I said, it's all boils down to – plenty of good sex. They asked for a less rascally explanations. I was more wordy. They said, you think you were the only one hoping for the mensch? with a suitcase of gold?

After an immeasurable tiny vacation - electronics-free, with my sensual soulmate couple, I am Refreshed, and changed some of my Manifest and Internal Self, as well as the font for the posts, from the 12 point Cambria to the 11 point Georgia. It feels so curly, cuddly, so like the Mozart's Kleine Nachtmusiek. Like Alex the Russian's Mozart, like the rich with ovals crown of his penis. It feels good to express myself. I have not been fair to myself, as I see from emails, and Jojo's, because the lurkers have been enjoying the reading, and I have not been observing the daily, journal-like self-analytical concept that I have intended for the blog.

We did not have a get together to mark our twins' 1^st birthday, because Micki wanted to have it on the Hebrew date.

I try to be an excellent mother, and at the same time, not let that make me mature… not to take myself seriously…really – sometimes I crack up when I hear myself discipline my daughter.

We don't need to remind you that we had our own share tzuros, but we did not ran away from them, and made an honest effort to find the husbands of our dreams, and that was not easy, because the middle sisters had a problem for several years, when the oldest of them got married a little older than was customary back then, and she wanted us to go ahead and get married, but none of the younger sisters would even think of skipping over her. I know our family history, that was a trying period for everyone for years to come. And for my subconsciousness, but my first husband rescued the situation by being very young and having a very naïve masculinity.

Why must you have pink in everything? another sister asked. Most of it is raspberry, actually. I got tired of giving them packaged answers. I said, Because I love women. But you, and J.? Well, he is the only man strong enough to accept me like that.

Suddenly, I don't like Yeshivishe or frum anything. I think back to my life in the verfrummed world and find myself shirk back and hear my neshama shriek, - it's an opium for the Jewish Woman, a set of negative laws allowing the man to study them and thereby think about that which is otherwise forbidden to him directly. It is disgusting. I am hanging on to the Retro Couple, I love JFK, because their externality is in sync with their soul, they are kind just like myriads of Tel Avivians, for the sake of kindness, and not out of a rationale. In Jerusalem I learned to avoid asking for help or to clarify a question, because there it means that you are dumb, and are taking a smart person's time. It's worse when you are working the cash register at own family store, the person gets an injection of abrasive, haughty attitude, and instantly assumed that I am asking a trick question.

It's even worse when you are a woman, because a man is supposedly free of having to talk to a woman. He does not have to help her with street directions. Should she not have a GPS, she is hopelessly lost: asking a man for directions on the street assumes that she is a hooker, and asking directions from a religious woman involves passing her test for modest clothing. If you are not wearing clothes of right requirements, you are deemed to be the same hooker, and your fellow Jewish woman is free from having to support your sinful ways.

That's why I love Tel Aviv, and for the first time in my life I enjoy asking directions even when I know where I am and where I am going. I love asking the store clerks about expiration dates, I love asking cars at the traffic light for directions, because people here love helping! Jerusalem is not really Jerusalem, which is the Ancient City; the new Jerusalem is ~~disgusting~~ yucky.

I have freed myself from the cloying nebulously fantastical and fantasized Kabbala beliefs, and that means that I don't believe in evil eye, and that I am not envious nor do I believe people have powers of evil eye. So what's left for you to say, that the thing I have been enjoying most – doing good and in control of my private life - is the result of an evil eye? Well, maybe my shoes suffered in the process.

I thank Gawd for Tel Aviv's warm afternoons. I am breastfeeding less, lost weight, and gained some muscle mass, as I can feel on those elliptic gym machines. I am still in an enviable shape, even while wearing wacky shoes per The Retro Couple's request, and I defy all odds. I did not rebel against Judaism, just got free of rabbinical ideologies; I did not buy into pop culture, did not get pierced or tattooed, never thought of doing drugs, of joining a political movement, or of having sex with the denizens of the seedy side of the town. I simply never forgot the formula for my dreams: esthetics, positive environment, and open myself to people who are as passionate as me.

This is how My Hair looks like after Alex the Russian Mozart cut it last week. I thank him and My Retro Couple, who made this rare though clothed photo session possible.;I love being a kittenish MILF. Because I am Tori. Vicky Tori SALT. That's why Alex the Russian Mozart is writing the Victoria Symphony.

I opened myself up to many women and men, and love some of them, so Alex is not the kind I love – I love JFK, so soberly, so free of Judaism-whipped delusions – "man takes a woman, sanctifies her according to the Mosaic law under a 'huppah, gives her a ketuba, and she looks up to him in awe and respect, as the guarantee of heavenly blessings for their sincere effort of building a Jewish home."

In a way, Alex the Passionately Insane Russian-Jewish Mozart is like my first ex-husband, a fanatical brand of a Litvak prone to abandon all reason and memorize the infinite-looped rhetoric of rabbi-looking Cabbala warlocks. My first ex is of Polish-Czech-American Jewish rabbinical roots, and as Alex, he also believes in the necessity to expect the world to function along a very narrow line defined by presumptuous and judgmental ideologues.

Alex believes that sex must be <– so oxymoron-> free according to the spirit of lovers' inner sensualities. In our case, we both are very passionate about esthetic and artistic senses – but what if I had it all except my exceptional taste for arts? Would you have rejected me, or – not had an erection? I half-joked. He answered so seriously, like my first ex.

The first ex knew a lot about sex from his pre-wedding instruction – and yet when it came to the moment, and then moments of truth, he chose the way of a fanatical idealist in bed. Even though having the license to do to me whatever he wished, he chose to observe the rules of no lights, of splashing his hands with water before and after sex, of steering me into a more supposedly Toiro-respectable sexual alignments – not positions – we were both very young and naïve, but I was a Nevey alumna, after all, and that means I was very well read – we Litvaks do not burn nor shun any book – we must read everything. Soon I figured out the sensations and physical aspects mssing in our intimate life.

It was not enough for me to feel in the total darkness under the blanket – often in the stifling heat of summer nights – that his erections were automatic: he got used to sensing his very yingele veib next to him, he recited synonyms - to avoid mentioning holy words verbatim during sex - to famous passages in the Song of Songs, and Tehillim. In the beginning it impressed me, and even turned me on, but that was like a shower with only a minute's worth of hot water, - then I figured out that ideology of a great and young Talmud genius was not really that hot in bed.

He penetrated me, felt the bountiful moisture, then heard the sloshing and bed-creaking sounds of our sex, and learned how to move so as to be nearly silent. That translated into a very poor sexual technique. The sex became worse when I was still horny, and already heard him done for the night – in the bathroom, out, damned spot - so Shakespearean-pedantic - washing my juices off his penis - which he tried to avoid staring at, even for hygienic purposes.

I figured that he consulted with rabbis a LAWT, because he did make an effort to keep me satisfied, as I am entitled by a Toiro commandment. That meant - he tried to interpret the quality into a more sensuously wavelike movements, listening to my comments or whimpers, and even revert to the not-so-mehadrin bodily alignments, like spooning, kneeling, etc. Sex was nevertheless very bland and short. My sensuality developed, as his remained at a standstill.

My meek and very sexy pleading-like requests were met with quiet shock and knee-jerk consultations with a rabbi. I wanted him to rape me. I wanted to be irrumated. I wanted us to talk of sexy things, to exchange sex wish list – the kind I exchanged with Alex. I wanted to express my fantasies of lesbian sex with some of my Nevey girlfriends, with one of them I already have kissed. I loved the smell of semen mixed with my juices, and sneaked some of it to taste –once he tasted it on my lips, after he was done with sex for the night – and figured it all out – and that tuned him off to the idea of erotic experimentation.

In a way. Alex is alike that, but is thankful for his luck – which landed me in his lap, literally – so he had the common sense – and the Jewish quick thinking – to quickly suppress his inhibitions, and play with me – what's the use being a clean freak and pass up an opportunity to lick my toes – if it keeps you so rock-hard that only at your Fellatrix girl's discretion can the erection be deflated?

My first ex failed at writing a non-self-censored sex wish list. He wanted me "to enjoy myself…in a surprising way…to be in touch with our inner feelings, and feel the ancient roots of our Jewish sensuality" – and more general blah blah turn-offs.

Alex, on the contrary, broke out of his shell, and at least freely admitted to want to replace my brother in my inner – no longer secret - unrequited dreams.

I have remained loyal to my musical-sensual-visual imagism, and the Geometricity so dear to many of my girlfriends of years past.

My friends just llllove putting me in the corner and watch ... what I do with myself.

Words are futile.
Thank Mr. Retro for this, because he took this pic from up above, to emphasize the Little in the Sweet Adorable Little Tramp.

The fashion choice is so mischievous: the blouse covers me well, and all I have to do at work is change from the shorts right into a knee-high slit skirt. Voila, and I am a yummy divorcee not wearing a sheitl nor a head scarf. I wear scarves for JFK only, because he loves the look.

I enjoy the Retro Couples' artistic, esthetic, ice-cream, clean-air, California Hebrew.

I have joined the ranks of other girls wearing similar fashions and clicking their heels late night on the pavement while returning from a deliciously carnal tryst. I am free of the rabbinical fashion ideologies. My ideology is about having self-respect as a woman. To look attractive and behave young even after 3 children. My freedom is esthetic. What does that mean? Change gears: - I love mirrored shoes, anything as a takeoff on the ones I threw away during an intermission of my honeymoon sex sessions in Netania, starting the Shoes Cuteness category as the result.

I think Alex unintentionally cured, finalized and put away my relationship with my brother in its proper place in our memory. I don't have any regrets. It's the best solution while never being able to hold grudges against any of my own brothers.

I also see that Alex invested a lawt of his soul into our relationship, grinning in the face of Tori The Lady Grinning Soul, when I straightforwardly told him that I did not love him, but needed that energy, and I did give a lawt of myself in exchange, and I told him that he was the next Mozart, and – with a smirk, a half-serious one, made him promise to take care of himself and not let anyone poison him. He grew sad, and asked, his face wrenched in pain, I can feel you saying … farewell.

I thank Gawd for granting everyone common sense and willpower to control the extreme urges, where I have been able to be honest with Alex, and JFK! and he found it in himself to treat me gently even as our music- and-sex-saturated relationship tested he limits of heart's pain and pleasure.

I think I have had an advantage, due to the similar intensities in the relationship with MH, who died almost a year ago. That too, helped to make the relationship more comfortable – I used the MH's gift to guarantee myself enough quality of life while commuting to work 50 miles away, and mothering 3 children, and being Alex's multifaceted, multitalented, multisexual Muse.

Too worried to sleep

2012-02-05T18:33:00.000-05:00

Many years of my cool and exemplary patience have ended, and I decided to be very curt and I spent a lot of energy on doing this, and had to be comforted, in so many ways, including my lavender bubble bath, and slow sex.

I got my twins back from their father for Shabbos and the second I saw them I knew there was something off with the state of their health. When I got home, I noticed that Gilkey had a runny nose, and Dobie sneezed. I immediately thought there was something in the air, but not – it was a telltale sign of the boys' first cold. On the 8^th they will be 1 year old, and have runny noses?

Tel Aviv is warm again, and I am wearing this around the house all day as I am tending to my baby with the runny nose.

I got on the phone right away, and asked two things, right guesses – he gave them a bath, and he did have windows open, but a lot later. The thing that ended my grace period for rabbis was that Micki hosted two rabbis who came over, and at the end of the day the closed windows built up warmth, and the fat (plump - confirmed) rabbis felt hot after walking up and down Bayit Vegan's hilly streets, and of course Micki as flattered, as always, as any man would, went out of his way to please them, and opened the windows. It was hours after the babies' bath, but enough to chill them. Gilkey was not breathing right, and my paranoia struck – I couldn't imagine him being in a hospital, while separate from Dobie. This is my maternal thing – there is no way I am separating them till they are about 3 or 4.

To add to the unhealthy drafty environment were his two trouble making sons that used to vandalize my wardrobe and bathroom. They never learned the concept of shutting a door behind them.

I got all my kids back, and used the idea from this ad.

At one year of age a baby is ready for peanut butter.

And Ants On A Log is delicious.

I said sternly and coldly, - Micki, you've done what my first husband had many years ago when he exiled me to my kitchen just to fussy hassidishe rabbis could say Birkas Hamozon – at the expense of my comfort, in my own home, and he was totally flattered that they ate at his table – of my cooking – but I was too pretty to be allowed to sit at my own table? If I am too pretty for him and his stuffy rabbis, then I will be pretty enough for someone else - for sure! – you know that Micki!

So this time you've done it – you know our rules for keeping kids healthy – and they were literally thrown out of the window – oys fun der fenster –and I don't want them to be around rabbis ever again. He wanted to inject something, say something serious, but I know better: if my words had any prophetic wish in them, then the boys might just grow up davka on the contrary, to be rabbis, of not, then nothing apocalyptic was aid at all. I said, that's it, it was very fair of me to give rabbis years of a grace period, and I have had enough. No more sacrificing my comfort or the health of my children for the huffy self-importance of a supposedly Toiro-smart guest, no matter how important he might be perceived in my children's future.

I said, I have waited years sorting out my sentiment, and now I don't have to listen to your or their defense. I said: Diamond Dog, the one you probably hate for raising your sons, for getting them to walk early, for pushing them out of the harm's way, for slamming drafty doors shut, has been so far – and I wanted to say better than you, but that would have pained him - more helpful for them than the rabbis. Micki tried to say that a runny nose is a common part of little babies, and then he grew silent. I was right.

I also have been wearing this around the house, and tomorrow I will run out for fresh milk. It's such a cool picture - I lllove it – because I am a rabbi's daughter! JFK and everyone thanks the Retro couple for this.

