My One Night Stand With The Israeli Rambo
I first laid eyes on Lior when he performed a demonstration for a group of tourists at the facility where he worked as the lead counter-terror instructor in Jerusalem. He appeared out of nowhere and once I saw him I couldn’t see anything else. He was insanely handsome, rugged, sexy, and built like any good soldier should be. His Rambo-like look: fatigues, dark sunglasses, shaved head, bronzed skin, and a pistol on his hip gave him an intimidating, movie star-like presence. Think real-life Fauda. Think sex in combat gear.
With a single one-word command in Hebrew, the trained-to-kill Belgian Shepard by his side jumped six feet in the air, through a small window, and attacked a fake terrorist on the flip side. Although this performance was carried out in the most professional, serious, and frightening manner, in my mind it was nothing more than a pure act of seduction. Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he disappeared. I figured I had no chance of ever seeing him again, and was already bored a half-hour into the two-hour course, so my mom and I left and went to the gift shop.
I was trying on a t-shirt when Mr. Fantasy peeked his head in and looked at me, while he stood outside smoking a cigarette. I knew it was a cue, and that he was looking for me because I was the only person in there. With a ridiculous sense of urgency — as if the world was on fire — I threw all my belongings on the floor and darted outside. I would have dropped a baby to talk to him.
I gave my phone to my mother and told her to keep taking pictures, while I shamelessly flirted/borderline harassed him in front of her. He was talking to me seriously — something about how he’s in a Netflix show, yada yada — I wasn’t even listening. I couldn’t hear anything he said because I was so mesmerized by his physical aura that it rendered me deaf. He was the hottest man I had ever met in my life and based on the thousands of comments, hearts, and flame emojis on his Instagram posts, I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
As soon as I got back to my hotel room I slid into the DMs of the real-life Zohan. He asked me to have a drink with him the following night and I immediately sent his picture to five of my friends at home, then texted our guide telling her to clear our schedule for the following day because obviously, I needed to go lingerie shopping more than I needed to see Masada. I stayed up that whole night fantasizing about him. I thought about the size of his arms and hands, his military demeanor, and whether or not he would kill me in bed. He was the first guy to make me nervous since the ninth grade. I began to mentally prepare for a night of Israeli battle cock.
The next day he texted and asked if I wanted to meet at 22:00. My mom and I argued about what time 22:00 was. She said it was 8 o’clock, I said it was 10. Had to google it. Clueless. He showed up wearing a vintage navy fitted Superman t-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots, which I deemed the best outfit in the history of ever. As hot as he was, though, he wasn’t all looks and sexual magnetism. He was also funny, charming, charismatic, smart, and more interesting than most men I knew, which made him even hotter and more sexually magnetic. He took me to a restaurant and when we got out of the car he went to get something from the trunk. “It’s so nice to be in a normal country,” I said as I followed him.
He opened the trunk and pointed to a machine gun. “You think this is normal?” he asked.
After we ate he took me on a short tour of the Old City. We went to an infamous (to him) spot on Yoel Moshe Soloman Street where one of his bullet holes was in a cement water fountain from a thwarted terrorist attack in 1997. He also pointed out a store whose plate glass window he’d run through after a suicide bomber with grenades strapped all over him appeared out of nowhere. I commented that what he did was scary and he replied, “Exciting, not scary.” His resume was intense, intriguing, and entirely foreign to me. He had served in the military, worked undercover for the border police, and was a former counter-terror sniper. He had killed people. He had been stabbed multiple times. This wasn’t a Park Avenue hedge fund guy who couldn’t change a lightbulb. This was a real man — strong, confident, fearless, and, obviously, crazy. We were a perfect match because he was willing to die for his country, and I was willing to die for him.
Eventually, with no argument from me, he took me back to his place, somewhere in the West Bank. A foreign city within a foreign city. I wasn’t afraid, though. I was deathly afraid to step on a four-inch wet rock while hiking, but going back to a strange guy’s house by myself, a world away from anything familiar, in a tiny country surrounded by enemies, didn’t phase me. We had sex twice and it was very normal and sensual, not violent and psychotic like I had predicted. Afterward, he was gracious and gave me a glass of lemonade-flavored Schweppes soda. He drove me back to my hotel in Jerusalem barefoot, wearing only a tank top and shorts, while he told jokes, chain-smoked, and ate gummy bears. I was terrified but in love.
The next morning we left Jerusalem so I didn’t get to see him again. We stayed in touch via WhatsApp, where I sent him nudes and he left me sexy voice messages that, with the language barrier, made no sense, yet still turned me on because I love his voice and I have the brain and libido of a 17-year-old boy. He told me he missed me and I didn’t understand how you could miss someone you spent one night with who lived over 6000 miles away, but I missed him even more. And as soon as this pandemic thing is over, and I learn Hebrew, and figure out military time, and move to Israel, it’s over for all the other bitches who are after him.
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