By Wayne Koestenbaum, from My Lover, the Rabbi, which will be published this month by Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
My lover, the rabbi, developed an anal ailment, not life-threatening, not connected to digestion, not caused by sexual activity, not contagious, not within the purview of most medical practitioners he consulted, until he found one kindly doctor, who specialized in anal ailments and who was happy to engage with the rabbi in extended conversation about his symptoms. There were almost no visible signs of this pestering affliction, which interfered with the rabbi’s sleep and therefore with his mental competence and his negotiation of daytime duties and professional matters. For no clear reason, the rabbi hesitated to tell me the explicit diagnosis of his ailment and of the treatment recommended by the…