JFK reminded me with a sign about the birthday party – and I remembered our general idea. I said to Micki: I think the boys need the warm weather of Tel Aviv. How about you join me and the boys for their birthday party?

He started to say something, like "is HE going to be -?" but I guessed ahead of him, - if you can be buddies with my first ex-husband, then you'll do just fine with JFK. I did not plan on this positive ending, but I am basically a very positive girl, and it was also JFK's idea.

I hung up and cried, as my babies fell asleep, and Gilkey did not have a normal, restful night's sleep. It was the first time in my life I had sex while being very aware of worries around me and in me. I still had not my period, even though it means 4 months of uninterrupted sex. I think I need Ms. Retro, - I need a woman as naturally as I need my avocado sandwich. I am worried about Alex the Mozart, who is a totally chaotic musician, and I wondered if he had the sour cream and my bread rolls that JFK brought him. I am still worried, and even sex can't make me fall asleep, and that brings me to the thoughts of the girly Ms. Retro. I should really take a break from Alex.

And this is as close as I could get to a I llllove it stamp. I am waiting to get my Sweet Adorable Little Tramp temporary tattoo stamp - for JFK…and Alex…and maybe Chiddi. Because I am the SALT. I write the way I speak. When I can't sleep, I must have an orgasm.

A nice stewardess connection

2012-02-04T12:18:00.001-05:00

In this raunchy post about Tori's Crazy Russian Mozart, as someone pointed out to us, the chick on the back seat of the motorcycle is none other that Christina Ricci.

And it just happens that there is a connection. She is in the Pan Am TV retro series, playing a stewardess, and in this post you had such a nice pictorial of the stewardess training. And we see that they take after you wearing girdles.

"Younger siblings know how hard it is to live up to a gifted firstborn."
in Tori's case, reword it:

"Older siblings know how hard it is to live up to a brilliant baby sister"

Some more connections. Christina played Wednesday in the Addams Family movie, while I know that Tori's daughter, June, was born on a Wednesday.

BTW, it also happens that Tori has kissed one or two celebrities in her colorful, checkered past. I think I will start an interesting category, The Tori (Bacon) Degree of Separation. Let's see, at a Film Festival, Tori kissed David Duchovny. He was in Things We Lost in the Fire (2007) with Alison Lohman, who was in Where the Truth Lies (2005) with Kevin Bacon. Tori has a Bacon (pun intended) number of 2.
(using The Oracle of Bacon, so fun on my iPhone!)

So, me as well as the readers can't wait till Tori masters a guitar and the Crazy Russian Conductor learns to ride a motorcycle, huh?

From this article NYTimes (http://tv.nytimes.com/2011/09/23/arts/television/pan-am-takes-off-on-abc-review.html)

September 22, 2011

Television Review
Coffee, Tea or Nostalgia?

By ALESSANDRA STANLEY

Younger siblings know how hard it is to live up to a gifted firstborn.

Any series that sets itself in the early 1960s is going to have to slink around the reflection of “Mad Men.” This season there are two: “The Playboy Club” and, beginning on Sunday, “Pan Am,” an ABC drama about stewardesses back when jet travel was glamorous, and so was serving drinks at 30,000 feet.

As a premise “Pan Am” sounds foolhardy, a knockoff that can’t possibly live up to the original, like a network trying to copy “The Sopranos” with a series about a ring of car thieves in Indianapolis.

The difference is that “Pan Am” romanticizes the past, whereas “Mad Men,” on AMC, takes pleasure in slyly mocking antiquated mores. Secretaries at Don Draper’s ad agency marvel at an electric typewriter, a mom at a pastoral family picnic tosses the trash onto pristine park grounds, a child who plays with a dry-cleaning bag is scolded, not for the risk, but for mussing the clothes inside. “Mad Men” evokes nostalgia for a careless, less restrictive way of life, floating on a permissive wash of sex, booze and cigarettes, but it never stops sending up the naïveté and backward biases of those times.

“Pan Am” takes place in New York, Paris and London, and practically every scene is shot in lush, golden light. The series is a paean to a more prosperous and confident era; even an airline terminal looks like a movie dream sequence about 1960s heaven.

“Mad Men,” which returns for a fifth season next year, is unquestionably a far better show, but “Pan Am,” like “The Playboy Club,” which began on NBC this week, may be a more accurate reflection of our own insecurities. When the present isn’t very promising, and the future seems tapered and uncertain, the past acquires an enviable luster.

“Mad Men” is veined with injustices: the way women are overlooked, blacks are ignored and Jews despised. “Pan Am” takes a more forgiving look at the 1960s. Nancy Hult Ganis, a former Pan Am stewardess, is an executive producer and appears to have looked back at her youthful escapades with a softening lens: a little like Helen Gurley Brown, who shocked people at the height of the Anita Hill sexual-harassment controversy with her fond memories of office panty pranks.

Some blatant forms of sexism are gently tweaked on “Pan Am” but with more affection than regret. Female flight attendants have mandatory weigh-ins and a matron slaps one employee on the fanny to make sure she is wearing a girdle. But the young women who submit do so with a smile; petty airline rules are a small price to pay for the newfound freedom to travel and seek adventure. A pilot, observing the crew’s laughter and confidence, admiringly tells another that these young women form “a new breed.”

Viewers may not see anything particularly fresh about this show’s foursome of stewardesses, however. The “Pan Am” heroines represent the dawning of the women’s movement, and they are not fully formed characters so much as stick figures borrowed from a Rona Jaffe novel.

Christina Ricci plays Maggie, a closet beatnik who wears the Pan Am uniform to see the world but at home listens to jazz and studies Marx and Hegel. Colette (Karine Vanasse) is French and carefree, until she discovers that her latest lover is a married man. Kate (Kelli Garner) is smart and ambitious, and she dreads being overshadowed by her pretty younger sister, Laura (Margot Robbie). Laura, a runaway bride who follows her sister into the airline business, is so gorgeous that Life magazine puts her picture on its cover article about the Clipper Age. “With a face like that you’ll find a husband in a couple of months,” a fellow stewardess tells her. But Laura and the others are looking for adventure and romance, not marriage.

ABC is the home of “Grey’s Anatomy,” “Desperate Housewives” and “The Bachelor,” so the emphasis on “Pan Am” is not traffic control or air safety. The show does try to broaden the story with a few cold war subplots: a Pan Am flight crew is assigned to help retrieve survivors of the Bay of Pigs disaster in Castro’s Cuba; British counterintelligence agents use airline employees to spy and pass secrets. Mostly, though, the espionage feels like padding, a way to assure viewers that they are not just watching early prototypes of Carrie Bradshaw and her posse — “Sex and the Cockpit.”

If only for the costumes and ’60s music, “Pan Am” is amusing to see at least once, but if it has any instructive benefit at all, it’s as a mood indicator for these times, not those. There have been plenty of series set in earlier times — “That ’70s Show” was set in the Carter administration, “M*A*S*H” took place during the Korean War. But usually period shows pick through the past to meditate on the present, whether it’s examining generational rites of passage or critiquing the Vietnam War at a safe remove.

“Pan Am” doesn’t say much of anything about the current state of the nation except that our best days are behind us.

PAN AM, ABC, Sunday nights at 10, Eastern and Pacific times; 9, Central time.

Produced by Jack Orman Productions, Out of the Blue Entertainment and Shoe Money Productions in association with Sony Pictures Television. Created by Jack Orman; Mr. Orman, Thomas Schlamme and Nancy Hult Ganis, executive producers.

WITH: Christina Ricci (Maggie), Margot Robbie (Laura), Michael Mosley (Ted), Karine Vanasse (Colette), Mike Vogel (Dean) and Kelli Garner (Kate).

2012-02-03T06:29:00.001-05:00

I wake up every morning and feel the queasy panic in the depths of my tummy: how can I make it easier on JFK? the 8^th of the month is my twins first birthday, they are entitled to a normal family festivity, hopefully with their father and me and their half-sister, and she is rebelling, insisting to live with me, despite her father's rabbinically deduced rationalization that she is drawn to my decadently secular lifestyle - how can I do this all?

Audrey Hepburn, 1957

JFK's greatness is in his unassuming manliness, despite his war-injured back that deprives us of some physicality of sex, he doesn't have it in him to play the predictable man-girlfriend games, to brag to his buddies, to insist to sit at the head of the table, to hammer me to observe his bachelor's habits.

I love a two-handled cup.

My Fair Lady, Audrey

He is probably sick and tired of his protégé Alex, and of the music, and of our artistic decadence. JFK loves the Audrey aspect of me.

tea leaves, fragility and beauty

William Paxton

He is by all means a husband to me. By his own unconditional will. He probably suffers my nymphomania, and suffers in silence.

I have set up a cute warm nest in JFK's home. I manage to find time for everything, even take care of our chores, on a sly, even though the government sends him someone weekly to do his house chores. I do it with my raspberry-themed flagship appliances.

Still, I am incorrigible. Behind all these compartments of frozen snacks, there is my collection of semen from all men that have been to me. I hope I get my act straightened out by Pesa'h time, when I do the cleaning, and photograph the collection in a suitably artistic setting. But I see that I keep sliding back. I am the Fellatrix. I am the SALT.

I feel so indebted to JFK, so much that I have begun planning on breaking it off with Alex. I feel it within me, that J. is such a great guy that he deserves all of me, all of my time, and all of my thoughts and sexual energies. He is the reason that I believe in – that I should control myself no matter what – and just be with J. as I understand he is naturally entitled. I love him, and probably don't notice it.

JFK loves the imagism of me and the movie. I look at this, and think of Alex teaching me to play guitar, then mandolin. I am easily confused – whose ideal is more important? The ideal that symbolizes me to the man that loves me, or the ideal that symbolizes me to an artistic sex buddy I don't love. It is so easy to sort out, but for me it is a complicated machine with hundreds of knobs, dials, and orgasms.

The Piano Man Plays My Brother

2012-02-02T15:18:00.003-05:00

Nowhere to run to – Jerusalem and Tel Aviv are rainy and cold – and all our lives are in these cities, and I don't want to run away from JFK to Dead Sea or Eilat. Alex is my music, but not my existence.

Our creativity – or my carnal inspiration of his creativity and composing and conducting has been incredibly surreal and productive – except the sex has become a driving energy instead of the center of our relationship.

I had no clue – when we played En Bateau – I thought he was jealous of me having played that with Katya.

I found the post about DeBussy with Katya. Yes, subconsciously I had my brother in mind.

Amidst one of our music-free sex games that were so usual for me, that I tried hard not to appear jaded – I offered Alex to come up with new ideas, wishes for new sex, he was so inhibited. He is like that. He expresses himself through music only. He has overwhelmingly dived into the world of piano for four hands, where we are intertwined bodily and musically. Away from piano, or my guitar lessons, the passionate conductor-piano player becomes the most boringly shy geek.

I said, let's write down our sex ideas, sort of Wish Lists, and then exchange them! We did. I wrote down that I liked to be slapped, lightly, but with accusations, cursing, preferably in English, if not, in Russian. He could never do English though, and I definitely don't like Hebrew and French. The slurs are too wordy and trivial. I also wrote that I needed to be possessed with his hands which should be as passionate as when playing Liszt or Shostakovich. Deep in my sexual conscience I wished for Chidi and Freddie's African hands, - sexual spiders which seduced so irresistibly, and brought orgasms so shockingly.

When we exchanged our notes, I was shocked and turned on by the unexpected request. No wonder her escaped to the bathroom while I read. Alex wanted to be my brother Eijuszik in sex. He came out, and I said, I did not know my past stuck that deep into your mind.

He wanted to reenact our lunar masturbation. He wanted to make it mutual. He wanted to ejaculate in my cupped hand after we ate oranges. He rubbed orange peels on my hands, till the scent of his semen mixed with it, making a tauntingly fragrant reminder of my brother, of our innocent discovery of his first emission, of the reality.

I said, I forgot to put this on my wish list: My Long-Awaited Dream, the Threesome.

He asked me, with whom? I said, you probably have friends… guys, girls…and then I remembered - he does not! His only useful contact with the outside world is my JFK. "J.?" he asks, implying JFK. I said, I don't think so, and I thought Not – to the idea of me with JFK and Alex. Alex is just too wild of an introvert to be a positive, contributing participant in a trio.

And he also wanted to improvise a break, a sort of his imagined, nude Russian tango, and then we looked up the real one. I like her very much Fellatrix-style demure squirming at 0:09. Her man is a true leader, handling her very much the way a woman should be handled in bed.

This is your brother's tango, he said. I repeated: My Brother Tango...it sounds so dramatic, so lyrical, so poetic! I kissed Alex for it, and gave him a torture-free, deep, orgasmic fellatio.

I was thinking this, and he woke me with freshness. It was his first ever impatience at his own silent sexuality. He was humping me at the piano, and suddenly broke out in a passionately shy, halting questions – which worried me a little – because this is how MH started to become sexually insane and frustrated: "how many men have I had this year already?... when was the last guy, not counting J.?...when was the last time I swallowed? When was my last time with a girlfriend?" ect etc. That interrogation from behind definitely made me horny, and slow with answers, and his erection achingly hard for both of us. He started to comment on the torturous sweet pain of sex, and that made me smile too – because it is the right kind of sensation.

He wants us to have sex at the recital hall, on his favorite grand piano there. I pick up on his Russian. Cекс на рояле. I translated – a Royal Fuck!

He is carnally insane. I am used to this transition in sex. When sexual excitement hits a man's brain, and turns him into a wonderful sex maniac. He sits me up on his piano, and eats into me. I told him, - this is much better than with my brother! He bit me a little bit painfully, lapped me up like that was going to unite us in flesh. We meshed our fingers wet and sloppy with my wetness. You don't need to be my brother. Just be yourself, like now.

