London Leaves / C – We (Us) 1

Garden of flowers
Garden of flowers

Novella in several parts (I’ll post the rest in the coming weeks)


We (Us)



Heavy pouring rain. She wandered through the streets of London like a wet lonely cat, schlepping her belongings with the last ounce of energy left in her. Her clothes were all soaked. Her shocked, gloomy face, was struggling hard to restrain her agony from bursting into a long wounded howl. She stopped, unable to move further. Her legs couldn’t endure the weight of what she was carrying anymore – both herself, loaded with suppressed emotions, and her stuff, hanging from all over her. Her arms were burning out of pain, craving for rest. Submitting to despair, she didn’t care to park her wet bottom on the freezing low stone fence. The rain was flowing silently, cutting through the thick deep smog.

Not letting out the meowing she felt inside, was very hard. She wanted to curl up into a warm lap, but not the one she left half an hour ago, and stay there forever. What should I do? What should I do? What should I do… Her bewildered mind was tormented. What should I do? What should I do? A few pupils passed her, hurrying to get to school on time. Cars went by, their motors roaring, leaving a trail of smoke. She detained her breath, trying to impede pollution from harming her. Nu, what should I do?

A deafening thunder pierced her spine, causing her whole body to shiver. The street was now empty. Nobody sane would stick their nose out of their warm, cozy home. Oh, home… I miss home sooooooo much! What possessed me to leave home and come to this insane horrible sick woman? What did she think, that somebody could actually fall for her? Nu, well, I suppose there could be someone who would seek this sick kind of relationship. I don’t think they are capable of loving, really loving. They are occupied with causing each other pain and misery, how could they feel love for each other? This is not the love I need. I want rapport, affinity, bonding. I need to feel wrapped with love by the woman I will love back with all of my heart, to melt to her touch, to…

Another earsplitting thunder extracted her from her thoughts. The rain was pouring cats and dogs. A black cab stopped near her. The taxi driver rolled the window down a bit, not daring to stick his head out. “Hey, love”, he yelled in a loud voice, “are you all right?”

She blinked surprisingly. Am I all right? Yeah, right – sitting on this freezing stone, my butt could be served as an ice-cream, I’m soggy duch and duch,[1] deep into my bone marrow, I don’t know what to do, as I mindlessly collected my unpacked luggage to rush away her, I’m even quite sure where I am. I know I headed to the train station she showed me once, but didn’t get there. I don’t think I ever was in this neighbourhood before. I’m not such a good navigator, to say the least…

“Well, lady, where do you need to go?”

Where do I need to go? Home, I guess. But home is so far away, 8,047 kilometres, or 5000 miles, as they measure here, how can I get there? I have no English money. A mazel[2] I have some in shekels. I suppose I would be able to exchange in a bank. Although I could, I had no intention to take the notes she scattered around her house, in prominent places. I guess I’m not the first to run away from her, so she was “generous” to assist… Nu, well, a woman with so many lovers behind her, having their bleeding scalps hanging from her belt, probably should predict future events. No, I didn’t take her money. I hope she suffocates with on it. Damn P.

Without thinking, she opened the back door of the cab, throwing in her plastic bags. The driver didn’t move an inch to assist her. Probably it wasn’t in his job description. He just moved the handle of the trunk, so she could put in her trolley and the other four over packed bags. Feeling relieved, she closed the trunk’s door, glancing around, hoping the rain will stop already. She was heading to the passenger’s door, thinking she could use a brake of these showers pouring on her, as the driver quickly slammed the back door and fled with his brakes squealing.

“Ma…”[3] The word didn’t even pass her lips. She remained standing there, unable to move her gaze affixed to the spot where the cab disappeared.

[1] Yiddish: Thru and through

[2] Yiddish: I’m luckily

[3] Hebrew: “What…”

London Leaves / B – Jazmin

Stones of hope
Stones of hope


Novella in several parts (I’ll post the rest in the coming weeks)




Nice of her to take me to this meeting. It’s interesting to attend such a ceremony. At home, I would never dream of doing that, but it’s an opportunity to meet other people, and maybe, if I’m lucky, I will find love… I needed so much to get out of there, to breath fresh air, see another country, other people and open myself to the world. I have been alone for such a long time. She came into my life at the right time. Alas she wasn’t the right woman…

It is nice here. The Rabba is holding a lovely ceremony. One can feel the holiness in the air. Shabbat is Shabbat, even in London, so far away from home. I miss home. Yes, already. How would I cope with being here for so long, as she planned for me? She likes to control. I have no issue with it. I came here for the British passport, nothing else. I never told her I loved her. She asked me a few times how I feel towards her, why don’t I say these words to her. As if one is obliged to do so after being showered with these words continuously and so persistently. I always answered I’m not sure, as it isn’t my nature to fall in love with a picture, not even with one that moves, such as on Messenger. She declared her love to me and invited me to come and live with her. London is a good place to vent a lonely soul, I thought, and the G-ddess all mighty knew how much I needed to get out of this pressure cooker called Israel. The 2nd Lebanon war just ended and I felt I needed a big brake. I’ve never been abroad before, so it was an opportunity to travel and see the world, as she promised to take me wherever I would like to.

The Rabba started a prayer in honour of the people who died of AIDS, then she invited people to share, to talk about their loved ones they lost to this horrible disease. Thank the G-ddess, I didn’t lose anybody, also I don’t know people who suffered such a loss. Hope I will never know this bitter taste.

