Rosh Hashana - A Time of Apples, Honey, and Sticky Penises

Norman W., of Highland Park, Illinois, tells this sticky little tale of love and honey:

It was twenty years ago that a Sergeant named Pepper taught the band to play. It was also twenty years ago that I thought using honey as lube was a good idea.

The year was 1987, it was the second night of Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year), and I was stuck in synagogue with my parents, bored off my ass. Looking back, I can't believe what a difference today's technology would have made—— If I had just had something to preoccupy my mind with-- an iPod, a GameBoy, or even some crummy late model cellphone with instant messaging capabilities -- the tragedy that follows might have been averted. But as it stands, the only thing I could think of to keep my mind and sanity away from the off-key, hallutosis-tainted, droning voice of Cantor Lebovitz, was the newly rounded, freshly plump, virgin, challah shaped ass of 13-year-old Leslie Applebaum. Wise beyond her years and with tits beyond a D cup, she was the pride of my Bar Mitzvah class. Without a doubt the only reason for my perfect attendance and stellar haftorah performance. But, like all great love sagas, Leslie wanted nothing to do with me. Or any of the boys in my class. With her mind on her money and her money on a 16-year-old with a Silver Ford GT (asshole), she saw us for the trifling boys we were. But there she sat, just two pews ahead of me, my crazy Golem eyes staring bullets into her behind.

After two hours of biblical ranting and raving, I couldn't take anymore and begged my parents to be excused. Unable to mentally exorcise the image of Leslie, and with only five minutes to spare before my parents sicked my older brother on me, I knew I only had time for a power beat. Rushing towards the bathroom I suddenly became very aware that I had no lube. Not that I usually brought it to services, but for this power beat to be successful I was going to need some assistance. And then I saw it. Or it saw me. With services almost over, the caterers had begun to bring out the traditional Rosh Hashanah treats, apples and honey. Wet, moist, golden yellow honey. It's kind of like vasoline, right? With no time to spare, I dipped an apple into the yellow ooze and booked into a stall.

Preparing to do battle, I unzipped my pants and rubbed the lavender scented goo against my peepee. I couldn't have regretted this any sooner. Sticky and disgusting, I was appalled at my stupidity. How could I have even thought this was a good idea? But the clock was ticking and the situation was what it was. I needed to try. Rubbing up and down the honey quickly dripped into what little ball hair I had accumulated. Disgusting, but I pressed on. And low and behold, it was working! Maybe I wasn't as bad a Jew as I thought? Maybe G dash D was actually on my side on this one! I'm not chemist, but there must be something about the viscosity in honey breaking down with a certain amount of friction. Or maybe I was just so damn horny I didn't mind that I was practically peeling the skin off of my banana. Whatever the case, I was close. I was very close. So, so close-- "NORMAN! ARE YOU JACKING OFF IN THERE?" And the stall door came crashing open and my brother came rushing in.

Years of therapy couldn't correct that night. The only silver-lining in the whole debacle, was that if this were to occur today, my brother would have taken out his cell phone cum camera, snapped a photo and put in all over the Internet. Looks like I'm the big winner after all!