The thing about virgins

The Thing about Virgins 

Because it tends to be a ‘man’s world,’ in most male dominated chauvinistic societies, men have no desire to be virgins themselves, but always seem to want one for a wife. Then they like to boast about it if they have had sex with a woman for her first time.

  • Yep. Popped her cherry all right. She bled like a stuck pig, too.
  • Cool man. You’re lucky. Never had one myself.
  • Yep. Seems like they just don’t make too many of ‘em anymore.
  • You got that one right, my man. It’s a rare vintage indeed.

Virgin worship is nothing new, probably represents little more than a symbolic veneration of something not yet corrupted and is an atavistic theme permeating many primitive or aboriginal societies. Having sex with a virgin also ensures no chance of getting an STD, unless perhaps getting oral herpes from a French kiss.

Veneration of virgins was particularly true in ancient Rome, when six virgins always lived in the temple of the goddess Vesta—hence the derivation of the term ‘Vestal Virgin.’ This goddess represented the sanctity of the hearth as being central to the preservation of home and family. In being one of the oldest of the Roman goddesses (represented by icons rescued from the fires of Troy) she ensured the safety of Rome, but only if these icons were preserved, venerated and carefully tended. Vestal virgins were responsible for keeping the sacred fire in the temple of Vesta as well as for oversight of the sacred icons. They also had the responsibility of baking special breads, mola salsa, or ‘sacred cakes’ made from the first harvest of corn, ultimately then being considered as a food offering for the gods.

Women between the ages of six to ten selected for this duty would commit to a thirty-year tour as temple servants. Any lapse in the vows to keep the sacred fire burning or worse, to maintain their virginity would result in punishments as severe as being buried alive. Their annual ritual of sweeping and cleaning the temple is the derivation of our current cultural idea of “spring cleaning.” How it was determined if they had been deflowered has never been explained, but if I had to pick a different career in medicine, I would be the first in line to sign up for consideration as the Secretary Inspector of Vestal Virgins.

However, Roman social hierarchy was so chauvinistic in structure that the seating chart at the Coliseum, running top to bottom, meaning worst to best, went as follows:

7. Mothers, wives, widows and whores

6. Slaves

5. Husbands

4. Plebeians

3. Wealthy aristocrats

2. Senators

  1. The Emperor, his family and closest friends

Then, in a tent located next to the Emperor, at field level so to speak, resided the Vestal Virgins. (Row 1-A)

Married women, widows, non-virgins and prostitutes were so heavily discounted that a virgin was considered three times as valuable as a woman who had already lost her virginity—or even her husband. Not only was the value of a virgin considerably higher than that of an “already made woman,” but the concept of virgins mating or having mated with various gods was also a theme that consistently runs through many ancient societies.

In Babylon the Chaldean priests selected one virgin female from the entire population to be the human consort of the god, Bel.

In Egypt a woman slept in the temple of Ammon as his consort.

Egyptian monarchs were also considered to be the offspring of Ammon, such that in a parallel leap of faith, and with a peculiar costumed sex game, the reigning king would assume the personage of Ammon before having intercourse with the queen.

In ancient Greece, Dionysus was annually married to the Queen in a symbolic ceremony.

In Peru there was a village where the local Inca Indians married off a virgin, usually about fourteen years old, to a carved image of a god, and after three days of celebration sacrificed her, then subsequently deified her.

North American Algonquians and Hurons married virgins of about six or seven years old to their fishing nets, which were possessed of a “man-spirit,” in order to ensure a plentiful harvest of fish for the ensuing year. This complements the idea that a perfect god could indeed have sex with a mere mortal, but only if that mortal happened to be sexually pure.

There are also numerous anecdotal tales of the offspring of these unions cast in roles of individuals having supernatural or superhuman powers. The most commonly known example of this is the famous Hercules of Greek mythology, a man of supernatural strength who was the issue of a union between the god Zeus and the mortal woman Alcmena. He underwent eventual apotheosis himself but only after the penance of the twelve labors being imposed as a penance for having killed his wife and their two sons.

On a more mundane level, when a Viking king died it would be customary to select a virgin, but not the queen, to be burned along with him as he was sent out to sea on his floating pyre. However, this was only after hoisting her up and trucking her around the compound so that she could “see into heaven.” After this ritual she was gang raped by six Viking warriors allowing them in turn, to see nothing but the aura of sexual bliss. This is certainly one way to rationalize the sanctity of a gangbang, but why the women selected for this ordeal felt honored by it or why the king himself did not have the honor of having her first in the afterlife defies rationalization.

  • Yes. I had sex once with six men all at the same time. Then I died and went to heaven.
  • It was that good, was it?

After the fall of the Roman Empire along with the rise of Christianity, early apostles, followed later by some of the first popes, had to employ clever means to convert the masses of people who had been accustomed to polytheism to the concept of monotheism—while at the same time having to sell them the concept of Jesus being the son of god. It was infinitely easier to do this if the story coincided with the legendary folklore of the Pantheon.

The early Christian church replaced early pagan holidays such as Lupercalia, dedicated to Vesta herself, or Saturnalia a holiday dedicated to Bacchus, with the likes of St. Valentine’s Day and Christmas respectively. The church even borrowed iconography from Egypt such as halos, symbolic of the sun god Rah, and stuck them on the heads of holy figures or angels, a ploy that made the conversion and “buying in” of the general pagan populations that much easier. The Catholics carried forward the concept of Virgin worship and a holy deified offspring endowed with mystical supernatural powers with their contrived invention of Jesus. They cast him as not only being the son of God himself, but also as a person conceived by a supernatural Holy Spirit, usually symbolized by a pure white bird or dove, that miraculously entered Mary and impregnated her. This sounds remarkably like certain pagan legends of mystical conceptions occurring when women are entered by spiritual holy waters.

Then, of course, being the good guy that he was, Joseph stood in to be the stepfather, so that this poor innocent knocked up woman would not be a social pariah— or possibly even stoned to death for her silly indiscretion. Joseph of course taught Jesus to be a skilled carpenter and then faded into historical oblivion. That is the fable. More likely than not, Joseph in fact was the real father.

Jesus went on to teach morals and ethics, performed such miracles as raising the dead and walking on water, was eventually crucified, resurrected, ascended into heaven, and then called for his mother who was later also assumed into a large cloud. In becoming a celestial floater herself, she was lifted up to be with God and his son; who also happened to be her son, too. Strange though, is it not, that we never hear about God cavorting with Mary after she arrived in heaven. One would think that would be a given.

The story of Jesus however sounds eerily like that of Aesculapius, the Greek god of medicine, who was the son of the god Apollo and the mortal Trikkian princess, Coronis. But shortly after consorting with Apollo, Coronis fell in love with Ichys. Then after a crow informed Apollo about the affair, Apollo sent his sister Artemis to kill her because he thought the baby wasn’t his after all. Her body was burned, which stained the previously pure white feathers of the crow permanently black, while a remorseful Apollo having had second thoughts rescued the baby by performing the first caesarian section. He then handed the boy over to the centaur Chiron.

Chiron, who taught Aesculapius the art of medicine, then raised him to became so skilled that he was able to bring the dead back to life. But because this was a crime against the natural order of things, Zeus destroyed Aesculapius with a thunderbolt, completing his punishment and subsequent resurrection by setting him in the heavens as the constellation Ophiuchus, the Serpent Holder. His rod, entwined by a single snake, and being the original symbol of healing is often mistakenly portrayed as Hermes double snaked caduceus. After his mother’s death, Coronis was also deified and set in the heavens as the constellation Corvus, the crow.

Virgin worship was a theme central to pagan faith, while parthenogenic birth by mortal and virginal women who were impregnated by gods is a theme common to tales reaching far back into human antiquity. Rhea Silvia, the mother of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome was a Vestal Virgin. Her uncle had killed her father, the King of Alba Longa, then usurped his throne. Committing her to chastity was a foil to get her past mesopause, and therefore little likelihood of producing a nephew competitor to the throne he stole. Rhea had a good excuse for getting knocked up, and subsequently avoiding a death sentence. She said the god Mars had raped her in her sleep…and who could dispute or disprove that in 753 BC? There are also numerous ensuing tales of mortal death and resurrection that were simply designed to confirm the lineage of the divinity.

In order to facilitate a pagan world to accept or embrace the words of Jesus, it is likely that the Apostles— or the men who came soon after them—used this legacy of pagan imagery and iconography as a metaphorical vehicle to get people’s attention and to guarantee credibility. It was subtle method used to rationalize and incorporated older beliefs into newer ones. The concept Mary being a virgin came centuries later as part of a contrived dogma that the Catholic Church used to force its women into subjugated roles. For example, much like the women of Rome, no ordinary woman who ever had children, or who ever had sexual intercourse for that matter, could ever be held to this unblemished sexual standard. Then as equally tragic spin-off perverted logic, the church invented the concept of the virgin servile nun, who they dressed up in black and white Taliban burkas, then sequestered them or made them subservient to priests.

As the reign of Roman Empire in Palestine was coming to an end, the corruption, the brutality and the chaos left in its wake sowed the seeds of hope for change and a deliverance from this dark evil culture. The Jews expected a powerful messianic leader with military skills, hoping for a person who would deliver a revolution. They rejected Jesus only because in practical terms, the last thing they needed at that time in their history was a talking head.

