Dov. All that a parent would want for their offspring. Hard worker, a lawyer, well connected in circles within and without the synagogue. Not very exciting, though.
He was civil, polite at our first meeting. A little glimpse of humour suppressed for the sake of decorum, I suspect. I admit I was not attracted to him in the way I was at first attracted to Natan, but I told my parents I would see him again partly because I wanted them to be happy that I was trying, partly because Dov was not, I could see, a bad man and partly because, to be honest, I missed having a man around, maybe even the touch of a man, strong arms at night.
So we met and we laughed and yada yada yada… he met the girls and was gentle, kind, with them and they liked him which was important to me and here we are 25 years later still married, still happy. We do not have the same zesty passion Natan and I shared. With Dov it’s different – and why wouldn’t it be?
Our first night was almost awkward. I think I knew more about sex than poor Dov at that point. He was hesitant, not about what to do but how to please me so I guided him, slowed the pace with gentle strokes and brushing kisses or intensified the passion with crushing lips and raking nails and urgent clutches. It was not great, but it was not bad – something to build on, as a teacher once said to me about an essay I had written. And I suppose I became the teacher.
Over time we have perfected our love making. We have experimented a little bit here and there, less with ‘toys,’ maybe a bit of bondage, blindfolds, vibrator – that sort of thing but more with technique and location. I showed him how to apply his tongue to me, to twirl it around my nipples, to crimp them between his lips. How to use his hands to direct and intensify tingling anticipation. After a reluctant start, he has perfected cunnilingus, teasing me to the point of orgasm before retreating only to bring me to the boil once more. He knows me, my body, so well: what I like when I’m in certain moods, what I don’t like. It takes years, I suppose, to enjoy such leisurely intimacy. It’s a far cry from the youthful exuberance Natan and I shared and instilled in each other, but it is comfortable and enduring.
Dov knows I have this thing about my ears, that his kisses, breathing or whispers send a shivering shock through me, neither pleasant nor unpleasant – but both, at the same time. Innervating. It sends prickles down my neck, over my breasts, petrifying my nipples, spreading a rash of goosebumps down my sides, moistening me between my thighs. It’s sudden and quick and always makes me shriek and pull away involuntarily, even though I love it.
He knows, too, the effect he has on me when he starts kisses at my ankles, works his way down my inner leg, across my thigh and bypasses with a brush of beard or waft of hot breath my eager pussy so that, by the time he has kissed my stomach, maybe skimmed my breasts as he skin-tugs his way up my throat, around my jawline and nuzzled my lips apart with his, I am ready, desperate, for him to return to the places he has ignored.
I can also read now the effect I have on him, whether his mood requires me to caress his length gently, to squeeze softly or take him in my mouth and work him vigorously to his spilling point. It all depends…
We often spend Sundays in bed. I often wake him with a gentle stroking, firming him in my hand, nuzzling his neck until he stirs, rolls on his back, lets me lay extravagant, lush tongue strokes to him, working his length to shine and strain. And I might kiss him as I lower onto him to move slowly with him to our own soft rhythm.
Or perhaps he stirs me with a caress of my breast, kisses along my sides to my hips. I love him waking me so softly, an easing apart of my thighs so he can breathe hot breath onto me, extend his tongue to flicker, quavering, at my lips so I feel them swell and part to greet him. And how he uses his tongue tip as a question mark, querying his way around, as if with caution, testing each fold, each millimetre, encircling and tapping my clit in slow palpating dabs. He knows when to come to me, how to trail and rest his body across my pussy as he makes his way to my breasts. He knows the pressure I like to feel from his muscle on my mound, the small movements which bring me to move against him, massaging myself on his skin. And he knows how to kiss me, mellow, at the very moment he reaches me, eases into me, absorbs my shuddering, satisfied gasp.
Usually we lie almost still, tongues or teeth testing lips, each aware of the slightest signs of our consummation: my clenching around him in small, unbidden pulsations; a slow swelling and expansion of him inside me. It’s delicious, unhurried and really quite erotic. Often we come together, an unspoken, abstract intensification which escalates and rolls over us as I feel, I swear, him expand and wash into me as I grip him Other times we start to move; the soft sliding accumulating, building, rousing us to a gasping crash.
I wouldn’t start my Sunday any other way.
We do have a little place out of town, by the beach. We go there a lot in summer, for weekends. It’s very private. We can let our hair down there. The glimpse of humour I first recognised in Dov comes to the fore down there. He is away from work, people know not to disturb us when we head to retreat. I remember one hot afternoon, after lunch, we are on our large bench swing: a ridiculous, huge circular seat – a bed, really – supported by a central ornate chain hung from an expensive, wrought iron frame.
It sits on our patio and, having a shade over it, is a perfect place to retire to with a book for some rest and relaxation.
This afternoon, still and silent except for the far off cries of kids and the tinny incantation of Greensleeves from some ice cream van a million miles away, I am lying on the daybed, as we call it. I’m not dozing – quite. Just absorbing the atmosphere, the heat, the lazy hum of some insects in the jasmine, its perfume. I’m wearing my bikini. A sarong is wrapped loosely around me and I am feeling very content in the world.