He had me gather my hair into The Ponytail again. He soaked it with his sperm, to claim the accomplishment of my innermost dreams. To add this dimension to the Victoria Symphony.

Which I started to hum at night as I cuddle up to JFK and let my nylons defend me from his hairiness, and get him hard again, so I can go to sleep after collapsing in a yummy orgasm from my Fellatrix's Squirming Ride. I sleep better at night.

中紅

In Nakabeni:

mwuah

xoxoxoxoxo

After A Duo With The Piano Man

2012-02-02T10:34:00.003-05:00

I and Alex are so alike - we a not cut throat, stab-in-the-back ambitious types – how is it possible to be so – and also be a great piano player, conductor, composer, or an artistic mother?

I have succeeded in making progress: while having sex we are able to discuss almost anything, when I can even approach him – why couldn't you wait, why did you have to masturbate?

Rachmaninoff's Vocalise – it was for me to learn my half - so naturally played by Alex such a Real Russian Piano Man, a source of sensations made of our very vocalized ecstasies.

This is the same question I asked Sammie years ago - but Alex has me around during his waking hours, - and maybe that's the explanation: he wakes up early afternoon, has an hours or so till I come back from Jerusalem, or home, has some time to rehearse, have his cereal, shower, shave, practice conducting, and maybe among those activities he starts missing me – his domineering artistic inspiration needed to move forward and start composing things he must submit, and his new project name after me, the Victoria Symphony. That is probably is plenty of intermissions for him to really miss me, and try to virtualize me by masturbating.

Highly Strung, Je Te Mangerais, a story of love, lesbian, and piano, it's Room In Rome of classical music: I told Alex – you should be forever jealous of me and Katya, for our love was so positive compared to the one between these girls, and we played four hands, and nude, very much like you and me, and though we did not have a penis to enjoy, we never felt like we needed one, we did not make mistakes, the music flowed, so did we, we had cinnamon flavored tea, and our pussies were the dessert, Prokofiev was our ambiance, and the freezing snowy cold was the symbol of the virginity no man could take away.

It came out so spontaneously that he did get jealous and inflamed, and went into his maestro contortions, and raised his hand, - maybe to conduct the brass, but I saw in it a poise to slap, and looked at him dramatically, warning, he became transfixed at my vulnerable and proud nudity, and made the right choice, and then we triggered yet another erotically musical ecstasy.

When I come over, his penis is already red and rubbed well – and I am disappointed. More so at his reticence, his inhibitions – he reminds me of what Yoni and Jason are not, but definitely something that they have conquered – the shyness before the real thing staring in their face, the Fellatrix, shaved just for their pleasure, better than their imagination, draining their semen till there is nothing left - after the least sex, when only a meager drop seeps out from a mind-fogging orgasm. They had admitted to no need to masturbate.

I hate when a lover does that – I hate it due to the waste of male energies and dry orgasms left for me – when semen is rightfully, even Biblically, belongs on or in me.

While I Play With The Piano Man, My Exes

2012-02-01T14:47:00.021-05:00

I didn't have to worry about getting my children back. They rioted on their fathers, and are being returned to me. Of course – my artistically insane life, our Diamond Dog, and the accommodating JFK create a heaven, a sort of a fairy land. The Dog has been centrally instrumental in getting my twins to start walking early. He is a perfect buddy for my daughter. He is a great reason for JFK to go on early morning walks when he would see his upcoming day clearly, and come back recharged with optimism and upright posture, so necessary for his spinal condition.

I thought, maybe I will be nice and let them…the Diamond Dog is so much the center of their complaints…and the children's activities.

I snake my hands all over Alex's body, and into the piano, creatively interfering with the strings. The way she does. This illustrates how we play music, except we are totally nude.

It is so convenient when they take the kids, and can’t manage, and then come crying and begging to take them back, and then insinuating that it's all my fault. They each had a nightmare of having to manage. Even the ritzy resources of my second husband did not help – besides our 1 year old twins he has rebellious pre-teens, and a baby girl who really misses my daughter. June, as Jojo forced me to reveal her secular name, meanwhile is at her father's, who has no idea how to deal with her, since he is a full-time serious learning kollel man, who follows male logic of the maximum observance that his favorite Brisker-Hassidishe-distorted Litvishe reason mandates him.

His dogma of teaching a girl the skills necessary to be a wife who would work a menial job (cooking, sewing, book keeping) and support her future husband – that dogma is powerless when it comes to take care of his daughter, who is used to her mother's world of beautiful things, wonderful music, the fun home of my JFK, lots of fun activities, and horseplay with a fun but cabbalistically impure animal My Diamond Dog.

The Dog also is an extremely sensitive guardian. He must have picked up on my instructions to the children, and figured out the kind of people to keep away, and the kind to tolerate. He is probably very much in tune to my body language, and sees that in his peripheral vision. He learns from the situation, and also tries to be nice to people I feel sorry for – the wonderfully creative and crazy Alex is basically pathetic bachelor, and My Diamond Dog tries to give him a lick and a paw whenever I come over or leave. The Dog also sends a clear message that I cannot be slapped or touched in an angry way.

I do like light slaps, like on my butt or face, in a loving, frustrated, passionate way, but definitely not out of anger or jealousy.

Just so you know, I told him.

~~~~~
Judy emails me that my twin-like siren and dream on the motorcycle is Christina Ricci wearing Jill Sander dress and Vivier shoes. Thank you. I will wear that for you next time we meet.
~~~~~

The devotion is one's hands, he said, and nibbled me to orgasms in gratitude for my hands passionately caressing him into me during our sex, when he was listening to his composers, I was humping to meet his moves, and thinking of decadent sex, and of my Brother E. It's obvious from his careful inhibited questions that Alex wants to be my Brother Eijuszik, to come back into my sexual life.

Judy's Camera: Birds, Ridicule, Lips.

2012-02-01T06:50:00.000-05:00

She loves little baggies and purses, like this one. In French we call it (in my Little Lady upbringing) ridicule, meaning a sack of netting. That is why hilariously little things are called ridiculous.

This post is a result of an email request.

Judy loves me, I love her, and we both love good head.

We went shopping, of course.

Attracted by my raspberry-pink color, we bought some of things from here.

This is how I look, out of frum wife's mourning-colored garb. I have been letting my hair free, definitely unconstrained by My Favorite Ponytail, The Banner Of My Sexual Supremacy. My 5'8", 120 lbs, breastfeeding MILF figure compared to Judy's Sfardi outline.

The jewelry we both love is swans.

This one is no ordinary swan – it's made of my favorite material – a fanciful invention of jewelers – ground up mother of pearl mixed with faience and baked, then studded with real feathers and little diamonds!

I always manage to leave my lip prints are all over the country.

To make me visit NYC and New Jersey, Judy also sent fresh pics of yummy things in Manhattan.

Judy found a New York version of our favorite Jerusalem Central Bus Station's CafeCafe.

The same idea, and very likely the same company.

Onions and hot dogs really draw me back to USA.

Back to Tel Aviv, before the rains came.

These photos remind her of a classic thriller that I haven't seen, but it's about ravens, the theme I love to weave into my fetishes, like one of the last posts I wrote after Alex The Crazy Piano Man licked my feet, giving me footsie orgasms.

We did not have anyone to snap pictures of us. These are assorted photos from a playground she wanted to visit on this trip.

I am in a heterosexual frame of mind - definitely – the well-worn out Alex can attest to that while he, naked, is busy composing the Victoria Symphony – but I do miss Judy.

The Piano Man Did My Hair and Dived Into My Song

2012-02-01T05:30:00.021-05:00

I asked him if he agreed to live in MY song then? I figured, if it was an unintentional brainwashing, it wouldn't do much damage considering his immensely unbridled psychology. I had him listen to the song, assuming he would appreciate the uninhibited piano, someone said it was like French with a little Franz Liszt thrown in there.

He twitched his nose at it, basically snubbed it, and thought it was not classic enough. I said, but it is about me. He wanted to blow up, but remembered well that he could but that would be the end of our relationship.

He kissed my hand, imploring me to keep modern rock and pop music away from his ears, and to let him create new music for me to live in. As he licked between my fingers, I realized – I think Sammie was the last man to kiss my hand. Sammie, who is reading this and commenting on these posts here and there. He is reading this and knows that I am OK.

"And when the clothes are strewn, don't be afraid of the room -

Touch the fullness of her breast. Feel the love of her caress -

She will be your living end."

I just happened to mention that I will be getting my hair done soon. He became the temperamental lover again: "why would you entrust your precious hair into the hands of a scheming envious woman?... I haven't told you about taking care of my sister's hair…my mother…I wanted to be a hair dresser!"

He was back on the floor again, hugging my knees, assuring me that he has understood the science of my hair. he understands why it needs to be cut at an angle. The art of hair is very much like conducting music. I needed to see proof. He did not have any portfolio. I said, I am calling you sister, your mom. I did, and surprisingly, the women confirmed that Alex is good with hair, and he certainly knows how to trim it. I am sure the way his sister sounded, it was because she was almost scared to hear that Alex had a giggling woman over, in an intimate situation, and contemplating him doing her hair.

I love experimenting, and decided to try – if he messes up, I'd wear my frum wig for a while.

Alex cut my hair, and claimed my spirituality. He is very good. When I said that to his face, he breathed in, loudly and dramatically, and grew quiet, pensive, sat down at the piano and played a concoction of chords that he started alternating, till it became a meaningful harmony.

I came up to him, and apologized – I am sorry for putting you through a wringer. He said, "you've thought of me very lowly", basically, because I asked him to repeat that in Hebrew. I think being with Alex improves my Russian immensely.

I hugged him from behind, and asked him to put the gym pants that he wore while doing my hair in the hopper. I saw no erection. I was horny. I asked him to go down on his knees – not being bossy – but anxious to get an orgasm. My orgasms are exceptionally electric from such sentimental moments.

And so it was in the hallway – it was chilly, not by his shoddy electric space heater – he kneeled before me "no, no, it is me who must be sorry" and he said so many worshipful things, and somehow being on his knees soothed him and calmed him down, even making him subservient. He kissed up and down my legs, and my nude loins that were still together in my vivaciously upright Fellatrix posture that made him think that I was about to leave. I needed to take a shower. He begged me not to go, then he stood up, and cupped his crotch, now I knew, because he did not have the erection for me, he was worn out, I drained him, his circumcised penis was red, raw and sensitive, and his younger age did not help him - but it was more than that - I knew from my time with Sammie, and the Baseball Professor, that even a younger man will be sexually intimidated by the supremacy of the woman who he would never have, who belonged to someone else, who went back to her man every for the night.

I leaned back on the wall and he knew what to do – spread me a little, and served me so wonderfully and orally, and as I orgasmed he knew better to kiss my chest, as I shook from the chill and the ecstasy, and he promised me like some lovers had, but more honest, more realistically: he will write the symphony about me, he has started impressionistic sketches, they are in his Mozart brain, he changed his mind – he loves the piano passages from the Lady Grinning Soul, he will incorporate artistic allusions to it in the Victoria Symphony, it will be a theme of one of the movements.

It was a very original and sweet thing to hear, to compliment my orgasmic aftershocks. He asked me what I wanted to do now? Coffee to go? Toast? I asked for one simple thing: I wanted to taste myself on his face.

More of SALT Imagism

2012-01-31T06:43:00.004-05:00

The Retro Couple called me so refreshingly as I was in the midst of enjoying The Piano Man's artistic insanity – "Tori, did you forget us so quickly?... you waltzed around nude and then you're embarrassed?" – Ms. Retro's meowing, sexy Hebrew relaxed me, and made me apologize for forgetting them.

"We have a right to your free soul, … or something that they say in dramatic movies" … "we have props and ideas… for your portfolio"

They loved my posts on Pantie Cuteness, featuring my panties and religious books. They called me, called out for pizza, bought some wine, and put on easy listening music. They intercepted me before JFK could meet me with hugs, and straight into their studio-like apartment studio.

My life is slowly becoming photographic. This is the feet of SALT, grabbed by my twins who have just started to walk, who will soon have their first birthday, the feet caressed by Judy, and licked for Mozart-like inspiration by the Crazy Piano Man.

"Put On Your Red Shoes And Dance The Blues" this is how My Retro Couple interprets the David Bowie's song.
This is the proper revenge on Dühring! - "If I stay more than a year in any marriage, I would need a van to drive my kids to a Talmud Toiro." They crack up.

They had a laugh reading about my date with a Hasidishe guy – "a man should court his wife like a rooster courts a hen" - many frum guys swallow this hook line and sinker.

I love lunches with My Seamstress.

And they picked up on my vignette on slobbering, spit-sloppy foot worship in a car, next to Rabin's Memorial.

Another Report on the Piano Man

2012-01-31T05:57:00.019-05:00

Alex is insane. He screamed at me, out of all the jealousies, and for going back to JFK his selfless benefactor, and then he swung at me, his hands prepared to slap me, and I found myself in a corner again, years after MH slapped me around, - this time I told him, " you can rape me, hug me - but please don't hit me" He roared at me, Why? I told him frenetically about MH going crazy the same way, and soon letting his health go, and eventually dying, and leaving me some endowment. I don't want the same happen to you, inherit your cultural property, and then having to be sued by your family. I couldn't help being humorous, but it made him more desperate, and broke him down. He collapsed and broke out in tears. Like, clawing at the floor, and raising his hands to heaven, but not in appeal, just out of an impulse, - now I know him - to have function follow form.