Some embraced him for the content of his message. However, others decided he was the messenger better off being shot; especially when he began to mess with moneylenders and Jewish sycophants who had been given positions of political authority by the Romans. Or, perhaps the Romans themselves feared a fomented revolution by the rabble that was listening to Jesus preach of a “new social order” and took it as a serious threat. A new Emperor; surrounded by 12 Apostolic men who became the Governors of the 12 Tribes of Israel; dictating a new religious policy and displacement of Roman rule.

Jesus never claimed divinity. Other people claimed it after he was dead. He also never said that he was a king or even a general. He only claimed to be a messenger delivering God the Father’s reiterations to: love your brother as you love yourself, be charitable, eschew hate, greed, and revenge, and then perhaps give the Ten Commandments a good periodic review about personal compliance. Being misinterpreted as the Son of Man perhaps it would be better to think of Jesus instead as the Sun of Men; a person delivering a bright new message of hope, peace, brotherly love and personal enlightenment at a time of greed, brutality, corruption and oppression of civil liberties. Jesus was probably a decent ordinary mortal man with a vision; perhaps a little more and perhaps a little less…then also not the only man to ever be killed for delivering a message.

Ironically, after he died, Jesus was deified, raised to a higher level and placed on an ethereal throne. Then the 12 Apostles were subsumed into one living mortal, The Pope, who being the only person with direct access to God, is a man surrounded by scores of sycophant Bishops, and like any Ayatollah, then dictates his own interpretation of Christ to billions of mindless lickspittle sheep.

What really defies logic is why Pontius Pilot killed a man who could raise the dead. If he had that power he should have been sent along with the Roman legions as they went off to war. Or worse, why did God the Father allow his only child to be sadistically tortured and nailed to a cross. Most civilized societies and religions frown upon child abuse.


Grow strong, dear boy; healer of the world. Often men shall owe you health and life, and yours shall be the right to win again departed souls, and though you dare this once in heaven’s despite, Zeus’ bolt will thwart that gift a second time. You, now divine, shall be a lifeless corpse, and from a corpse become divine again, and twice you shall renew your destiny.

(Chiron’s daughter Ocyroe and her prophesy to Aesculapius)


1. A Study in Magic and Religion/ Chapter 12. The Marriage of the Gods

Sir James Fraser Macmillan 1922/1963 Touchstone 1996

2. Vesta from Temple of Religio Romana and media shift PBS

3. Marriage of the Gods from The Golden Bough

4. Viking Funerals from The Last Apocolypse by James Reston

5.Asclepius: Wikipedia Theoi Greek Mythology (Quotation)

Vesta Image





Romantic love is an illusion. Most of us discover this truth at the end of a love affair, or else when the sweet emotions of love lead us into marriage and then turn down their flames.
(Thomas Moore) 


After I learned to Scuba, I took reef diving trips to Cozumel almost every year for two decades.

Cozumel is an Island off the Yucatan of eastern Mexico, especially noted for the clarity of its water. This is because the 6000-foot-deep trench that runs between the island and the mainland, serves as a funnel for one of several loop currents running south to north; which then eventually combine to form the Gulf Stream. This constant northbound flow can result in as much as 200-foot visibilities, but also runs fast enough that divers cannot swim against it; thus, forcing them to drift along with the current. This drift diving is a unique style of the sport, in a unique underwater environment, a true gem of nature.

My favorite day trip would be to take a plane ride to the spectacular Mayan ruins at Chichén Itza where one of the sites on the tour of the city is the Cenote. This is a circular sinkhole, formed in the limestone that drops straight down hundreds of feet below its sharp drop-off to a deep inky green-black pool.

Apparently one of the Mayan sacrificial god appeasement ceremonies involved periodically taking one or more vestal virgins to the cenote, drugging them up and heaving them off the edge. It was supposedly a good sign if the virgin sank and never resurfaced, but a very bad sign for the priest who oversaw guarding them if the body floated back up to the top. This meant that the gods were not at all pleased; also implying that perhaps they had been rejected because the priest had breached his vows to keep them pure by personally breaching their hymens as well. If a priest happened to get too many floaters, the citizens of the city would throw him in too, or perhaps cut out his heart, cut off his head or do all three.

This left the priests with several tricks designed to ballast the corpse which included weighing them down with heavy jewelry or making them swallow rocks before the ceremony. Their sedating drugs would add a layer of insurance against the possibility of flailing or flopping around on the surface when the body hit the water, and hopefully then send the weighted, semi-comatose corpse straight down to the bottom.

On one of these dive trips, I encountered a floater of sorts too; one that was directly linked to sexual indiscretions as well. I went to Cozumel with a nurse I was dating. On the plane ride from New York we sat across the aisle from a mixed-race couple that was also going diving. The woman was white, and the man was black. Coincidentally, they also stayed at the same hotel as ours. I attempted idle chat, but they seemed standoffish, shy and reclusive, so I did not push it. I thought they might be that way because in the late 1980s society in general still frowned on inter-racial relationships.

On one of our dive excursions there was great commotion on another one of the boats, along with shouting and hysterical gesticulation from two Mexican dive leaders who were standing over what looked like a limp body in the bottom of one of their small ancillary snorkel boats. Our boat raced to the scene where we witnessed the black man lying on his back in the bottom of the small aluminum hulled boat, in full cardiac arrest. My girlfriend and I jumped into the small tipsy craft, where she began mouth-to-mouth breathing while I pumped on his chest; but to no avail. I could tell that the man had died instantly while snorkeling above his wife or girlfriend, who was tank diving below him.

However, not to be undaunted, the Mexicans raced him to shore where an ambulance was waiting, unfortunately very ill equipped to the point of not even having an ET tube on board. This resulted in one of the paramedics trying to torture the corpse by intubating him with a snorkel. The scene then devolved into a horrific bloody mess as the all too large diameter of the equally all too rigid snorkel severely traumatized the poor man’s larynx as the so called EMT kept trying to unsuccessfully shove it down his trachea. It was just a gory scene of bloody, foamy sputum, saliva and snot being forced from the lungs of a dead blue body.

Later that night, I went to his partner’s room to offer my condolences, only to be brusquely rebuffed by her telling me to “just go away” and leave her alone. She would not even open her hotel room door more than a small crack before shutting me out without further conversation, which made me feel stupidly inadequate. By the next day her room had been vacated and she was gone.

I found out several days later that the reason for her terse rebuke was because the couple was married all right, but each one to someone else. Apparently they had been on a cheating vacation tryst when the man suddenly dropped dead on the surface of the sea; only to leave his counterpart with the embarrassing problem of having to explain it all to her own husband, arranging the transportation of her lover’s corpse back to the States, as well as the clumsy situation that was now forcing her to be a direct liaison to the man’s poor widow as well. Perhaps on her next Caribbean vacation, she might want to spend it in the Virgin Islands, in a single room, above water, with her nose in a book. Or by the time she hashes it all out with her husband, she might be single again anyway, and could simply start over.

A similar situation with a happier outcome combined ultimate forgiveness with making the most out of a bad situation. The scenario involved a couple my wife and I met on a cruise who had managed to turn a potentially serious negative into a pluperfect positive.

He was a hard-working building contractor who had grown a multimillion-dollar business from scratch. By the time we met them they also had five adult children. But when the kids were young, he had been sidetracked by having an affair with an unhappily married woman who he met in his bowling league. The ostensible reason for his straying was because his wife, who was busy taking care of their five small children at home, had fallen into the syndrome of: ‘Chronically-being fatigued-all-of-the-time-mommy-lost-interest-in-sex.’

But after figuring out what was happening by the cell phone log, the wife called the woman herself, told her she knew what was going on and then asked her husband to bring the woman home with him so she could watch them screw.

He did.

The three of them then had sex together on a regular basis for several years; until three became a crowd.

After that the tired mommy, yet now rejuvenated and enlightened housewife, made sure that when each of her daughters came of age, that they were indoctrinated in the concept of never sexually neglecting their hard-working husbands.

She told them:

  • As long as he’s bringing home the money, give him what he wants, whenever he wants it, however he wants it, and however many times he wants it. It’s easy. You have three holes and all you need to do is make sure that at least one of them is always open for business.




Love ? Affairs

Love ? Affairs 

Sexual cheating on a spouse or a lover is euphemistically referred to as “having an affair.” I think it would be better to refer to it as “having a derailment,” both emotional and physical. The train has just come off the tracks, resulting in either a total wreck, in which the demolished cars are removed and taken to a train graveyard or, alternatively, whatever remaining pieces are deemed salvageable get reconstituted, re-railed and re-routed. Another good descriptor for having an affair is the commonly used term: ”cheating” because, in fact, it is the act of doing something that allows one person to hold a significant advantage over someone else. But because everyone has a different threshold for conscious self-reflection, whatever the exact advantage might be for the angst befalling the cheater, remains to be explained. After all, this is not the ordinary case of “I know something you don’t know” or the special advantage that comes to a card counting poker player. It’s more like the card cheater worrying that he’ll be busted for having an ace up his sleeve, which will result in either being shot by a competitor or rolled out the front door of a casino by a brute bouncer.

The “whys” of cheating are equally elusive and run the gamut of sexually addictive behavioral quirks, to the ‘grass is greener syndrome,’ to the ‘not getting any at home factor,’ or the rather bland ‘you do it because you can phenomenon.’ Men who enjoy positions of great power, fame or status in the society are particularly prone to the susceptibility of the free pussy that always seems to easily gravitate to the aura of that fame, or is merely a mercenary female attracted to their wealth like a moth attracted to a flame. It is also customarily the case that it is not only “if”, but rather It is necessarily going to be “when” the sordid relationship ends. This is because “discovery” is a principle that equally applies to one-night stands or single encounters with prostitutes.

