Beware of God Read Online Free PDF Page A

toward the door. “I thought you wanted to fuck me.”
    â€œOut!”
    â€œPig.”
    Shlomo slammed the door. What a pain in the ass that dog had been lately. He looked down at the shriveling organ in his hand.
    â€œYou call that a penis?” he thought to himself.
    Shlomo felt ashamed. He worried that God would punish him. He had been told by his rabbis that if you masturbate you go to hell and they boil you in a pot filled with all the semen that you wasted in your lifetime. He wondered if the rabbis were right. He wondered how full his pot was.
    He went back to bed, added a few more shots to his boiling cauldron and got dressed for shul.
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    T HE first time Shlomo heard the term blowjob, he spent a week crouched over on the toilet, desperately blowing at his penis like a lost hiker trying to start a fire. Everything Shlomo learned about sex he had learned at third hand from his classmates who had learned it at second hand from their brothers who had learned it at first hand from their fathers’ pornography. After nearly hyperventilating, he tried using his mother’s hairdryer (both warm and cold settings), but with little success. His father had been waiting for him outside the bathroom door. “Faigaleh,” he’d said angrily, and slapped Shlomo hard across his face. “Blow dryers are for girls.”
    The few semantic clues Shlomo managed to piece together only made the physical mystery that much greater.
    Cock?
    Snatch?
    Twat?
    What could a twat possibly be?
    He was able to figure out that jerking off was something he could do to himself, but there was nothing in the language that offered any specific instruction. And then, just last week, Chaim Laifer referred to Rabbi Grunembaum as “a jerkoff” while vigorously pumping his fist up and down.
    It was like discovering a secret handshake.
    Not that it was easy. He tried a few times, but it tickled terribly and Shlomo would stop, afraid that any more secret handshaking would make him pee in his bed. But last night, after everyone had fallen asleep from the heavy Friday evening meal, Shlomo bravely decided to risk it.
    He’d locked the bathroom door, gotten undressed and slipped into the bathtub with a bottle of his mother’s Jergens. He figured that if he did pee, well, at least it would be in the bathtub.
    Shlomo didn’t pee.
    A thick white fluid he’d never seen before came out of him and slid sadly down his tightly clenched fingers.
    â€œDear God,” thought Shlomo. “What have I done?”
    He felt like crying.
    His sin was everywhere.
    It was like trying to clear a murder scene. He mopped the murdered Jewish souls off his hands with a couple of tissues, flushed them down the toilet and hid the Jergens behind the medicine rack. Shlomo quickly dressed and opened the bathroom door, ready for the dash to his bedroom.
    Heimish sat waiting outside the bathroom door.
    â€œI hope you’re happy,” Heimish said to him. “You just flushed a million Jews down the toilet.”
    Shlomo stomped at Heimish, who yelped and ran away.
    He lay awake for some time that night, staring at the ceiling through the darkness and wondering how God would punish him. He had been told by his rabbis that when you die, all the souls you murdered in each wasted ejaculation would gather together and chase you through the firmament, hounding you for eternity. He wondered if the rabbis were right. He wondered if Heimish was right. He buried a few million more souls in a Kleenex and fell asleep.
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    S HLOMO clipped on his tie and went downstairs for breakfast.
    â€œWell, look who’s here,” said Heimish, looking up from his bowl of kibble. “Boy,” Heimish said under his breath to Shlomo’s mother, “I could tell you some stories.”
    â€œGet out of here!” Shlomo yelled at Heimish.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Shlomo’s mother asked. “Heimish, stay. You’re a