I went to him, also crying, confused, not knowing who to feel sorry for – him, JFK, my children, myself, - I comforted him, initially carefully, but then confidently, because he pushed me away, and then he stared away, "are you embarrassed?" He said he was a nothing, not knowing what how to do the right thing with me, not having a cent to his name, and whatever he has is inside his head, in his soul, and he still doesn't know whether it must be in the form of conducting or composing or performing. He is overly dependent on me now.

In a way he is a more interesting than a religious Jew, in refusing to listen to mundane music and watch TV – "the garbage destroys my inspiration"

He does get inspired immensely, in spurts of that extremely talented activity, literally spurts of pure, beautiful stream of harmony followed by our orgasms. He plays, or conducts an invisible orchestra played on his CD system – Vienna, or Berlin, or Israeli performing somebody Russian, and then he starts arguing with himself, and growing self-conscious of me, and then repeatedly has me swear that I will not laugh, and that breaks the his artistic cycle. He claims he needs to look at me, rather than sex with me, to regain his creative composure. The erratic lurching between conducting, playing, composing and listening is painful to watch, though translates into most kinky sex for me.

I was leaving him, and he – desperate, and torn – blurted out – I am writing a symphony for you. The Victoria Symphony. Or Suite. I said, "I hope you are being a real Mozart about it, keep all of the ideas and tunes in your head."

He did not want to let me go. He kissed my feet, sucked my toes, kneeled in front of me, kissing my shaved pubic sacredness that was all his minutes ago.

I realized that our sex quickly burns him out, and hating myself for being so calculating, used a pause in his fits of musicality, showered and escaped into the refreshing windy street, to meet JFK somewhere new, in an unpredictable way. JFK asked me for a report on Alex. Undeniably, Alex made progress. He conducts an entire symphony to completion. He plays it. And he wants to compose one, - to me. The report made me feel deliciously horny, and slutty, and I just want more sex, now truly peaceful, slow, long, to non-talented music, like some New Age, dreamy on-hold music.

To Sum Up The Wildness:

2012-01-29T09:28:00.000-05:00

Why was this shabbos so much better than with religious people? It was our Shabbos at my parents, who braced their patience and tolerated JFK and My Diamond Dog, just so they could face the human drama when Micki would come to hand over the twins – who did not let him rest – they need the warmth and milk of my boobies to fall asleep, and industrial milk just would not do – we were tired of the hectic drive through rainy highway, of the hectic cooking, and turned in early. We woke up too early, about 5 am, when everyone was asleep, except the faithful Dog, and we talked, and had quiet sex, and I had to comfort JFK in his emotional torture, my heavy duty emotional affair. This is what SALT feels like, I whispered to him endearingly, while resting on him.

I realized that I missed Wednesday, missed calling My Seamstress for a carefree lunch, and missed seeing JFK. But I never miss our dinner time and making him his favorite salads.

It took time to learn his definition of medium rare.

It's been the wildest week. If my ex-husbands think they have taken my kids and I am wallowing in grief at home, they are deeply and naively mistaken. I do have to cook the basics which we can take to Jerusalem for our Shabbos, so I can be ready to reclaim my kiddies. It's my twins' birthday soon, I don't know how to organize it, how to make it possible and positive with their father, and with my daughter, who wants to organize the party, and her father is also making conditions. I am scared of such a psychologically and socially mathematical problem. The anxiety makes me so queasy.

Slow-frozen figs on my version of the mendiant au chocolat blanc cake – only for JFK.

The Piano Man took away my phone when he saw me Tweeting. He is artistically insane, and no threat to me, other people or himself. He is not so good at sex, he is not in top male form, but due to his extreme Mozart-like talent, he is exceptionally sensual and spiritual, and that makes for beautifully inspiring sex. Alex does I uniquely freed from his Jewish obligation to be religious – as long as he is expressing himself artistically, and composing or conducting, he is a mensh, in charge of his senses and facilities, and that makes me want to drink that energy.

He rang our doorbell, we had some company over the road - JFK was talking shop, and I was in the kitchen packing them cookies for the road. So Alex rang, JFK was closest to the door, opened it, I heard Alex's boldly bossy demand "where is she?", I guessed right, and he went into the kitchen, in JFK's full view, and grabbed me into a possessive embrace, and kissed me instead of saying hi.

JFK loves baby lettuce in his salad.

I was being kissed and all the while looking at JFK, and transfixed on JFK's gaze. JFK knew that my physical relationship with Alex was real, and very intensely emotional. He told me that it was a heart pounding, hammer-like realization, and he wanted to cry, but he is a war hero. He knew that my spiritual-emotional self now belonged to his protégé. We both knew that he had no choice but letting that happen, and console himself because I would go back to him, full of gratitude and devotion. I tell him the truth – I don't love Alex, he is not satisfying me, I can’t see myself with him, but I need to feed on his energies.

I come home, horny as ever, and yet see pain in his eyes.

Swiss peppered steak with plenty of onions, just the way he likes.

I am cooking for him out of being grateful for his greatness, not as a payment for keeping me. I opened myself before him, honestly and completely, and there was nothing that came to him as a surprise, except the real sensations of feeling me gone during the time he would expect me to be there, of feeling me strangely hungry and breathing hard, and much more intense than our video screening quickie during our union.

Then he made a demand, and rightfully so, and I promised him honestly, and I said that I will always be his, and coming back to him. It did not come out as I have thought other women would say, especially during sex "I will always be yours…I am yours forever…" or "I love you" but it feels like "I love you" will come out real soon.

Are the Best Artists All Crazy?

2012-01-28T06:54:00.028-05:00

I am wowed again. I can't say anything. Can't contribute either. I have never been there, never done that. That's why I am staying away from men. Especially the insane artist types. Check his medicine cabinet. Is he battling various forms of mental illnesses?

read this article from wisegeek (http://www.wisegeek.com/are-the-best-artists-all-crazy.htm).

Some artists, whether painters, writers or musicians, suffer from being labeled crazy artists. There is compelling evidence that some of the best artists do deserve the title, except the term "crazy" is generally more politely replaced with "mentally ill." There are numerous examples of “crazy artists” however, which do point to a large share of artists suffering from some form of mental illness.

Mental illness in "crazy artists" may create a number of factors that contribute to their artistic tendencies. The first of these is the polarizing effect on the artist. The artist who sees him or herself as "outside" of the general public because of a mental illness is likely to have a take on humanity quite different from the "inside" man or woman. In fact, being outside allows one to observe society as one might observe a society of birds for example. Core truths of the society can be exposed and thus resonate with, or irritate the public.

Additionally "crazy artists" have access, probably that they don’t want, to the excessive emotional content of their lives. This is very true of those with bipolar disorder or depression. Some cannot filter out the deep and foreboding emotions, causing great mental disturbance. Exposure to consistent emotional content can as well touch others listening to, observing or reading the art.

A few writers who could be termed "crazy artists" include Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, Leo Tolstoy, John Keats, Sylvia Plath, and Tennessee Williams. Many of these "crazy artists" fought tremendous battles with depression. Some like Plath committed suicide. Others who are potential candidates as "crazy artists" include the alcoholics and drug addicts, since it is now shown that many who have drug dependence are medicating to mask a mental disorder. These include writers like Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Wilkie Collins and Edgar Allan Poe.

Several visual artists have been surmised to have depression. This is certainly the case with Vincent Van Gogh, the poster child of "crazy artists." However, Michelangelo may also have been suffering from deep depression. Paul Gauguin can certainly be said to have been one of the "crazy artists" suffering a mid-life crisis, battling alcoholism and relocating to Tahiti to paint during the last few years of his life.

Great filmmakers have also been considered crazy artists, battling various forms of mental illnesses. Their ranks include Francis Ford Coppola and Rod Steiger. Further, actors and actresses have recently "come out" in proclaiming their status as "crazy artists." Patty Duke has been particularly effective in her advocacy for those with depression and bipolar disorder. Actresses like Vivien Leigh and Marilyn Monroe battled mental illness as well.
Music would not be the same without its contributing crazy artists. These names include: Mozart, Schubert, Rossini, Tchaikovsky, and Beethoven. Modern musicians like James Taylor have been relatively public about battling mental illness and drug addiction.

Perhaps the most illuminating work on the subject is the book The Dynamics of Creation by Anthony Storr. He refutes the idea that art springs from insanity but is instead a force of consolation to the artist. Another interesting take on the subject of "crazy artists" is the book The Key to Genius: Manic Depression and the Creative Life written by D. Jablow Hershman and Julian Lieb. This work analyzes how the manic depressive artist may achieve more recognition because in his/her manic states, production level increases dramatically.

Some worry, however, that insanity is a prerequisite of great art. This is clearly not the case, and there are many fabulous artists who were quite sane. Further, insanity does not translate to great art. However, interesting analyses have been made of art produced by people who are institutionalized.

The Piano Man is Jealous

2012-01-27T07:09:00.003-05:00

The Many Jealousies of the Piano Man.

Marissa With A Mandolin, All For The Musical Monk.

He is jealous of any random Russian who happens to look at me - "Do you want to sleep with him too?... I got to have all of your memories ... because I need to write music ... I have deadlines"

He is jealous of Katya. He is jealous of anyone who has been inside my body, anyone whose fingers I licked, and anyone who has licked me till we were inseparable and went to the bathroom together.

He is jealous of the Terminator, because he is also Russian, and he raped me so esthetically, and perfectly, and musically, and I loved it so much that I have a real long post on the blog. "Are you going to write a long post about me? Don't do it, I ask you." – I said, don't worry, I won’t write a long post. Because you are the hyperimagistic extension of JFK in me.

He is jealous of Freddie and Chidi. Because I told him about them in every erotic detail. He is jealous. Because they are black and huge and gentle and not musicians. (Freddie is a singer, though! – I told him, appealingly). He is jealous and mad that Chidi was inside of my pussy, my mouth just a week ago.

He is jealous of Yuri and his dominating me so basically, so orally, even if it ended so lame.

He is jealous of my brother Ejuszik: because we came close to the most extreme fusion of love and flesh – "why didn’t you have full sex? - I need all of your sensations. - I have to live in the music -next month I have to conduct Stravinsky !"

Judy, you're blushing, I know, and I admire that – because I envy your easygoing bravery, while you say that it is all because you admire ME for being so liberatedly libertine – which one of us has more of that bubbling joie de vivre? – you – that's why I am looking forward to your visits – that's how happy and silly and almost puppy-love-wacky we got in bed after this cow.

He is jealous of Judy, of her recent visit, of her yellows, of her having tasted my fleshy inner labia on those airy warm afternoons, when gauzy curtains are wafting in the breeze, and the air of the street is full of bird's chirping, and of our feminine whimpers. "I am free too! I want to relive your life!"

He is jealous of the Bee theme, because it belongs to my girlfriend B – Breindl of kind heart and bountiful breasts, and of great sense in interior esthetics.

He is jealous of me being the SALT. He is jealous of my ballerina-like dance, the same dance that led me into the naked orgasms between the yummy legs of the girly Mrs. Retro.

He is jealous of the categories on this blog. All these years are like knives in his heart, reminding him that I have been everywhere, and he has been wallowing in an artistic standstill.

He is jealous of anything "yummy."

He is jealous of Sammie who created the SALT in me, and all of mys sexualities. He is jealous of Sammie, and knows that unlike Sammie, he knows not how to create yet another personality in me, for himself. Not even for JFK.

He is jealous of my ex-husbands, and of my womb having given borne children, and of me being so musically fresh and virginal, and yet, at the same age, he feels so virginal before me.

He is jealous of JFK, because I come home, and I sleep, and I have sex with him, and JFK is his pro-bono producer, beneficent friend and a protector.

He is jealous of me having been Marissa, and having had sex all these years – having slutted around with everyone else but him.

He is jealous, and wants me to refashion my form – "history follows form" - he wants me to dress like Marissa. He started teaching me guitar, till I play it lyrically, and then he would have get me a mandolin.

He wants me to dress like Marissa. We will play piano, guitar, violin, and he will conduct! It's not love - for I love JFK - it's just that Alex - unbeknownst to himself - is growing into a sexual-esthetic part of my imagism!

He is jealous of my past immersed in the religious world, because it made me more artistic than he is. It drives him crazy and desperate. He feels that he has to be an extreme artistic hermit just to catch up with me.

He is jealous, period, - and he jams his palms into the piano keys, creating streams of scary, jealous harmonious chords.

I said, I love your gushing spirituality in art, but I love JFK. That's why I KNOW I will go back to him each night. I will not sleep with you at night. I need to sleep peacefully, because night is peace for me, and for you the time of unbridled creativity. In the dead of night I can’t have sex with a man nor play music.

Marissa

Inside The Piano Man

2012-01-27T04:22:00.034-05:00

Out first sex was nearly silent. We guessed well each other's likes and dislikes. There was no need for courting and discussing anything else. Our inner worlds are the same, populated with the same shapes, chimes, images, tones, hues, colors, harmonies, pizzicatos, multidimensional ballet, and orgasmic arias. We needed no special requests in pleasing each other. As long as each of us tried to enrich our world with yet another sensation, that effort was perfect.

Most of conductors in Israel are rather young. Because of the fierce competition, blind pursuit of reform and change, and total lack of artistic censorship – as long as the political rules of the Ministry of Culture's ruling elite are obeyed.

But Alex is younger, wilder, more multifaceted and superhumanly creative than these, and now he has me, his secretinspirational weapon.

Alex is definitely the rarest man, with all of his musicality, composition, and most of all, physique, - an orchestra conductor's wildness – and I relearn the truth: girls are much better for me, because their inner world is - unlike a man's childish drama, - at peace, non-volcanic, and yummy like an auto-erotic mirror image of me.