The consequences after the fact of discovery are myriad and can result in a simple breakup, complete reconciliation, a bitter divorce, long or short-term stalking, depression, nasty confrontations, fistfights, a fall from grace, serious bodily harm and/or even murder. There are thousands of documented cases that went wrong enough to warrant airtime on television forensic shows, or the tantalizing sexual political scandals that periodically but predictably always surface from time to time.

My attempt to run with two girlfriends at the same time was as close to the first, as well as the last time, I ever had a derailment. I decided then that it if I needed someone else that badly, it logically followed that the original relationship must simply be lacking sufficiently enough to warrant ending it. Generally speaking, if I happened to be in a long-term relationship, I never cheated and specifically when I was married, never cheated either only because I was completely satisfied, or if not that, it required too much negative energy, craft, or deception to make it worthwhile.  Unfortunately, many long term loveless marriages are too expensive to end, in which case, even though the players may no longer be mutually faithful, the mantra becomes “cheaper to keep her; or him;” as the relationship then graduates to the more sublime level of becoming more of a perniciously plain old fashioned living lie.

This is not to say that when I was single, I may have had a few short-term affairs with someone who was married. However, that was their emotional problem and not mine, except to risk the potentially disastrous encounter with a jealous husband—or God forbid, that the woman thinks she has probably fallen in love with you. See? It still gets too complicated even if you think you’re an innocent bystander who has stupidly crossed boundary of having sex. At this point all bets are off in the predictably unilateral emotional calamities that inevitably follow suit. One of the worst-case scenarios occurs when a married man traps a needy woman with low self-esteem into a relationship that lasts for years or even decades, as he perpetually promises every week that he will leave his wife. This is need-want-user-used psychopathology at its best.

I did have one bad experience when I went to bed with a female Resident who was in the process of getting a divorce. Technically, she was still married even though emotionally she  was not. After two dates she began to discuss getting married to me; a ridiculous idea I equated as her going from the frying pan into the fire. Not even divorced and wanting to get married again? That sent a strong signal that there might be a few loose screws in her noggin—so I quickly backed off. That was a correct assessment, but too late for me, as I had already taken the lethal vaginal plunge. She categorically would not take “No” for an answer and developed a fixed delusional fantasy that she and I were going to be a couple regardless of my early precipitous good-bye.

The harassing aftermath lasted for two years beginning with a posted ‘letter a day’ complete with numerous personal photos. The themes ranged from maudlin sentimentality through outright bitterness, accusations that I was gay and she would rescue me from that fate, that I was a drunken drug addict who needed her to help my rehabilitation, then paranoid rationalizations as to why a Jew and Italian could still make it together, and ending with overt threats that if she couldn’t have me then no one else would. This was coupled with physical stalking, such as showing up at my house, my friend’s houses, my parent’s house, or worse—my workplace.

On one occasion when I lived in Nyack, New York, I was forced to hole up in the false bottom under an ersatz loft bed I  made by placing the bed frame on a stack of Sears cabinets. It was only designed to conserve space in my apartment, but then turned out to be a convenient hiding place instead. Not going to the mattresses, so to speak; but under them. My roommate intercepted her, and tried to dissuade her, while I almost suffocated waiting for her to finally believe his story that I was not coming home that day. In retrospect for that siege I should have laid in some supplemental oxygen, a few cans of soup, and a portable Sterno stove. However, because this was in the late 1970s to early 1980s, the police in Manhattan, Nyack, and eventually in Suffolk County sniggered at my attempts to get an order of protection.

  • OK. Let me get this straight. A woman is stalking you and you’re afraid. What? Afraid to get laid. That’s a good one. Everyone should be so lucky. Haw, haw, haw.

One of the supervising Attending Physicians in my Cardiology training program was only slightly more sympathetic when he simply said:

  • So. Have you seen the movie “Play Misty for Me?”
  • Yes. And thanks a lot for that pleasant thought.

I even went as far as to lodge a complaint about professional ethics with the Manhattan Medical Society, as she then worked in that borough, but this organization took my plea with an amused and unsympathetic grain of salt. They told me there was little they could do. Everyone thought I was hysterical or that I was blowing the entire thing out of proportion; but they had not read the nutty letters and were not the ones who had to constantly look over their shoulders. Then suddenly one day, almost as if it were by magic, the stalking abruptly stopped. I scoured obituaries on the off chance she had met an untimely but welcome death, but I learned later instead that she finally found someone else to marry. That was when I said a small prayer of thanks to the great psychiatric God of Emotional Transference, put away my bulletproof vest, and saved all the correspondence in a large mothballed box. You know— for evidence—or just in case she changed her mind on the wedding alter, too.

What I find most interesting about affairs is the “inevitable discovery” and how like so many other things in life can be accidental, the jig usually comes up by a completely blindsided twist of fate. Some of my married golf buddies must have read the Manual on Not Getting Caught and while I was still a bachelor, made sure that when we went away on bachelor weekends, the charges for the call girls went to my credit card. Otherwise, if you are not ready to explain the six-hundred-dollar charge for “Discreet Jewels” on your own card you had better come home with a nice bracelet you paid for with the cash that would presumably also have been borrowed from me.

The irony here was that I was getting plenty of sex at home, could have cared less about having a hooker come over, and although the wives expressed dismay about their hubbies going off with a “notorious bachelor,” it was their own sleazy husbands whose behavior was at risk.

  • You’re not going anywhere with him. I heard once he was married six times.
  • Not quite. It was the opposite way around. He was only married once for about six minutes.

Of course, if you do then happen to come home with a nice case of a transmissible venereal disease instead of that expensive bracelet, you had better be in tight with the treating physician who is willing to cover it up with a phony diagnosis, which will then only apply to a few limited bacterial, but not to the newer more permanent, unexplainable viral versions. If not so lucky then, you will be left hung out to dry, just as your penis should have been while hiding inside of the safe comfort of a nice thin little rubber raincoat, instead of romping around bare-back. Herpes is much more difficult to explain away and is no longer simply referred to as being “the kissing disease.” Then again, a nice raging case of gonorrhea would not go down too well in the annals of easily explainable genital discharges either.

  • Honestly honey, I don’t have any idea where that came from. Maybe you got it sitting on that filthy dirty airport toilet seat.
  • Oh yeah? How about more like the filthy dirty bitches’ seat that squatted down on yours.

Here are some of my favorite blindsided discovery cases and situations where the Manual on Not Getting Caught could not anticipate the glitches.

My father got caught in the plain, simple, straightforward, old-fashioned way; and just like Bill Clinton’s Monica Lewinsky, only because that special somebody spilled the beans. The woman he was going with had enough of it, called my mother at home to tell her what was going on and said that she just couldn’t take it anymore. My father moved out for a while, leaving my semi-hysterical, semi-regretful, half-crazed vindictive mother alone at home to brood. Although she abhorred drugs of all kinds, for this calamity she acquiesced to a pile of Valium I took out of a hospital medicine cart and hustled up to White Plains on my first available night off when I was still working a Resident in New York City.

She said:

  • He’ll have to choose between her and me. And if he chooses her, I’ll break both of his balls…and his bank account, too.

I told her I did not understand why she wanted him back, and that I didn’t blame him for doing what he did because she always treated him like shit. I also suggested seeing a marriage counselor by telling her this was their mutual opportunity to start over with a new leaf—along with a new attitude. Of course, after he came home, not only did nothing change but my mother also never let him live it down. Counseling was entirely out of the question because only “weak” people did that sort of thing. God forbid anyone would want to get some real help or personal insight into the decades long festering sore that had ruined their relationship. Years later, my father told me he would have left if not for wanting to keep the family together.

I said: “What family?”  because I could have cared less. I was twenty-six years old and already out on my own, my brother was independently out on his own too, and my sister had just turned eighteen—facts that only led me to believe that if he was telling the truth, the affair must have been going on for years.

Then there are those cases in which the situation occurs “in-flagrante;” and cannot even remotely be denied. I once had a patient, a very well-off local landlord, who owned several buildings on Main Street. He was as in his mid-forties. After being been cleared of having coronary disease on an Executive Physical style general work up and stress test, he decided to come back every year for another stress test anyway, “just to be sure.” He would also ask for an HIV test, something I thought peculiar because he was happily married with a young daughter. But one day his wife came home unexpectedly only to find him in bed with two other men, after which she promptly asked for a divorce. She told me if it had been a woman, she might have had a chance at successfully competing to get him back; but that she perceived this particular sexual proclivity as a battle she could never win.

She said:

  • If it was only pussy, that would be one thing. But ass fucking and 69 position mutual dick sucking? How can I compete with that?

This situation was nearly as bad as the woman who worked at the hospital who told me she was leaving her husband of three years because his sexual preference was to masturbate while strangling the head of his penis with a rubber band so he could have a retrograde ejaculation into his own bladder. Self-love is hard to compete with too, unless the guy was just working on a uniquely effective form of birth control.

She said:

  • I told him repeatedly to just let it go and cum inside me.
  • So, did he keep his feelings to himself too?
  • I don’t know. We never talked about that.

