Skin Hunger (For E.)

"What's it called?"
    "Skin hunger".

    It was the middle of choref zman. Moshe and Dov were supposed to be learning about how a man is exempt from reciting kriat shema on his wedding night - a topic that Dov knew was on many of his friends' minds: He heard them dissecting the stocking-covered calves of the women they went on dates with, and the loud grunts that came in the middle of the night from the bathroom, the guilty faces when they unlocked the stalls.

    The topic of marriage was not that far off from his mother's mind either: "Everyday, I pray for you to get a good zivug", she said, when they spoke on the phone. Like his classmates, he too, went to the Inbal, where he would drink coffee with girls with brown hair and soft eyes. Sometimes he could see the outline of their breasts sticking out from beneath the button-down shirts. He'd trace the points of their nipples with his eyes. They were beautiful, and he wanted to want them, wished he desired to kiss them the way men did in the movies his classmates downloaded to their computers.

But at the end of the evening, he was always left with the same sensation he felt after watching football: It had been pleasant, but there were better things he could do with his time. He heard his mother sigh, every time he informed her that there would be no second date, that he would have to go back to the shadchan - and sometimes, as he sipped tea and spoke about middos, he could see them wondering, what the point was - but then they would pick their pens up and start scribbling, no doubt thinking of the bonus they received for each introduction.

    This was what Dov was thinking about, when Moshe explained to him that there was a technical term for the human need for physical contact. "It doesn't have to be sexual", he explained. Dov nodded. "I understand." His hand brushed Moshe's, as he reached for his Gemarah that lay on the table between them. He blushed.

    "Skin hunger". The words kept seeping into his mind, and he would find himself muttering the phrase at random moments, like when he was opening his siddur or trying to pee. He wondered: How many of them had it, these chaste boys who went on coffee-dates? Or had they grown so used to being satisfied by their own hands that they no longer felt it? The thought made him sad.

    In chevruta, they learned that a mourner, like a first-time lover, was exempt from reciting the shema, and Dov tried to figure out what they had in common. "Well, I'd imagine those are both very traumatic experiences", Moshe said, "losing someone, and making love for the first time. Did you know orgasms were called les petits morts in French?" "Where did you learn that?" "In a book I snagged from my uncle's shelf - my mom's a baal teshuva, so none of my relatives are religious." Moshe grinned. "I received quite an education during family gatherings." Dov laughed. The rebbe gave them a stern look. "We should get back to shteiging". The words of Rashi and Tosfot filled their tongues for the next few hours.

    That week, the war broke out: Southern Israel was bombarded by rocket-fire. The yeshiva had special assemblies, during which they would say tehillim, and all students were encouraged to extend their night-seder hours, in hopes that the zechus of their limmud Torah would act as a segulah for the Jewish people. Often, during those extra hours,Dov would find himself staring at Moshe's shoulder blades, wondering what it would be like to touch them, or how Moshe's chest would feel against his lips.

    Skin hunger.

    That Friday night, they were on their way to shul, when a siren rang out, warning of an incoming rocket. Dov and Moshe ducked into the nearest stairwell - common procedure in case of a rocket attack. They were packed tightly with some ten other people. A girl was crying. Dov put his arm around Moshe's shoulder. Dov looked at him, but did not move. The siren faded. Moshe dropped his arm, and they walked back into the street, neither one meeting each other's eye.

    They walked into the synagogue; the entrance was narrow, so they each walked in single file: Dov felt Moshe slip his fingers into the back pocket of his pants. He turned around. Moshe shot him a bashful smile. Then the fingers were gone. Dov smiled back, kissed the mezuzah, and took his seat. Moshe sat beside him. Together, they opened their siddur and prepared to give praise to their Creator:

    It is good to praise God and to sing to Your Name, O Most High.