P went to say hello to some friends, so she said. I wondered how come she didn’t bring them to meet me. Weird. This P woman is weird. I can’t figure her out yet, but my little voice is telling me she definitely is not the one for me. I can do much better. I didn’t like her looks on the internet, let alone when we met in person. She’s a year younger than me, but looks much older. Not that I use to fall for the looks, but there must be something basic, like taking care of yourself. If you don’t look like my lovely, the ultimate Farrah Fawcett, at least do something with yourself: have your face lift, hair done, dress properly – not with schmates, like she does. I wonder how she allowed herself to buy me the ticket, when she is so cheap on herself.

Someone shared, causing each eye to tear. I wiped mine. There must be chemistry between two people, otherwise it’s not it. She didn’t appeal to me at all. I couldn’t connect to her inner soul, which is crucial for me. She is illusive, unstable, someone I couldn’t bond with. Bonding is essential for me. I don’t want to be with a woman I can’t bare my soul to. She is not the one. Definitely. However, she will do for my goals. Once we get married, I’ll have this civil partnership, I can do whatever I want too. I can work, have some savings, and in a few years get the British passport. In the meantime, she promised to support me with the tuition money, as I expressed my wish to study at the university. 5 years is a long time, I’d better get a degree if I can, why not?

Where did she disappear? Never mind her. I think I’ll go have something to eat. They displayed nice food here. I’m hungry. Maybe I’ll meet nice people to befriend.

“Hello.” I looked at the lush sexy woman standing in front of me, her hesitating smile so lovely. A large wave of joy flooded my whole body, from head to toe.

Gratefully, I beamed, hoped my grin was inviting. “Hi”, I answered. She is sooooooo-sooooooo charming, wow! My heart stopped it’s beating, my breath shortened. Wow! To be honest, I never met such a big woman in my whole life. She stood there, her lovely lips curved with a shy smile, capturing my heart. I knew instantly that SHE is the right woman for me. But I couldn’t do anything, as I promised P to be with her. I never break my promises.

The gorgeous woman in front of me gazed through me. I didn’t think to interrupt her in her meditation. When she finally landed, I expressed my hope she was in a good place, even if here is also nice. I was being playful, didn’t mean to get serious.

The lovely woman seemed as if she was pulled out of thoughtland. “Oh, yes, oh, so sorry”, she hurried to apologize and added: “I didn’t mean to…” What didn’t she mean? I don’t know. The woman caused my head to spin, I felt dizzy. In the background, other people shared, but their words became just fading noises. I was mesmerized by her flaming gaze. I shouldn’t stare, it’s not polite, but I can’t help it, she definitely had something in her that was sooooooo appealing. Amazing. I wished I never met P. Had we met just two months earlier, it could make the difference. Only two months! I was waiting for this fabulous woman for sooooooo looooooonnnnnnnggggggg. So-so long. Why couldn’t she come earlier? Just my rotten luck, unlucky me.

I assured her there’s no need to apologize. I can understand people have dreams. I also tend to do so.

“I’m Sarah”, she introduced herself.

“Jazmin”, I answered. Should I reach to shake her hand? What are the correct manners here?

“I hope that you won’t find it rude, but your accent, seems to be east European. May I ask where are you from?” The marvellous woman showed her interest in me, or maybe she was just small-talking? The English are known of that quality.

Proudly, I answered: “I’m from Israel, the Jews’ homeland.” Why did I add the last three words? I really have no idea. When I am excited, my mouth does speak by itself, without allowing me control over the words I should or should not sprout. This woman caused me excitement, no doubt about it. Hidden senses, I had suppressed a long time ago with no hope of feeling, started bubbling deep-deep in me. I think it was the first time in my whole life that I felt I actually have a heart. Until then, it was merely a pump, keeping me alive, not more.

“Oh, how nice!” Her face were a mixture of surprise and wonder. I wondered if I was her first Israeli… “Did you see the city already?” She continued to enquire.

“No, I haven’t managed to do that yet, as I just came here last Sunday”, I explained. I wish she would offer to show me the city.

The woman must be reading my mind… “Oh, I see. Would you like to get together and have a coffee someday?”

Some day? What does she mean by that? Why not tomorrow, maximum the day after tomorrow? When is this ‘some day’? I couldn’t restrain my joy though. My lips widened in a big smile. “Yes, I would love to, very much.” Do I sound eager enough? I was going to ask her when is convenient for her to meet, when P appeared from wherever she was, clinging to me, enclosing her gaunt arms around me, declaring her ownership. I don’t like her touch. It repels me. She does. In front of the lady of my dreams, she blurted out demandingly: “Hey, who are you talking to?”

“This is Sarah,” I answered reluctantly, moving myself away from her grasp. Then, I turned to my real lady: “Sarah, this is P.”

I could sense the tension. P was clenching her jaws together in a motion I never saw before, but nonetheless it did not proclaim good tidings. Her expression said she is not allowing anybody to enter her territory. I was the property she was going to defend. Sarah excused herself and fled for her life. I can’t blame her, P looked quite scary.

“I see you are socializing.” The words flew from her twisted mouth, her face deforming mockingly. She didn’t even smile.

