The Intimacy Experiment (The Roommate #2)(15)
She hadn’t gotten nervous like this in a long time. The buzz of it under her skin, making her a little sick to her stomach, was kind of nice. Like fuel for the weary engine of her heart.
Since she’d visited the synagogue, two weeks had flown by, aided by a packed schedule and a general sense of discomfort over having agreed to this gig. She and Ethan had exchanged a few breezy emails about her proposed syllabus. She’d only found herself lingering over the signature line once before deciding in the end that there really wasn’t much difference between Have a good night and Have a good night! She’d never used a chipper exclamation mark in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now.
Based on his leadership position, and—let’s be honest—the fact that he was a man, she sort of expected Ethan to have a lot of notes on her outline. But aside from suggesting she incorporate a discussion of values, including but not limited to religious affiliation, into the module about building a future together, he’d given the green light.
He was introducing her now, reciting lines she recognized from her official bio on the Shameless site, her credentials and media awards—she’d made “30 under 30” with only a few days to spare.
Naomi dug her nails into her palms as the crowd gobbled up an embarrassing dad joke. She supposed, scanning the room they’d reserved at the JCC, that crowd was a generous term.
The multipurpose room held six rows of twelve folding chairs each, behind long plastic card tables. Only the back few rows had anyone in them. Naomi did some quick mental math. Fourteen people had shown up expecting a meaningful lecture on modern intimacy. At least she could say there was room for improvement.
“You’re probably wondering why a synagogue is sponsoring a seminar by a sex educator,” Ethan said.
She held her breath. Naomi had wondered if he would address the elephant in the room. These people had come through traditional Jewish channels, and she was far from traditionally Jewish. How long would her tough-girl bravado last if they all decided to get up and walk out?
Naomi’s response to moving through the world as a sex worker was to never let down her guard. Not even for a second. She’d learned from experience that she never knew when someone was going to make a joke at her expense. Or issue some casual slander about her past profession. It was better to live always ready for the punch line. Always spoiling for a fight.
“How many of you consider yourselves Jewish?” Ethan asked.
Almost every hand went up.
It made sense, considering he’d recruited primarily from Hillel alumni groups.
“Great. And how many of you have been to shul in the last three months?”
Only a few hands stayed in the air. Apparently Ethan hadn’t been wrong about the disconnect between youth and religion.
“Last six months?”
Only one or two more.
“Okay.” Ethan nodded, obviously not surprised. “So I’m going to attempt to change that, and I figure in order to do that, just like with any relationship in your life, I need to show you why our synagogue is worth your time.”
The crowd, mostly women between the ages of what looked like twenty and thirty, glared back at him with an amusing mixture of either stoic bitch face or nervous apprehension.
“Basically,” Ethan tried to explain, “if you’re not coming to me, I have to come to you. And since enough of you seem to care about dating, and intimacy is a core value in our faith, here we are. Gathered to learn. To connect. To hopefully, if Naomi does her job”—he gave her a cheerful nod—“enrich our lives. So yeah. I’m playing the long game, and this seminar series, Modern Intimacy, is my starting pitch. If you like what you hear tonight, there’s an open invitation to attend Shabbat services with us on Friday. We’ve got excellent cookies in the social hall afterward.”
It was a good speech. Relaxed enough to appear casual. Earnest enough to start to win the trust of those assembled.
“. . . and with that, I’ll hand things over to Naomi Grant, who I promise will make the rest of your evening more entertaining than I ever could.” Ethan gave her a quick smile and then made his way to an empty seat in the second row.
Naomi bit the inside of her cheek. It took a lot to rattle her, usually. Through the combination of years of therapy and sheer force of will, she prided herself on her ability to not engage with negative thoughts. Mind over matter.
Public speaking didn’t make her nervous. It was just another kind of performance. But baring her soul had always cost her more than baring her body. She wanted this too badly—to be taken seriously as an authority figure instead of just an object of desire. It was one thing to court lust. Respect was a lot harder to earn.
It didn’t help that the walls of their room at the JCC were covered floor to ceiling in children’s artwork from the daycare. There was no neutral place to lay her gaze. Everything was glitter and googly eyes. Very disorienting.
The force of attention from the audience was palpable, shot like tequila straight into her veins until her tongue felt dangerously loose in her mouth.
Clara had made her print out notes, just in case. Naomi was supposed to open with a personal anecdote, something to put the audience at ease, to make herself seem relatable, approachable, human. Her notes read, Open: story about ferryboat.
The audience seemed to devour her silence, restless and ready for her to fail. From the back of the room, a muscle-bound guy in a baseball cap yelled, “Yo, are you gonna teach us about blow jobs, or what?”