Hassidic Passion Read Online Free PDF

her attention on murmuring prayers.  The veil worked both ways, and she knew her mother and mother-in-law couldn’t see what she was doing under there, or read her thoughts.
    Better start praying.  I f she was to start this thing on the right foot, she was going to need all the help she could get.

CHAPTER Ten            
    Beryl
    Beryl’s body buzzed, feeling her body so close to him.  He waited under the chuppah for the rabbis to do their thing, which they dutifully did. 
    Of course.  Everybody in this community always did what they were supposed to.  If you were broken, as Beryl was sure he was, you had to hide it or risk ostracism.
    You had to hide in the world of the yeshiva when after sixteen years of studies, you were dying to break free, find work, earn money and support yourself instead of taking handouts.
    And y ou had to hide the way your body quivered, arms and legs buzzed with electricity.  Electricity that was nothing compared to what Beryl was feeling in a certain fifth limb.  A “limb” that was trying desperately to make itself known
    In the end, he’d wrapped it with the bandage he’d used for his ankle, so now, even though he was supposed to be praying, or at the very least, paying attention, all he could think about was his balls.  Bound so tightly, would his sack heat up too much? 
    He’d heard that if you heated things up down there – more than the natural heat that he always felt – it might kill his seed and he wouldn’t have children.
    Was that true?  A nd if it was true, would the change be permanent?
    Of course, to see the pregnant w omen moaning around the neighborhood, you wouldn’t think being pregnant was such a blessing.  Maybe not being able to have babies would be a different kind of blessing – the ability to do it as much as you wanted without worrying about diapering and feeding the consequences.  To fuck with abandon.
    Pay attention, Beryl thought to himself.
    But when he was paying attention, things were even worse.  Because there she was beside him.  Despite the seamstresses’ best effort to conceal her body beneath heavy white satin, he could just make out her body’s shape.  Not, God forbid, the crease of her ass or a nipple – that would send him over the edge, and doubtless burst the bandages holding him tight. 
    But he could make out a few nice curves.  Breasts, in front.  Don’t think about it.   But how could he not?  And her ass in back, just a little hump sticking out.  Nice and tight.  Each cheek just exactly the size of his palm.
    Would it be better to wipe the sweat off his forehead, or stand stock still as he’d been instructed and just let the droplet fall?  He opted for the second choice, holding his sentry-box position as the blessings droned on.
    Suddenly, the rabbi was handing him a ring.  His mother had bought it for him, a plain gold band, as simple as possible  It would show the world that Raizy was his wife.
    He slipped it on her right middle finger.  The fuck finger, one of the boys had told him it was called (that boy was gone two weeks later; too worldly).  You shouldn’t hold it up, point it at strangers, but here was hers, curiously intimate.  He didn’t touch her skin, not yet, just slid the ring carefully over her outstretched finger.
    The rabbi held up the ketubah , the marriage contract.  Feminists might say that marriage in their community was a purchase, Beryl thought, but that didn’t mean he got off scott-free.  He had responsibilities now. 
    As the rabbi had explained in his chassan classes, the ketubah spelled out Beryl’s obligations to Raizy:  feeding her, clothing her, and providing marital pleasure.
    Oy.  How did they expect him to do that?
    In chassan classes, the rabbi had hinted that there was a special button you pressed to make your wife happy.  But Beryl hadn’t quite been able to make out whether he was saying that as a metaphor or whether the button was something real that