An Incident with a Woman

Mikreh Isha

מקרה אישה

by Jacques Katmor

What happens when an impressionable woman like me hangs around a man of arts J

He loves my orgasms and wants to steal them from my past, from Katya, from Judy, from Esterica, and from Einat. He is greedy, and is jealous of my girlfriends. He says that he is tragically late for the threesome, where he would worship my feet as he made Katya eat into me. He is jealous of Katya. He hates her, and the Terminator, for being my first Russians. He wants to lick every spot that the Terminator licked. He loves my toes. The Raven Vignette by Vladimir Adaderov above is the image we proudly reenacted. He loves my blog's raven theme. He wants to recover my orgasms with other people in order to write symphony. And then conduct it. This is such an unexpected, right kind of January insanity.

Let's see, previously we tried to visit Alex, it was - a week ago sunday - JFK is his supporter, sometimes giving him free airtime exposure, even doing shopping, when Alex is totally lost in the land of creating and conducting, cooped up in the cozy apartment overlooking an empty lot and an arrogantly putrid-yellow street light.

JFK said, he knew right away that there would be something physical, at least something intensely fascinating, just like in the movies about obsession. JFK is so secure, and says that he knows for sure I am coming back to him no matter what. This what makes me come back to him - this is why I came back to him after all these years, and live with him, and he loves it – me, the kids, and the dog, and amidst all that esthetic, Eurosleek pristine order, he loves the wonderfully chaotic impressionistic ambiance that I cause.

Alex is a crazed musical entity. If he was not the super talented, I would never let him touch me (flashbacks of MH.) He yells and screams and explodes, so much against Mesilas Yesharim, Ramban's Letter, mussar, and seminar teachings. But what does he know – the very religious teachings would have suffocated his talents, and probably have him rock catatonically in the ignominy of a grimy Bais Midrash.

He believes that I should do penance for having given myself artistically and physically to other people in my life. He said he wants to teach me guitar and mandolin. But I already know piano. He said that I need to express myself with a source of emotions in my embrace.

I said I want a man to ride a motorcycle; this is the way for me to embrace the technology and male energy. Like in this picture, - I don't know who she is, I am sure she is a famous model, - I like the paisleys so much I had to have sex – and we did, so readily, so obviously – this is how sex is with Freddie and Chidi – if only Alex was black!

I want a man on a motorbike – I think JFK is up to it – are you? – I want to hug you like that, to be taken to an empty lot to be fucked, and then when I want more, to be taken home, for some more, still wearing my dress.

Of course this vignette enraged him and made me orgasm.

The Piano Man Has Arrived

2012-01-27T02:51:00.036-05:00

He loves my taste in women and art.

After two days of being nude, babysat and seduced I was invaded - he -

- like a crazed daylight robber, like a brazen, azus punim rodeif - Alex broke into my life.

It has been cold in Jerusalem and I jumped on the opportunity to take the past 2 days that I had off from work - and I was rewarded - I reveled in nude prancings around The Retro Couple's home, creating images for them, posing artistically, as I cooked, made coffee, modeled their creations for bedroom décor, and even as I sat on their creamy-beige porcelain to tinkle – I did make out with Ms. Retro, HOWEVER, being in a decidedly heterosexual mode, our petting did not go any farther. Her husband was his usual farklempt – secretly and shyly waiting for us to go all the way – they wanted to see how I wipe myself – maybe get some ideas for my upcoming Lesbian Tantra video – their artistic voyeurism made me horny, and I masturbated for me – and for them - and climaxed right there in the bathroom, and licked my fingers. She was obviously turned on, bent down to kiss me, like Sammie used to – and I wanted to give them some privacy. I assumed they would enjoy a marital quickie, the way they glanced at me coyly, … - but it was more obvious that our girlie sex was long overdue. I coaxed her onto the bathroom sink, her husband had the front seat, she was all soft and pliable, I imagined us in bed, he massaging us, during sex, and whispering these thoughts and yearnings into her ticklish ear, we gave each other unexpected orgasms.

They loved it: "Tori, please, DON'T wash your hands!"

They asked me, what is Hot Chanie? Hebrew speakers are not used to the CH transliterations. We checked, and all learned from DRosenbach, a Wikipedia pro, that in this cold weather, with my well-conditioned hair looking like sheitel, I do look like Hot Chanie, unintentionally. I prefer being nude, like now. Kiss.

Alex – is a midday robber, he robs with music, with humming, with playing air guitar, with maestro passionate, unpredictable moves and gestures.

Alex has been in everything – conducting orchestras, playing concert piano, playing backup music for pop stars. For Arkadi Duchin.

I haven't ignored JFK. I did not have to sneak and pretend like nothing was happening, but I made sure that JFK was having his dinner at the usual time and have his favorite delicacies.

JFK loves well-cooked garlic, when it tastes sweet. I cut the entire cluster before roasting or cooking, I am also curious – I want to see what's going on inside - and it comes out looking and tasting exquisite.

The persimmons' season is about to end. We have had it in anything and everything, like this melon fantasy instead of those high-sugar content preserves and chilly ice creams.

I was confident that my kids were coming back to me. I was confident that I was about to get my period any time, and I felt physiologically undeniably craving for some raw sex with a panting Neanderthal. I exercised self-control. I think she would go along if I went directly for her husband; I'd have to be the active seducer, to break his cute devoted artistic husband's inhibitions. But I chose to respect their relationship that was obviously not ready for My Long-Awaited Trio.

I know Alex now – and I know why the prettiest girls marry the most scraggly-looking, non-GQ material. Because Alex is not handsome, he is not a handsome hunk, but he is such a genuine creative talent, and he easily selflessly bares it all – and it's more erotic than looks. His little apartment is tidy enough for a bohemian-looking bachelor. Everything there – almost everything, which my JGFK bought, and gave him - has been dedicated to art, music, his composing, and conducting, - and now to me.

JFK picked me up as if he was picking up his little girl from the babysitter's. My lust was unending, and was making me gastronomically hungry as well. He took me to a nice quiet restaurant. I groaned, even during the habitual Birkas Hamozon! We went home. I hopped on him. I gave him orgasms, but I had more. He was overwhelmed. He offered a wonderfully spontaneous trip. The Piano Man, who gave us such artistically rude non-reception some weeks ago, has been asking for JFK to visit. Maybe tonight?

We freshened up. We called ahead. He did not mind our dog. Music and art makes him climax. He is like me. He is Alex.

The Tao of Cooking, Nylons, and Female Form

2012-01-24T01:59:00.072-05:00

I GOT UP at 5:20 this morning. I woke up feeling little concerned and puzzled at the lack of my typical upbeat bright eyed and bushytailed shaharis mood. Because – because…My exes want my kids... and My Diamond Dog won’t let them come close ... Micki can't nurse and the kids don't like plain milk…and I have a real shvoong interracial cravings, like for Freddie, or Chidi ... and I have still NOT GOTTEN MY PERIOD!

But the Tao of Pooh rescued me and my morning mood: what is morning? It is the time when nice girls start preparing for an afternoon of surprises with their retro Couples. To cuddle with the wife. To take showers together. To do all sorts of fuzzy-wuzzy things while reciting poetry, watching their artistic crafts and props, and parade humorously nude in front of Mr. Retro.

Thanks to their Imagism Of All That Is Me on the blackboard, I followed my own tao, I showered, had my homemade breakfast rolls with JFK, my coffee of course, saw JFK off to face a busy day, and called The Retro Couple, and said "I am here!"

They said, "what – you're off today? Come over!"

I have been a very diligent-wife-like girlfriend for JFK – in the face of all those custody arguments with my exes, in the midst of my interracial cravings, and artistic nude art forming for the Retro Couple, I make sure JFK nd I get quality time to have intimate meals in a quiet, peaceful and esthetic setting.

I bake my own watery-dough pita too! JFK loves a soft pita. I find time for everything. I can't afford to be humble. Because I am SALT.

Beyond any fear of being conceited I boldly brag about being frugal and not spoiled – from my rabbi's daughter background, and a former yingele rebbetzin years – if there is anything extra left of my cooking I promptly freeze it. The blog is full of shots like these. Coming up – a nosy-wife's view of the collection of my boyfriends' sperm that I keep behind the leftovers. Note the girly-raspberry-colored objects J.

Ms. Retro wants to join me for my traditional lunch with My Seamstress on Wednesdays. She is interested in a custom dress. Here' plenty of ideas.

The theme for today is their name – Retro! – which is also a part of someone's interior decorating project they have been working on since yesterday, when they wanted to contribute to the theme on my blog. Ms. Retro is into cute shorts and minis – her legs definitely deserve that attention, and I captured them rather well in their yummy glory in the post dedicated to the couple – but the grass is greener on the other side, and she often admires my form, nude, like now, or in my modern version of refreshingly retro French look.

Pepe Jimenez again – yesterday Ms. Retro has just seen and felt for herself the benefits of wearing heels – the posture is flattering, feminizing, girlifying.

I say – these are veritably the very adorable hands that Katya Jojo and I have been trying to capture – these hands deserve to cradle innocent babies, rummage through drawers of lingerie, shave themselves for their men, hold their lover's captive in oral sex to capture the fleetingly elusive orgasm, play with the lover's semen, and search for a girlfriend's G-spot.

These future Stewardesses have no inkling that years later women their age would forget all of these accoutrements, learn to twist and break dance like a gangsta bitch, get tattoos all over their bodies, have extra weight, wear torn clothing, and walk like a man – except there one chick, SALT is her name, who is just too cuddly to be a stewardess, and besides, she spent her twenties having kids and going through men and women like it was that catastrophically erotic end of the world.

So, long time ago, probably good twenty years before I was born, stewardesses were actually yummy ladies. They knew how to walk in heels – I learned that from my European sisters thankGawd and my twin-like older sister let me wear some of her high heels- how to mince steps, wear a bra, not wear a bra, sit down gracefully, twirl the skirt, pull up nylons, stand prim and proper, sit down ladylike, sit cross legged, sit knees together, open one's mouth during meals, to smoke, for fellatio, step out of the skirt, and peel off the panties, of course.

In Search of The Best

2012-01-24T00:40:00.010-05:00

"Tiffany" – a new playfriend for 2012

(For the 2011, by an emailed prompt)

The Best to Hang out With: JFK, The Retro Couple

The Best Heterosexual Sex – Freddie

The Best Lesbian Sex - Judy

The Best Girl Friend – The Girlfriend From Har Nof

The Best Girlie Friend - Judy

The Best Kissers – Mrs. Retro, JFK, Freddie

The Best Sex in Public – with Freddie, with Jason, with JFK

The Best Threesome Candidates – The Retro Couple

The Best Beautiful Sex – My Biological Partner; Yoni (in UK on a date)

The Best For A Good Night’s Sleep With – Einat, Judy

The Best Oral Sex – from Freddie, Judy, Yoni

The Best Tasting Semen – Freddie (a Vegan, by the way)

The Best Tasting Pussy – Mrs. Retro

The Most frequently mentioned - Freddie!
Chidi is the new swashbuckling arrival.

Requests.Breasts.Hair.The Retro Couple.

2012-01-23T08:58:00.000-05:00

I am concerned about JFK, and being fair to him, always doubting myself, and worried that I am using him. So, I have been asking friends and a few of email correspondents who know me well enough, whether I am still good girl behaving nice.

Some more annoying thoughts.I am breastfeeding less, hence my boobie size went down from a double to a single letter size J

Compliments of my Retro Couple friends, we have relaxed together on these stormy chilly afternoons, and they make me truly free and calm – so free, as a matter of fact, that I am totally free to just strip nude and make them feel like THEY are overdressed.

They are working on a new composition of imagism to describe me, a follow –on to this one.Yes, I have been tweeting a lot, and that solves the puzzle of the whirlpools in the stream of my consciousness.

Someone asked about me posting a lot on Wednesdays is that a free day for me? No, it's justI spend more time in the back office than at the cash register.

I feel like I have no right making any demands. Like I have to thankful for his lovingkindness, goodwill, and being a healthy bachelor! I comfort myself that he is well aware about my whereabouts, and that I am here with these multifaceted, multidimensional, multimedia wizards, who are also so kissable, and Ms. Retro being so cute and lickable, and he knows full well that she and I are exploring the higher realms where I exist as their art form.

The only demand I make is that he talks to me if my behavior is just too much to bear, and certainly not turn to rabbis, to prayers, and more certainly to religious studies – unlike the rabbinical gospel glorifying a Jew who spends all his life in a Bais Medrash, there is nothing sexy about the man - he is not home, his muscles, love and sexuality is not home for the woman, and when he comes home, he is slouching, tired, sleepy, and still impatient to go back to learning. I know that all too well from my past marriages.

My hair has been the subject of many requests lately. Comparing to my Hair Porn post, my hair now has more hues of darker chestnut, because when I pamper hair these days I am using a lot of that mishmash where I blend coffee and yogurt into a hair conditioner for normal hair.

Plain fluorescent lights up in the ceiling create a flat dark color, almost a raven-black, which I wanted long time ago. The natural gun-blue highlights get lost in that light and digital photography.

This is the kollel yungerleit wig look that I talked about in the Hair Porn.

Professional photographers' tungsten lighting and angle brings out the bronze. Courtesy The Retro Couple.

Panties - ! – a CERTAIN Whooz figured out while reading about my trysts that I am back to wearing panties, and they are not lace nor strings. Correct you are! At any given moment I am wearing this kind of peelable unmentionables.

Compare the hair color and panties to the frames from Sam's private video. Yes – a still love sex with my panties and heels near me where I can see them. I have a pair of Pepe Jimenez pumps - vis. Shoe Cuteness - dedicated strictly for bed – they are lickably clean, sexy, and still retain the new leather scent. Good thing Mr. and Mrs. Retro have a good heat system to keep me warm. My kids are with their fathers in Jerusalem, JFK is busy this afternoon, so the Retro Couple is stuck babysitting me and my dog.

