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I fooled around with the rabbi

Too much teeth.

This is the phrase that sears through me as I stare at the rabbi who’s been hired to preside over my cousin’s small, graveside funeral. Minus the gray hair, he looks exactly the same as he did two decades ago, when he wasn’t a rabbi and we lay together partially clothed one late summer night in a neighborhood playground that I had loved as a child.

“Give me head,” he had said after about 20 minutes of making out in the playground’s sand pit underneath the swings.

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