Nelson Rockefeller enjoyed the unique phenomenon of dying while sitting in a chair getting a blow job from a young secretary; being the classic example of literally getting caught with ones pants down. In this case, the only thing getting stiff by the time the detectives arrived was the half-dressed corpse. He probably forgot to read the then recent Japanese medical study that proved a clear direct increased risk of sudden death during sex, or Death in the Saddle Syndrome, but only occurring in men who had sex with their mistresses as opposed to having it with their wives.

  • So, after all these years do you still find me to be sexually exciting, honey?
  • Huh? Were you talking to the dog or to me?

The next scenario plays on the element of cavalier stupidity. I was on a vacation in Mexico when I met a young man in his mid-thirties, traveling alone, who after several beers regaled me with his sad tale. He told me he was severely despondent over his recent divorce because he had really loved and trusted his wife. Apparently, he worked for a telecommunications company, had a job that required him to travel almost every week for three or four days and had been married for only about two years when he happened to be rummaging in his basement for something only to come upon an entire wardrobe closet of men’s clothing that unfortunately he did not recognize as belonging to himself. When the dust settled it seems that his wife would simply move her boyfriend in for the several days her husband was on the road and as such had accumulated a nice supply of fresh shirts for the boyfriend to change into while he was there. Her excuse was that she was “lonely .”Yes, I guess and super horny, too.

Normally, lonely horny married women with husbands on the road will fill their emotional or physical voids with shopping trips or battery powered vibrators, but not necessarily with a full-blown surrogate attached to a torso. Or how about just being smart enough to have your paramour bring a suitcase; maybe even filled with the same brand of clothes your husband wears. then better yet, make it completely and secretively insulting by just letting the boyfriend wear all your husband’s clothes. After all, dry cleaners can do a same day turnaround.

I was once involved in something that was not really an affair and something I can only refer to as a “final fling.” One of my roommates in medical school wanted to visit an old girlfriend who lived in Springfield who was sharing an apartment with two other women. Michael came along for the ride and in the process of drinking and chatty small talk, one of the girls made it clear that she was engaged to be married in a few months. Michael lost interest, went after one of the other girls instead, which left me alone with the affianced.

Because it got too late to drive back to Boston, we were offered couches or sofa beds to sleep on, but as we settled in, the woman who was engaged invited me to sleep with her. It was simple. She said she was going to get married soon but wanted to have one good final free-love-fuck before the final commitment.

She also said:

  • Don’t get any funny ideas about this either. Meaning I like you all right, and I want to get laid, but don’t think for one second I ever want to see you again. So, don’t even think about it.
  • OK. OK. Don’t worry. I think I can handle it.

I got laid while the only thing my other two friends got out of the deal was a good hangover. You see; once again it’s hard to ever judge a book by the cover.

A similar situation with a different outcome occurred when I was a Resident and went to a large dinner party primarily attended by couples. Being single at the time, I did not really want to go, but as luck would have it found myself seated next to the only single woman at the affair. She was not unattractive and pleasant enough, but as the small talk proceeded over the next hour she let it be known that she was married. Losing interest, I spent the rest of the night talking to other friends while virtually ignoring her. As everyone was leaving, she walked over to me and said:

  • You know. You aren’t a very smart person.
  • What are you talking about?
  • Well I really liked you.
  • I liked you too.
  • But then you ignored me.
  • Not on purpose.
  • Yes, it was. As soon as you found out I was married, you stopped talking to me. But what you don’t know is that my husband and I have an open marriage, so this was my night out. All you had to do was be a little bit more attentive and I would have had no-strings sex with you in the bathroom.

Another situation highlights the fact that no matter what you think, in this modern world there are eyes everywhere, meaning that anyone had better think twice before having sex in anything even vaguely resembling a public venue. Spy satellites can even spot you doing it at home with your own wife on your presumably private outside deck.

A married Cardiologist in a very high profile local tertiary hospital was dismissed from the staff when he was discovered having sex with a nurse, live on the video camera that was set up inside the small hospital chapel where relatives were supposed to be praying for their loved ones who were going under the knife on the open-heart table or dying in the ICU. The nurse who was being operated on by the dull round point of the swordsman’s thrusts and parries was in fact repeatedly praying “Oh God, oh God, oh my God,” meaning at least that component of what turned out to be a successful procedure was at least entirely appropriate.

The security guards must have had a field day.

  • Hey, Joe. You stand outside the door. I’ll watch the monitor. Then I’ll give you the “all clear signal” to bust in right at the orgasm. Then we’ll go back and watch the tape together.
  • Great. It’ll be a perfect end to an otherwise boring day.

This was almost as good as the married Anesthesia doctor at our hospital who was caught banging a locum tenens nurse in his call room when the security guard, upon hearing a series of loud screams and thinking someone was being brutally assaulted, burst upon the scene after employing his master key to get in. Christ, I thought. Why didn’t the idiot just stuff a sock in her mouth? Or maybe have her bite down on an endo-tracheal tube. Or even sedate her with a short acting anesthetic for that matter. The nurse, who was an itinerant substitute anyway, known in the trade as a “Travel Nurse” was fired on the spot and simply went on to her next gig in another State. But for the doctor it was only after a prolonged period of marital counseling that the couple finally reconciled. However, his wife told me one night at a party that she made him pay through the nose for his little dalliance; and that his little indiscretion had come at a high financial cost after the much higher cost of the repeated emotional brow beatings. New house. New car. Diamond watch and earrings. New metal spiked dog collar. Very short leash.

The next case plays on the element of blindsided bad luck. A woman and her husband went to see a Woody Allen movie in which some of the scenes were shot on the streets of Manhattan. Suddenly in the backdrop the woman caught a quick celluloid glimpse of a man who just happened to be her husband, escorting a beautiful blond, arm in arm, lip on lip, as he plopped her into his sidewalk parked Mercedes convertible. There was no way out of the documentary evidence as well as the fact that the man worked thirty miles away in the New York City suburbs and had never mentioned the fact of any personal trips into the heart of the big city. Arm in arm perambulation with French style osculation will also heavily discount or negate the alibi of the “business lunch” or the long lost “kissing cousin.”

Then there is the quintessential case of blindsided bad luck and bad timing being complicated by a combination of serendipitous good fortune while also paradoxically at the same time; good timing. On the fateful day of 9/11/2001, a woman watched TV in horror as the Twin Towers collapsed in a heap of dust. Her husband was a high-profile broker whose office was on one of the higher floors and was assumed to already be at work. She had been frantically trying to locate him by landline as well as by his cell phone on which she had left numerous messages to “please call me back as soon as you get this.” Finally, he called her back with a curt inquiry as to why she had left so many hysterical calls on his cell and what was oh so important that she just had to interrupt him while he was at his “oh so important” stock trading job.

  • So, let me get this straight then. You’re at work in your office right now?
  • Yeah. Where else do you think I’d be?
  • Well, I don’t really believe that.
  • Oh. Here we go again with the same old tiresome accusations. Where are you, who are you with…on and on and on. Always the veiled implications. So, when are you going to stop it?
  • No. Not this time. This time I know I’m right.
  • Look. How many times do I have to tell you…?
  • Stop right there. I don’t know where you really are or what you might be doing, but if you are anywhere near a television set, you had better turn it on right now. You can’t possibly be in your office because your office doesn’t exist anymore. And we’ll discuss the rest of it when you get home.

He looked over at his girlfriend in the hotel bed next to him and asked her to hand over the TV remote.

The final scenario involves a perverse situation relayed to me by a drug sales representative one day on the golf course and highlights one of the reasons that HIPPA medical privacy laws occasionally turned out to be a good idea. She told me that she had known two couples that were extremely close to one another as mutual best friends. The two men played golf together every Saturday and the couples socialized very frequently with dinners in, dinners out, parties, etc.

One day, one of the men arrived at home before his wife and picked up the messages on their telephone answering machine. One of these calls happened to be her Gynecologist letting her know the great news that her pregnancy test had come back positive and so “congratulations. “The only problem was that the couple had not had sex with each other in about six months.

It turns out that the two golf buddies were not only sharing the same tee time but were also sharing the same putting hole. Then to make matters worse, the affair had been going on for about six years, meaning that even if lust had been the militating factor, love certainly was not.

I told my friend that if the two couples were truly all that close, they would have been better off doing full swaps or foursomes. I also said that if it had been me in cuckold the most insulting part of it and what would have hurt more than anything else, would be that not only was my best friend sharing the same golf hole, so to speak by banging my wife—but that I was also having to pay him those golf bets when he beat me.

Lately we just have the more blatant phenomenon of the politician or celebrity the likes of Rick Pitino or John Edwards who just never seemed to grasp the concept known as “pulling out in time” and are left with the proof of their indiscretions residing in the DNA of their “love children.” Or what about Tiger Woods, who was so dumb that he kept his private cell phone out in the open where his wife could find it, when instead, he could have had ten private phone accounts, with the call girl dialer locked in a safe. Although some women who trap these stupidly susceptible men only do it to get a leg up, some extra cash, or more likely some celebrity themselves where none existed before, I doubt that the porn star Jessie James would ever stoop that low. Well, maybe not.

Then there is the sad case of House Representative Gary Condit whose misfortune it was that his lover killed by a Mexican itinerant in a random act of violence. It’s only too bad that it took years to catch the man who really did it —while all along Gary was felt to be the most likely candidate for the dirty deed. Or what about Senator Craig, an otherwise intelligent man being stupid enough to come out as a closet gay in the public bathroom of a large metropolitan airport when he solicited sex from an undercover cop by playing footsie with him from the adjacent toilet stall.