Yoni flies, and NNN ties the knot.

2012-01-23T05:53:00.009-05:00

Yoni is flying to London to meet a match who might be his bride. He called me and sounded probably like a soldier before a suicide mission.

She is also Sfardi, and her family is into real estate business. I always forgive a kid like that for not calling me for months. He figures prominently in The Best Of statistics post of yesterday.

So I volunteered to see him off at the airport. He begged his parents not to go. He was on the verge of crying, but I was honest, and told him about my intimate life and living arrangements. You are so amorous, and yet so vulnerable, I comforted him.

We had a wonderful one-time only tryst, and I am sexercising my willpower, trying to keep it so. Yoni is 18 now, and he has a lifetime to gain the sexperience just to measure up to the Jewish Terminator, or Freddie the African Gentle Giant. I have never touched my nephew in any of those lascivious ways.

And some pictorial news from NNN:

The Nephew's last post before he goes…The Naughty Nephew with Nikon Is Newly Nuptial. He used to snap pictures of Jerusalem for my blog up until two years ago, when I lived in Grosser Shtot. Since then the Nikon was handed down to me, and acquired a "system error 4", and we moved on. He has been working at his father's minimarket, which I joined last spring. That freed up NNN for marriage-dedicated dating, and now he has done it. The guy who could never master his native English well enough to spell my blog's URL, who is very naïve, but very brought in Gemoro and Practical Law, apparently walks the middle of the road and speak the frum lingo naturally enough that he and this sweet girl fell in love and saved my family from the embarrassing news I have been gushing.

This post is also a tribute to Beit Hakerem, and to the Shapell Yeshiva where he volunteered his hevruso time to teach guys the first steps in Talmud. Personally I admire this yeshiva, for being the only sober English-language institution in Judaism studies. I made a conscious effort to never make fun of it. That it turned me on and I have had sex near it – with my second husband, and then with Jason {In The Shadow Of…Shoe Fetish, etc.} – is only reaffirms to me the most positive vibes this institution radiates throughout the neighborhood of Beit Hakerem.

This is the Yellin School of Education, where my Girlfriend Esterica has been learning - 1 minute around the corner from the Shapell. I had sex in a car within the sight of it too – and it was just incredibly exhilarating, the intensity of sensations with the nirvanic quiet of the neighborhood as the backdrop for my whimpers.

This is an apartment where Jason's friend lives (or lived) while studying at the Machon Meir way across the highway in Kiryat Moshe. While waiting for him, so we could give him a ride to the mall, I easily seduced Jason, easily overwhelming him with Tori's Jerusalem syndrome – why not have sex if the air du temps is so positive, and the city is so sanctimoniously stiff?

I asked NNN to snap a picture of these windows, and he battling his naiveté asked funny questions but still failed to put the finger on his young aunt's yummy lifestyle, since he has already found the blog, but could not make sense of its mixture of decadence, art, and wordy confessions.

Some more scenes of learning at the yeshiva, his comrades doing a good job of posing.

another honorable edifice a jog away from Shapell – the Bubble Shul, the Bait Hakerem's official synagogue, outside of which I often picked up NNN on the way to Telz Stone, because he could never guess that the shul always made me horny and I had sex with someone else later.

And this store, formerly a half a dozen other names, Co-Op something as well – we often stopped here on the way to drop him off, - we bought a gourmet pudding and a bread roll, and a coffee at a café across the street. Up above there is Yosi Peking where I used to go on dates with the Shapell's students too. I love this place on Denmark Square, where as recently as this summer I spent a rare free evening or two making out with Einat.

2012-01-22T11:02:00.008-05:00

Now, Those Fun and Yummy Stats!

Girls

Romy Schneider

Jojo: mentioned in 294 posts

Katya: 298 posts

Einat: 166 posts

Esterica: 97 posts

Miri, Meirav: 173 posts
Judy: 63 posts

Ms., Mrs. Retro: so recent, and yet 12 posts!

Guys:

Chidi, Chad - mentioned in 5 posts already!

Freddie:

in 125 posts, we had our spontaneous, wonderful sex in the car on the 27^th day of Omer, which, according to the ideology of Kabalah, means that Yesod is in the Netzach, i. e., the mystical equivalent of a male organ is in Victory (Vicky!). This is the only way I can relate to Kabolo affectionately.

My Biological Partner:

in 23 posts, - we had sex on the 19^th of Kislev, the day so special to Chabad-Lubavitch.

Yoni: 40 posts

My (Gym) Instructor:

22 posts, one of few partners who loved the smell and the taste of their own semen on my lips. We started having sex the day before the Fast of 17^th of Tammuz

Yuri: 23 posts

Jason: 73 posts

JFK: 159 posts

Micki: 534 posts

My First Husband: 139 posts

Eijuszik, Brother E.: 492 posts

Sam, Sammie: 419 posts

Baseball Professor: 57 posts

The (Jewish) Terminator: 72 posts

And, apparently I am healthy in managing of my personalities:

Tori: 378 posts

Vickie: 152 posts

Rabbi's Daughter: in 47 posts

SALT: 136 posts

The Fellatrix: 141 posts

Observations:

} The 16^th of a month seems to be a special day: this is the date of first sex with Alfa Romeo, Sammie, Freddie, My Biological Partner, and Chidi.

} Other than Micki's importance as my second husband, therefore being mentioned in over 500 posts, the other two extremely important men that turn out to be on my mind during the blog confessions are Eijuszik and Sammie

} I thought that Yoni would be more important, but Jason and his – whatchamacallit – flaming, or comment trolling – made me mention him more than I did Yoni. Who has just called up saying he is flying to London to meet a marriage-oriented date.

Judy – who is so deep in my soul and conscience, is in relatively few posts. Judy, who accompanied me to the egg donation procedure. This is one big life event.

"Tori" is a very important name for me.

Thoughts for Sunday Night Football and

2012-01-22T09:47:00.000-05:00

I was enjoying my Shabbos, and still distracted by a very elusive, squirmy worrying idea. Actually – I enjoyed Shabbos in the non-religious setting more than ever, because JFK, and visiting friends were not hurried, and at their most non-forced, relaxed behavior.

Everyone gave me space and respect – again, the truth about the Tel Aviv as the home to many unassuming angels. I never pursue any feminist goals, and in return get plenty of personal freedom that was just rationalized in the observant circles.

NFL's Kurt Warner and his wife Brenda. They look somewhat like me and JFK. Except JFK's back was injured in war, and he occasionally walks with a cane; my fashions are exquisite, and I am a dark brunette.

I love themes of football, because Freddie is somewhere in the quarterback category, and it is so sexy to think of ourselves: we are really interracial lovers. A huge black athlete and his Jewish classy girlfriend.

The friends were extremely tactful and yet open: they asked how did I turn out so friendly and open as a haredi? I am so much like an American easygoing girl, they said – and I did not grow up in US.

I said, - first of all, I did not grow up with the word haredi heard in my family – my parents are very positive kind people – they raised their kids with the best of Jewish ethics, Derekh Eretz Kadma l’Toiro - always to respect other people's time and job, and never let own religious observance be at the expense of other people.

The annoyingly elusive thoughts – a search for the list of intimate priorities – a pyramid of priorities: each level must have its degree of freedom…for me. The supposed holiness of couple’s marriage is bunk. The ketuba is a show: a rationalized sanctified document, the chance for the groom to write in a cosmic amount of moneys on the spur of the wedding happiness. When the document sits or hands on a wall too long, there is always a mystic find-muck crutch: “do you know how spiritually potent the ketuba is?”

The ultimate joy of Shabbos was in the freedom they and I had to discuss the most mundane concepts without forced avoidance of Jewish nono's. There are none, actually. There should be none. I sat in the midst of men and women, JFK right beside me, and there was no such thing as impure forces. We had wonderful meals, I enjoyed serving them, because of the honest compliments. How can I get rif of the brainwashing I got at Nevey? Men came over to visit, and wanted to do the dishes. Women wanted recipes and beauty tips and not show off their religious Good Deeds hobbies.

I think that life I lived with my exes let me see the triviality of religious life – from which I want to distance myself – the triviality that is so sanctimonious that it is revolting.

As I chronicled in my blog tweets – it rained in Jerusalem. Cold and wet. While I ran 10 leaps to my car, I got wet, so I fired up the heat, stripped to stockings and panties, and drove all the way to Tel Aviv. Nothing – absolutely nothing religiously scary happened. The land is just too holy and stressed – other drivers were too busy talking on the phone, speeding, and immaturely impulsive on the slick road, and of course did not cared to look into my humble Honda going rather slow in the right lane, me basically nude, and enjoying girly tunes of Air, Nuveau Vague and Pet Shop Boys's opera on Hans Christian Andersen.

Switch - the shabbos guests asked me – how do you find time to take care of yourself, [with all the] ex-husbands, your children, commuting to Jerusalem, and working on this cozy nest of our apartment? I did not mean to shock, I would have said I am the SALT, but they shpritzed while still chewing their food, after I said: “I love exercise, a good laugh and sex.”

Italy's strong showing, and other boring stats for you know who

2012-01-21T13:40:00.016-05:00

Oh, you shouldn't have! Tori, thank you for mentioning me in the midst of such a glowing comparison! You made me fantasize about men again.

And now, some macro statistics for a change:

I found that Tori's blog is mentioned in the most unlikely places. Like, Letsplay Member? and so with 7 pages of other exotic URLs.

And I already told Tori about Youtube keeping a running compilation of clips she's and I have embedded:

right here on Youtube, "YouTube videos mentioned by Lady Grinning Soul"

The Youtube says that "Similar sources" are

The Lakewood View
Videos About Politics, Sports, Drama Serials, Pakistan
SHAH JEHAN SPEAKS
The Righteous Rasha
DOVBEAR

the more the merrier!

Israel has regained its second place from Spain. Italy's breakin' out – we Italians need some party time after negative exposure in the news. Like the wussy cruise ship captain, or the Berlusconi comedy, or the Italian Police bluffing Amanda Knox about her having AIDS.

How about Saudi, Kuwait and Malaysia – my theory about Moslems secretly salivating over Tori's adventures right before their morning prayers?

2012-01-20T03:50:00.004-05:00

Born:

Freddie – early 1970's, South Side Chicago, USA

Chidi – my age, Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire

Ethnicity:

Freddie - African-American, of slaves taken from the area that is now Liberia-Guinea-Sierra Leone

Chidi - of Gur tribal ethnicity, no connection to the Gur Hassidim (gasp! - and a sigh of relief) where women look like this

The YUMMY FRUM look

(from Wikipedia on Côte d'Ivoire)

Languages:

Freddie: English, various forms of American-African Vernacular (a huge plus), Hebrew

Chidi: French, Dioula, Gur, Baoule, Dan - no relation to the Hebrew tribe of Dan (gasp! – and a sigh of relief), Arabic, English.

Religion:

Freddie: strong influence of his Black Baptist Church past, now Black Hebrew ideology.

Chidi: now strongly drawn to Bahaism; and very similar to Jojo – formerly Catholic; with signs of African tribal ideas and exposure to U. S. Baptist missionaries.

Education:

Freddie – various community colleges, self-taught, and internal Black Hebrew education

Chidi - technical college(s), company training.

Travels and Foreign Residence:

Freddie – Liberia, Togo, Nigeria.

Chidi – most of West Africa, Western Europe, as a flight attendant; Italy, France, Britain.

Professions and Skills:

Freddie - social work, music, singing, dancing, English teacher, technical service telephone representative

Chidi - hotel management, airline attendant, catering, multifaceted Chef.

Physique:

Freddie – 6'4", powerful, proud, commanding presence, muscular, triangular thick build, huge round buttocks, huge thighs, though artistic compared to a quarterback's refrigerator-like body; weighs probably like 240 lbs, and feels like a ton when on top of me.

Chidi – about 5'11", slim with some of Chef-like extra pounds, definite African-exotic body language and assertive use of hands, and an overall – that in-your -face, 190 pounds-on-top-of-you, tribally exotic feel!

Sex:

Freddie – being married gives him a definite sexual plus; circumcised, almost straight penis much like a 10 inch section of a vacuum cleaner hose – just as ribbed, flexible and turgid. Shines like dark rich mahogany when wet with my saliva or juice. Very sensitive, large full testicles, sparse, very short pubic hair.

Chidi – Uncircumcized penis – an incredible, torturously teasing stimulation in the sexual motion; the latex-like teasing, curved shape and lengthwise vein ridges very much like a banana; smooth, very dark, also the polished mahogany look when wet;

Sexuality:

Freddie - Sex, power, combined with sensuality and kindness, earn him a 12 out of 10.

Chidi – French-influenced personality and exotic, assertive, tribal use of hands, body, mouth, sheer muscles, contrasting with involuntary, elegant French, plus patience, and loving touch, earn him an 11 out of 10.

What They Have in Common:

Both have bright-white-toothy generous smiles; both are very intellectual, engaging, fun, optimistic partners; both use woodsy-African-sandalwood perfume or oil; both have been to Liberia, Nigeria, and me!

What I Have Learned From Them:

The meaning of a black man saying let love take it over –

let compassion, optimism, and inner peace rule the moment;

and, the message of the song By The Time This Night Is Over by Peabo Bryson.

(by the time this night is over, you will be addicted to black men)

Now my Brother the Boss came into the office and caught the glimpse of the video, and asked so totally naively, so well-meaning and innocent, "what is that?"

He ain't heavy, he's my brother! J

2012-01-19T03:27:00.044-05:00

Vita. Victoria. Tori. I bask in myself.