Dov appears with some cool drinks – a gin, wine or something – and lies down next to me. The bed starts moving, much like a hammock, but more comfortable, less constricting, just as relaxing. And I don’t know what it is – the movement, perhaps, dreamy and sensuous – but we both look at each other and we know.
Dov smiles his wonderful relaxed smile. A man confident in what he is doing as he kisses me lightly on the lips, at the corner of my mouth, under my ear – he doesn’t whisper or breathe in my ear: he doesn’t want to shatter the idle idyll of this soft afternoon. A hand glides over me, pausing on a breast, barely touching it through the material of my bikini top, but I can feel him there and my nipples harden in expectation of his touch.
And I’m delighting in his kisses which have progressed to lusciousness sealed in our mouths by pressing lips. I’m drinking in the headiness of swirling tongues and, in my mind, Im moving to the rock and swing of our daybed as if Dov was already in me, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling with me.
His hand slips under my bikini top, fingers rolling my crystal nipple, smoothing my breast, sending tingles through my stomach to pool between my legs. I roll to him, a hand reaching for him, working its way under the elastic of his shorts, to find him rigid, engorged. And I work his shorts over his buttocks and his length, freeing him to my caress. Dov takes his hand from my breast to pull the string of the bow at the back of my neck and at my back and with the flimsy bikini gone, there seems little point, he says, in keeping everything else on.
And so I remove his shorts and take him in my mouth like a delicacy to be savoured and relished. There is no hurry, just the savouring of his taste, the salty sweetness, the veinous, firm texture, the occasional, small pulse which stiffens him for a second and the tight, wrinkled cluster which moves imperceptibly to my touch and tongue.
And he loosens my sarong, peeling it away from me and twists and turns to kiss my shoulder and back, my neck, my ear, this time blowing into it so that I rise from him and he kisses me, eases me back onto the bed, slips his hand under the elastic of my bikini bottoms and eases the over my trembling hips, under my raised buttocks and away down my legs to be discarded with contempt upon the patio.
And we are still rocking on our bed. A delectable motion both refreshing and soothing as it transports us both, naked in our garden, in our thrilling intimacy. I do not think either of us would have cared had our garden not been so private at that moment. The silence, the motion, the heat of that lazy afternoon… all conspired to abandonment of inhibitions in the moment; to absorb the beauty and enchantment of the time, the place. So when Dov rolled between my legs, lowered his head to taste me, explore me and tease me as we swayed under that summer sun, I was lost.
He has this fascinating technique of seeking out my clit with his tongue, then taking it between his lips and tugging it lightly, only to let it slip out at the extremity of his pull. It is very sensuous and delectable, especially when he precedes the tug with a long stroke of the tongue. It is what he does now, in perfect time to our swinging, as if he is pushing us forward with his tongue, only to let us swing back upon my release. And I come in an undulating, fluctuating wave which shudders up from my feet to my head. I feel the accumulation and the cramping bliss which arches my back, forces my fingers, already caressing Dov’s head, to rake his scalp, pull him into me and buck against his all attentive tongue.
In my afterglow, Dov is tender, soothing kisses on my clit, on hips and stomach, hands cooling my sides, mouth finding a breast, my throat, my lips. And we lie there, kissing, caressing, idle and perfect. I’ve taken him in hand again, languid strokes as we drowse on our ripening way through the dreamy afternoon. And I feel my legs fall apart to his touch once more and I need him to fill me, to move inside me, to flood me so I guide him over and onto me, feel the soft nudge, the inquisitive, speculative probe as he finds me, my heat, and eases in.
I hold him to me, arms tracing his back, legs folded above his buttocks. And he starts that motion again, surging us forward, withdrawing us back, as slow and slumberous as the afternoon itself, sensuous and stimulating.
We stay there for what seems like a long time, all that could be said is communicated by the concentration of energy in the senses: the perfumes of sweat and jasmine, the drone of insects, the lulling heat, of touch of lips, fingers, the throb of his firmness, its smooth, slick strokes and the intensity of our grip and kisses.
So when I sense the jumble and clustering of his coming, the slight change in pace and power of his thrust, a tension in his breath and body, I respond. Pulling him to me with my heels, raising my hips to take as much of him in as possible, to feel him land hard and full on my clit, buttocks clenching as the fervour rises to take us both in its spate. A bursting deluge shakes and shudders us in its tremor. Dov trembles with each convulsion as he breaks deep in me, quaking sighs rushing out as if they deplete him as much as his stream of spill. And I feel the flutter and jitter as he comes, that deep pulsing climax which triggers a quavering palpitation which breaks over me in spasms coincidental with his releases.
And when its all over, we’ve subsided and our deep breaths are all that’s left of us, we are still swaying on the bed, a silent pendulum on an indolent afternoon. Naked and replete in our own world. Just the two of us. After all these years.
So I still think I have a lot to thank my parents for – not just for letting me find out the hard way that love is not solely guided by the heart, but for finding Dov, my solid rock. The man who I still love to make love to after all these years.