I did have an affair with a married woman I met a work. I was recently divorced and the last thing I wanted was a serious relationship. It was her idea, not mine, and I decided to say “okay” instead of reporting her to the HR Department for sexual harassment.  Sure. How many men would turn down an offer like that?  She told me at the beginning it was because she was polyamorous, and no matter what, I should not fall in love because she would never leave her husband. I didn’t say, ‘Oh, shucks. how disappointing.” It lasted for several years and we never got caught.

When I finally got re-married I told my second wife that if she ever thought about cheating on me, I would appreciate it more if she would just bring the guy home so that at least I could then have the satisfaction, entertainment and vicarious pleasure of watching them. She told me “No” because that would take all the fun out of it.

At least she had a sense of humor.

When I said the same thing to my first wife, she slapped me.


A person cannot mount two horses

Or bend two bows

And no one can serve two masters;

For either he will hate the one and love the other

Or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. 




Broken heart:



One Eye

One Eye 

The nurse who gave me the clap had only one eye. The other one was a glass prosthesis. In fact, her nickname on the wards was “Susan One-Eye.” On the wards, we called her “Susan Free for All.”

As a physician, it’s difficult for me to admit to this, but for my entire career I have yet to be able to discern in anyone who has a glass prosthesis, which eye is the real one. This is because the glass eye usually seems to be making eye contact, as it’s always fixed and looking dead straight ahead. Also, because the good eye seems to be looking at something other than me, no matter how hard I attempt to look at it, for some odd reason it always seems as if the intact good eye is the one deviating off course.

At one time in my life, when meeting an Internet date or a “fix up,” usually for the first time at a bar, if her two functional wandering eyes spent more time looking around another men than making eye contact with me, I would take this as a sign that the odds were fairly high there was going to be little or no hope for a second date. much less a one night stand. But if she only had one good eye, I never would have perceived the hint, as the prosthesis would always be looking at me. The  advantage in this blind date goes to the one eye.

Sometimes the glass eye scenario forces me to tilt my head back and forth or up and down to see if I can detect the eye motion necessary to determine which eye is working, a quirk that probably makes me idiotically look like a horse in a paddock when its handler approaches. Horses happen to have an inclined-plane retina, which makes them bob their heads to focus at close quarters. This leads many horse lovers to mistake this anatomical accommodation as meaning, “Yes. I really do love you” when in fact the horse is only trying to be able to see who is coming to visit. They rely more on voice, touch and the smell of a carrot or oat treat to discern a known friend.

I guess it doesn’t really matter, because even when a person is the beholder, it must still appear to the person with the disability, that full eye contact is being made by the beholden—especially because that person can only see out of one eye anyway. However, I feel stupid when I realize that all my attention has been riveted on the blind eye.

This is when I default to looking at the teeth, another quirky behavior I inherited by being the son of a dentist; and must then wonder if the person I’m talking to is aware that I am quietly sizing up their dentition as though appraising the health of a horse at an auction.

It also didn’t matter when I was having sex with Susan One Eye, because by that point my eyes were rolling back in my head in my head while both of hers were becoming symmetrically glassed over.

The advice I must impart, however, is that if ever meeting a person at a cocktail party who seems to have strabismus, such that one of his or her eyes seems to be deviating off course and not looking directly at you—do not ever make the mistake that if it happens to be the left one, cover your tracks with lame opening-line small talk, and blurt out:

  • So, what’s wrong with your left eye?

The answer will invariably be:

  • Nothing. But the right one is glass.

So, what will you say next?

  • You have perfect teeth. Are they real… or caps….or dentures?

(Beauty is in the eye of the beholder)



Unintended consequences

Unintended consequences 

None of this promiscuity, however, was without other unintended yet completely innocent consequences. At least two of us ended up with a case of HPV or genital warts.

The farmer’s daughter also had oral cold sores, otherwise known euphemistically at that time as “the kissing disease,” but better known now to be the Herpes Type 1 virus…which she was good enough to share with me. Call it by any other name; it’s still just a  sexually transmitted salivary venereal disease of the oral vermicular.

The problem with venereal disease is that like any highly communicable disorder, even the common cold, it spreads by geometric multiplication. It is only linear, for example, if a man goes to a prostitute or a mistress, gets something he then gives to his faithful wife, in which case the train stops at that terminal. Usually so does the marriage. But this was an era when the worst of the STDs was still not enough to kill you and, in most cases, was easily curable. If not, they were simply common “ho-hum” nuisances with little or no attached social stigma. Even the cold sore did not have a known etiology, much less knowledge of how easily it could be transmitted. At the same time a wart was simply that: a wart. So what?

But if the 1960s had been the era of not so free love, it was soon supplanted by the 1970s being the era of crass, casual promiscuity. Nobody knew then that HPV is associated with causing cervical cancer. At the same time nobody really paid much attention to any of the STDs until the early 1980s when having Herpes Type 2 or the genital variety became a widely advertised social stigma, a stigma soon to be dwarfed by the appearance of the potentially lethal HIV virus. HPV and HSV should have been a warning that viral VD was replacing bacterial VD and that unlike bacteria, viruses not only do not respond to antibiotics, but also have a nasty knack of being able to permanently insert themselves into the human genome.

That fact, along with the sudden appearance of the super venereal viruses helped to usher in the 1980s as an era of renewed sexual sobriety and gave great credence to Talmudic scholars who in pointing to the traditional religious proscriptions against fornication had warned the world for centuries as they autistically rocked back and forth in their libraries. Or in taking it directly to the Wailing Wall, they might perseverate as they autistically beat their heads with the holy books or beatific bricks:

  • I told ya so, I told ya so, I told ya so, I told ya so.

I only got “the clap,” once, from a very promiscuous nurse when I was a Resident. She had let it be known that she was on a mission to screw every house officer in the hospital, to wit every house officer in the hospital seemed more than willing to sign on to help her accomplish this odyssey. When it abruptly became symptomatic, I knew at once why they called gonorrhea “the clap.” When I tried to pee, without any premonitory warning it was so horribly painful it I stood straight up on my toes like a ballerina on point, only then to segue immediately into a crude version of Flamenco. I was clomping around in my clogs, holding my hands high over my head, slapping my palms together, clenching my teeth and whining through a sheepish grimace. It also left me with a residual urethral stricture that to this day sometimes causes me to pee with a forked stream reminiscent of the forked tongue lies I had told to put myself in this payback circumstance I so well deserved in the first place.

The Urologist who treated me found the whole thing professionally amusing, adding that if all I got was a stricture, I should consider myself to be lucky and then refused to fix it. He said the cure could be worse than a problem that would serve as a permanent reminder of my wayward habits anyway.

  • White man pee with forked stream. Ha, ha.

You would think that would have taught me the lesson that even nice people can get VD…but no. By the time I had married for the second time in my late fifties and estimate I had sex with perhaps fifty or so “nice” women, one of whom was even “nice” enough to generously share her type 2 genital variety of herpes. It may sound like promiscuity, but for the most part, except for a few insane or widely scattered sexual benders in the 1970s and 1980s, most of my relationships would still be categorized as sequentially monogamous. Some short. Some long. But always in a faithful sequence.

Magic Johnson and Long John Holmes, the former having survived HIV and the later who died of it, who each admitted to having sex with 3000 women or more, would come to serve society as more permanent reminders, as well as being unfortunate yet unwilling icons, of the Golden Age of Sexual Promiscuity.

My brother once told me I was lucky that my dick hadn’t developed gangrene and fallen off. His statement harbored a combination of satire, envy, and truth as well as a premonitory HIV vision of a deadly future to come.

He said:

  • Watch out, Al. If you keep this up you’re going to come down with a bad case of the Faccala.
  • The Faccala? What the hell is that?
  • It’s a VD you can get when you indiscriminately fuck the fish in the fish tank. It started in Rome in 49 B.C. That’s why the Italians dry the things out and salt ‘em down before they eat them at Christmas. “

Don’t give a dose

To the one you love most

(Social Proverb)





Women: Woe-to-men

Women: Woe-to-men 

When I was twenty-one
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for city girls
Who lived up the stairs
With all that perfumed hair
And it came undone
When I was twenty-one

(It Was a Very Good Year: Ervin Drake)

My social life at medical school was a monument to heartbreak, lust, lasciviousness and casual indifference. Chalk it up to youth, arrogance or simply a single-minded ambition to succeed at a career, while first leaving any other ancillary part of life to be last.Doctors, in general, are good at this approach to life, which probably accounts for their extremely high divorce and suicide rates.

When I arrived at school, I was still dating the egg farmer’s daughter but became smitten by a stunningly beautiful, exceptionally sweet woman of Norwegian descent who had the uniquely unusual combination of jet-black hair and deep blue eyes.

I met her at a party that I was reluctantly dragged to by George, a Chinese student in my dorm who had come from the University of Minnesota.  Although I was not in a party mood, he said he who knew some girls from back home who were working in Boston and wanted me to meet them.

George had the interesting distinction of having made his tuition money by working on Alaska King Crab fishing boats. Despite the fact of this being considered one of the world’s most dangerous jobs, George said the worst part after having survived the raging seas on the fishing trip; was then having to fight off the snarling fangs of wild Alaskan dogs when walking home. He said the trick was to wrap your left arm in a thick towel, then hold it out for the dog to grab. After the dog took the baited arm, you then killed the dog by slitting its throat open with the heavy fish filet knife you kept in your right hand. Jim Bowie didn’t even have it that bad when he explored the North American wilderness.