London Leaves / A – Sarah’le

Calm waves at the seashore
Calm waves at the seashore

Novella in several parts (I’ll post the rest in the coming weeks)




The Rabba chanted the holy words, accompanied by the rest of the JGLG[1] members attending the ceremony of Kabalat Shabbat[2]. I love to be here, among friends. It’s better than being alone with my four walls. Two years passed since I told her I can’t cope anymore with her insane bloody attitude to life, to people, to herself and especially to me. Enough is enough, I told myself. I love you, I told her, but this is not how I imagined my life with my spouse. I want more. I need to be loved, to feel I am loved, and of course also to love back, to let out all these feelings that I have in me to give to the right woman. I love you, but I don’t think you are the right woman for me. No, you are not for me.

She was surprised at my rebellion, as I always was so obedient and never before had the courage to express my feelings. I couldn’t do that. I don’t know why I was scared to tell her off before, but I guess that there comes a time when enough is enough. ENOUGH IS really ENOUGH. Before she had the chance to respond, I collected myself and left her behind me. I thought I did…

She was standing there, across the room, leaning against the wall, looking somewhat lost. My heart started humming. Strange. My heart goes out for a stranger I have never met before. Without being able to think about it, my legs moved forward and I found myself standing in front of her, sending a claiming smile to the woman of my dreams. “My love”, I wanted to say, “come, let me take you with me to the Garden of Eden, let me wrap you with my love, let me…” However, I didn’t say any of this, just a polite hello came through my craving lips.

She beamed, her grin inviting. “Hi”, she answered, her calm voice reminding me of fallen leaves in a warm autumn, somewhere far away from here. Hidden yearnings started bubbling deep down, in places I thought I would never feel again. Not since Estelle… Oy vey, that woman doesn’t leave me in peace! She haunts me and still has a hold on me. I can’t be free of her, as if she had imposed a dark spell on me. When will I be free?

The lovely woman in front of me gazed at me. “I hope that you were in a good place, even if here is also nice”, she said playfully, flashing another smile.

“Oh, yes, oh, so sorry”, I hurried to apologize. “I didn’t mean to…” What didn’t I mean? I don’t know. She made my head spin, causing me dizziness. The background noises faded away, as I was caught in her mesmerized flaming gaze. I’m sure the Rabba and the others continue to praise the Lord for creating Shabbat for us to rest and enjoy, but I was praising my guardian angel for creating this lovely woman I was sure they did it especially for me.

“It’s OK, no need to apologize.” Her accent was not local. Polish perhaps? Czech? Is she from one of the former USSR’s countries?

“I’m Sarah”, I introduced myself.

“Jazmin”, she answered curtly. Not a woman of many words, I guess.

“I hope that you won’t find it rude, but your accent seems to me to be east European. May I ask where are you from?”

She straightened her compact limbs and answered: “I’m from Israel, the Jews’ homeland.”

“Oh, how nice!” Oh, an Israeli… how nice… Her accent is not typical Israeli though. I’ve met a few before, but was never involved with any of them. None captured my heart. Now this nice woman… I wonder how long she is here for. She wasn’t here last time. “Did you see the city already?”

“No, I haven’t managed to do that, as I just came here last Sunday.”

“Oh, I see. Would you like to get together and have a coffee someday?” Yes-yes-yes!!! Please, say yes!

Her smile, like the rainbow after a downpour, showed in her lovely blue eyes. “Yes, I would love to, very much.”

She said yes!!! An unrestrained urge drove me to take her in my arms and burst into a stormy Hora dance[3]. Well, I’m Aussie (not to mention Jewish…), so I don’t suffer from the dry restrained self-control the English are known for. My ancestors poured into my veins a need to be gay even in darkest times. I have been in a dark time since I left Estelle, as she didn’t leave me be and I was foolish enough to be persuaded by her seducing alluring words that she poured into my ears over the phone, when she felt alone and needed someone to abuse, and I was handy. Last time, was only a month ago. I went to her place again, yet again hoping we would reconcile, settle things and live happily ever after. The minute I walked through her door and lay my eyes on her, I knew I made a fatal mistake, as usual. Am I dumb? Am I so pathetic? Why do I allow this? She had a long face, as her grave sourpuss gaze faced me acrimoniously. I was familiar with this expression, which portended her forecoming behavior. It was foredooming we weren’t going to have peace. Again, she was going to enjoy herself in her twisted way and I was going to go through hell. Why didn’t I turn around and leave on the spot? I really don’t know. Maybe because I am optimistic in my nature, I always hope for the best, never consider the opposite. Or maybe I am just dumb. I’d rather think about myself as innocent. At the age of 56 plus a few months, I’m still naïve, childlike even. I was hoping her sour appearance would evaporate in a few minutes and we will talk things over and live happily ever after. It didn’t happen.

I was about to reach for the woman of my dreams, when a tall, pale, ugly-looking woman, appeared from nowhere, clinched to Jazmin, then wrapped her gaunt skinny arms around her, as if declaring her ownership. What an ugly woman! This is the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and I’ve seen quite a lot. Too many, as far as I’m concerned. Her tiny eyes, submerged in her faded face, they examined me inquisitively, absorbing my organs one by one. I was sure she X-rayed every bone in my body with her piercing gaze.

Still measuring me, without turning her head, she asked demandingly: “Hey, who are you talking to?” She widened her lips to what appeared to be a smile. My mother used to call this gesture “zuzing mit di tzain[4]“. One could feel her effort to maintain calm.

“This is Sarah,” answered the love of my life, wriggling away from the witch of London. “Sarah, this is P.”

