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I was on a quest to find out if Viagra would work in incredibly non-sexy environments [read Part 1 here]. Now it was time for...  On a hot Friday evening, I walked into Boston's largest temple, mentally reciting all the Yiddish words I knew. Inside the door, a man stood behind a large table, greeting guests. "Shalom," I said, walking past quickly. The Viagra was starting to course through my veins, and I didn't want him to think I was a schmuck. It turns out he was handing out hymnals and programs for the service, which would have been useful. Oy vey. I entered a spacious, modern synagogue that looked not unlike a large conference room at the Sheraton, only Jewier. I sat down in the last row, feeling like a leftover boy goy. There were three rabbis leading the singing portion of the service: a younger man, an older woman, and an older man playing guitar. The older woman had the intelligent attractiveness of a college Literature professor, and as I looked at her, Moses began to raise his rod and staff.  Not incredibly user-friendly. There was a lot of singing in Hebrew, which was difficult since I didn't have a hymnal, and I don't speak Hebrew. There were also not many happy songs; everyting was in a minor key. No wonder the Jews are always complaining; maybe a little uptempo number in A major would help now and again. I mean, they eventually made their way out of the desert, right? Some people would write a celebratory tune, not a song called, "Oy, My Bunions." Everyone stood up to sing the next downtempo number, which was a problem for me. I did a stand/hunch combo, and tried to make up some words. "Mazeltov, mazeltov," I sang quietly. "Schlemiel, Schlimazel, Hasenpfeffer Incorporated." I hugged the chair in front of me, to hide the serpent that tempted Eve. Suddenly, the entire congregation turned around and faced me. This was incredibly awkward: I didn't want to turn around, because King Solomon would be out in the open -- but I was in the last row, staring helplessly at everyone, facing the wrong way. Reluctantly, I turned around and faced the back wall like everyone else. What was so important back there? Was there a special guest? Was the bride about to enter? Nothing happened, except for Noah building an ark in my pants (and there were two of every animal, all right). Meanwhile, I could feel all the yentas within eyeshot burning a hole in my schlong.  It's not easy to take pictures when you're hiding your camera and your cocker spaniel. "Now we have welcomed the Shabbat," said Professor Rabbi, leading me to wonder if the Shabbat was an imaginary creature, like a gefilte fish with wings. "Let us greet each other with 'Shabbat Shalom.'" My heart sunk into my crotch as I realized we were going to have to talk to other people. I stayed close to the row of chairs in front of me, looking around frantically for someone within shaking distance. There was a woman sitting alone on the end of my row. "Shalom," I said to her, standing in place and extending my hand -- the only thing not extended at the moment. "Shabbat shalom," said the woman, in a voice about three octaves below middle C. "I'm Stephanie." I realized I was sitting next to a transsexual Jew. Maybe you think you've had confusing sexual experiences in life. Try sitting next to a transsexual Jew, in a synagogue, on Viagra. This should be enough for my therapist to finally pay off her Mercedes.  "She" was strangely attractive, with enormous kishkas and a face like a shiksa. Except for the deep baritone voice and the Adam's apple, I might not have known she was a he. Whether she still had a penis was anyone's guess, but at the moment I had enough for the both of us. The younger rabbi began to deliver a sermon on Moses, but I couldn't focus, as I kept trying to sneak glances down the aisle at Dr. Frank N. Furter. How much more minority can you be than a transexual Jew? All she needed was to be black, an an amputee. It's hard to form a support group, though, when you're a minority of one. After forty years of wandering around his point, the sermon was thankfully over, and then English Lit Rabbi showed some extreme chutzpah.. "If anybody is visiting us for your first, second, or third time," she said, "would you please stand." Now, you should never make visitors stand, if you want them to return. This goes double if they are on Viagra. So Stephanie and I stood, the two meshugeners in the back row. The comedy writer with the caulking gun in his pants, and the drag queen with the voice like James Earl Jones. A woman in front of me was literally staring, her eyes moving back and forth between my crotch, and Stephanie's breasts. "What a putz," she was thinking.  I've never been so thankful for a tie. After the service, they had some delicious refreshments served out in the foyer: bread and juice. I am not making this up: there were two items served, one of them bread and the other juice. I thought to myself, Hey, that's the Christian meal! I wanted to politely inform someone they were eating the body of Christ, but then I just felt sorry for them. I mean, you go to a Southern Baptist church and you'll get platters of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and lard-dipped Ding Dongs. But bread and juice? That's one step above prison food. No wonder their songs are so sad. I managed to escape the synagogue without talking to anyone, which was just as well: it's bad form to poke someone in the leg when meeting them for the first time, unless you are a Doberman in heat. I lost track of Stephanie, but she apparently vanished like her scrotum. This was a record. Viagra even worked in a somber, solemn synagogue setting, with a creepy cross-dresser close by. I could think of only one religious experience that was less sexy: the Church of Scientology. |
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