When I met this woman, B, we had such an immediate rapport that although not sleeping together until a few weeks later, we did spend the entire weekend at the apartment where the party had been held. However, it must have been a bad omen for the future of the relationship because my Italian grandmother died that weekend; leaving everyone at home was hot under the collar because I could not be located until the following Monday when I then heard the horribly tragic news.

Somehow, even though she was already cold and blue, according to some family members I had still managed to insult the old lady.

Can you believe it? Grandma died and nobody could find him.

  • Yeah. Poor grandma.
  • Right. He must think that being a prima donna medical student is more important than grandma dying.

It really didn’t matter. She was dead and had no money. Otherwise, the hypocrites would have used it all against me in the disposition of her Will. So aside from having to attend the funeral, I also had the unpleasant task of having to announce the death of our relationship to the farmer’s daughter I had left behind at home.

She did not take it well at first, but recovered quickly enough, started dating a Harvard student, moved to Boston and stayed in his apartment. She then tracked me down and we continued to periodically see each other when he was not around or away somewhere. She tried to tell me they were “just good friends,” but I wasn’t really that stupid. To me, it was just free pussy and her guilt or not was her own problem. In fact, they were lovers and later got married.

This was screwy. I was cheating on my new girlfriend with my old girlfriend who was cheating on her new boyfriend with her old boyfriend. To make matters worse, I had good reason to believe that my new girlfriend had sex with her old boyfriend one weekend when he came through town on his way to being shipped out to Viet Nam. She had ended their relationship before she moved to Boston but in holding out a bit of hopeful despair he had enlisted in the army. This is the desperate ploy of “maybe if you think I might die soon, you’ll be sorry and take me back.”

She told me she was letting him stay at her place for two or three days and was going to let him know about us as being more of a final, formal, definitive goodbye. Maybe I was paranoid or simply jealous, but I thought her bedsheets told a different tale when I snuck into her apartment the day he left after she went to work.

To me, they looked like the ones that medieval Royal families hang over the parapets to prove to the peasantry that the Princess and the Prince have indeed consummated their marriage.

I suppose for her it might have been the alternative age-old guilt trip played out as: “I do feel sorry for you and if you happen to die in the jungle you’ll have something nice to remember me by, but I really don’t love you anymore, so here is your good-bye fuck.”

Perhaps it was true. And perhaps not. It really didn’t matter to an immature, jealous hypocrite, because not only was it all incredibly screwy but it was also hectically schizoid to say the least, as I began to forget what story I had told to whom or when. I was beginning to drive myself crazy by seeing one woman in Cambridge, then jumping on the MTA to run out to Brookline to see the other one; all on the same day while thinking I had to sexually satisfy them both. Big ego. Bigger sex drive. Big cheater. Bigger bastard.

This is where the cover-up excuse of having to study in the library had its greatest utility as it was also a time before cell phones, GPS devices or e-mail searches could easily ruin the best of alibis. But being in my prime, I could easily orgasm three or four times a day; leaving the only real issue my ability to keep my stories straight. Those were the days! Now I couldn’t get an erection even if I could find the little devil. But at least that keeps me out of potential trouble.

However, over the period of about a year my old girlfriend became more committed to her new boyfriend, then ended our affair when she announced their engagement; while over the same period I was completely trashing my relationship with my new girlfriend. My personality had combined cocky arrogance with condescendingly mean-spiritedness, all topped off with a tincture of casual indifference.

I thought that women were a dime a dozen and that if necessary, she could be easily replaced. However, in short order, I found out the hard way this was not to be the case when one dark, gloomy day in November she dumped me rather abruptly, almost to the day my grandmother had died the year before.

It had rained. Then it had poured.  Then came the great deluge; and when the flood finally receded, along came the great drought. Both women would probably have made wonderful wives and seemed on equal footing as potential soul mates. That was the problem: indecision. But trying to find replacements for either of them was virtually impossible because I had failed to realize that on the scale of one to ten, I had let go or lost two elevens.

Indecision, indifference and a bad personality had left me no better than a lonely Noah, grounded on the summit of Mt. Ararat, sitting at the tiller of a large barge that had become grounded.

Mathematically, trying to juggle two women at the same time computes to:

Two minus two = None


It’s a lesson too late for the learnin’
Made of sand, made of sand
In the wink of an eye, my soul is turnin’
In your hand, in your hand.

Are you going away with no word of farewell?
Will there be not a trace left behind?
Well, I could have loved you better,
Didn’t mean to be unkind.
You know that was the last thing on my mind.

(Tom Paxton)











Miami Bleach

Miami Beach 

My roommate M. once attended a medical conference in Miami Beach and happened to overhear a conversation on the street that offers an insight into Jewish interpersonal relationships.

Two little old Jewish ladies passed each other on the street. One looked at the other, calling out in a startled voice:

  • Myrtle, Myrtle. Is that you? I haven’t seen you in so long I almost didn’t recognize you. In fact, now that I’m really looking, I can see that you don’t even look like yourself. In fact, you look terrible. You lost weight, your color is gray. You’re pale. And your hair never looked like that before. It used to be so radiant. It doesn’t even look like the normal hair that I remember. What happened? What happened to you and your lovely radiant curly red hair? Now it’s stringy and blond.
  • Oh, Sylvia. It’s so nice to see you, again too. And yes, I’ve had a terrible time. I got cancer and had chemotherapy. I nearly died. In fact, I have no blood cells and all my hair fell out too, so I had to go get a wig.
  • Myrtle. I’m so sorry to hear about that and I’m certainly glad you survived the cancer. So as far as your hair is concerned, don’t worry. Your hair looks so natural; no one will ever notice the difference.

Jewish Sex

Jewish Sex 

A  widowed Jewish lady living in Miami who was about eighty years old had the habit of going down to the beach every day with a blanket, an umbrella and a cooler full of ice cold drinks. She was dressed in an old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit

One day she spotted a skinny little old Jewish man, dressed only in a small  pair of black swim trunks, walking along the shoreline. She called him over to her blanket and then proceeded to attempt small talk with a person who turned out to be a man of very few words.

  • Nice day, yes?
  • Sure, yeah. Nice day.
  • Nice blue sky, yes?
  • Yeah, yeah. Nice and blue.
  • Nice waves too, yes?
  • Beautiful water. Gorgeous waves. Yeah, yeah.

Then she opened the cooler and said:

  • Want a cool drink?
  • Yeah sure. Nice and cold.

Nudging him closer under the umbrella she said:

  • Nice cool shade, yes?
  • Yeah, yeah. Nice shade and a nice cool drink.

Just then two small kittens walked by, and the woman having become increasingly frustrated by his terse inarticulations along with trying to prompt more than only single word responses, pointed to them, and said:

  • Pussy cats, yes?

With that the little man jumped up, ripped off the woman’s bathing suit, threw off his own trunks and slam-bang fucked her silly into the hot sand. After he was done, the startled woman, sat up, dusted the sand off her bottom, turned to the man and said:

  • My god. I haven’t had such good sex like that since my poor husband died twenty years ago; and even then, it was nowhere near as good as this. But let me ask you something. How in the world did you know I needed that?
  • My dear lady. How in the world did you know my name was Katz?

Dating Woes

My Jewish Date 

I had no idea how philosophical differences alone could affect a relationship until I dated a Jewish Psychologist. She worked at St. Luke’s hospital when I was a Resident and was not only beautiful but also extremely intelligent. After a few dates that seemed to go well, I asked her if she would go with me to Yankee Stadium to see a ballgame, which she excitedly agreed to.

Because the game started at 7:30 p.m., I told her I would pick her up at 6:00, which would give us plenty of time to navigate the subway system, be on time or perhaps even see some of the batting practice. When I went to see the Yankees, I wanted to saturate myself in the entire experience.

She told me she would still go, but that I couldn’t pick her up until 7:00 because she was in psychotherapy herself three days a week and couldn’t miss a session.

At that time in my life I gave little credence to psychotherapy, paid it lip service at best and in her case wondered intuitively why her professional training did nothing to help her fix her own problems.

When I asked how long she had been in therapy, she told me about five years. I then asked what she was working on and why it was taking so long to work it out. The response was something to the effect that therapy was indefinite because the issues were so deep seeded it would take a lifetime to sift through it all, adding how could she do her job effectively if she did not look at situations from the patient’s point of view. It was a circular argument in addition to which she never divulged any of her supposed issues. That was confidential.

I chalked it up to her avoiding intellectual intimacy until she got to know me better. That was Ball one.

Then I asked if there was any way she would consider making an exception on this one night because I already had the tickets and would it make that much difference if she missed a small particle of the brain shrinking process.

Replying in the negative she said it would interrupt her continuity, would leave her feeling guilty and emotionally naked, all of which would then make the baseball game more of a negative than a positive experience. I should have dumped her right then, but gave her the benefit of the doubt, even though I thought… what could be better therapy than a Yankee game?

I gave the baseball tickets to a friend and took her out to dinner instead, although the conversation was rather superficial because I was afraid to ask if she had made any progress in getting her personal demons under control. Now the count was one Ball and one Strike.

That was when I found out she was a vegetarian and had to endure the predictable interrogation about why I ate meat and how she knew if we stayed together she would be able to convert me to her culinary preferences. That was Strike two.