P? What kind of name is P? Why P? Paula Abdul she is not – of this, I am pretty sure. As opposed to the talented singer, she has a harsh, raucous, unpleasant tone of voice, I doubt if she can carry a note. I cleaned my ears very thoroughly before I came here and I will have to do it again when I come home. Her obnoxious, annoying, grating, irksome voice stained their purity. Not to mention her eyes, those two acrimonious blades, going over my whole body, tainting it.

“Hello”, I said politely. “P stands for…” Not for princess as well, as she was wearing these tattered, worn-out ragged schmates[5] called “sport-elegant couture”.

“Her parents called her Paula, but nobody calls her that. She is P.” Jazmin volunteered the explanation, as the woman in question didn’t bother to answer.

Nu, P for pish, I couldn’t resist, Pee. Like in wee-wee… The Pishwoman. Witty, wow! I’m so sharp! The thought planted in her mind, as she felt the need to go and relieve herself of the few warming teacups she had during the evening. Secretly, Sarah examined the belittled woman with contempt. The nickname seems to suit her.

The woman didn’t bother to move her hand in order to shake mine, so I kept my hand to myself and didn’t reach her either. I excused myself, sending a quick smile to the one I wanted and went to release my body of its fluids. Alas, the woman of my dreams was already spoken for. My rotten mazel[6] again. But what could I expect? She looks so nice, it is only natural someone grabbed her. I wonder what Jazmin is doing with her. That P person looks horrible, so not suitable to my dear Jazmin. However, what do I know? I also had my fair share of meeting and being with crazy lesbians. Maybe P is what Jazmin needs. Who knows what is in the heart? My cup of tea is not necessarily the same as the others.

[1] Jewish Gay and Lesbian Group

[2]  The ceremony of lighting Sabbath candles

[3] Israeli folk dance

[4] Yiddish: gnashing a smile

[5] Yiddish: rags

[6] Yiddish: luck

Dear Rachel,

Dear Rachel,


Oh love, if only you knew what you know now. If I could give you a glimpse into the future, I promise you life would be so much better. You would breathe easier. You would make smarter choices. You would know that everything, everything, is going to be okay. You would know that you would grow up to be a creative, talented, confident person and that you dream big and work hard to achieve all of your dreams. 

You would know that your parents never ever stop loving you and eventually, not only do they help pay for your wedding to the woman of your dreams, but they show up too. I know you still believe that if someone asked you right now if your parents would be at your wedding, your first answer would be no. I’m here to tell you that they are. I have pictures to prove it.

Right now, you’re still working towards achieving your dreams, but you’re working hard. If you have a chance to go to school, just do it. It sucks and it’s hard and your math classes won’t be easy, but one of the things you wish you had right now was a degree. Don’t worry though. You’re doing just fine without one.

And remember that woman of your dreams I was telling you about? She’s amazing. Her name is Britany and my god she checks every box off your list. Let me let you in on a little secret though. There’s one box she doesn’t check and it’s the reason you two work so well. I’ll give you a hint: she’s not younger than you. Trust me though. It’s a good thing. You two were made for each other. It’s not always perfect or pretty but the fact that you two have made it through what you have made it through is a huge thing.

And let me tell you something, my sweet Rachel. You will not love your name forever. And that is okay. You don’t like the nicknames everyone is giving you now because they are too girly, too feminine. And you know that your name isn’t the right one either, but it’s your name so you stick with it. But I promise you, someone finally gives you a nickname that sticks. You hold onto it and it becomes you. It makes you stand up a little straighter and lift your chin a little higher. Because the moment someone calls you Ray for the first time, something shifts in you and you allow yourself to sink into the person you are a little bit more and your happiness grows each and every time someone uses it.

But I want to talk to you today about that piece inside of you that you have buried away so deep that you don’t even realize it’s there. That little voice in the back of your head telling you that something is wrong. You know it. You know something isn’t right, but you don’t have the word yet. And when you hear it for the first time, you ignore it. I know. It isn’t the only time you ignore it. You ignore it the second time, and the third time and the hundredth time. You ignore it because gender is a scary thing for you.

I get it, dear Rachel. Gender is still a scary thing for you. Right now, as you write this to yourself, you think how confused you are. You don’t fully understand it. You don’t have all the answers to all your questions. You don’t have all the answers to everyone else’s questions. You are afraid to tell people because you’re now coming out again, all over again. Coming out as gay was one thing. Coming out as non-binary is completely different and even more terrifying.

Maybe it’s because you’ve been through this process. You’ve felt the backlash. You’ve lost people you loved. You’ve been hurt and you don’t want to be hurt again. But let me tell you something, Rachel. It’s going to be okay. The ones who love you? They don’t care. They support you 110%. They do their best to use the right pronouns. They go to the bathroom with you. They stand up for you when people make comments or give you weird looks. You’re not alone in this. You’re never alone in this.

Rachel, you were born in a female presenting body, but you have never fully felt female. You have felt your body betray you over and over and over. When your chest grew. When your period started. Each betrayal hurt more and more and yet here you are, standing strong and learning to love yourself again.

Rachel, you are non-binary. And that’s okay. You don’t fit into a box, you never have. You are still an amazing person, who loves with all their heart, who dreams big (and I mean big), who has the cutest dog in the world, and who is still learning to accept the skin that they’re in. You’re not a boy, you know that. You’ve never wanted to be a boy and you still don’t want to be one. But you’re not a girl either. And it’s okay. You are you. You are exactly who you are and no one can take that away from you. Your wife has been using they/them pronouns for a while now and every time you hear her use them, your heart swells.