The sages' adage - aggadah, pirkey avos - is true: the more adrenalin you spend, the better the reward. I am still queasy and reeling with the seductive impulses and ecstatic pangs that Chidi imprinted within me. Not a trace of guilt – only more confidence, more clinginess, more sense of belonging to JFK. He is puzzled: I have grown even more affectionate, more girlie, more motherly, and more HIS.

I am into hair. Chidi the Black Terminator held me by my well-blogged hair till he stopped whimpering and doubling over like a school boy whose crotch got hit with a softball, like a black man helpless while ejaculating his astringent seed into the perfectly accepting geshmakt, kosher-eating, maidele mouth.

How cold is it in Tel Aviv? It is cold enough that my dear Miri-Meirav, must wear things that make her look like this! We've come a long way since the Kissing Booth post!

Hair. Girlfriends' faces anonymized on the blog. More obsession with hair. I have been washing mine with hair conditioner – for pH control - mixed with a little coffee and yogurt. True to my own secret methods, revealed in the Hair Porn post.

The proteins in yogurt create such incredibly enviable highlights and tints of chestnut color. Envy – I don't believe in Kabbalah, Zohar, and Jewish mystics, therefore I feel good about myself, and my hair.

Mystics – My Biological Partner called, and I had to be compassionate, and at least listen to him, and after Chidi, there was no chance whatsoever I would see him. I was queasy and afraid to ask – but my fetus was doing just great inside his wife. He has been very depressed and anxious, and I know – his Hassidishe learning can't help – has zero chance of helping – Hassidic ideology is generally against anything involving misdirecting, playing, or processing semen.

He is a sensitive soul, impressionable, like me – men and still like women – he notices pregnant women, cats, and the tiny sadness in his heart tells him how easy it is for them to have gotten pregnant, and what a gargantuan task it took to finally get his wife pregnant – to be precise, implanted with my egg that he fertilized.

Meanwhile, I am still waiting for my menstruation. Three months and counting. Just a tiny spot of blood would make me so happy!

My Diamond Dog guards me like this.

No slobbery stranger or a funny-behaving ex-husband can get to me. Katharine Hepburn, in Bringing Up Baby.

It is totally irrelevant what kosher Chenin Blanc I drank for lunch – what's is gevaltige-revolutionary is that I had to see fellow Jews eating crustaceans. I dined on my questionably kosher avocado salad made by the same utensils that sautéed these things, - I stared at these aromatically gourmet creatures inches away from my hands and erotic mouth, and only being the habitual frum, rabbinical daughter who enjoys kosher cuisine - that stopped me from experiencing the Biblically prohibited taste.

Human semen is just fine with me.

Treif chow? Vus kenn ich doen? I throw up my hands in the air. So does Tina Chow. Draped in a Gres evening dress.

About esthetic life in New York and London. Judy left me this book, after having bought it at an airport bookstore, and finishing it in one transatlantic flight. I am busy, but I am very organized – and I am aware that I haven’t read a real book in a while – I will make time – to read this one, of such a fitting title. I note the hues of raspberry pink, and yummy girlie theme on the cover.

2012-01-18T12:01:00.003-05:00

The brunt of the emotional strain caused by my esthetic promiscuity weighed heavily on JFK. I imagine it from his point of view. That's why I am trying to kiss up to him and just make everything as peaceful and reaffirm the stability of our household, that I am with him, and Chidi is not like Freddie, I am not running out on JFK the way I kinda left Micki for Freddie.

That's why my sexuality switched into a monogamous gear and commanded me to make this with asparagus, to enrich his semen quality -eggs, pickles, egg mousse and asparagus tips.

And more sexy ads from my Hotmail. How ingenious these people are! How does their user profiling work? – that they are good at guessing my past or current lifestyle – that I have shared many of girlie moments like these with Jojo, Meirav, Katya, Esterica, Einat and Judy!

And this – a kiss so much like the one with Brother Eijuszik. So neon, so after-the-rain-fresh, so airy, so yummy!

The vases and the girlie – raspberry - pink is an excellent background for this ongoing I Am The SALT theme – such a cute SALT cozy!

The most requested food, despite my assumptions – is my chocolate cream cake, or, to be more deliciously precise, the Cake of All Chocolate Creams. Of course even a skeletal woman like My Seamstress looked shy and forward to it today.

I had Beaujolais; they –Tel Aviv Pina Colada

The Retro Couple forgot the nature of the business we had to discuss, as I let them read about me and my wonderful Chidi, right on the blog. I know it's a big deal, but, it was very understandable – I recognized the signs I saw in JFK – even they - enamored with me - were jealous.

The first thing when he came home I had this San Choi for him – that I looked up and cooked up quickly, - note the asparagus with green beans too! - and I sat by his side, feeling queasy of the incredible sexcapade and summersault of yesterday, watching him enjoy it, in a reserved silence, but – I was rewarded with an encouraging, compassionate invitation to sit on his lap. That's no trivial matter – his war injury still make my perching in his lap a sensitive maneuver.

Deep inside I was content with this heimishe ambience, and with the memory of yesterday: Chidi, his huge erection, comparing it to the only runner up – Freddie's ribbed vacuum hose, just as flexible – Chidi's is more like a huge banana- shaped gel dildo, with the foreskin pulled forward; with the foreskin retracted – something else: a grotesque, invasive, teasing probing prong with exotic, tribal, banana-like lengthwise ridges of throbbing veins – and yesterday all of that tortured me, made me meow and whimper all at once – I am queasy with the vivid sensations still left inside of me - this עורלה nostalgia is yummy!

The yellow – a constant nod to Judy's preferred color of her accessories.

And this is exactly what it looks like: strips Zoglowek's kosher prosciutto , with SALT, Pepper J and zaatar.

And this is Audrey!

and this is one of My retro Couple's masterpieces - the effortless, painting-in like ensemble of knickknacks, sentimentalism and bonsai trees.

And she is from an ad – the Israeli Google Search's siren. I have been hypnotized.

Self-Analysis For Today

2012-01-18T04:19:00.000-05:00

It's going to be a long day. I am surprised at my endurance: it was an emotionally charged day, morning till bed time, and the hardest of all is JFK's steely, strong persona in such a trying, challenging situation, and his composed acceptance of my first episode of libidinous sexuality knocking on the comfort of our cozy relationship.

I am strong too. I still manage to find time for my children, everyone and everything, even to walk my Diamond Dog, and scrapbooking. Scrapbooking for My Retro Couple, who I am meeting today after my traditional lunch with My Seamstress Iren.

For a second – before I wrote this down – I was not sure – but the writing was therapeutic: the willpower is in resisting the urge to be sexual with other people, OR, is it in being able to manage the relationships, without sliding into the mess of flowing with the stream of life, whichever way a lover takes me, OR, the strength to say, this is enough, this is so good – it must be a one-time affair.

And I think the strength is in the ability to keep it a one-time fling. I am confident that I will keep Chidi like Yoni, Jason, and My Biological Partner – on a back burner.

Actually Chidi is an ideal guy: clean, successful, in control of himself, kind, gentle, healthy sexuality, the really original African male from Africa, multilingual, naively open, a chef – knows how to cook!, elegant, and his skin is permanently scented with nutmeg and sandalwood.

That's why I told him the same thing I told My Biological Partner – we need to season the relationship with some separation. Though Chidi and I haven’t exchanged phone numbers. I think we left it at understanding that I know his hours in the restaurant.

2012-01-18T02:37:00.003-05:00

Chidi is a classy guy – during a break in the celebration of our interracial hedonism, we surfed Youtube, I had to teach him the Black American speakin'. He, in turn, showed me his pin up girl – the Africa's best kept secret, the elegant Marian Kihogo.

My First Foreskin. SALT loves Pepper. Lady Grinning Soul is satisfied.There is just no better title to this.

During the intermission of the most succulently wild carnality with Freddie months ago, I asked him: why do white women really go wild over black guys? It must be more than just the size and the physique, isn't it? – Freddie said that it is what I noticed as spiritual sort of kindness. White men are picky, and would turn their nose up at a girl who is a bit too chubby or not a looker. But a black man is compassionate, he will take her, and give her all of himself… like a French man [yea, sure, now that sarcasm is due to the experience, I said], making her feel like a princess, the dream of his life.

I said kind of rhetorically, so a simple black guy from South Side Chicago is the hands-down winner over a worldly ladies' man from France?

Yuri told me a joke about Tel Aviv's Bus Station, and my Russian is not good enough to repeat it or translate it without losing the punch line. Because the bus station is between Congress and Levinsky streets, the Russians say that, going to the station you are like Bill Cinton, you [somehow] start by orgasming on Levinsky and ending up in Congress.

Back in July when walking through the TA's Old Bus Station with Freddie I noticed this tall broad and really healthy African - Chidi - who hours ago was inside me, with his hands, fingers and his magically slick, uncircumcised penis. I saw him last night again. Fancy silk-textured-looking slacks, nice matching pastel shirt, so complimenting his savage tribal looks, his square exotic head. Most importantly, now about two months later, he looks as sleek and cool and healthy!

I will remember my line for ever "Where are you guys from?"

He: "I remember you! …You were with that man, and you turned around and showed me your bahck. [I don’t think Flirted with him, i.e., showing off my butt]

His English is as savage and corny as his spindly hands and his alien contrasts between chocolate skin and beige.

We were back in bed, spooning – covered with a sheet – the afternoon cooling through the open window – there was that smell of male roommates everywhere- we were kissing and having slow scrumptious sex, when someone came in again, excusing himself in broken English to get something from the room, and discreetly disappearing. That was the right kind of exposure for me to get exceptionally voracious, and I laughing wrestled him back on top of me.

JFK held me after I confessed, because it just felt un-Fellatrix-credible to honestly tell him like it is, and present myself at his mercy, and hear the obvious soulful acceptance, and his acknowledgement of the my yummy complexity, and his admitting that he can’t imagine himself without me. Is aid to him, my pampered finger hushingly across his lips, and I always feel thankful for letting me live in your world!

How wasteful it was to confess to Micki, - I was not living in his world, nor he in mine, as far as he could try to imagine himself. I was his trophy wife in his golden cage, supposedly waiting for my sexuality to abate, and become a chunky, squarish, saggy, wrinkled thing.

Chidi – who is definitely not a replacement for JFK, because I told him – nobody in this country – except Freddie - can fuck me like you do, and that lustfulness is the part of the package that my boyfriend JFK is lucky to have. He is the only man that is strong enough to handle me coming to him after I have been with you.

Because jealousy is a weak man's childish self-ruin. A fine line separates jealousy from compersion, which is a strong man's advantage. Willpower, which is slightly sexier than brawn, sensual embrace and a huge erection.

Chidi's foreskin was odd, exotic, bizarre, wild, tribal, primitive, so grotesque, so goyishe, and so clean, and so alluring. It was not Freddie's a huge, nearly smooth vacuum cleaner hose – of creamy-chocolate colors - with a funny eye on the oval knob at the end.

Chidi's foreskinned erection was of varying thicknesses, of inexplicable softness, and two modes – covered, and peeled back. I was totally wrong about my ideas of foreskin.

Obviously, we Jews who practice circumcision have developed "dissing" anecdotes against the uncircumcised and their foreskins. The fact is, a foreskin is a LAWT more fun than without. And a LAWT more unbearable, sensually yummy torture.

Chidi's foreskin exhausted me beyond sex – I felt it in my womb and its nook of yummy epithelia. They spasmed so much, that it felt hopelessly worn-out, because it was a never-ending session. Just when it felt like we were done, like it was his last ejaculation, the sensation of his seed hitting the tired stretched extremely sensitive tissues - made them twinge and tense up with lust for some more.

The torturous miracle of foreskin was the strokes. On the way in, his penis is in its classic, huge mode. The foreskin is forced back, and the entire invasion is predicable – it makes me gasp, I want to beg him to stop, but it feels so much more, pre-ecstatic, ecstatic, on the verge of being orgasmic, that I clamped my mouth shut. Chidi thought I did not want to scream – he peeled away my hand, and kissed me. All the right moves. All the right things.

On the way out, the foreskin lags, while some of the penis is already moving out, making me feel like he is limp, or not moving, or soft, or torturing me.

After I made him come the first time, there was no such thing as my gratitude for being the huge, glistening erection spit-polished, - but – I looked at it as if at a man who slapped me. I was pouty, and even in more lust.

He made sure I was not afraid of screaming, - "voila, I kiss you" – that is also so erotic – and held my hands apart and down. He did not let me tell him, - I love being vocal, it turns me on, especially when it turns YOU on. I didn't have to say anything - someone came in, - guttural Filipino speech – ang, ang – I saw a shape in my peripheral vision, speaking into a mobile phone. I hummed questioningly into his kissing mouth. He reassured me, that is one of the flat mates, retrieving something from his roommates things. No fuss, and minimal interruption, and so classy and voyeuristic – nice flat mates!

What I thought during sex – was most of the time about his foreskin and my brother – felt like his foreskin peeling back with every penetrating stroke, and I often forced a break just to see, fearing frustration, but being rewarded: he is still hard and turgid, and that the foreskin was tight and staying back. I almost cried of happiness to see that, and nuzzled his wonderful African hardness to my face in gratitude.

We took a break. His idea is admirable – a pile of tangerines, "you must have one" – it's cold, it was cold in Jerusalem, we need energy, vitamin C. I love his worldliness. He handed me a tangerine that he peeled in one move, as if he unzipped it out of its skin.

And memories of my brother E. again – our teenage years, confusing his first, watery semen with the smell of orange peels, our panic, naïve ideas. Chidi's hands are perfumed, citrusy, long, much darker than the Chicago snow tan of Freddie's Black American brownness. I am still pouty at his foreskin's sweet torture. I licked his hands, which came reminded me of the African assertiveness, guiding me to the foreskin again, making me change my mind, measure my face with the length, like I did with the Jewish Terminator, bathe the foreskin in my mouth, secretly peeling it by snaking my tongue under it, probably the way a mohel does the pri`a.