Strike three occurred several weeks later when I invited her to go sailing on the Hudson River with a Jewish Urologist I met when I moonlighted in the Nyack Hospital Emergency Room. He  invited me to crew for him on his thirty-foot boat which he raced every Saturday.

I did warn him ahead of time that I had only sailed small boats for recreational fun with no actual racing experience. He said not to worry, that he didn’t take it too seriously, that bringing a date was fine, and that he had plenty of sandwiches and drinks. He intimated that the whole thing would be just a peacefully fun outing.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

He used my date as ballast, announced that we could not drink beer or eat our sandwiches until the race was over and then because there was virtually no breeze, we then spent several hours, overheating in the sun.

This was while listening to him repeatedly curse the weather conditions or how poorly his boat was performing; along with veiled oblique reference to the fact that I was lacking sufficient skill to read his mind in being able to perform my duties. He finally capitulated by motoring back to the dock; constantly bemoaning the fact of a badly ruined day.

When we finally moored, he handed each of us one half a tuna sandwich and one seven-ounce pony bottle of Rolling Rock beer. This was some gala outing all right: stuck in the doldrum horse latitudes with a horse’s ass, half a sandwich and half a beer. That put an end to my sail racing career, as well as any further desire to go to sea with Doctor Captain Bly.

When I angrily recapitulated my frustration over the experience with my psychologist sea nymph, all she did was make excuses for his behavior. Even though I insisted instead that he was a selfish egocentric, lying prick; I was too annoyed to argue the point as I secretly thought:

  • Wow. Maybe you should take him on as a patient; because based on what I just experienced, you could get on the hook of coming back to see you in perpetuum.

The count was still holding at one Ball and two Strikes.

The last straw was when we went back to my house where the first thing I said because of being so stressed, was that I was going to have a beer.

She started the dialogue:

  • But you just had a beer on the boat.
  • That was not a beer. Seven ounces was a teaser. Twelve ounces is a beer.
  • But why then do you think you must have a beer to relieve your stress?
  • Maybe because I don’t go to counseling three times a week.
  • That is not funny and maybe if you did go to counseling you wouldn’t feel compelled to drink so much beer.
  • But I like beer; I only have two a day and I don’t think I need counseling anyway.
  • Two beers a day is a lot. You don’t have to drink every day and everyone needs some counseling at some point in his or her life.
  • I don’t think I’m screwed up enough. And you only think that way because you’re in the business.
  • Well if you think you must drink beer to relieve your stress, you are screwed up.
  • This conversation is going nowhere. And just because you’re making me so aggravated right now I’m going to drink another beer. That will make three.
  • See, just like I said, you’re an alcoholic, and an angry one at that.
  • I am not. I just like to drink beer and right now I’m annoyed at your value judgments.
  • Two beers a day is an alcoholic habit.
  • O.K. You win. So now that you have me really upset; because on top of spending a wasted day with a psychotic doctor who thinks he should captain the America’s Cup Team, and also because I have to listen to you berate my social habits, right now I am going to sit here and drink an entire six pack, which I never do. So, I would like you to politely not pass any more commentary on it. On top of that I won’t be able to drive you back to New York because I will be drunk.
  • Fine. I’ll make a salad. But we need to explore this issue some more, which is something we can do when you’re not drunk, or more in control of yourself and your emotions. I can help you with this.

The only thing I did explore later was her body, during which time she admitted to being addicted to sex, not beer, and liked some of the kinkier aspects, including being tied up, taking herbs or “cleansing” enemas, and having anal sex. That was Ball two.

This confession did perhaps shed a bit of light on some of her own personal psychological issues, or perhaps her childhood relationship with her parents; but I was then too afraid to ask; and didn’t really want to know.

If I did ask, I knew I might be in for ninety hours of listening to her self-analysis, although the sexual aspects had piqued my imagination enough by all its potential prospects. This might, include being able to punish her nagging with daily bondage, including anal torture and mouth gags to block her carping for a while.  But the vision was tainted by the additional dread of having to withstand the idea of a lifetime of perseverations about having to go on both the Heineken beer and the White Tower burger wagons.

Just the thought of never again having any more burgers or beers was impossible for me to entertain; as it far outweighed the prospects of a lifetime of kinky bedroom romps.

The count had now gone to two Balls and three Strikes. And she was out.


Take me out to the ball game



Jewish Mothers


Jewish Mothers 

One thing that could be said for Medical School was that it was a great repository for Jews and Italians. If a Jew did not go into “wholesale” and an Italian did not go into “organized crime,” there were few other avenues open for these groups to succeed in financially. Because of a long tradition of bias and the closed doors of WASP society, they gravitated to Medicine or Law as areas where individual effort tends to be recognized or valued more than heritage.

Both groups are highly goal oriented, having been pushed hard by their families. The only difference is that Jews verbally preseverate more about success whereas Italians tend to resort to the physical punishment of a Baccala swat to stimulate interest in books.


  • What will happen to you if you don’t study? You’ll never be a mensch. You’ll always be just a nebbish, a schlemiel, and a nobody. You’ll live in a hovel. You’ll have no money. You’ll have to use food stamps. You’ll have to move back home. All the neighbors will laugh at a son who moves back home to live with his mother. You’ll never find a good wife. What kind of a son should put such a heavy weight of such embarrassment on his own mother? An Albatross on his mother’s neck. Why would you want to be such a nobody? And why would I want to raise such a nobody to be such a nobody’s nobody? You’re killing me. You know that? You are literally killlll-ling your own mother.

As opposed to Italian:

  • Shut up and study. If you get another C, I’ll bust your head open.

Verbal abuse. Physical abuse. Whatever.

I still think I would rather be occasionally swatted with a dried fish than continuously nagged half to death. The fact is, I really knew very little about the Jews. They were a minority at every level of my educational experience to whom I did not pay a great deal of attention; and far before I knew had Jewish ancestry. (2% DNA).

In grade school, I knew the boys occasionally wore funny hats that were OK to snigger about, but not to their face, or also that they got really mad if the school bully yanked one off their head and stomped on it. They also had weird rules about food and hygiene. Their Priests were called Rabbis, and even though they never got the holidays right, they still always went around saying they were the chosen ones.

Our own Priests usually set that one straight by telling us that they were not chosen at all, that they did not believe in Jesus, that they were responsible for having the Romans kill him. Furthermore, anyone who did not believe in Jesus could never get to Heaven anyway; which would be good as then the only Jew living in heaven would be Jesus himself.

Then when I found out they never had a Christmas tree, but rather called their holiday plant a “bush”, I really did feel bad for them. After puberty however, “bush” took on a completely different meaning\ for me, at the secular level.

At Duke, the jocks periodically beat up the nerdy intellectual Jews or tossed them around like footballs.

Imagine my shock then when I discovered that all the Jewish boys were circumcised, and that I was too. When I asked my mother about it, she said it had nothing to do with religion and that she had it done to me because the Pediatrician said it was the right thing to do, Arbitrarily just like that: and only because it “would be better for me in the long run.” Nothing at all mentioned about personal hygiene, or disease prevention. She also assured me that it did not mean I was secretly Jewish.

It was another shock when I found out that her 6th great grandfather was a Sephardic Jew, making the circumcision more like a cryptic secret ritual.

When I got to Medical School and befriended M., I learned a quite a bit more about Jews and Judaism; but being exposed to Michael as a non-religious Jew, I still do not believe I got the so called “kosher” version of the facts.

He told me the following:

  • Good Jews live by the rules.
  • The rulebook is called the Torah. Orthodox Jews obey the rules.
  • Most Jews are not Orthodox, so most Jews forget about the rules.
  • The entire culture of the Jews revolves around the anatomy of the chicken.
  • A chicken’s ass is called a tuchus. A tuchus, conversely, is anyone who behaves like an ass.
  • A beautiful ass is called a nice tush; but not a nice tuchus.
  • Chicken soup is a panacea. If offered some by a Jewish mother, do not refuse it under penalty of intense preseveration about its virtues.
  • Kosher means that a Rabbi blesses food, but most Jews don’t really care what they eat or if it ever got a blessing.
  • Chickens are good. Pigs are bad. Bad food is pig food or chazerei.
  • The ‘ch’ in chazerei must be pronounced as though you are nearly choking to death.
  • Jews traditionally avoid pigs, but most Jews do not really care what they eat. Bacon is OK, unless you are orthodox. A BLT is a “nice sandwich.”
  • Orthodox Jews who bring attention to themselves by wearing a Yarmulke and ear braids are stupid and deserve to be abused.
  • Having to eating Gefelte fish and Matzos is one of the rules.
  • Eating Gefelte fish and Matzos reinforces the concept that Jews are quintessential masochists as both are tasteless forms of food.
  • Mogan David wine is another obligatory holiday torture. But it isn’t really wine.
  • A non-Jew is a Goy.
  • A bad Jew is a Kike.
  • If a Kike happens to be a rich uncle then he is really a good Jew.
  • Bad Jews buy Mercedes cars, because Mercedes invented Zyklon-B for Hitler’s gas chambers.
  • It is OK for Jews to have sex with Goys but they cannot marry one.
  • It is preferable to avoid Goys and stick to your own kind; unless you want to use them for sex.
  • Jewish women only have sex as a duty to procreate the race.
  • You can tell how many times a Jewish mother had sex by counting the number of her children.
  • It is mandatory to have a Jewish son.
  • It is a curse to be a Jewish son.
  • A Jewish man is lucky, then, if he has only daughters because then his wife will still be obligated to have sex with him.
  • A good Jewish son is called a doctor or a lawyer.
  • A good Jewish girl will marry a doctor or a lawyer.
  • A shyster is a cheat who might even try to screw another Jew.
  • It is still OK to marry a shyster, as long as he is rich and never gets caught, like Bernie Madoff.
  • A Bar Mitzvah is a party thrown for a thirteen-year-old boy that signifies he has become a man.
  • A Batz Mitzvah is the same party given to a girl that signifies the day she officially becomes a Princess.
  • The bigger the Mitzvah; the richer the father.
  • A Princess is only a Princess until she marries. Then she becomes a professional shopper and begins to avoid having sex.
  • Jewish women hate to cook; they only do Deli. This is known as whining and then dining.
  • Deli is Jewish for: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
  • Chutzpah means having balls. Real chutzpah is killing your parents and seeking a plea bargain because you are an orphan.
  • It takes a lot of chutzpah to tell a Jewish woman to cook.
  • A Yenta is a gossip.
  • Most Jewish women become Yentas just before the birth of their first grandchild at which time they automatically become a pain in the tuchus.
  • A Mikvah is a ritual bath.
  • Orthodox Jews will not have sex unless a woman first sits in a Mikvah. Regular Jews think this is stupid because if she happens to be horny, it is completely self-defeating masochism.
  • Orthodox Jews have different plates for every category of food. Regular Jews think this is impractical; and like to eat deli off the same paper plate.
  • A Putz is a foreskin and also refers to someone who is as stupidly useless; as is the foreskin in general.
  • A Putz in gorgle is a foreskin stuck in your throat. Being more of a curse, it is not equivalent to getting a blowjob.
  • A Schlemiel or a Schlimazel is a person with perpetual bad luck.
  • Historically, the Jews have always had bad luck; as well as a penchant for perpetual suffering, aimless wandering, and passive acquiescence to sado-masochistic torture.
  • The perfect 50th Wedding Anniversary present from a Jewish man to his wife is an around the world guilt trip.
  • Sometimes it is worse to be Jewish than it is to be Black.
  • Perseveration is the national language of Judaism.
  • A Jewish Christmas = Chinese food and a movie.

That’s the short list

It is also the short list of the fifty or so new words I had to learn to become an honorary Jew.

All this preparatory homework helped considerably for the one occasion I was invited to a Bar Mitzvah given by a friend of M.’s father. The man was obviously wealthy because the party it was given at a private country club and was extremely opulent in its scope as well as the number of guests.Having never been to one, it was interesting to observe the way tradition and religion became a perfect rational blending with modern hedonism.

But I think the father took it to extreme when he attempted a literal consummation of the manhood concept by introducing a belly dancer as the finale to the show. Apparently, it was going to be her job to deflower the poor thirteen-year-old boy later in a motel room after she wiggled around an hour or so for the guests.

It was  hilarious watching this woman chase after the poor frightened skinny little boy who ran around the catering hall as though his very life depended upon a successful escape. He was quick too. Chunky butted Fatima with her clacking cymbals,  gyrating navel and her pendulous heaving breasts, with pastie covered nipples, never did catch the new little man.

I did have to admit however that it was better than the stilted Catholic ceremony of Confirmation that not only had nothing at all to do with manhood, but was followed at home by a boring little cake and ice cream party along with the obligatory smiley face poses for the family album.

Yes, a few forced smiles, posed with the same Pastor who tried to feel my mother’s tits several years later at a cocktail party. He was exposed for the lecher he really was when Wild Turkey being a bit stronger than Mogan David, lit him up and strengthened his resolve.

At least a Bar Mitzvah signifies something practical as opposed to an affirmation that a boy is now a bona fide lieutenant in the army of God, along with the Confirmation ceremony’s reaffirmation of chastity, sanctity, holiness, and piety. That is unless the young boy wants to participate in the secret Catholic rite of passage to manhood by bending over and pulling his pants down for the Jesuit who taught him sexual hypocrisy at Wednesday night Catechism.

Because it’s all about manhood anyway, the Confirmation party could have taken Aunt Rose’s Christmas theme to even a more adult level by having a stripper jump out of a giant white coconut cake replete with whipped cream and Maraschino cherries dolloped on her nipples. That way after having put on a brief but overdone reactive façade of false offense, even the perverted Pastor would probably admit to being furtively pleased.

Michael’s family had a summerhouse on the South Jersey shore, and although I would rather have been in the Hamptons, I did decide to visit there one summer weekend. That was when I found out what it really meant to be a Jewish son who had to suffer the slings and arrows of an inquisition inflicted by the Torquemada of Beach Haven, New Jersey.

Queries by Jewish mothers are like those tactics used by a prosecuting attorney. After being subjected to several malpractice suits, I learned the hard way that the best defense is to offer little in the way of voluntary information or elaboration. The best answer is always a simple “yes” or “no;” or a better answer yet is to say: “I don’t know” or “I just can’t remember.”

Politicians being investigated for corruption or scandal are masters at this defense.

When queried by an attorney the problem is that if you open even one door just a small crack, then all the windows in the house get blown open and the track of questioning becomes a nightmare of open ended pitfalls that spew forth in a geometric proliferation.

Here is how an innocent conversation goes completely wrong.

(How it should have gone)

  • So, what do you boys do with your free time on a Saturday night?
  • I don’t know. Really nothing much. Usually we study more of what we already studied so we can all get better grades than anyone else.
  • Good boys!

How it went instead:

  • We usually go out to bar.
  • Why do you go to a bar?
  • To have a drink and maybe meet a girl.
  • Why would you want to waste your time drinking and what kind of a girl do you think you might meet in a bar?
  • But what’s wrong with having a drink. Beside that we study so much anyway we never get to meet any women.
  • You want to waste your time getting drunk and meeting a girl in a bar? Do you know what kind of a girl hangs out in a bar? Not the kind of girl that works hard and studies and who wants to get ahead or get a decent husband. You’ll meet the loose kind that smokes and spreads her legs for anyone.
  • That’s kind of the idea.
  • Don’t be facetious. I’m serious. Nice girls, at least nice Jewish girls never hang out in bars and drink and smoke and pick up men. You might even get a disease.
  • Jewish girls can get a disease too.
  • Not the nice ones. Not the kind I’m thinking about. Not the good ones. You know the kind, Michael. Girls like Kathy up the street. Why don’t you call Kathy up and go out with her to dinner and a movie?
  • Mom, Kathy weighs 90 pounds and has Ulcerative colitis. She can’t even eat popcorn at the movies much less have a steak for dinner.
  • Then why not Cynthia. You know Cynthia. She’s a gem, a doll, a darling. Her mother says that all the girls in the dorm think she’s just adorable. The last time I spoke to her, her mother said she was even making all her own clothes.
  • Great. You want me to go out with homely Cynthia wearing her own knitted pants suit.
  • Don’t talk like that. Her mother and I were best friends. When your father was sick she came and visited. None of your father’s other so-called friends came over. She comes from a lovely family.
  • That doesn’t make Cynthia any prettier or more debonair.
  • Now you’re being rude. And how many beers did you drink anyway? Is that what’s making you talk like that? Beer? And is that what you are learning about in that school? How to drink in bars. How to drink beer. How to drink beer and find a goyisha smoking slut for a wife. How to drink beer and become a drunk like some Irish. What kind of a drunk shikse wife do you think you’re going to find in a bar anyway? Nice girls don’t hang out in bars. Not nice Jewish girls.
  • No, ma. They all stay home and make their own clothes. Could we please stop talking about this ? I think I have to leave now ; go back to school and study.

A similar situation occurred many years later when I leased my office for two days a week to a Jewish physician who used it on the days I was not there. He had a relatively domineering mother who even went as far as arranging vacations for him at the Club Med, especially to improve his chances of meeting the right girl. He did in fact meet the right girl. She was Jewish. She was a business entrepreneur. She was rich. She was pretty and she was personable. She played golf and tennis, as did he. Perfect, yes?

No. The fatal flaw was that she was in her forties, but even worse she was not interested in having children…and for mother that was “over and out.”

One day B’s mother appeared in the office, which also happened to have a private back entrance, inquiring if her son had come in yet because he had promised to meet her there at that time for whatever purpose.

  • No Mrs. B., he’s not here yet. He didn’t come in.
  • But it’s four o’clock and he said he would meet me here at four.
  • Mrs. B, we’ve been here all day and he hasn’t come in yet.
  • But how do you know he didn’t come in the back door? Sometimes he goes in the back door to do work in the back.
  • Yes, Mrs. B. but we have been using the office all day and I know he is not in the back.
  • But how do you know. When was the last time you went in the back? Maybe he came in the back door when you were not looking.
  • Trust me, Mrs. B. he did not come in the back door and he is not working in the back. I just came from the back and he is not there. Maybe he’s just a little late. Why don’t you just sit in the waiting room and give it a few more minutes.
  • He’s never late for me. Are you sure he’s not in the back? He never minds if I go in the back when he works in the back. You don’t mind if I just go back to have a little peek for myself, do you?

With that, she burst through the inside door to the office without permission, went in the back to look for herself, only to discover that indeed, he wasn’t there.

Then she came back out to the front, said she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t there; and then went into the back room again just to be absolutely sure about it.


No, no.  A  thousand times, no


© Photo  Keep the Faith