Life may be more difficult now. You may get more weird looks. You may lose a few people in your life. You may have people question you with questions you don’t know the answer to. But this is who you are and you have finally accepted that as a fact. It is time to live your true and authentic self.

Rachel, life is going to be okay. Keep your head up and keep moving forward. You’re going to be okay. I promise you. How can I make that promise? Well, because I am you.


Love always,


My Sunshine

My Sunshine
My Sunshine

 The minute you came into the room, my heart skipped a beat… or two, three, four, five… I did not count. You were exactly the woman I was looking for my entire life. You were exactly what I needed all my life. You were… ‘G-ddess all mighty’, I said to myself, ‘it can’t be true. You’re not real. It is just my eyes deceiving me and she is not truly flesh and blood, this woman is not real’.

I called you Sunshine and it does not matter that it was not your real name, since for me you were like sunshine. Sexy, astonishing, beautiful, and the warmth that beamed from you – was the real thing. I was always telling myself that love at first sight is not for real. I was sure that it can’t be happening in real life. Certainly not to me. But it seems that life is much more real and correct, than we could ever imagine.

I had a bad time. Nobody loved me, I lived by myself and climbed on walls. I dared not dream. I lived in margins, the days passing over me in vain, in emptiness, shirking through my longing fingers.

You “caught” me, the horrible loneliness that surely reflected from every move I made. I could not believe, but it happened. You approached to me and introduced yourself. And your name was not Sunshine, but I kept calling you that, as for me you were a sunbeam, a ray of light, a flame, that spark that lit my life.

I desperately needed motherly warmth. The enormous craving for a caressing soft hand, to calm my fears, was unbearable. I wanted to feel warm lips hover over my yearning forehead. To experience again the delight of innocent childhood…

You were very experienced and did not make any mistakes. You read me immediately with your sensitive senses and knew exactly what I needed. You massaged my aching back with such tenderness, that if I had tears of joy in me, they would surely burst from my eyes.

You made me feel completely comfortable. When you asked me to roll over on my back, I put my soul in your experienced hands. I laid supinely, disassembled into tiny chips, my mind is floating somewhere. Your hands moved lightly, stroking my brow and temples gently, kneading my breasts, sending electric currents into the tiny electrons that were my body, and then… your tongue, so soft, so sweet… and I didn’t know myself. All those flowing atoms that I was, the molecules moving in circles, scattering around the room, began to accelerate, moving toward an unseen centre, ascending, descending, turning around, streaming, combining… and through my short breaths, my confused, turning upside world, soft clouds embroidered, uniting into one sweet molecule…

And afterwards… Afterwards… you cradled me in your arms, putting my head between your soft breasts, your lips humming silently as if to calm a restless baby.


You were already married and my hopes had no chance to be fulfilled. For you, I was another flower, like the others, amongst whom you fluttered like a butterfly and scattered over them your nectar and honey. But also your stings. Despite this, I knew I came home. I felt that I found my soul mate whom I was searching for my entire life. During that night, I fantasized how we would live together in health and wealth happily ever after. Those walls, on which I used to climb with frustration, became filled with stars.

But then, morning has broken and you said that you must be off. I could not separate from you. My heart told me that you are not coming back. But what could I do? You were married and your wife was waiting for you at home. I gazed at your back with a pierced, heavy heart, how you deserted me after such a night full of magic and I was hurting all over…

Your hand was already on the doorknob and then… before my blood threatened to burst and drown me in an eddy of pain, you turned towards me, sent your warm gaze, like a sunbeam, and it was filled with love.


I’m trying not to think about the woman you deserted and wish her to find new love, a more suitable one. You and I rise every morning, gaze with love into each other’s eyes. What do you see in mine? I don’t know, but you are my sunshine, a beam that lights my life.

Hallucinating words


Ploughed field
Ploughed field


She picked flowers. Perhaps her beloved woman will come to her tonight.

She picked flowers. Shabbat is standing on the doorstep. In a while, evening will fall.

The field was almost ploughed. Long furrows stretched towards the horizon, some straight, others not. She wasn’t sure. There’s always this doubt. There are nights, saturated with love, nights with soft fullness. But these are so isolated. Isolating. The rest, when her lover doesn’t come to her. No, she doesn’t wish to think about it. Tonight she’ll come. Perhaps. If only!


She picked flowers.

A tiny tractor, like a children’s toy, buzzed in the distant horizon, hurrying to finish its work prior to nightfall. The soft pale blueness, wrapped with yellowish-pinkish rays of light, peeped down towards this lonely huwoman, forlorn upon the face of the earth, nodded to her its colours and began to swallow the orange fireball.

She picked flowers.

Earlier, the man driving the tractor passed her, big and thundering, filling her field of vision, preventing her from breathing, forcing her to turn sideways towards the barbed wire fence, leaving a veil of dirt behind him, encasing her in dust. He gave her a brief glimpse, estimating his odds. It was obvious from the expression on his face that he was in a hurry.


She picked flowers.

How can one pick flowers when there are none?


She picked flowers

Hallucinating words



No Woman Ever

Sweet cheese cake, very sweet!


I hoped. Expected. Yearned. Craved for you. I didn’t know what your thoughts were. Do you want me too, as much as I want you? Who can read someone else’s mind? You were a whole world to me. A new world I did not know. I never imagined I would ever know. You were a special woman.

