The next day in Fountain Valley was the worst. After I finished working, there was matzah for breakfast. Everyone else has already eaten breakfast and were just sitting down for lunch. Matzah again. The options were slim: muenster cheese or chopped liver. Sam helped herself to her first liver experience. She thinks matzah is fun -- a novelty. After that, there was nothing to do. The Katz family is very religious -- more religious than my family -- and so no-one was allowed to really do anything. We wanted to go see a movie, but since it takes Don forever to get ready we decided not to. We were sort of lying around feeling bored. Don kept trying to engage us in the same conversations about how much of an asshole Ron is, and the different, unsuccessful dates he's been on. He also kept talking about his bowel movements, or lack thereof. He kept bringing up "the bullet" (which his mother administers for him) and his "poo poo pill." We all found ourselves rolling our eyes uncomfortably.

It was pretty gross to imagine him on a date. It's not that he's blind, it's because he's basically an invalid. This is a man who two months ago was wearing adult diapers. But as he happily pronounced, you don't need to see to suck a dick.

A few months back, Ron had arranged to have a male prostitute come over to the house (when the parents were out, of course.) I was very intrigued with the whole incident. It seemed like an ideal arrangement. Don complained though that guy's dick wouldn't get hard. It wasn't difficult to imagine why. But I agreed that if your occupation is to get paid to have sex with strangers, then you should be able to deliver the goods.

I was totally bored. And starting to get resentful. Hanging out with Don felt like babysitting a horny, petulant 10-year old. I also felt like a terrible person for thinking these things.

Finally, Sam and I announced that we were going to have a "nap." Unfortunately for both of us, her breath was fetid with liver and onions. Even laying two feet away from her made me cringe with repulsive memories of prickly chinned old ladies at my schul pinching my 11-year old cheek and asking me if I'm good to my mother. Unequivocally unsexy. I read The Economist instead.