cookies. So he was encouraged to proceed apace.
He was now searching for his second property, as he had learned to call ideas for movies (yes, all businesses were alike), and it was for this project that Fred was trying to convince Abe to go gay.
Abe was also searching for something else. Like Fred, he was troubled with certain metaphysical problems in his life. I am searching for something, I have taken so much, what can I give back, were thoughts that daily crossed his brow. I have made so many people fat and they have made me fatter. Do Mr. Bronfman and Mr. Schenley worry in their nighttimes about how many drunks they have sent into the world? Or Mr. Winston and Mr. Marlboro about how many cancers? Mr. Bronfman has built a great building. What am I building? Perhaps Fred is right. Perhaps it is important for me to be his conduit of enlightenment in order to receive my own expiation. But is he not dealing in such schmutz! Fegalim! Please God to tell me if my sainthood comes from cock suckers! Perhaps it is better to wait. The Jew has always waited. For the homeland, for the Messiah, for the acceptance. We are still waiting. Perhaps it is time to stop waiting for the Leader and the Savior and to lead and save ourselves. But are these boys my Mission?
Abe, the philosopher. He stood peeing in Bloomingdale’s, oblivious to Fred’s shoppers, and pondered the unending powerlessness in Jewish history and realized the commonality with Fred’s fegalim. And then he thought, profoundly, how there was something grand about living in hope, but also something terribly unreal and incomplete about it, because when you were hoping, you were not doing or living or experiencing the Now, but deferring and not fulfilling, and that those concepts of Judaism, on which he had been weaned, compelled a life lived in deferment, nothing could be irrevocably accomplished, it was like an orgasm with never an ejaculation, and if it was great to be a Waiter, wasn’t it also weak? Was it now and at last and forever time to stop waiting? But for what?!
Feeling more like Spinoza or Maimonides than Abe, he too zipped up and flushed, and headed back to Ephra’s command post. He does not know it, but the horrors he is to confront in this latest chapter of his search for Meaning, Enlightenment, Where Is the Rational?, on which the emancipated Jew so prides himself, will be such as to make him…what? A Job? A Hitler? An Abe?
There is talk on the Village streets of a fifteen-year-old high-school student from suburban New Jersey who stands at the corner of Christopher and Hudson, outside of a particularly unsavory male boutique, and waits for assignations to suck his cock in the dark.
His cock is ten inches long. Flaccid.
He doesn’t have to wait very long.
He now charges money for his endowment.
Have you any idea how long a ten-inch cock is? Measure it out on a ruler or tape. You will be amazed. Although there is some medical evidence that the male musculature is not able to constantly erect so much, this drawback perhaps does not occur in one so young. At least not for a while.
The lad is very much in demand. He loves it.
His name is Wyatt Bronstein.
Enter Ephra, Abe’s first wife.
“Abe, you flushed my toilet.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You want to flush, you go home to what your bimby’s left you.”
“Ephra, something happened. I had to go again. Bloomingdale’s is closed.”
“After all these years, you couldn’t keep your tinkle in?”
“No! And what’s so terrible about that? Do you know what Fred told me?”
“I don’t want to hear.” Ephra covered her ears.
“Some fegalim tinkle on each other!”
“I worry for him. He’s all alone. What will he do when he’s old like us? If there are so many fine fegalim in this city like he says, what’s his trouble?”
“His horoscope predicts great things for this year. Previously, I gather, his planets would not allow him to fall in love before he was
He was now searching for his second property, as he had learned to call ideas for movies (yes, all businesses were alike), and it was for this project that Fred was trying to convince Abe to go gay.
Abe was also searching for something else. Like Fred, he was troubled with certain metaphysical problems in his life. I am searching for something, I have taken so much, what can I give back, were thoughts that daily crossed his brow. I have made so many people fat and they have made me fatter. Do Mr. Bronfman and Mr. Schenley worry in their nighttimes about how many drunks they have sent into the world? Or Mr. Winston and Mr. Marlboro about how many cancers? Mr. Bronfman has built a great building. What am I building? Perhaps Fred is right. Perhaps it is important for me to be his conduit of enlightenment in order to receive my own expiation. But is he not dealing in such schmutz! Fegalim! Please God to tell me if my sainthood comes from cock suckers! Perhaps it is better to wait. The Jew has always waited. For the homeland, for the Messiah, for the acceptance. We are still waiting. Perhaps it is time to stop waiting for the Leader and the Savior and to lead and save ourselves. But are these boys my Mission?
Abe, the philosopher. He stood peeing in Bloomingdale’s, oblivious to Fred’s shoppers, and pondered the unending powerlessness in Jewish history and realized the commonality with Fred’s fegalim. And then he thought, profoundly, how there was something grand about living in hope, but also something terribly unreal and incomplete about it, because when you were hoping, you were not doing or living or experiencing the Now, but deferring and not fulfilling, and that those concepts of Judaism, on which he had been weaned, compelled a life lived in deferment, nothing could be irrevocably accomplished, it was like an orgasm with never an ejaculation, and if it was great to be a Waiter, wasn’t it also weak? Was it now and at last and forever time to stop waiting? But for what?!
Feeling more like Spinoza or Maimonides than Abe, he too zipped up and flushed, and headed back to Ephra’s command post. He does not know it, but the horrors he is to confront in this latest chapter of his search for Meaning, Enlightenment, Where Is the Rational?, on which the emancipated Jew so prides himself, will be such as to make him…what? A Job? A Hitler? An Abe?
There is talk on the Village streets of a fifteen-year-old high-school student from suburban New Jersey who stands at the corner of Christopher and Hudson, outside of a particularly unsavory male boutique, and waits for assignations to suck his cock in the dark.
His cock is ten inches long. Flaccid.
He doesn’t have to wait very long.
He now charges money for his endowment.
Have you any idea how long a ten-inch cock is? Measure it out on a ruler or tape. You will be amazed. Although there is some medical evidence that the male musculature is not able to constantly erect so much, this drawback perhaps does not occur in one so young. At least not for a while.
The lad is very much in demand. He loves it.
His name is Wyatt Bronstein.
Enter Ephra, Abe’s first wife.
“Abe, you flushed my toilet.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You want to flush, you go home to what your bimby’s left you.”
“Ephra, something happened. I had to go again. Bloomingdale’s is closed.”
“After all these years, you couldn’t keep your tinkle in?”
“No! And what’s so terrible about that? Do you know what Fred told me?”
“I don’t want to hear.” Ephra covered her ears.
“Some fegalim tinkle on each other!”
“I worry for him. He’s all alone. What will he do when he’s old like us? If there are so many fine fegalim in this city like he says, what’s his trouble?”
“His horoscope predicts great things for this year. Previously, I gather, his planets would not allow him to fall in love before he was
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