We met in a crowded coffee shop. I was sitting at my regular spot, trying to fill in a blank paper with words for my column. The hustle & bustle around me did not disturb my concentration at all. I was used to it. It was something else. A feeling that something is going to happen in my life had nibbled inside me. Some unexplained craving was in the air. Perhaps because of the thick smoke, or maybe my efforts to seal my ears from the noise, I did not hear you at first. I was staring at my paper, trying to gather my scattered mind. ‘Must concentrate’, I said to myself, ‘otherwise it’s not going to work’.

My throat was dry. I reached for the glass and held the air. I was surprised. A minute ago it was still here. Where did it go? I raised my eyes and there you were standing, holding my glass in your hand, smiling.

“Hello,” you said. I was speechless. My tongue was stuck to my palate and couldn’t move. “Good manners is not your strongest point, ha?” You said kindly, putting your soft hand on my shoulder. A sweet shiver rushed over my body and I hoped that in the darkness you wouldn’t notice my blush.

I forced myself to come to my senses. “That’s not so,” I whispered the best I could, “it’s just that my throat is dry…”

You leaned towards me and brought the glass to my lips. I sipped, trying hard to stabilize my tremble. I didn’t know how to “digest” you. It never happened to me before that a strange woman took my glass and after a minute watered me, her breasts exposed in front of my face, her hand rests calmly on my neck. Did I imagine a stroke? I tried to drink slowly, so it won’t drip on my blouse, to avoid an unpleasant incident.

“Finished?” You asked, your face so close to mine. “Should I get you some more?”

“That’s OK,” I replied, “I’m OK now, thanks.” Some OK… My whole body was running wild. I couldn’t take my eyes off your exposed breasts. “May I help you?” I was trying to collect myself.

“I wanted to know, if it wouldn’t bother you me sitting at your table. It’s quite crowded here. Do you mind?”

Did I mind? How could I not? I have never felt like this when first meeting a woman. Never before, no woman caused me this sensation all over. Secretly, I gazed at you. You sat yourself down calmly on the chair beside me, making yourself comfortable.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” The words filtered through your lovely lips which held the cigarette, while your hands brought the burning match closer. Did I mind? So what? I was in an abstaining period and felt quite disturbed by smokers, but did not wish to drive you away. ‘A smoker’, I said to myself, ‘it’s not healthy’. Again I lowered my eyes to the paper. Is there any hope that I’ll finish the column tonight?

“Don’t pay any attention to me,” you said, your dark eyes burning at me like two fireflies, “I don’t wish to disturb.” I smiled. Maybe you don’t, but you already have. My whole being is running wildly, my heart is pounding in a rough Tam-Tam beat. I am in a trance. All my senses are alert and ready to absorb you. Your perfume surrounds me. My nose cannot be satiated enough… My eyes, instead of clinging to the paper, are constantly moving in your direction and stick to you when you are not looking. My body, as if it has a will of its own, is alert and wants you. My brain is scattered… ‘Calm yourself. Calm down! Otherwise, it won’t work’.

“I’m going to bring more drinks. Would you like some? Maybe a snack?”

I held out a bill of 50. “I would like a sandwich and some orange juice, thank you,” I forced the words out of my mouth. You could not possibly guess my wishes. If only you could read my thoughts… Goddess, it had never happened to me with a woman before!

“Here.” You open my hand gently and put the change in it. Who could imagine me daring to touch a strange woman’s fingers? Your hand lingers in mine and I begin to withdraw, embarrassed. “It is lovely touching a woman’s hand, isn’t it?” You don’t let go. The skin on my arms turns to gooseflesh. You caress the bumps, smiling to yourself. Did you catch me? The chair and me become one entity. A strange fairy touches me and turns my being upside down. My underwear is wet. It is advisable for me to run away and freshen up in the bathroom.

You allow me to flee. You know I’ll come back to you. The mirror reflects my gaze. My face is like a tomato, if I wet them, will it go away? Never… OK, I got it – no woman has ever made me feel like that until now. So, what should I do? Should I consent? Should I go for it? What? The mirror refuses to reply. My mouth curves with a hesitant smile. Would I dare?

“What is with you? Is everything all right?” Your worried eyes are attached to mine. Could you hear my heart beating? My gaze is stuck to your lips. They are so close. So inviting… I wish I could flutter gently on them. Sense them. Sense you… You look at me. The magic spell nails me to my seat. You bring your chair closer to mine. Your knees touch mine. Should I move? No chance. It is not possible. My body is utterly paralyzed.

“What is your name?” You ask, and I answer, as if in a dream: “Me? Or.”

“Nice name,” you say, “want to know mine?”

“Yes,” I barely answer. The hoarseness in my throat hurts.

“I’m Orly. Or and Orly. Nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is…”

“Your lips are so dry,” you observe and bring your tongue closer. My face is held in your hands. My breathing quickens. My lips are trembling, closed with passion on your tongue, unable to let go. That softness… Was it a kiss?

Long ago I forgot the world. So there won’t be a column for tomorrow. The world wouldn’t collapse. Neither will the newspaper.

“I live nearby,” you whisper to me, “would you like to come and see my place?” Of course I would! You could lead me anywhere you like. I’m in your hands. As yours are in mine. I see them holding your hips, caressing, sensing you, unable to depart…

“Please,” you stand beside the door and invite me in. I am inside. Small hesitant steps. My feet are heavy. You close the door and turn to me. Your arms interlace around me. My arms are around you. A hug. My lips are searching for yours. I am in a dream… “Want to take a shower? It’s hot, isn’t it?” You ask.