He is tactile, as well as visual in a male way – it is so simple: he pays attention where I touch myself, and goes there, legs, belly, thumps my lower tummy to feel his penis inside of me, caresses my ankles, plays with the bangles – and of course I immediately understand his method and only grow more impossibly horny.

I need to have it again. The lust makes me tighter, not more open, and the strange sensations of his uncut penis are unpredictable: penetrating me again is extremely slick and fast, while sliding out of me feels like my pussy is grabbing his foreskin, making it envelop the penis, and he loves the sensation, and slows down to make us enjoy it, and we discuss every little mechanical action, laughing at my French, and his accent, and that also is so sexy that we climax.

Une rencontre sans lendemain? - "an encounter without future" – he asked me- so poetic! – I find myself being in super-erotic lust, but not love.

Sans retenue – no restraint – he demanded, seriously, almost threateningly, but still holding me gently, some of his fingers confidently in my mouth, holding me to him. The apartment is unheated, Tel Aviv is cooling down in the breeze that seems to come not from the sea, but from the chilly mountains. Chidi was my only source of warmth. My phone played a tune. It was My Cousine – what about my twins? It was late! I was late, and time did not exist for us. Chidi understood the reality of my world. I kissed, and licked his fingers, and under my upper lip I could still taste the oozing flavor of his sperm. I knew it would be there during my imminent sexual confession before JFK.

2012-01-17T10:19:00.000-05:00

I am SALT, and I met Pepper. I praised the cozy allure of my afternoons so much that I must have put a spell on me. I had to take a bus to Jerusalem, and when I was coming back, I took the 405 bus, which brought me to the TA Central Bus Station. I walked through Neveh Shaanan to pick up my car, when on a corner I saw the Black Guy who I have been noticing.

This time seeing him made me happy and confident – he still dressed according to the chillier weather, and still esthetically clean. And he looked like the only healthy, well-groomed man in the crowd of foreign workers and political fugitives.

He is also very smart and aware. He immediately returned my glimpse, recognized me, smiled, and we had a meaningful eye contact. By this time we were eye-contact acquaintances.

I veered towards him, and my English “Hello, how are you” was very friendly, and so was his African-accented reggae-sounding “good ahftanoon…”

He looked good, healthy and doing well for the past months that I have been noticing him – a very important factor in my deciding to talk to him. I intentionally asked him “where are you guys from?” and he was surely an assertive leader, speaking for the rest of them. They were from all over the world – Sudan, Nigeria, Romania, Ghana, and he is from the Ivory Coast.

He is full of pleasant surprises. He speaks French and English and local African languages. He was polite enough to excuse himself from the crowd to talk to me, “his friend.” I showed him the direction where I was headed, and asked him about how he has been surviving in Tel Aviv.

He turns out to be an African renaissance man. I assumed that me, or a European is cosmopolitan when there is plenty of travelling throughout Europe and US to sightsee, study and work. I never thought of Africa this way – because I always read headlines from Africa: hunger, decease, drought, violence, wars, UN, AIDS.

Chidi is a true worldly guy. He has worked in road construction, on a rubber tree plantation, and then studied Hospital Management at a technical college. He is a practical guy – because he saw a good opportunity and got a job of a flight attendant for a major airline. He liked the food side of the business, and transferred to the airline’s food service. There he became a chef, and somewhat prematurely and self-confidently - which I liked a lawt – went to London, and then to Paris to work and then start his own restaurant. The worldwide economic crisis and the confusing local politics and regulations contributed to his failing, and he found himself on the wrong end of immigration law. A friend of his from Paris sent him to work in Tel Aviv, and this is what he has been doing for the past 10 months or so.

Chidi, Chiddi – Chad, my name for him – most pleasantly and elegantly – now I understand this as being honed by his flight steward and chef occupations, showed me the place where he cooks. It is a typical Tel Aviv dive, the one for Neveh Shaanan neighborhood – for the oriental and European workers. He cooks Thai, Chinese and Romanian dishes. In US the place would have a neon sign flashing “EAT IN HERE” But Chidi’s dive was saturated by extremely delicious aroma of the foods, definitely not kosher, definitely with a healthy dose of MSG, and so מותר בהנאה.

The clientele looked raggedy, dressed in the latest dollar store chic. Besides the petite Philippinas the walkup window had a line of elegantly flashy Slavic women. Chidi said, "it's their morning" Of course, I am aware that this area is also the Red Light district.

Unlike with the Jewish terminator, this time I am not waiting for him to seduce me, to say just the right things, to plan our slow trek to the den of our impending, irrational carnality. I was waiting – for him to keep talking, to keep hearing his right talk, seeing his right moves, reassuring me that this is the nice, healthy man, a cut above the grunginess of the seedy street.

The Mandingo virus recurring: I was hot, speech - breathy, gasping, scary heart beats, goosebumps and all.

He rents a room in an apartment for foreign workers. The apartment is grungy, but neat, just like I imagine the Far East.

I demanded one thing when we came there – please speak English to me. And it was the right thing to do – just like I thought, his French was just too corny, like someone speaking Caribbean English.

He could not resist himself and my language requirement, which presented a good sort of sexual stress for him. I knew that – as he grew quiet, starting to mumble in French and then obediently finish in English. My maxim is true: black men are inherently sensual. He inhaled while kissing, he hugged me brutally, but with gentle hands, he snuck in some African syllables and unknown words, and that made me smile, and he just didn’t know what to do with me. That made me feel like a candy al right!

My Biological Partner, Judy, all other loves disappeared into a haze of nameless figures. My children were my secret treasures. JFK was the angel. It was a short, ecstatic ceremony: Freddie holding me up in the air, and then throwing me into the lap of Chidi, his fellow African Giant.

I am Lady Grinning Soul, and he touched the fullness of my breast.

I basked on his Velvet Giant's chest.

My First Foreskin. Un-Fellatrix-credible. I could write gigabytes about it.

The first sex we had was with a condom, and then he sensed me being pouty. No, I said, the capote – it made me laugh – you passed the Healthy Male Test, the size rules over the latex, now we are moving on. The language -whenever you want to take a break, we are going to hear the right kind of American Black Affectionate English.

Lunch With Tiffany. Men. Girls.

2012-01-16T05:58:00.001-05:00

I wanted to watch Breakfast At Tiffany's, after sensitizing myself to the senses and imagism by posting lawts of Audrey pictures – so JFK found the original, not-dubbed DVD, and we watched, and we kissed and I cried.

I felt like my life now has reached the movie's happy ending. I cried because I was happy and still could not devote all my happiness to JFK. Because I can't promise him – honestly – that my sexual happiness is totally for him. He knows from my total confession that I feel so comfortable with him – and in his world – that I may have to be intimate with someone else, and still remain with JFK. I cried because I do not want to use JFK in this way. I wish he accepted me totally, he says has accepted me so, long time ago.

Meanwhile he makes my afternoons so special that I am eager to speed back to Tel Aviv to find out the new surprises he has in store for me. Our visit to his Spooky Friend was so fun, so fruitless, so one-sided – still, so – about me! – that I needed no presents or restaurants. Just some time dedicated to me, not just me the mother, but me the Fellatrix, the SALT, and now Tori , all his.

My daughter - I am considering seriously pulling my daughter from the religious school, due to the primitive ideology that permeates her school's teacher and student bodies. She no longer shuns English, and finds herself freely switching effortlessly between Hebrew, English and French. As a multilingual girl she is obviously very smart, also due to her mother being of very multifaceted interests, and being exposed to several father-figures.

The other girls certainly were not exponents of the Bais Yakov school ideas, saying that my daughter mumbles nonsense, speaks of impure things – classic books outside of the Bais Yakov's selection of amateur authors, steals too much of the teacher's attention, and – gasp! – smiles inappropriately. I say to her, baby, they are just jealous. I hold myself back from calling them dowdy female robots, because she is smart and might think up a humorous revenge. But what do I need this dumb school system for? Maybe only because her father wants her to be in it, hopefully with no stains on her bio. And the Bais Yakov teachers are known for long memory and vengefulness when it comes to character references in dating.

At the store I finally got to meet a fellow Bais Yakov alumna, who is also fed up with having been hammered into a stifling, Hassidishe environment by a most unlikely yeshivishe husband. He has spent a chunk of their money to reserve lodging and a seat in the shul in Uman for that annual Breslav pilgrimage to their Ukrainian Holy of the Holies.

She acts so shtark - on autopilot, she says - when shopping at our store – and sighed in relief when I showed her how free I am living the way I want to, without compromising my own Yiddishkeit. She came to see me when I was getting off work, and ultimately loved My Loyal Bodyguard Diamond Dog, and this blog. So much that she wanted to contribute her unsigned photo J

I said, I just love a girl's armpit – and she relaxed and even offered a most feminine pose. I thought hard about it – and felt doubly sure that I am definitely into men for now, but of course will treasure her closeness.

The Secret Thursday Afternoon

2012-01-13T04:41:00.000-05:00

Another one of those wonderfully orgasmic afternoon surprises. JFK took me to meet and hear the Piano Man play. Hapsantran. Everything and everyone of interest, of esthetic, positive value and intellect lives either around us in Ramat Gan or in the Sheinkin area. Maybe in Ramat Aviv too.

"As opposed to what the Rabbis claim, most angels live in Tel-Aviv". Meaning: The religious right has lost its legitimacy as a spiritual and moral authority. The secular Jews in Tel-Aviv (who are usually blamed for moral decay by the religious right) are the only true Jews left - those who built a country and those who see all humans as equal.

- Culmuson

The secret landmark – whoever knows where it is, is a real Tel Avivian. In the back of the Sheinkin area. Baaley Malakha.

We got to some of the back streets in the Sheinkin area and we are waiting for the Piano Man to answer the door. Meanwhile we are waiting for the sounds behind the door to grow stronger and open the door and let us in, JFK finishes the background story on this guy. The Psantran is a genius musician, a conductor, and a sort of a flexible Mozart. JFK uses his promoter wherewithal to help this guy, sending him lawts of freebie opportunities.

The Piano Man made some more noise, the door opened, but only a crack, we saw a slice view of a person, something like an eye, and a hushed voice. I assumed we came at an appointed time but found the Piano Man during a delicate private moment, - wrong, the Piano Man is an eccentric. Once he enters the artistic frame of mind, he can't relate to outside world, even his own mom. I thought this reception was a bit embarrassing, but after he closed the door, we heard that we were welcome to come "after the concert."

JFK is an easygoing guy, and goes easily with the flow. He takes me to another address, where another friend of his is actually suffering from impatience to meet me. I remember that this friend was no longer in the Sheinkin area, and somewhere on Ibn Gabirol, where I recognized my favorite café. This was important.

The lobby was just like ours, the door was also nice and fancy, just like ours, except without JFK's creative sign announcing me and the twins living in a real comedy of life. The apartment was like that of what I imagined a university professor, of geography and finance – I felt the urge to curl up on the nearby couch with a picture book on Balkans, while the men discussed their old times in the military.

JFK said that this friend was his former commander, high up, and they shared all sorts of interests. A question begged – who am I to spike his interest? JFK was conspiratorially silent and smiling.

The spooky friend is nevertheless very relaxed, slow, and imbibes the surroundings. He smiles, and it is not to seduce or kiss up. He is very smart, he spoke to me in all the languages I said I could, and he also knows every nook and cranny on Prinsengracht, in Grosser Shtot, and Switzerland. My impression is that his job is to sit behind that pile of folders, picture books and the laptop and speak code language into a corny retro telephone that still has משרד התקשרות "Ministry of Communications" on it.

He asked me about my children, and how I just light up and squint and smile thinking about them. I told him about how JFK brought light into my world even by giving me a dog. The spooky friend laughed. I felt like I have been interviewed, and he wanted someone like me, free to travel abroad, to funny things, stay at ritzy hotels, seduce Vanunus, - I am an international girl, I know these things.

But I am a mommy and I love esthetics, family and kids. He asked me if I loved the books. I said, I love tons of books like these. He sounded like he was saying, here, I guess I will be gone a lot – but really he said, which surprised me "This place is empty most of the time, you can come here and borrow or read whatever you want" - and it was so selfless, and generous, and I thought, this guy is another angel, just like JFK, giving the keys to his apartment to a total stranger, a goody-two-shoes stranger though, - just like JFK let me use the apartment, and I did, as My Room In Rome.

I thought, this is a genuinely generous offer, but I have plenty of available apartments for privacy and intellectual pursuits – In Bayit Vegan, most importantly – and JFK has plenty of pretty reading. I didn't take the keys, and regretted it a little bit.

We drove back home, and JFK asked – if I remembered the address of this place. I realized I had no idea, just somewhere on Ibn Gabirol and around My Favorite Café. He asked me if I wanted to know the address? No. He said, it’s better that way, for my own good. I said, sure, I know these spooky government things. But your friend is so nice, so selfless – maybe he gets no other chance to do anything family oriented. He has been a bachelor, like you, hasn't he? Yes. Maybe we should spend afternoons at his place whenever he is away on spooky trips? JFK said that he would not be comfortable at the place. I asked, "Cameras?" He said, could be.

I am also paranoid about cameras. But we agreed that the spooky friend is really reaching out.

We got home, and I felt the erotic sensation of free time. I know I smiled so calmly, because JFK returned the smile, and the happiness was erotic. With My Diamond Dog guarding the door left unbolted, we were totally at peace and had an inspiring, spiritual sex.

These Are Few Of My Favorite Things

2012-01-12T01:18:00.001-05:00

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things

Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings

These are a few of my favorite things

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes

Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes

Silver white winters that melt into springs

These are a few of my favorite things