The rabbi let me kiss him in his Pontiac but then he called me a lech, he said, “You’re younger than me, but you’re already an old lech, a shame to the community of believers.” And then he changed his mind and said, “I’m sad that I’m forced to call you an old lech, I’m sad to behold and admit your feebleness and incapacity as a moral agent. Yes, you’re a sexual citizen, but you’re a stammering and pocked citizen, not privy to the divine currents I traffic in, both in my ‘day job’ as rabbi and in my nocturnal or underground career as erotic Daddy to a new generation of worshippers.” I hadn’t yet protruded my tongue into his mouth. My kiss had been relatively dry. I hadn’t sucked his tongue as if it were a Popsicle stick from which I was trying to extract the last drops of raspberry flavor, fake sugary raspberry substitute, a Popsicle stick tasting foully of cheap wood without the blessing of genuine fruit flavor, only a Pontiac style of flavor, a raspberry simulacrum degraded to the level of a dented Pontiac with an embarrassing superfluity of mileage clocked on its sordid odometer. If he’d asked me to, I’d have licked the odometer or placed the head of my cock against it to anoint the odometer and announce: “I grant you a sexuality. Even an odometer has the right to a flood of sexual desire pouring out in all the wrong directions.”