“OK,” I reply. The water runs calmly. You move your hands on my back, massaging gently. It is pleasant. You turn me towards you. My hands on your breasts, caressing, my palms sense how your nipples harden. Mine too. My hand slides slowly, submerged in you. “More,” you whisper to me and cling closer. My tongue moves on your nipples. It is tasty. And then… the groaning that your body releases… Like a present.

You take me to bed. My body craves for you. I never thought it is possible to feel such passion for a woman. You flow towards me. I flow towards to you. You study my body. I entrust my soul in your hands, moving to the rhythm you dictate.

No woman has ever made me feel like that.


Hallucinating words


Cold low brick wall
Cold low brick wall

Yesterday, my lovely spouse and I went strolling to one of the markets in Kingston Upon Thames, London, the Monday market, hoping to find some bargains. My partner is sheltered in the car and I am going out to feed the parking meter. A Japanese couple, perhaps Koreans, dressed casually (they are not tourists, they are locals – my brain notes the useful information) pass near me, the man glimpses at me momentarily and moves on, my image does not engrave on his eyeballs.

“Excuse me”, I ask him in a strictly kosher Israeli accent, as I realize I cannot understand what the parking meter demands of me without my reading glasses, which I left in my bag in the car. Well, clearly, it wants money, but under what conditions? “Can you please assist me?” The couple stops, glances at me surprisingly. “I can’t read the machine. What do I have to do, how much money should I put in?” I send him the helpless gaze of a distressed female, which I keep for times like this, including the need to change a tire, because why get dirty, when there is always a male who rushes to assist in order to feel superior? Indeed, I don’t mind letting my fellow-man feel good, as long as it helps them to assist me…

That person adjusts his belt, sticks out his masculinity and draws near to study the secrets of the appliance. He scratches his forehead, while his docile quiet wife stands behind him politely and tries not to stick out. After studying the complicated instructions of the device thoroughly, he repeats the directions loudly, for me. The words pass over me, without entering my consciousness. It is a foreign language, not my mother tongue.

“You see”, the person explains slowly and patiently, noticing my empty gaze. “It says here, you should put two pound per hour, OK?”

OK. I thank him, bending towards him with a wide bow, according the custom of his people, sending an apologetic smile to his patient spouse. The woman curved her lips slightly. Sadly, we parted with 4 pounds in favour of parking lawfully, hoping that two hours would be enough.

I’m going back to my spouse. Obediently, she sticks the sticker onto the car’s window. Should a parking warden arrive – s/he won’t give us a ticket, G-d forbid. It’s better to pay 4 pounds instead of the threatening 100. Reflecting in the car’s window, a woman’s silhouette goes beyond me, advances heavily, dragging her feet one after the other, heel to toe, very slowly. My consciousness does not pay her any attention; I forget her existence within a split second.

Although the air stood still and the wind didn’t blow and the promised rain had not yet drizzled on our heads (it started to fall heavily in the afternoon), it was colllldddd! Before leaving the house, I wisely wore my wool warm gloves and a matching hat, which covered my ears that usually freeze, without paying attention to my beloved’s remark that I look strange, as “the English do not wear hats in this time of year, only when it’s really cold and this weather is not considered as such.” What do I care about these Englishmen or women? My ears are very important to me, certainly more than what these strangers will think about me.

We are walking leisurely, arm in arm (despite the hat on my head), anticipating spending a pleasant day, browsing the goods and purchasing. “Poor thing”, my merciful spouse whispers to me at the sight of the stranger, crawling with measured steps, “she has surely had a stroke, see how she drags half of her body.” I was busy capturing the sights with my camera. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the slim woman, wearing a thin shirt and brown trousers, made of delicate cotton. I nod my head. The woman stopped, slowly turned to the side, casting her coat on the cold low brick wall on the sidewalk nearby, with the berry bushes behind, seating herself.

“Crow-Crow”, a big raven lands near her, crows loudly, stamps his legs, waiting to be fed. I guess they were old friends.

We are getting near, my camera clicking. The raven flies, taking off and finds shelter on the highest pole in the neighbourhood. Our eyes meet. The woman smiles at us politely with her weary lips. Casually, she took out, from somewhere, matches, an elongated, gold faded colour tobacco box, with cigarette paper, and punctiliously started to arrange them, entirely concentrated. I look at her hands, her exposed fingers playing with the stuff.

“Colllldddd!” I complain to my beloved. She smiles at me and teasingly censures why I left my warm country precisely at this time and came to this damp and gloomy place. The unfamiliar person stopped her activity, her ears straightened when she lifted her head towards us. “She’s from Israel”, my spouse hurried to explain to the stranger, ignoring the security instructions for the Israelis abroad, she never got. With all my heart, I hope the unknown person is not a potential terrorist and she will not draw a knife on me. I don’t have the energy for street fights, especially not in this freezing cold.

“Oh, Israel”, the local woman drags her words, leaving them to ice up in the cold air. I don’t have a clue what she is thinking about. Her tone of voice did not give it away. At least she didn’t attack me.

We continue walking, leaving the mysterious lady to her own devices. The market appeals to me, I’m sure I’ll find my heart’s desires there, mainly some bargains. I didn’t find any. My spouse explains that the recession affects the displayed merchandise. It is just a market. I was looking for cheap, bargain, souvenirs of England, but nada, nothing at all. I didn’t look for quality, but didn’t expect rubbish either. In Israel, at the Carmel market in Tel Aviv, we have better quality. I was quite disappointed.


Two hours later, our legs are weary. Fine rain, annoying, starts to fall, threatening to wet my camera. I put it back to its case. I am done with the photo shooting for today. We rush to the car. The raven is running in panic, back and forth, passing his gaze from us to the road, seeking an explanation, its eyes try to understand what they see: a silent ambulance stood in the middle of the street, its lights flashing, it loads into its belly a zipped plastic body bag.

An orphaned box, its black edged mouth open, shreds of tobacco on the berry bushes moving in the wind.


Hallucinating words

Bad Queer

And maybe in a year, I will not feel like a bad queer

Adult Mom, “Survival”


Autostraddle “To L and Back”

About 6 months ago, I was listening to my favorite queer podcast (Buffering the Vampire Slayer, which I’ve written about here), when Kristin Russo announced she would be co-hosting season one of my soon-to-be other favorite queer podcast, To L and Back, in which Riese Bernard (co-founder of the site for and by queer women, Autostraddle) and Russo discuss every episode of the infamous lesbian Showtime series everyone loves to hate— The L Word. 

As I cued up the first episode, I was unprepared for how swiftly I was yanked back to the blossoming of my own queer sexuality at 19 years old, over a decade ago. 




I first started watching The L Word when I was still living at home. No one recommended it to me. I had no openly queer friends. I had no cable. But I did have a video store within walking distance of my house. I have no idea what moved me to rent the first season on DVD, but I’m lucky I did. 

At the beginning of my To L and Back binging, I had very little memory of The L Word’s specific characters, story arcs, episodes, or seasons. I only watched it once. I remember feeling that, lesbians aside, the show wasn’t very good.

The L Word, Season 3, Episode “Lost Weekend”

But I do remember watching the pilot, watching two women have sex for the first time, and thinking…this is hot! I really like this. I really want this.

It was such a subtle switch for me. I’d gone through my adolescence and early sexual experiences assuming I was straight, because I really didn’t think there was any other option. (Thank you, compulsory heterosexuality) Despite growing up in the Bay Area, I lived in a small island-town attending high school in the early 2000’s. Not long ago, but it could have been eons compared to the growth in LGBTQIA+ cultural visibility that has taken place in the past 20 years. (Never enough) I had no role models, and no community.

sokly543 on Youtube

I had TV. I had a lesbian-softcore-porn-soap-opera. Without which it may have taken me much much longer to begin my conscious queer journey.

Since then, I haven’t thought much about the little show that first raised my pulse and made my blood rush into a host of unexpected crevasses. To L and Back returned me to the inciting incident of my queerness and made me ask myself, why haven’t I been back to visit this beat until now?

Love. Or some shit.

Today is Valentines day. I figured I would write about love or some shit. I could talk about how much I love my wife and how amazing she is and how she deserves so much more than chocolate and flowers. I could write about how this year, gifts just isn’t really an option due to finances. I can talk about how I learned about the biggest way I could show her I love her is through all the little things in life. I could tell you all about my relationship and how it works and our love.

Have a cute photo of us anyway though

But I’m not going to. 


Instead, I’m going to talk about what I hope my relationship someday becomes. I’m going to talk about the GOAT of relationships in my life. I’m going to talk about my grandparents. My grandparents, who in our family were lovingly referred to as Ganny and Papa, had a relationship that I have always strived to obtain. They were old school. Papa was the provider. Ganny was the matriarch. Papa would fix things and build things and bbq. Ganny baked and sewed and knitted. But growing up, they were perfect. 

This was them. All the time.

I had them up on a high pedestal: they always held hands. They kissed just because. Papa gardened and he would always bring in a flower or two for Ganny. Ganny would always make sure Papa’s stains came out of his nice shirts. She would make him dinners she knew he would enjoy. She would patch up his clothes so it always seemed like he never needed new ones. 


But one of my favorite things about their relationship was their valentines day tradition. Every year, Papa would hand make Ganny a valentine. It would be heart shaped usually but sometimes it was out of paper. Or wood. Or felt. And he would always write some cheesy valentine line on it. 


“Now you have my heart. Happy Valentines Day.” 

“I wood be nothing without you. Happy Valentines Day.”

“My love grows for you each and every day. Happy Valentines Day”


I loved coming over around Valentines day because Ganny would display the valentine Papa made for her on their mantle and I loved seeing what Papa would come up with every year. Ganny would always tell the story of how he presented it with pride while Papa sat in his spot on the couch with a humble smile on his face. Every once in a while he’d pipe in with a detail Ganny may or may not have known. I lived for these stories from them. They always made me extremely happy. 


I lost Ganny in 2016. Papa passed away last year. I could tell how lonely Papa had gotten once Ganny had passed. My mom and I would go over once a week for dinner and I loved our dinners, but it never felt like enough. I always felt bad leaving at the end of the night. You could tell he missed his wife.

I hope my marriage lasts just like theirs. Strong and fully in love.

This year is the first year they will be back together again for Valentines day and I know Papa is making Ganny something amazing wherever they are. It will be handmade and cheesy and full of love and it will be wonderful.


They weren’t perfect people, but they loved with their entire hearts. They taught me that love is the greatest gift you have to give and when executed correctly, it is fun and silly and meaningful and isn’t something one overthinks and is never harmful and is always amazing. But most importantly, they taught me that sometimes, the best gifts are the simple ones made with love.